“Yeah.”
“Did you call the coroner?”
“Of course. He’s currently on his way.”
“Good. I’m on my way as well,” I tell her, hanging up as I roll out of bed.
This makes three couples in six weeks killed on a train.
I make my way into the bathroom to get ready. As I brush my teeth, I take in the dark circles around my eyes from the lack of sleep. The homicide rate in Boston seems to have shot up since the new year started, and we are only five months into it.
I shake my head as I try to see the blue in my eyes, but they are overtaken by the red from being bloodshot. I need sleep, but sleep is a luxury I can’t afford.
Unfortunately, there aren't many homicide detectives on the force anymore, and those of us that are still here are stretched thin. With budget cuts the way they are, our division has suffered across the board in the state. We no longer have an overtime budget like we once had, and we are unable to hire new detectives, so basically, we continue doing our job for the people without benefits, sleep being one of them. Everyone is burned out, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I love what I do, I would probably hang it up just like the others have.
I notice I have two-day-old stubble on my face, so I grab my shaving cream and razor and do a quick shave. I don’t have the luxury of taking my time. I need to get to the scene when the coroner gets there.
I finish shaving and wipe my face with the towel. Walking out of the bathroom, I walk into my closet, grabbing the first pair of black slacks and a white shirt that I see. I quickly pull them on, then grab a tie. Making quick work, I pull on black socks and slide my black oxfords on.
Walking back into the bathroom, I grab a comb and quickly run it through my not quite long, but not quite short hair.
Walking back into my closet, I grab a black suit jacket and put it on. When I step in front of the mirror, I look like the ever forty-year-old professional with bloodshot eyes, that I am.
I go back into the bathroom, grab my Visine, and quickly drop two drops in each eye. That will have to do. I make my way to the front door grab my wallet and keys out of the bowl that’s on the console table. Getting in my car, I head to the train station to begin, what I know is going to be another long day.
I pull up to the South Station, parking my car at the curb. The South Station has a curved facade on the outside with an eagle-topped clock. It’s made of steel, concrete, and glass. I walk inside, massive windows everywhere except on the roof. There are a total of twenty-seven ticket booths around the facility, as well as a grand waiting room. The floor is made of a marble mosaic pattern, and the walls are fashioned from granite, enameled brick, and plaster.
There is an elevator located down the corridor from the main information booth, and it’s perfect for getting to the Red Line platform if you don’t want to take the stairs and escalator. The Silver Line goes to Logan Airport or Seaport.
I see the Amtrak lounge just past the information booth on the left. For travelers, there is complimentary coffee and newspapers.
There are twenty different places to eat from in the train terminal, as well as six retail businesses for shopping things you may need or have forgotten. There are currently three ATMs throughout the facility. I look up and see the big board with departing and arrival information, all the destinations in orange, and the times are in green.
Before I find what I am looking for, Officer Buckley finds me.
“Detective Maguire, Detective Riley is waiting for you this way,” he tells me before turning off and leading me to the platform.
“Is the coroner here?” I ask him quietly so as not to alert any of the passengers.
“Yes, Sir. He just got here and is currently viewing the scene.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. I continue following him. Once we are on the platform, I pull my gloves out and put them on. Officer Buckley takes me to a Business Class car.
I walk on, seeing the coroner in the back, looking over the bodies of the male and female sitting together. Detective Riley turns and looks at me, giving me a nod. I notice her blond hair is neatly in a bun and pinned to the top of her head. Her suit is hanging off her, showcasing the amount of weight she has lost over the last six months. She looks older than her thirty-eight years, and her brown eyes look as sleep-deprived as I feel.
I take in her demeanor, knowing these cases are hard on her given the fact that her own husband was murdered on a train six months ago in a robbery gone wrong. He was stabbed multiple times. Her best friend Courtney White, who was also her husband’s secretary, was with him that day and seemed to have disappeared.
I know she hasn’t slept much in the past six months, spending her free time searching for Courtney and trying to find the person responsible for killing her husband. There were no witnesses, and the consensus is he must have been protecting his secretary from a possible gang to have been stabbed that many times.
She stands rigid, watching the coroner look over the couple. The Commander has tried to get her to take some time off to process her loss, but she insists that working is the only way she can function.
I slide into the seats two rows from where the coroner is currently working from. I look over at Nora, “Where did this train come from?”
“Maine,” she tells me quietly.
“Just like the other two,” I mutter more to myself, but I catch her nodding.
“Who found the couple? The conductor?” I ask.
“No, this time it was another passenger, Ms. Lauren Harper. She was heading to the exit back here when she spotted them. At first, she thought they were asleep, then she noticed the blood,” she relays to me in a formal tone.
The coroner, Maxwell McBride, but everyone calls him Max, steps back and looks over at me.
“Just like the other two male victims, his ring finger has been cut off. Both victims have their throats cut, one clean slice, no hesitation,” he tells us.
“So, you think the same person is responsible?” I ask him, needing confirmation.
“Definitely.”
I rub my face with my hand, feeling some stubble that I missed during my quick shave this morning. I look over at Nora and say, “We are going to need to call the FBI.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says with a sigh.
We both hate involving other agencies in our investigations, especially the FBI, but I can’t see any way around it. Whomever this person is, they are boarding in Maine and getting off here in Boston.
The better question besides why are they doing this, are they from here or Maine, and how are they getting back to Maine? Another train? A car? A bus? Too many questions, and very few answers.
“Here, I found this in his pocket,” he says, passing me the man’s wallet and cell phone. I open the wallet to find the victim’s driver's license with his name and home address.
