083 Toxic Revenge by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: hbfiles
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Joe risked one glance as the paramedics lifted the rubberized body bag onto a rolling stretcher. Then he turned away and swallowed.

“His name was Vic Krieger,” Officer Con Riley said, opening his notebook. Officer Riley had known Frank and Joe and their detective father for a long time and was used to answering their questions. “According to the guy at the gate, he was some kind of special security guard. He clocked in yesterday just before four and was supposed to go off duty at midnight. He didn’t, though. I found his card next to the time clock, unpunched.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Does that mean he died sometime between four and midnight?” he asked.

Riley considered for a moment, then shook his head. “Not necessarily. He may have had some reason for sticking around after his shift was over. But that fits well enough with the medical examiner’s estimated time of death. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“You know,” Joe said tentatively, “it must have happened after hours on Monday, or someone would have found him before we did. And when the plant was in operation, someone would have been running the machine, right?”

“That’s another thing else we have to check out,” Riley replied. “I also want somebody to explain to me how Krieger fell into that machine while it was running.”

He shook his head. “You fellows have a gift for turning up at the wrong place at the right time, don’t you?” he continued. “Tell me again what you were doing here when the plant was closed.”

Frank explained about Project Planet Earth and the need to get more collection bins. He did not mention Mike Tano’s name. He and Joe had no positive proof that Mike had come to the plant the evening before—the initials on the broken flashlight could be pure coincidence— and it didn’t seem right to drag someone into a police investigation on the basis of a hunch.

The detective in charge was a heavyset, gray-haired man named William Broussard, who had recently moved to Bayport from Louisiana. This was Frank and Joe’s first contact with him. He came over and told Con Riley, “The photographer’s almost done. Let’s wrap it up here and get a head start on the paperwork.”

“What exactly happened?” Joe asked.

Instead of answering directly, Broussard said, “I’ve heard of you two. You’ve done some pretty clever detecting, from what they say. Well, the police always welcome the cooperation of the public, but if you come across any facts that bear on a case of mine, you bring them straight to me. No amateur investigating, you hear? Because if I get the idea you’re interfering with my work, you’ll be sorry, I guarantee.”

Con Riley said, “I don’t think you need to worry about Joe and Frank. They’ve always been very responsible, as well as helpful.”

“As long as they know where we all stand,” Broussard replied. “Now—”

He broke off as a car braked violently to a stop just outside the loading bay. A door was opened and slammed just before someone came running up the steps and flung open the door.

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