in one of them. No point in digging it out; the Company would
undoubtedly turn down the request. FRC Railroad was a bankruptcy
waiting to happen.
He sighed, flipped open the file folder, and
paged through its contents. The Hobo Spider’s latest victim,
another transient, had been found during the night. The coroner
estimated that he’d been dead at least three days. Fingerprints
identified him as Peter Olson, a.k.a. Tin Can Petey. He was
fifty-seven years old, had no known relatives, a long list of
vagrancy charges, and one count of shoplifting, later dropped by
the store owner. Harmless, according to the few hobos willing to
talk to Briggs.
The photos were gruesomely similar to the
other thirteen sets. Briggs hardly needed to look at them. After
the first three or four murders, the images all started to run
together. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw them all at once
in some sort of sick collage. He forced himself to examine the
pictures carefully. The killer was bound to screw up sooner or
later and Briggs wasn’t going to be the one to miss it.
The phone rang. Briggs picked it up absently,
still studying the photos. The nasal voice of Henry Willowbe, the
Company’s Director of Safety, filled his ear.
“Briggeman, about time you showed up. Where
have you been hiding? There’s been another murder.”
Oh, really? Briggs wanted to say. I’m always
the last to know.
But Willowbe was the man who signed his
paycheck; Briggs kept his voice level. “Sorry, sir. I was at the
crime scene until dawn and just got back from interviewing the
victim’s acquaintances.”
Willowbe didn’t even pause. “And why didn’t
you call me when the body was found?”
“It was called in at 2:00 a.m., sir. I
figured you—”
“Never mind. There’ve been, what, nine
murders on my line, now, and I want to know what you’re going to do
about it.”
“Fourteen. And I—”
“What’s that? Fourteen? Good God, Briggeman,
I don’t need tell you we can’t afford to have some serial killer
scaring off any more clients.”
Or getting blood all over our nice, clean,
freight cars, eh, Hank? “Trust me, sir, I don’t want any more
people killed, either. But there’s not much to go on. This murder
looks just like the others—same white string, same kind of
black-handled bronze knife. The string’s on its way to Los Alamos
by now, but I’ll bet you a dozen donuts those coneheads’ll be as
stumped by the stuff as they were the first thirteen times. And I
don’t hold out much hope for the knife.”
There had been no latents on the knives from
the other crime scenes. No manufacturer’s markings, either.
“I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got,
sir. And so’s the DMPD and the FBI.” He added that last bit hoping
Willowbe would get the hint that Briggs wasn’t the only one who was
stymied.
“Obviously your best hasn’t been good enough.
You’re going to have to expand your limitations.”
Briggs suppressed a snort. And here I was,
trying to go beyond them. “Frankly, sir, unless the killer slips up
bad, we’re going to need a lot more resources to nail him.”
“Like what? You said yourself that the police
up and down the line are involved, not to mention the FBI.”
“Yeah, but they can’t inspect every train car
that passes through every yard. Even if they could, the killer can
get on and off a train without ever going through a yard. He can
kill and be hundreds of miles away before we ever find the body.
What we really need is people on the inside.”
“On the inside,” said Willowbe.
“Yes, sir. Decoys—lots of ’em.”
With a pang, Briggs thought of Douglas
Harding. He had all but given that very assignment to the young
captain a year ago and no one had heard from him since.
The sound of Willowbe’s pencil tapping on his
desk traveled down the phone line.
“Where are we going to get decoys?” The
belligerence left his voice, exposing poorly controlled anxiety. “I
don’t
undoubtedly turn down the request. FRC Railroad was a bankruptcy
waiting to happen.
He sighed, flipped open the file folder, and
paged through its contents. The Hobo Spider’s latest victim,
another transient, had been found during the night. The coroner
estimated that he’d been dead at least three days. Fingerprints
identified him as Peter Olson, a.k.a. Tin Can Petey. He was
fifty-seven years old, had no known relatives, a long list of
vagrancy charges, and one count of shoplifting, later dropped by
the store owner. Harmless, according to the few hobos willing to
talk to Briggs.
The photos were gruesomely similar to the
other thirteen sets. Briggs hardly needed to look at them. After
the first three or four murders, the images all started to run
together. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw them all at once
in some sort of sick collage. He forced himself to examine the
pictures carefully. The killer was bound to screw up sooner or
later and Briggs wasn’t going to be the one to miss it.
The phone rang. Briggs picked it up absently,
still studying the photos. The nasal voice of Henry Willowbe, the
Company’s Director of Safety, filled his ear.
“Briggeman, about time you showed up. Where
have you been hiding? There’s been another murder.”
Oh, really? Briggs wanted to say. I’m always
the last to know.
But Willowbe was the man who signed his
paycheck; Briggs kept his voice level. “Sorry, sir. I was at the
crime scene until dawn and just got back from interviewing the
victim’s acquaintances.”
Willowbe didn’t even pause. “And why didn’t
you call me when the body was found?”
“It was called in at 2:00 a.m., sir. I
figured you—”
“Never mind. There’ve been, what, nine
murders on my line, now, and I want to know what you’re going to do
about it.”
“Fourteen. And I—”
“What’s that? Fourteen? Good God, Briggeman,
I don’t need tell you we can’t afford to have some serial killer
scaring off any more clients.”
Or getting blood all over our nice, clean,
freight cars, eh, Hank? “Trust me, sir, I don’t want any more
people killed, either. But there’s not much to go on. This murder
looks just like the others—same white string, same kind of
black-handled bronze knife. The string’s on its way to Los Alamos
by now, but I’ll bet you a dozen donuts those coneheads’ll be as
stumped by the stuff as they were the first thirteen times. And I
don’t hold out much hope for the knife.”
There had been no latents on the knives from
the other crime scenes. No manufacturer’s markings, either.
“I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got,
sir. And so’s the DMPD and the FBI.” He added that last bit hoping
Willowbe would get the hint that Briggs wasn’t the only one who was
stymied.
“Obviously your best hasn’t been good enough.
You’re going to have to expand your limitations.”
Briggs suppressed a snort. And here I was,
trying to go beyond them. “Frankly, sir, unless the killer slips up
bad, we’re going to need a lot more resources to nail him.”
“Like what? You said yourself that the police
up and down the line are involved, not to mention the FBI.”
“Yeah, but they can’t inspect every train car
that passes through every yard. Even if they could, the killer can
get on and off a train without ever going through a yard. He can
kill and be hundreds of miles away before we ever find the body.
What we really need is people on the inside.”
“On the inside,” said Willowbe.
“Yes, sir. Decoys—lots of ’em.”
With a pang, Briggs thought of Douglas
Harding. He had all but given that very assignment to the young
captain a year ago and no one had heard from him since.
The sound of Willowbe’s pencil tapping on his
desk traveled down the phone line.
“Where are we going to get decoys?” The
belligerence left his voice, exposing poorly controlled anxiety. “I
don’t
Similar Books
