I closed the door and snugged down my ball cap. I put Clyde in the Explorer to get him out of the rain, then turned and looked for the operating personnel who would break the train.
Just as at the cement factory, law enforcement was everywhere. Crime scene detectives—now joined by the medical examiner and a crew from forensics—were crouched half-under the train, still working around Samantha’s body. Despite the rain, uniformed cops and K9s had started a sweep of the area on both sides of the road; they walked a red rover line, each man an arm’s length from the next so they didn’t miss anything. A second crew of forensics detectives had set up portable lights around the Lexus as they searched for trace evidence. Nearby, a flatbed tow truck waited with flashing yellow lights for the go-ahead to take the vehicle back to the police garage.
The storm had made a mess of everything. The tarps the forensics guys had erected to protect the scene billowed in the wind, straining at their ropes. People shouted to make themselves heard, their voices faint against the squall. The cops and detectives in their long rain jackets and snugged-up hoods, and the forensics team in their water-logged Tyvek suits, looked blocky and inhuman. With the eerie shadows cast by the rigged-up lights, the scene was otherworldly.
Usually there would be people standing around smoking or taking a coffee break. Not today. Partly it was the weather. Mostly it was the dreadfulness of the crime.
I spotted the operating personnel standing by a DPC truck, their clothes heavy with water and grease, work gloves tucked into the pockets of their rain jackets. They hadn’t bothered to zip their coats or seek the shelter of their truck. They were out-toughing the cops as they waited for the go-ahead to unhitch the coal cars.
A short distance from where the ME and forensics worked, Detective Gresino stood in the rain next to a woman holding a clipboard.
The detective’s hair was plastered to his head, his suit soaked. But he seemed oblivious to the wet. By now his lieutenant would have told him what had happened to his partner, and even from here I could tell something had gone from his eyes. The woman, partially concealed by her hooded trench, was probably a claim rep sent by the railroad. Unable to use a laptop due to the weather, she’d turned her back to the wind and flipped up the clipboard’s protective sheet of plastic in order to write. When she leaned over to ask Gresino a question her hood fell back, and I recognized Veronica Stern, one of DPC’s litigation lawyers.
Trains collided with cars and human flesh with depressing regularity. Lawsuits followed 90 percent of the time. With millions sometimes riding on the outcome, litigation was a high-pressure job, and Stern, only in her midthirties, was considered among the best in the business. In her time at DPC, Stern had earned a reputation as a coldly competent bulldog. The operating personnel hated her—in cases where they were hurt, she represented the railroad. And when those cases went to trial, she was known for destroying the plaintiff.
I’d read in the company paper that Hiram Davenport had hired her away from Alfred Tate’s SFCO railroad only six months ago. More bad blood between the two men.
My earpiece buzzed. Captain Mauer.
“I’ve been following the reports,” Mauer said, not bothering to be angry that I hadn’t called in sooner. “But I’d like to hear your side of things.”
I walked away from the crewmen and went through the morning again. Mauer asked a lot of questions when I got to the part about the bodies and the bomb. I finished by telling him that the police and the Feds needed a point of contact.
“It’ll have to be Fisher until Monday,” he said. “If I don’t want my wife and daughter to put a hit out on me. I’m heading to Estes Park first thing tomorrow.”
My heart sank. I’d forgotten. “Your daughter’s wedding.”
“Break Kimmy’s heart if I back out. And Dot would call my murder justifiable. I’ll get Fisher to come in. Starting tomorrow, whatever else they need, direct them his way. You can bring him up to speed in the morning.”
Heat rose in my face, despite the fact that this was what I wanted. Or at least, what I needed.
“Fisher,” I said. “Yes, sir.”
“Oh, that was convincing. Tell me you’re good with this, Parnell.”
“I am good with it, sir.”
“You don’t have some crazy white-knight thing going, right?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. Good. Diane in HR is pulling the DPC employee records for the hazmat train. CP Eider and Falston Water Treatment are collecting data on their end. I’ll light a fire under them. In the meantime, I’ll keep working to pull up maps of the route and surrounding area. And obtaining files on everyone involved from the regulatory agencies. That piece alone is going to take hours. The cops need anything else?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, then. Come see me in my office once you’re done there.”
I signed in with the officer manning the inside cordon and made my way down the hill. Stern was now taking pictures and ignored my approach. But Gresino turned on me as soon as I got close enough to join them under the tarp.
“Tell me how bad Frank is,” he said, his eyes jittering like a pinball. “No bullshit. Straight up, how bad? No one will talk to me.”
I picked my words carefully. All I could offer Gresino was a careful version of the truth and a side of sympathy. And sympathy wouldn’t get up and go to work with him in the morning.
“He was conscious after the bomb,” I said. “Aware and talking.”
“They took him to K and G, right?”
“You bet.”
He thrust his head forward. “You’re holding out on me.”
“He got hit hard, Gresino. But he’s a fighter.”
“Three years to retirement.” His gaze went off to some middle distance. “Then he was going to be all done with fighting. Wants to take up gardening. Tulips and roses and fuck-all what else. Can you see a murder cop being happy with that?”
“Sure,” I whispered.
Gresino’s regard came back to me in the form of a hard stare. “How is it he’s hurt so bad and you—look at you. Barely a scratch.”
Veronica Stern lifted her head from her camera. I sensed her steady regard on me—Stern the human polygraph, watching for shades of untruth.
But I would not look away from the crazy in Gresino’s eyes. “The three of us were together. Clyde alerted on the bomb, and we all ran. I was behind one of the kilns with Clyde. Wilson was in the field. Maybe he was . . .” My voice trailed off—I’d been asking myself how it was that Clyde and I had zigged and Wilson had zagged. “I don’t know why he wasn’t with us.”
“He’s got bad knees. Did you know that? Maybe he needed help.”
I thought back. Shook my head. “No. He was good.”
“But you. You made it.”
I recognized the misplaced anger and kept my voice calm. “It’s not like running from a bear, Gresino. I wasn’t trying to outpace him. And he didn’t put himself between me and the bomb. Sometimes shit happens.”
“But not to you.”