Murder over Kodiak

by Robin, Barefield

  “Why did Simms charter you guys in the first place? The refuge has its own plane.”

  “The refuge plane was unavailable for some reason. It was either being used for something else or was down for maintenance. Simms had his secretary call two days ago to set up a charter, and we really didn’t have anything available. That’s why we ended up combining their charter with the charter to pick up Craig from his campsite and Darren Myers from the cannery. Bradford is just over the mountain from Uyak Cannery and where Craig was camped, so it made sense to combine their flights. We didn’t make that decision, though, until yesterday morning, so no one would know what plane we planned to use to shuttle Simms and his pals to Bradford.”

  I didn’t have an argument for this point, and I had to admit the bomb theory was shaky at best. “I guess we’ll have to wait to hear what the bomb experts say.”

  “Someone is going down for this,” Steve said. “If there is no evidence of a bomb, then my little charter service will get ground to pieces. The government will see that someone pays for the senator’s death.”

  I knew that Steve owned part of Kodiak Flight Services, but now I wondered how much of the company was his. He’d always kept a low profile, but now he kept referring to the airlines as his. Would he be able to hang on to his business through this crisis? “At this point, I hope it was a bomb,” I said.

  “Me too, Dr. Marcus.”

  “Steve,” I said, “after all we’ve been through together, I think you can call me Jane.”

  He laughed. “Jane. Okay, I can do that.”

  Dana Baynes rang my doorbell at 7:00, and when I opened the door, the aroma of pepperoni and cheese greeted me.

  “I know you, Jane. You haven’t eaten a thing since this whole mess began, so I picked up a delicious, well-balanced meal for us.” Dana’s dark curls bounced as she hurried into my apartment. She sported a flannel shirt and blue jeans on her petite frame. As I followed her to the kitchen, I noticed that her shoulder-length hair looked as if a comb hadn’t touched it in a week.

  I had to admit the pizza smelled good, and I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. I poured the Merlot while Dana dished up pizza. We sat at the kitchen bar and ate in silence. After devouring two pieces, I pushed my plate away and sipped the wine. The Merlot had a calming effect on me. My shoulders sagged as the tension drained from them.

  “You look tired,” Dana said.

  “This hasn’t been a good day.”

  Dana squeezed my arm and squinted her green eyes. “I know. I didn’t like Simms, but the thought of him being blown to pieces has haunted me all day. I didn’t know Craig well, but what a terrible loss. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

  I fought back tears. “It’s more than that, Dana.” I grasped the edge of the bar. “I should have been on that plane. I sent Craig in my place to collect the bivalve samples, because I hate to fly.”

  “You can’t do that, Jane.” She crossed her arms over her small chest. “You’re being too hard on yourself. You can’t control everything. You are in charge of your lab. You shouldn’t be the one to go on these piddly little collection trips. Those jobs are exactly why you hire assistants. Unless you planted the bomb, you’re not responsible. Got it?”

  I laughed. Dana always could make me feel better. I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake off my guilt so easily, but at least my mood lightened. “You’re bossy for such a little thing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Simms used to say.”

  “Let’s go in the living room. I’ll get the dishes later.” I picked up the bottle of wine and my glass and walked ten steps to the recessed portion of the condo that I grandly called the living room. I sank into the soft cushions of the couch and set the wine bottle on the glass coffee table. Dana sat in the oversized chair on the other side of the table.

  “Do you really believe Simms could have been the target?”

  “I not only believe it, but I think it makes a lot more sense than imagining Mexican terrorists skulking through the back alleys of Kodiak.”

  “And you know a likely suspect?”

  Dana sipped her wine and stared at the coffee table. “I could give you a list of likely suspects, including two people at the office who would dance on Simms’ grave if his death meant they would be promoted to refuge manager. I don’t honestly think either one of them has the balls to plant a bomb, though.”

  “Then who?”

  Dana sighed, set her glass on the coffee table, and sat forward in her chair. She placed her elbows on her knees and looked at my face. “Simms used his position to do many things I didn’t approve of. You know I fought with him constantly over programs he implemented that I felt were harmful to the bears or their habitat.” Dana massaged her nose.

  “Our biggest responsibility on this refuge is to protect the brown bear habitat, and I often believed Simms went out of his way to sabotage our mission. He managed to make enemies of most of the primary users of the refuge. No one liked him. He was terrible.” Dana waved her hand in front of her face, as if swatting a mosquito.

  “He didn’t have a clue about scientific procedure, and he was a running joke among the fish and game biologists. He antagonized guides, the native corporations, commercial fishermen, and air transport carriers. I’m not exaggerating, Jane. I think you would be surprised to know how many people called our office with complaints. This man was not well-liked.” She picked up her glass and drank. As she lowered it to the table, she said, “But if he was the target, I think he was killed for following through with a good decision, not for all the things he did that were wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you heard of George Wall?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Wall is a renegade sport-fishing and photography guide. I don’t know how he convinces people to book with him, but he takes a steady stream of people every summer.”

  “Where does he take them?”

  “That’s just it. He isn’t licensed to guide anyone on the refuge. He has applied for a special use permit, but he has a list of fish and game violations, he runs an unsafe operation, and the Alaska Department of Fish and Game showed us a thick folder of complaints from his past clients. To top it off, he can’t get insurance, and no one gets a special use permit without insurance.” Dana shrugged. “There are a few shady guides operating on Kodiak, but we try to keep them off the refuge, and the legitimate guides that work on the refuge aren’t shy about letting us know when an unlicensed guide appears where he shouldn’t be. That’s what happened to Wall.”

  “Someone reported him?”

  “A guide saw Wall running float trips down Uganik River, and he called us. I was impressed with Simms. This is just the sort of thing he usually waffles on. He puts off doing anything about it until it’s too late to catch the guy. This time, though, he called in the troopers and they set up a sting operation in a few days.” Dana took another sip of wine and sat back in the chair. A smile played across her lips as she remembered the event.

  “A male and female trooper posed as husband and wife and booked with Wall. He had an opening on his next float trip.” She shook her head. “What an idiot. Not only were the troopers able to charge him with operating on the refuge without a permit, but he baited a brown bear with salmon so his clients could get photos of it. Then, he shot the bear in the butt with birdshot to chase him away. He strung a section of gill net across the river to catch his party’s supper, and then instructed his clients on the proper procedure for snagging salmon.” Dana laughed. “I can’t remember what else he did, but the troopers snapped photos of everything, and Wall was arrested on eight counts as soon as he returned to town.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said.

  “The guy was furious about being caught, and of course, Simms didn’t sit quietly in the background. He was present at Wall’s arrest, and he couldn’t resist telling Wall what a fool he was and laughing in his face. Wall threatened he would get even with Simms.”
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  I shrugged. “People make threats like that, but they usually don’t carry through,” I said. “Isn’t Wall in jail?”

  “No. He’s out on bail. His case won’t come to trial for a few months.” Dana sat forward again. “I know this sounds crazy, Jane, but Wall is bad news. I can’t remember why, but I was in Simms’ office when he was looking through Wall’s file. This was before the sting operation. I wasn’t involved in any of this, but for some reason I was in Simms’ office, and I remember him saying that Wall had served time in Colorado. He worked with the state highway department there and was part of the excavation crew for digging tunnels. He worked with explosives.” Dana paused, her eyes locked on my face. “A few sticks of dynamite disappeared from the worksite, and two days later, Wall’s girlfriend’s father’s truck blew into a million pieces. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to piece the facts together.”

  “Was the father killed?”

  “No, something went wrong. No one was in the truck when it exploded, so Wall only had to serve a few years.”

  “Have you told the police this?”

  “Not yet,” Dana said. “I’ll wait until someone official states that the crash was not an accident.”

  “It could be too late by then.”

  Dana shrugged. “I hope not.”

  “Does anyone else at the refuge know about Wall’s record?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t a secret. Simms told me, and it was none of my business. Marty Shires, the assistant refuge manager, must know, but he was so busy trying not to look happy today, that I doubt it occurred to him. We’re not a close-knit group in that office.”

  I smiled. “It’s a regular Peyton Place there. I don’t know how any work gets done.”

  “Not much does.” Dana handed her glass to me for a refill.

  I was awake and staring at the ceiling the next morning at 6:00 when my alarm buzzed. I hadn’t slept well, but I felt restless and bursting with energy. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and gathered it into a ponytail. I pulled on sweats and jogging shoes and headed out the front door.

  Fog and drizzle enveloped the mountains. Visibility was less than half a mile, and the ceiling was no more than a hundred feet. I considered driving to Abercrombie Park for my jog, but I recalled that an overzealous bear had treed two joggers there recently, and I decided to stick to the city sidewalks. The town was slow to awaken on this misty morning, and I doubted I would run into much traffic on the sidewalk.

  The morning air felt cool, and even though the air oozed moisture, I didn’t notice the humidity until I had been running for a few minutes. Suddenly, my lungs clogged, and I stopped, head up, gasping for air. I sat on a low wall that bordered the sidewalk and stared at the wet pavement. My head ached, and I regretted the four glasses of wine I’d consumed with Dana.

  Could George Wall have planted a bomb to settle the score with Simms? Dana was not taken to flights of fancy. She rarely accepted any notion without scientific proof. I hoped she would tell the police her suspicions before Wall left the island. If he planted the bomb, though, he probably already was gone.

  I slid off the wall and began to walk home. The drizzle had saturated my sweats, and cold was beginning to soak through my skin.

  I didn’t hear the car pull up beside me until a familiar voice said, “Walking in the rain?”

  I stopped and turned toward the red Audi. Peter Wayman’s dark face smiled at me through the open window. He wore a suit and tie, and I glanced at my watch to see if I was late for work.

  “It’s not even 7:00 yet, Peter. Are you headed to work already?”

  “I have to take off early today, so I thought I’d get a head start. Can I give you a ride home?”

  I looked down at my wet clothes. “I don’t want to get your car wet.”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Come on.”

  His words sounded more like an order than an offer, and I meekly complied with the wishes of my boss. As I slid into the immaculate car, I tried to touch as few surfaces as possible. Dr. Wayman watched me, his brown eyes intense, and as soon as I shut the car door, he drove slowly toward the center of town.

  “How are you doing, Jane?” He kept his eyes forward, but I glanced at the side of his face. Peter was in his mid-forties, and he was the most beautiful man I ever had seen. His black hair was cropped close to his head, and a tinge of grey at the temples offered the only clue to his age. His milk-chocolate skin was flawless. He didn’t even have wrinkles around his eyes, and I wondered how he managed this. Maybe after I had consumed a few glasses of champagne at the next Christmas party, I’d get him to divulge his beauty secrets. Peter was also a sharp dresser, especially for a scientist. He ran the marine center with an iron fist, but he was a good boss, and I respected him. I also liked his wife, a high school math teacher, and I occasionally baby sat their three-year old daughter.

  “Jane?”

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m fine.”

  “Are you planning to hire a replacement for Craig?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll get someone next year, but I think I can handle the research this summer.”

  “Okay, but don’t get behind. With the high levels of PSP this summer, you’ll want to take as many samples as possible.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m planning to get more samples from Uyak in a few days on the next series of low tides.”

  “Good.”

  An uneasy silence followed. I sensed Peter trying to form his next question, and as he made a slow U-turn through a grocery store parking lot, I realized that our meeting had not been accidental. Peter had been looking for me. He wanted to talk to me about something outside the office.

  “Have you heard any more from Craig’s parents?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason. I’m just surprised they haven’t asked more questions about the accident.”

  “Maybe they’ve been talking to the troopers.”

  “Betty told me that an FAA inspector visited you yesterday, and then he called the office later in the afternoon to check on the size of the propane tank Craig took with him.”

  Good old Betty. Run to Dr. Wayman and tattle on Jane. “It’s just a formality, Peter. We didn’t do anything wrong.” If only I could believe those words.

  Peter braked at a stop sign and turned to look at me, his intelligent eyes searching my face. “Did our fuels cause that explosion?”

  “I don’t know, Peter.” I met his gaze. “It is possible, but the FAA inspector told me that the explosion originated in the cabin. The pilot probably put the battery and the propane tank in the float.”

  I saw the muscles in Peter’s cheeks relax. He’d better be careful; all that tension would produce lines on that perfect face.

  Peter accelerated slowly from the stop sign. “The FBI is sending an explosives expert to see if a bomb caused the crash.”

  Peter swung his face toward me. “I heard that rumor, but I didn’t believe it. Are you sure?”

  “That’s what the FAA inspector told me.”

  “Does he think someone was trying to kill the senator?”

  “He didn’t speculate, but I think the only reason the FBI is getting involved in this is because the senator was on the plane.”

  Peter snorted. “Yes, if five unknown tourists had been killed, the event would have barely rated a blurb in the Kodiak Mirror.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t believe someone would follow the senator all the way to Kodiak to kill her.”

  “What about the other passengers?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe someone else was the target.”

  I expected Peter to tell me about Simms’ many enemies. Peter still thought of me as a recent arrival on the island, and he liked to explain things to me. His next words surprised me.

  “This isn’t something I want you to repeat to anyone, Jane, but I’ve played poker a few times with Darren Myers. Darren was the owner o
f Uyak Cannery.”

  Peter played poker? I couldn’t visualize that. “What about Darren Myers?” I asked.

  “Like I said, this is just wild speculation, but he was going through an extremely ugly divorce. His wife, Maryann, threatened to kill him.”

  “No offense, Peter, but I doubt his wife would plant a bomb to get rid of him. If she really hated him that much, she could stir a little cyanide into his coffee. This doesn’t strike me as a jealous-wife type of crime.”

  Peter shrugged. “I hear she has quite a temper.” He pulled into the parking lot of my complex and stopped in front of the walkway.

  I doubted that Peter and his poker buddies were a good source of unbiased information, and I was surprised that Peter didn’t sense this.

  I opened the car door. “I’m beginning to realize that everyone has enemies, but it takes either a ruthless or a warped individual to kill six people just to rid yourself of one person. I don’t think most people are capable of that kind of random killing. Do you?”

  Peter stared at me but said nothing. He seemed to be thinking about what I had said. Maybe he was thinking about Maryann Myers, and I wondered how much he knew about the woman.

  Chapter Four

  I unlocked my office door at 8:30, and a woman from the Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation Lab in Palmer called five minutes later. “Doctor Marcus. We never received your bivalve samples. We were ready to perform the bioassay yesterday, but we don’t have your samples.”

  I’d forgotten to call Palmer and cancel the mouse bioassay. My plan had been to prepare the bivalve tissues Craig was bringing me. I would use a small amount for the cell-based test we were running for the Canadian lab and then divide the remainder in half. I would keep one half for our chemical assay and send the other half to Palmer for a bioassay. Then, we could compare the results of the two assays and the cell-based kit. I had alerted the Palmer lab that I would be sending them a sample, but in the aftermath of the crash, I’d forgotten to call and cancel.

  I explained the situation to the technician. She was less than sympathetic, and I couldn’t blame her. Their lab was busy, and they were under pressure to determine the level of saxitoxin in the bivalves from Uyak. In cases of suspected PSP, the lab usually was sent a bivalve sample from the victim’s last meal. In this case, however, the clams had been eaten and the dishes cleared away before the victim began experiencing her first symptoms of PSP. Only Mrs. Cycek had eaten the clams, and according to her husband, she had consumed ten or twelve butter clams.