The man in the suit laughed and told him to come inside. The station smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. The man explained that the renovations were nearly complete and led Andy to a small room full of buttons and switches. Immediately, Andy understood and felt like an idiot. Nobody actually drove the cars up and down the hill. It was all controlled from here. The man demonstrated how the machines worked and the cars went into motion. The man told him that he had one position left to fill and asked Andy if he thought he could handle the work. Without hesitation, Andy assured him that he was no stranger to hard work and asked when he could start. A few days and many piles of employment paperwork later, Andy was one of the operators of the Duquesne Incline. That was fifty years ago.
Of course, Andy did not spend his entire career in that control room. Over the years, he had moved around as an operator, tour guide, museum manager, marketing associate, and several other jobs. But it was not until five years ago that he completely retired and stopped working at the Incline. And now, today, here he was: the son of an immigrant steel worker being honored in a way that was once unimaginable to him. A new Incline car was being unveiled and on the front of it the words would read, The Andy Lach Incline Car. The guest of honor stood at the base of the hill among the distinguished crowd of attendees. Carson Street had been closed off and catering tents had been set up. In a little while, some of the city’s most important people will cheer as the new car is uncovered and begins its first official journey down the hill, Andy thought. He smiled and looked into his empty glass. Maybe one more for an old man. Tonight is my night.
– – –
The ambulance pulled away and Channing stood talking to a uniformed officer who stopped by to see if he could be of any assistance. The conversation ended and Channing walked back to the car where Lambert was leaning against the passenger side door.
She brought her eyes up to meet his and asked, “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“How did you know he was a crazy racist?”
“You told me.”
Her expression became quizzical.
“The bar you mentioned. You said Middlebury had been arrested at Truwicks. Sometimes white supremacist types frequent that bar. Usually just a few loners who drink too much and mouth off, but sometimes the organized nut jobs and militia groups go in there. My guess is our friend Stuart is somewhere in between.”
“You said the bar is sometimes frequented by these guys. You couldn’t have known for sure he was one.”
Channing nodded in agreement.
“I didn’t know for sure, but there was an old T-shirt on the porch. I kicked it around until I could see the logo on it. The logo is for the Mountaineer Militia out of West Virginia. Usually they are fairly harmless, but a while back they plotted to blow up some government buildings. I figured he could be a transplanted member, or more likely, a wannabe. I doubt many true members would allow a shirt bearing their emblem to be used as an oily rag. Regardless, I had a feeling he was not going to react well to a female, African-American detective who works for a big city. For whatever reason, these guys recognize county authorities more than any other. It has something to do with their skewed interpretation of common law or some nonsense. So, I told a little…white lie.”
This time Lambert could not help but show him a little smile.
“So, that was why you said you were from Wheeling?”
In his best Appalachian dialect, he said, “Yeees ma’am.”
Returning to his geographically neutral form of speech, he said, “Wheeling isn’t so far south that I can’t imitate the accent. In fact, a lot of people there really don’t have an accent, unless they live out in the sticks. It seemed like a safe bet at the time.”
Lambert took in a deep breath. She could still smell the booze on him. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a pack of gum.
“Here. It won’t do much good, but it will help. You should probably try to stay away from other people.”
His eyes fell to the pack of gum and then to the ground. He took the pack, withdrew a stick, and handed it back.
She put the gum back into her pocket and said, “Are you seeing anyone?”
His eyes shot up, his mouth opened and he fumbled for words.
“No…I mean, are you in AA? Some sort of counseling?”
Relieved, Channing said, “No.” He started to say something else, but stopped.
“I know you know all the clichés. ‘You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped’ and all that. It’s obvious that you’re a good cop. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I won’t pretend to understand what you are going through, but my question to you is: Are you ready to get better? Are you ready to get yourself right again?”
Channing looked back at his partner and, for once, he did not see judgment in her eyes.
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
Lambert nodded and said, “Well, we better get to the hospital and see how little Hitler is doing.”
She started to walk around to the driver’s side of the car when her phone rang. She listened intently, and then she looked across the roof of the car. Channing stared back. Her eyes were as big as pancakes and she was not breathing. Channing held his breath and waited. Whatever it was, he knew they would not be going to the hospital.
– – –
Lambert and Channing saw several patrol cars parked in a disorganized fashion all along the Carson Street station of the Duquesne Incline as they sped toward the scene. An ambulance with lights blazing and siren blaring pulled away. Lambert pulled off the road into some gravel and both detectives jumped out of the car. It took them a minute to locate the patrol sergeant who was attempting to coordinate securing the area.
“Is this one yours?” he reflexively asked Channing, who was obviously the senior of the two detectives standing in front of him.”
Lambert answered, “Looks like it. Sergeant Harris just told us to head down here and that there might be a city official involved.”
Not looking at her, but turning further toward Channing, he said, “Yeah, like the Culligan thing, right?”
Channing crossed his arms in front of him and said, “Are you on disability, Sergeant?”
“Uh…no. Why?”
“Because my partner, lead Detective Lambert must be talking into your bad ear.”
The sergeant’s face reddened in the cold air and he turned to Lambert.
“Here is what we’ve got so far…lead Detective Lambert. Some of the witnesses IDed the vic as Tedla Abdella, Executive Director of the city’s Housing Authority. I just got a quick look at him, but looks like he’s been dead a while and he’s covered with dry blood. The head of the Port Authority—which owns this thing, who knew?—said that he could have been up there all night; and the next thing you know, he’s coming down the mountain in style.”
Neither detective reacted to the officer’s flippancy.
“Anyway, we set up a perime—”
Lambert interrupted, “Sergeant, we just got here. What are you talking about, coming down the mountain?”
The sergeant leaned back a little and assumed a posture that said, Oh, so you guys don’t really know shit, do you?
Pointing over to the station at the base of the hill, he said “Well, lead Detective, the vic is right over there. Why don’t you go detect a little and see for yourself?”
Ignoring the shot, Lambert started walking toward the station at the base of the hill.
Channing started to follow, but the sergeant reached out and grabbed his arm. Recognition came over the man’s face and he said, “Oh, man. You’re Jackson Channing, aren’t you? Geez…look, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I guess with all that shit that happened to you, they probably got you taking it easy and mentoring her or something, am I right? Oh, man. I heard you were good people. I heard you got all cut up and shit. You healing okay?”
Channing reached across and removed the sergeant’s hand from his arm. He said, “Actuall
y, I’m hurting a little right now and I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Sure thing, boss! What do you need?”
“Well, one of the areas that got all cut up was my ass. I was thinking you could kiss it for me.”
With that, Channing walked away.
Behind him, he could hear the offended man yell, “Dick!”
Channing helpfully added, “tective.”
Channing rubbed his aching forehead as he walked. He was starting to think that maybe the old Jackson Channing was in there after all.
Channing found Lambert standing in front of the lower station. He walked up beside her and words failed him. Both detectives looked at the shiny new Incline car. Strapped to the front of the car was the body of Tedla Abdella, an expression of pure terror permanently frozen onto his face.
A woman in a long trench coat was talking to several Port Authority employees, telling them to check the city’s other Incline and to assist the police any way they could. The detectives walked over to the woman and identified themselves. When she turned toward them, the detectives could see there were tears on her face.
“I’m Lydia Vantree. I’m the CEO of the Port Authority. This is terrible—just terrible.”
“Ms. Vantree, my partner and I just got here. Were you here when the body…when everybody saw the body?”
Crying harder, she answered, “Yes. I helped put all this together. My God, what a disaster. The poor man. That poor, poor man.”
Between sobs, the detectives were able to ascertain that the event was to dedicate a new Incline car named after Andy Lach who had worked at the Incline for several decades. The attendees were a mixture of city officials, those who contributed financially to the preserve the Incline, and many of Mr. Lach’s friends.
Channing said, “If you don’t mind me asking, isn’t five o’clock in the afternoon on a frigid weekday a strange time to have an outdoor party?”
The sobbing slowed and a kind smile came upon Vantree’s lips.
She said, “We told Andy—Mr. Lach—that it was symbolic since he started working at the Incline on this date fifty years ago, and five o’clock was when his first shift started. But, the truth is, his health had been failing recently and I feared he might not be around in the spring.”
With that, the tears came back and the CEO held a ball of tissues to her face.
Channing paused to let her collect herself, but she resumed talking. “We just painted Andy’s name on the front of the car two days ago and covered the entire car so we could have a dramatic unveiling today. I talked to the operator who was on duty yesterday and he said he uncovered the car early yesterday morning, tested things out to make sure nothing went wrong during today’s ceremony, and then re-covered the car late yesterday morning. He said he inspected the car from top to bottom and nothing had been touched. And then…then today the car starts down the hill, and the giant tarp that was attached to a post at the top comes off as the car descends. At first, nobody could tell what was on the front. Then, when it was about halfway down the hill, I heard a woman scream. Then more screams. Then…”
Channing turned his head and his eyes found the body. Even from this distance, he could see blood pooled heavily in two areas of the chest and what appeared to be a large gash across the man’s throat. Channing noted the contortion of the corpse. Abdella’s lower body was flat against the car, but his upper body was turned to the right, facing the Allegheny River—the same general direction Culligan’s body had been facing. Coincidence?
Channing’s mind began to race. Was this killer playing some sort of game? Did he find the reactions of the crowds amusing? Was he watching now? The anxiety Channing felt when standing near Culligan’s corpse had been replaced with something else. Channing was starting to experience an emotion he had not felt toward anyone else but himself for a long time. He was getting mad.
Turning back to the head of the Port Authority he asked, “Ms. Vantree, I’m sorry to ask you this now, but what was your connection to Mr. Abdella?”
She gave him a blank look and asked, “Who?”
“Tedla Abdella. The victim.”
With surprised eyes she responded, “That’s Tedla Abdella? From the Housing Authority? My God, I didn’t even recognize him. Especially the way he’s all twisted up.”
There was a pause and Channing became lost in thought. It was Vantree who broke the silence.
“Why did you ask me what my connection was to Mr. Abdella? I didn’t even really know him. I think I met him once or twice.”
Seeing her partner’s mind was elsewhere and that he may not have processed the question, Lambert jumped in.
As gently as she could, Lambert asked, “Ms. Vantree, I think we assumed you knew the victim was Mr. Abdella and that you may have been friends with him because you are so upset. I know this seems like a disaster now, but nobody can blame you for this.”
The woman blew her nose into some tissues and shook her head wildly.
“I don’t care about how this looks. And, not to sound insensitive, but I didn’t really know Mr. Abdella. I’m upset because of Andy. Poor Andy. That poor, poor man.”
“What happened to Andy, Ms. Vantree?” Lambert asked.
“His heart. When people started screaming he looked up and saw the car. He was right beside me and turned to me. His mouth opened and then he just fell to his knees, then…. They took him away in an ambulance, but I know he was already gone.”
The crying became uncontrollable and Lambert put a comforting hand on the grieving woman’s arm and asked her if she wanted to sit down.
Lambert was leading her away from Channing when he heard her say, “He came here with nothing. All the man did was work hard his entire life. Now he dies on the biggest day of his life. The poor man. The poor, poor man.”
Channing walked over to the station and looked at Abdella’s body, still strapped to the car. Behind Channing was the city’s skyline. It would have been starting to get dark when the car began its journey down the hill, but with the lights lining the Incline, half the city’s corporate population could have seen this spectacle. Another city official. Another purposeful kill. A message sent down from the mountain?
Lambert returned from placing Lydia Vantree in a chair and was standing behind Channing. She did not say anything, but he knew she was there.
Without turning around he said, “I’m ready to get myself right and catch this guy.”
Lambert looked at the back of her partner’s head and said, “It could be more than one.”
“No. It’s one guy.” Channing stared into the dead man’s eyes and continued, “He’s alone, he’s been wronged, and he is seriously pissed off.”
Step 7
We humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
A homeless man approached the section of the sidewalk in front of the bench where Mayton sat—a bench he planned on visiting again. Mayton lowered the binoculars and waited for the broken man to pass. Once the transient was gone, he resumed his watch, using the binoculars to focus on the faces in the crowd. Some of the onlookers were crying; others were in shock. Although Point State Park was all the way across the Monongahela River from the base of the Duquesne Incline, the lights from the gaggle of police cars allowed him to see the effects of his actions.
Nearly everything had gone perfectly—the build-up, the dramatic unveiling, and then the horror. They would remember this. Even though most did not understand the message yet, they would eventually. One person was getting the message for sure. Mayton read it on that person’s face when the screaming started. Even at a distance, Mayton could see fear in those weak eyes. Mayton knew what the person was thinking: It could have been me.
Mayton lowered the binoculars again and recounted the event. Two things concerned him. A minor issue was the positioning of Abdella’s body. Mayton had intentionally faced him down the river—to that place. He held onto the body and positioned it in a manner where rigor mortis would set in
, making Abdella’s dead eyes face a specific direction. The arms had to be stretched out so he could tie the body to the car.
The first thing that bothered Mayton was how the body appeared as it made the slow crawl down the steep grade. The body, with arms stretched out, legs hanging down and ankles crossed, looked to be in a pose of crucifixion. That was not his intention, and now he wondered if some recess in his mind had caused him to position the body in that way. This was troubling to him, but he pushed it aside.
Of greater concern was the man in the ambulance that pulled away. Mayton had not been focusing on that part of the crowd and tents obstructed some areas of the street, but he believed he had caught glimpses of a man being attended to by paramedics. He did not know who the man was, or his condition, but his work causing collateral damage was not something he had accounted for. Sure, the families of his victims would suffer, but why should they not feel the pain of losing a loved one the way he felt it every day. But nobody else was supposed to get hurt.
Once again raising the binoculars, Mayton scanned the landscape and looked at officers ducking under yellow crime scene tape. Then, between two of the tents he saw a woman talking to a slender man in a suit and a black woman. They held notepads and were taking notes. Mayton figured the two must be detectives interviewing witnesses. He started to lower the binoculars when something clicked in his memory. He adjusted the focus on the binoculars and sharpened the image of the white detective. Even from that distance, Mayton recognized the face. What was his name? What was it? Channing. That was the name. He was all over the news a few months ago. The torture story. In fact, Mayton was so touched by the man’s plight, he sent a card to the man using the police department address, wishing him well and telling him that God works in mysterious ways. Of course, hundreds of other people would have done the same. If there was any man that would understand how far this city had fallen, it was that man. Now the hero was chasing…him?
After packing up the binoculars, Mayton stood from the bench and cut across the park, heading back downtown to retrieve his van. Watching the ground scroll in front of his feet while thinking about the ambulance and the hero cop, he felt sick to his stomach. It was not supposed to be like this. He was not the bad guy. He caught himself starting to pray, but stopped. No. This is the trap. This is my weakness. Compassion and memories. Those have been my weaknesses.
Measure Twice Page 9
