The Witch's Key (9 page)

“Okay,” I said, pitching a,
Why didn’t you know
that
, look at Spinelli. I had come to appreciate the depth of
Spinelli’s research on an active case, and though he had worked out
the lingo in this one fairly well, he all but missed the living
mechanics of the hobo lifestyle. I turned again to the old man as
he swept a crooked finger across the three of us.

“Also, ya got no bags.”

“Bags?” I pictured luggage in the full suitcase
variety for some reason.

“Yeah, you know, totes, knapsacks, backpacks: good`o
bedrolls and bindles. Good God, man, you wouldn’t travel empty
handed, would ya?”

“No, I guess I wouldn’t,” I said.

“Course, ya don’t wanna carry anythin` too big or
heavy, neither. Ya got to be able to run with it and hop trains
with it, too.”

“Of course.”

“And ya always carry water. Wind and booze will
dehydrate ya like a prune and ya never know where ya might find
your next spigot.”

Everything he said made perfect sense. Until then, I
never realized the stark difference between hobos and bums.
Whereas, one demands no particular attire for life on the streets,
save for maybe warm clothes and hard rubber shoes, the other
requires a dress code uniquely suited for climatic changes, rapid
deployment, stealth and evasion. And though the old man in the
alley looked more like a bum than a hobo, he sure seemed to know a
lot about both. I asked him about the rash of recent suicides and
he shut down tight.

“What? You haven’t heard of them?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, I heard `bout`em.”

“What can you tell me?”

He held out his hand. “What can you give me?”

“I just gave you five bucks.”

“Yeah, and ya got ya five minutes.”

“No,” said Carlos. “That wasn’t five minutes. It was
barely two.”

The old man pointed at his wrist. “So I got no watch.
Sue me.”

Again, Carlos started forward, and again I pulled him
back. I peeled another five dollars off my dwindling roll and
handed it to the old man. Then I pointed at my watch. “I’ll keep
track this time,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel gypped.”

He gummed another smile. “You were askin`?”

“About the recent suicides of some transients.”

“Don’t know `bout no suicides.”

“But you said you heard of them.”

“No. I heard about their deaths, not about no
suicides.”

“You think they were accidents?”

He shook his head. “No. Weren’t even made to look
like no accidents. It wouldn’t serve no purpose.”

“Whose purpose?” He hesitated. I pointed at my watch
and tapped the face. “I still have four minutes.”

“Gitana,” he said.

“The freight company?”

“Ya know another?”

“You think they’re responsible for the deaths of
those men?”

“That’s the word.”

“What are you basing that on?”

He told me how he recently shared a bottle with a
wolf that had come down from the north on a boxcar to find a new
lamb. “I don’t care much for them types,” he said of the wolf.
“Bindlestiffs like that only want one thing from a young boy. It
ain’t right. But I don’t see no sense on passing on a tin roof.
Ain’t like they come around every night.”

I pulled Spinelli closer and made him stand next to
me. “Translate,” I said.

“Tin roof?”

“Yeah.”

“Free drink.”

“Why?”

“It’s on the house.”

“Gotcha.”

The old man continued. “So, this wolf slips into town
on a hot shot from Portland. We slug some white mule, burn a few
snipes and then hit the roll. Next morn` we’re talking over mud and
biscuits and he starts in about some rank cat that supposedly fell
from a possum belly onto the skids.”

I held my hand up. “Wait. Dominic?”

Spinelli began counted off his fingers. “Fast train,
corn whisky, cigarettes, coffee, trashcan grub, luggage compartment
and—”

I stopped him. “Yeah, I know what skids are.” I
pointed to the old man. “Sorry. Two minutes?”

He looked at me, a little annoyed. “Right, so, this
mug tells me that a snake he knows told him it weren’t no PT the
cat fell from. What happened was that some Gitana shack pitched his
ass from a cow crate on the fly.”

I rolled my eyes and held up my hand again.
“Dominic?”

“He says this switchman told his friend that a Gitana
brakeman tossed the guy from a moving cattle car and that’s what
killed him.”

“A Gitana Freight employee?”

“That’s what he says.”

I asked the old man, “By any chance, were all the
other deaths this week involving Gitana company freight
trains?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But your time’s up. It’ll cost ya
another nickel.”

“No, I got a better idea,” I told him. “How `bout you
tell us now or we haul you downtown for public intoxication?”

“I ain’t drunk.”

“Good, then that makes it easy. I’ll just write you a
ten-dollar ticket for loitering and send you on your way. You do
have ten dollars, don’t you?”

He spat on the ground by his previous mark. “You
know, come to think of it,” he said, wiping his chin on his
shirtsleeve. “I believe they were all company trains.”

I smiled graciously. “I thought so. Thank you for
your time.”

On the ride back to the justice center, Carlos,
Spinelli and I reviewed what we had learned from our interview with
the old man. Things had begun to make sense at last. It would have
been easy to believe that one or two homeless men had committed
suicide in our town, especially with the influx of transients from
all around the country. Destitute men make desperate decisions in
the face of adversity. A few hundred or more roving vagabonds
ascending on a small town like New Castle can really slim the
pickings for anyone trying to scrounge out a living on handouts. If
you take a local homeless fella already on the edge of existence,
and you increased his competition, you just might learn what it
takes to push him over that edge. But for eight men, young and
healthy and in their prime, to commit suicide in the same manner
within the same week is just not believable.

Murder, on the other hand, is believable. It is the
obvious answer to a series of events that until then, lacked a
plausible explanation. Before that morning, we had a crime, but no
motive, victims but no suspects. What remained missing was the part
of the equation that every good prosecuting attorney needs to go to
trial: evidence.

After careful consideration, we decided (I decided)
that Carlos and I should rework our wardrobes and attempt to
infiltrate the jungle later that night and see what we could learn.
Spinelli, of course, protested, wanting to know why I would not
consider him for the assignment.

“It’s your face,” I said. “You heard the old man. He
pegged you for a cop right away.”

“So, he thought Carlos was a transvestite.”

“Sorry, Dominic.”

“I can be the lamb, you know, one of those road kids.
Carlos can be my wolf.”

Carlos replied, “I don’t want to be your wolf. The
guys will think I’m gay.”

“The guys?” I said.

Spinelli came back. “You’d rather they think you’re a
transvestite?”

“Hey, not all transvestites are gay.”

“Not all wolves are gay.”

“No, but their gay lamb lovers are.”

“They are not!”

“Some are.”

“Carlos! Dominic! Please! No one has to be gay. We
just don’t need the three of us working the assignment from the
same angle. Dominic, you’re better with the computer. I’d rather
you see what you can find out about Gitana Freight Lines. Carlos,
forget Goodwill. Dig into your closet and pull out some dark
clothing, and don’t forget the layers.”

“I’m with you, Tony. Anything else?”

“Got a backpack?”

He hesitated, probably knowing that he should not
mention what he was thinking. “Well, I do have this book bag that
my nephew left at my place.”

I gave it some thought and saw nothing wrong with
that. But keeping in mind that his nephew was only seven, I said,
“Okay, that’ll work, as long as it doesn’t have a picture of
Spiderman on it or something.”

He choked back a small lump in his throat and
swallowed. “Ooh, you know what? I just remembered.”

“Yes?”

“That book bag. It’s broken.”

I nodded, mostly to myself. “Yeah,” I said, “I
figured that. Don’t worry. We’ll work around it.”

After Spinelli dropped Carlos and me off at the
justice center, I decided to see if my father was up for a little
visit. I wanted to see if I could get the story straight about what
really happened to me during the first five years of my life. I
mean, I know that he was a part of it. I remember doing things with
him, like playing catch and fishing down by the stream using
homemade fishing rods. I can even remember the time he took me to
the train yard to watch the freights pull out. It was early in the
morning, and not long before he left me at the orphanage. That was
also the first time I ever noticed the color of his eyes. It is
funny how kids sometimes miss small details like that. I had looked
in my dad eyes a million times by age five, but not until then did
I notice that they were brown, like mine. The only thing different
then, and maybe the only reason I noticed it in the first place,
was that they were wet with tears. He was not crying though—not my
dad. Only babies cry. That is what he told me. I must have believed
him, because after that day, I never cried in front of another soul
again.

India came down and met me at the reception desk
after Melissa paged her over the intercom. I had not realized on my
last visit how really pretty she was. I guess her conservative
dress and straightforward attitude had preempted any prior
assessments of her beauty. Either that or I was just too nervous
about meeting my father for the first time that I did not notice. I
reached out as she approached and offer my hand. She shook it
firmly and with purpose, something few women do these days.

“Detective Spitelli,” she said. I had long given up
on correcting her. Besides, it was not as though she were
butchering my real name. “Welcome back. Are you here to see Mister
Marcella?”

“Yes,” I said, though I have to admit that she caught
me off guard by calling him that. All my life there had been only
one Mister Marcella, and I was it.

She pointed down the hall. “Come, I’ll take you
there.” We started toward the elevator when she asked, “So, do you
have more questions for him about your case?”

“No,” I said, “I’m just here for a social call.” She
stopped in mid-stride to look at me, and at first I thought I had
said something wrong. But to see her expression melt with sentiment
told me I had struck a different cord.

“You came back just to visit?”

“I did.”

“That’s so sweet. I don’t know if you’re aware, but
Mister Marcella has nobody else.”

“Yes. He told me yesterday.”

She smiled easy out the corner of her mouth. “You
know, Mister Spitelli, I think I had you pegged all wrong. You’re
really very nice, aren’t you?”

I shrugged. I mean, what do you say to something like
that? “Sure. I like to think so.”

We started walking again. “I bet your own father must
be proud of you, a handsome young police officer and all.”

“I guess.”

We stepped into the elevator and the door slid shut.
As the car went up, I saw India sneak a peek at my hand. “You’re
not married?”

I looked at my ring finger. Sure enough, she was
right. “No, I’m not.” I laughed nervously.

“I bet you have a girlfriend, though.”

I thought about Lilith. She was not my girlfriend,
but she was what we call in the business a person of special
interest. I looked at India and confessed, “I am kind of living
with someone.”

Her smile evaporated. “I see,” and I realized
immediately what that must have sounded like. Her eyes came forward
in anticipation of the elevator doors opening. “She’s a lucky
girl.”

I replied to her reflection in the stainless steel
doors. “Oh, but it’s not what you think.” The elevator opened.
India stepped out and started down the hall without waiting. “You
see, she’s really just a roommate,” I said, but the back of her
head was not listening. I caught up with her just outside of room
number nine.

“Here you are, Mister Spitelli. Now, I must warn you.
Yesterday’s visit really tuckered Mister Marcella out. I don’t
think you should stay longer than ten minutes.” She pointed into
the room. “Hit the call button if you need anything.”

“Thank you, I will,” I said, but by then I was
talking to the back of her head again.

When I walked into Pops’ room, the first thing I
noticed was that they positioned his bed closer to the window than
before. I realized at once that it was so he could better see the
trains rolling in and out of the yard at Minor’s Point. I came up
alongside his bed and touched his hand. “Hello, Mister Marcella,
how are you today?”

He looked up at me and smiled weakly. “Detective
Spitelli. Look.” He pointed out the window. Off in the distance, a
freight train was just leaving the yard with a string of about
fifteen cars. “That’s a CSX on her way to Maine,” he said. His
voice sounded faint but determined. “By the time she gets there,
she’ll have herself two diesels, ninety-five rail cars, four
crewmen and a dozen or so non-paying passengers.”

“Hobos?”

He gave me a little wink. “Let’s call them men of
adventure, shall we?”

I laughed politely, “You got it.” I pulled a chair up
and sat down beside him. “Listen, I want to thank you for giving me
so much of your time yesterday. I really enjoyed our
conservation.”

“Me, too,” he said, though his eyes remained fixed on
the train pulling out of the yard. “It’s fun talking about the old
days.”