by R. T. Ray
Harold opened the book and began to read. The notation at the bottom of the title page drew his attention. In faded red ink were the words, Missing from Active Service - December 5, 1941.
The hunt had ended, but the bells had reached a new high.
3
Maryland State House
Annapolis, Maryland
August 11, 1992 10:00 a.m.
The colonial-era state house sweltered under the siege of a mid-August heat wave. In the cramped confines of an out-of-the-way anteroom, technicians scurried about setting up temporary seating and banks of stage lighting. The intense heat generated by the halogen lighting caused the temperature in the already crowded room to soar.
In a futile attempt to provide relief, two huge floor fans had been brought in. Perched high on their pedestal bases, the fans' propeller size blades roared from opposite corners of the room. Their bomber-like drone only added to the media's mounting frustration.
On arrival the press had found the doors to their spacious, well-equipped media center locked. Then, they were rudely ushered into the cramped, oven-like atmosphere of this makeshift press room And now, to top it all off, the Governor's newly appointed press secretary was late again.
A high-pitched laugh pierced the din causing one reporter to remark, “The latest Lawrence joke?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” his partner, a craggy old veteran of numerous political campaigns replied.
“Any idea why he called this briefing?”
“You tell me. You’re the one in tight with that young staffer of his.”
The younger reporter shrugged. “She didn’t know or wouldn’t say. Only that it’s something to do with a big announcement and Lawrence wants everybody here and on time.”
“Yeah,” the veteran scowled, his eyes scouring the crowded room. “Well, I’d say everyone's here. Just once I would like to see his pampered little ass be on time. He'd be late covering the crucifixion.”
“What? And have to mix with us common people? You've been out in the heat too long.”
A set of doors to the left of the bank of microphones swung open. Turning towards the movement, the old reporter sighed. “Finally, here comes Little Lord Fauntleroy now.”
The noise level subsided as Paul Lawrence, the Governor's Press Secretary, entered the room and walked briskly toward the podium. In his early thirties, thin with a slight build, he did not present an imposing sight. But Paul Lawrence had something more, a vicious, inner drive that had propelled him to the level of press secretary in record time.
Dressed in a conservative gray suit, neutral tie and highly polished wing tips, he was impeccably groomed. Considered part of the avaunt-garde school of political journalism, he had a reputation in hallways of the statehouse of not being one content to remain in Annapolis. Paul Lawrence had his sights set on Washington.
He paused at the base of the speaker's platform, allowing himself time for a final check in the TV monitor. He frowned. Under the harsh glare of the camera's lights, his pale complexion appeared more ashen than normal. Perhaps a different shade of make-up, he thought, readjusting his tie. He would summons the make up technician first thing after the briefing. Then, donning a well-choreographed smile, he mounted the steps and approached the podium.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “I'll begin by reading a brief statement from the Governor's office, after which I will entertain a few questions from the floor.”
NEWS RELEASE
MARYLAND STATE HOUSE
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
RELEASE DATE 08 August 1992 0945 a.m.
Today the Governor's Office announces the discovery of the American steam locomotive #5320 in Southampton, England. This marks the first recovery of any portion of the ill-fated train since its mysterious disappearance on December 5, 1941.
At the time of its disappearance the train consisted of an engine, a tender, two passenger coaches and a combination mail and baggage car. It is believed that there were twenty passengers aboard, along with the six-member train crew.
The Governor's office has reopened a special inquiry into the train’s disappearance. Maryland Secretary of Transportation, O.M. Bradford, has been selected to spearhead that inquiry.
END OF STATEMENT
With the statement read, Lawrence began to field questions from the press corp. This was the part of the briefing he enjoyed the most. He excelled in it. His body movements and gestures were perfected down to the smallest gesture. He knew the ritual well; a slight nod of his head toward the front row, acknowledging the presence of the senior members of the press corps, then point to the rear, selecting a more junior candidate. And lastly, repeat the question and pretend to ponder the response.
“From the back of the room.” He pointed to a group of raised hands. “Yes?”
“Do we have any indication of foul play?”
Lawrence hesitated. “No,” he said, “not at this point. Now the gentleman from this side of the room.”
“Is the British government involved?”
Stupid question, Paul Lawrence thought. What incompetence? How else could it be handled? Still Lawrence was careful not to show his displeasure. “Our colleagues in the British government has put the full resources of their Ministry of Transportation at our disposal,” he said cheerfully. “Next question please.”
“Who's handling the investigation at this end?”
“Inquiry,” Lawrence cautioned. “Investigation is much too strong a term, at this juncture. But, in answer to your question, The Maryland Area Rail Commission, or MARC, an agency of the state's Department of Transportation, will coordinate the inquiry. Yes, in the back.”
“Mitch Steward, Annapolis Herald. Any thoughts of how the engine wound up in England?”
Lawrence poured a tumbler full of water from the pitcher and took a slow, deliberate drink before answering. He wanted to nail this one and then end the briefing at that point.
Walking several paces to his left, he stopped at an easel containing an enlargement of an aerial photograph of the port of Baltimore taking in the 1940’s.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he turned to face the audience. “First let me assure you, there are no magical forces at work here. No UFO's and, despite what you may read in the tabloids, there were no secret Nazi railroad tunnels discovered beneath the Atlantic Ocean.”
There were the obligatory chuckles from the front row.
From a nearby table Lawrence held up a thick packet of yellowed papers. Holding them up for all to see, he said, “What we have instead is the most mundane of explanations, maritime shipping documents.”
Trading the papers for a wooden pointer, he indicated a portion of the photograph depicting a sprawling rail complex bordering the harbor's edge.
“Under the terms of the Lend/Lease Act of March 1941, the U.S. Government shipped war related materials to the Allied powers. Steam locomotives made up a critical component of those shipments. Invaluable as the engines were to the war effort, the sheer numbers involved often-created shortages for domestic use. It was during one such shortage that engine #5320, having just completed a major overhaul at Mount Clare Shops, was hurriedly pressed back into service minus its usual identity markings.
“The engine and its tender were abandoned in the locomotive staging yard at Locust Point. Without its markings the locomotive went undetected, mistaken as just another engine awaiting overseas shipment. Within twenty-four hours of its abandonment, the engine and its tender were loaded aboard a freighter, the SS Mary Allen.
“The Mary Allen sailed on December 8, 1941, with a mixed cargo of war goods and heavy machinery. She was bound for Russia by way of Southampton, England. At the port of Southampton the locomotives were off-loaded and routinely assigned an identity number by the British War Department. Engine #5320 became just another engine and was soon lost in the fog of war.”
“But that doesn't explain who's responsible for the train’s disappearance, or what happened to the remaining cars,�
�� a voice called out
“What can you tell us about the fate of the passengers?” another voice chimed in. “What does the British government have to say?”
Paul Lawrence raised his hand cutting off further questioning. He was beginning to lose control and he couldn’t let that happen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it would be inappropriate for me to speculate at this point,” he said. “As you can imagine the inquiry is in its early stages. I can only tell you the fate of the passengers and crew are of the utmost concern to both the British and American governments. Both administrations are cooperating closely in those areas.”
He altered his tone to convey just the proper touch of compassion. “Naturally our hearts and thoughts are with the family members of the missing passengers and crew.”
He had done it!
He had pulled it back from the brink. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he gathered his papers. God, how he loved this game! He reveled in his triumph, deriving an almost sensual pleasure from it.
I'll be ready, he thought. When the call from Washington comes, I will be ready.
4
Freight Rail yard
Curtis Bay Section, Baltimore City
August 15, 1992
Agent Kenneth Matuszak bent forward, careful to avoid the grease-spattered coupling, and peered into the darken recess of the rail car’s undercarriage. The damage appeared superficial. As derailments go this was a minor incident, but since the car was MARC property, his office had been notified.
With his preliminary investigation complete, he straightened up, opened his clipboard and began filling out the incident report. The train’s unfortunate engineer was standing directly behind him. Picking up a discarded stick, the engineer began diagramming his version of the derailment in the roadbed’s ballast stones.
“The switch allowed my engine to pass over, like this,” he roared in a loud, boisterous voice as he drew a long, straight line in the coarse gravel. “As near as I can figure the ballast must have shifted. Weren’t nothing I could do. It’s plain to see it was the switch that failed, forcing my unit to jump the tracks.”
Pleased with himself for having devised such a plausible scenario for the derailment, without accepting any personal responsibility, the engineer stepped back to admire his handiwork. Hearing no approving response, he glanced over his shoulder in Matuszak’s direction. Matuszak, engrossed in his paperwork, stood several paces away and was paying only scant attention to the engineer’s version of the incident.
Curiosity overcame the engineer. “Now what’s so dang all fired important,” he grumbled, “that this feller ain’t bothered to listen to a single, solitary word I’ve said?”
Dropping the stick he approached. Peering over Matuszak’s shoulder, his voice resumed its thunderous reverberations. “You got my name spelled right in that report of yours, Sonny?” he bellowed, craning his neck for a better view of the incident report. “That’s Karl with K, not a C. Most people get it wrong, ya know.”
Matuszak winced. He wasn’t off on some far, distant mountaintop. Only several inches separated his unprotected ear from the onslaught of that harsh, booming voice. Damn, he silently cursed, tilting his head to lessen the effect.
Unable to decipher the report, the engineer quickly lost interest and returned to his ranting. “It’s poor maintenance! By God,” he roared, reclaiming the discarded stick and probing the inner workings of the switch. “Yes sir, poor maintenance,” he declared. “You mark my words, Sonny. That’s what it is, poor maintenance.”
Matuszak shook his head. Must be all that time spent in the cab with a noisy diesel pounding underfoot, he decided. At any rate, there was little more he could do here. Time to wrap things up and head back to the office.
* * *
At the office he was just finishing up the last of the paperwork when the telephone rang. He reached for the receiver.
“MARC, Investigations, Matuszak here.”
“Ken,” the familiar voice said, “my office, when you're free.”
“Sure thing, Hank. I'm on my way.”
The deep, baritone voice on the other end of the line needed no introduction. It belonged to Lt. Henry “Hank” LaMatta, Matuszak's immediate superior and lifelong friend. Hank, as he liked to be called, was the easy-going, Winnie the Pooh type, known for his gentle disposition.
However, to Matuszak’s everlasting torment, LaMatta did possess one devilish, God-awful trait; that of watching Matuszak squirm under one of his wife’s, Marion, weekly matchmaking sermons.
“What you need,” Marion had lectured from across last Sunday's dinner table, “is someone sensible and stable, like Georgia here.”
The unsuspecting female sitting across from Matuszak looked up. Like spilled wine on a white dress, her normally rose hued cheeks face flushed a deep crimson. It was obvious she had not been privy to Marion's matchmaking scheme. Over her stammering objections, Marion continued, “It's time you started looking for a wife.” She smiled, a faint smile. “Georgia here is the perfect choice.” Turning back to face Matuszak, she wigwagged a finger. “You're not getting any younger, you know. Besides, a handsome man like you shouldn't be wasting his time playing with that silly old car. Don't you agree, Henry?”
LaMatta beamed as he ladled a second helping of gravy over his mashed potatoes. “Yes, dear.”
That silly old car, as Marion called it, was a meticulously restored thirty-nine Chevrolet Master Deluxe sedan, and Matuszak’s pride and joy. It, along with hardy Italian meals and the love of a good beer, were his only true vices. The added inches slowly accumulating around his waistline, he assured everyone, had nothing to do with his appetite.
“Family genes,” he would say, whenever the subject came up.
Matuszak had patiently endured Marion's weekly, thinly veiled matchmaking attempts. After all, she was a good woman and she meant well, but it had only been three years since Patricia, his love and wife of twenty years, had been taken from him. Three long terrible years, and he still couldn't bring himself to say his Patricia was dead. Instead, he used the benign phrase She had been taken. Somehow it seemed less painful that way.
Still, time was proving herself to be a merciful, if somewhat unhurried healer. Age fifty found him alone and slowly adjusting to a life without his beloved Patricia.
* * *
Matuszak placed the report aside, rose and walked the short distance to LaMatta's office. The door stood ajar.
“Door's open,” LaMatta called out just as Matuszak raised his hand to knock.
He entered to find LaMatta seated at his desk, surrounded by the predictable mountain of paperwork.
“Grab a seat.” LaMatta gestured with a wave of his huge hand. “I'll be with you in a moment.”
Matuszak opted for the lone upholstered chair and sat down.
Closing the file folder LaMatta looked up, an uncustomary frown etched across his broad forehead. He rose, crossed the room and closed the office door. “You've seen the TV coverage over the last several days,” he said, turning back to face Matuszak. “You know, about that steam engine they recovered in England?”
Of course he had. Everyone had. It occupied every newspaper headline, and its recovery was the lead off story on every television station’s newscast for days now. Matuszak nodded in silent agreement.
“Well, the state DOT has decided, just as a precautionary measure, you understand to look into the matter.”
“And?” Matuszak felt the first hint of apprehension creep into his body. What was Hank getting at? His eyes followed LaMatta as he returned to his desk and sat down.
“The department can ill-afford to be caught flatfooted on this,” said LaMatta, “especially by some hotshot politician out shopping for free publicity. A helluva lot of people vanished along with that train. There's bound to be questions and the department has got to be prepared.”
Matuszak nodded. “Twenty-six people to be exact. But what's all this got to do with me?”
“There's been some grumbling. Mostly local stuff so far, coming out of Annapolis, calling for a state sponsored investigation. Nothing's official yet, but...” LaMatta's voice trailed off.
Matuszak had been studying LaMatta's stress-stained features. There was something more than political grumbling hiding behind that furrowed, tightly knit brow. They went back a long way, back to their rookie days at the police academy, too long for him not to know when LaMatta was holding back on something.
“What is it, Hank?”
LaMatta said nothing. His angst-filled face and the uncomfortable silence that followed only confirmed Matuszak's growing suspicions.
“No.” Matuszak shook his head in disbelief. “You can't possibly...”
LaMatta reached for the ever-present jar of jellybeans that occupied the space next to the in basket. “I'm afraid so,” he said, popping several of the delicacies into his mouth. The consumption of the jellied candies was a habit LaMatta resorted to whenever confronted with an unpleasant task. He replenished his supply and said, “I just got off the phone with Annapolis. With none other than O.M. Bradford himself. It's been decided. You're to head the investigation.”
“Me?” Matuszak leapt to his feet. “I don't get it, Hank. Why me for God’s sake?”
LaMatta could only shrug. “Bradford didn't say.” Uncomfortable with lying, especially to an old friend, he spun the chair in a lazy arc to gaze out the window. “It's probably nothing more than a routine decision.”
Better to spare his old friend the details. O.M. Bradford, the state's Secretary of Transportation, had made the call, that much was true. Ken's assignment to the probe was a different matter, it had been far from being routine.
“What’s that name of that hotshot I had that run in with last year?” Bradford had growled, making no attempt to conceal the contempt in his voice. “You know, the one that wanted to play by the book.”
