I weighed the bundle in my hand and then cracked it open. On top were several Transco engineering reports from 1974 to 1979, detailing internal concerns about the company’s products, including a suggested recal of its engine overrides. I scanned the old reports and laid them aside. Underneath were a number of old contracts stapled together, share certificates, and personal correspondence. I took my time with the materials, pul ing out a pad and pen to take notes as I read. When I was finished, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. On a single piece of paper I had sketched out the web of companies owned by CMT Holding, including Transco, Wabash Railway, and a number of related businesses and properties stretching back ninety years. At the bottom of the page, I wrote down the name of the entity that control ed al of them-the entity responsible for the L crash on February 4, 1980.
I pul ed out the black-and-yel ow logo Hubert had ID’d as belonging to CMT, as wel as the Old English script from Wabash Railway. I hadn’t noticed before, but the CMT train carried an odd t shape on the very front of its engine. I took a closer look at the Wabash script. The l in “Railway” had a smal bar across it, making it into a lowercase t as wel. Or, in both cases, maybe a couple of crosses. Fucking hel. Forty minutes later, I was stil piecing through the old papers when my phone rang. Marge Connel y had worked her magic with the autopsy photo. I downloaded the shots and talked to the medical examiner for another hour. Then I thanked her and hung up. I closed my eyes and visualized al those pieces of the puzzle, stil floating in the darkness. Slowly, one, then another, then a third stopped turning. They hung before my mind’s eye, slipped neatly together and locked into place. The picture sharpened, and a face came into focus. I printed out the photos the ME had sent me, packed up Sol Bernstein’s paperwork, and locked up the office on my way out.