Detective Baraba motioned with a hand stained from nicotine. “Have a seat at my desk, Mr. Wilson. Can I get you something to drink, a soda or coffee?”
Wilson sank into the seat offered. “A soda would be nice.”
Baraba walked over to a mini refrigerator, took out a can of cola, and handed it to Wilson. Wilson finished it off in two gulps.
Baraba sat back down. “Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry you have to go through this. Can you tell me how you discovered the deceased?”
Wilson cleared his throat. “I walked out onto Platform 26, and he was there.”
“I know this must be difficult. But something you say no matter how insignificant it seems may be helpful. So I ask for your patience. Why did you walk onto that particular platform this morning?”
“I do it every day. That’s my assigned line. I always check the train over before I make a run.”
“Who knows about you finding Mr. Devin?”
“My supervisor and the officer here.” He indicated the officer standing in front of the closed door.
“You knew Mr. Devin?”
“Never met him.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“Part of his shirt was attached to the platform. Stuck there with blood.” Wilson shook his head, trying to wipe the image from his mind. “I saw a name patch. It said ‘Devin.’”
“Did you notice anything different about the platform that morning?”
“It looked the same as it does every morning at 4:45 a.m.”
The interview continued for several minutes. Detective Baraba stood and offered a card from his desk drawer. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson. Take my card in case you hear anything or remember something that may help the investigation.”
Once the officer and Wilson left, Baraba went out to the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal. He made a stop at the GCT HR Department.
Baraba approached the supervisor of the day shift cleaning crew. He pulled his jacket open to reveal his shield.
“Mr. Clemens, I’m Detective Baraba. I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Mr. Devin.”
“I was waiting for you to look for me, detective. I really don’t know what I can tell you. I hardly know anyone on the night crew.”
“What little you know of Devin may help.”
“All I can tell you is he worked with the worst of the worst. And you have to be a tough S.O.B. to do that.”
“What do you mean worst of the worst?”
“That night crew is made up of ex-cons and degenerates. They work for cheap and at hours no one wants to. They see and deal with things most rather pretend don’t exist.”
Baraba walked down a ramp in the Eastern Wing and boarded an unmarked elevator disguised by ornate architecture. He rode into the depths of Grand Central Terminal.
He descended to a place where the homeless escaped the angry, frightened stares of those who lived above ground. Until desperate, they resurfaced to beg for change to buy a meal or a fix. If begging failed, there were always wallets to snatch.
The elevator opened and allowed the stench of rotted food and unwashed flesh in. Baraba immune from years patrolling the area walked out and approached a nearby gathering of homeless. Seeing him, some ran off. Others were too intent on one man for a detective to unnerve them.
Dressed as he was in a navy suit, he could be mistaken for a Wall Street broker or banker on the terminal’s main level. Here his appearance was nearly obscene.
One by one each ragged individual approached. Each handed him crumpled bills and received a small plastic pouch with white powder. Their salvo received, they scurried off to a cramped, filthy hole for a few hours of oblivion. Until the smack wore off and their monster came back demanding another feeding.
Once the last of them exited, the man’s eyes met Baraba’s. The man, moving like a snake, made his way to the detective. He spoke in a seductive whisper, “I see you’re punctual, Detective.”
“I need some information from you, Trace.”
“Tell me what you need and I’ll deliver.”
“A station cleaner died overnight. Hit by a train on one of the Metro North lines. I need anything you can get me.”
“I will ask around. You have a name for this worker?”
“His name is Devin, Sean Devin. He’s on the cleaning crew.”
Trace nodded. “It can be terminal here.” He smiled at his own tasteless remark. Somewhere close a rat seemed to laugh.
“You hear anything you let me know.”
“You know if there’s anything to know here I’ll find it for you.” He handed a dozen pouches to Baraba. “We good for a while?”
Baraba looked at the stash. “For about a week.”
“A week? Your habit is growing.”
“I don’t have a habit.”
“Most of my clients take a pouch a day at most. If this isn’t a habit what is?” His eyes squinted. “Unless you’re selling?”
“You don’t need to know what I do with this. You just pay me and you can sell as much as you want.”
“The price you charge, I have to sell a lot more. I may have to branch out to some of those commuter trains to stay in business.”
“You have free run to sell down here and the concourse. I can control GCT. I can’t guarantee impunity on the trains.”
Baraba turned and left.
Trace called behind him, “I’ll have to find someone who can give impunity everywhere.” The rat seemed to laugh again.
Baraba returned to the office and waited. Two uniformed GCT Officers led a woman into his office. The woman wore a turtleneck and bell-bottom corduroys. As she took a drag of a cigarette, light reflected off a large diamond solitaire on her right hand.
“So,” she said, “can you tell me why I’m here, Detective?”
“Please have a seat, Mrs. Devin.”
She complied. “Detective, these officers won’t tell me why I had to come here. Where’s my husband? He’s late coming home from work today. Is he all right?”
Baraba interrupted, “I regret to inform you that your husband died sometime overnight here.”
“Oh God!” None of the tears expected from a widow who loved her husband fell. “We just celebrated our twentieth anniversary last week. What happened?”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. We don’t know exactly what happened, but as soon as we do, you’ll know. Is there someone you want to call? A friend or family member who can be with you?”
“The kids are in school.” She took another drag of the cigarette. She crushed it out in an ashtray on the desk. Her ring glinted with each hand movement. “I can ask his mother. She works in the Pan Am Building. How could this happen to me?”
“Please give the officer here her name. They will bring her here.”
She lit another cigarette. “You have to tell her.”
“I will, Mrs. Devin.”
“You can call me Janet. Beatrice is going to flip her wig when she sees this ring her son bought me.”
“What ring?”
“This ring,” she held up her hand to show the solitaire. “Sean gave it to me for our anniversary. It was a big surprise. Usually it kills him to spend money.”
Barbara thought that Devin must have saved for years to buy that ring. If not, he owed someone a lot. If it was the wrong person, it might be enough of a motive to kill him. He remarked, “I guess it did.”
Baraba arrived at an apartment that night. He opened the door then turned to secure the three locks. He walked straight to the kitchen and slammed the pouches down on the table.
The woman sat there unperturbed, staring into space. Her long, straggly blonde hair hung in clumps. Her robe looked as though it needed washing weeks earlier.
Baraba grimaced at the sight of her. “Do you know what I have to do to get this for you? When are you going to kick it?”