The Gone Dead Train (18 page)

“The ME told Dunsford the goose egg on Augie's forehead happened before the attack in his apartment. Dunsford wanted to know what I knew about it. That brought the fight between you and Augie into the conversation.”

“And you said . . .”

Freeman spread his hands in front of him. “Exactly what Augie told me. That you said, ‘This isn't over.'”

Oh, shit
. He
had
said that. In this context, it sounded like a threat, which would be hard to explain without going into the missing photo.

“I also told him Augie was planning to work on the manuscript this morning, and it's now missing. He made notes, but he didn't follow up.”

“What did you say about the journalist?”

Freeman shrugged. “Wasn't much I
could
say.” A line rang on the desk. “That's the client I'm meeting. I need to get it.” He picked up.

The break gave Billy time to jot down some notes about possible suspects.

I got business to handle
. Augie had made that statement as his phone rang and he walked away. It was a critical point. The caller could have been a buyer, or it could've been the journalist or a drug dealer. Whoever it was, the caller's number was recorded on Augie's phone. If the caller was also the killer, he was organized enough to steal the phone in an attempt to conceal his identity. Same thing with the computer. But the manuscript had been stolen, too. A drug dealer wouldn't give a damn about the manuscript, but a buyer might mistake it for a memoir and think it had market value. If the journalist was the killer, he would definitely have taken the manuscript.

He wrote “journalist” at the top of the list and circled it.

Any one of the three could've grabbed the watches and other things around the apartment, either to sell or to make the murder look like a burglary.

Next, he focused on Garrett's drug theory. If the techs had found evidence of street drugs around Augie's place, Dunsford would have questioned Freeman about it.

Freeman hung up. “We done here?”

“Not quite. Augie's been really manic. I assumed he'd dropped off his meds. He's done it before. Garrett had a different take. He brought up street drugs.”

“Where did that come from?”

“Garrett sees a lot of drug-related behavior at Robert House, so his opinion has some merit. Did Dunsford ask you if Augie was doing drugs?”

Freeman rubbed his jaw. “They had me look through mug shots for anyone who'd been hanging around the building. Maybe they were looking for dealers.” Freeman stared at the floor. “It doesn't make sense. Augie hated drugs.”

“I didn't buy it either until I thought about his obsession with his mother's death. The antipsychotics made him foggy-headed. He might have added some combination of speed or meth for a boost. Augie was so wired last night, if a dealer showed up, they could have gotten crosswise.”

“I assume the medical examiner will test for drugs,” Freeman said. “That should put the question to rest.”

“A tox screen takes three to four weeks. Think hard. Did you notice evidence of drug use in Augie's place? I'd like to rule the possibility in or out.”

“No drugs,” Freeman said and checked his watch. “We're down to five minutes.”

Billy pulled out the stack of surveillance photos. “When you looked at these the other night, you knew they were taken on Beale Street.”

Freeman raised a hand. “Now you're talking about Red and Little Man. I'm not getting into that. Garrett knows more about those times. His brother was a civil rights worker.”

“Augie stole one of the photos.”

“Can't help you there,” Freeman said, stone-faced.

“Did he show it to you?”

“Tell you what. I'll answer that question when you tell me the real reason you had a fight with Augie.”

“That's not up for discussion.”

Freeman called over his shoulder to the back office. “Diana, pack up the topo and spread sheets on the Moser property.” He turned a professional smile on Billy. “You're right, Detective. Time to move on.”

Billy shrugged.
All right, you son of a bitch. I'll give you the story
.

He told Freeman about Augie making an ass of himself at the ballpark and taking a swing at the kid in the street. He gave every detail of the fight. It sounded so pool hall parking lot—the name-calling, broken bottles, a friend busting up a friend over nothing. He felt ashamed just talking about it.

“I told Augie he'd be banned from the ballpark. I called him a waste of skin.”

Freeman's eyebrows went up. “That's cold.”

“It's the reason I went to his place this morning. I wanted to check on him and apologize.”

“And get the photo.”

“Right. Where is it?”

“I don't have a clue.”

“Damn it, Freeman.”

“What can I say? Augie told me about the photo. He knew you'd figure out he'd taken it.” He looked at Billy full on. “Did you go to Augie's place last night?”

“No. And the security tapes will prove that.”

Freeman grunted, stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Which entrance did you come in this morning?”

“The lobby. Why?”

“What about the back entrance?”

“What's the difference? You have cameras on both.”

Freeman nodded as if he'd made a decision. “We both know Dunsford isn't smart enough to catch this bastard.”

“Not unless the guy walks into the station house and confesses.”

“I'll work with you, but I won't trust you.”

“Not very flattering, but I'll go with it.”

“Diana,” Freeman yelled. “Cancel that appointment.” He waved at a chair beside the desk. “Have a seat, Detective. I'm going to give you something. It may be true, or it may not. But I don't think you'll hear it anywhere else.”

B
illy left Freeman's office and walked over to 757 Kentucky Street, his uncle Kane's favorite train-watching spot. In the seventies, you could see the Rock Island, Frisco, Illinois Central, Cotton Belt, Southern, Louisville & Nashville, and Missouri Pacific roll by, all in this one location. Now it was empty tracks and a
ROAD CLOSED
sign attached to the crossing bars.

Trains had romanced his uncle. Tracks cut through the cotton fields four hundred feet behind Kane's Kanteen, his uncle's roadside diner on a barren stretch of highway in Mississippi. His uncle would stand on the back stoop between the breakfast and lunch shifts, smoke curling from the cigarette tucked between his fingers, his eyes following the trains like they were beautiful women swaying down the tracks. He'd talk about the day he would book sleeper service on Amtrak's The City of New Orleans. He wanted to ride in the observation car, drink good scotch, and eat a New York strip steak at a table covered with a starched white cloth. He wanted to ride to Chicago, turn around, and ride back. That was his dream.

It never happened. A kid with a shaky hand who'd never meant to shoot nobody killed his uncle while he'd been making change behind the cash register.

Billy had a cop's view of trains, very different from his uncle's sentiment. Trains take out dogs, cows, and witless drivers. Drunks stumble onto the tracks in the middle of the night and get mangled. Suicides lie down and wait for the engine to cut their bodies in half. There's nothing romantic about trains for a cop. Trains take people away.

He questioned how he'd handled himself today. A cop works a bad scene, he waits until the shift is over and goes someplace to lose his shit. He's no good to anyone if he can't control his emotions. Billy knew that from experience. When the flashbacks come, you think of something else.

Today was different. Augie's death was going to shadow him for a long, long time.

The sound of tires popping on gravel pulled him out of his thoughts. Frankie got out of her Jeep, wearing a skirt and sandals. She walked over to stand beside him.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he said. “It's a long, hot walk back to my car.” He turned his head so she could see his swollen lip. He thought his banged-up face would be the start of her questions, but she made no comment.

“I was coming from my appointment with Ramos when you called.”

“How did it go?”

“I asked him to make a death curse to scare off a stalker who was going to kill me. He didn't buy it. But he confirmed that he was the only person in the city who could make that kind of curse. The session ended before I could get more.”

“Sounds like it's time for me to have a talk with Dr. Voodoo.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. This is my source. He'll call into the precinct if you show up and try to push him. That's the last thing we need. I've planted an excuse to stop by so I can get another look around.”

He felt her gaze on the side of his face. She nodded at his lip. “You want to talk about that?”

A hatch of sparrows circled above the tracks then dropped into the switch grass beside the gravel.
Hell no, he didn't want to talk about it
. But she deserved to hear it. She was hanging out with a possible murder suspect. He'd be cleared of that tomorrow, but if somehow the shit got deep, it would get deep for her, too.

He told her all of it, starting with the fight at the ballpark. Disappointment was the biggest part of it, in himself and in Augie. He couldn't get past the fact that Augie had taken a swing at a kid.

Frankie listened until he was finished, her gaze fixed on the red-and-white railroad crossing bars in front of them. “You were trying to help a friend.”

“Not really. I was angry. I provoked him. Augie deserved better.”

Her expression clouded. “Cops are trained to deal with people at their worst. When it's a person we care about, training goes out the window. We make mistakes.”

He glanced over. She'd gone pale. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

He didn't prod. Taking the bruise into account, he assumed she'd had a rough time with somebody recently. Proof of damage. He couldn't let her see how well he understood.

“What's your next move?” she asked.

“I have to figure that out. Want to help?”

She dipped her head in agreement.

They covered Freeman's interview with Dunsford. Billy talked about Dahlia Poston and how Augie had witnessed the fire.

“Crap,” she said. “No wonder he went off his rocker.”

“Augie believed she was murdered. He tried to tell me there was more information, but I wasn't listening. Freeman filled in the blanks today.

“Augie told him that this journalist has obtained documents from the Justice Department through the Freedom of Information Act. It reveals FBI activity in Memphis during the garbage strike and after King's assassination. Augie's mother's name appeared in those documents.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“Dr. King was leading a protest march down Beale Street in support of the garbage workers when it turned violent—rock throwing, looting. Someone flagged down a woman who was driving by and commandeered her car to take Dr. King to the Lorraine Motel. Because of the riot, they couldn't get to the Lorraine, so a motorcycle cop directed them to the Rivermont, a posh hotel that used to be on the crest of the south bluff. You won't remember the Rivermont. It's condos now.

“The woman driving the car was Dahlia Poston. The motorcycle cop took down her license plate number and gave it to an agent. The FBI made the assumption that she worked for King or was his girlfriend. Dahlia Poston had never met Dr. King. Her involvement that day was a coincidence.

“Nothing came of it until King was assassinated. Soon after, the FBI showed up at the Postons' house with questions about Dahlia's relationship with Dr. King. Her car blew up not long after that.”

“Why would the FBI bother the Postons?”

“King was a married man, but he liked the ladies. The agents were looking at jealous husbands as the possible shooter. They spoke with every woman who had even the slightest connection to Dr. King. Dahlia Poston was on that list.

“The bureau had a black eye over the assassination. It was no secret that Hoover despised Dr. King and thought he was stirring up militants. A segment of the population believed the bureau was involved. Three thousand agents worked overtime to solve his murder. They wanted to get it behind them. Augie believed his parents were swept up in the manhunt.”

“Can you verify this?”

“It takes time. A FOIA request takes a minimum of a month. A warrant might speed things up, but I have no standing. This information could be solid or a con created by the journalist to keep Augie on the hook for money.”

The heat of the day had coalesced around them, stealing the air. He took a breath. “A couple of weeks after King's assassination,
Time
magazine called Memphis a southern backwater. As one reporter put it, ‘Blacks and women got their say. White men in suits got their way.' Not much has changed.”

“What's this journalist's name?” Frankie asked.

“Augie refused to tell Freeman or me. Without his phone or computer, we're hamstrung until Dunsford subpoenas the records. When I go in tomorrow to give my statement, I'll ask Middlebrook if he can fast-track my reinstatement. Working from the inside, I'll be able to speed things up.”

She thought for several seconds. “I'd like to start with some basic questions about Augie.” She went to the Jeep and returned with a memo book. “A very smart cop once said that murder is about sex, money, or revenge. If you can't see one of those, you aren't looking hard enough, because it's there. Did Augie have a jealous girlfriend? Was he sleeping with someone's wife?”

“No women,” he said.

“How about revenge, like a teammate holding a grudge.”

“Augie hasn't seen those guys in years. I smell a dead end.”