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Until ’29, headquarters was in the basement of the firetrap that was old City Hall. That was when prisoners were photographed in front of the town fountain as part of booking, and nobody bothered asking whether their frequent bruises and other injuries happened during the arrest and interrogation or beforehand.
Now headquarters was modern, spacious, and much more useful, including a first-floor section for the fifteen detectives and a soundproof interview room in the basement. That room also had a window for lineups, with an adjoining space where victims could sit in the dark and safely identify suspects. Stairs and an elevator led up to the male and female jails on the fourth floor. Nice digs. Too bad I had so few years to enjoy them.
Today’s route allowed me to tamp down whatever regret or bitterness I felt from leaving the department. A little, at least. Those feelings were never far beneath the surface. Don was probably right: I should have testified as my bosses wanted. But I was sore. And proud. Now it was too late. Don was the kind of man who could effortlessly do such a thing. He turned pages easily. Me, not so much.
As the sidewalk passed under my shoes, I couldn’t push away another feeling. It said I was being framed. The business card in the dead girl’s purse was a setup.
But by whom and why? I was a nobody now. Ruth Judd was set to hang and, after a sham of a trial, Happy Jack would be in the clear. I was no threat—the justice system, if you wanted to call it that, had spoken. The exculpatory evidence I had was of no value.
Who else would want me in a frame-up? It’s not as if I hadn’t made enemies as a police detective, but most of them were in Florence on ice. And it seemed like an elaborate piece of bloody theater to nail me for a murder.
The only other option was that the dead woman was on her way to see me and never made it. So, who referred her to a private dick in Phoenix?
Mail and Railway Express Agency trucks were backed to the loading docks on the west end of the long depot, with arches over the doors to the express section matching the architectural signature that marked every entrance to the building. Two cabs sat in front, drivers leaning against their bumpers trading gossip with redcaps. The double doors to the passenger entrance were open, and the waiting room was nearly empty, smelling of tobacco and dust.
Hat Squad detectives liked to hang out at the depot. We looked for single shady characters getting off the train. If they didn’t have a local address, job, or money, we told them to get back on board and leave town. It was a reputation the department cultivated: We solved crimes and captured criminals. Stay away. If the newcomer refused to get back on the train, we drove him to the city limits and applied rough persuasion to keep moving.
Today no cops were in evidence. A janitor with a mop was slowly making a dent in the dust, permanently stooped as if a sculptor had created him. I was happy that no detectives were hanging around looking f
or unsavory characters—I would qualify for that now. No trains were due for hours, and out the south doors a small locomotive huffed back and forth, switching mail and express cars. I got a shoeshine and considered my approach. Then I climbed to the second floor and found the SP railroad police office.
“Gene Hammons!” Jimmy Darrow, a railroad special agent, stood and came around his desk to shake my hand. “It’s been too long.” That was true. He was a veteran like me, and I hadn’t been to the Frank Luke American Legion Post Number One in at least a year.
Darrow was about my age, with dark hair and poor posture. At least part of that stance was from a bad wound he had sustained in France. It caused his left shoulder to permanently sag. He turned off the radio while Jack Williams was reading the news on KOY.
“What brings you to bull territory?”
He offered me a nail and lit us both from a table lighter embossed with the railroad’s sunset logo.
“It’s about the dead woman found east of the yard the other night.”
He went into a coughing fit. Darrow had been gassed by the Germans and the last thing he probably needed was a cigarette. Then: “Aren’t you gone from the police?”
“I am. But I’m private now and have a client who has an interest in the case.” That was somewhat true, if I considered my brother as the client. Maybe the real client was my skin that was on the line.
He sat on the edge of his desk and regarded me with momentary suspicion, but the look faded.
“I guess it’s okay to talk to you. I gave a statement to your brother.”
“So, you discovered the body.”
He nodded. “I was checking for bums when I found her. Assumed she fell off the Sunset, or maybe committed suicide. Both things happen. Plenty of people have been killing themselves thanks to the Depression. I only wish they didn’t use the railroad for it.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“God, no.” He flinched and walked behind the desk, sitting. “She looked plenty dead. No reason to even check a pulse, her head being severed and all. What a mess.”
I asked him if, in his experience, he’s ever seen a train create as well arranged a mess as that. He admitted that he hadn’t.
“Then you called for the cops.”
“I ran back to the yard office and called.”
“See anyone else around?”
He shook his head. But he hesitated. He was lying.
I let the silence gather; sometimes that’s the best way to get the truth, make the person you’re questioning feel more uncomfortable. It’s one of the most important lessons you learn as a police detective. Silence topped a beating with a phonebook any day for extracting honest information.
