All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  Its present configuration was of an open design. An eat-in kitchen area, centered around a two-burner stove and a propane refrigerator, stood at one end. A sleeping area with an iron bed occupied the car’s other end. A living area in the center separated the two. Heat was provided by a potbellied stove with a sheet metal chimney pipe exiting through a small side window. An ample supply of wood lay nearby.

  Two facts were painfully obvious to Matuszak. First, he would never discover anything on his own to confirm if this was the missing car or not. The numerous, haphazard alterations of the past had seen to that. Second, and far more interesting, was the reason behind Reds unusual fascination with lights: the car had no electricity. Two, strategically placed coal oil lamps suspended via chains from the rail car’s ceiling, supplied lighting.

  Billy and Matuszak were discussing the hopelessness of the situation, when they heard Reds’ unmistakable foot strikes upon the wooden porch.

  “Have a good look-see?” Reds asked, as he entered the car. “Like I said, don't know if I'll be of much help or not, but it's sure is nice for the company.”

  Matuszak acknowledged Reds and said, “Well, it has been altered quite a bit. It will take some more investigation to determine if this is the right car or not.”

  Laying his cane aside, Reds lowered himself into one of kitchen chairs. “Oh, it's not the car you're looking for,” he said matter-of-factually.

  Both men were stunned by Reds' pronouncement. “What do you mean, not the right car?” Billy demanded. “How can you be so dang-fire sure?”

  “It can't be your car, Sheriff. Didn't you read any of them newspaper articles? Shucks! This car been sitting here for quite a spell, maybe as far back as nineteen and thirty-four, maybe even thirty-three. I thought you knew that.”

  “No,” Billy said, as he eased himself down onto the sofa. His hand reached over and unconsciously began stroking the old dog's head. “Maybe you had better tell us about it.”

  “Be glad to,” Reds said. “Now, you know how high some of them spring floods around here can get. Well sir, there was this here nasty one in April of thirty-six. It washed most of the roadbed this old car was sitting on away. I reckon the railroad company didn't want to go through all the aggravation of rebuilding the roadbed and laying a new section of track just to retrieve a old, worn-out baggage car, so they sold it to the company.”

  “Well sir, over the years the company used it for all sorts of things, like storing spare parts and the like, till the time came to close down shop. Then,” he said, flashing another toothless grin, “they just upped and gave it to me all free and legal-like.” Shoving a fresh plug of tobacco between cheek and gum, Reds rose and excused himself. “I’d better be getting back. Them reporter fellas said for me not to be too long,” he said as the screen door banged close behind him.

  “I'm going to be on television,” he crowed in singsong fashion. He paused at the top of the porch steps, turned back toward the screen door. “Say, tell you what, Sonny. The next time you're up this way, stop in. We'll sit and talk a spell, maybe take in a little cat fishing on the river. I know where they're biting,” he said, with a devilish wink of his eye. With that, he hobbled out to the bright lights and the excitement of being on live television.

  Billy and Matuszak stood looking at each other in utter amazement.

  It's been said everyone has fifteen minutes of fame once in their lifetime and this crafty old devil, Reds Muller, was about to receive his allotment of time. Knowing full well this wasn't the car the television crews were seeking, Reds was playing along with them. He intended to savor their attention right up to the very end. But soon, when he stepped in front of the camera, they would learn of the car's true origin.

  It was at that moment that Matuszak realized the predicament they were in. Understandably, the newscasters had been disturbed at the sheriff’s earlier misdirection. Now this scruffy old character, Reds Muller, was going to rub salt into the wound. He was preparing to go on live, national television and tell everyone, No sir! This ain't the car you're looking for but, I do like all of your fancy bright lights.

  The anchor personnel would learn of their mistake too late, and being set up as a live telecast, there would be no chance to edit it out. Of course the sheriff would be blamed. After all, wasn't he Reds Muller's friend, and wasn't it he who sent them on the wild goose chase in the first place? As for me, Matuszak thought. I'm guilty by association. The department heads in Annapolis would not find the incident so amusing.

  “Are you thinking what I thinking?” Billy said, watching Reds Muller disappear into the throng of cameras and reporters.

  “I certainly hope so,” Matuszak said, reaching for the door handle. “And the sooner the better.”

  Within moments they had found the Bronco and were racing toward the driveway exit. The Bronco skidded onto the shale road as Reds Muller, wearing a wide, toothless grin, stepped into the glare of the TV lights and up to the waiting bank of microphones. Billy pressed the Bronco's gas pedal to the floor.

  13

  Matuszak's home

  Linthicum, Maryland

  The dashboard clock was approaching midnight as Matuszak pulled into the driveway. Billy’s invitation for a home-cooked meal had proven too tempting, and he had spent his remaining time in Williamsport as the sheriff’s guest. Sara, Billy’s wife, was the most accomplished of cooks. Over heaping mounds of mashed potatoes and country-fried chicken, the two men rehashed the day’s misadventure.

  Now, tired and back in the comfort of his own home, he grabbed a cold Sam Adams from the fridge and ambled into the living room. He scanned the local TV stations hoping there would be no coverage of the Reds Muller’s interview, or, if there was, his name had somehow escaped notice. Finding only the usual late-night shows he turned off the set and headed for the bedroom.

  * * *

  At the telephone’s first shrill ring, Matuszak woke. His bleary, sleep-filled eyes attempted to focus on the nightstand. The clock's neon red numbers read seven-fifteen. Too early, he groaned, much too early and he made no effort to answer the phone. Burying his head under the pillow, he waited for the shrill ringing to stop.

  Mercifully on the fourth ring the answering machine kicked in. The familiar voice of LaMatta boomed in his ears. “Ken, are you there? It's me, Hank. Dammit! I know you're there. Pick up the phone. We've got to talk.”

  With a feeling bordering on trepidation, he reached for the receiver. “Yeah, Hank,” he mumbled. “Its kinda early, I’m not due in until nine. What's up?”

  “Apparently it’s not too early for you to get your ass in hot water...and with none other than the headman himself!” LaMatta retorted.

  Matuszak rubbed his eyes, trying to drive the grogginess from his sleep filled brain. He sat up, slid his legs over the side of the bed. “Trouble?” he repeated. “What the hell are you talking about? What trouble?”

  “Don’t give me that! Have you forgotten about a certain little episode involving you and some sheriff, setting up a certain well-known Washington TV personality with that phony rail car story? Embarrassed the anchor, on national TV to boot.”

  Oh shit!

  It all came flooding back to him... Sheriff Billy, Reds and Williamsport. He waited, anticipating LaMatta's dressing down to continue on unabated. Instead, what he heard was a series of soft chuckling coming over the line.

  “Damn, Ken, I saw it live. Hell, I suppose probably half the country did. Had to be about as embarrassing as that stupid stunt Geraldo Rivera attempted to pull off with Al Capone's cellar.” He paused. “All in all I’d say you had yourself a grand old time in Williamsport.”

  “Hank,” Matuszak pleaded. “You've got to believe me. Someone else is responsible for setting that news conference up. The sheriff and I had nothing to do with it. We were just as surprised as the television crew was.”

  “Sure, sure,” LaMatta replied, easily brushing aside the explanation. “What I really want to know is, that old man.
Where did that sheriff dig him up? Damn, he was great. You should have seen it, Ken. The anchor just stood there with egg on his face, and that old, toothless geezer looking straight into the camera just a grinning. Great!”

  Seen it? He had a ringside seat. He made one last attempt to convince LaMatta of his innocence. “Hank, I’m telling you the whole thing was just one big misunderstanding. I was setup. Honest.”

  “Right. And I'll get my captain's bars next week.”

  “Wouldn't surprise me,” Matuszak said, given up trying to convince LaMatta of his innocence. “If anybody deserves them you do.”

  “That’s neither here or there, but you can expect some kind of a reprimand to come down,” LaMatta said, his voice taking on a somewhat more serious tone. “As expected, the general manager of the Washington station called O.M. Bradford. Pitched a real bitch the way I heard it.”

  “What for? It was the station’s own stupidity for not checking their sources before going live.”

  “True,” LaMatta agreed, “but that didn’t prevent the station’s switchboard from becoming inundated with calls. Mostly in jest over the anchor's dilemma. But, with competition between stations being what they are, the management wasn't in a very receptive mood. They complained to the Governor's Office, alleging bad faith and poor cooperation, particularly the role of a certain MARC investigator. Naturally Bradford agreed and is going along. Even I was subject to a share of his foul tongue.”

  “You?” Matuszak was dumb struck. “What do you have to do with any of this?”

  “Nothing. On the other hand, I’m your supervisor and I did authorize the use of a departmental vehicle. Bottom line, I've been instructed to keep a tighter rein on you from now on. All I can say is somebody must be pulling strings somewhere for Bradford to get this wound up.”

  “Christ, Hank. I'm really sorry. I didn't think it would go this far.”

  “Forget it. We go back a long way. Remember that little incident with the radio car; you took the heat for me on that one. Besides, by tomorrow Bradford will have forgotten about everything and be on someone else's ass.”

  “Just the same, I'm sorry you got sucked into this.”

  There was a slight pause, then LaMatta said, “On a serious note, how did it go up there?”

  “Not too good. Looks like someone set me up to go on a wild goose chase.”

  The next few minutes were spent briefing LaMatta on Williamsport. The television incident was played down. Instead, Matuszak concentrated on Sheriff Billy's mysterious caller and the possible source of the media leak.

  “If I could find out who called the sheriff or the television stations, I would have a starting place. As it stands, the mystery only got deeper.”

  “Well,” LaMatta concluded, “after yesterday's little episode, you can kiss any hope of cooperation from the television stations good-bye.”

  “Yeah, I know. They're usually fairly tight lipped about their sources anyway. Yesterday’s little incident only sealed it.”

  “What I don't understand,” LaMatta said, “is why would someone go to the trouble of leaking the information if it's not the right rail car to begin with?”

  “That’s the puzzling part,” agreed Matuszak. “The only explanation is the Williamsport car was intended to be a red herring. Whoever is behind this wanted to lure me off in hopes I would identify the rail car as the missing one.”

  “Agreed,” LaMatta said, “but we’re still faced with a motive. What is so compelling about those three coaches that someone doesn't want them found? And what did they hope to accomplish by having you identify that Williamsport car as being part of the missing coaches?”

  “Sheriff Cardwell and I were discussing that. There are several possibilities. The most likely scenario is it would send me off in the wrong direction. Then later, when my mistake was discovered, I would be made to look like a perfect ass, much like that anchor was. Naturally, I would be gun shy and hesitant to do anything that would draw attention to myself again. That would effectively bring the investigation to a halt.”

  “I know, I know,” said LaMatta. “I've had a bite out of that apple. Once bitten, twice shy.”

  Matuszak grunted in approval. The investigation wasn't back to square one, but damn close to it. At least he knew he was on the right trail. Someone, or some group out there, was trying to derail the investigation and would stop at nothing, even murder, to accomplish it. Farley's death was proof of that. Still, he had found two good partners in Harold and Nancy. Their research would determine his next move.

  “I'll pick up the Escort later this morning,” he told LaMatta. “By the way, how did you like it?”

  LaMatta laughed. “It's a real death wish. An accident looking for a place to occur. If I were you I'd take the damn thing to the motor pool and insist they deadline it. Bloody thing wouldn't go over forty-five without the steering wheel trying to jump out of my hands. That contraption is going to get you killed someday.”

  “Just remember, you're the one who called it ‘a fine piece of state machinery.’”

  “Speaking of death wishes,” LaMatta said, wisely choosing to let Matuszak's remark go unchallenged. “Why don't you take the day off? I’ll cover for you. No sense in you running into Bradford, not just yet anyway. Better to give him some time to cool off.”

  “Fine by me. I didn't relish the thought of bumping into him. Besides, a day off would allow me some time to work on the Chevy.”

  “Good,” LaMatta said. “You stay put, out of Bradford's sight. I'll stop by later and exchange cars.”

  14

  After breakfast, Matuszak put in a call to Harold Beechum. He was hoping Harold would have some good news for him. “No, Agent Matuszak. No trouble at all. In fact, I've been looking forward to your call.”

  Harold was indeed glad to hear from Matuszak. After his initial taste of notoriety, the excitement had begun to waver. Except for the occasional call from a reporter looking for an update, life had returned to its usual, predictable grind. Harold was becoming bored.

  Learning of Matuszak's day off and his intention of spending it working on the Chevrolet, Harold suggested that it might prove beneficial if he were to drop by after work.

  “That way, we could go over the papers and maps I've collected together, and it would give me a chance to see the car for myself.”

  Matuszak, having developed a liking for the elderly clerk was accommodating. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were interested in old cars.”

  “Interested?” Harold exclaimed. “Why, the very first car I ever owned was a 1941, four-door, Chevrolet Master Deluxe.” Leaning back in the chair, his thoughts returned to his youth. In his mind's eye, the Chevrolet’s image was as clear as if he had only just parked it at the corner drugstore.

  “Sure would like to have the privilege of tinkering with one again.” He sighed. “Mine was black with red pin-striping. Had a homemade sun visor over the windshield. Yes sir, a real honey in her day. Don’t suppose yours is anything like that?”

  “Not exactly. At least no sun visor, but it is black. Tell you what, stop by around about six. You bring the pizza and I'll supply the beer. You can tell me all about your car, maybe give a hand in turning a wrench.” The offer was made in jest. He didn’t harbor serious thoughts of Harold’s arthritic body sliding under the Chevrolet’s frame.

  Any hint of insincerity was lost on Harold. “Great!” There was a brief pause and then he added, “But what about Nancy? Shouldn't she also be there? I'm sure she'll have some reports to contribute.”

  “Aaaaaah, I don't know,” Matuszak said, his brain suddenly becoming addled. “Grease, old cars, and women usually don't mix. Do you think she'll want to come?”

  See! There you go again, the little voice in his head whispered. Anytime a woman's name other than Patricia's comes up, you panic.

  “Don't see why not,” Harold said. “If she's free, I’m sure she would. Why don't you give her a call and find
out?”

  “Well,” Matuszak said hesitantly. “Maybe I could.” But both he and the little voice knew he wouldn't.

  * * *

  Matuszak shifted his weight, trying to stem the numbness creeping into his lower shoulder. He had wedged himself into the cramped confines between the dashboard and the Chevrolet’s front seat. He had been there for most of the afternoon...at least that's how it felt on his protesting rib cage. Just a few more minutes, he decided, trying to ignore the mounting pain. Just these last couple of wires to connect and I'm finished. He reached up into the darkness probing for the next wire and slowly began tracing its route.

  He could take solace in his selection of the driveway. Being out in the open, it offered a cooling reprieve over the oppressing heat of the garage’s interior. Besides, the parking pad was in plain view of the front walkway. Should Harold arrive undetected, he could easily spot him and the old car. Cursing, he inched deeper into the darken recess under the dash in search of the last elusive wire.

  Absorbed in his work, he didn't hear the sound of the engine as the car pulled into the driveway. Only the slamming of the car door, followed by the approaching footsteps, caught his attention.

  Must be Harold and the pizza.

  Not being able to extract himself in time to greet Harold, he decided to wait. Harold would probably reach the car before he could untangle himself, and remaining in the car would spare himself the painful task of once again snaking himself back in to complete the task. Moments passed and his patience was rewarded with the unmistakable aroma of warm pizza dough smothered in melting cheese. It drifted by his nostrils, filling the Chevrolet’s interior with its delicious scent. Damn. In his haste to complete the repairs, he had forgotten how hungry he’d become.

  “Harold, you're a godsend,” he called, from beneath the dash.