Muffled sounds.
But it was impossible to tell which boxcar they were coming from.
I ran alongside the line of cars, trying to discern the origin of the sounds, but I couldn’t. And then, just as suddenly as they began, they stopped.
Slowing so I could listen more carefully, I noticed a small area of snow was kicked up in front of the door of a car not too far down the track. I ran to it. The door was chained shut, but the chain allowed the door to remain open a crack, just a few centimeters wide. The chain ran through the metal handle to another handle bolted onto the side of the train car.
It had an old chain but a brand-new padlock, and even though it was a different brand than the one on the front gate, just the fact that it was new was enough for me.
The crack was just wide enough for a person to slip his hand through and lock the padlock from inside the car. A perfect hiding place-you’re locked inside with the only access locked from the outside.
But then a realization: the wind that cut through the crack made a high-pitched shrieking sound.
Maybe that’s what I’d heard.
Maybe that’s all it was.
But I wasn’t about to take any chances. I unholstered my weapon and called inside, “This is the police. Whoever’s in the boxcar, lie down. Hands to the side!”
No sound, except for the impertinent wind.
I pounded on the wall of the boxcar with my fist. “Reply if you are in the boxcar!”
Silence.
The crack was certainly wide enough for someone to shoot through and I wasn’t excited about putting my face in front of it. Finally, however, I clicked on the Maglite and, standing to the side, I tugged the door open as much as the chain would allow.
I aimed the beam of light into the car, waited to the count of three, then leaned over and peered through the crack.
The narrow width made it hard to see, and even with the flashlight I couldn’t make out very much at all, but I could see what at first looked like a large sack or a slumped pile of clothes just on the edge of my vision. However, in an instant I realized it wasn’t just a pile of clothes-it was a body with its back to me. I shouted again, but the person didn’t move.
From this angle I couldn’t tell whether I was looking at a man or a woman, although the frame looked small. A woman. Possibly a slightly built man or an adolescent boy. When I looked closer, I made out dark stains on the clothing near the person’s rib cage.
Blood.
I shouted again to see if the victim would respond, but there was no reply. I tugged hard at the door again, but I could only move it two or three centimeters before the chain caught. Without bolt cutters, there was no way I was getting into this boxcar.
The other side.
The sliding door on the other side.
I punched at my radio as I swept around the car to see if there was another way in. “Ralph, I’ve got someone down. Injured, maybe a fatality. I’m at the seventeenth boxcar from the east end, by the woods.”
“On my way.” By his tone I could tell he was already running.
The door on the other side of the car was welded shut, so I quickly returned to the side facing the forest. I studied the ground again, trying to see if there was any way to tell which direction the person who’d left this boxcar might have gone. But there simply wasn’t enough snow.
I turned, searched for any movement, crouched and swept the Maglite’s beam beneath the train car as I’d done earlier, but I still saw no evidence of anyone else nearby.
While I waited for Ralph to arrive, I called for backup, telling the dispatcher that there appeared to be at least one victim and that we needed an ambulance. “Make sure they have bolt cutters and the Jaws of Life. The front gate and the boxcar are both chained shut and I want to get into this car as fast as possible.”
Ralph appeared, leaping over the coupler between two cars.
I pointed toward the boxcar’s door. “Over here!”
He closed the distance between us. “So you can’t tell, injury or fatality?”
“Not until we get inside.”
He grabbed the metal handle and yanked at it, trying to get the door open, but the chain caught, held fast. “I tried that,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Let me see that flashlight.”
I handed it to him and he attempted to slide it into the door handle, but the Maglite’s casing was too wide. He slipped out his Mini Mag and wedged it in.
“That chain isn’t going to break, Ralph.”
“I’m not trying to break the chain.”
I could’ve kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier-of course, the handle. Torque it loose from the boxcar and the chain is useless.
He took a deep breath and pulled down fiercely on the flashlight. I thought it might break but it didn’t. However, it didn’t do the trick either. The door handle didn’t pull free.
“I need more leverage,” he mumbled, then turned and inspected the area surrounding the car.
Wondering if there might be a loose fence post he could use, I studied the fence line but didn’t see anything promising. When I turned around to look for him, I saw that he’d gone to a flat car on a neighboring track and now hoisted a three-foot-long pipe into the air. He jogged back to me, augured the pipe into position, clenched his teeth with the effort, and cranked down. Hard.
With a tight, high-pitched squeal, the handle on the door bent, but only slightly.
He repositioned the pipe.
Yeah, he was going to be able to pry that loose.
The ladder on the car was rusted but looked climbable. “I’m going to have a look around.”
Holstering my gun and jamming my flashlight beneath my belt, I scrambled up and stood on top of the boxcar.
The day was languishing around us, night crawling quickly over the city, the visibility fading fast.
I turned in a circle, studying first the area north of us, then the parking lot, then the fence line.
And that’s when I saw him.
He was about forty meters away, moving stealthily through the drainage ditch on his way to the loose section of fence that Ralph and I had used earlier to access the train yard. Details were hard to make out in this light, but I could tell he was a dark-haired male Caucasian, large frame, wearing blue jeans and a maroon or brown-colored down coat.
Knowing that he’d very likely been the one to attack the person in the boxcar beneath me, I wasn’t going to take any chances. I unholstered my SIG. “Milwaukee Police! You by the fence, do not move!”
He paused, still facing the other direction. Before I could give him any more instructions, there was a mighty cry as Ralph hefted on the pipe. A harsh metallic snap ripped through the air. I heard the door slide open and then the sound of Ralph jumping into the train car.
I kept the gun aimed at the suspect. “Hands up!” But the wind caught hold of the words, throwing them back at me, and he didn’t move. I shouted louder, “Hands up! Now!”
Slowly, the man raised his hands.
“Turn around!”
He didn’t move.
“Dead!” Ralph yelled to me. “Male! Late thirties!”
The suspect didn’t move.
“Turn around!” I repeated. “Face me-and keep your hands in the air!” A beat of silence from Ralph, and he must have been checking the victim for an ID because a second later he called, “It’s Hendrich.”
What?
Then who’s the guy by the culvert?
“Turn toward my voice! Slowly!”
The suspect began to turn slowly, just as I’d commanded, but then all at once he slung his right arm out in front of him and leveled it at me.
Time seemed to pause in midbreath.
In the wide swath of shadows, his hand was shielded enough that I couldn’t tell whether or not he held a weapon. In that instant I had to decide what to do-assume he had a gun and drop him, or assume he didn’t and let him live.
Instinct took over and I made my choice.