“File cabinets, probably. But yes.”
I squeezed my eyes closed, popped them open. “It’s critical I find everything I can about that crossing. Tell me how I can do that.”
“You tried FRA? They hold the—”
“They’re looking for the initial request for the number and any accident reports. But it’s going to take time.”
“It’s no better on this end. All our old forms are at headquarters, in DC. Plus, the whole thing could be a snipe hunt. You know we only handle the large-scale messes. Multiple fatalities, or cornfield meets where one train hits another. National news stuff. If none of those happened at your crossing, we won’t have anything.”
“Can we at least try? There’s a little girl missing.”
Lapton sighed. “What’s the number?”
I told him.
“I’ll call DC,” he said. “Get someone there to start looking. But don’t hold your breath. Our forms aren’t filed by the crossing number, but by our own numbering system. There’s probably a master log somewhere that cross references our number with the crossing ID. But that won’t be digitized, either. If you can give me a location or the names associated with any accidents, that would help.”
I balled my hands into fists. “I was hoping to get that from you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lapton said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Dead air. I flipped the world a double bird then opened a desk drawer for the sole purpose of slamming it shut. Clyde startled and gave me a narrow look. “Sorry, boy.” I told him to stay, then went to Mauer’s office and stuck my head in. “Death and Dismemberment.”
He blinked.
“Where are the old forms?” I asked. “And the 6180s. Everything from before we started digitizing.”
He gaped at me. “They’re—it’s not pretty.”
I stepped into his office. “I’m almost certain that the alphanumeric written in the kiln is an old crossing number. But if so, it’s discontinued, and there’s nothing in the database. Margaret Ackerman with the FRA says she’ll look, but right now she doesn’t have anything. If I can find any D and D forms linked to that number, maybe it’ll turn up something related to the case.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure yet. Something that took place on or near that crossing. The number meant something to the killer.”
“Show me what you’ve got.”
I walked in and wrote down the number on the paper he offered, including the Xs. I handed the notepad back to him.
He pulled on his readers and studied it. Scratched his chin. “You took out the Xs.”
I nodded.
“Okay. Could be you’re right. But if you think something from the past drove our killer, then you’re saying he held a grudge for twenty years or more.”
“Anger burns a long time.”
“You met my first wife. So if this really is a crossing number, why did he include all the Xs?”
“I don’t know. We’re not dealing with someone who thinks the way we do.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “So what about the forms?”
“You heard of the vault?”
“The what?”
He propped his elbows on the desk, fisted his hands. “Years ago someone got the great idea to scan in all those old forms. And not just from Colorado. Across every line owned by DPC. The paper-pushers wanted the process centralized, so they brought the forms here. The 6180s, too. Boxes and boxes of them. Then the budget cuts came and the bosses put the kibosh on the entire plan. Now we have hundreds of forms here. Thousands. All stored in a closet the size of New Jersey. Unless you have a date, we can’t narrow down the search to so much as a single box.”
My right heel pistoned up and down. “There has to be a way.”
“We’ll see if FRA comes up with anything. And don’t forget the Feds will be taking a whack at that number, in case it’s something else entirely. In the meantime, I’ve been going through the employee files. And I talked to HR.”
“And?”
He tilted his chair back and crossed his arms, tucking his fists in his armpits. “And there aren’t issues with any of our people. Nine men, one woman. No flags, no performance problems, no record of any interemployee discord. No unusually heavy absentee rates or sexual harassment charges or anyone who’s complained at being passed over. They’re all card-carrying members of their respective unions. Happy as clams. Union says the same thing.”
“Which doesn’t mean someone isn’t deeply unhappy.”
“Right. Police’ll interview them.” He twisted his watch around his wrist. “And I can’t say any of them strike me as someone Ben or his wife would have an affair with, seeing as the men are all my age. Now, my kindhearted wife tells me I’m a real prize when I put the toilet seat down. But you see a woman half my age giving me the time of day?”
I stopped myself from reaching over and patting his hand. “And the woman?”
“She’s a backside-of-fifty grandmother. And you should—”
“Please don’t say I should see her backside.”
“Jesus, Parnell, you’re taking all my good material.”
“You call that good?”
His eyes looked bleary. “That’s why I quit my stand-up career. So, that number. If you’re right about it being a crossing ID, and if it’s local, you could talk to Fred Zolner. He worked this territory for decades. For all I know, he’s got that stuff in a file in his head.”
“You’re taking about Bull Zolner?”
“The same. He’s retired now, but the bastard should be happy to talk to you. No family and I doubt he’s got friends. Bit of a crank.”
I knew Bull Zolner. “Crank is being generous.”
“Okay, he’s a racist, misogynist scumbag. Word is someone broke his heart once and it stayed that way. But he should be a font of knowledge if you can get him to crawl out of the bottle long enough to hold a conversation.”
I’d met Bull once, when I was a kid. He had been one of DPC’s old-school railroad bulls, an immense man with the attitude of a cornered badger on methamphetamines. He drank like tomorrow was something he didn’t want to be around for and he’d patrolled his yards with a zest that bordered on pathological—he’d just as soon beat a tagger or trespasser as look at them. He’d raised pit bulls just so he could bring one or two with him on his beat to terrorize the trespassers.
Now, sitting in Mauer’s office, I remembered two things about Bull. His accent, which was soft and southern. And his eyes. One was blind—the result of an accident. The other was a flat sheet of gray from which anything human had long since packed up and left.
“You have a way to reach him?” I asked.
“Let’s call him right now.” Mauer tapped on his computer, found a number, then punched it into the landline on his desk. He passed the handset over to me. “Good luck.”