No Man's Land

by Sara Driscoll

  “Hawk, find her.”

  Hawk resumed his sprint through the forest.

  Three minutes later, they broke out of the trees onto a back road, the tarmac surface rippled and cracked. Hawk banked right and followed the gravel shoulder for thirty feet, then stopped, casting about for the scent. He looked up at Meg and whined.

  She crouched down next to him. “You’ve lost her, haven’t you?” As she stroked a hand over Hawk’s exercise-warmed fur, she studied the road around them. And froze when she realized they were standing in the middle of the evidence. She slowly stood. “Hawk, come.” Carefully stepping onto the solid surface of the road in overlarge strides, Meg turned to look again at the shoulder. Twin ruts dug into the gravel with clearly defined bare spots where the tires had spun, leaving behind a spray of rocks. It was the distinct signature of a vehicle, parked off-road and leaving in a rush.

  “Hawk, sit. Stay.” Meg dropped the leash to pool at his feet and walked fifteen feet down the road, studying the pavement. Crouching down, she examined the dark smears marring the surface. The tire tread patterns were clear, and between that and the ruts in the gravel, Meg knew a sharp team of crime scene techs could determine chassis size and tire type, and might even be able to come back with vehicle identification. “Gotcha, you bastard.”

  She straightened and pulled out her cell phone to text McCord.

  Vic is gone, taken in a vehicle. Will call in 10 mins. Be ready with the list.

  Next she called Craig to request a crime scene team to process the site, telling him she wouldn’t be able to wait for them. She gave him the exact coordinates and described the scene. After hanging up, she followed his request to take and forward pictures of the scene in case anyone disturbed the area before the techs arrived.

  Less than ten minutes later, Meg and Hawk had retraced their steps through the trees and were back in the SUV.

  She called McCord. “Talk to me, McCord, where am I going?”

  “You want the whole list?”

  “I want the first one so I can put the address in my phone and get started. I’m two or three hours behind them. I’m never going to catch the suspect, but Mrs. Devar might still be saved.”

  “Then I’m going to send you to the Bowie Meat Packing Plant in Lansdowne. You’re only twenty minutes away.” He rattled off the address, which Meg typed into her phone and then had Google Maps direct her route as they sped down the driveway.

  “I’m on the way. Tell me about this plant and why it’s number one. Chuck says it helps him to know about a place before he goes in. Gives him an idea of the setup and potential hazards before he steps into it. And, for now, I’m on my own, so I want everything you can give me.”

  “This may be more info than you need, but better to know too much than too little in this case. The Bowie Meat Packing Company was founded in the 1860s at a time when refrigeration was a challenge, to say the least. To expedite transport of meats while they were still fresh, the main plant was located in Chicago as part of the city’s massive stockyards. Served by the rail lines, they processed up to fifty thousand hogs a day.”

  Meg was struck silent for a moment. “Fifty thousand. That’s hard to wrap your head around.”

  “Sure is, especially when you consider it was done one hundred percent by hand, and that number doesn’t include beef processing. The company pioneered the assembly line and is generally credited for giving Henry Ford the idea how to set up his car plant in Detroit. Anyway, they had some smaller locations, always situated beside rail lines to allow for the transport of live animals in and butchered meats out. They located their Baltimore plant beside the old Baltimore and Ohio rail line. Move the animals in, slaughter and process them, and then pack the butchered meat into refrigerated railcars and move it out.”

  “You just said refrigeration was hard to come by.”

  “This was decades later. By the early twentieth century, when this plant opened, they’d figured out how to make ice for industrial refrigeration. The plant opened in 1903 and went gangbusters until the Great Depression. Then the company nearly folded. They had to let go of most of their workforce, but they managed to stay in business. They hit their stride again during World War II, when canned meat became a military staple. But the jobs were nonunion and low paying, so workers went elsewhere. In the end they couldn’t pay more and stay competitive, and the plant finally closed in 1966.”

  “It’s been closed for half a century? That seems hard to believe.”

  “Hard or not, there you have it. It’s a pretty big complex. Several connected brick buildings and its own power generation plant with double smokestacks because this was before municipal power grids. Huge steam engines powered the refrigeration units. It’s going to be a lot of area to cover. Will you be on your own?”

  “Yes. Everyone else is already out on other search calls, but Craig’s going to redirect them to me if they become free in the next little while. So why this place specifically?”

  “As opposed to the others on the list? Partly because of its location—it’s in an industrial area, southwest of town with a few other shuttered businesses, so it’s probably not too difficult to get in and out of unnoticed. Add to that, if Mrs. Devar actually managed to escape the building, there isn’t a neighborhood full of people around for assistance—just a few huge properties spread far apart. Also, that section of the B&O rail line was sold to a big transportation company, so it’s used only for industrial rail transport and not passengers. The other factor that puts this one at the top of my list is how old it is and how long it’s been closed. It’s considered to be a dangerous place for urbex—rotten floors, collapsing staircases, etcetera. In fact, it’s due for demolition in the near future to make way for some new warehouse that will benefit from the proximity to the rail lines.”

  “If it was that treacherous, you’d think that would be a draw to the people who do urban exploration.”

  “You mean urbexers.”

  “Urbexers?”

  “Yeah, urbexers. People who do it for fun and the challenge. I’ve been forced to pick up the lingo. They also have their own slogan: Pics or it didn’t happen. Which has been great, because I can check out these places remotely to see if they’d be good body dump sites. Anyway, you’re right, the danger is a definite draw to some, but this happens to be the site of an urbexer death a few years ago, so they consider the place to have bad juju.”

  “They’re superstitious?”

  “They can be.”

  “What happened? So I know what to avoid while we’re in there.”

  “As long as you don’t climb the smokestack, you should be fine. And as impressive as Hawk is, he’s not so amazing that he’d be able to climb iron rungs mortared into brick as a ladder. The two smokestacks are each over two hundred feet tall. An urbexer climbed one, and just as he reached the top, one of the rungs came loose. He had most of his weight on it and couldn’t catch himself when it gave way. Fell about eighteen stories, landed on the roof, went right through it, and fell another four or five stories down. He was gone by the time his buddies found him. But considering you’re going in there alone, you need to be careful. Really careful. If you want me to stay on the line with you as a virtual spotter, I’m here.”

  “That might not be a bad idea. I can keep you updated as to where we are, and if we run into trouble, you’ll know immediately and can call for assistance. What other places are on the list if the meat-packing plant doesn’t pan out?”

  “I have another four locations picked out—a hotel, a clinic, and two more industrial sites, but let’s start here. It’s really the most likely site for the killer’s task.”

  “That works for me. I estimate arriving in fifteen minutes. Let me call you when I get there.”

  “I’ll be here. When you get there, you’ll have to park on the road in front, as it’s completely fenced, but according to blog sites, you’ll find a break in the fence line around the back of the complex, which will give you access
to the whole site.”

  “Great, thanks. Talk to you when I’m on the property.”

  “Ten-four.” He hung up.

  Meg glanced at the map, gauged the time it would take at the calculated speed limit, imagined the terrified older woman slowly bleeding out, and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  Hang on. Don’t let go.

  We’re coming.

  CHAPTER 14

  Edgework: Undertaking a life-threatening risk for no reason other than to feel “the edge.”

  Monday, November 5, 10:55 AM

  Bowie Meat Packing Plant

  Lansdowne, Maryland

  “I’m here.” Meg settled her pack more securely onto her shoulders as she looked up at the connected buildings that comprised the plant. Made of red brick, the largest part of the structure looked to be about five stories tall, topped by two towering brick smokestacks. The name BOWIE was emblazoned on them in vertical block letters, once a bright white, now faded to a ghostly gray.

  “How does it look?”

  “Like if the Big Bad Wolf were here, he could huff and puff and blow the place down.” Meg eyed the crumbling brick, broken windows, sagging roofline, and nearly waist-high weeds that stood between Hawk and his goal. “Seriously, it’s a mess.”

  “And you’re on your own.”

  “Yes. I called Craig and told him I was going in with you on the line. He wasn’t happy.”

  “He wouldn’t be.”

  “He didn’t even bother to tell me to wait for backup, because he knows if Hawk catches the scent, I’m following because time is not on our side. He’s not thrilled, but he gets it.”

  “I want to stay with you, but will talking to me be a problem? You’ll need both hands free for you and Hawk.”

  “Both hands are free. I’m talking to you over my Bluetooth earbuds.” She opened the zippered plastic bag and offered it to Hawk once more. “Hawk, this is Mrs. Devar.” She waited while he scented the article. “Find Mrs. Devar.”

  Hawk swung toward the buildings, his nose in the air, trying to find even a molecule of scent.

  “Here we go.” Meg closed the bag and stuffed it into one of the side pockets of her backpack. “I’m giving him a second to catch the scent. There are several buildings, and it would save a lot of time if he has an idea where to go. If not we’ll . . .” Her voice trailed off as she studied Hawk’s posture. His spine stiffened as his tail rose high into the air, his ears perked. “McCord, you did it. Hawk has her scent.”

  “Already?”

  “You know how good he is.” Hawk pushed through the tangles of overgrown grass toward the largest of the three structures, the building with the smokestacks. “He’s headed for the structure with the smokestacks.”

  “That’s the refrigeration plant. It opened a few years after the main processing plant. A room full of boilers fed steam into the flywheel steam engines that powered overhead condensers. They cooled the air for the massive plant refrigeration unit. The smokestacks carried away the exhaust from the engines.”

  “Look at you, learning all about industrial operations.”

  “I’m a quick study. You have to be in this job. And I thought if you knew roughly how the building worked originally, you’d have an idea what’s what once you’re inside.”

  Hawk pushed through the grass, winding his way toward the building with a quick, sure stride, Meg following in his wake. “There’s an opening into the building across from here, so access isn’t going to be a problem.”

  “I’m going to follow along virtually via photos and blueprints, so I can try to tell you where you’re going. Thank God for multiple monitors.”

  “Good thing you’re not at home on your laptop. Okay, we’re getting closer now and he’s . . . he’s . . . uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  Hawk slowed his pace and started casting about in the grass.

  “He’s lost the scent already.”

  “As you got closer to the building? Could the body be outside instead?”

  Meg scanned the scraggly grass and weeds on what had once no doubt been a beautifully cultivated lawn. “Maybe? But that seems unlikely. Why go all this way, come to a site like this, and then dump the victim outside?”

  McCord let out a hum of displeasure. “You’re right, that doesn’t make sense. Are you going to take Hawk in and hope he catches the scent again?”

  Meg studied her dog for a moment. Hawk moved jerkily, trying to catch the scent on brief gusts of wind. He looked up at her and whined. “No, I’m going to backtrack a bit. Hawk, come.” She retreated with him about fifteen feet, and then his head shot up, nose in the breeze. “He has it again. Hawk, find her.” They turned toward the building, but ten feet along he whined once more. “Lost it again. Hawk, buddy, what’s going on?”

  “He’s having trouble?”

  “Not exactly. It’s not him, it’s the scent. He’s reporting what he picks up on, but the scent is disappearing on him. Now why is that? Hawk, come.” She led him back again to where he had detected the scent twice, and she could tell from his change in alertness the moment he picked it up. “He has it again. So why here?” She studied the building, cataloging windows and doors, anywhere scent could be leaking from the structure. Then she looked up. “Wait a second.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got it.” She squinted at the trees at the near end of the building. For more than fifty years, the property had gone untouched, and nature had reclaimed it with a vengeance. Trees grew in uneven clumps toward the end of the property, their multicolored leaves waving in the vigorous breeze. She stuck her index finger in her mouth and held it over her head. “It’s the wind.”

  “Blowing the scent? But wouldn’t you expect that? Isn’t that how scent tracking works?”

  “You’re right, anytime you’re doing an external search, the wind is what carries the target’s scent to you. But obstacles can play hell with air currents, and what’s a building but a giant obstacle? The air flow is coming over the building and falling on the far side fifty-odd feet from the near wall. The wind isn’t too strong today. A harder breeze would have the scent landing farther out, and he might have missed it altogether. It’s called a chimney effect. Walk too close to the obstacle and you’re actually walking out of the scent trail.”

  “So the vic is on the other side of the building?”

  One hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, Meg peered up at the roofline over the lines of broken windows. “Could be, but again, too easy. I think she’s on the roof. The breeze is blowing her scent off the roof toward us.”

  “Until you get too close.”

  “Exactly. He’s not picking up a fresh trail on this side of the building at ground level, which likely means the suspect took her in on the far side. If he’s scouted out the building, he may have known the easiest way to enter when carrying a burden. If we go in on this side, it may save us time, and Hawk will reconnect with the scent inside when we cross their path.” She stared up at the roof, brilliantly backlit by sun and clouds, and let out a shaky breath. “Assuming my theory is correct, we need to find a way up there. And if the inside of the building is in the same shape as the outside, that may be a problem.”

  “I’m looking at pictures. It’s not good. You’re going to need to be even more careful if you’re not staying on terra firma. Not to mention your love of heights.”

  A shudder snaked through Meg. Ever since she was six, when she nearly fell off the roof of her grandparents’ cottage after the railing on the widow’s walk gave way, Meg had had a blinding terror of heights. She never sought them out, but sometimes a search forced her to meet her fear head-on.

  She had a bad feeling about this search.

  “Oh yeah, I love them.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm. “I’ll try not to let you hear my knees knocking when I’m up there.”

  “No need to hide it from me. I know all about facing things that scare the living daylights out of you . . . and doing th
em anyway.”

  Meg thought about his time as a war correspondent in Iraq, and how many years he’d remained when a lesser man would have returned home. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You do.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, McCord, you gonna be my wingman?”

  “Always. Let’s do this!”

  “Actually, can you do something for me while we get started? Contact Baltimore EMS and give them a heads-up that we need a team on standby. I don’t want to tie them up coming all the way out here if we’ve lost her already, but if we haven’t, I’ll need them double quick. They can have a local team identified and ready to roll, if needed.”

  “Can do.”

  Meg looked down at Hawk, sitting quietly at her feet, gazing up at her. “Hawk, come. This time I’m going to lead for a bit. Heel.”

  Together they slogged through the long grass, heading directly for an opening the size of a double door. As they got closer, she was able to see large sections of plywood that once covered the opening laying in a shattered pile inside the door. Broken by time or explorers, she wasn’t sure.

  She tightened the leash and gave Hawk a quick check to make sure his protective vest and search boots were securely in place. Then they stepped into the gloom.

  It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lower lighting, since the interior was lined with grimy windows, some shattered, letting in ambient light. She found herself in a room filled with a long row of rusted tanks approximately four or five thousand gallons each. “I’m inside, in a room with about a dozen enormous tanks.”

  “If I’m reading this right, you’re in the room next to the steam engines. Those tanks would have been filled with liquid ammonia circulated through condensers to produce the cold air for refrigeration.”

  “That’s a lot of ammonia.” She glanced down at Hawk’s relaxed stance. “Hawk doesn’t have the scent yet. I’ll make a pass through and then move on.” They passed through the room of tanks, winding around broken brick, shattered glass, and old rusted tools. “Moving into the next room.” Meg paused for a moment in the doorway, taking in the huge airy space, easily three stories high and brightly lit from a skylight that covered the entire length of the room, opening it up to the sky, the inset glass long gone. Multicolored graffiti covered the lower sections of the walls that rose upward to steel I-beams that spanned the skylight. Valve-studded pipes of varying diameters ran overhead through the wall, leading into the next room. “Now we’re in a big room with a ton of pipes and machinery. We’re going to have to be careful in here. The floor is covered with scraps of rusted sheet metal and glass. It’s a tetanus wonderland.”