by R. T. Ray
“Steam pipes under the city,” Becker said. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. There's miles of this stuff under the city. They’re used for supplying steam heat to downtown office buildings.”
“But it's so dry,” declared Harold. “I thought steam was damp.”
“Not necessarily,” Lowery said. “Not as long as it's contained and there are no leaks. And, at their temperature, they've kept this place drier than an Egyptian's tomb.”
Nearing the mail car the group slowed. Knowing the gruesome scene waiting they allowed Becker to approach alone.
“Mother of God!” Becker blurted out, as he stood on the outside looking into the baggage car. Revulsion showed as he took in the grisly scene.
“The poor bastard. Looks like he was tortured, then executed,” he called back to his companions
Edgar McIntyre, mobile supervisor for the Baltimore City Crime Lab, looked up from examining the body. His tired, lined face wore a haggard expression from too many years of exposure to death. It softened on seeing an old friend. He rose and went to greet his colleague.
“How's it going, Sarge?” He removed a pair of latex examination gloves, careful to place them in a plastic bag. “Your case?” he ventured, in his customary graveled, nicotine-aged voice.
“Naaaa Mac. It's that MARC agent’s case for now, but it's likely to be a federal inquiry. I'm only an interested spectator on this one.”
“Federal boys up to their old tricks again, I see.”
Becker nodded in agreement.
McIntyre could only shrug. “Probably just as well,” he said, pointing to a pile of shipping crates in the corner. There are five, maybe six, more bodies in a pile behind those crates. Not sure how many or what killed them until we start pulling them apart. Somebody's going to spend a long time on this one.”
“Mac, have you been in the coaches yet? Any chance I can take a peek?”
“Yeah. For Christ sake, Sarge, be careful if you go in there. I've pulled two good people out of there already. Hell, one was an experienced tech too. Both of them throwing up on the floor ruining a lot of potential evidence in the process.”
“Why?” Becker asked. “What's in there?”
“A dozen, maybe more, mummified bodies. Haven't had time to do a complete body count. Mostly women and some kids. Looks like the bastards just tied them to the arms of the seats and left them. Thirst and madness probably got them after a couple of days.”
Becker promptly withdrew investigating the remaining coaches. He turned his attention to the body in the chair. “Any identification on that one?”
“Only a guess, but all the papers and personal effects are in the name of Jonathan Lambert,” replied McIntyre. “But I've been in this business too long to say for sure. That's his briefcase,” he said, pointing to a dark, dry-rotted leather satchel nearby, its contents scattered on the floor.
Becker looked around. Like the briefcase, the remainder of the car had also been vandalized. Mailbags and packages were slit open, and their contents dumped on the floor, along with overturned sacks of mail.
“They must have been looking for something important,” McIntyre said.
“Evidence,” Matuszak said, joining Becker at the opened doorway.
“Evidence? Evidence of what?” Becker said.
“According to the elder Ewald, Donnley and he had a profitable little scheme going, skimming profits from fat war contracts. I'm only guessing, but at some point they must have thought Lambert was on to them and was going to report them to the authorities. Probably thought he was carrying the evidence in the briefcase.”
“Makes sense,” Becker said. “Was he?”
“No, I don't believe so. As far as I can tell, Lambert knew nothing of their scheme. They tortured and executed him for nothing.”
McIntyre shook his head in disbelief. “You're telling me twenty-six innocent people died, for a slip of paper that never existed?”
“Looks that way,” Matuszak said. “If it had, the police would have found some evidence of its existence when they went over Lambert’s papers. My theory? The killers tried to disguise Lambert’s murder as a hijacking gone wrong. The vandalizing of the mail was only a red herring, to mask their real purpose.” He looked to McIntyre. “Just to be sure, mind if we have a look at his briefcase and personal papers before you tag them?”
“No, just be careful climbing the ladder, it's a little shaky.”
Matuszak and Becker negotiated the rungs of the stepladder, which had been hastily placed against the side of the car. Harold and Lowery declined, citing Lowery's need to check in with his office. They drifted back toward the office area.
Most of the papers were of a business nature, having to do with negotiations with the government, proposals for future repair work and routine financial estimates. Nothing was found that would help in the investigation.
“What about his wallet?” Matuszak asked as an afterthought. “Any chance to see it?”
McIntyre shook his head. “Maybe later,” he replied. “The body is too fragile to retrieve it now. Besides, body fluids would have soaked through the contents during decomposition. Might not be anything left to see.”
Forcing himself to look into the face of Jonathan Lambert, Matuszak spoke in a low voice.
“You poor bastard,” he said. “At least your death was faster than the others. If only you could tell us who did it.”
He was turning to leave when he noticed a yellowed piece of paper, barely protruding from the breast pocket of the suit jacket.
“What about this? Could you remove it?” Matuszak asked.
Picking up a pair of tweezers with a broad flat rubber tip, McIntyre gingerly retrieved the brittle piece of paper from the pocket.
Accepting the paper, Matuszak held it up to the light. “A return ticket dated the night of the train’s disappearance,” he announced, slowly turning it over.
“Poor devil never got the chance to use it,” Becker said.
“Hello,” Matuszak exclaimed. “What do we have here? Looks like a notation of some sort.” Carefully studying the reverse side of the ticket, he read its faint message:
“Donnley - Emerson Hotel - room 515.”
“Maybe Jonathan Lambert found a way to tell us who is responsible after all,” Matuszak said, carefully returning the paper to the technician.
“Even from the grave,” Becker agreed.
29
With Becker's promise to see Harold home, Matuszak left the spur. Declining a lift, he walked the short distance to the tunnel's mouth. Emerging from the cold, foul dampness he savored the warming rays of the afternoon sun and the clean, sweet taste of fresh air. How long had he been in that underground cavern of death? Only three or four hours according to his watch, but it seemed an eternity.
To the side of the entrance, he noticed a group of TV trucks, along with news personnel and support crews. Coming from as far away as Philadelphia the technicians were setting up equipment in preparation for a long siege.
Behind the group a myriad of thick, black electrical cables stretched across the tracks. Resembling a nest of migrating snakes, they slithered along the roadbed, weaving and crisscrossing each other several times before connecting to the fleet of trucks with large satellite antennas atop.
He pushed his way past the technicians and the growing crowd of onlookers. Morbidly drawn to the scene by special news bulletins, they descended on the scene like a flock of vultures in search of a meal. Only in this case, it was to catch a glimpse of the mummified bodies rumored to be in the tunnel.
Matuszak never understood the attraction that drove seemingly normal, everyday people to gather and stare at a scene of blood or gore. Hell, he thought, the Roman soldiers at the crucifixion probably thought the same thing.
Reacting to the media's response and to provide crowd control, the police had set up a command post. Housed in a converted luxury motor home, it was staffed by public information and supervisory patrol person
nel. The motor home had been an unwilling gift to the police department from a drug kingpin, courtesy of the courts.
Bradford, with his rotund figure and pale pink skin, was standing under the motor home's awning, conducting an impromptu news conference. Learning of the discovery, he had hurried to the scene for, as he termed it, damage control.
“Can't have Matuszak acting like a loose cannon, running off his big mouth,” he had told everyone in Annapolis. However, if in the process a share of the credit, or a newspaper photo should fall his way, well, who was he to complain?
Standing behind an array of microphones, Bradford was enjoying himself. He had a captive audience and national coverage to boot. The best of both worlds, he thought. All in all, not a bad day. Yes sir, this could turn out to his political advantage.
“Can you tell us something about the investigation's beginning?” asked one reporter. “And who made the discovery?”
Bradford had long harbored a deep-seated hatred for Matuszak. Why, he no longer was sure. Possibly it was Matuszak's cavalier attitude toward authority that irked him so. Their first meeting had gotten off to a bad start. Matuszak's unreasonable refusal to alter a minor report, even at his insistence, had perhaps set the stage for their feud. But now, if it meant a slight praising of Matuszak would be to his political advantage, he would do the distasteful task.
Finding the words a bitter pill to swallow, Bradford answered the reporter's question.
“From the very onset, the Maryland DOT had the confidence that this investigation could be brought to a successful conclusion. To achieve that goal, we exhibited extraordinary foresight and placed our trust, and the full resources of our department behind one of our most valued and experienced investigators, Agent Kenneth Matuszak,” he said, gesturing toward the tunnel.
Matuszak looked up.
The group of reporters turned, and, spotting Matuszak emerging from the tunnel rushed to meet him. Matuszak found himself engulfed by the phalanx of microphones thrust in his face. A series of rapid fired questions followed.
“Agent Matuszak, is it true there are twenty-six bodies down there?”
“How did you discover the location?”
“We keep hearing unconfirmed rumors of a ritual, sadistic torture. Is it true? Can you comment on it?”
The questions were coming too hot and too fast for Matuszak to field or to answer.
“I'm sorry, gentlemen” he told them. “But you must realize I'm at a critical stage in the investigation and I can't comment on the crime scene itself.”
“Can you at least tell us if it is in fact a homicide investigation, and do you have any suspects?” a voice from the rear called out.
Looking at a smirking Bradford, basking in the anticipated glory of yet another political gain, Matuszak paused a few moments before replying.
“Yes,” he said. “It is a homicide investigation and we have narrowed our focus to a primary suspect. One who has close business ties to one of the victims and the present administration. I expect to announce his name and arrest very soon.”
That revelation caught Bradford completely off guard, as Matuszak had intended it would. If Bradford was the source of the leak, this would provide the opportunity to prove it. If not, then he wanted Donnley to know he was coming for him. And what better way than live television?
“Now, if you will excuse me, I have an important engagement to keep,” he told the group of reporters.
Bradford pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and began wiping away the small beads of perspiration forming on his brow. The smile had vanished, replaced by a frantic look. Bradford disappeared into the command post in search of a telephone.
Matuszak watched his old nemesis disappear into the motor home. It appeared as if Bradford was the source of leak after all. So be it. Donnley would be warned before Matuszak's arrival. But it was too late; it wouldn't do Donnley any good. Matuszak turned and began the short walk to the car.
* * *
The two men in sunglasses watched as Matuszak headed toward his auto.
“Stay with him. Don't lose him this time.”
“Lighten up, I've got him. He won't get away from us.”
Carefully easing the big Pontiac through the crowd of onlookers and media trucks, the driver dropped in unnoticed behind Matuszak's sedan.
“See. Like I told you,” the driver said, looking to his companion “a piece of cake.”
30
Senator Ewald’s Office
Federal Building
Baltimore
“Ken,” Judith Carberry cried, rushing across the office reception area to Matuszak. “Thank God you're here!”
“Where's Donnley?
“He’s... he’s in his office,” she said, turning an angst filled face to the closed door of Arthur Donnley’s office. “But you can’t go in there. He’s locked himself in and won't see anybody.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes. It was those news bulletins about the discovery of the coaches. He went into a rage, thrashing around in his office, screaming and cursing like a madman. Most of the staff fled when it started.”
“Wait here,” he said, as he started down the corridor.
“What are you going to do? You can't get in. He's locked himself in.”
“He’ll see me. How long has he been in there?”
“Ten minutes, maybe more. I don't know. Should I notify building security?”
“No,” commanded Matuszak. He wanted time, time to confront Donnley. Someone was going to pay for Matty and Nancy’s death first. “No,” he repeated, “not just yet. Do you have an extra key?”
“There is no key, it's electronically locked. Only the senator has the code to override it and he's in a committee meeting. I've paged him. He should be here shortly.”
* * *
His ranting and raving session finished, Arthur Donnley slouched deeper into the overstuffed chair, the deadly Walther 9 mm dangled loosely from his right hand. Resigned to the fact that his half-century of charades had come to an end, he had decided on suicide rather than face the humiliation of a public trial and the inevitable prison sentence that would follow. Once that decision had been reached, a tranquil calm had settled over him.
Still he thought, it didn't have to come to this. He had come close. Having the ear of the President of the United States, he would have been in a position of authority. He would at last have power and prestige he deserved. Gone would be this petty position. As a presidential adviser he would be able to influence world decisions. Now all of that was gone. That idiot Bradford and that Nosy Parker of a cop, Matuszak, were to blame.
If only Matuszak hadn't persisted in the quest to find the coaches, all would have been different.
‘I've got just the man for you,’ Bradford had assured him. ‘This ass Matuszak, a minor underling, is lazy down to the core. If it's a botched investigation you want, he's your man.’
Damn Bradford!
Now it had come down to this. He should’ve known better to trust Bradford. Still, Matuszak wasn't the first to interfere with his plans. There was that nosy charwoman, back in the winter of forty-one, she had been the start of all his troubles. Her nasty habit of lurking outside his office door, pretending to do her work all the while listening in. That was her mistake.
No matter.
The nosy bitch had paid dearly for eavesdropping on his plans for Lambert and the train. Her fatal mistake was hesitating and not going straight to the police. That had been her undoing. It had been all too simple to silence her wagging tongue. He smiled, a sinister smile that lifted the corners of his mouth. The graveyard and her husband’s freshly dug grave had seemed an appropriate place to put an end to her poor, pathetic existence.
And now this meddlesome fool, Matuszak, was committing the same mistake.
“Bradford,” he cursed, tightening his grip on the Walther. That fat slob with his pink skin and short turned up nose that reminded him of a pig. He slammed his bone
y fist on the desktop setting several photo frames to dancing. Too bad he wasn't coming with Matuszak. He would like nothing better than to put a bullet in his miserable skull.
No matter, he told himself. Bradford's fate is out of your control. Matuszak was on his way. Your only decision now is to decide whether to kill Matuszak or not.
That wasn't a hard decision.
The Walther, with its cold, lethal might, was firmly in his hand. It was his ultimate weapon. It was the one thing Matuszak couldn't take away, as he had done with everything else.
He smiled, a wicked smile of anticipation. The fool Matuszak was coming; Bradford's call and the television bulletins had warned him of that. All I have to do is wait, he thought. Wait and kill Matuszak as he comes through the door.
It was going to be easy, so easy indeed. Matuszak's death was only a finger's pull away.
* * *
Senator Ewald rushed into the reception area. “Judith! Judith, where are you?” he called, tossing his coat onto the desk. The briefcase quickly followed suit.
“We're here. In the hallway.”
“What the hell's going on?” he demanded, rushing down the corridor to Matuszak and Judith Carberry. Ignoring Matuszak he turned to his girl Friday. “Judith, are you all right? Your call said there was trouble.”
“No time for explanations, Senator!” Matuszak interrupted. “Open Donnley's door. Quick, before it's too late!”
Unaccustomed to being ordered about, especially by minor law enforcement official, Senator Ewald started to object. It was the steely determination in Matuszak’s face that overruled his planned retort. Senator Ewald relented. Fumbling with the lock’s control panel, it took several tries before he found the correct combination. The electronic lock released its hold. Ewald stepped aside and Matuszak pushed the door open.
In the tight, close confines of Donnley’s office the report from the Walther was deafening. The pungent smell of gunpowder strong.
