“It might be weeks before we learn what was in Thatcher’s system. The tox docs at the lab are flying blind,” Mike said. “We have no reason to know what hit her.”
“Okay,” Rocco said, “why don’t you all step out till Crime Scene gets here. Maybe we’ll get lucky with something our boy dropped on the floor.”
The lieutenant was talking to the two FBI agents and me. He was letting Mike and Mercer poke around the space, trusting their skill and ability to keep order till the team arrived.
The agents and I walked out past the bathroom, through the lounge, and started to make our way down the rungs of the ladder off the rear platform.
Murder always seemed to draw a crowd. A small group of rubberneckers had already gathered around Big Timber.
Some wore the uniforms of Metro-North station employees, others were dressed in work clothes, a few commuters straggled behind, and some men and women who appeared to be moles completed the growing circle. I could see Dirty Harry on the far side of the third rail, excited to be watching an official police operation.
“This isn’t going to work,” I said to the feds. “I think you need to clear the area. It’s neither smart nor safe till we know what happened here.”
“Let’s get some names,” the first guy said to the second. “It’s like they say about arson. The pyromaniac sets the place on fire, then circles the block and comes back to admire his handiwork. Maybe we got our killer right here.”
They were right about many arsonists, who come back to the scene of the crime, masturbating as the flames they lighted engulf the targeted building.
“Do what you have to do,” I said. “But that sort of deranged-looking guy back there, playing with himself? He’s harmless. Lives in the tunnel. I’m going to wait inside the station. Here’s my card, in case you need me.”
“Wish we could take your word for it, ma’am, but that’s not our way of operating. We’ll clear the area and set up a perimeter. Talk to everyone who’s lurking around.”
I stepped through the small group that had gathered and walked back into the lower concourse. The Crime Scene detectives would have to pass me in order to get out to the platform and do their work. I skirted the commuters and found a seat at a table in front of the Shake Shack concession, texting Mike and Mercer to tell them where I was.
More than half an hour passed and still there was no sign of the elite team.
The public service announcements boomed throughout the vast space-a woman’s voice, like the recording of a car’s GPS-urged passengers to report luggage or packages that were unattended, to stand back from the edge of train platforms, and to avoid slippery patches when wet. I half expected her to announce the news that there was a dead woman on the tracks at a nearby departure gate.
Fifteen minutes later, Mike and Mercer joined me after Mike bought himself a chocolate shake.
It was almost six o’clock when two Crime Scene detectives made their way down the marble staircase toward the departure gate to which they’d been directed.
“Yo, Hal,” Mike said, waving his shake in the air. “You on a slow boat, or what?”
“Why, she going somewhere without me? Dead girls don’t walk.”
“Yeah, but the train might just up and pull out of here.”
“Looks like you got a trifecta now. Two broads and a homeless guy. Scully must be pulling his hair out.” Hal and his partner were lugging large cases filled with equipment. “Make yourself useful, Chapman. Go on back up to the car and bring down a load. Take one of the Metro-North kids with you.”
“I’ll take you out to Big Timber first. That’s where the body is.”
The automated voice boomed the MTA’s latest mantra through the loudspeakers. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, to mind the gap between the platform and the train. And if you see something, say something.
“Who’s the jerk who told me to go to Grand Central Station?” Hal Sherman asked as he walked away from us.
“Where the hell do you think you are?” Mike said, grabbing one of Hal’s camera cases.
“First thing we did was go down to the Station. That’s why we’re so late.”
“Look, Hal,” I said, “I know you’ve been whipped back and forth, but we’re all too drained to be playing word games.”
“Listen to you,” Hal said, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Grand Central Station is the name of the IRT subway stop that serves the 4, 5, 6, and 7 trains. I know you don’t like traveling with all your perps and molesters on public transportation, Alex, but most of us have to. I dragged all this crap down into the subway station-which was packed to the gills with the great unwashed, bearing the sweet smell of a summer afternoon after a day at the office-and had a hell of a time getting it back upstairs.”
“So where are we now?” I asked. “I stand ready to be corrected.”
“This building, which might just be the most beautiful crime scene in all the city, is a terminal. It’s not a station. Its name is Grand Central Terminal.”
“What?”
“Trains terminate here. They don’t stop and move on. Penn Station, Union Station-you get the picture-they’re all just two-minute stops on the line. Trains come in. Unpack their passengers and reload, then keep on chugging along. Like the dictionary tells you,” Hal said, holding a finger straight up to make his point, before hoisting his heavy case, “a terminal can be a station, but not every station is a terminal. This place was built as a terminal. Everything comes to a dead end right here.”
“Tell it to the girl on Big Timber,” Mike said. “She’s terminal, too.”
TWENTY-TWO
We had trudged to the 42nd Street side of the great terminal, on a gently sloping ramp that ran from the lower concourse to the upper. Lieutenant Correlli, Mike, Mercer, and I were being turned over to the acting president of Metro-North, Bruce Gleeson. One of the security guards led us to the elevator, which required keyed access to enter.
I studied the wall directory, but it offered no clues to our destination. There must have been offices built on top of the vast barrel vault of the ceiling above the main concourse, but it was impossible to see where they might be.
The directory listings were for floors one through six. The concourse-more than sixteen stories high-was all one could make out around and above us.
“When you get on,” the security guard said, “press the button for the seventh floor.”
“It only goes to six,” I said, pointing at the directory.
“The public doesn’t need to know the seventh floor exists, but that’s where you’re headed.”
We stepped into the elevator. It was a slow ride to the top of the tall building. When the doors opened, we were greeted by Bruce Gleeson.
“Why don’t you follow me?” he said. “It gets pretty complicated up here. And just so you know, these hallways are dotted with NYPD surveillance cameras.”
“That’s comforting,” Mike said.
The corridors we walked were narrow and long, snaking from one end of the vast building to the other, a circuitous route that was windowless, with peeling white paint on the walls. Bare pipes ran overhead, causing me to wonder how the huge space was ventilated and cooled down when it was constructed more than a century ago.
After three or four minutes, we reached a locked door, which Gleeson opened for us.
“C’mon in and take a seat,” he said, turning on the lights. “This is our situation room.”