by R. T. Ray
Other than Matthew Farley, he couldn't recall any other names from the microfilm files. Maybe there was a similar name tucked away in the packet of papers the sheriff had given him. His finger drummed on the Escort’s steering wheel. “Think man,” he said, commanding his tired mind to recall all the articles and newspaper clippings the packet contained. There were a dozen of articles on the flood, the factory closing, even a copy of Reds' bill of sale. The bill of sale?
“That's it!” he cried, slamming the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. Donnley's name had appeared on the bill of sale for the railway car, he was sure of it!
He turned at the next intersection and headed toward home, pressing the gas pedal slightly more in his haste. The Escort's exhausted engine sputtered and coughed in protest, as it tried to comply and failed. Matuszak settled back into the seat, he would have to be satisfied with forty-five, the best the Escort could manage under the present circumstances. No matter, he could wait a few minutes longer. He was certain that the first solid lead was waiting for him in those papers, and he had Sheriff Billy Cardwell to thank for it.
Arriving home, Matuszak pored over the stacks of documents and clippings from the previous week's search with Harold and Nancy. He carefully reexamined each article, looking for anything to connect Donnley to the incident. In the end, the pile of documents and photos were reduced to three single sheets of paper. Each sheet linked Donnley to Williamsport and to Reds Muller.
All three items dealt with the task of dissolving Williamsport Marine Industries and the final disposition of its assets. The Baltimore law firm of Steinmann, Mertz, and Donnley had been retained to handle the legal work. Arthur Donnley's signature, as junior partner, was affixed to both documents, one of which was the transfer of ownership of the railroad car from Williamsport Marine Industries to Reds Muller.
The third item was a newspaper photo. Its grainy image depicted a group of men, in baggy business suits and fedora hats, posing stiffly before the camera as they presented the title of ownership to a youthful Reds Muller. The accompanying caption listed Arthur Donnley as the third person on the left. Matuszak’s index finger moved across the photo, stopping on the third figure. He studied the group of men. Even with the grainy surface and the passing of over fifty years, the ramrod-straight posture and the cold piercing eyes of a young Arthur Donnley staring at the reader were undeniable.
True, this was only circumstantial, and did not prove Donnley was physically involved in the train's disappearance. But it was Matuszak’s first piece of solid evidence. Now he had a possible name and face to place on that shadowy force manipulating him. The photo connected Donnley to Williamsport and linked him as a possible candidate for Sheriff Cardwell's mysterious caller.
Matuszak’s position was precarious. He would have to walk a very tight rope. Donnley was politically connected. His close ties to very prominent and powerful government figures demanded careful handling. If Donnley could be associated with the train’s disappearance, he would prove a very powerful and sinister adversary. Politics, especially with its sub rosa dealings, were more than a match for his lowly position as a MARC agent.
Twenty-six people had disappeared. Undoubtedly murdered in the process and he couldn't forget Farley’s death. Matty, who wanted nothing more than to be with his trains. Matty had made it number twenty-seven.
He decided the best course was to sit tight and wait until Donnley contacted him to set up the interview. To do otherwise might alert Donnley and there was no real urgency. Picking up the telephone he called headquarters. A few moments later, the deep, friendly voice of LaMatta answered.
“Hank, I need a big favor,” Matuszak said. “It's asking a lot and you may be sticking your neck out.”
There was no hesitation on LaMatta’s part. “Sure, Ken. We're partners, just name it.”
Matuszak gave LaMatta a brief outline on his interview with the senator and of the encounter with Arthur Donnley.
“The rotten bastard,” LaMatta said, when Matuszak had finished. “Tell me, what is it you need me to do?”
“That part about Donnley being in the photo, and his signature on the transfer of ownership,” he quickly added, “when you make your daily report to Bradford, could you omit it?”
“Hell, that's easy. There's no love lost between that creep and myself. Consider it done. Anything else?”
“I think there's a leak at our end,” Matuszak replied. “I can't put my finger on it just yet, but my gut feeling is that Donnley's overseeing this whole affair. I would feel a lot safer if he doesn't realize that I am aware of his involvement.”
“Think, hell!” LaMatta roared. “The way things are going, I'm positive there's a leak somewhere in this mess. Question is, who's the snitch?”
“Bradford would be the logical choice,” Matuszak said. “If he is, he's ratting strictly for political gain. He's rotten, but he's not in it for monetary profit. Political favors are more to his liking. Donnley probably offered him some high position in Ewald’s future administration.”
“Yeah, you're probably right there. He sucked up so close to those politicians in Annapolis, if one of them made a sudden right turn without signaling, his nose would break off.”
“You know,” Matuszak mused, “I kind of like the idea that whatever information you report to Bradford, will wind up in Donnley's office. We could use that to our advantage.”
“Yeah. And that could explain the death of that Farley fellow,” LaMatta said.
“Right, only you and Bradford knew of my visit to Pigtown. With a direct pipeline to Bradford's office, all Donnley had to do was sit back and wait for the daily reports to flow in. If Donnley suspected I was getting too close, he would act. With Farley, he either hired someone, or he pushed Farley off the roof himself.”
“Don't forget the Williamsport incident. Donnley's fingerprints are plastered all over that.”
“With the resurfacing of the engine,” Matuszak said, “an investigation was sure to be called for. Donnley, needing to protect himself, needed a fall guy. He used his political clout to lean on Bradford. Bradford, as the Secretary of Transportation, had the power to select anyone he wanted.”
LaMatta interrupted. “And don't forget Bradford had his own agenda. With an old grudge to settle, he was only too eager to go after you, his old nemesis.”
The curtain of uncertainty began to slowly rise. Things were becoming a little clearer in Matuszak's mind. Donnley was relying on a cursory or blotched investigation to shield his involvement. But involvement in what? What possible connection could Donnley have with the train's disappearance?
“Christ! Hank,” he said. “I've got bad vibes about this.”
“Ken, we go back a long way. I'll do anything I can to help you, you know that. But you had better keep a sharp eye out.”
“Thanks, I will. I've developed a certain affinity for living to a ripe old age. Besides, I'm not a harmless, seventy-eight year old man to be thrown off a roof.”
“Just the same,” LaMatta said, “I wonder what Donnley's next move will be?”
17
Ladew Gardens
Harford County, Maryland
October 3, 1992
The sweet, tropical aroma of Carnauba wax mingled with the scent of freshly mowed grass and filled the late summer’s air. Matuszak had just completed buffing out the second coat of wax, and stepped back to survey his work.
Not bad if I do say so myself, he thought, giving a nod of approval at the deep, mirror-like finish in the Chevrolet's paint.
The occasion was Ladew Garden's annual fall antique car meet, and Matuszak had his eye on capturing one of the many trophies to be awarded. Once the English manor home of Harvey Ladew, Ladew Gardens, with its topiary gardens and spacious lawns was situated about fifteen miles north of Baltimore. The gardens were Ladew's legacy to the public and the site of many community events.
Harold, enjoying his status as Matuszak's unofficial assistant investigator, eagerly
accepted an invitation to join in the day's outing. Navigating the antique Chevrolet through the rolling Maryland countryside was a magical chance for Harold to relive his youth, but the experience was short lived and ended once they arrived on the exhibition field.
“This sure brings back many fond memories,” he said, as he reluctantly switched the ignition off and gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. If it were possible to have two loves at the same time, then Harold Beechum had just found his second behind the wheel of the old Chevrolet. The first, of course, would always be steam.
Harold had dressed for the occasion. He wore an original pair of Sinclair Service coveralls, complete with the green dinosaur logo on the chest pocket. Spotlessly white with the dark green trim, they were a memento from Harold's youth working in the neighborhood filling station.
Arriving early, the two had selected a grassy spot toward the rear of the exhibition area. It was on a slight incline but would remain in the shade for most of the meet, a plus for an all black car on a hot, October day. The next two hours were spent in registration and final preparations prior to judging.
Working on the opposite side of the car Harold was tinkering in the engine compartment, carefully wiping away any traces of oil or road dirt prior to the judges' inspection. Through the twin openings in the wedge-shaped hood, Matuszak explained his theory on the train disappearance to an unreceptive Harold Beechum.
“But I'm telling you,” Matuszak insisted, “I've given it a lot of thought. I'm convinced the coaches were not destroyed. They’re still together and when we find them they’ll be sitting on railroad tracks.”
Harold wasn’t buying it. “Can't be,” he replied. “We’ve gone over all the maps. We've checked every siding, every abandoned warehouse capable of hiding the coaches. Why, we even had that quarry searched. There’s no sign of the coaches anywhere.”
Matuszak was just as dogged in his belief. “Nevertheless, I'm convinced we're closer than you think. Look at it logically. They couldn't possibly have been lifted off the tracks.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine the logistics and heavy equipment required to pull that off?”
“How about a salvage yard then?” Harold countered, wiping a telltale smear of oil from the engine’s valve cover. “They've got all the right equipment and could work undetected by the authorities.”
Again Matuszak shook his head. “No, I've considered that angle. There were no connecting spurs to any salvage yard, at least not on any map I saw. Besides, how do you explain the disappearance of the passengers? Whoever is behind this would have to dispose of not only the coaches but twenty-six bodies.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Harold conceded. “The operation would require a rather large conspiracy. And not everyone would remain silent, not for fifty-one years. Somebody would have talked by now.”
“Besides,” Matuszak said, “it's got to be something more. Christ, you don't just murder twenty-six people for the scrap price of three railroad cars. That doesn’t make any sense. No, the cars are still complete and hidden away somewhere, I'm convinced of it.”
“Okay,” Harold conceded, “let’s assume you’re right and they're still together. What are you using for a motive?”
Matuszak shrugged. It always came back to a motive, something he didn’t have. “That's what's driving me crazy about this whole damn case. I can't find one.”
“Entrant number fifteen, the black thirty-nine Chevrolet sedan. Please report to the judge's booth,” the loudspeaker blared interrupting their conversation.
“That'll be us,” said Matuszak, putting the polishing cloth down. “Better go see what they want.”
“No,” Harold said. “I'll go. You can finish up here.”
“If you're sure. I can use the time to tighten that pesky starter bolt. It always manage to work itself lose.”
“I'm sure,” Harold groaned, giving a slow stretch. “Leaning over that fender is causing these old joints of mine to stiffen up. The walk will do me good.”
After Harold’s departure Matuszak selected a wrench, spread a large piece of cardboard on the grass and slid smoothly under the Chevrolet chassis. His body fit easily in the space between the auto’s undercarriage and the cardboard, leaving only his legs protruding. From this position, he was able to quickly remove the starter bolt, coated it with a locking mixture and re-torqued it.
The task completed, he was in the process of gathering the tools, when he heard footsteps. Someone was approaching the driver's side of the Chevrolet. Glancing over his shoulder, Matuszak saw a pair of dirty gray running shoes and the bottom portion of a ragged pair of blue jeans. The figure stopped at the Chevrolet’s driver door.
“Sorry, the car's not for public viewing till after the judging,” he called toward the pair of jeans.
There was no answer.
“I'm sorry” he repeated a bit louder this time. “No spectators allowed in the judging area.”
Gray shoes remained motionless.
Irritated at being ignored, Matuszak began to inch his way from beneath the auto. At that moment, he felt the Chevrolet's body sag.
“Hey! Dammit, out of the car. Can't you hear? No spectators.”
The Chevrolet’s body creaked, as it settled under the additional weight. Someone was entering the open driver's door. The unmistakable, metallic ratchet sound of the parking brake releasing sent a wave of cold, uncontrollable fear racing through Matuszak's body.
Panic set in, his heart began pounding. Matuszak felt the Chevrolet's frame brush lightly across his chest as the car overcame inertia and began its slow roll down the incline. Frantically, he pushed against the car's frame, trying to shove his body free. The Chevrolet’s high ground clearance and the smoothness of the cardboard allowed him to slide almost but not completely free. He was within mere inches of safety, when the lapel of his coveralls snagged on the underside of the running board, ensnaring him and pinning him fast to the Chevrolet’s undercarriage.
His arm and left shoulder were firmly pinned beneath the auto as it gathered speed, dragging him down the manicured slope. Matuszak kicked furiously, trying to keep his legs and his body from being pulled back under the car and into the path of the churning tires. He strained against the coveralls, in an attempt to rip the cloth and free himself. It was hopeless. He was caught, the clothing had securely hung up on the chassis's frame and no amount of struggling would free it.
The Chevrolet quickly gained momentum, ripping holes in the rows of topiary hedging and bouncing over graveled walkways in its downward plunge. Matuszak firmly snared, was a reluctant passenger along for the deadly ride.
At one point, he was able to grasp the edge of the running board with his free arm and, by pulling himself upward, managed to relieve some of the pressure. The remainder of the ride was a blur.
The ordeal ended abruptly as it began. The Chevrolet tore a final path through a line of English boxwoods, before slamming headfirst into a grass-lined drainage ditch. The front wheels dropped. The front end of the auto dipped, burying its nose into the soft earth on the ditch’s opposing wall.
Miraculously he had survived.
Every inch of his back burned with a hot, searing pain. He laid dazed, still securely snared by the Chevrolet’s undercarriage. A strong pair of arms freed him and gently pulled his pain-racked body free. Fighting to remain conscious, Matuszak stared up into a sea of shifting forms.
A distorted face detached itself from the spinning kaleidoscope and approached. Out of focus and dancing about it mumbled in some sluggish, incoherent tongue Matuszak couldn't understand. Not content to remain at arms length the face descended further, tilting from side to side as neared. Rough, unseen hands seized his eyelids and yanked them upwards. The face continued its descent, coming to a halt mere inches from his own. Matuszak stared at the blurry features and tried to speak. His voice was frozen and no words came out.
Gradually the spinning ceased and the babbling voices became more coherent. Matuszak push
ed his arm against the ground and tried to sit up. Instantly, waves of searing hot pain returned, exploding in his head. He collapsed. The face dissolved, the pain ceased and everything faded into silent darkness.
Time passed and the pain returned. Matuszak moaned and opened his eyes. The face was still there.
“Are you okay mister? Are you okay?” it repeated over and over.
Matuszak tried to answer. He moved his lips to form the words, but only a garbled response came out.
“It's okay,” the face said, slipping a folded blanket under his head. “You're going to be all right. The paramedics are on their way.”
Matuszak nodded and closed his eyes.
18
Emergency Room,
Fallston General Hospital
“X ray technician, X ray technician, call 2260. Dr. Smoot, Dr. R. Smoot, pick up on red house phone.”
Matuszak blinked, then slowly forced his eyes open. The paging system's monotone bongs ended and it grew quiet once more.
He was alive, but where?
The strong antiseptic smell and the coldness penetrating the open back of the flimsy, medical gown told him he was in a hospital. He surveyed his surroundings. The room was cube shaped. Large viewing windows covered three sides, while the single hospital bed he occupied stood against the remaining wall facing the door. Partially closed mini-blinds offered privacy and kept the room in dim shadows. He could hear the muffled conversation of emergency room personnel and see their darkened silhouettes as they passed the cubicle's windows.
He was not alone.
The gentle hum of the air conditioning had masked the muted snoring coming from the shapeless form slumped in the far corner. Hidden in the room’s shadows, it had at first escaped his attention. He lay motionless, staring through the bed's guardrails at the form for several minutes, until he was able to recognize it as a person. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the room's dimness, the familiar features of Harold Beechum gradually emerged. Still dressed in his Sinclair coveralls, Harold was quietly napping in the visitor's chair.
