“Don’t any of them get killed by trains just walking around?” I asked.
Hank Brantley shrugged. “Not too often. They manage to navigate the rails incredibly well.”
“What’s that smell?” We were deeper into a branch off to the side, still walking on our narrow ledge. I pulled up my collar and buried my nose and mouth in the soft cotton material.
“We’re coming up on one of the little communities,” he said, shining his light on an area below the platform and ten feet ahead of us. “Twenty or thirty guys live in it at any given time. Human waste is a problem for them here in the condos, otherwise they’ve got it figured out pretty good.”
“Condos?”
“That’s what they call them. Like a series of concrete caverns, so close to the surface that they’re often an entry point to tunnel life, but just far enough away from routine police patrols. The condos are pretty upscale, compared to the rest of the area. There are enough sprinkler pipes scattered throughout to get water, and some electrical wire to screw in bulbs. Just hold your nose and walk on by me. Hand me your phone, Mike.”
We inched around Hank, though I almost gagged on the awful smell emanating from below. I took a flashlight from Mercer and moved forward, enough to get away from the direct line of the scent. More scratching noise, and out of the next hole ahead came four or five rats, two the size of piglets.
Hank Brantley had lured three men out of their condo. All were dark-skinned, two were bare-chested against the intense heat, while the third wore a torn undershirt. They stood inches from the long out-of-use tracks, leaning on the edge of the platform to talk with the cop whom they regarded as a friend.
They looked at the photograph of the dead man on Mike’s phone. None of them showed any glimmer of recognition. I couldn’t hear their conversation, till the one closest to me called out and asked if we had any food.
Mike apologized and said he’d send some back in with Brantley.
The man thanked Mike and laughed, directing his gaze at me. “Make mine a filet, medium rare.”
“Don’t look at her, buddy. Can’t cook to save her life. I’ll see you get some red meat.”
“Well, how about she delivers it?” the man said, wagging a finger at me.
“Tell us how to find out who this guy is,” Hank said, “and she’ll bring you a six-pack, too.”
“Don’t know. Not my neighbor.” He held up his arm, and Hank’s light followed. The tunnel forked about twenty feet away. “To the left, you’re going west across 44th. The other one leads up to 46th Street. You say you found him in DePew? Then I’d stay to the right. There’s some broken air vents near DePew you could crawl down if you know your way around here.”
Hank thanked them, then straightened up and rejoined us.
“Can we give them some money?” I asked. “To eat? I mean it’s no worse than paying informants, and I feel so badly for them, living this way.”
“Stone-cold junkies, Alex. Those three would trade it right in for heroin. Mike’s got the right idea. I’ll send one of my men back later with a few sandwiches.”
At the actual fork, the platform we were on ended. Hank guided us down a short staircase. “Step lively. You’re crossing an old track here. Keep your toes out of the ties.”
We paraded across the solid lines, our forward advance sending a dozen or more track rabbits scurrying out of our way. Up five steps and onto another ledge. We passed several more apartment units, with residents occasionally sticking out their heads to see who was trespassing in their hood. They all seemed to relax when they spotted Hank Brantley.
“Just look the other way, Alex, if we come upon a guy called Dirty Harry.”
“And I’ll know him because…?”
“He’ll come out of his hole, expose himself, and start masturbating, okay?”
“That’s her specialty,” Mike said. “Nothing shocks Coop.”
“These tunnels might just prove to be the spot that does,” I said. “Mentally ill?”
“First layer of hell here are the criminals and junkies. Second are the insane, those who have walked away from all the help that’s been offered. You’ve seen a lot of homeless street people,” Hank said, “but the moles are outcasts even within the homeless world of outcasts.”
We had just worked a case that involved the murder of a young homeless woman in Central Park. The way she and her friends existed in the city’s woods and vast green areas seemed almost tranquil compared to the stifling, foul, airless space beneath the city streets.
Hank led the way again.
“How long are we going to keep this up?” I asked. “How many tunnels are there?”
“Just coming out of Grand Central alone, there’s thirty-four miles of track, which fan out and around going down seven levels below the street.”
“Seven stories?”
“Not kidding. So, tunnels? Impossible to know how many there are. The place has been dug and redug so many times for so many different reasons that no blueprints exist of the terminal area. That’s why it’s impossible to patrol.”
Two white men, both bearded and shoeless, soot blackening their feet as high as their ankles, greeted Hank, but he passed them by.
“Both crazy as loons. Not worth my time,” he said. “Those seven levels funnel into twenty-six main rail arteries, which leave here going north, east, and west.”
I was getting nauseous from the smells and sounds as we burrowed deeper into the tunnels.
I knew the importance of what we were doing but should have let Mercer and Mike make the trip without me. Still, I wouldn’t have believed what they reported to me.
Several steps ahead, Hank came to an abrupt stop. He stooped and braced one hand on the platform, then jumped down beside the tracks. “You in there, Smitty?”
It took almost a minute for the bone-thin black man to crawl out of his cubbyhole. “Officer Hank. What’s the beef?”
“No beef, Smitty. I think one of your boys got himself killed last night.”
“Haven’t heard a word. Can’t be true.”
Other heads appeared above us, and a guy in only his undershorts started coming closer to Hank.
“Go back home, Harry,” Hank said, as the man rested one hand on his crotch and started rubbing himself. “I got some police here with me. I got a lady, too.”
Harry ignored the officer but looked at the four of us-Joe Sammen bringing up the rear of our group. He became more excited and obviously aroused.
Smitty shouted at him. “Get out of here, Harry. Respect yourself, dude.”
Dirty Harry didn’t stop playing with himself, but he turned his back and walked off into a darkened strip adjacent to our platform.
“Thanks, Smitty,” Hank said, turning to the officer who’d recognized the deceased. “You two know each other?”
Sammen screwed up his face and studied Smitty. “I think I’ve seen you around, but not lately.”
“I don’t go up much anymore. Don’t have to. Got most of what I need down here.”
Mike’s curiosity got the better of him. He lowered himself down to take a look at Smitty’s lair. The man was intelligent and well-spoken. I couldn’t imagine what had reduced him to life as a mole.
Mike motioned to me, and I slid down off the platform to stand next to him. Inside the hole in the concrete, extending back about eight feet, were the makings of a home. There was a mattress covered by a dirty sheet, a stack of crates that had been converted into a dresser, a bulb overhead, and a wall-sized sketch of Derek Jeter that dominated the space. On top of the bed was a dog-eared old paperback by Chester Himes.
“I’m Mike Chapman. This is Alexandra Cooper,” Mike said, making the rest of the introductions.
It was clear that Hank Brantley had a relationship with this man, who seemed to trust him. “Smitty used to be a graffiti artist. He did that Jeter portrait himself.”