THE RAILWAY DETECTIVE Quick, violent images leap to mind; darkness,caution, tension; then the sudden eruption of gunfire and a man falls; his companion responds in kind, the sound of fear and death in his shout as he stabs his own fire at fleeing shadows... then silence and ragged moans, and the cold wind sighing in the grass. And a man is dead. The West, 1807 No, East St Louis, 1972; and the dead man no sheriff or range detective, but a brother in that unsung, frequently misunderstood fraternity of railroad men known as special agents. The special agent lingers in the general mind as a bullish brow-beater pulling poor, innocent hoboes off freight trains with one hand and taking bribes from theft rings with the other; a cunning ferret plying his fellow employees with subtle questions, seeking guilt amongst them, aching to trip them up. And no doubt this image would fit some, for there was never a barrel that lacked its rotten apples. But you know, there's more good than bad in those thin, badgered ranks. It may sound trite to say that most of them are nice guys doing a hard and thankless job, but indeed that's what most of them are. They have families and dreams and fears like everybody, but unlike most of us they pursue a craft shadowed by the spectre of a cruel and ruthless fate; a craft wherein the wages of simple duty can be death. Try it sometime. Walk alone through the darkest recesses of some big city trainyard and listen to the wind rattle the boxcar doors. Move between two endless cuts of empties, where every door is like the void and the crunch of your shoes in the cinders seems the loudest sound on earth. Yes, and walk there knowing that sooner or later your probing flashlight is going to shine on one or two or three hostile faces huddled in the comer of a boxcar, and you are going to have to sound mean and bad no matter how dry your throat is. Oh, and spend a few dark, freezing nights in the wilderness guarding a derailment, counting the plodding hours that stretch even longer when your thermos runs dry and dawn is still a distant dream. And, just once, taste that choking bitter fear when sudden violence erupts, and you know you can't avoid it because you have to get involved-you're wearing a badge. So the next time you see your local cinder dick, give him a smile and a nod. It doesn't cost anything, and-just possible-it could be the last time you'll ever see him. Courtesy 'Illinois Central Magazine' Railways Institute Magazine, May-June, 1977