Blood on the Tracks (17 page)

“But I didn’t,” I said to Clyde. “We’re still good.”

Clyde huffed out a breath.

My headset buzzed. Cohen. I waited it out, not ready to find my voice. A moment later the phone pinged with his text.

A text I could deal with. I opened it and stared at a photograph of the sketch artist’s rendition of Rhodes’s assailant.

The drawing showed a white kid in his late twenties with a shaved skull and deeply sunken, sullen eyes and a chip on his shoulder the size of the moon. Looking into the man’s face, I felt as if someone had just pressed an ice cube to the base of my skull.

Other than the fact that the punk looked like a hundred other hostile, pissed-off, twenty-something punks—and I’d seen a lot of those in the Marines—this face was unfamiliar. But the facial tats were something I’d seen before. Recently, in fact. It took me a moment to remember exactly where, but when I had it, the hair lifted on the back of my neck.

That kid I’d seen near my truck at Hogan’s Alley, looking through my windshield. Was it only yesterday morning? I’d caught just a glimpse of his face in the shadow of his hoodie, but he’d been sporting these same tats. Nothing so overt as a swastika, or I likely would have thought of him when Cohen first mentioned Tucker’s assault. But the tattoos had been screaming Nazi all the same, if I’d taken time to think about them.

On the forehead of both the punk’s face and now the assailant’s was the number 88, representative of the
H
, the eighth letter of the alphabet. For white power skinheads, eighty-eight stands for Heil Hitler.

On their respective chins, both men also sported the number 14, for the fourteen-word creed of skinheads everywhere: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”

Finally, on the right cheek of the man in the sketch were three interlocking triangles, the symbol of the Nordic afterlife. Called a Valknot, it means a willingness to die for the cause. I couldn’t be sure if the kid I’d seen had the Valknot. But it seemed likely.

I put out my cigarette and dialed Cohen.

“Classic skinhead tats,” I said when he answered.

“Yeah. The question is, do they belong to the face of a real person?”

“I saw a kid yesterday morning at the homeless camp. He was nosing around my work vehicle. He had tats just like these.”

I could almost hear him sit up straighter.

“He look like this guy?”

“No,” I said. “Too young. But it could mean something larger is at play here.”

“Like what? Skinheads knock the homeless around. But are they rail riders?”

“White punks are. So are college kids, for what it’s worth. Hopping freights never goes out of style. And there are some who claim that FTRA has neo-Nazi elements.”

“Fat-ra who?”

“Freight Train Riders of America. A gang linked to a lot of railroad vandalism and thefts and more than a few deaths. But their connection to a neo-Nazi movement is pretty tenuous. My guess is that a few of these skinheads have decided to break into new turf. They do that now and again. Killing innocents like Elise could be an initiation.”

Even as I said it, I felt that same stir of memory that had tickled my mind back at police headquarters. Hadn’t something like this happened ten or twelve years ago? I chased the memory down like tracking a shooting star. A young girl had disappeared and never been found. She’d delivered lunch or dinner or something to her brother who worked in the rail yard. Then, according to the Royer rumor mill, as soon as she was out of her brother’s sight, she’d been dragged away from the yard by a group of skinheads. After that, she’d vanished. The talk among us kids was that she’d been a gang sacrifice. There’d been some worried speculation among the grown-ups, and a lot of my friends were told by their parents to steer clear of the yard and the rails and the camps. The little girl’s brother worked for DPC, but in all other ways the family—black and not locals—had been outsiders. When months went by and nothing emerged from the investigation, the girl was dismissed as a runaway. Never mind that little black girls don’t usually run away with white supremacists.

Cohen was talking. “Hardly a fair battle if these skinheads are going after hobos. And why pick on white folks like Rhodes and Elise?”

“Oh, any number of reasons,” I murmured, my brain still racing.

“What kind of reasons?” Cohen asked.

“Detective, do me a favor. See if you can pull up a missing persons report from the fall of 2000 or 2001. Little girl named Jazmine. With a ‘z’ I think. Don’t know the last name.”

“You wanna tell me how this relates?”

“Jazmine was a little girl who disappeared from the rail yard. Rumor was she’d been taken away by a group of skinheads. It was all the talk for a while, but nothing ever came of it, as far as I know.”

“And this connects to Elise Hensley’s death how?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking for patterns.”

“They’ve killed people associated with the rails before, they might do it again? That’s pretty thin, Parnell. It’s not like Elise was a hobo.”

“Didn’t you say it sounded like a kid who called in Elise’s death? Maybe one of the punks got a case of the guilts.”

“Hmm,” Cohen said, unconvinced.

“Elise spent so much time working with these guys, it could be she learned something about that little girl’s disappearance. She told Tucker she was working something.”

“You’re sharing that a day late and a dollar short,” Cohen said with real heat.

Time once again for the lying two-step tango. “It’s not like that. Tucker figured she meant one of her charitable projects. But maybe he got it wrong.”

“And she got killed to keep her quiet about this little girl? Meaning the original kidnappers are still around.”

Just like the trouble Sherri Kane had implied. Her accusation that Elise was digging up dirt on people.

“Could be you’re onto something, Parnell,” Cohen said. “Any word on the German who gave Tucker his tattoo?”

“I’ve got a name and a call in to him.”

“Oh,” he said. “Good!”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not at all.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. I need to get the sketch out among the hobos. Any idea where these guys scatter when one of their camps gets closed?”

“Hogan’s Alley is still a crime scene?”

“The detectives have been working it around the clock, and they’ve probably pulled as much as we’ll get out of there. But we’re not ready to open it up yet.”

“Some of the guys will hit the shelters. A few will go down to Taylor Creek. Most won’t move far, though. They’ll find spots in Darby Bay, up near 31st Street.”

“Go with me?”

“I was figuring on doing it myself.”

“I’m not feeling the love, railroad cop.”

“Oh, for—” I stopped myself. “Fine. But if you want anyone to talk, then you’ve got to help these guys. Grease the skids. Bring some bribes with you.”

“You mean like booze?”

“Your stereotypes are showing, Detective,” I said. “I mean like winter clothes. Coats. Hats. Gloves. Try spending your life outdoors when the wind chill is below zero.”

“Give me an hour. I’ll bring the sketches and the clothes and meet you wherever you say.”

“Corner of 20th Street and Market. We can meet up in the parking lot of the coffee shop on the southwest corner and make the rounds in my truck.”

“Now I’m starting to feel the love.”

“Just bring decent stuff, Cohen. These guys deserve it.”

“Single malt?”

“Stop it.”

But the weight on my chest had backed off a little, and I could breathe again. Elise’s death was no easier if she’d been killed by skinheads instead of the Alpha. But it could mean everything for Tucker.

And for me.

I used the bathroom at the Happy Java, washed up, and ordered two turkey sandwiches, a Coke, and a large water. The girls behind the counter made a fuss over Clyde, and he preened.

“Don’t get a big head,” I told him as we walked back to the truck. “They just think all that hair means you’re virile.”

I lowered the tailgate and we sat together in the light wind, eating our sandwiches. The storm had circled around and wafted off to the east, and it was cold and sunny. The air smelled of diesel and chimney smoke and the ripe leavings of food from the bin behind the coffee shop. A crow fussed at us from atop a wooden fence. With my belly full, I was close to nodding off when my headset buzzed.

“This is Roald Hoffreider,” a man said when I answered. “I got your message saying you needed to talk. Something I can do for you?”

“Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Hoffreider. And please, call me Sydney.”

“Roald will do on this end.”

“Roald. Do you remember running into a young vet a couple of days ago, name of Tucker Rhodes?”

“The Burned Man? Sure, I remember him. Seemed like a nice enough kid. Been through hell, that’s for sure.”

“You mean his injuries.”

“’Course I mean his injuries. But the kid got jumped, too, day before I met him. Sporting some real bruises. Then he got robbed that night. You gotta ask yourself what the world is coming to when some snot-nosed punk thinks he can go after our wounded warriors.”

“So you saw who jumped him?”

“Didn’t see the guy in the act.”

“But you have some ideas.”

A brief silence. The crow stopped its fussing and cocked its head, eyes bright.

“I have an idea,” Roald said. “The Burned Man told me it was a skinhead. There’s been a big group of those punks making trouble on the line. Five or six main guys, but probably thirty others. Maybe more.”

“That’s why you gave Rhodes a tattoo?”

“Sure. Tat like that means he killed someone. Makes someone think twice before giving him hell.”

“It also says he’s a racist and a jailbird.”

“Long as it keeps those punks off him, I ain’t too worried about the message it sends anyone else.”

“What did Rhodes say was stolen?”

“Beads. Hobo beads, they call them. Said the wife of one of his best friends made them for him. He was pretty damn mad.”

“I’m going to text you a sketch of the man we think assaulted Rhodes. I’d like you to see if you recognize the guy.”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to hang up and send it. Call me back as soon as you’ve had a look.”

I forwarded Cohen’s original message to Hoffreider. While I waited, I cleaned up the sandwich wrappers and poured more water into Clyde’s dish. A minute later, Hoffreider called back.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him,” he said. “He’s the leader, I’m pretty sure. A little older than the rest and ten times as mean. Goes by the name Whip.”

“You know his real name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about where he hangs out?”

“Aside from the camps, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Saw him at a biker bar in one of those little towns east of Denver. Don’t remember the town, but the bar was called The Pint and Pecker. He was there with four or five other skinheads.”

“Bikers and neo-Nazis? Odd mix.”

“Not like it used to be. Word I’ve been hearing is that some of the skinheads are signing up with the hard-core motorcycle gangs. Hammerskins becoming Hell’s Angels.”

I didn’t like the
Mad Max
visual that gave me. “Would you be willing to ask around your crew? Show them the picture and see if anyone can put a name on him?”

“You mind telling me why all this interest?”

“It’s part of an investigation.”

“Look, I know you’re a cop and all. But do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, these guys are serious trouble. And there’s a shitload of them out there. The Aryan Nation, or whatever they call themselves, they’re on the move again. Last time was, I don’t know, eight, ten years ago.”

I got that feeling in my stomach, that warning flag I’d perfected in Iraq, that said I was about to roll into trouble. “What does it mean when these guys are on the move?”

“It means they’re going to knock a few heads together. Or worse. The Burned Man got off light. His face makes him look like a victim, but at least he’s white and clean-cut. Someone else might not be so lucky.”

“You’re talking murder.”

“Might be. I’ve seen it before.”

“Ten years ago.”

“Or thereabouts. A group of these assholes were terrorizing the homeless. A black tramp in South Dakota ended up dead. And a little girl went missing from Denver. Final word was she was a runaway. But her brother never believed that, and neither did I. After the police started looking for her, the punks scattered. It’s been a nice ten years.”

“Jazmine.”

“Jazmine Brown. That’s right. You know about her?”

“Heard the story. Why don’t you think she was a runaway?”

“I worked with her brother on the line. She was a good kid from a good family. You ask me, those punks took her and tossed her body somewhere no one would find it.”

“You have any proof of that?”

“If I did, I’d’ve gone to the police when it all went down. All I got is my gut.”

So we were back to that. Bandoni’s gut. Mine. Now Hoffreider’s. We needed less intuition and more facts.

“Do you know where I can reach Jazmine’s brother?”