by R. T. Ray
Shifting the transmission lever into drive and releasing the parking brake, Lowery allowed the truck to complete the curve and begin a gradual descent into the tunnel's mouth.
* * *
Looking through the darkened lens of their aviator style sunglasses, the two men watched the CSX truck complete the curve and disappear into the tube's opening. Out of place in the deserted, rundown industrial area, the driver of the late model Pontiac had chosen his cover well: a nearby truck loading dock with a mound of discarded pallets acting as a shield. Parked behind the pallets, they had been watching the meeting unobserved.
“What'll we do now?” the driver said.
“How do I know?”
“Well, we just can't sit here. Some nosy cop's bound to stumble upon us.”
“Dammit! I know that. But they could be in there ten minutes or ten hours. We've better check in with the man.”
“Right,” the other man said, reaching for one of several microphones dangling from the Pontiac's dashboard.
“No. Our orders were no radios or cell phones,” the first man said. “Too many scanners. Can't chance anyone listening in. Find a pay phone.”
* * *
Lowery applied light pressure to the foot brake during the truck's descent into the tunnel. The transition from daylight to darkness was instantaneous and he switched on the truck's headlights and four powerful, side mounted inspection lights.
The dampness and cold pouring though the vehicle's open windows came as a surprise. The relative warmth of the November morning was swiftly dispelled by the tunnel's foul dampness. Lowery's suggestion to don the heavy jackets was quickly understood and appreciated.
The vehicle proceeded cautiously along the gradual downgrade, each man's eyes glued to the tunnel's wall facing, searching for any telltale sign of a ventilating shaft or the spur tunnel. Up ahead, at the outer fringes of the truck's headlights, pale, ghostlike images performed an eerie dance. In reality, the images were merely sheets of newspaper caught in the tunnel's swirling draft, but their movement gave the tunnel a supernatural air.
“That will be the abandoned station ahead,” Lowery said, pointing at a dark outline emerging out of the gloom. “See. Like I told you, no spur.”
“No! Can't be,” Harold said, turning in his seat and staring out the rear window. “We must have passed it. We've got to go back!”
A quick recheck of the oilskin map confirmed they had passed the location where the spur's opening should have been. It was agreed a closer inspection of the tunnel's wall was needed. Zipping the jacket closed Matuszak dismounted. Lowery slipped the transmission in reverse and the party began to slowly retrace their route.
Matuszak found the going rough. The roadbed had been constructed on a raised incline above the tunnel flooring to allow for proper drainage. More than once he lost his footing, stumbling over an unseen cross tie protruding through the coarse ballast stones.
Eventually he was forced to abandon his position alongside the vehicle and make his way down the incline to the base of the tunnel wall. From here he worked his way along the wall’s rough facing, carefully examining each of the huge granite blocks as they passed before the harsh glare of the truck's powerful sidelights. After several minutes of searching, he detected an abrupt change in the stone's pattern.
“Hold what you got,” he called to his companions in the truck. “Take a look at this.”
Lowery stopped the vehicle and all four men investigated the find. The tunnel's stone facing had been laid the same as any common brick wall. Each course overlapped the other to form a continuous running bond pattern, but here both the pattern and texture of the rock had suddenly changed. An upright pillar of smooth, polished granite had interrupted the rough wall facing.
The accumulation of a hundred years of water seepage, mixed with layers of coal soot and diesel exhaust, had combined to camouflage the column from all but the closest of examinations. Retreating to the other side of the tunnel, Matuszak used his flashlight's beam as a pencil to trace the pillar's outline. The outline was in the shape of a tall, elongated arch. At the apex of the arch stood a keystone. Closer scrutiny revealed the date 1895 inscribed on the keystone. The interior of the arch had been filled in with the same rough stone as the tunnel's walls.
They had found the elusive spur entrance, or at least the granite outline marking its entrance.
The problem facing them was how to gain entry. Stonemasons had done a superb job of walling the arch in. With no access door, the massive wall was impregnable. The oilskin drawing was useless; no connecting passage way had been depicted.
“Now what?” Lowery asked.
It was Matuszak who came up with the solution. “If the station serviced both the main tunnel and the spur,” he reasoned, “shouldn’t there be a connecting doorway inside the station?”
“Makes sense,” Lowery agreed. “Let's check the station, but time's running short. We'd better hurry.”
Returning to the abandoned station, they found it securely fortified. Steel plates covering the windows and door openings, insured protection against any attack by would-be vandals brave enough to venture into the tunnel. Massive brass padlocks on the door gave the appearance of being original and undisturbed.
“Heaven knows where the keys are,” Lowery said, “probably lost years ago. No time to check now. We'll cut our way in and put a new lock on later.”
Returning to the truck, he opened a side tool compartment, and removed a large pair of bolt cutters and several additional hand-held lights. The padlock proved no match for the bolt cutter's jaws, and within seconds lay on the platform's floor.
Begrudgingly the heavy metal door gave way under Lowery's exertion, its rusted hinges creaking loudly in protest. In contrast to the tunnel's frigid dampness, a wave of dry warm air floated out through the door opening and greeted them. Armed with the powerful lights, the group cautiously entered the darkness of the station agent's office. Lowery instinctively reached for the wall mounted light switch. The empty click resounding in the darkness brought a round of nervous laughter from his companions.
“Well,” he said, sheepishly, “it was worth a try.”
The room, encased in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, still contained all of its original office furnishings. Its appearance was that of a long forgotten time capsule.
A half-filled wastepaper basket stood close to the station master’s desk, its top littered with time-yellowed train schedules and crumbled papers. Above the desk hung a dust covered wall calendar. Someone had religiously marked off each passing day in heavy black crayon. The practice abruptly ended on Thursday, November 3, 1941. That date had been circled in faded red ink. It bore the notation, LAST DAY.
“Perfect timing,” Matuszak said, feeling the anticipation growing inside him. “That was only weeks before the train's disappearance. Now, there's got to be another doorway somewhere leading to the spur.”
His flashlight circled the room in a slow, sweeping arch, before coming to rest on a second doorway. Located in the far corner of the room, it was partially obscured by a pile of discarded boxes and a coat rack containing a sweater and conductor's cap.
Excited at the possibility of finding the spur's connecting door, Matuszak hurried across the room and grabbed the door handle.
“Damn!” he said, quickly yanking his hand back.
“What's wrong?” Harold asked. He was close behind, but, in the darkness, he was unable to see what had happened to his friend. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine,” Matuszak replied. “But feel this handle. Damn thing's almost too warm to touch. What in the hell's causing all that heat?”
Gathering around the door, each man took a turn at examining the handle and feeling the heat radiating through the door panels.
“What do you make of it?” said Lowery.
“I don't know,” said Harold, running his hand lengthwise along the adjoining wall, “but the entire wall's warm.”
“We
ll, whatever' causing it,” Matuszak said, “it has to be generating a tremendous amount of heat to penetrate the station's stone wall.”
That night in Little Italy, and Madam Zelda's prediction, came flooding back to him. What was it the gypsy had said? Look for the heat and you will find your train.
Uncertain as to what waited for them on the other side of the doorway, Matuszak, gritted his teeth, grasped the handle and turned. The handle gave easily. Apparently years of dry heat had kept the rust at bay, and the handle required only minimal exertion to turn.
As the door swung open, a dry, Sierra-like wind swept through the opening and engulfed them. It carried the stench of decay and death with it. Quickly filling the small office, it escaped into the main tunnel on the draft created by the station's opened main door.
Recoiling at the stench and heat, Matuszak probed the darkness beyond the doorway with his light. At first, he saw nothing. Playing the powerful light about, the dark granite block walls of the smaller tunnel came into view.
Venturing through the doorway, the group found they had moved backward in time, and were standing on a Victorian, wrought iron train platform. At the end of the platform was a set of stone steps with an ornate hand railing. The steps led down to the tunnel's roadbed and a single set of tracks. Like a group of schoolboys eagerly exploring a newly discovered cave, they anxiously descended the steps. Even here, the stifling heat could be felt, seeping through the roadbed's ballast stones and permeating the soles of their shoes.
Matuszak traced the narrow length of steel rails with his flashlight's beam. The rails continued along the roadbed for a short distance, then disappeared, as the tunnel's course veered slightly eastward.
“Nothing,” Lowery said. “Looks like you’ve wasted your time.”
“This way,” Matuszak said, setting off in the direction of the curve. “According to the map, the tunnel should continue another couple hundred feet around that bend.”
Switching on the additional lights, the group fell in step behind Matuszak, their shadows creating silhouettes of gargoyle-like creatures on the tunnel’s walls. Dancing silently in unison, the shadowy forms kept pace with the group as they made their way along the roadbed's uneven surface.
As they rounded the tunnel's bend, the men suddenly stopped. Their excited voices fell mute. The tunnel, no longer echoing with their enthusiastic chattering, lapsed into an eerie silence. Before them sat the dark, massive forms of three railroad coaches.
Leaving the group, Matuszak sprinted ahead. Stumbling on the roadbed's cross ties as he went, he raced down the right side of the first car he came to, the combination mail/baggage car.
God, let me be wrong, he prayed as he neared the opened door.. It was no longer important, solving the case. For surely, if these were the coaches he had sought, death waited inside.
Reaching the first of the baggage car’s two doors, he aimed the powerful light through the opening and immediately recoiled in horror. The light slipped from his grasp. Rolling in a slow, lazy arc on the baggage car's floor, its beam came to rest on a grisly sight... the mummified remains of a body.
Sitting in an upright position, the body was held securely to the chair by several strands of rope around the chest cavity. Fully clothed, the once finely tailored suit had dry-rotted and hung loosely from the desiccated body's bony frame. The arms had been cruelly wrenched behind the chair and bound securely with a leather belt.
It was the face that held him. Tilted backward in a macabre pose, gravity exerting force on the lower jaw had caused it to drop, giving the face a ghastly appearance of being frozen in a death scream. Bits of facial bones and portions of teeth protruded through patches of the dark leathery skin along with small, random tufts of hair. The sunken eye sockets, long since vacant, stared upward.
The cause of death was clear and had been mercifully swift. Above the right eye a large jagged section of skull was missing.
* * *
Within minutes of Lowery's frantic call, the tunnel was shut down. All rail traffic was diverted, and the tunnel swarmed with an army of police and railroad personnel.
Under the watchful eye of Baltimore City Crime Lab personnel, railroad maintenance crews strung temporary electrical wiring and established telephone service with surface units. The tunnel was ablaze in brilliant halogen lighting from the numerous stands placed strategically throughout the tunnel.
Becker was the first detective on the scene, meeting Matuszak and Harold at the doorway of the underground station. A broad smile beamed across his face as he shook Matuszak's hand
“Tremendous job, Ken,” he said, eagerly pumping Matuszak's hand. “Hearing the call over the radio, I knew it had to be you. I literally begged the lieutenant for this assignment. Now tell me, how did you do it? And for God's sake don't leave out any details.”
“A process of elimination,” Matuszak began, “and something Victor Ewald said. This was the only place not searched.”
“Can't believe three police jurisdictions and the Feds couldn't find anything in fifty-one years,” Becker said, shaking his head in disbelief, “and you, you did it single-handedly, in a matter of a couple of months. Would you consider a lateral transfer to homicide.”
“Only if Harold goes with the deal. He deserves the lion's share of the credit.”
“Well, too bad neither of you will get much credit.”
Although quite content not to seek the limelight, Matuszak was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“The Feds are on their way. They can smell good news coverage like a wino smells a freshly opened bottle. They've already claimed jurisdiction with US Mail and interstate transportation involved. Sorry, but if it's any consolation, it's happened to me several times.”
“Damn,” Harold cursed. “Never did trust the government.”
“Well, at least show me the rest of the scene before they get here. I'm interested in hearing who you think is behind this and how they did it.”
“Haven't seen all of it myself,” Matuszak admitted. “Seeing that mummified body strapped in the chair was enough for me. All I could think of was getting some fresh air.”
“Mummified body?” Becker grimaced. “Where?”
“In the baggage car. But, before we go back there,” Matuszak said, motioning toward the mouth of the spur, “there's something I want you to see.”
Walking the short distance to the spur's sealed entrance, Matuszak pointed out a set of massive wooden gates. Positioned inside the stonework that separated the spur from the main tunnel, they completely covered the arch shaped opening. Crudely constructed out of heavy, rough-sawn oak and held together with bolts and iron reinforcement plates, they weighed several tons each.
“Probably used as a security gate during the spur's original construction,” Matuszak said. “Or maybe they were used to temporarily close it off when they abandoned the spur, until they could permanently wall it in. They were in the closed position when the spur was sealed off. That's why no one discovered the cars.”
“Christ sake,” Becker said. “Didn't anyone open the gates and check the spur before they sealed it off?”
“Probably couldn't. Look closely at the gate's position, and particularly at that top, left hinge.”
“I don't see anything. What am I looking for?”
“At first, I didn't see it either,” Matuszak said. “But then I noticed how the overlapping gate had slipped and was resting on the rails.”
“Steel is expensive,” he continued. “I thought it odd that the railroad hadn't taken time to recover the rails. That's when I noticed the heavy anchoring pins, holding the gate's upper hinge, had pulled free from the wall. It allowed the outer gate to sag and drop onto the rails, hopelessly wedging both gates in the closed position.”
“I'll be damned,” Becker said. “I think you've got it.”
Matuszak nodded. “My theory is the hijackers backed the train into the spur. Out of sight, they did their dirty work, uncoupled the coac
hes and fled in the engine, closing the gates as they left. Then, or soon after, the upper hinge gave way and the gate dropped onto the rails.”
“But wouldn't someone have cut an opening in the timbers and checked the spur before sealing it off?” Becker asked.
“Harold is the historian, and he has a theory on that,” Matuszak said, turning the floor over to Harold.
“It's only conjecture at this point,” Harold said, “but we know that the majority of the railroad's stone work was done by immigrant labor. The stonemasons were mainly Italian and fresh off the boat. With little or no understanding of the English language, they probably weren't even aware of the train incident. In the age of steam, this was a high traffic tunnel and undoubtedly they were working on a tight schedule. The station had already been closed and its doors sealed. Rather than waste time disassembling the gates, they probably decided to remove a small section of rail and lay the stone wall.”
“And the engine?”
“It continued on alone. That's the phantom engine Matty saw coming out of the fog. Remember, he said it was moving slow. The spur is in walking distance of the tower. With the tunnel's grade, the engine wouldn't have had time to gather up any speed.”
“And so,” Matuszak said, “the coaches sat here, just out of sight, everyone thinking someone else had checked the tunnel.”
“Horrible,” Becker said. “Especially, when you consider the people in the coaches had to hear the masons constructing the wall sealing them in their tomb.”
“A ghoulish and tortuously slow way to die,” Matuszak was forced to agree.
Turning, the trio began the short walk back toward the coaches. A visibly shaken Lowery, the revolting sight in the mail car still fresh in his mind, joined them as they neared the station. “I've found the source of all this heat,” he said. “Steam.”
“Steam,” repeated Harold, his face skewed in astonishment.
“See for yourself,” Lowery said. He turned, gesturing to two huge pipes emerging from the roadbed at the base of the tunnel's wall. “A local utility company has a pair of high pressure steam mains, forty-eight inches in diameter running just under the main tunnel's roadbed. They resurface there and run the entire length of the spur.”
