All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  “Matuszak,” LaMatta had answered, “Kenneth Matuszak. I wouldn’t classify him as a hotshot, Mr. Secretary. In fact, I’d say he’s one of my best investigators. In all fairness, Mr. Secretary that incident you’re referring to wasn’t Ken’s fault. Under the circumstances there was no other choice for him to-”

  “Matuszak,” Bradford sneered, cutting LaMatta off in mid-sentence. “Yeah, that’s the one. Put his lazy ass on this. Now, I want frequent updates, you hear. Keep me abreast of any developments. No Dammit! Not from him. You! You call me direct. I won't have that regal ass calling my office.”

  LaMatta fought to contain the rage welling up inside. “Bastard!” he cursed, slamming the receiver back on its cradle. “No good rotten bastard!”

  Matuszak's protests brought LaMatta out of his thoughts. “In charge? Me? Hell, I've never been in charge of anything in my life.”

  LaMatta turned.

  “Christ's sake, Hank,” Matuszak protested. “I'm only a simple investigator. What in the hell do I know about the fifty-one year old disappearance of a train?”

  LaMatta shrugged in desperation. “What does anyone know about missing trains? Christ! It’s not like it’s an everyday occurrence. As to your being merely a simple investigator, that’s B S. You're one of our top investigators. That's probably why Bradford picked you.”

  Matuszak was having none of it. “No, no way! The man hates my guts, everyone knows that.” He paused. “What about the passengers?” he said, switching to a new tact. “Surely they’ve all perished in the incident. That fact alone puts it out of our jurisdiction.”

  “In the technical, legal sense,” LaMatta conceded, “maybe. However in this incident, DOT is calling the shots. They’re interpreting the statutes to suit their needs. No bodies, no coaches, no crime, appears to be their only criteria. Until you come up with something solid, no one at DOT is willing to go out on a limb to officially classify the disappearance as a crime.”

  Matuszak sat stunned. He shook his head in disbelief. “A train and twenty-six people disappears, just vanishes off the face of the earth, and they're saying there has been no crime?”

  As he had done several times since Matuszak had entered his office LaMatta shrugged. “The department's official stance is that until the train and its passengers have been located and the cause of its disappearance determined, no crime has been committed. This is more in the nature of an informal inquiry than a full-blown investigation. The train is to be considered merely,” he paused, “and this it their exact wording, overdue.”

  “Right.” Matuszak scowled, resigning himself to his fate. “Merely overdue, a mere fifty-one years overdue. Who's assigned with me and what kind of resources do I have?”

  LaMatta struggled to be as diplomatic as he could in his response, but Bradford had been adamant on those points. No additional personnel or resources were to be authorized without his personal approval.

  “Can't spare them,” LaMatta said. “At least not at this point. It's coming up on budget time and Fiscal Affairs won't okay any new expenditures. Until you come up with something solid I can take to the board, you'll have to go it alone.”

  Matuszak slumped further into the seat, his stomach churned as the cold realization settled in. This was Bradford's doing. He was sure of it. Bradford’s childish, petty way of getting even. He was being deliberately sacrificed, as surely as if he was standing in front of a firing squad and Bradford was tying the blindfold.

  “You can always count on me,” LaMatta continued. “That goes without saying. As for facilities, you'll have the use of your office.” Then, for the first time since Matuszak’s entrance, a shadow of a smile crossed LaMatta's lips. He gestured toward the open window and to the parking lot filled with departmental cars. “And of course, there's the unlimited use of that fine piece of state machinery,” a reference to the battle-scarred Escort assigned to Matuszak.

  A victim of high mileage, sporadic maintenance and one too many parking lot mishaps, the aging Ford stood only an oil change away from the junk dealer's crusher. His office accommodations weren't much better; they consisted of a pint-size cubicle shared with another investigator.

  “I know it's not much consolation,” LaMatta said, “but look on the bright side. At this point, it's only an informal inquiry. There's no pressure. Start at the beginning; treat it as you would any other routine inquiry. Go back over the original reports. Do the legwork. See if you can dig up an eyewitness or two, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh sure.” Matuszak groaned, unable to temper the sourness in his voice. “Just where would you suggest I look for these eyewitnesses? Anyone remotely connected with the case has got to be either dead or senile. Probably tucked away in some old age home. If the authorities couldn't come up with a solution fifty years ago, they can't expect me to single-handedly conjure up a miracle now.”

  “What about the railroad's reports?” ventured LaMatta. “As I understand it there were several police jurisdictions involved in the original investigation. Their reports should still be available, shouldn’t they?”

  Matuszak unconsciously reached to his shirt pocket. It was a fruitless gesture. The pocket bore only a couple of crumpled business card and remnants of an empty pack of gum. Gone were the reassuring pack of cigarettes to quell his mounting agitation. He had given up the habit nearly a year ago. Now, only when aggravated or pressure fueled his frustration, did he find himself longing for the calming effect of an unfiltered cigarette. His eyes fell on LaMatta’s candy jar.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled, reaching for the container and helping himself to a small portion of its contents. “But that was before computers. The best we can hope for now is some faded, handwritten reports or a spool of grainy, unreadable microfilm buried in some Godforsaken state archive. That’s if they still exist.”

  “Use your wits,” said LaMatta. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's you. You can do it! You bring me something...anything, and I'll dump this silly garbage back on Annapolis so fast it'll make their heads swim.” He turned an empty palm. “But, until you come up with something solid, my hands are tied. Bradford has laid claim to the investigation. He's calling the shots from here on.”

  “Great,” groaned Matuszak. He rose, headed for the door.

  The next hour was spent slumped at his desk. How could anyone in their right mind expect him to single-handedly find three railroad cars and twenty-six people after fifty-one years?

  5

  Baltimore Sun Building

  501 N. Calvert Street

  August 15, 1992

  Matuszak shifted his weight and continued to stare at the monitor's scrolling display. His eyes burned and his butt hadn't ached this much since high school English class. Exhaustion or boredom, he couldn't tell which was beginning to settle in. He reached into the box, picked up a fresh spool of microfilm and inserted it into the console. At least he wasn't alone.

  The Sun paper’s management had been very cooperative, even to the point of assigning a research aide to assist him. An attractive girl, with short, perky blond hair and clear blue eyes that, like the tired old adage, seemed to dance whenever she smiled.

  “Nancy,” she said, thrusting her hand out in greeting and producing a broad smile.

  They had been at it for the better part of the morning, consuming endless cups of coffee and retracing the newspaper's accounts of the train's disappearance. There were reams of news articles and background material to pore over. But, since most of them dealt with the human-interest side of the incident, he hadn't found any useful data to further his investigation.

  “Color stories,” Nancy said. “Editors like to use them when deadlines are approaching and there's no new developments to report. They fill in the gaps and help maintain reader interest.”

  Sprinkled in among the accounts and interviews were several stock photographs of the missing engine, along with a view of the old train station at Aberdeen.

  “Interesting reading,” he concl
uded, “but not worth a tinker's damn to my investigation.”

  This slow, monotonous process continued until a photograph of a distinguished looking, middle-age executive with graying hair and a pleasant smile appeared on the screen. Pausing Matuszak studied the photograph.

  The accompanying caption read: “Jonathan Lambert, founder of Lambert Industries reported among the missing. Lambert, a prominent member of Baltimore's business community, is believed to have been a passenger on the ill-fated Royal Blue. As CEO of Lambert Industries, he was thought to have been en route to a business meeting at an undisclosed location in Baltimore. Widowed, Lambert left behind an infant son. Police have not ruled out kidnapping.”

  “Were there any ransom demands or notes found?” he asked, his interest piqued.

  Nancy, who had joined him at the console, shook her head. “No, not to my knowledge.” She flipped through her collection of notes. “Nothing here. Like the rest of the passengers, he simply vanished along with the train.”

  Matuszak slumped back into his chair. “Then I guess we can rule out kidnapping as a motive.” Still the image on the screen would not leave him. There was something in that face, something ... he knew not what. In desperation he turned back to the monitor. The next twenty minutes proved fruitless. Finally, nearly hypnotized by the effect of the rolling screen, he pushed himself away from the console and stood up.

  “I've had enough.” He yawned.

  He was reaching for the machine's off switch when the words, “Missing Train Sighted?” caught his eye. The title of the article it was dated several days after the train's disappearance. Only a partial column in length, it consisted of an interview with Matthew Farley, the yardmaster at Camden Yard, the Royal Blue's final destination.

  “Hello,” he said, suddenly wide-awake. “What do we have here?”

  Nancy looked up from her work. “Find something?”

  “Yeah, this article. I think I've found an eyewitness account.” He eased himself back into the seat and began to read.

  On the night the train disappeared, the article reported, Matthew Farley was one of several employees on duty in the freight yard tower adjacent to Camden station.

  “A terrible night,” the column quoted Farley as saying. “Not fit for man or beast, if you know what I mean. Fog so dense you could damn near walk on it. Well, sir, sometime along about one a.m., I was standing, looking out one of the tower's windows when this form emerged out of a fog bank. Hey! What's that? I called to the others. But before anyone could get to the window, the dang thing was gone. Just sorta faded back into the mist.”

  Since there were no activity in the yard and no collaborating witnesses, subsequent newspaper articles jokingly referred to the sighting as Farley's ghost. Unconfirmed sources within the B&O reported Farley had a past history with drinking on the job. It also hinted publicity might have played a role in Farley coming forth.

  “Taint so,” Farley angrily retorted at the end of the article. “I was only doing my duty. I reported what I saw. I wasn't drunk!”

  The railroad, not amused, was also suspicious of Farley's delay in reporting the incident and was checking into the drinking aspect. Matuszak jotted the yardmaster's name down.

  “If what this Matthew Farley says is true, he may hold the key to our search. That is if I'm lucky enough to locate him.”

  “Luck?” Nancy half chuckled. “You'll need more than luck. It will take a full-blown miracle to find him. That was over fifty years ago. In all likelihood he’s dead.”

  The enthusiasm drained from Matuszak’s features He had to agree with Nancy’s logic. “But what if he is still around?” he said. “It's worth a shot.”

  “Even if he is,” Nancy countered. “What could he possibly tell you? Like the papers said, probably didn't see a thing.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but there's something about that article that gnaws at me. It's got a ring of truth about it. The guy's got guts, speaking out like he did. You’ve got to give him credit for that. Besides,” he reached for the coffee, “it looks like it's only rehash from here on.”

  “That's true,” Nancy conceded. “Pearl Harbor and the outbreak of World War II was only a day away. When the attack came, war fever exploded. The headlines were taken over. Without any progress of the train coverage got pushed further and further back. Eventually it ended up buried on the back page.”

  “So a train with twenty-six people aboard was simply written off?” Matuszak arched the empty coffee container into the nearby trash can. “A poor epitaph for one's fellow man.”

  “No. That's too harsh a statement,” said Nancy. “The search stagnated and after a time the news coverage faded, that much is true. But put yourself in their place. Their world was falling apart. Europe was in flames. With the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, there was the real possibility the West Coast might be invaded.”

  “Yeah, probably so,” he agreed. “Still doesn't make it right.”

  “At any rate the incident wasn't completely forgotten. The investigation continued for some time afterward without ever a trace of the train surfacing. There were several, well-researched books written on the incident. PBS still runs a documentary special on the anniversary of the train's disappearance. Back then, well it sort of became lost in the panic of war.”

  Matuszak returned to the screen, trying to regain some of his lost interest in the scrolling pages, but it was a useless gesture. He wasn't making any headway in solving the mystery. Now, nearing noon, it was time to call a halt. Gathering up his papers, he returned to the library table. Nancy, having retreated into her work, sat at the far end absorbed in her research.

  He looked at Nancy.

  Care to join me for lunch? The words careened about in his sub consciousness as he began shoving papers into the file folder. There hadn’t been a plan, no clever, well thought out scheme at a pickup; just a simple thank you for the much-appreciated help. Only now, close enough to detect the scent of her lavender perfume and watching the sunlight play with her blond hair, he faltered. He opened his mouth to form the words, but panic set in. His pulse raced and his mouth became bone dry.

  “Nancy, I-” he managed before the words became entangled in his throat, leaving him stranded.

  Nancy looked up. “I'm sorry. Did you say something?”

  “No, not really,” he stammered. Then quickly summoning up all of his courage, he said, “It's just that it looks like we've hit a dead end. Think I'll knock off for the day.”

  “We have hit a snag of sorts, haven't we?” She gave him a warm smile. “Still, I think I'll work on it a while longer. Where can I reach you if anything should turn up?”

  “If I'm not at my desk, you can leave a message with the receptionist or call me at home,” he said, scribbling his home number on the back of a business card.

  Leaving Nancy with her research he left the building. Descending the steps, the words of a long-forgotten Sinatra standard came flooding back. Unconsciously, he began whistling the tune. No one can take her place, my Nancy with the laughing face.

  6

  B&O Railroad Building

  Downtown Baltimore

  August 15, 1992

  Leaving the Sun paper’s office, Matuszak crossed Calvert Street and walked the short distance to the nearby alley where the Escort sat. Like nearly everything else in the worn-out car the air conditioning system no longer functioned. It had quit ages ago, and there seemed little point in aimlessly driving about in the muggy Baltimore heat.

  Better stay here, Matuszak decided, and take advantage of the building's shade. He propped the driver's door open, hoping to catch the occasional stray breeze, and mulled over his lack of progress so far.

  What did he know?

  On the surface it seemed a great deal. For starters, there was the half-century accumulation of reports to go over. They would form the basis for his investigation. Still, the haphazard investigations of a dozen investigators were, at best, a squandered opportunity. They held
little promise for him. But, he did hold an advantage his previous investigators didn’t possess ― the knowledge that the engine had been abandoned at the Locust Point terminal, and of its subsequent recovery in England. He could also assume the engine wasn’t the primary target of the hijackers ― it was the freshness of the refit and the lack of identifying numbers that caused it to be mistakenly shipped to England, not some clever hijacker’s scheme. Thirdly, the missing coaches had to be hidden close by ― less than twenty-four hours had elapsed between the train leaving Aberdeen and the SS Mary Allen’s sailing. Insufficient time for the engine to travel any distance, and still be able to reach the rail point at Locust Point undetected. And what about the engine’s fire box? According to the yard hostler’s checklist its coals were cold, and didn’t require dumping ― a necessary precaution to prevent fire at sea.

  On the down side, if his reasoning was sound and the coaches were indeed near, why hadn’t they been discovered? Surely, logic would dictate someone would have stumbled upon them in the intervening fifty years.

  There had to be something more! Some mundane bit of information he and the others investigators had overlooked, some magical ingredient that, when chanced upon, would unravel the mystery and reveal the fate of the twenty-six passengers and crew.

  Time passed. Unable to come up with any answers, Matuszak allow his thoughts to wander ― to his nemesis O. M. Bradford, Secretary of Transportation, and Bradford’s selection of Matuszak as investigator. No matter how LaMatta sugarcoated it, his assignment had to be something more than random selection. With dozens of investigators to chose from, why the effort to single him out and why saddle him with those ridiculous restrictions? It was as if Bradford wanted the investigation to fail.

  No, he decided, quickly dismissing that idea. That doesn't make any sense. What could Bradford hope to gain by my failure?