I shrugged.
Bandoni said, “So who were those people? Partiers out in the middle of nowhere?”
“That’s easy.”
He wrestled the last doughnut free. “Fill me in, Sherlock.”
“They hopped off an earlier train and were waiting for their next ride.”
“There was an earlier train?”
“If not that night, then the day before. Hobos are used to waiting.”
“Fun life.”
“For some.”
“Okay, that could work.” Bandoni nodded. “The train stops. This second group of hobos sees the murder. They make a—what’d you call it, a shrine—for the dead guy. The woman shines a light on her face hoping the engineer will see her and call it in and then the police will find the body.”
“Which we did.”
He gave me a sharp glance, probably looking for sarcasm.
“But,” I said. “Again, it doesn’t work. The woman had the light on her face before the train stopped. She couldn’t have known yet about the body.”
“Ah, fuck me again.” He palmed his balding head. “I’m getting a headache.”
I sympathized. But I had momentum, and I plowed on. “It’s still likely she was a hobo, shining the light on her face to acknowledge the engineer. Nothing to do with the murder. Some of the riders are just like that. A nod to the railroaders. Then after the train stops, the hobos see the murder. Or at least they spot the victim while the murderer flees in the fog, coldcocking Heinrich on his way out.”
“And the woman makes the shrine before she and the hobos ride the train into Denver. But why bother with a shrine?”
“Maybe it was a simple act of kindness.” The thought eased the ache in my heart.
“It would also mean the killer hung around for a while after nailing our victim. Long enough for the cop to get there. That seems a little odd.”
“Agreed. But I’m at the end of my hypothesizing.”
He grunted. “This all feels shaky. Too many what-ifs and why-the-hells.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Why don’t I start by pulling video from the Bailey and Ogallala Yards and maybe from ColdShip, if they have cameras. We get lucky, we’ll find footage of our riders.”
“We’ll have to go through the North Platte detective’s bureau to get a warrant for the recordings.”
“Not if I ask nicely. Railroad cop to railroad cop.”
“Former railroad cop,” he growled. “Might be better to play it by the book.” He wadded up his trash, tossed it toward the can. Missed. “Speaking of railroad cops, how is that guy? Heinrich. How’s he doing?”
“He’s scheduled for an MRI. That’s all I know at the moment.”
“He remember anything yet?”
“Not the last I spoke with him.”
“Our closest witness, and he’s no good to us.”
I flashed to Heinrich’s wound. “You leave your heart at home this morning?”
He shot me a look. “I don’t care about being nice right now. I care about solving this case.”
We glared at each other, our momentary ease gone. Then I sucked in a breath and forced myself to think like my partner.
“Okay,” I said, putting personal feelings aside. “How long until they start the autopsy?”
“Doc says this afternoon. First thing is to get his prints during the external exam. We learn his name, then we got something to go on.” Bandoni flicked his wrist so that the sleeve of his suit rode up, revealing a once-fine watch scratched and dinged with age. “It’s past noon. Why don’t you head into the squad room, start making calls, and work on the warrants. I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours. I’m going to finish here, then probably check out the scene with the cross.”
“There won’t be much to see by now. Gabel was going to bag everything.”
He shrugged. “I like to take in the ambiance.”
We stood. Clyde got to his feet, his tail swishing, ready to move. I grabbed my coffee cup, picked up the empty doughnut package from the floor, and tossed all of it into the trash.
On our way to the door, Bandoni stopped and looked at me. “What made you so sure there’d been a murder?”
“I wasn’t.”
“But still, you ignored my advice and stopped the train.”
“Yes.”
“You could have put serious brakes on your career right there.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
I looked down at Clyde while my mind ran through a list of acceptable answers. Telling Bandoni the truth was out. My reasoning would make no sense to him. He lived in a linear world where one thing led logically to the next. A, then B, then C. Probably that made him a great detective.
It was too soon to know how my more chaotic thinking would fare. Maybe our differences would make us great partners. Then again, maybe we’d kill each other.
I settled on a half truth.
“Woman’s intuition,” I said. “Got you beat there.”
CHAPTER 6
Remember that fierceness you had as a kid? That bring-it-on feeling that was yours before you knew the world would punch you back?
You still got it. Along with a bigger fist.
—Sydney Parnell. Conversation with a friend.
By the time we drove through traffic and parked, the day had warmed into the upper fifties with a clear sky and a light breeze. Clyde and I were enjoying our walk across the plaza toward police headquarters when my phone rang.
I didn’t recognize the number, but answered with the title I was still adjusting to. “Detective Parnell.”
“This is Denise Jackson, Detective. I got your number from Rachel Gibbons.”
I stopped so quickly that Clyde had to backtrack.
One of the rape kits Detective Gabel and I were processing involved a sexual assault at an assisted-living facility. The woman, Carolyn Jackson, had been a healthy eighty-seven-year-old at the time of the rape. She was now in her nineties and suffering dementia. Two weeks ago, I’d obtained warrants to collect DNA swabs from every male worker who’d been employed at the home at the time of the rape. Uniformed officers were collecting the samples, and Gabel was sending them to the lab as they came in. He was looking for a match between the new swab and our original DNA.
So far, nothing.
But when we
