She glared at me. I waited her out, and at last she softened.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Like I said, I read about you in the paper. I know what you went through.” She held out her hand, and we shook. “Thank you for your service.”
I nodded. “Ms. Gibbons will be in touch.”
I signaled Clyde through his lead, and we stepped around her and strode toward headquarters. My hands were shaking, and I forced myself to slow down and breathe. I knew Denise Jackson was only trying to be kind with her words about my service. Most people were. But they had no idea the kind of shit they brought up for veterans and service members by tossing out a casual thanks. Some of us had done things they couldn’t even imagine.
They wouldn’t thank us if they knew.
There was a chicken sprawled across my desk when I walked into the empty detectives’ room.
My desk—as befitting the newest and least experienced member of the squad—sat directly beneath a wall-mounted television that blared the news 24-7, bouncing between CNN and Fox depending on the proclivities of the on-duty sergeant. The desk had belonged to a detective named Bill Gorman—his because even with his seniority he was known for being a fuckup. Denver didn’t have detective grades like a lot of departments. But everyone knew who was good and who was a lazy hanger-on riding out their days until retirement.
The desk was an indication of exactly where a detective stood on the totem pole.
When Cohen transferred to sex crimes, Gorman had claimed his desk, vacating this one. I’d accepted the crappy location as my lot and settled in. The only personal thing I’d put on the desk was a photo of Cohen. I’d meant it as a reminder to myself to have a personal life and not get buried by the job. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that the other detectives saw it as my way of saying I was untouchable. Cohen had been a valued member of the squad, and they thought I was trying to stand in his sunshine.
I’d finally slid Cohen’s laconic smile into a drawer. Now the only thing marring the clean sweep of faux wood was the stack of reports from the rape kits.
And the rubber chicken. Someone had pinned an index card to the breast and written CHICKEN MAN INVESTIGATION in all caps.
“Funny,” I said. Clyde heard the sharpness in my voice and cocked his head. “That’s right, pal. Don’t think for a second that label won’t stick. Our first case has been named in perpetuity after poultry. Which means you and I are now the Chicken Man detectives.”
Clyde didn’t look bothered.
I clicked off the television set. My fellow detectives were either in court, out on cases, or grabbing lunch. With relief I noted that the lieutenant’s office was closed and dark. I had no good answer for the question she would inevitably ask: What had I been doing in Denver’s farthest reaches at zero-dark-thirty?
I hung up my coat, shoved my satchel under the desk, and downed Clyde in his designated place to my right, a wedge of space complete with dog bed and bowls for food and water. Unlike me, my K9 partner had been an instant hit with the squad—with everyone but Bandoni, anyway. Maybe it had to do with the mysteries of male bonding. Now Clyde settled into the spot I’d made for him and rested his head on his paws. A minute later he was zonked out and snoring.
My war buddy.
I phoned the forensic artist and scheduled a meet between her and Deke. Then I stuffed the rubber chicken in a drawer and powered up my computer. I worked on the online incident report while I ate the PB&J I’d packed that morning when I’d planned on going straight to the office after meeting Heinrich. When I’d filled in what I could on the report and emailed it to Bandoni, I made a new pot of coffee in the break room, then returned to my desk and scanned my email. Mauer had come through. A message from him carried an attachment with the video from the train’s event recorder. Another file contained the work order for the installation of the joint bar. A third email confirmed that the door, the seal, and the refrigeration unit were all mechanically sound.
Mauer also said he was working to get the recordings from the Bailey Yard and Ogallala. But the yard where the reefer had originated was owned by ColdShip. He had no sway there.
I read the work order and then watched fifteen minutes of the train recording, focusing on Deke’s approach to Denver. There was nothing new or enlightening on either one.
I leaned back, sipping my coffee. The mechanical soundness of the refrigerator car meant that the door had been open for the entire trip, and that meant our hobo—or hobos—could have hopped on at any point. Maybe they’d been so drunk or stoned they hadn’t cared about the oozing chicken slime.
Or they could have gotten on before the great thaw and just ridden it out.
I pulled up the North Platte facility on a satellite image. ColdShip consisted of a single large metal-roofed warehouse. There was a parking lot to the south and fields and a dirt road to the north. Also to the north was a picnic table set on a concrete patio next to an outdoor ashtray. Along the western side of the building ran two parallel railroad tracks, which ultimately joined in with Denver Pacific’s line. At the junction, the ColdShip reefers would be added to an existing train and hauled to the Bailey Yard for sorting.
There had been two train cars sitting at the warehouse when the satellite image was taken. Probably the entire west side of the building sported docks where the reefers were loaded.
It was a perfect setting for stowaways. They could have come in on a train or rubber tramped—hitchhiked—into the area. Nearby
