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holding up?”
The older man, the conductor, shrugged slightly.
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen this kind of thing before. People killed on the tracks, I mean. I’ve seen bodies mangled up a lot worse. Not that anyone ever gets used to it, but …”
Stine nodded toward his assistant and added, “But Everett here has never been through this before.”
The younger man looked up from the table at the people in the room.
“I’ll be OK,” he said with a shaky nod, obviously trying to sound like he meant it.
Riley said, “I’m sorry to ask this – but did you see the victim just before …?”
Boynton winced sharply and said nothing.
Stine said, “Just a glimpse, that’s all. We were both in the cab. But I was on the radio making a routine call to the next station, and Everett was making calculations for the curve we were taking just then. When the engineer started braking and sounded the whistle, we looked up and saw … something, we weren’t sure what it was really.”
Stine paused, then added, “But we sure knew what happened when we walked back to the spot for a look.”
Jenn was mentally reviewing some of the research she’d done on the plane flight. She knew that freight train crews were small. Even so, there seemed to be one person missing.
“Where’s the engineer?” she asked.
“The hogger?” Bull Cullen said. “He’s in the custody suite.”
Jenn’s mouth dropped slightly.
She knew that “hogger” was railroad slang for an engineer.
But what the hell was going on here?
“You put him in a jail cell?” she asked.
Powell said, “We didn’t have much choice.”
The older conductor added, “The poor guy – he won’t talk to anybody. The only words he’s said since it happened are, ‘Lock me up.’ He just kept saying that again and again.”
The local police chief said, “So that’s what we wound up doing. It seemed the best thing for now.”
Jenn felt a flash of anger.
She asked, “Haven’t you brought in a therapist to talk to him?”
The railroad deputy chief said, “We’ve asked for a company psychologist to come in from Chicago. It’s union rules. We don’t know when he’s going to show up.”
Riley looked truly startled now.
“Surely the engineer doesn’t blame himself for what happened,” she said.
The older conductor looked surprised at the question.
“Of course he does,” he said. “It wasn’t his fault, but he can’t help it. He was the man at the controls. He’s the one who felt the most helpless. It’s eating him up inside. I hate it that he’s shut himself off like this. I really tried to talk to him, but he won’t even look me in the eye. We shouldn’t be waiting around for some damned railroad shrink to show up. Rules or not, somebody ought to do something right now. A good hogger like him deserves better.”
Jenn’s anger sharpened.
She said to Cullen, “Well, you can’t just leave him in that cell by himself. I don’t care if he insists on being alone. It can’t be good for him. Somebody needs to reach out to him.”
Everyone in the room looked at her.
Jenn hesitated, then said, “Take me to the custody suite. I want to see him.”
Riley looked up at her and said, “Jenn, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
But Jenn ignored her.
“What’s his name?” Jenn asked the conductors.
Boynton said, “Brock Putnam.”
“Take me to him,” Jenn insisted. “Right now.”
Chief Powell led Jenn out of the interview room and down the hall. As they walked along, Jenn wondered whether Riley might be right.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
After all, she knew that empathy was hardly her strong suit as an agent. She tended to be blunt and outspoken, even when a softer touch was needed. She certainly didn’t have Riley’s ability to turn on the compassion at appropriate moments. And if Riley herself didn’t feel up to this task, why did Jenn feel like she ought to take it on?
But she couldn’t help thinking …
Somebody’s got to talk to him.
Powell led her into the row of cells, all with solid doors and tiny windows.
He asked, “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No,” Jenn said. “I’d better do this one-on-one.”
Powell opened a door to one of the cells, and Jenn stepped inside. Powell left the door open but stepped away.
A man in his early thirties sat on the end of the cot, staring directly at the wall. He was wearing an ordinary T-shirt and backward baseball cap.
Standing just inside the doorway, Jenn said in a soft voice …
“Mr. Putnam? Brock? My name is Jenn Roston, and with the FBI. I’m so terribly sorry about what happened. I just wondered if you wanted to … talk.”
Putnam showed no indication of even hearing her.
He seemed especially determined not to make eye contact with her – or with anybody else, Jenn felt sure.
And from her research flying out here, Jenn knew exactly why he felt that way.
She swallowed hard as a knot of anxiety filled her throat.
This was going to be a lot harder than she’d even imagined.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Riley uneasily kept her eye on the door after Jenn left the room. As Bill kept asking the conductor and his assistant questions, she worried about how Jenn was going to deal with the engineer.
She was sure that the engineer was probably having a terrible time of it. She didn’t like the idea of waiting a lot longer for a railroad psychologist – possibly some official flunky who might be more concerned about the company’s well-being than the engineer’s. But what else were they supposed to do?
And might the young agent only make things worse for the man? Riley had never seen any sign that Jenn was especially skillful at dealing with people.
If Jenn did just upset the man further, how might that affect her own morale? She had already been contemplating leaving the FBI because of pressures from a criminal former foster mother.
Despite her concerns, Riley managed to listen to what was being said in the room.
Bill said to Stine, “You said you’ve seen this kind of thing before. Do you mean murders on railroad tracks?”
“Oh, no,” Stine said. “Actual murders like that are really rare. But people getting killed on the tracks – that’s a lot more common than you might think. There are several hundred victims a year, some of them just stupid thrill-seekers, but a lot of them suicides. In the business, we call them ‘trespassers.’”
The younger man twisted in his chair uncomfortably and said, “I sure don’t want to see anything like that again. But from what Arlo tells me … well, I guess it’s part of the job.”
Bill said to the conductor, “Are you sure there wasn’t anything the engineer could have done?”
Arlo Stine shook his head.
“Damned sure. He’d already slowed the train down to thirty-five miles per hour for the curve we were on. Even so, there was no way to stop a diesel locomotive