The Witch's Key (27 page)

I looked at Carlos, who gave me a question mark look
validating Spinelli’s point. In a perfect world they would both be
right. If Gypsy were in her early twenties back in 1942, it would
seem unlikely now that she’d be running around the countryside,
hopping freights and leaving a trail of dead bodies in her wake.
But this was not a perfect world and the element of witchcraft left
all doors open for imperfect scenarios.

I thanked Spinelli again for his candidness, adding
that his input and opinions are never taken for granted. “And I’m
not ruling out her involvement entirely,” I told him. “Just so
we’re clear on that. I know her past is all but squeaky clean. But
if she’s tied up in this, it’s not on the dark side of it.”

He rocked back in his seat and folded his arms to his
chest. “You seem sure of yourself.”

“I am, and I’m sure she has her reasons for not
telling us what she knows. I don’t know what they are, and maybe
I’ll never understand them, but I believe it. And if you think I’m
in denial, fine. I’ll accept that. But to prove my point, I’m
willing to put my money where my mouth is.”

“
What’s that mean?” Carlos asked.

“It means it’s time to get in the thick of it. I’m
going to put myself out there as bait.”

“Come again?”

“Look, we know that all the victims shared similar
physical characteristics: young White males about the same height,
weight and build, and all traveled alone.”

Carlos nodded. “That’s right.”

And none had particularly high levels of alcohol in
their system.”

Again he nodded. “Four of them had no drugs or
alcohol in their system at all.”

“Okay, so that leads me to believe that the killer,
for whatever reason, is targeting that particular type of
individual. After all, if these were just thrill kills, then I
imagine any old transient would do.”

Spinelli kicked in, “And because you fit the mold,
you believe you qualify as bait?”

I looked at Carlos and gave him a thumbs up. “The
kid’s good, Carlos. You better watch him.”

He laughed at that. “Are you kidding? I’ll be too
busy watching you.”

“Come again?”

“Tony, if you’re going to dress up as a hobo and
stick your neck out like some sacrificial lamb, then you’re going
to need back up. I’m going with you.”

“No, you can’t. It’s got to look like I’m traveling
solo.”

“Then I’ll shadow you. I’ll dress accordingly and
hang back, out of sight.”

“We’ll wear wires,” said Spinelli.

“We?”

He looked both surprised and offended. “Of course.
We’re not going to let you hog all the glory. Besides, with all due
respect, Detective, you’re not a cop any more. You need us to pull
this off.”

He had me there. Working alone in an unofficial
capacity without adequate back up could get me killed. Though
bringing the two of them in would increase my odds of blowing my
cover, I knew it was a chance I had to take. So, I agreed with
certain conditions, including the absolute must that they (Carlos)
kept out of sight and dead quiet.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll stay fifty yards up
and down track from you the entire time. At the first sign of
trouble you drop the code word and we’ll be on you like white on
dice.”

“That’s white on rice,” I said.

He crowded his forehead until the light went on
upstairs. “Huh, that does make more sense, doesn’t it?”

I turned to Spinelli. “Dominic, do you really think
you two can stay out of sight all night?”

“Tony, please.” He gestured with opened palms. “We’re
professionals.”

“Hey, what about the other analogy?” asked
Carlos.

“What analogy?”

“Like flies on ships. Is that how that goes?”

Not wanting to go there, Spinelli and I both
answered, “Yes, Carlos. That’s how it goes.”

As night fell, Carlos, Spinelli and I headed up
Dutton Street towards Minor’s Point. We finalized our game plan and
settled on Witchit as our code word. After field-testing our
wireless mikes and transmitters, we split off in three
directions.

Spinelli had done a location survey, mapping out all
the places where the victims died. Eight of the ten were killed
between Crooks Blind and the Jefferson Street Bridge. Spinelli
called it murderous mile. The proximity of that dubious stretch
fell within walking distance of the jungle where virtually all the
victims likely set up camp one time or another. For that reason, I
decided to look for a spot smack in the middle of Spinelli’s mile
and make myself as conspicuous as possible. I remembered a
particular patch of woods with a clearing by the tracks when Carlos
and I were investigating out in the field. I knew from the bottles
and butts and the evidence of recent campfires that such a place
might show up on our killer’s radar. I only hoped the site was
empty of campers now.

I had dressed in typical hobo attire, heeding the
advice of the old man in the alley by layering in dark clothing and
carrying a bedroll on my back. The night was mostly clear with a
near-full moon rising. As I made my way to the campsite, I met
several very despicable characters. None seemed particularly
dangerous, but in passing I said hello and checked a half salute to
them. In each case, I received a greeting of sorts in return, which
made me think that I had at least succeeded in dressing the part. I
pressed my finger to my earpiece and uttered softly, “Carlos, you
copy?”

He came back, “Roger Bulldog. Havana Joe here. I
copy.”

“What? Is that you, Carlos?”

“Gees, Tony, call me by my moniker.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed at that lightly. “All
right, fine, but keep your profile low. You got it?”

“Roger that.”

I checked with Spinelli. “Dom, you on?”

“I’m here, Detective, just south of your
position.”

I looked back in his direction and spotted a
pedestrian walk over the tracks about fifty yards away. “You on the
catwalk?”

He came back simply, “Meow.”

“Can you see me?”

“That’s affirmative. I have you in my binoculars.
Hey, by the way, do you still have your 9mm?”

“It’s in my backpack.”

“I have an extra ankle holster and a snub nose in the
car if you need a back up.”

I thought about it. A back up is always a good idea
in the field. But technically, I wasn’t even supposed to have a
gun. I thanked Spinelli for the offer but declined. “I could use an
extra coat, though,” I said. I layered up, but it’s a lot cooler
out here than I thought.”

He came back, “Sorry, Kemosabe. No gots, but don’t
worry. You probably won’t need to stay out there too long. We’re
expecting a couple of north bounds and one south bound through here
before midnight. If your killer doesn’t show up for that party,
we’ll have to wait till tomorrow night to try again.”

“Great. Remind me to pack some hot chocolate in a
thermos if it comes to that, will you?”

“Sure. In the meantime, maybe you should get your
fire going.”

“I will, and like I told Banana Joe, remember to keep
low. I don’t want to spook anyone.”

“That’s Havana Joe!” cried Carlos. “What, did you
think, I wasn’t listening?”

I could not see Spinelli from where I stood, but I
knew he got a good laugh out of that. I offered Carlos a
halfhearted apology before instructing them both to go dark.

“Keep your ears open and your traps shut,” I said,
meaning most of it for Carlos. “I’ll talk you through what I see,
but remember, do nothing unless you hear the word, Witchit. You got
that, Dom?”

He answered, “Got it.”

“Carlos?” I waited for Carlos to respond, but nothing
came. “Carlos? You got it?” Still he did not answer. I tapped my
mike. “Carlos? Damn, Spinelli, I’m getting a little concerned over
here.”

Spinelli said, “Try Havana Joe.”

“What?”

“Try it.”

I dropped a sigh and mumbled through gritted teeth,
“Havana Joe?”

He kept me waiting a full three count before keying
in, “Roger that, Bulldog. Listening for the Witchit.”

I spent the next twenty minutes gathering firewood,
all the while keeping Carlos and Spinelli posted by narrating on my
surroundings. “A narrow path feathers out just west of here,” I
said, nearly in a whisper. “I think it probably leads to the access
road off Jefferson. Better keep your ears open for motor sounds
from that direction, Carlos.” Later I noted how the wind had
shifted from the north. “If it causes the campfire smoke to throw
up a screen, Dom, let me know. I’ll reposition.”

Some of what I narrated must have sounded like idle
chatter, and I suppose it was. But I wanted them to get familiar
with the audio levels of my voice and my breathing in case I
suddenly found myself in trouble. Also, I know how Carlos is. It
does not take much to distract him. The last thing I wanted was for
him to miss his cue or fall off his mark. Spinelli, I was not worry
about. If the next generation of cops is halfway like him, our
future is in good hands.

After getting a solid fire started, I sat down on a
log and settled in front of it for the long haul. The first couple
of hours went by uneventfully, but along about ten o’clock, I heard
a noise that sounded like a small animal approaching from behind. I
knew the area had its share of opossum, raccoon, squirrel and
skunks, and figured that the rustling of leaves could be any of
those, or one of a dozen other little critters foraging the woods
for food. The moon had risen over the trees and its pale yellow
light allowed me a fine distinction between shapes and shadows. For
that reason, I decided against reaching for my weapon, relying
instead on the fire to convince the creature to keep its distance.
I tucked my chin to my chest and whispered into my mike.

“Got a visitor.”

Spinelli came back, “Is it a friendly?”

“Hope so. I haven’t had my rabies shots.”

“Are we supposed to have that?” Carlos asked.
“Because I never got mine.”

“No, Carlos. I’m kidding. You don’t get the shots
unless you’ve been bitten by a rabid animal.”

“You can,” said Spinelli. “There’s a pre-emptive
vaccine for humans.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. I thought….”

A tree branch behind me snapped, and I suddenly found
myself confronted by a sound that I knew was not caused by a furry
little chipmunk. I turned abruptly, too blinded from looking at the
fire to see through the shadows. As I stood to face what I thought
was the direction of the noise, I heard a voice call to me.

“Howdy, Capt`n. Permission to come aboard?”

I looked down at my bedroll and calculated the time
it would take to reach it and grab my weapon. I concluded that if
the intruder was armed and fixed on causing me harm, then I did not
have a chance. Instead, I cupped my eyes and squinted into the
darkness, hoping that my unexpected guest was alone and
friendly.

“Howdy to you,” I said. “Welcome aboard. Have a
seat.” I waved my hand past the flames, presenting a place by the
fire. My hope was that he would sit across from me, but kinship in
hobo circles extends beyond acquaintances. He sat down on the log
within arm’s length of where I stood. I reclaimed my seat but
scooted away just a bit further, though not so far that my bedroll
remained out of reach. My new guest offered his hand and I shook
it, smiling with reserve as he introduced himself.

“Name’s Smiley,” he said, and when he grinned at me I
could see why they called him that. He had barely a tooth in his
head. I thought he looked familiar, but in the flickering campfire
light I couldn’t tell if that was because I had seen him before or
because he just looked like the quintessential roving vagabond. I
could only hope that I looked half as convincing playing my
part.

“Smiley, huh? Well, nice to meet you,” I said. “They
call me Bulldog.”

His toothless grin had all but disappeared when he
cranked it up again at the corners. “Yeah.” He pointed a crooked
finger at me and shook it. “Bulldog, right, I thought I recognized
you.”

“You know me?”

Now he didn’t seem so sure. “Don’t I?”

I shook my head. “I don’t see how. I just rode in on
a B&O boxcar this evening.”

His eyes grew suspicious and his posture rigid. “Is
that so? Where’d you catch out?”

“Maine.”

“No, that can’t be. The B&O don’t run this far
north, fella.”

In my earpiece, I heard Spinelli shout, “B&M,
Tony. It’s the B&M, Boston and Maine.”

I looked at Smiley like I was offended. “Yes, of
course. Did I say B&O? I meant B&M. I know the Baltimore
and Ohio don’t run through here. Ha, guess I’m just rail
weary.”

Smiley eased back on the log, tapping an unfiltered
cigarette from a generic pack and wedging it between his sticky
lips. He offered up the next smoke in the pack to me, but I waved
him off with a thin smile and a subtle headshake. I noticed then
that his hands were black with grease and his arms all scratched
and scabbed. My first thought was that he had been accosted and
survived. But then I realized that his wounds appeared not so much
defensive in nature as aggressive. I watched how he pulled a
burning stick from the fire to light his cigarette. The glow from
the flame highlighted still more scratches and cuts on his face,
which led me to conclude that he had indeed been engaged in a
struggle or two recently.

After returning the stick to the fire, old smiley
rocked back and blew a stream of white-blue smoke toward the sky.
In his exhale, he said, “That’s all right. Lord knows we all get
weary out here.”

He reached into the lining of his jacket, and for a
moment I thought he was reaching for a weapon. Another second and I
would have pounced on him, breaking his arm before he had a chance
to take aim at me. I don’t know why I waited, maybe because I knew
that I was so much younger, stronger and quicker. For whatever
reason, giving him the benefit of the doubt seemed prudent. Instead
of a weapon, Smiley pulled from beneath his coat a bottle of rock
gut. He removed the cap and dragged his dirty coat sleeve over the
opening before passing it to me.