Parallel Lies Read online

  Madders replied, “Which means you’re some kind of expert, right?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

  “Homicide,” Madders said. “You gotta be some kind of expert in homicide. Am I right?” They walked a few more feet—it was treacherous going—when Madders said under his breath, “You’d better be.”

  Lit by a number of battery-powered fluorescent lights, the boxcar in question held crated dishwashers. A St. Louis Police Department uniformed patrolman stomping his cold feet together was at a stepladder leading up into the car. Tyler showed the man his credentials.

  “Feds are here!” the cop announced.

  Inside the car were two crime scene technicians busy with stainless steel tools and plastic bags. They had attached little flags of various colors around the car. Supervising the two was a detective by the name of Banner, or Bantock—the man was so cold his jaw didn’t move properly and Tyler missed the name. The detective was short and stocky and wore a gray wool overcoat. His street shoes looked wet all through, and his face was a florid pink, from either temperament or the cold. Clearly he didn’t want to be here—it was written all over him, from his hunched shoulders to the squinting eyes that conveyed resentment.

  “Blood?” Tyler asked. The floor, the boxes, the walls appeared sprayed in it. The air smelled sour.

  “No lie,” the detective answered.

  “It was a question,” Tyler explained. He’d attended hundreds of crime scenes, most of them bloody, but this was among the worst.

  “The cold helps us,” one of the technicians explained. “If the fluids hadn’t frozen, nearly on impact, they would have been absorbed, spread out. Instead, we got some real good splatter indicators here.”

  The other tech added, “We’re thinking two people. Both bleeders—we’ll know for sure when we type the blood. If either one’s still standing I’d be surprised, but this one—” he said, indicating the boxcar wall behind his partner, “—this one’s a couple quarts low. He’s either dead or wishing he was.”

  “Have we identified that?” Tyler indicated the brown mess on the boxcar’s floor.

  “We were thinking fecal matter or vomit,” the first tech answered. “But now I’m guessing soup. Frozen chili, maybe.”

  “Chili,” Tyler said curiously.

  “Go figure,” the technician said.

  “These riders will fight over anything,” Madders said from outside the car. Snow covered his head like a thin handkerchief.

  The detective, plainly suspicious, inquired, “What’s NTSB care about a fight in a railcar?”

  Tyler nodded. He’d been expecting this. “The homicides and the subsequent arrest—”

  “The Railroad Killer,” Madders interjected.

  Tyler continued, “—have everyone in Washington oversensitive about reports of blood in railcars. If we’ve got a copycat out here, the sooner we shut him down, the better.”

  Madders said, “Good riddance to all riders—these two included. We chase a dozen out of here every day.”

  Both the detective and Tyler turned to face Madders. His breath fogging in the cold boxcar, the detective asked, “You chase any out today?”

  Tyler in turn asked Madders, “Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

  Madders answered the detective first. “None that I saw. Listen, we got bums coming and going, twenty-four, seven. The ones who know anything know to jump way before they ever reach the yard. It’s only the dumb ones we see here. You trespass onto company property, that’s a crime. We see the same face two, three times, and we arrest ‘em.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Tyler repeated.

  “Northern Union Security,” Madders emphasized.

  “They got their own company, their own security guys, their own investigators,” the detective answered, beating Madders to it. “And it sucks, as far as I’m concerned—the whole damn arrangement.”

  “Security guards have authority to make arrests?” Tyler asked, incredulous. He was thinking rent-a-cops, but he didn’t say it.

  “You bet they do,” Madders answered, jumping in. “Do it all the time.”

  The detective answered, “They dump ‘em off with us. We house ‘em until their hearings.”

  “And these security guards,” Tyler said. “Where are they now? We’d like to talk to them.”

  “It’s a big yard,” Madders replied. “We got six guys total. Two guys each shift. They’re around here somewhere.”

  “I’ve already asked,” the detective told Tyler. “One of our guys is rounding them up.”

  “They ever hear of radios?” Tyler mumbled.

  “We got radios,” Madders told him.

  “Use ‘em,” the detective barked. “Get those guys over here!”

  “The ones on duty, or the ones on day shift? ‘Cause that’s gonna be a problem,” he said, checking his watch. “Three-thirty. Shift rotates real soon.”

  “Find ‘em!” the detective ordered.

  Madders hurried off into the storm, cursing under his breath. Not a minute had passed before he reappeared with two security guards. “Already on their way,” he said proudly.

  “I thought you said there were two,” Tyler said, observing a third.

  Standing between two football-player types who made their plain blue uniforms look undersized stood a tall black woman who wore a long chic overcoat with the hood up. The hood was trimmed in faux fur meant to look like a tiger’s tail. The whites of the woman’s eyes showed from within the shadow of that hood, her lips pursed in concentration.

  “Who’s in charge?” she asked, her delicate voice rising above the clatter of a nearby train. Then she caught sight of the flags and the enormous quantity of blood in the boxcar. Her eyes wandered over to Tyler’s. “You?” she asked.

  Jurisdiction had not yet been discussed. Tyler answered, “It’s his crime scene.” He considered introducing the detective, but he still wasn’t sure of the man’s name.

  “John Banner,” the detective told her. This time Tyler caught it clearly. “Detective. SLPD.” Either Banner didn’t like blacks or he didn’t like women. Or maybe it was that he didn’t like black women, but an attitude change came with the introduction. “And you are?”

  “Here to observe and help out if I can,” answered the woman as she approached the stepladder. “Nell Priest. Northern Union Security, corporate.” Tyler felt she had sized up Banner immediately, and this impressed him. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Detective?”

  Tyler’s live-in companion for two years, Kat, had walked out at the height of his legal problems, leaving him alone and despondent. He blamed the media’s invasion of their privacy rather than his own inability at the time to communicate. He’d put Kat behind him now, along with nearly everything else of his former life. But Nell Priest had Kat’s spunk, reminding him of her and winning his spontaneous admiration. Not every woman could hold her own with self-important bastards like Banner.

  The two forensic technicians observed this exchange without moving. Clearly Banner came with some baggage that his co-workers were aware of. For a moment the air seemed unusually still. “I’d rather not contaminate the scene,” Banner answered, looking right at her.

  She looked to Banner, back to Tyler, seemed to consider the situation, and elected to answer with a faint nod. Some snow broke from the faux fur and flew around her face.

  “He’s federal,” Banner said, pointing to Tyler, as if that explained something.

  Tyler introduced himself. He stepped toward the edge of the boxcar and reached down to shake hands—gloves actually—with her. “I’m working for the NTSB.”

  “Meaning you are regular army or a recruit?” she inquired. “I know most of the NTSB investigators.”

  “My guess,” Tyler said, not quite answering her, “is that my bosses are afraid of a copycat, or that maybe they locked up the wrong Railroad Killer. They’d tell you we have to investigate any serious crime that involves interstate transportation. And t
hat’s true, of course—”

  She said, “Meaning you suspect that whatever happened here began in another state.” She added, “And that makes it yours.”

  “Not mine,” Tyler corrected. “I’m here to observe and write a report. Gotta love government work. As long as there’s a paper trail to follow, my bosses are happy.”

  “Well then, we’re not so different,” she said. “My report gets filed with Northern Union Security. Maybe we can cheat and look over each other’s shoulders.”

  She had nice shoulders to look over, Tyler was guessing. She didn’t want this blowing up on her bosses any more than he did. It seemed as if everyone had learned some lessons from the Railroad Killer case, namely, that a small, localized investigation could mushroom exponentially and make the company or department, or the agency, look bad.

  Banner suggested, “Maybe you two could get acquainted somewhere else and let the rest of us finish our jobs and get out of this cold.”

  Tyler ignored Banner and asked her, “You’re based out of where?”

  “New York.” She then said to Banner, “No one’s challenging your authority here, Detective. But technically, your crime scene is on my property. I’m here representing Northern Union, so I’m the go-between. That’s all. You need our people for anything, we’re happy to cooperate.”

  “So go-between somewhere else for the next half hour, okay?” Banner said dismissively.

  “Ladies!” Tyler said, looking squarely at Banner. “Let’s not spill any more blood, it’ll only confuse the technicians.”

  “Got that right,” one of the lab men said.

  Nell Priest suppressed a grin, and Tyler knew he had scored. She said, “I’d like to step aboard my company’s property and observe whatever it is you’ve got.”

  Snow had collected on the shoulders of her coat and the very top of her hood. It clung delicately to the fake tiger fur. The two Northern Union security guards with Madders were doing the cold foot shuffle nearly in unison. They looked like poorly trained dance partners.

  The air hung with expectation, everyone waiting for Banner’s response to her request.

  Tyler said, “Why don’t I step out and make room for Ms. Priest? You’ve seen one bloody boxcar, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

  Banner grimaced.

  “Thank you,” Priest said, backing away from the ladder so that Tyler could climb down. She climbed up and stuck it to Banner by removing her glove and extending her hand and forcing him to shake hands with her. “That’s Banner with two n’s?”

  He looked like a man sorting garbage as he touched her. “You want a business card?”

  “Yes, that would be good. Thank you.” Priest slipped her hand back into her glove and asked the technicians a few questions about “impact velocity,” “major vessel disruption,” and whether they worked in centimeters or inches.

  “So, let me give you my card,” Banner suggested, perhaps a little intimidated or even impressed by her knowledge. He handed her a card and she pocketed it.

  Standing in the snow, Tyler asked the two security agents if they had been on duty all day.

  “Since eight this morning,” answered the first, who must have once played college fullback.

  His black partner replied, “Yes, sir. On at eight. Off at four. We hauled a couple guys outta some cars on line two. But nothing on this line. This car here …it was already sorted off line and had been tugged over here onto line twelve before our receivable guys opened her up and saw …this. They called us over. We informed the super, Mr. Madders, and he—”

  “Called New York,” Madders interrupted. To Priest he said, “At which point they sent you, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.” Nell Priest clearly didn’t want everything on the table. Tyler understood corporate paranoia, but she wasn’t helping her case with Banner any by playing coy. She struck him as being new to this. There was protocol to follow; the evidence collection was Banner’s show, the investigation Tyler’s, like it or not.

  “So why’d no one call us?” Banner injected.

  “We called you,” Priest informed him.

  “But if I’ve got my timing right, not until they already had you on a plane,” he said to Priest, “and you on your way out here, too,” he said to Tyler. Banner asked, “What’s with that?”

  She answered, “If corporate took their time notifying you, it wasn’t my doing. My guess is it was nothing more than a mix-up, thinking that Mr. Madders here had already done it.”

  “No one told me to do nothing!” Madders complained.

  “You see?” Priest fired off, “a mix-up.”

  Tyler wasn’t buying it, and neither was Banner. “Corporate,” Tyler quoted her. “Is that the railroad or the security company? Or are they all the same?”

  “Separate entities,” she replied. She apologized and said, “I was referring to the parent company—the railroad, as you called it. They’re top-heavy with decision makers. Everything requires a meeting, a committee. It doesn’t surprise me if they were a little slow.”

  Still, it didn’t compute for Tyler. The police should have been called immediately. He wrote it off to Railroad Killer paranoia: “corporate” had wanted one of their own—Ms. Priest—on the ground and running before the police got too far out in front. And then another thought occurred to him: who the hell had called NTSB, for they clearly had been given a head start as well?

  “Anyone here want what we got so far?” inquired the lead technician, a sharp-nosed man with beady eyes, small and frail in appearance, even bundled in winter clothing.

  “With you,” Tyler said, hoping to quiet things between Priest and Banner, who also looked on with interest.

  “First, you need to know the difference between the various kinds of wounds we deal with.” His tone was definite, almost impatient—the person at the cocktail party who’s the expert on everything. “We have cutting wounds, stabbing wounds, and blunt force injuries that include lacerations and chopping wounds. You might think these would all bleed the same, but they don’t. To offer any kind of accuracy, I need a look at whoever did this dance, but if we lose this weather, we lose this evidence—it’s gonna melt—so bear with me while I make a few educated guesses.”

  No one objected.

  “Give us the abridged version, Doc,” Banner complained, feeling the cold. “God damn witch’s tit out here.”

  Tyler reached out and shook the hand of the forensics technician, having not been formally introduced. The man’s name was Greistein. He didn’t seem to feel the weather.

  “To determine the events, we follow flow pattern. We categorize blood evidence into three groups: low-velocity impact, medium, and high. At almost any scene like this we have splashed, projected, and cast-off blood.” Greistein pointed to the portable lights. “Fluorescent, because we want as little heat in here as possible. All of us standing in here, breathing—we want to make it quick. We’re incredibly lucky to have this cold because it literally froze our crime scene, like taking a picture only minutes after the assault.” Tyler noted the dozens of numbered flags attached to pins stuck into various bloodstains. More white flags than yellow. Only a dozen or so pink flags, which was where Greistein pointed first.

  “We’re guessing chili, not regurgitated but thrown from a can or pan.” He allowed everyone to think on this. “Two individuals,” he stated. “One sitting—we’ll call him Low Man. Another we’ll call Mooch, because maybe he wanted some of that chili.”

  “Who the hell cares what this guy was eating?” Banner complained.

  “We care because judging by the viscosity, that chili was hot when it was projected.”

  “Not spilled?” Tyler attempted to qualify.

  “Very good,” said Greistein. Banner bristled. “Quite the difference, isn’t there? Not spilled, projected. Thrown. Definitely hot at the time. We know this by the angular impact. We have a lot of exclamation points and tapered stains. The chili was thrown from low to the floor,” he said, indicating
a thick area of his little flags near the boxes of dishwashers. He made a throwing motion from low to high. “Judging by volume, it was most, if not all, of an eleven-ounce can. It struck Mooch here,” he said, using a small laser pen to indicate another grouping of flags. “Mooch was standing at the time.” He fended off doubts by explaining, “Mooch created a spray shadow—a void behind him—that suggests he was standing at the time. When you find him, an examination of his clothing will reveal the projected food and will substantiate these findings.”

  “Low Man there,” Tyler said, accustomed to such briefings, “probably sitting. The other guy, Mooch, standing about there.”

  “Exactly.” The doctor added, “And the chili was thrown before any blood was shed. We know this as well because of coverage.”

  “These guys knifed each other over a friggin’ can of chili?” Banner questioned.

  “Not knives, no,” the doctor replied.

  “Weapons?” Tyler asked.

  “Low Man, for whatever reason, projects the chili, hitting Mooch in the upper chest and face. But it’s Mooch who lands the first blow. Probably a sap or a stick. I’m guessing he inflicts a nose wound onto Low Man because Low Man’s blood spills over here. Mooch rears back and strikes again. Let me explain that any blunt force object produces very little cast-off blood following the first blow. It’s typically the second blow that collects the blood and sprays it off in predictable arcs. These arcs are seen as medium-velocity spray patterns, and we have just the one. A knife does not cause such a spray pattern.” His laser light, a small red dot, traveled up the ceiling of the boxcar.

  “But Mooch was cut, too,” Priest offered. “The flags indicate the blood of two men.”

  Greistein grinned; he appreciated attentive students.

  “Hurry it up!” Banner pressed.

  Greistein continued. “If Low Man is right-handed, the movement was like a tennis backhand, and quite frankly, judging by the blood loss, I’m amazed that he was even standing at this point. Those first two blows from Mooch were convincing. At the very least, Low Man’s nose was probably broken. But now, Low Man strikes out with one defensive blow. A backhand. Delivered quickly.” He looked at them all. “I’m guessing he grabs his portable stove and lashes out. Maybe Mooch takes a metal fin to the neck. Low Man gets lucky—he probably severs the carotid artery. Whatever, he unleashes some serious bleeding.” Now the man’s little red dot from the laser pen was jumping flag to flag in a hurry. “Mooch gets off another blow but misses, spraying cast-off blood here in another medium-velocity arc.” The pen’s bead of red light danced across the dishwasher boxes. “He drops the weapon here,” he said, indicating a small pool of frozen blood, “and grabs for the neck wound. His pressure against that wound causes low-velocity patterns, here, here, and here.” He pointed out a variety of wide stains on the boxcar’s floor.