The Third Rail (22 page)

"You're not gonna tell me about the binder?"

She turned the music up again. I returned to my notes.

"What's that?" She pointed to a file I had tabbed
TRANSCO
.

"A lead Hubert was working on the old CTA crash," I said. "Most of it's in the files he downloaded to you."

"That for the ME?"

"Maybe. You want to hear?"

"Hang on." Lawson had exited the highway. Now she took a right onto Harrison Street and pulled into a slot in front of the Cook County Medical Examiner's building. I handed her the folder.

"I'm listening," she said and began to leaf through Hubert's notes.

I explained how a faulty device built by Transco derailed a train thirty years ago and probably killed eleven people.

"Who owned Transco?" she said, eyes narrowed, still glued to her reading.

"An old holding company named CMT." I handed her some more paperwork. "Hubert could never nail down the principals, but I think it's worth a little more digging."

Lawson closed the folder and handed it back to me. "Why?"

"Because I get the feeling these guys, whoever they are, don't want to be discovered."

"And that interests you?"

"I don't believe Doherty killed Hubert." I popped open the passenger's-side door. "And these guys have something to hide. So, yeah, that interests me. Let's go."

W
hat makes you think I wouldn't have given you a look?"

Marge Connelly measured me through a pair of black reading glasses and reached for her coffee mug. She was sitting behind her desk, dressed in a set of blue scrubs, with a stack of files in front of her.

"Why would you?" I said.

Connelly puffed out her cheeks and pulled the rest of her face into a frown. "Agent Lawson, I don't know you very well, but I'm going to ask you a question."

"Nothing you say leaves this room," Lawson said. "You have my word."

The ME sighed and pulled a folder from the pile on her desk. "What concerns me is the way the case is being handled." She flipped the file open. "If you know what I mean?"

"I think I know what you mean," I said, "but fill me in."

"First day or so, there's the kind of interest you'd expect. Mayor's office calling, higher-ups in Homicide, even the feds." Connelly glanced toward Lawson, who crossed her legs and kept her hands folded in her lap.

"So we push up the autopsy, blood work, all that stuff," Connelly continued. "I get the results, call everyone, nothing."

"What do you mean 'nothing'?" I said.

"Just that. The mayor's office gave it a yawn. Feds never even called me back." Another look Lawson's way. "Homicide told me to send the results along when I got a chance. So I packaged it all up and sent it off."

"Our office did inquire," Lawson said, "but backed off once we saw the lay of the land."

Marge Connelly leaned forward in her chair. "Which is what exactly, Agent Lawson?"

"Chicago PD has taken over primary investigation of the case," Lawson said. "And I believe they've concluded James Doherty was responsible for Hubert's death."

Connelly frowned. "Explain."

"It's not something that's been in the press," Lawson said, "but Hubert was working the Doherty case."

The ME picked up Hubert's file.
"This
boy was working
that
case? How did that happen?"

"He was helping me, Marge," I said.

"You were working that case?" Connelly shook her head, but let it go. "What is it, exactly, you're looking for?"

"I don't know," I said. "What did you find?"

Connelly plucked a summary page from the folder. "Ligature mark on the neck consistent with hanging. The rope was nothing special. Something you could buy in a hardware store. Slipknot. More common in a suicide, but it still works for murder." Connelly glanced up and over her glasses. "Then there are the wrists."

"What about them?" I said.

"My examination revealed marks on both of the decedent's
wrists. Can't be a hundred percent, but they could have been made by a set of handcuffs." Connelly laid the summary page back down on her desk.

"You have pictures of the autopsy?" I said.

The ME pulled out a stack of photos. Hubert's skin looked slightly blue under the lights. White loops of stitching held together the Y incision across his shoulders and down his chest. I passed the photos over to Lawson.

"Here's a shot of the ligature mark." Connelly moved another stack of photos across. "And these are the shots of his wrists."

The ligature mark was a single oblique line three-quarters of the way around Hubert's neck, purple to the point of black. Lawson picked up a photo of Hubert's right wrist.

"Can I take a look?" I said. Lawson snapped her eyes onto mine and pushed the picture across.

"Possible cuff marks are here and here," Connelly said, pointing with her pen.

"Anything else?" I said.

Connelly shrugged. "Blood work was clean. No sign of any drugs introduced into the body."

I took a closer look at the ligature mark, then both wrists. Lawson stirred beside me.

"Michael, I've got a couple of meetings this morning."

I looked over. "You gotta run?"

She nodded. I glanced at Connelly.

"Be all right if I stick around and go through this stuff some more?"

The ME shrugged. "Okay by me. No one else seems too interested."

I turned back to Lawson. Her eyes floated across my face. Connelly got up from behind her desk.

"I've got a couple of things I need to take care of. Michael, you can look through the materials in here. Agent Lawson, a pleasure to meet you." The two women shook hands, and Marge Connelly left, closing the door behind her.

"You think this is the best thing, Michael?"

"What can it hurt?" I said, pulling Hubert Russell's autopsy folder toward me.

Katherine Lawson slipped her hand across the back of mine. "Let go of the file and look at me."

I did, head pounding, heart suddenly rolling in my chest.

"Hubert's not your fault."

I began to speak. She shook her head.

"You had every reason to think he'd be safe in his apartment. I could have, should have, followed up and made sure my agents got there quicker than they did. Truth is, there are probably a lot of people who let Hubert down. But you know what, Michael? You're not one of them."

"You think I'm wasting my time here?" I said.

"I think you're chasing a ghost."

I laughed. "That's what Jim Doherty told me when I approached him about his old files."

"This isn't going to end like that, Michael. Doherty killed Hubert. You know it. So do I. It's time to let it go. Time to heal."

Then Katherine Lawson leaned in and kissed me. Softly. Her fingertips brushed across my cheek, leaving behind a tenderness I couldn't afford.

"I gotta do this," I said.

She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but nodded instead. "Let me know if I can help." Then she stood up and left.

I spread Hubert's file out on the desk and began to sort
through it all over again. An hour later, I was elbow deep in autopsy photos when I saw something. Or something that might be something. I found Marge Connelly in the middle of cutting off the top of someone's skull. I waited for her to finish.

"What?"

"When you get a chance," I said.

"Is it important?"

"Could be."

Connelly stepped away from the table, snapped off her gloves, and followed me back to her office.

"WHAT IS IT, MICHAEL?
By the way, the agent and you?" Marge raised a discreet eyebrow.

"No," I said and picked up one of the autopsy photos. "This photo here. Hubert's left wrist."

Connelly slipped her glasses back on and squinted. "That's a shot of the back of the wrist."

I pulled out a second photo. "This is the right wrist. Basically, the same shot."

"What about it?"

"Here." I pointed to the left wrist. "About an inch below the indentation you said might be a cuff mark. There's a second discoloration. Looks like it might be some sort of bruise."

Marge leaned in and took a closer look. Then she slipped over to her computer and booted it up.

"We have these photos on file. Let me see if I can blow that area up."

Marge found the shot and began to work on it. I watched as
she zoomed in and sharpened the image. After a couple of minutes she sat back. "That's the best I can do."

"What do you think?"

She touched the screen with a pencil. "This area right here is what you're talking about, right?"

"Yeah." It was definitely a bruise, more circular than I'd first thought. "Doesn't seem like it could have been made by the cuff."

"I agree," Marge said. "It's almost round in shape. Damn, I'm sorry I missed this."

"You didn't miss it. We got it right here. What do you think?"

"Judging by the discoloration, I'd say it was certainly made at or around the time of death. Beyond that, I don't know."

"Guess?"

Marge looked at the photo and tapped the pencil to her teeth. "Let me try a few more things before I give you an answer."

"Like what?"

"We have a tool we use on bite marks. Brings out the detail in any indentations on the victim's skin. Not always accepted in court, but pretty damn effective." Connelly leaned forward and took another look at the photo. "Let me run this through the program. See what we get."

"How long?"

Marge shrugged. "Hell, we can do it this afternoon. I'll give you a call."

"Great. And, Marge, if we find something, what happens to your report?"

The ME smiled. "My report's done, Michael. Case closed. Just like the city wants it."

F
aces and facts mixed and mingled in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim Doherty, features sunken and feral, nursing his hatred in a tomb of darkness under the city. A shooter named Robles, eyes gray and flat, rifle flashing death along the lakefront. An alley off Milwaukee Avenue and a young man with a rope around his neck. Rachel, staring into the corners of her mind, watching the past cut her present into little pieces. Katherine Lawson and the trace of her hand on my face. Mayor John J. Wilson. A company called Transco and an autopsy file. A red binder.

The pieces of this case, maybe two or three cases, held together by the thinnest of wires: circumstance and an educated guess. The rest floated and turned in the darkness, offering themselves up as a piece of the puzzle, with no real clue as to how or why.

I sighed and opened my eyes. This was fucked. I got out of my car, walked down Broadway and up a flight of stairs. There was a stack of mail shoved up against the door to my office. On top was a thick manila envelope. The return address was handwritten in black felt pen:

Son of a bitch. I found my way to my desk, opened up the blinds, and sliced the seal on the envelope. By the turning light of late afternoon, I read Mr. Bernstein's letter.

I weighed the bundle in my hand and then cracked it open. On top were several Transco engineering reports from 1974 to 1979, detailing internal concerns about the company's products, including a suggested recall of its engine overrides. I scanned the old reports and laid them aside. Underneath were a number of old contracts stapled together, share certificates, and personal correspondence. I took my time with the materials, pulling out a pad and pen to take notes as I read. When I was finished, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. On a single piece of paper I had sketched out the web of companies owned by CMT Holding, including Transco, Wabash Railway, and a number of related businesses and properties stretching back ninety years. At the bottom of the page, I wrote down the name of the entity that controlled all of them--the entity responsible for the L crash on February 4, 1980.

I pulled out the black-and-yellow logo Hubert had ID'd as belonging to CMT, as well as the Old English script from Wabash Railway. I hadn't noticed before, but the CMT train carried an odd
t
shape on the very front of its engine. I took a closer look at the Wabash script. The
l
in "Railway" had a small bar across it, making it into a lowercase
t
as well. Or, in both cases, maybe a couple of crosses. Fucking hell.