Tahoe Payback Read online

  W hile the doctor worked up on the ladder, turning the body, making notes about its condition, I turned to the Amtrak inspector. “Do the doors to the car lock?”

  “Yes, Humboldt said. Several of them were locked. But we found the door to the inter-car passage unlocked. So it appears that the killer walked out of the car after stringing up the victim.”

  “You interviewed the passengers who were in the next car forward?”

  “Yes. Two Truckee officers helped. We spoke to everyone on the passenger list. None of them reported seeing anything unusual or anyone who stood out. But the restrooms were at the rear of the car just in front of the private car, so there was a steady movement of people to and from the restrooms and hence, people near the entrance to the private car.”

  “How does it work, the private train car business?”

  “They are uncommon, but the total number of them across the country is significant. They’re generally owned by companies that want an exclusive way to hold meetings and conferences. And of course, in addition to exceptional meeting venues, they provide luxury travel for their clients. For a company, a private train car is like a yacht. Not as big as some yachts, but more unusual and thus more exclusive.”

  “But they use Amtrak trains to haul them around the country?”

  “Yes. The scheduling is a bit tricky, but there are other companies whose only business is arranging those connections.”

  “It must be very expensive,” I said.

  “I don’t know the details, but I assume so. I suppose that the travel cost is also like a yacht. And like yachts, companies usually outfit their private train cars to be very posh. Every kind of luxury that you can imagine can be found on a private train car.”

  “If you see a train while you’re driving across the country, is there a way to tell if any of the cars are private?”

  “There is no specific marking that a layman can look for. But if you see a railcar that appears to be lavish or one that is old but is obviously renovated, you’re probably looking at a private railcar.” He gestured up at where the body still hung. “This one, for example, has all the exterior indications of a private car. It is clearly an older style, with the bullet lounge and dome, and the entire exterior shines with polish. All of those little lights along the outside light up like the little running lights on a fancy limousine.”

  “Do you know who owns it?” I asked.

  “No. But I texted in the reporting mark. I’ll probably find out the owner at any moment.”

  “Is the reporting mark like a license plate number?”

  “Yes. All rolling stock have them. Here, I’ll show you.” Inspector Humboldt walked around the side of the railcar and pointed up. “Those letters followed by the numbers,” the Amtrak inspector said. “Those are unique for every railcar. The database will show the owner.”

  We walked back around to the rear of the car.

  The doctor came back down the ladder. “I’ve got what I need. You can have the body removed to the morgue.”

  “Have you come to any conclusions?” Humboldt asked the doctor.

  “No. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “Any chance you looked in the victim’s mouth?” I asked the doctor.

  “No. All the victim’s cavities will be searched during the autopsy. Do you have a specific reason to wonder about his mouth?”

  “In the other two murders where the victim was hung upside down, there were items in the mouth.”

  The doctor had peeled the latex gloves off his hands. He pulled out another pair and pulled them on. “I’ll have a look,” he said. He climbed back up the ladder, reached out with one hand to steady the body’s swollen purple head, then reached his index finger into the victim’s mouth. He angled one way, then the other, then appeared to move his finger around inside the victim’s cheeks. He paused, moved his finger as if trying to pull out something slippery. His hand came out, pinching something shiny between his thumb and forefinger, then deposited the item in the palm of his other hand. He reached back into the victim’s mouth and repeated the motion. Again, he pulled out something shiny and added it to his other hand. Once more, he fished around the victim’s mouth, found one more object, then climbed down the ladder.

  The doctor held his closed hand out so that it was in the bright flood lights. He opened his fingers. On his latex-covered palm were three small medallions.

  One had a profile of George Washington against a purple, heart-shaped background. It was a Purple Heart, the medal awarded to members of the military who are wounded or killed in service to the country. The other two medals had a military look to them.

  “This is a Purple Heart, right?” Inspector Humboldt said, pointing. “But I don’t recognize the others.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “Although they all look military.” I turned to the doctor.

  He shook his head. “I can’t help here. I was never in the military. I can’t imagine why the victim would have military medals in his mouth.”

  I pointed toward the large expanse of windows on the bullet lounge. “Do any of those windows open?” I said to Inspector Humboldt.

  “Yes.” He pointed. “That row, just above where the victim’s head, they all open.”

  “So the killer could have waited until the victim was dead or nearly dead and then reached out and put the medals in the man’s cheeks.”

  “What doesn’t make sense,” the doctor said, “is that if the man was unconscious, there would still be a good chance he would expel the medals from his mouth. And if the killer waited until the man was dead, that could have taken quite a long time. One would think that the killer would have left the train car as fast as possible after he strung the man up outside the window.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “just stringing him up would be very difficult. The victim is a good-sized individual. The killer would have had to cuff the victim, gag him so he couldn’t scream, and maybe tie him in place so he couldn’t run. Then he would have had to reach out the window of a moving train, stand up on the sill so he could loop the rope through the antenna bracket on the top of the car, then come back into the car, tie the rope to the man’s feet, and then hoist him out the window and up, pulling on the rope. The victim’s weight combined with the friction of the rope going through and around the bracket would have required a tremendous pulling effort.”

  Inspector Humboldt nodded, then pulled out a plastic zip evidence bag and held it out near the doctor’s hand. The doctor let the medals slide into the bag, then zipped it shut.

  Humboldt and the doctor discussed the arrangements for the body and said goodbye.

  “These other cases you’re investigating,” Humboldt said to me after the doctor had left. “Any suspects?” Humboldt asked.

  “Some possibilities. But nothing solid.”

  The inspector turned and looked out at the night and the other cops waiting out of the glare of the lights. He called out. “Okay, guys, time to take the body to the morgue.”

  I said. “Have you had a canine unit take a look at the scene?”

  “No. Do you think that would help?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  Humboldt looked puzzled. “You think maybe this case involves drugs or something? We found nothing like that in the railcar.”

  “Dogs don’t just look for drugs.”

  “Let’s see if the Truckee PD has a dog,” Humboldt said.

  I walked over toward where Sergeant Trummer stood.

  “Sergeant, any chance you have a canine in your department?”

  “Officer Grayson is our canine handler. He’s in Hawaii on vacation. He left Ranger, his Belgian Malinois, with a friend in Reno. You think there’s something in particular a dog should look for?”

  “My dog made the alert on the Kings Beach victim. That’s how we found the lapel pin in the victim’s mouth. Maybe I should have my dog take a look?”

  Trummer said, “Did you bring him with you?”
/>   “Yeah. I should let you know that he’s not a professional police dog.”

  “What is it? A retriever?”

  “No, a Great Dane.”

  Trummer still looked surprised. “I’ve never heard of a Great Dane doing a search. But what’s the harm in having him look?” Trummer made a small grin. “And a Great Dane has a nose just like the professional dogs, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then bring your dog over and let him have a look. I mean, a smell.”

  “Give me ten minutes. He’s in my Jeep, parked a few blocks over.”

  FORTY-THREE

  I jogged across main street, down the block, and over to my Jeep. Spot was glad to see me, his tail thumping the seat and window before I could get the door unlocked and opened.

  “Hey, Largeness, we need a favor.”

  He jumped out of the Jeep, trotted into the dark street, then circled around the Jeep and headed down the sidewalk a short distance. I let him explore a bit. Then I took hold of his collar, and we walked back to the train station. The cops near the line of yellow crime scene tape nodded at me as Spot and I ducked underneath.

  I introduced Spot to Sergeant Trummer, Inspector Humboldt, and two other cops.

  “Just give him a pet, and he’ll be your pal,” I said to the men.

  Trummer and Humboldt went through the normal reaction at seeing Spot. “Yikes,” Trummer said. “I’ve seen pictures of Great Danes. But in person, up close, whoa, he’s a big guy.” He reached out and gave Spot a little pet, then pulled his hand back to safety. Inspector Humboldt declined to take the risk of petting Spot.

  “I’m going to walk Spot around and inspect the scene so he gets familiar with the local scents. He’s friendly. So you can tell everyone not to worry if he comes close to them.”

  “Got it,” Trummer said. He took his radio off his belt and spoke into it. “Men, Owen McKenna is the private cop taking a look at the scene at Inspector Humboldt’s request. He has a big dog, emphasis on BIG. A Great Dane. But he’s friendly.”

  From Trummer’s radio came a single response. “Right on, sarge. Bring on the hound.”

  I turned to Spot, bent down, and pointed him toward the railcar. I said, “Spot, find the evidence! Find!” I gave him a smack on his rear.

  Spot trotted away, his nose to the ground. He went forward, turned left, moved into the darkness, then turned right. He seemed to have no purpose to his movements. He looked like he was simply sniffing out the past movements of chipmunks and other small creatures.

  Trummer watched a moment, then said to me, “Does your dog know what the word ‘evidence’ means?”

  “No. I could have said ‘find the screwdriver’ or ‘find the ancient shipwreck.’ There are some specific words he understands like ‘suspect.’ But in this case my tone just tells him to have a look around and see what stands out.”

  “What do you think he’ll find?”

  “I have no idea. Probably nothing.”

  Trummer glanced into the darkness, then turned toward me. “It sounds like you were about to say ‘But.’”

  “Dogs are not completely unlike a young kid. They look around at any environment they’re in, and their eyes immediately go to the unusual thing that stands out from everything else. Put a kid in a room filled with normal stuff he’s seen a thousand times and one unusual item he’s never seen, the kid will always pick up the unusual item.”

  Amtrak Inspector Humboldt spoke up. “Only in the dog’s case, it isn’t seeing the unusual item, it’s smelling it.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “This concept,” Sergeant Trummer said, “of smelling out the unusual thing… A dog doesn’t need professional search training to do that, right? Any dog could do it.”

  “Right. In fact, it’s not just that any dog could do it. It’s that any and every dog always does it.”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this. The key is whether or not the owner learns to read their dog so to speak. If you know your dog’s tendencies, then you could learn to notice when your dog finds the thing that’s very unusual.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The men had cut the body down from the railcar and had it on a gurney.

  I said, “Now that my dog’s got a sense of the territory, I’ll bring him near the body.” I called out toward Spot, who was in the darkness, down one of the rail sidings.

  “Hey, boy. C’mon over, and let’s do some work.”

  Humboldt and Trummer watched as my dog came forward into the shadows behind the railcar, his nose to the ground. Spot went around the railcar, then came out into the bright light of the floods. He got to the back end of the car, paused, lifted his nose from the ground, and looked over at the group of men and the body on the gurney. I could have predicted what would happen.

  Spot air-scented a bit, his nose high. His tail, which had been held high with excitement, dropped down. He pulled his ears from forward attention and held them back. He took a half-step back, then another. The smell of another dead human was instantly depressing. He turned, walked slowly away from the train, out of the light and came toward me. He didn’t stop as he went past me, but continued on into the dark. Eventually, he turned back around and gazed at the dead body from a distance.

  “Sorry, boy. Yes, it’s nasty work. But we need to focus. I need you to go through the scene and look for something unusual. Anything unusual.” I rubbed the sides of his neck. I tried to put a casual sound in my voice. “We’re just cruising the grounds, trying to find a murderer…” I pulled Spot forward, past the body and toward the station, like it was no big deal.

  “Time to search, boy. Do your thing. See what you can discover.”

  Spot looked at me and didn’t move.

  “Spot, find the scent!” I shook his chest and patted him on his rear.

  Spot took a step forward, then stopped.

  I gave him a push.

  Spot took another step forward, then walked over to the dead body, lifted his nose high, once again air scenting.

  “Find the scent, boy!” I tried to radiate enthusiasm. “Find the scent.”

  Spot lowered his head and sniffed the victim’s mouth. His sniffing showed no eagerness, and in fact, he seemed depressed and resigned. But it was a clear sniff, and it left me with no doubt that the only unusual smell in the whole crime scene was coming from the victim’s mouth. I thought of checking it again myself, but I’d watched the ME do a thorough job.

  “Okay, boy, good job!” I pet him as we walked away. “Time for you and me to go home and have a treat.”

  But Spot just hung his head and walked away with slow, heavy steps as if he was trudging through a stinky swamp.

  When we got to Inspector Humboldt and Sergeant Trummer, I said, “Let’s be sure that the pathologist who does the autopsy takes samples of what’s in the victim’s mouth.”

  “You think there’s something significant about the mouth?” Trummer asked.

  “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

  “All because of your dog’s reaction.”

  “Right,” I said as I rubbed Spot’s neck.

  “Whatever was on the medals got into the man’s mouth,” Humboldt said.

  “Possible. Or what’s more likely is that whatever was in the man’s mouth is now on the medals.”

  “Like poison?” Trummer said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “As the ME said, the victim could have died from hanging upside down long enough and bouncing his head against the outside of the train. But I’m guessing the killer wanted to make death more certain.”

  Humboldt’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened, said thank you, and hung up. He turned to me.

  “The private railcar belongs to a Los Angeles company called Southern Cal Dollar Logistics.”

  “Any other name on the record?”

  Humboldt shook his head.

  “Thanks much.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  A s I drove home, I thought about Southern C
al Dollar Logistics and wondered if it was a fundraising company. I also thought about the military medals in the railcar victim’s mouth.

  When I got home, I looked on the Charity Lights list of the 50 Worst Charities. I found one called Veteran Disability Saviors. I looked online and found a charity that looked very much like the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. Only instead of sad, starving children, this one had pictures of veterans in hospital beds, veterans with wounds dressed in blood-soaked bandages, veterans who were missing limbs. The website displayed all the pictures as floating on a background that looked like a waving American flag.

  The next day, I called Doc Lee, left a message, and he called back.

  “Remember our conversation about death by hanging upside down?” I said.

  “Of course. People hanging upside down. Stuff in their mouths.” It sounded like he was crunching M&Ms.

  “Last night, we had another murder, this one in Truckee. A man hung upside down. He had military medallions in his cheeks. But after we pulled them out, Spot still alerted on the man’s mouth. Can you think of why that would be? I can see that medallions might react with saliva and create a particular scent that a dog would notice. But the lapel pin in the Kings Beach victim was made of plastic. And Spot alerted on that man’s mouth as well. I know he could still smell the items that had been in the victims’ mouths. But I think he understands when the source of the scent is removed. So I’m thinking there’s a good possibility he’s smelling something else.”

  I heard more crunching sounds from Doc Lee. “Did your dog pay attention to the first victim’s mouth? The one that was found on Fannette Island?”

  “He never saw that victim. It was these last two victims that produced a reaction from him. I spoke to the medical examiner last night. He didn’t notice anything about the victim’s mouth other than the medallions. Does my dog’s reaction give you any ideas?”

  “Remember how I said that I wouldn’t kill someone by hanging them upside down? I’d kill them first?”

  “Yes, I remember. You thought upside-down death would be like torture.”