We pulled out our IDs and flashed our badges. “You are?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, attitude changing at the sight of our credentials. “Walter Mitchell. I run this hall. What can I do for ya?”
I reached inside my jacket pocket and took out my notebook, flipping it open to the page with the victim’s badge number written on it. “I need to know who is registered to badge number one-forty-two.”
He hesitated a few moments then opened a drawer on his right and pulled out a well-worn long ledger, setting in front of him on the desk. He opened it and flipped through a couple of pages, stopping at one, he ran his finger slowly down the page.
“Yeah. Here it is. Badge number one-forty-two, Louis Slaunwhite. Foreman,” he said, looking up. “So, ya goin’ ta tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Pete had taken out his notebook and recorded the information.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. Looks like Mister Slaunwhite was killed sometime last night,” I said.
“Sweet Jesus,” Mitchell said. He looked pale.
“When was the last time he was working?”
“Uh, yeah, jus’ a sec. Hey Len,” he called to other man in the office, “get me yesterday’s work book, will ya.” The man left the office. A few minutes later he returned with another ledger, setting it on the desk. Mitchell opened it to the last page with entries on it.
“Let’s see,” he said, looking at the information. “Yeah, here it is. He worked last night, ten to six this mornin’. You sayin’ he was killed on the docks?”
“We aren’t sure. His body was found up in Greenbank. What pier was he workin’?” I asked.
He looked down again. “Sez here, he was at pier twenty-four. Loadin’ an Argentinian due to sail in the next convoy.”
“How long has he been working outta here?” Pete asked.
“‘Bout three years,” the man named Len supplied the information.
Pete looked at him. “So, you knew him?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Not real good, ya know. We’d have a beer sometimes with somma the other guys.”
“You know, or hear, if anyone had it in for him?” I asked, looking at both men.
“Ya think it could a been any of the men workin’...?” Mitchell started to ask.
“Just askin’ if you heard any grumbles ‘bout him?” I said.
“No...no, nothin’ like that, I mean there’s always some bitchin’ from the gangs ‘bout da foremen, ya know, stuff like bein’ too hard on ‘em or showin’ favor ta some, shit like that.”
“Okay, that should do it for now. If we need more we’ll come back,” I said. “You got an address for him?”
Pete made a note of the address in his notebook. It was down on South Bland Street.
“Thanks for the help,” I said, turning to the door.
“Yeah, no problem. Anytime.”
We went back to the car and headed for Greenbank. Time to check out the crime scene and talk to the family.
Greenbank was built in the 1920s by workers brought in to work on the construction of Ocean Terminals, the new section of Halifax’s waterfront which now serviced the large troop ships. Originally intended to be a temporary housing project, it was soon taken over by the inhabitants who turned it into permanent housing despite the lack of city services of water and sewage. It was uniquely situated because the shanty town’s northern edge backed onto the richest part of the city.
We arrived at the site where the body was found fifteen minutes after leaving the hiring hall. Pete spotted the patrol car and pulled in alongside it. There was a uniformed officer behind the wheel, the other stood by a vacant lot. When the cop inside the car saw us, he got out.
“Charlie,” Pete greeted the cop.
“Pete,” he answered as he put on his cap. “Wondered when you’d get here. Mornin’ Detective,” he said to me.
Charles Ferguson was a fifteen-year veteran of the force. I knew him from around the station and Pete worked with him when he started out. By all accounts Ferguson was a solid officer with a good reputation.
“Mornin’,” I replied, heading across to the other cop. “Whadda we got?”
“We been here since the body was found,” Charlie said as he followed behind me.
“You check the area?”
“We did a quick walk ‘round but didn’t see anythin’ unusual. So, we stayed put to make sure no one messed with the area in case you wanted to take a look see for yourself.”
“Good,” I said as we arrived at the location where the body was found.
It was about eight feet from the walkway and unremarkable, just a vacant lot littered with bits and pieces of cast-off garbage. There were the remains of prints of men’s boots, probably made by the ones who dumped the body, along with those of the patrolman who found it. My best guess was the body must have been carried and then dumped by at least two people since there wasn’t any indication of drag marks and there weren’t any deep-set footprints which would indicate only one person carrying it. I looked up and scanned the area. The nearest buildings were at least a hundred feet away, so it was unlikely anyone would have seen or heard anything at that time of the morning.
“Robie. Look at this,” Pete yelled.
He was still by the walkway squatting down looking at the road.
“Whaddya got?” I asked when I reached him and bent over.
“Tracks in the mud. Looks recent. I figure it was a truck, maybe a one ton or a deuce and a half,” he said, pointing a set of tire ruts set close together. Most trucks a ton or over had dual tires on their rear axle. I studied them for a moment.
“Doesn’t look like they had a heavy load,” I said. “Not deep enough. Good imprint though. Get the lab boys to make a cast an’ some photographs, maybe we can use it.”
“Okay,” Pete said. “Looks like it stopped here then drove off that way.” He pointed at the mud where it was pushed up into a ridge, the tracks carried on up the road. There was a visible difference at one point made by the tire when it stopped. It was clear where the truck had rolled back slightly when the driver let out the clutch.
Pete straightened and turned to Charlie who was standing a few feet away.
“Call in and have someone get the lab to come over. We need a cast of these tracks. You better stick around until they’re done, make sure no one disturbs the site before they get here,” he instructed his friend.
“Right,” Charlie said.
“Might mean somethin’ else,” I said.
“Yeah? What’s that?” Pete asked, looking back at me.
“Might mean the truck came from the docks. After all, Slaunwhite was supposed to be working last night. Mind you, it’s thin and circumstantial but...”
“Yeah, maybe,” Pete said. “It does sorta fit as a theory.”
“Okay, let’s go,” I said, heading for the car.
“Where to?” Pete asked once he settled behind the wheel.
“Clarence Street. Time to deliver the bad news.”
I was feeling a bit low about delivering the news to Slaunwhite’s wife. Pete pulled the car to the curb and shut off the motor. We got out and went to the Slaunwhite house. I rapped on the wooden door. They lived in a three-room tar paper squat which like all the others around it, had no running water or plumbing.
When it opened, I was greeted by a short stout woman with ample breasts. She wore a frock and apron. I guessed her age to be early thirties. Her hair was already thick with grey and tied up in a bun. She had been preparing a meal at the stove when we arrived, probably for her husband who was usually home by now.
“Mrs. Slaunwhite?” I asked, showing her my ID.
“Yeah,” she said a bit nervously. “What’s the ole fool done now?”
“Can we come in?”
She hesitated a moment then stepped aside. Pete and I went inside. I took a quick glance around the main room, which served as a living and dining room that she kept clean and homey looking. A makeshift kitchen was in one corner with
a small icebox and a wood burning stove; an iron kettle sat on top, steaming away.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“Maybe you better sit down,” I said, pointing to a set of wooden chairs around a kitchen table.
She sat down as we pulled out a couple of chairs and sat down as well.
“I’m afraid I got some bad news. Your husband’s body was found early this morning,” I said.
At first, she didn’t show any reaction, then a deep sadness filmed her eyes. In fact, she took the news fairly well, but then I supposed she was used to bad news.
“How’d he die?” she asked.
“Looks like he was killed,” I said. “Do you have any idea who would want to do this to him?”
She shook her head.
“He worked on the docks, right?”
“Yeah. He was a doreman.”
“You ever hear him talk about anyone down there who might want to hurt him?”
“Not really, no. ‘Course there’s always some shits with a beef ‘bout him but not so’s they wanna kill ‘im.”
“Whaddya mean, beefs?” Pete asked.
“Ya know. Usual stuff, he was pushin’ ‘em too hard, givin’ certain men special favors, that sorta stuff. Ya still ain’t told me how he was killed.”
I guess she had a right to know so I told her. “He was stabbed.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she said softly, crossing herself. “Where’d you take ‘im?”
“The VG. You’ll have to go down an’ identify him but that can wait ‘til tomorrow,” I said.
She simply nodded.
“You have anyone to come over an’ stay with you? I can arrange to have some...,” I started to say.
“I got my neighbours an’ kids,” she said, cutting me off.
I asked Pete to write down our phone number and to give it to her. He jotted it down and placed the piece of paper on the table.
“Call us if you need anythin’ an’ if you think of anythin’ might help us find the ones that did this,” I said, standing up.
After leaving the Slaunwhite squat, we headed Victoria General Hospital to meet with the Medical Examiner. It was probably too soon to get any information, but I wanted to take a look at the victim for myself. Neither of us spoke since leaving Greenbank.
“Calling car three,” a voice crackled over the two-way radio. “Calling car three.”
Since Pete was driving, I picked up the microphone.
“Car three. Over,” I said, depressing the button.
“Robie,” the dispatcher responded. “Jus’ got a call from some guy named Cameron down at pier twenty-four. I think you might wanna get down there and check this out. Looks like it might have somethin’ to do with that dead man you’re lookin’ into. Over.”
“What’s it about? Over.”
“Not sure. Caller said he found what looks like a lotta blood. You wanna see a guy named Mike Cameron. He’ll be waitin’ in the office. Over.”
“Okay, on our way. Out,” I said, putting the microphone back on its hook. “Let’s go.” I glanced at Pete.
Pete drove down South Street to where it ended at Hollis Street. He followed the road behind the Nova Scotian Hotel and on to the Ocean Terminals where the loading sheds were located. Pier twenty-four was down past the Ocean Terminals. It was one of several sheds with rail sidings beside them. In peace time they were used mostly by the Cunard Line and some of the other British freight steamers. Nowadays, it was where military cargoes and munitions were loaded.
As we drove, I sat thinking about the state of things in the city since the start of the war. The population had undergone a massive growth with people looking for work and soldiers awaiting departure to England. Needless to say; it put a ton of pressure on the police force.
Our force had been reduced by the enlistment of many of our patrolmen. The city had implemented a plan which allowed civilians to help with the daily running of the police force, things like neighborhood patrols and traffic control. These ‘officers’ did not carry firearms but could detain and arrest if necessary. It seemed to working out...so far.
Traffic was heavier than usual. We got caught behind six military transport trucks heading for the docks. The military police and naval shore patrol had men on traffic control at the entrance to the road leading into the area where the sheds were located. They carried Sten guns slung over their shoulders at the ready, and sidearms on web belts around their waists. The lorries were lined up waiting for access to deliver their loads. Several columns of soldiers with slung rifles stood at ease off to the side, duffle bags at their feet. Must have been waiting orders to move out to the waiting troop transport moored along the seawall further down the harbor.
One of the MPs waved us forward. Pete rolled ahead, rolling his window down. The soldier leaned in when we came to a stop.
“What’s your business, and where you fellas headin’?” he asked.
We pulled out our IDs.
“We’re on an investigation,” I said looking at him as he scanned our badges. “We’re headin’ for pier twenty-four.”
After a moment he looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Sarge.”
Another soldier joined him.
“What’s this then?” he asked, looking down at Pete.
“They say they’re cops. Headin’ for pier twenty-four.”
The sergeant leaned down. “What’s goin’ on? We weren’t told ‘bout cops coming through.”
“The call just came in,” I said. I was still holding up my ID which he looked at.
“Hmm, alright, move on,” he said, straightening up. The two soldiers stepped away from the car as Pete eased out the clutch, rolling the car forward.
“It’s okay,” the sergeant yelled to the soldiers standing nearby.
Pete maneuvered the car along the congested road. When he reached our destination, we had to wait while a company of soldiers marched past before he could turn onto the pier. He got lucky and found a parking slot near the office door.
The office was alive with activity. There were six women and two men inside. One of the men wore a rumpled suit in contrast to the other’s work clothes. I figured the one in the suit had to be Mike Cameron. The women were buried behind stacks of paper which they shuffled between writing entries into a ledger. The man in the suit was talking to the other man as they looked at a clipboard one held.
“Yeah, that’s it. There should be twenty pallets with sixty on each,” the suited man said, then looked up at us. “Got it?”
“Yeah,” the other man said, then with a quick look at us, left by another door that opened into the shed.
“Police. Detective Robichaud,” I said, showing him my ID.
“Mike Cameron,” he said, offering his hand which I accepted.
“I was told you found some blood?”
“Yeah. One a’ the men went to the rear of the shed to get some cargo. That’s when he saw it. Came right back an’ reported it.”
“Don’t suppose you closed off the area?” Pete asked.
“Matter a fact, yeah, I did.” He looked like he might have taken Pete’s question as a slight.
“Smart thinkin’” I said, to placate him.
“It’s this way,” he said, heading for the door. “I hope this won’t take long. There’s a coupla tons of cargo down that end we need to get on board this mornin’.”
I didn’t answer him. He led us through the shed filled with stacks of boxes, crates, and other materials. The place smelled heavily of creosote, tar, rope, and salt from the harbor. Men bustled about among the stacks loading carts and wagons. The cavernous shed echoed with sounds of machinery and forklifts creating an almost deafening cacophony of sound.
We finally reached the far corner at the rear of the shed. A loading door was open, giving us plenty of light. I looked outside and saw the last boxcar of a long train. Between the end of the train and the next shed was a well-worn track wide enough for a truck to drive on.
About si
x feet in from the ramp a large reddish-brown stain looked like wet rust. I bent down and put a finger on it. It was still ‘tacky’. I put my finger to my nose and sniffed.
“Whaddya think?” Pete asked behind me.
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s call in the lab boys to make sure.”
I stood up and looked at Cameron.
“Bad news I’m afraid. I’m closing off this section until the police lab people get here and check the area.”
“Jesus Christ. You know what this means? I ain’t got any leeway in the timetable for loading. I got two more ships waiting in the stream,” Cameron said in frustration. The stream was the area in the harbor where ships anchored clear of the transit lanes awaiting their turn alongside one of the piers.
“Sorry, but this is probably a murder scene. How much cargo is back here you need access to right away?’
“All of it.”
“Hmm. Well I don’t need to close off the whole area, jus’ this section will do.”
“You saying I can get some of it?”
“Don’t see why not. Let’s say from there over,” I said indicating several stacks of crates.”
“Okay. Let me get the manifests an’ see what’s here,” he said, heading back to the office.
“Are these doors usually open?” I asked looking toward the loading ramp where the blood was located.
“Not usually, no. We keep them closed for security reasons,” Cameron answered, stopping momentarily and looking back at me.
“So why is this one open? Did you receive any deliveries here last night?”
“Not that I know about. What’re you sayin’?”
“I’m thinkin’ maybe you got yourself a theft problem. It’s a good spot to load a truck or car.”
“Jesus,” he cursed. “We’ve been noticin’ some missing cargo lately. Nothing big, but enough to start raisin’ suspicions.”
“What do you usually store back here?”
“I’ll hafta check our records.”
“Do that. Pete, you go with him an’ call it in. I’ll stay here and have a look around. Also, see if you can get a list of names of the men who were working the last shift.”
Murder on the Docks Page 2