The cop who had yelled out was standing just beyond the barrier among the reporters. Next to him stood a middle-aged woman who was wringing her hands anxiously.
Chief Buchanan said to Riley, “That’s Ila Lawrence. Her son Axel is one of my cops. She’s a little bit annoying, but she wouldn’t come around here if she didn’t think she really knew something. Come on, let’s check it out.”
As Riley trotted alongside Chief Buchanan toward the barrier, the cop escorted Ila Lawrence inside the blocked-off area.
“Is it true?” the woman asked when they got near her.
“Is what true?” Chief Buchanan said.
“That Sally Diehl got killed here? That’s what Axel said on the phone. That’s why I came over here.”
Chief Buchanan gave Riley an awkward glance. Riley understood. The chief was embarrassed that one of her own cops was blabbing crime scene information to his mother.
Chief Buchanan said, “Ila, I’d rather not get into that right now.”
Ila’s eyes widened.
“It was Sally! I’m sure it was! I warned her to stay away from those people!”
Riley’s attention sharpened.
She asked, “What people are you talking about?”
“Bums. Hobos. They hang around the train station from time to time, panhandling. They get chased off, but they show up again. They’re not really pushy and most folks know well enough to stay clear of them. But Sally kept giving them money—and worse, she kept talking to them.”
Ila shook her head.
She said, “That woman was just too friendly for her own good. But I kept wondering—what did she talk to them about? I mean, what did she have in common with them? She taught third grade, for goodness’ sake! I worried that maybe she was into something dangerous—drugs or something worse. Well, I must have been right. Whatever it was got her killed. I knew those bums were dangerous!”
Chief Buchanan shuffled her feet irritably.
“Ila, thanks for stopping by,” she said, obviously trying to sound polite. “We’ll keep what you said in mind. We’ve got to get back to work. Meanwhile, I’d really rather you not talk to anybody else about any of this.”
Chief Buchanan turned away, and the woman looked startled at getting brushed off so abruptly. As Riley and the chief walked back toward the crime scene, the chief called out to one of her cops.
“Lawrence! Get your ass over here!”
The young cop came toward them, looking apprehensive.
Chief Buchanan said to him in a testy tone, “Did you call your mother and tell her what was going on here?”
The cop stammered, “W-well, no, actually she called me, just to talk, like she usually does around this time of night. When I told her where I was and what I was doing, I guess I—”
“Oh, I know what you did,” Chief Buchanan interrupted. “You just hauled off and told her the name of the murder victim. What’s the matter with you, Lawrence? You know better than that.”
The young cop hung his head.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It was just that, you know, nothing like this ever happens around here, and I didn’t stop to think about what I was saying and …”
He paused and added, “It won’t happen again, ma’am.”
“Damn straight, it won’t happen again,” the chief growled. “And when the hell are you going to stop calling me ‘ma’am’?”
“Sorry—Chief,” the cop said.
As he started walking away, the chief snapped at him again.
“Stay here a minute. Maybe we can find a way to make you useful as well as ornamental.”
The young cop fell quiet and stood there.
Riley asked the chief, “What hobos was Ila talking about?”
“Oh, just some transient freight-hoppers, hobos who ride in boxcars. They’ve moved into the area lately, seem to think of Caruthers some kind of hobo train station. They’re a real nuisance. Harder to get rid of than a swarm of flies on a cow’s carcass. Like Ila said, they do some panhandling around the station whenever they can get by with it. I’d seen Sally talking to them too, and giving them money. I told her to stop, but she didn’t listen. Sally was like that—always interested in other people, it didn’t much matter who. She wasn’t what you’d call discriminating in her choices of acquaintances.”
“Where are they right now?” Riley asked.
Chief Buchanan looked at Riley with a curious expression.
She said, “Surely you don’t think those bums had anything to do with Sally’s death.”
Riley thought for a moment. It didn’t seem at all likely that hobos were going around killing women throughout the region.
But even so …
“Sally did talk to them,” she said. “Right now, I’m interested in anyone she may have talked to. Maybe they know something we need to know. I’d like to check them out.”
Chief Buchanan scratched her chin.
“Well, they keep moving around, finding different places to stay nights. My boys shoo them away, but they always find someplace else.”
Chief Buchanan pointed along the tracks.
“The last I heard, they were camping up that way, under a place where the tracks pass over a ravine. I’d been planning to send some of my boys to clear them out until … well, until this other thing happened.”
Riley decided that she definitely wanted to talk to the hobos. She looked around for Bill and Jenn and spotted them talking with the coroner who had arrived on the scene. They were intent on helping him examine the body. Riley was glad to see the two of them seemed to be working well together.
No need to bother them about this, she thought.
She turned to Officer Lawrence and said, “Do you know this place your chief is talking about?”
Lawrence nodded, looking more than a little disgusted.
Riley said to Chief Buchanan, “I’d like to borrow this man for a little while.”
“Be my guest,” the chief said.
Riley and the cop made their way along the tracks, shining their flashlights ahead of them.
“Hobos,” the cop said, spitting with annoyance as they walked along. “I hate hobos. And freight-hoppers are the worst. The filthy bastards. It had better be worth it—going anywhere near them, I mean. I’ll want to take a long shower later on.”
Riley fought down a sigh of impatience.
The guy definitely wasn’t much of a cop—first blabbing to his mother about the murder, and now getting all squeamish about a bunch of homeless transients.
I’d better not count on him for much, she thought.
They’d walked a short distance when Riley noticed a weird glow up ahead. It seemed to be coming up from beneath the railroad ties. They came to a place where the tracks were raised on trestles over a ravine.
Lawrence said, “That’s the place right there.”
Riley stepped off the tracks and looked down the hillside. She could see a small campfire burning. About eight grubby men with makeshift bedrolls were huddled around the fire talking in quiet voices. Riley guessed that the fire wasn’t for warmth, not on a summer night like this. It had to be for cooking and for light.
Riley knew that if she and the cop made their presence known too quickly, the hobos were liable to scatter.
She whispered to the cop, “Let’s turn off our flashlights. Keep quiet.”
Signaling for the young cop to follow her, she began to make her way down the steep slope into the ravine. They had almost gotten to the bottom without attracting the hobos’ attention when the cop tripped and stumbled.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled.
One of the hobos called out, “Who’s there?”
“Just relax,” Riley replied. “We’re not here to make trouble.”
She turned her flashlight back on and shined it on her badge.
“I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI. I just want to talk a little, that’s all.”
Several of the hobos laughed coarsely.
“The FBI!” one said.
“Holy shit!” said another. “What the hell do you want with a bunch of bums like us?”
Another said, “Does this have something to do with whatever’s going on down yonder? We’ve been hearing sirens for a good while now.”
The young cop said, “A woman was killed. Murdered. Run over by a train.”