by R. T. Ray
“As you might have guessed there's more to it than me just reading that article and stumbling onto that missing car of yours. In fact, I’d say someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure this particular car was found.”
Matuszak was intrigued. “So you think there's something more behind it?”
“Yes sir, I sure do. My suspicions were first aroused several days ago when this telephone call came into the office.”
“A telephone call? From who?”
Billy shrugged. “Don't rightly know. Some feller. You see, it was mostly a one-sided conversation. There wasn’t much opportunity for me to get a question in edgewise.”
“This caller, didn't he identify himself?”
“No, just started right off saying, 'That missing rail car the state's searching for, it's the same one Richard Muller holds title to. You would do well to look into the matter.’ I tried to pin him down, ask him some questions, but he hung up.”
“Then you didn't recognize the voice?”
“No,” Billy said, shaking his head, “can't say as I did. All I know is that it was male and highly educated.”
“Nothing unusual there. Could it be someone from around here?” said Matuszak. “Probably someone who is acquainted with this Richard Muller and put two and two together.”
Billy quickly dismissed that idea. “No, I don't think so,” he replied. “No one speaks that stuffy 'round here. Besides, I lived my whole life hereabouts, know everyone within miles and I couldn't place the name Richard Muller.”
Matuszak was forced to agree. “That is strange.”
Billy’s head bobbed. “Thought so, myself. I was about to dismiss it as a crank call when it dawned on me. The voice on the phone was referring to old Reds Muller.”
“Then you do know this Richard Muller, after all?”
“You could say we've met a time or two.” A smile crept across the sheriff’s face. “Red’s a character, a harmless old recluse. Lives out on a section of bottomland in that old converted rail car of his.”
“Just a minute,” Matuszak interrupted. “Bottomland? I'm afraid you've lost me. What do you mean by bottomland?”
“Flat, lowland,” the sheriff explained. “You know, the floodplain that lays along riverbanks. 'Round here we call it bottomland. Floodplain is probably the more correct term.”
“And this Mr. Muller?”
“Well, old Reds' Christian name is Richard, though I don't believe anyone ever called him that. Sported a mop of red hair in his younger days. Been known as Reds ever since I can remember.”
“I see,” Matuszak said. “Isn't it kind of odd for someone to be living in a rail car in the middle of a forest?”
Billy shrugged. “Perhaps. But then you don’t know old Reds.”
“Tell me, how did he come to be living in a rail car?”
“To answer that we’ll have to go back a ways to about the time World War Two started. You see, there was this company, Williamsport Marine Ltd. I believe the name was. Manufactured valves for the shipping trade. The thing is, the factory was built right close to the river’s edge...a mite too close as it turned out. Being situated on bottomland they were subject to periodical flooding. One year the annual spring high water was higher than normal.”
He paused to ponder the point. “That would be about the winter of forty-one, forty-two I suppose. Anyways, all of the buildings were either heavily damaged or carried off by the river. What the flood of forty-six didn't finished up, scrap metal scavengers did. Nowadays the only thing left is a cement slab and a portion of track our rail car sits on. If they hadn't been situated on higher ground,” Billy shrugged, “my guess would be the river would have carried them away too.”
“I see. And how does Reds Muller figure into all of this?”
“Well, it seems Reds is a avid train buff,” Billy said. “Spent his spare time down by the river watching freights hauling coal out of West Virginia. Weren't no pension to speak of and I guess the company wanted to reward old Reds in some fashion for his years of service. So on the day the plant closed, as one of their last official acts, the Board of Directors transferred ownership of the old rail car to Reds. It wasn't worth a tinker's damn to start with, but Reds loved it and the company wanted to clear their books. Anyway, Reds holds outright title to it, all done up legal and proper-like.”
Billy reached over, retrieved a packet from the rear seat, and handed it to Matuszak.
“These are copies of old newspaper accounts and photos taken of the factory closing,” he said. “There's a photo of Reds receiving the boxcar's title somewhere in there, I believe. You're more than welcome to them, compliments of our Miss Hazel, over at the town library.”
Matuszak took the packet and thanked the sheriff. He was puzzled. If this was the bad news the sheriff spoke of, it seemed of little consequence. He thumbed through the assortment of papers. Wasn’t much, but there was still the car to examine. Puzzled he asked, “Is this the bad news you mentioned back in the restaurant?”
“No, not exactly.”
“You mean there's more?”
“I'm afraid so. You see, we won't be the only ones visiting old Reds today.”
“Who else?”
“Reporters,” Billy said. “I was on my way to meet you when I came on some TV trucks, and a whole mess of them reporters stopped on this very same road. They had this road map spread out across the hood of one vehicle. Flagged me down. Said they were lost and were looking for Richard Muller's place.”
“The mail car,” Matuszak groaned, slumping back into the seat. “They knew about the rail car and Reds? Of all the rotten luck. How?”
“That's only part of the story,” Billy replied. “Shoot fire! For big city television folk they weren't none too smart. They could have thrown a rock and hit old Reds' place from the very spot they stopped me.” He grinned, holding up his thumb and forefinger with only a tiny gap between. “They were that close to Reds' place.”
“But how?” Matuszak repeated. “How did they find out about Reds?”
“That I don't rightly know.” Billy frowned, a deprecating frown. “'Spect whoever called me got a little impatient and called them.”
“Well, hell, Billy!” Matuszak exclaimed. “Let's get going. They'll have everything messed up before we even get there.”
Matuszak turned, throwing the packet of papers onto the rear seat. Damn! He should have been told of this development back at McDonalds, not an hour later. The last thing he needed was a group of nosy reporters underfoot.
Nothing happened.
Slowly, realization settled in. Matuszak looked at his companion. The creases had vanished and softness returned to the sheriff’s sun tanned features.
“Billy, you're not telling me everything, are you?”
“Nope,” came the sheepish reply.
“Well, do you mind telling me now?” sighed Matuszak, settling back into the Bronco's seat.
“No. Since you'll probably get some of the blame, you ought to at least know the reason why.”
“That's nice,” Matuszak smiled.
Brushing a coating of shale dust from his Stetson, Billy began, “I was right peeved that the news of the discovery had leaked out. I wanted some time to figure who had called the TV stations against my orders. Besides, I didn't like the way those reporters spoke down to me, like I was some country bumpkin. Sooooo...”
“So,” said Matuszak, cautiously eying his companion. “Tell me, what did you do?”
“In my best Gomer Pyle impression and looking them straight in the eye, I told them, ‘Carry yerself right down this here road for a fair piece, and after a spell you'll come upon a holler. Well, pay that one no never mind and go purten near all the way to Sleepy Creek Run. Now, that being the place where them Braxton boys often times run a little moonshine still, don't tarry none thar. Them Braxtons don't cotton much to lawmen or outsiders.’”
At this point, Matuszak was laughing so hard that he was having troubl
e following all the gestures and antics accompanying Billy's tale. “Billy,” he roared with laughter. “You've missed your calling. You belong on the stage.”
“Me?” Billy assumed his most theatrical pose. He frowned and tried to appear offended, but it was obvious he too enjoyed the retelling of the story and was laughing along with Matuszak.
“Anyway,” he said wiping a stray tear from his eye, “Needless to say I sent them on a wild goose chase. Bout twenty miles through second growth country, and I’d judge there’s not a nary telephone or gas station to be had.”
“I needed time to get on the horn and chew some deputy's ass out for disobeying my orders about calling the TV or newspapers. Besides, I was on my way to meet you and I wanted that Big Mac.”
“And?”
“All of them, to a man, swore they didn't and I believe them. They've been with me for years and never given me cause to doubt them.”
Matuszak pondered the situation. “Maybe this Reds character called them himself?”
“Naaa, he doesn't own a telephone and like I’ve said there's not another one within miles of his place.”
Billy paused. His laughter now under control, he became reflective. “Now as I see it, whoever called me wanted to cover all the bases. Those TV trucks were from Washington and Baltimore stations, not just the local one out of Hagerstown. I smell a rat, but I think it's coming from your end of the state.”
“I'm forced to agree,” Matuszak said. Again it looked like he had been set up. “Someone in Annapolis or Baltimore wanted me to find this railroad car and used you as the go-between. After a couple of days passed and no announcement was made, they figured you weren't going to do anything about it. They took it another step further and called the TV stations.”
Billy nodded his head in agreement. “That's the way I've got it figured out.”
Matuszak sat stewing. But why? And why this particular rail car? It was hidden so deep in the backwoods, no one from Baltimore or Annapolis would even know of its or Red Muller's existence? And what about those calls to the sheriff and TV stations? Who was responsible for that? Those questions would have to wait; first he wanted to see the rail car
“How much further is this Reds Muller's place?” he asked.
“If you had a stone, you could hit it from where we're sitting,” Billy said. He restarted the Bronco's engine and drove fifty yards further, before turning onto a narrow dirt pathway leading into a small wooded clearing.
Spread around the perimeter of the clearing were several large TV trucks, each bristling with antennas and satellite dishes. A number of cars bearing the logos of Washington and Baltimore TV stations on their sides were parked nearby. Apparently stumbling onto the location, they had only recently arrived as small groups of technicians were in the preliminary stages of running cables and setting up lights and microphones.
Off to the side stood the hapless victims of Billy's wild goose chase, consoling themselves while drinking coffee from little white Styrofoam cups. Hearing the rumble of the Bronco’s engine, the group turned. The recognition was instantaneous. Icy glares, mixed with low grumbling were evident as the Bronco slowly rumbled past. Billy, donning his Gomer Pyle expression, smiled in return.
12
Reds Muller
Matuszak exited the Bronco first, having spotted the elusive railway car sitting among a small grove of trees. Ignoring the reporters and their comments, he made his way through the army of technicians. The old rail car sat on a slight rise of ground on probably what were the remains of the spur's roadbed. It looked more like a gigantic, dilapidated mobile home than a railroad car. Its Rube Goldberg-like appearance bore scant resemblance to the elusive mail car he sought.
A wooden porch constructed from rough lumber with a tin roof obscured the majority of the car's original center. At some date in the distance past, a rectangular opening had been cut into the car's loading door and an aluminum storm door installed. This served as the structure's lone entrance. A set of tumbledown steps leading from the porch to forest floor completed the alteration.
Ground skirting, fashioned out of scrap tin and bits of discarded plywood, encased the lower portion of the car concealing the trucks and undercarriage. The crawl space created by this alteration, served as a retreat for a pack of scrawny dogs of doubtful heritage. With the arrival of the first truck the dogs retreated to the security of the crawl space. However, once their safety was assured, curiosity quickly overtook them. They nervously huddled around the crawl space entrance observing the commotion.
Several of the car's windows remained unaltered and still served their original purpose of supplying light to the car’s interior. The remaining windows, as well as the exterior siding, were hidden under numerous coats of paint. None of the car's original paint scheme remained visible. Matuszak shook his head in despair. It was going to be an almost impossible task to uncover the registration numbers buried under the multiple layers of paint.
It was then that he remembered the packet Sheriff Billy had given him. It contained not only newspaper clippings, but also several detailed photos of the rail car exterior. In his eagerness to beat the TV reporter to Reds Muller he had tossed the packet on the Bronco's rear seat. Maybe the photos would help. He turned, bent on retrieving the packet, when a jerking movement emerging from the group of reporters caught his eye.
Matuszak stopped, stared in fascination.
He had never met Reds Muller, but there was little doubt as to the identity of the approaching figure. The figure was that of an elderly man, possibly in his mid-seventies, of medium height and build. He wore a pair of well-worn bib overalls and an equally faded, green plaid shirt. What distinguished him from others his age was the walk.
No, Matuszak thought correcting himself. Make that the peculiar gait, for it could hardly be described as a walk in the normal sense.
Whether the result of childhood polio or some terrible accident wasn't clear, but some misfortune had befallen the old man, causing his hip to pitch forward with each step he took. He carried a crude, hand-fashioned cane in his left hand, but held it by the midsection rather than the handle. Held upright and away from the body, the cane acted as a counterbalance, much in the same manner as a wire walker's pole. A curious rocking motion was the end result, but it seemed to have little effect as the figure quickly closed the distance between them.
A wide, toothless smile showed through a growth of gray stubble and was topped by a faded red baseball cap. Bright sunlight, streaming through the tree canopy, locked the weathered face into a perpetual squinting expression, almost obscuring the sparkle in the hazel eyes. Upon reaching Matuszak, the old man wiped the small stream of tobacco spittle seeping from the corner of his lip with his free hand.
“Reds. Reds Muller, Mr. Matuszak.” He offered the spittle-laden hand in greeting. “The sheriff tells me you come all the way from Baltimore City just to see me. Is that so?”
Matuszak hesitated. After several agonizing moments and an apprehensive glance in Billy's direction, he reluctantly accepted the outstretched hand and replied, “Certainly, Mr. Muller. I'm hoping you could assist me in my investigation.”
“Ahhh, you can call me Reds. Not used to fancy titles hereabouts. Don't know if I can be of any help or not, Sonny. But I’m sure am glad for the company.”
Matuszak withdrew his hand and, pretending to wipe his brow with his handkerchief, tried to remove the tobacco juice from his palm. He also took note of Billy, standing off to the side, smiling at his predicament.
“Did you ever see so many lights and cameras in all your born days, Sonny?”
Reds had turned. Waving the cane in a long sweeping arc, he looked every bit like a maestro on his podium. His head swiveled left, then right as he watched the array of lighting equipment being assembled before his home. Soon, much to his delight, the old railroad car would be bathed in their stark brilliance.
“Yessirrebob! More lights than you can shake a stick at,” he said, chuckling
at the unintended pun.
It was obvious Reds was pleased at being the center of so much media coverage. Excited, the old man’s eyes barely came to rest on one activity before darting to another. Clearly he intended to enjoy his brief venture into his new found fame.
Matuszak desperately needed to get inside the rail car before the media, with their array of lighting equipment, took over. Perhaps some of the car’s original interior had survived to serve as a basis for identification. As for the exterior, that was a different matter. It was hopeless. It had been mutilated, altered and covered under countless coats of paint to be of any practical usage. He would leave the task of uncovering the serial numbers to the experts.
Billy and Matuszak caught up with Reds as he began to wander toward the group of reporters.
“Reds,” Matuszak said, drawing even with the old man, “would you show us the interior? I'll need to get some pictures to compare with the company records when I get back to Baltimore.”
“Sure, sure, Sonny. Be glad to. Go right on inside. Help yourself to anything you like. I'll be along directly.” He motion toward the group of reporters. “Some of them newspaper fellers might want to talk with me before one of them fancy TV cameras. Never been on TV before,” he said, and he ambled off in the direction of the reporters.
“So many lights. Did you ever see so many lights in your life?” he mumbled, in a voice filled with amazement. “No sir!” he chuckled, in reply to his own question. “Never saw so many lights.”
Entering from the bright sunlight, Matuszak found the car's interior cool and in semidarkness. He hesitated a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the changing light. Slowly the interior came into focus. An old dog, aroused from its slumber on the couch, rose, stretched, and sluggishly waddled over. Its muzzle, gray with age, pressed against Matuszak's hand seeking a reassuring rub or scratch, before it turned and made its way back to the couch.
To his dismay, Matuszak found the interior had suffered the same fate as the exterior of the car. It had been obviously stripped of all of its identifying features in the distant past. If this was the missing mail car, no trace of its original design or purpose was visible.
