The Gone Dead Train by Lisa Turner

that relationship, Billy had called ahead and asked Edgar to locate the case file on Dahlia Poston and to pull criminal sheets on Red and Little Man.
    â€œGot your files right ’cheer,” Edgar said as he walked in. Edgar was a wiry man, all Adam’s apple and nervous energy. Billy had heard that as a young patrol officer Edgar developed a reputation as a badass with a billy club, breaking heads during the racial upheaval in Memphis in the late sixties. After a heart attack ten years ago, he’d lost forty pounds and chosen desk duty over retirement. Like Lou, Edgar knew where the political bodies were buried, so none of the bosses insisted he stand down.
    Edgar gave him a register to sign and handed over the original file plus a stack of copies he’d made for Billy to take with him.
    â€œSomeone else requested the Poston file recently,” Billy said. “Would you check for that name?”
    Edgar disappeared into the stacks and came back, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re right. It’s been checked out, but there’s no name. The guy must have paid cash.”
    â€œDid he sign the request register?”
    Edgar cocked his head toward a round-hipped woman standing at a computer terminal. “I’m not the only person who works in this place, but I’m the only one who gets it right.”
    Billy sat at a table and opened the file, wincing at the horrific eight-by-tens taken of Mrs. Poston’s charred corpse sitting behind the wheel. He studied each photo of the burned-out Pontiac, particularly the close-ups of the fuel line and gas tank.
    Cause of death was clear—Dahlia Poston had burned alive. According to the interviews, her son witnessed it. That kind of trauma could start a grown man on the road to psychosis, much less a little kid.
    Manner of death was less clear. There was a ruptured fuel line to consider and the three-inch piece of wire fused to the inside wall of the tank. The wire suggested that an assailant could have run an electrical charge from the brake lights to the gas tank. Hit the brakes and the tank blows the car to smithereens. Simple and effective.
    According to the notes, a Detective Travis had been familiar with the wire trick and looked for additional wire running to the brakes. At that time, forensics was an evolving science with limited equipment, little testing, and no techs. The detectives did the work themselves. Judging by the devastation of the car, if there had been additional wires it could have easily been missed, or the extreme heat could have destroyed it beyond detection.
    Travis had also looked into the ruptured fuel line. The fireball had been so intense it destroyed the entire fuel system, making it impossible to tell if a defect in the system had triggered the explosion. However, the ruptured line’s survival of the fire left room for reasonable doubt that it had been the cause.
    Billy read through the file again. Even though Dahlia Poston had angered a lot of people, he saw no proof of criminal intent. Neither had Detective Travis nor the medical examiner. The legal system requires proof. There was none. The examiner had ruled the death accidental. Billy couldn’t argue with his conclusion.
    If this journalist had any experience reading case files, he would know the facts as presented did not prove Dahlia Poston had been murdered. Therefore, he lied if he’d made that statement to Augie.
    There was one possible weak point. Billy went back to Edgar, who was leafing through files at the counter.
    â€œDid you know Travis, the detective in charge of this case?”
    Edgar snorted. “Pain in the ass.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œShould’ve been a priest, not a cop. Never bent a rule in his life, never cracked a smile.”
    â€œBut a good detective?”
    â€œHe was that all right.”
    â€œWhat about the medical examiner, Dr. Paul?”
    Edgar’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling.