Pissed about everything.
He heaved himself out of his chair, went to the vending machine, and pressed the button for a package of chocolate doughnuts.
He resumed his seat and ripped open the cellophane. His thinning hair was cut in a short burr that showed his scalp. His tie was pulled loose and askew, and a coffee stain marred the rumpled whiteness of his shirt. His hands still had a residue of talc from the latex gloves he’d worn at the scene.
I felt a flare of pity. “You okay?”
He ignored that. “Can you explain something to me? As a railroad cop?”
“Former railroad cop.”
“Tell me how a body that ain’t even a day old got into a car that was sealed shut three days ago.”
“You got a timeline.”
“Courtesy of the Russki.”
“Sergei Illych. And he’s American.”
“Once a Red, always a Red, in my book.”
I sighed. “You want Occam’s razor?”
“That’s funny, Parnell. You gonna say I told you so, too?”
I picked up my pen, wrote the word theories in my notebook. “If we figure that the chickens went bad because the refrigeration unit failed or the seal broke, then the simplest scenario is that our victim is a hobo, and he was alive when he got on the train in Nebraska. He would have entered after the car was loaded and before the door was shut, trapping him inside. The boxes weren’t restrained, and during the journey they fell on him, crushing his skull.”
“What do you think those boxes weigh?”
“Not enough.”
“That ain’t Occam’s razor. That’s just a bad hypothesis.”
“Fair enough.” I drew a box around the word theories. “Here’s another one.”
He popped a doughnut in his mouth, waved his hand in a go-ahead gesture.
“He was assaulted near where the car originated and then placed inside,” I said. “Again, before the door was closed.”
“Still alive.”
“But just barely. He survived for almost three days and died in transit.”
Bandoni swallowed. Grunted. Freed a second doughnut from the plastic wrapping and waved it toward me. He must have seen something in my face because he pushed the package in my direction.
I tugged one out. “Thanks.”
“Sharing a little cholesterol. I can’t see our victim holding on for three days with his skull crushed.”
“Maybe he didn’t,” I said, talking around a mouthful of chocolate. “Third hypothesis. Maybe he was alive and well when he got on the train. But he didn’t get on alone.”
“Someone hit him in transit?”
“Right.”
“Then where’s our killer? The door had to be closed the entire trip. It takes special equipment to open it. That’s why everyone figures something went bad with either the seal or the refrigeration system. And why our dead guy ain’t a human Popsicle.”
“The railroad will get a mechanic to take a look. If the door and the refrigeration unit check out mechanically, and I think they will—”
“Now you’ve got psychic powers, too?”
“The flies, Bandoni.”
“They probably got in when the car was loaded.”
“In. But not out.”
He stared at me a moment. “You saw flies at the little shrine.”
I nodded. “The only way the flies could have gotten out is if the door was open when the train stopped. And the only way the door could have been open when Deke stopped the train—”
“—was if it was already open. Forget it, rookie. The guys out there swore that wasn’t possible. Even if the loaders left the door open, it would have closed with the train’s motion.”
“When I first entered the reefer, I saw what looked like fresh scratches in the door track.”
A light flickered in Bandoni’s eyes. He plucked out a third doughnut. “Go on.”
“Those plug doors weigh a thousand pounds. Every once in a while when the cars are being loaded, if something jolts the car and the cam locks aren’t properly positioned, the door closes when it shouldn’t and kills someone. This is especially true with older cars like the one we’re dealing with. So loaders sometimes jam a piece of pipe or a tool—whatever they have on hand—into the door track to keep the door from closing.”
Bandoni’s eyes lit up. “Meaning the door is wedged open, and our hobos can get in at any point.”
I nodded. “The poultry was loaded into the refrigerator car at a ColdShip distribution warehouse in North Platte before the cars were taken to the Bailey Yard. Let’s figure a loader at ColdShip was scared of the door and jammed it open. The open door could have been missed in North Platte, where the yardmaster and the rest of the yard crew were overwhelmed. That’s why the poultry thawed. After our two hobos got in a fight, the killer grabbed the pipe—or whatever was holding the door open—and used it to kill our John Doe.”
Bandoni chewed thoughtfully, then scowled. “Won’t work. As soon as the killer removed the pipe, the door would close, trapping our killer inside along with his victim. Am I right?”
“That’s true only if the train is moving.”
Bandoni frowned.
I said, “It’s physics. An object at rest stays at rest until acted upon by some force. If the train was stopped when the pipe was removed, then the door would remain open until something jolted it.”
“Fucking physics,” he grumbled.
“Worked for Newton.”
Bandoni snapped his fingers. “Our two guys are fighting. The train stops for the repair, and our murderous asshole grabs the pipe, kills his pal, and flees. Then the door closes when the train starts up again.”
“Where it gets a little muddied is that the engineer saw lights near the tracks before he stopped.”
“Fuck me, what lights?”
“Headlights or flashlights. Deke wasn’t sure.”
“It was the woman.”
I nodded. “And possibly others.”
“But nothing to do with our
