Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

A KILLING IN COINS
AN AARON GUEREVICH and ANN BERENDT MYSTERY

by Mel Goldberg

Speeding along from Los Angeles to San Francisco, the train lurched and Mrs. Felicity Wilson, a portly fifty-year-old, bumped against a compartment door, opening it slightly. “Oh, my God!” she screamed. “Someone get the conductor.”

Through the open space between the door and the wall, she could see a hand and part of an arm on the floor.

“What’s the matter?” The conductor rushed up the aisle. A heavy man in his late 40s, his unbuttoned uniform jacket flapped as he walked. Pushing past Mrs. Wilson, he put his shoulder to the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

She gave the conductor a tight-lipped look. “The body’s blocking the door.”

Several people now crowded the narrow aisle. Unhooking a small radio from his belt, the conductor held the red button releasing a slight squawk of static. “We have a medical emergency here in car . . .”   He looked up to the number over the door. “Car 117. Compartment 35. Is there a doctor on the train?”

The radio squawked again. “Let me check. Yes. There’s a doctor. He boarded in LA - Doctor Michael Strauss - traveling in car 125.”

“Which way is that?”

“Two forward from 117. Have someone get him. And don’t leave until he gets there.” The radio squawked and then went silent.

A man from the group went to fetch the doctor.

The conductor ushered the doctor through the group standing in the aisle. “I was afraid to force the door, Doctor. I might hurt that poor man more than he is already.”

Kneeling on the floor and reaching through the open doorway, the doctor grasped the man’s wrist. Then he stood up. “Well, I’m afraid there’s little to be concerned about. I can’t find a pulse. We need to alert the authorities in San Francisco.”

“Of course. I’ll go forward and notify our radioman.”


“There’s a detective from Phoenix in the next car,” said one of the onlookers. “ I talked with him this morning at breakfast. He’s going to a forensics convention. I think we ought to get him.”

The conductor looked askance and mumbled under his breath as he walked away. “Why not find some lawyers while you’re at it.”

A few minutes later, Detective Aaron Guerevich arrived with his fiancé, forensics scientist Ann Berendt.   He introduced himself and Ann to the doctor.

Looking at Guerevich’s size, the doctor told him to force the door open. Guerevich braced one foot on the wall across from the compartment and put his considerable strength into a push. The door slid open a few inches.

Ann put her head into the room through the small opening the door afforded and reported to Guerevich. “His clothes are scattered and he’s lying partly on top of an empty briefcase, face down. His left shoulder’s blocking the door. Blood from a wound on the back of his head has pooled beneath his face. If you can open the door a little more, I can squeeze through.”

Guerevich pressed his back back against the door and forced it open a few more inches, enough for Ann to squeeze into the compartment, over the man’s arm. Inside, she spoke quietly, forcing Guerevich to lean toward the door to hear her. “This looks like a robbery homicide, Aaron.    Get my notebook. And the camera. I want to take notes and pictures before we move him.”

Guerevich retrieved her camera and notebook and handed them to her. He could see the flashes as she snapped pictures. When she opened the door, he saw that Ann had rolled the man over on his back next to the briefcase.   After Guerevich and the doctor stepped into the room, Ann closed the door.   As soon the door clicked shut, she continued examining the room and writing in her notebook.

The doctor kneeled next to the man to examine his head wound.   “The way the back of his head is crushed, it must have been something pretty heavy. A killing in Compartment 35. You might need the services of Hercule Poirot.”

“A doctor and a literary man.”   Ann pointed to a bruise on the dead man’s cheek. “There must have been a fight of some kind. Looks like someone punched him. If his assailant hit him when he was standing, the blow must have spun him around before he was hit on the back of the head.”

The doctor stood up and Ann bent down to take a closer look at the wound. “His killer took whatever was in the briefcase. The room’s been torn apart, so he must have been looking for something else as well. The blood under his chest means he was alive when his attacker left. He must have crawled over the case toward the door. That’s why his shoulder came to block it.”

The doctor swept his arm around the room. “You can tell all that from this?”

“I’m scheduled to lead a forensics seminar on blood spatter at the San Francisco conference. If you look at the bathroom door, you can tell where he was standing when he was hit. The blood spatter indicates he was facing the outside door when he was hit. His attacker must have spattered himself, as well.”

The doctor walked to the small sink and washed his hands. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can do here. Is there?”

“We do have one thing in our favor, Doc. Like Monsieur Poirot, we know the killer can’t get off the train until we reach San Francisco.”


“You can’t question everyone on the train. Can you?”

Guerevich nodded his agreement. “And we don’t even know what was in the case.”

The doctor stepped toward the door. “I ought to go back to my seat. My wife must be wondering what happened.”

“Hold on for a few minutes. In the city, we have to go hunting for a killer,” said Guerevich.

“Here, we can get the killer to come to us. For now, we’ll say he slipped and hit his head. Telling people there’s a killer loose on the train is a good way to cause panic.”

Ann washed her hands and put her notebook into her shoulder bag. Guerevich left her and the doctor in the room with the body and confronted the small crowd in the narrow passageway that had grown to include people from other cars.

Guerevich raised his hand for quiet. “It appears poor Mr. . . .what’s his name?”

“I checked the manifest,” said the conductor. “Name’s Alfred Roseling.

Guerevich turned to address the group standing around. “It looks like Mr. Roseling slipped in his compartment and struck his head when he fell.”

The conductor took a deep breath. “What a terrible tragedy. But we need to clear this area.”

Guerevich agreed. “And I’ll need to get everyone’s names.” As soon as he spoke those words, most of the crowd melted away. “Can I start with you, conductor?”

“Certainly. Name’s Franklin Morris. It’s right here on my badge. Everyone calls me Frank. I been working as a conductor for the past twelve years. Name of the woman who. . .”

“That’s fine, Frank. I’ll ask her myself. By the way, were you on the train from Maricopa?”

“No. I boarded in LA. Actually, this’s the first time I been on this run. I’m heading home. I live in Concord.”

“How much time do we have until we arrive?”

Morris looked at his wristwatch. “We’re due to arrive in Frisco about twenty after five. Less than five hours.”

The compartment door opened and the doctor and Ann exited. Guerevich closed the door and looked at the conductor. “Can you lock this door? We’ll need to preserve the room as intact as possible.”

Morris unclipped the set of keys from his belt. “One of these ought to do the trick.” He tested several keys until he came to the right one. “I notified the engineer to radio ahead. If you don’t need me any more, I need to attend to my other duties.” He turned and walked toward the other end of the car.

Once the three were alone in the hall, Guerevich put his arm around the shorter man’s shoulder.    “Thanks, Doc. I have to apologize. In all that went on, I never got your name.”

“Strauss. Michael Strauss. I’m an internist.” The sadness in his eyes was painful. “I can’t help wondering what this poor man had that would make someone want to kill him to get it.”

Ann put her hand on his arm. “That’s something we’re going to find out.”

The doctor shook his head. “I’ll fill out any paperwork you need. Just let me know. I really need to go back.”

“Just a little more information. Do you know who discovered the body?”


“I did.” Mrs. Wilson turned toward Guerevich. “I was returning to my seat from the bathroom when the train lurched and I lost my balance and bumped against the door. That’s when it opened a bit and I saw the hand.   I was shocked. I think I screamed. The conductor must have been nearby to come running over so quickly.”


“Right,” said Guerevich. “Thanks for being so observant, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll to talk to you later. Doctor Strauss, would you mind joining Ann and me in the dining car? I could use a cup of coffee.”

Strauss looked at his watch. “Well, just for a few minutes.”

As soon as they were seated in the dining car, Guerevich asked the Dark-Skinned waiter for coffee, while Mike and Ann opted for sodas.

“We have very fine BLT on special today.”

Guerevich shook his head. “Sorry, no bacon for me. Just the coffee, please.”

The waiter made a short bow and walked back toward the galley. He returned in a few moments with the coffee and sodas.

The doctor popped his soda open. “Are you orthodox?”

“Not really. I was raised orthodox, and I’ve slipped a bit, but I don’t eat pork or shellfish.”

“My parents were Reform, very secular.”

Impulsively, Guerevich reached across the table to shake hands with Doctor Strauss. “Let’s start at the beginning, now that we’re seated and we can catch our breaths. Ann and I work for the Scottsdale Police Department.”

“I’m on staff at LA County Hospital. My wife and I wanted a trip to San Francisco for a vacation, and we thought the train would be relaxing. Shows how wrong I can be.”

“We’re headed there, too. Ann told you she’s leading a forensics seminar at the Presidio this year. And I took time off to join her.” Guerevich smiled at Ann and took a sip of his coffee. Mike looked at Ann, as if waiting for her to speak.

Ann opened her cola and asked the waiter for an ice filled glass.   She was silent until after she poured her soda, and then spoke quietly.   “He was been killed by someone he knew.”

Doctor Strauss put a straw into his can of soda. “Why do you think that?”

“He opened the door to let the person in. Considering he had something valuable in his briefcase, he’d only open the door for a friend.”


“Or the conductor,” said Guerevich.

“Well, whoever it was walked to the far side of the compartment, stood with his back to the window, and punched Roseling before hitting him in the back of the head. And we know didn’t die right away. The blood under his chest means he bled where he fell and crawled toward the door.”

Guerevich pushed the coffee cup to the center of the table. “This tastes terrible.   Doctor, any idea how long he’d been dead before Mrs. Wilson found him?”

“Considering he was still warm when I tried to take his pulse, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, half an hour at the outside.”

Ann nodded her agreement.

The doctor stood. “Now, I really need to get back to my wife. She’s understanding, but this is our vacation. Thanks for the soda. I’ll be at my seat if you need me.”

As soon as the doctor walked away, Ann spoke to Guerevich in quiet tones. “ I didn’t want to say anything in front of the doctor. I checked the case. Part of the lining had been pulled away from the lid and pushed back in place.”

As she spoke, a tall man dressed in a western shirt and jeans walked up to Guerevich and Ann. His handlebar mustache and long light-brown hair tied in a ponytail made him look like Buffalo Bill, but without the Van Dyke beard.

“I just been down to Compartment 35. It was locked and all the conductor would tell me was There was an accident and you were here in the dining car. What’s happened to Al?”

“And you are. . .?”


“Roger Stamms.”


“Detective Aaron Guerevich, Scottsdale Police. This is Ann Berendt. She’s with forensics.”


“Police? For the police to be involved it has to be something bad.”

Guerevich nodded.   “What makes you say that?”

Stamms sat heavily on the bench seat across from them. “Police don’t get involved in accidents.”

“I’m sorry.” Ann reached across the table and put her hand on Stamm’s arm.


Guerevich wondered how Stamms was involved. “What’s your connection with Mr. Roseling?”

“Me and Al been friends almost fifty years, since we served in Korea. ” He wiped tears away with his fingers and slapped the table. “Shit. What happened?”

Guerevich leaned forward and gave Stamms a questioning look. “You don’t know? Your friend’s dead and the someone took what was in his briefcase.   We have less than four hours to find him. Once he leaves the train, he’s gone.”

“Dammit. I told him and told him not to let on what he was carrying. I shoulda been with him. We chould’ve shared a compartment.”

Guerevich pulled out his small notebook and set it on the table. “ I’m curious why Al didn’t fly.”

“Al flew raids over Korea in the 50s. He had the crazy idea that he only had a fixed number of hours in the air, and that he’d used all of them up. I told him it was silly, but he refused to fly anywhere.”

Ann watched Stamms body language while Guerevich jotted notes. “We need to know what was he carrying that someone would want to steal.”

“Rare gold coins. We was going to the regional coin show in San Francisco. He told me he had a buyer.”

“Why weren’t you traveling together?”

“Al didn’t want to call attention to ourselves, so we split up. That was another one of his crazy ideas. He took the compartment, which he could lock, and I had a seat in the other car.”

“Did he have a lot of coins? Seems like gold would be pretty heavy,” said Ann.

“Not really. See, gold coins are often valued for more than the gold content. Right now, gold is just under $1,000 an ounce. But Al had some very rare coins.”

Ann took out her own notebook. “What do you mean, rare?”

“You ever hear of the Pikes Peak gold rush?”

Guerevich motioned for the waiter to take away his coffee. He ordered a soda with no ice. “I thought the gold rush was in California.”

“That was 1849. But in 1858, some Georgia prospectors discovered placer deposits of high grade gold in a ravine near Pikes Peak. The area actually came to be known as Georgia Gulch. Problem they had was transporting the raw gold back east to mint was dangerous and expensive. So one private firm, Clark, Gruber & Co. brought machinery out from Philadelphia and minted coins on site.”

Ann wrote the names in her notes. “Wasn’t that illegal?”
   “Not back then. It was pretty common.   There were quite a few private mints like Humbert or Kellog. ”
   “You seem to know a lot about gold coin history.”
   “I learned about it from Al.” Stamms paused and looked at the ceiling.   “Damn, what am I going to tell Al’s daughter? He wanted to make sure she was taken care of. Her husband died a last year in an auto accident, and she’s still waiting on the insurance settlement. She’s got two kids.”
   Ann looked at her notebook.   “Maybe we can get the coins back for her. How did Roseling acquire the coins?”
   “Al bought a cache of gold coins at an estate auction. For a long time, the most complete collection of the Clark Gruber coins has been The Frederick R. Mayer Collection. But when Al went through the auction coins, he found fifteen minted by Clark, Gruber, and Company. And they were in almost uncirculated condition. Those fifteen gold coins are worth about a million dollars or more. And he had the provenance to go with them.”

Guerevich looked up. “What’s provenance?”

“That’s the verifiable history of the coins. That’s what proves they’re genuine. Al had the coins wrapped in felt in his briefcase. But I had the provenance documents.”

Ann smiled. “So that’s why the room was so torn up. Someone was looking for those documents.”

“Whoever took the coins knew they were valuable,” said Guerevich. “But would they be able to sell them without the provenance?”

“Mister, you don’t know the coin market. There’s dealers and collectors who will buy things and never ask where they came from. The coins’d go into someone’s collection and wouldn’t see the light of day for forty years or more.”


“That’s a long time,” said Ann.


“Let me tell you something about coins. The Bureau of Engraving minted an aluminum cent as a pattern in 1943. It didn’t work out, and the mint presented the four or five test samples to some congressman. He gave one to a White House custodian who saved it. Today it’s worth about three hundred thousand dollars. Course, most dealers is honest, but the thief could get an easy half million for the coins, even though they’re worth twice as much.”

Ann looked closely at Stamms. “Were the coins insured?”

“No. Coins this valuable are impossible to insure without letting the world know what you have.

Guerevich wrote the information in his notebook. “What’s your involvement in this?”

“I was hoping to get something from the sale. Maybe about Twenty or thirty thousand dollars. But that’s no big deal. Roseling was a good friend, and decent guy. Like I said, all he really wanted was to help out his daughter.”

Ann poked Guerevich in the side with her elbow. “Our condolences for your friend. We’ll try to talk to the conductor again and let you know as soon as we find out anything.”

“Why’d you poke me?”

“Stamm can’t or won’t tell us anything. He stands to gain a lot more than twenty or thirty thousand if he has the coins and the provenance.”

They discussed how they could pursue the case, knowing they were not licensed outside of Scottsdale.

Ann reviewed the photographs on her digital camera and Guerevich returned to Compartment 35 where he found the door unlocked. The briefcase had been closed and set on the small table.    Angered that someone had entered the room, Guerevich found conductor Morris eating a sandwich upstairs in the observation car.

“Did you unlock the door to Roseling’s room?”

Morris smiled. “Matter of fact, I did. His good friend Roger Stamms wanted to spend some a few moments alone with him, so I left him in the compartment. Figured it couldn’t hurt, with him dead and all. Said it was a shame we’ll probably never recover the gold coins.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

Morris jerked his head back, his smile snapping into a stern look. He rose and looked at his wristwatch. “I don’t know nothing about any gold coins. I’d guess there are people who would pay a lot of money for them. Sorry, but I’d better get on with my rounds We’ll be in Frisco in less than two hours.”

Guerevich watched him walk away and went to find Stamms. Next to him on the seat was a file folder with the provenance papers.

Guerevich sat across from him and smiled. “Very interesting. And now with the coins and the documents, you make quite a lot of money.”

“Wait a minute. You think I killed my best friend?”

“A million dollars is a strong motive. People have killed for a hell of a lot less.”

“You going to arrest me?”

“You know I can’t do that. But with our notes and photographs, the San Francisco police should be able make a strong case against you. And they have an excellent crime lab. Is there anyone you need notify, Mr. Stamms? Aside from Al’s daughter, if he even has one.”

“If you can’t arrest me, I’m through talking to you.” Stamms eyes narrowed and his face set in a hard, cold look.   “I’ll be happy to talk to the San Francisco police when we get there.”

Guerevich met Ann and they walked back to the dining car. Sitting across the table from him, she shrugged her shoulders and called the waiter to order a cup of coffee.

Guerevich stopped the waiter. “Order something else. The coffee here is terrible.”


“Oh, no sir. We make fresh. Coffee is good now.”


“Okay. Two cups. And I’ll have a slice of apple pie.”


“No apple, sir. Peach.”

Guerevich nodded. The waiter left and returned with two cups of coffee, some of which had spilled into the saucers.

Ann dabbed the spilled coffee with a napkin and then picked up her cup. She held it in front of her. “Fascinating subject, gold. I read somewhere that ninety percent of all the gold ever mined is still around.”

Guerevich sipped his coffee and looked around for the waiter. “Interesting. But what’s really going through that brilliant but beautiful head of yours?”

Ann smiled. “Something just doesn’t feel right. This guy Stamms is a piece of work. Wouldn’t you love to get him into an interrogation room? I mean, Roseling’s carrying valuable gold coins in a briefcase and Stamms just happens to have the provenance papers. He goes to Roseling’s room knowing Roseling will open the door for him.”

Guerevich motioned for the waiter, who brought his peach pie. “You think Stamms is our man.”


“On the other hand, why would he wait until he gets on a train where he’s virtually trapped? He could have killed Roseling before they got to the train. There are certainly plenty of places to kill someone in Phoenix. Besides, he was pretty broken up when he found out Roseling had died.”

Guerevich stabbed a piece of his pie with a fork and offered it to Ann, who declined. “You’re missing put on some good pie. Who then if not Stamms?”

“Well, we have Mrs. Wilson. Don’t let her age and size fool you. She may have heard Roseling talk about the gold coins.”

“I still like Stamms. He had the most to gain, and he knows buyers.”

“I agree, but let’s go back to our seats and rest. You know how things come to us when we free our minds.”

Seated, Guerevich leaned back and closed his eyes. The clack-clack of the wheels and the hum of electricity settled him into a state of near sleep and reminded him of train trips he took with his family as a child. One in particular when he was a teenager. He watched the countryside whiz by and asked about the train. The conductor, a white-haired African-American man wore an immaculate pressed uniform, a white shirt with a starched collar.

With a twinkle in his eye, the aging conductor said, “Young man, this train is moving at exactly 69.5 miles per hour. And we will arrive in Chicago at 6:23 exactly.”

Guerevich opened his eyes and turned to Ann. “That’s it.”


“What’s it?”


“What was wrong. Remember, you said something was wrong? I know what it is. I need to talk to the train engineer. We need to stop in Oakland.”

A few minutes later, Guerevich returned. “Can you get a signal on your cell phone?”

“If I can’t, I’ve paid a lot of money - the department has paid a lot of money - for nothing.”

“Call the Oakland PD. Tell them to put a couple of detectives on the train with a search warrant. We need to arrest Franklin Morris on suspicion of murder. I’m betting that somewhere in his possession are the gold coins.”

The train made the unscheduled stop in Oakland. Two detectives boarded the train with a search warrant and conferred with Guerevich and Ann for a moment. As suspected, the coins were discovered in the false bottom of his carry-on case. After arresting Arthur McRory, they found the real Franklin Morris unconscious in the baggage car under a pile of mail bags. McRory had drugged him, and Franklin had slept through the eight-hour train ride.

Roseling and Stamms had discussed the coin show and were overheard by McRory. He claimed he only meant to rob Roseling, and that killing him was an accident.

That evening, in their hotel room, Guerevich congratulated Ann on her presentation at the blood spatter seminar.

“You were brilliant, as always,” he said. “Ready for dinner?”

“Thanks, but I have a question for you that I didn’t have time to ask before.

“Fire away.” He opened the door and they walked down the hall to the elevator.

They stepped into the small car and Ann punched the lobby button. “Back on the train. What made you so sure that Morris - I mean McRory - was the killer?”

They walked through the lobby and the doorman hailed a taxi for them. Ann got in first and Guerevich walked around. He took her hand as he sat down. “When you said something was wrong, I kept turning that idea over in my mind. It took a while for me to figure it out. When I asked when we would be arriving, he said twenty minutes after five. Railroad people never tell time that way. He should have said 5:20. He also said he lived in the Bay Area, but he called the city Frisco. Bay area residents are offended by the term.   But there was one other thing.   When I checked with the train engineer, McRory never notified him to radio about Roseling’s death. That’s what confirmed he had to be the killer.

Bio:
After graduating with an MA in English, I taught in California, Illinois, Arizona and as a Fulbright Exchange teacher in England. I published a book of poetry and photography, The Cyclic Path, in 1990. In 2001, I published Sedona Poems for the Sedona, Arizona, centennial. My first novel, Choices, was published by iUniverse in 2003. My stories and poetry appear regularly in print magazines and online. For six years, I lived in a motorhome and and traveled the country from Alaska to Mexico. I now live in Mexico working on a series of detective novels.