Baby Girl Doe (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 5) (5 page)

“You just never forget something like that.
Never!” Charlie Rydell, the retired locomotive engineer, paused, extending a shaky hand to reluctantly accept medication from his aide. He tossed back a handful of tablets with a cup of water then rubbed his eyes. “I just hate taking all those damn pills,” he said. He had bright-red hair and a long face with protruding cheekbones. I wasn’t quite sure of his age but had the feeling that he looked old beyond his years. “It feels lousy to be dependent on so much medication, but that’s what happens after you have a stroke. Take my advice—don’t get old.”

It wasn’t the first time I had visited an assisted care facility—this one actually seemed pretty nice. It was modern and didn’t smell of soiled laundry and neglect. Believe me, I’ve been to plenty of places like that. I call them dormitories of despair, and they’re just filled with lonely old people counting days and wishing for the end to come quickly. Sometimes I’d interview a senior in one of those places, and I’d feel like crying afterward. I couldn’t say this place was cheerful, but at least it was clean, and Rydell’s aide seemed caring and attentive. “All those because you had a stroke?” I asked.

“And osteoarthritis and high blood pressure . . . you name it and I’ve got it. You’ll have to forgive me, my memory’s not as good as it was before I went lights-out; I forget what all the pills are for.” He reached into a box of donuts and selected a Boston cream. I had asked him over the phone if there was anything I could bring him, and the word ‘donuts’ popped right out of his mouth. “I’ve got lots of problems,” he muttered. “Too many to keep track of or worry about.”

“Oh stop it. You look fine,” I said, but he didn’t. He looked like a man who was going down fast. Thank God he sounded better than he looked.

“Fortunately high blood sugar ain’t one of my problems. Thanks for bringing the donuts.”

“It’s my pleasure, Charlie. Don’t mention it.”

“Don’t just sit there,” he bellowed in a feisty tone. “Eat one!”

Charlie didn’t have a problem with blood sugar, but both of my parents did or had. My father died from complications of diabetes. My mom is nowhere as bad as he was, but she takes medication and definitely has to watch what she eats. “I’m gonna take a pass on the donuts, Charlie. I’d love one, but I’ll be at the beach all week and there’s just no place to hide a French cruller in my bikini.”

Charlie laughed. “I’d make a pain in the ass out of myself and insist that you eat a damn donut, but there’s no arguing with results like that. Missy, you’re built like a brick shithouse.”

Why look beneath the surface? Flattery is flattery.

“Why, Mr. Charlie,” his aide said. She was a petite Caribbean woman with an accent and addressed everyone by prefacing their first name with their titles; Rydell was Mr. Charlie, I was Ms. Stephanie, and the doctor who had just left the room was Dr. William. She shook her finger at Charlie, admonishing him playfully. “You watch your manners now. Don’t be talking no crude language in front of the lady.”

He tore off a chunk of the Boston cream donut and spoke while he chewed. “That’s about the only benefit of getting sickly—I can get away with saying all kinds of shit.” He glared at his helper. “That’ll be all,
Precious
,” he said teasing her with her own name. His cheekbones rose so high they looked as if they’d pop through his eye sockets. “The good detective and I have business to discuss.”

“You’re a bad boy, Mr. Charlie,” she said chiding him in a friendly manner. She scooped up his empty cups, a powdered donut, and walked off.

“You shouldn’t do that. She’s only trying to take good care of you.”

“Forget it, Detective,” Charlie said in between bites. “You start your life wearing diapers. If you finish wearing Depends, you’ve lived way too long. I’d rather live my remaining days on my own terms.” He chewed another hunk of donut. “This is delicious. You know, I wouldn’t mind if you paid me a visit every once in a while. I mean you’re not exactly tough on the eyes, so if you happen to be in the area . . .”

“Sure. I’ll put it on my calendar,” I said satirically. “So you were saying . . .”

“Oh that’s right. Where was I? Oh yeah, like I said, you just never get over something like that. Poor Alana Moore. I can still remember the look on her face just before . . .” Charlie closed his eyes. His lips were pressed shut while he shook his head back and forth.

I patted the back of his hand. “Just take it nice and slow. I know this is difficult.”

He continued to shake his head after he opened his eyes. “Haven’t had to talk about this in a while.”

“Just take a deep breath and tell me what you remember.”

“Sure.” He sighed. “It was a Sunday night, and I was making the westbound run from Montauk into Penn Station. I’d been making that run a long time and could do it with my eyes closed. It was early spring; the railroad cars are mostly empty that time of year. The trains are mobbed after Memorial Day but before . . . Anyway, I wasn’t surprised to see that no one was waiting for the train. I was coming up on the platform—” He closed his eyes once again, and I could see from the anguish on his face that it was painful for him to relive that moment. “It’s only a few minutes from Amagansett to East Hampton. The train barely has time to build up speed before it has to slow down again. I remember pulling into the station. It looked completely deserted. I had just hit the platform when I saw this young woman stumbling backward out of the shadow and toward the track. She was trying to regain her balance but her momentum . . . I saw her face for a split second just as we hit. It all happened so fast—I heard the impact before I was able to push the emergency brake.” His eyes closed again as he tried to squeeze the vision out of his mind. “It was terrifying, just terrifying—she literally came from out of nowhere. I tried to go back to work, but I couldn’t pass that station again without thinking about what happened. They put me on another line to see if that would help, but I just couldn’t work anymore. Then I got the stroke and . . .”

“I’m so sorry. Did you go to therapy?”

“Did I go? Honey, I’m still going. Thank God for the union; it pays for this place and all my treatments. I used to envision hitting my own kid with the train. My daughter was about the same age as that pretty little girl. I used to—” He began to mist up. “I still have that nightmare; that pretty little girl’s face as she tumbled backward in front of the train. My God, it was the most terrible thing that ever happened to me.”

I gave him a moment to compose himself. “Charlie, I know you’ve answered this question many times before but are you certain she was pushed? You know that three quarters of the time, these train strikes are premeditated suicide attempts.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said flatly. “I know the difference between a murder and a suicide.”

He sounded very confident. I didn’t doubt him, but I needed to understand his rationale. “Don’t take offense at this, but how could be so sure?”

“Because, damn it. Just because.” He looked me in the eye, hoping I’d back down, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. He sighed heavily. “It—” He took a sip of water to moisten his dry throat. “It wasn’t the first time I hit someone,” he said sadly. “The first time . . . now that was a suicide.”

Oh Jesus. Really? This poor guy hit two people? No wonder he’s such a basket case.
“I know I shouldn’t push you like this, but could you please explain so that I can understand why you’re so certain that Alana Moore was murdered?”

“It was early in my career, Penn Station, evening rush hour. He was waiting behind a support column, wearing a suit like all the other businessmen. He looked like any other guy waiting for the train to go home to his family. I saw him watching the train out of the corner of his eye just as it approached. I knew something was wrong, so I blasted the horn and hit the emergency brake, but a multi-ton train just doesn’t stop on a dime, now does it? He was looking right at me as he stepped in front of the train. Alana Moore was different, completely different. She was trying to catch her balance. She was trying to stop her fall, but she couldn’t. Someone had pushed her—no one will ever tell me differently. Sometimes when I think about it, I can almost visualize two hands extending out of the shadow, the hands of the person who pushed her in front of my train. No question in my mind she was murdered. The poor thing . . . by the time they were able to get her out from under the train, the only things that weren’t mutilated were her purse and one of her pink shoes.”

Thump.
I really hate speed bumps. Thump. Thump.
Jesus, what a pain in the ass.
Thump. The parking lot at the police station had speed bumps up the wazoo. They ought to shoot the person who thought of those cursed things. They’re about as pleasant as a pair of wet socks. I think it would be a great platform for a political candidate to run on. Forget about lowering taxes and creating more jobs—eliminate and abolish every goddamn speed bump on the planet. I’d get behind a candidate like that.

My next appointment was with Steve Pulaski, the Suffolk County police detective who had investigated the death of Alana Moore. Detective Pulaski set me up in an interview room and brought me a cup of coffee, which was no better than the swill we drank back at Midtown North. It was lightened with that powdered gunk which is every bit as palatable as worm-ridden sawdust. I took one sip, grimaced, and pushed the cup aside.

“I’m guessing it’s not too good,” Pulaski said.

Is he kidding? It ought to be listed on the EPA’s list of banned pesticides. Bite your tongue, Steph. Candy-coat it.
“It’s a coffee drinker’s worst nightmare.”
Ugh! That wasn’t much better. I hope he doesn’t take offense.

He held up his bottle of Poland Spring. “Yeah, it’s usually pretty bad. That’s why I’m drinking the ever-popular H
²
O.”

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” I said. I had no jurisdiction in the Alana Moore matter, and I wasn’t a member of her family. Pulaski was extending professional courtesy by seeing me: nothing more. I needed to be on my best behavior and not do anything that might cause him to pull the plug on our conversation.

Pulaski plopped into his chair. “So, Detective Chalice, you’re out here on vacation?”

“Yup, two weeks of rest and relaxation. We needed a break from city life. Oh, and please call me Stephanie.”

“You know most cops don’t go looking into cold murder investigations on their time off. Wouldn’t you rather be out at the beach or something?”

“Absolutely,” I said, which wasn’t exactly the truth. I guess I’m hopelessly addicted to the intrigue of a homicide investigation.

“So what’s the deal?” he asked.

“My husband and I are renting a house out in Montauk. One of the neighbors came by to say hello and told us about a couple of local tragedies; the disappearance of Sarah Fisher and the death of Alana Moore.”

“I don’t know anything about the Fisher disappearance. I mean, I knew about it, but I wasn’t assigned to the case.”

“I know. I’m taking one step at a time. As you pointed out, I’m here on vacation. It’s just my professional curiosity. I’d like to know more about Alana Moore’s death. Besides, my husband’s a big-time fisherman. I’ve got to do something to pass the time while he’s out victimizing helpless fishies.”

“Fishing’s great fun.”

So I hear.

“It’s
very
relaxing.”

“Yeah, he loves it. He’s out teaching my son how to fish. Of course, he should probably wait until the lad is toilet trained.”

Pulaski laughed. “I guess a man is never too young to learn. Your husband should try his hand at deep-sea fishing while he’s out here—the tuna are running like crazy.”

“Probably not a good idea to strap an infant into a fighting chair. He can barely hold on to his sippy cup.”

“Ha! Man, you should go into standup.”

Let me see if I’ve got this straight; Gus should go deep-sea fishing, and I should go into standup comedy. My but he’s just full of great suggestions. I hope he’s as good at police work as he is at giving advice.

“So what would you like to know about Alana Moore?”

“Whatever you can tell me. I’d like to take a look at the evidence file and her personal effects if you’ll permit me.”

“I’ll requisition the evidence out of storage.” Pulaski opened a case file and turned it around so that I could take a look at the deceased’s photograph.

Alana Moore was a pretty blonde with soft, topaz-colored eyes. “What a shame
.
” She looked like a happy person. “So young and pretty.” I looked up at Pulaski. “So what happened to her? I just chatted with Charlie Rydell, and he’s one-hundred-percent positive that she was pushed in front of his train.”

“You met with Rydell? He’s a strange bird all right.”

“Strange? I didn’t think he was so strange . . . a little eccentric maybe.” I mean, it’s not as if he sits backward on the toilet eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs while singing “The Star Spangled Banner”—now that’s what I would call strange. Most of the people I know are kind of strange. A person would have to do something really off the wall to make me sit up and take notice. “Why do you say that? You don’t think his account of the incident was reliable?”

“I’m not saying he’s wrong, but there were no witnesses and no security cameras on the platform at that time. There was nothing to go on. The MO didn’t match anything on file. She was from upstate—from an area I know next to nothing about—but here’s the interesting part.” Pulaski riffled through the case file and pulled out a missing persons report from Rensselaer County. “She’d been missing for months before she died.”

Another missing woman?
“What were the circumstances of her disappearance?”

“My partner and I drove up to Rensselaer County to interview her parents. They live on a farm upstate in Hoosick Falls. It’s about forty miles east of Saratoga. It’s God’s country, if you know what I mean—I think we passed Michael Landon on the way up.”

I didn’t get his reference. “Michael Landon?”

“
Little House on the Prairie
? Nothing?”

I shrugged.

“Horse-drawn wagons. Women in bonnets? Still nothing?”

“You can try to coax the answer out of me all day long, but it’s not going to help.” This was one of those rare occasions when I was completely clueless.

Wrinkles formed on Pulaski’s forehead. “My God, you’re a kid. How old are you anyway?”

“Under thirty.”

“You’re pretty young to have made NYPD homicide; I’m impressed.”

“Even though I don’t know who this Michael Landon character is?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Google him when you have the time. Anyway, Hoosick Falls is a real hole-in-the-wall—very rural. I mean you could set off a
nuc-u-lar
bomb and not injure anyone.”

Yes, he said, “
nuc-u-lar
,” just like our beloved forty-third president, George W. Bush. Despite this, he sounded relatively intelligent.

“I think they’ve got more cows than people up there. Now get this. They have this farm stand, and when they’re off doing
whatever,
they leave a basket out front so that their customers can help themselves to the merchandise and leave cash in the unattended basket. The honor system, for crying out loud—I couldn’t believe it. I bought a piece of crumb cake and left two dollars in the basket under a rock.”

“Under a rock. At least they’re not worried about the money flying away.”

“Oh no,” he quipped. “It’s all very leading edge. I think they pirated the technology from NASA.”

I smiled. “Good one.”

“We went up there on a rainy day, and I have to tell you, that place was
bleak
.”

“Folks from a small town like that . . . I’m sure her parents were a mess.”

“Oh they were destroyed. You could just look into their eyes and see their hearts had been ripped out. She was twenty years old when she disappeared. Went to school one day and never came back.”

“That’s so tragic. Where did she attend?”

“She was taking classes at Bennington College. Commuted back and forth from home. She called her parents and told them she was going out for a bite with a friend. That was the last time they heard from her.

“Her car was never found?”

“The car washed up in the Hoosick River, but she wasn’t in it. She was either abducted or took off on her own. The police department up there is small, but they followed protocol to the letter and did everything they were supposed to. Every appropriate agency was informed, but Alana never turned up.”

“Until she was hit by the train.”

Pulaski nodded with a sad expression on his face. “That’s one next-of-kin notification I’m glad I didn’t have to make.”

“What kind of girl was she?”

“Her parents described her as a happy kid, pretty easygoing. I checked her out: good grades, no criminal record. She was taking classes in performance arts. Her parents said she wanted to act and dreamed about getting to Broadway one day.”

“That’s a pretty common dream. I wonder what derailed her career.”
Did I just say derailed? I don’t believe it. Talk about a faux pas. He’s not reacting. I think it went over his head. Thank God.
My gut was that something terrible happened to Alana Moore way before the train hit her. “What else can you tell me, Tom? How was she dressed? Was there a local address? Cell phone records? Anything?”

“No local address, and she hadn’t made any calls from her cell phone or used her credit cards since the time she had disappeared. She had some cash in her wallet at the time she was hit by the train . . . her driver’s license, and her school ID. Other than that, her purse contained generic stuff: makeup, a brush, a pair of shoes, a tin of Altoids, etc.”

“Condoms?”

“No condoms.”

“Did you ask her parents if she had been seeing anyone? Were any of her old boyfriends bad news?”

“Good questions, not-helpful answers—she wasn’t seeing anyone at the time she disappeared, and she only had a couple of significant relationships prior to the time she disappeared. Everyone was checked out—they were all devastated to hear that she had died and all had verifiable alibis.”

“Identification of the body?”

“Visual identification was impossible. Her head was crushed—dental records were useless; no fingerprint records on file.”

“DNA?”

“We didn’t check for DNA.”

“Really, no DNA testing? Why?”

Her parents were too distraught—they didn’t want to be tested for a DNA match. All they wanted to do was bury their daughter and be left in peace so that they could grieve privately. I can’t say that I blame them. I mean try to put yourself in their place. I don’t know how people go on living after something like that happens to their child.”

“So basically you found a body and a driver’s license.”

Pulaski hemmed and hawed. “Yeah . . . pretty much,” he said with a sheepish expression on his face. “We investigated for quite a while but nothing panned out.”

“Theories?”

“Upstate police figured she’d been abducted, but that theory was dismissed when she died. She was all dressed up and didn’t look like someone who was being held against her will. We all concluded that she’d run away on her own and moved downstate to be closer to the theatrical world. Who shoved her in front of the train? I’m embarrassed to say that we don’t know any more now than we did the day she died. There were simply no viable leads.”

My blood was boiling, and I felt my eye begin to twitch. I think Pulaski saw that I was losing it.

“Let me see how long it will take to get the evidence out of storage,” he said. Pulaski stood taking advantage of the opportunity to leave the room.

I was so upset that I absentmindedly gulped a mouthful of the dreadful coffee and almost gagged. I didn’t know if it was from the coffee or the insufficient manner in which Alana Moore’s murder investigation had been handled.