by R. T. Ray
“That’s okay. Know what?”
“Ran into the staff doctor, the one that treated you yesterday. The preliminary test results indicate you overdosed on a prescription drug.”
“Overdosed? Drugs? You sure?”
“There’s no doubt. All the test results aren't in yet, but his best guess is some type of anti-anxiety drug. Probably in the Librium family. He wanted me to check in with you. You don't have an old prescription of Librium laying around and maybe took it by mistake?”
“No, afraid not. Never heard of Librium.”
“The doctor says you displayed all the classic symptoms. Good news is there shouldn't be any long-term side effects. You'll be good as new in a day or so.”
That suited Matuszak fine. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of yesterday, especially another encounter with the stomach pump. His stomach was still reeling from its effects. “I'll bet my last dollar it was in the sherry that bastard Donnley gave me.”
Aware of the meeting in Donnley’s office, Becker was quick to agree. “But how are you going to prove it? You'll need a search warrant to get in and chances are if he had it, he’s gotten rid of it by now. Even if you found an empty bottle in Donnley’s possession, it doesn't prove a thing. Hell, Librium's a common drug and he’ll probably have a prescription for it.”
Matuszak ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Yeah, you're probably right. Yesterday is still a little fuzzy. How was it you were at my side when I came to? You’re homicide, not accident investigation.”
“A mere fluke,” Becker replied. “The investigating officer found my business card attached to one of the reports I gave you. He contacted me. When I mentioned I didn't think it was an overdose, but a possible attempted murder, he was only too happy to turn it over to me.”
“Your intervention saved me from a DWI charge. That could have meant my job.”
“Think nothing of it, it’s my pleasure.”
“But I may not be out of the woods yet,” Matuszak mused.
“Don’t see why not. There’s no traffic charges filed.”
“That’s just it.” He told Becker of his meeting with O.M. Bradford following the Pier Six incident. “There’s little love between us. If he pulls the right strings administrative charges could still be filed.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a real ass for a department head,” said Becker.
Matuszak grunted in agreement. “And what about Donnley? He must be running scared to try something as desperate as this. I wonder what he is planning next?”
“Who knows?” Becker sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine. You’ve been in one harrowing incident after another, starting with Pigtown. If I were you I’d be as nervous as a whore in church.”
“That I am,” he assured Becker.
There was a pause followed by the rustle of papers and then Becker’s voice came back on the line, “Speaking of the Pigtown case, the toxicology report on Matthew Farley came in.”
“Matty? What were they able to come up with?”
“Just as we suspected. Medical examiner is classifying it as a homicide.”
Matuszak stiffened. He expected nothing less. Still, hearing the actual pronouncement sent a shiver rippling through his body. The thought of Matty’s last moments as he struggled against his attacker at the roof’s edge was horrifying.
“You’re sure? No chance of an error?”
“None. I’ve got the results here in the folder somewhere.” There was additional rustling of papers. “Ah, here it is. No sign of drugs or alcohol in the blood, and no medical findings that would induce vertigo in the victim.”
“What about the bottle found on the roof?”
“A red herring. Whoever' responsible slipped up there. Wiping the bottle clean and placing a single set of Farley’s fingerprints on the bottle was a crucial mistake. Combine that with bruising inconsistent with the fall and I’d say there’s little doubt it’s a homicide.”
Matuszak didn’t need a medial examiner’s report to confirmed Matty’s death as a homicide. He had known it the moment he saw Matty’s crumpled form on the alley’s cement. And what about the attempts on himself?...the attacks in Ladew Gardens and Little Italy, followed by the incident at Pier Six. He had barely managed to survive them. And now the JFX incident, were all four the work of Donnley? It would seem so. There was his undeniable connection to Old Red’s and the converted rail car The newspaper photo confirmed that. But, how did his role as adviser to the senator come into play? Or was the senator, himself, somehow involved?
“Ken?” The voice of Becker drew him back. “You still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry Sarge, I was just trying to sort out some things in my head. Switching to a lighter topic, he asked, “By the way, how's the damage to my car? Have you seen it?”
“If you mean that dilapidated old Escort, yes I’ve seen it.” Becker chuckled. “I happened to gas up at Central Garage this morning. It was still hanging off the rear end of the wrecker that brought it in. Sad to report it’s totaled. A bit of good news though, the accident squad credits it with saving your life.”
“My old Escort? I know the boys at traffic are good, but I don’t see how did they figured that out.”
“Speed.” Becker’s chuckle grew into soft laughter. “Or more accurately, the lack of speed. The way it was explained to me, you were hardly moving when you left the roadway.”
“I can't remember. Must have blacked out before that.”
“Good thing you did. Being limp and buckled in probably reduced your injuries. Anyway, they figured you were going so slow that the undergrowth and saplings were able to act as an arrestor net. Anything approaching the speed limit and you would be just another highway statistic now.”
Despite having a long list of mechanical woes, Matuszak had developed a sentimental attachment to the tired old Escort. It had neither the modern lines, nor the driving conveniences of newer models. To most it was just another piece of state machinery. Still, even with an underpowered engine, and an exhaust that would on occasion unexplainably spew out copious amounts of oily, blue smoke, it had always managed to stay a step ahead of the junk man’s crusher.
Yesterday it lost that step.
The Escort's lack of speed had saved his life. Coming to rest against the base of the oak, it suffered quite a bit of body damage, but it was age and poor mechanics that doomed it to the scrap yard.
He thanked Becker a last time and replaced the receiver. Finding his way into the kitchen, he poured a cup of stale coffee and walked into the adjoining garage.
He switched on the bank of overhead lights, squinting under their harsh florescent glare. The thirty-nine Chevrolet, with its flattened grill, had been sitting in the far corner since the Ladew Gardens incident. With so much happening he hadn't had time to spend on it. It looked beat, like an aging pug fighter with a battered nose, waiting for the bell for the last round to sound.
A lot like me, he thought.
He walked around the old car several times, sipping the cold, bitter coffee. Soon he would have to start repairs, but not now. Too weak from the ordeals of the past weeks, he only halfheartedly noted the damage. Finally, after picking several tufts of imbedded grass from the Chevy’s grill, he returned to the kitchen, placed the half-empty cup on the table, and turned out the lights.
25
Huntsmore Manor Nursing Home
Harford County, Maryland
Huntsmore Manor lay secluded among the rolling countryside, in Harford County's exclusive horse country. Entering the massive wrought iron gates guarding the manor's grounds, Matuszak stopped at the gatekeeper's cottage. Cloaked in a mantle of ivy with a moss-covered tile roof, the cottage looked like a photo taken from a Beatrice Potter novel.
Receiving no answer at the door, Matuszak was returning to his car just as the first whisper of smoke drifted past. Carried on the warm autumn breeze, the fire's sweet woodsy aroma drew him to the rear of the cottage. There, in the distance, he s
aw a lone figure shrouded in a thin veil of smoke, tending a pile of burning leaves.
“I'm looking for the main building,” he called. “Could you direct me?”
Pausing in his work, the gatekeeper leaned on the rake and pointed to a narrow roadway meandering through a stand of old growth oak.
“Just follow that road about a half mile or so,” he called back. “You won't miss it. See Miss Emily in the lobby. She'll help you.”
Following the gatekeeper's directions, Matuszak soon found the group of buildings, perched on a gentle rise. He parked in front of the main building and entered the lobby.
Miss Emily proved to be a kind, elderly woman at the information desk. She directed Matuszak to a small nursing station on the ground floor.
“Yes, Mr. Matuszak, we are indeed expecting you,” the nursing supervisor said looking up from her work. “Your Miss Carberry has called several times this week, trying to arrange an appointment for you.”
“I understand Mr. Ewald's suffered a setback,” Matuszak said.
“His condition has always been delicate at best,” came the reply. “In fact, of late the staff has been quite concerned about him.” With a small smile of relief returning to her face, she added, “Today seems to be one of Mr. Ewald better days. I'm sure he will appreciate some company.”
“Thanks, I'll try not be too long.”
“Patricia,” she called to a passing young nursing assistant. “Would you please show Mr. Matuszak to Mr. Ewald's room?”
Matuszak followed the pert young girl as she bounced happily along the building's corridors en route to Victor Ewald's room. The corridor wall to his left was constructed of large glass panels and looked out unto a central courtyard. Bubbling over with enthusiasm, the young assistant occasionally paused in her endless monologue to tap on the glass panel and wave to a passing patient. Each one answered with a friendly greeting.
“They're mostly a lonely lot here,” she commented, “often they live a shadow land existence. A smile or a friendly wave goes a long way in brightening their day.”
Stopping at a door, she turned toward Matuszak and said, “Well, here we are.” She gave him some last minute instructions before knocking.
“Now, do try to remember to call him Mr. Vic. Victor Ewald, or Mr. Ewald is sometimes too confusing and it tends to upset him. In addition to the first stages of Alzheimer's, his heart's not too strong, so try not to excite him.”
Knocking gently on the door, she opened it slightly and peering in called in a soft voice. “Mr. Vic, are you awake? It's Patricia. You have a visitor to see you.”
“What did you say? A visitor?” a weak voice replied from inside.
Gesturing for Matuszak to follow, she entered the darkened room.
“You know, Mr. Vic, we talked about it this morning. Remember how excited you were?” she said, cheerfully, drawing back the drapes and filling the room with fall's warm sunlight.
The richness of Huntsmore Manor was reflected in the room's furnishings. Decorated in the manner of an upscale hotel, any of the cold realities of a hospital room were tastefully hidden away. Only the telltale oxygen hookup and the nurse's call button, protruding from the paneled wall near the bed belied the room's true function.
The frail old man resting on the bed rose to greet Matuszak. His nap interrupted by their knock, he sat on the side of the bed in a semi-confused state and stared at the two visitors.
“Yes, yes,” he said, finally. “I think I remember now. A visitor is coming to see me.” He looked Matuszak. “Are you that visitor?”
Matuszak nodded.
A smile spread over the old man's face. “You see, I did remember!” he said looking with delight to Patricia. “Didn't I?”
“Yes, Mr. Vic, you did remember. Do you know why Mr. Matuszak is here?”
The smile faded. “No. My son says, says, I want to talk with you about something.” His voice trailed off almost to a whisper.
“The train, Mr. Vic,” Matuszak said. “I've come to talk to you about the train.”
Victor Ewald answered with a blank stare.
Matuszak looked to Patricia for help. “Maybe this wasn't a good ideal after all,” he said. What could he expect to learn from a pitiful old man who had trouble remembering this morning's breakfast?
“Oh, Mr. Vic's okay,” Patricia replied, reading the confused look on Matuszak’s face.
“The more you talk to him, the easier it is for him to recall. It just takes a little more time in the beginning, that's all. Now, you two sit down and have a good conversation, and I'll have some tea sent in. Mr. Vic likes his tea about now, don't you Mr. Vic?” she said, closing the door, not waiting for an answer.
“Agent Matuszak,” Matuszak said, offering his hand. “Your son, the senator, thought you would like to talk to me about the train.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Matzak.”
Starting to interrupt to correct the old man, Matuszak hesitated. No, he thought. Matuszak or Matzak, what difference did it make. He could be Matzak for awhile.
“My son is a senator, did you know that? I'm very proud of him. Very proud.” Like a child rehearsing the lines in a play, the old man repeated the phrase over and over, as if trying not to forget.
“I’m sure you are,” Matuszak said. “But back to the reason of my visit, so you remember the train? The one that disappeared.”
This time the old man’s head bobbed. “Yes, yes, I do.”
“What happened to it?”
The elder Ewald didn’t answer, instead he said, “Did you know I was a CEO at one time?”
“Yes, I know,” Matuszak said patiently.
“I'm told I was a very good CEO.” The old man’s brow furrowed. “But I can't seem to remember much about it.”
“Now about the train, Mr. Ewald. What do you remember about the train?”
“I'm Vic. Mr. Vic,” the old man scolded Matuszak. “And yes, I remember that horrible train.”
“Why horrible?”
“Death! So much death.” The old man's eyes became clouded, as if tears were beginning to form. “There was so much death on that train.”
“Do you know where the train is, Mr. Vic?” Matuszak said, careful to add Mr. Vic at the ending and avoid upsetting the elderly gentleman.
“Gone. The train's gone.”
“Where, Mr. Vic? Where has it gone?”
“I don't know. Can't remember, Agent Matzak. They say my mind is only slowing down. That everything will be okay. But I know different,” he snapped. “Something terrible is happening to me.”
Patiently, Matuszak tried to steer the conversation back to the missing cars, but it was hopeless. Victor Ewald had lost interest and was aimlessly wandering about the room. He paused before each of several oil portraits decorating the walls. Carefully, the elder Ewald touched each face, running his fingertips across its features, as if to imprint their faces into his memory before the disease stripped him of their identity.
Nearing the last one, the old man stopped.
Something in the portrait drew Matuszak's attention. Intrigued, he crossed the room joining the old man.
“I know that face,” Matuszak said. “Who is he, Vic?”
“He's gone. They're all gone.”
“Who's gone?” Matuszak asked.
“Him,” Victor Ewald said, pointing a trembling finger toward the portrait. “Him and everyone else on that train.”
Moving closer, Matuszak read the engraving on the small brass plaque attached to the base of the portrait's frame:
Jonathan Lambert
CEO 1937 -
The ending year was left blank. It was the same face that had smiled at him from the archives at the Sun papers the first day of the case.
“Gone where, Vic?” Matuszak said, turning to face the old man. “Tell me, where are they now?”
“In the tunnel. They're all gone in the tunnel.”
“Tunnel? They're in a tunnel? What tunnel?”
“I don't kno
w.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” His eyes clouded and his voice filled up with emotion. “Art had them killed, all of them. I knew it and I didn't stop him.” The tears flowed freely down Victor Ewald's face, as a window in his mind opened and the fog cleared. He had begun to remember.
“Why did Art have them killed?”
“Money. We siphoned large amounts of profits from war contracts. When Art thought Jonathan had found out, he had him murdered.”
“You said Art had all the passengers killed. Think Vic, it’s very important. Is Art, Arthur Donnley?”
The old man turned to face Matuszak. His features contorted. It was hopeless; the curtain of uncertainty had returned and was slowly beginning its descent, stripping the old man of his past. Shaking his head, the elder Ewald replied, “I’m not sure. I don't think I know an Arthur Donnley.”
There was a soft knock on the door and Patricia entered, carrying a tray. “Sorry it took so long,” she said. “There was no one in the kitchen. But, I do make a fair pot of tea, if I do say so myself.”
Seeing Victor crying, she set the tray down and said, “Now, Mr. Vic, you're not going woozy on me again, are you?”
“Again?” Matuszak inquired. “Does this sort of thing happen often? The crying, I mean.”
“Lately, a lot,” Patricia said. “Mostly when he looks at that portrait of Mr. Lambert. That portrait must hold some terrible significance for him.”
“Does he talk about it?”
“You mean about the tunnel? Lord, yes, but always in half-sentences. `Poor souls all alone. Gone in the tunnel. I did nothing.' Phrases like that. All the staff has talked with him, but we can't make much sense out of his ramblings. Must be some awful dark secret to haunt him so.”
Victor stood alone in front of the portrait of Jonathan Lambert, oblivious to the nearby conversation. The window had closed and he had returned to his lost world. Like a pilgrim praying before an icon, he was softly chanting as he stared at the portrait.
