Murder on the Docks

by H. Paul Doucette

  “Yeah, well, I am not,” Coopers said, keeping his voice neutral. “So, it that it?”

  “Uh-huh. Jus’ t’ought ya might be innerrested, ‘specially as dey might be lookin’ extra hard, ya know.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Coopers fished out his wallet and pulled out two one-dollar bills, passing them to him.

  “I been t’inkin’ maybe I otta git more from now on,” he said. cramming the bills into his pants pocket.

  “Whaddya mean, more?”

  “Well, I been t’inkin’ like I sez, an’ I axe myself, what do he want wit all dis stuff I give’s ‘im, see.”

  Coopers sat quietly, waiting.

  “I’m figurin’ youse been maybe sellin’ it on ta sumbody else for more,” Kirkland said, continuing, “but den I git ta t’inkin’ maybe youse wants it fer somethin’ else. Sumthin’ maybe youse don’t wan da Mountie ta know.”

  Coopers stared at the old black man’s face a moment then leaned in close and placed a hand on his leg, squeezing the thin muscle under the pants...squeezing hard.

  “You threatening me, nigger?” He saw the fear suddenly come into Kirkland’s eyes.

  “N...no way man,” he said, wincing from the sudden pain caused by Coopers’ iron-like grip. “I’s jus lookin’ for a bit more dosh is all. Ain’t no harm in gittin’ a bit more yeah? ‘Sides I gits ya good stuff, yeah?”

  Coopers kept his grip on the man’s leg for a few more moments then let go. He stood up and looked down at him. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay...t’anks,” Kirkland said, standing up and rubbing his thigh and sidled passed him, saying thanks again and then headed up to Inglis street. Coopers watched Kirkland as he hurried away for a moment then headed back down Barrington Street for the nearest tram stop.

  Kirkland’s news presented two problems for him, he thought, as he walked down the sidewalk. First, if the security people had been alerted to his presence here, they might also have his description. The Navy might be slow to react but not Mulroney, especially if he brought in that city cop, Robichaud. Coopers had a lot of background on both men that he had acquired once he was activated last year. These were dangerous men, particularly Detective John Robichaud.

  He was certain that Robichaud was looking into the man he killed the other night. It was unfortunate but necessary, there was nothing else he could have been done except maybe make a run for it, after all the man was old by all accounts and wouldn’t have given chase. But he had seen him and could give the authorities a description.

  His second problem was Kirkland. It was clear that the old man was putting two and two together and thereby becoming a threat. The simple solution was to eliminate the problem.

  Chapter Seven

  When I got to the station the next morning, the duty officer waved me over. Pete arrived at the same time and continued on to the squad room. The officer passed me a couple of pieces of note paper with phone numbers on them. One was from the medical examiner’s office, the other from Rockhead Prison. I headed to the squad room. I saw one of the other two detectives in the department sitting at a desk in the corner.

  Pete and I were the only two detectives on full time duty since the start of the war. The city council approved Morrison’s request for additional manpower, but only on a need to have basis. Three of our senior patrolmen were given temporary duty assignments as plainclothes officers when needed. I knew one of the two men. His name was Carl Billings; a twenty-year veteran of the force.

  “Rockhead called. Looks like Butler might be ready to talk,” I said to Pete as I hung my coat on the hook.

  “Yeah?” Pete said, taking the slip of paper with the prison’s number on to it.

  “Call them an’ see what’s up.”

  “Okay.”

  I stepped over to where Billings sat. He was bent over a small stack of files.

  “Carl,” I said, by way of a greeting. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Robie,” he said, looking up at me. “You know, the usual bullshit.”

  “Thanks for helpin’ out.” I nodded to the files.

  “Hey, beats the street these days.”

  “I bet. You havin’ any luck?”

  “Not much. I been seein’ a few things but they’re sketchy.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ya know, same names poppin’ up a few times on related reports.”

  “Like who?”

  “Benedict. Jencks. Murphy. Kline.”

  “Good. We’re onto Jencks and Kline already.”

  “For that body ya found up in Greenbank?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, nodding. “Anything in there connectin’ any of the crimes to anyone in particular?”

  He shook his head and gave me a funny look. “You expectin’ to find any?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s say I’m crossin’ my fingers. Keep diggin an’ watch for those names. Let me know if they show up again, an’ any connections in common.”

  “Okay.”

  I went to my desk and sat down. Pete was already on his phone when I reached for mine.

  “Dr Wilson,” a man’s voice said into my ear.

  “Robie, here,” I said. “You called?”

  “Ah yes, Robie. Just wanted to let you know I’ve finished my preliminary examination of the man you fished out of the Basin. I estimate time of death to be within the last twenty-four hours. Cause of death was definitely from a knife thrust straight into the heart.”

  “How come such a long time frame?” I asked. Cutting him off.

  “In the water too long. The cold messes with getting a workable time due to lowering of temperature of the organs.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “But here’s why I called. I found something I thought you’d be interested in. On closer examination, I noted that the wound exhibited some unusual signs.”

  “Whaddya mean, ‘unusual’?”

  “Well, for one thing. The shape of the blade. It must be at least four to six inches long with a tapered shape. Let’s see, how to describe it. Think of a spearhead; long and tapered to a pointed end, sharp on both sides but shorter. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I get the idea. So, you’re saying it’s not a commonly used knife?”

  “That’s right, and it would be hard to get one around here, I would imagine. However, I have heard that the British commandos use something similar.”

  “Hmm. I doubt our killer is a commando, but the foreign reference is interesting. Thanks. That it?”

  “Yes. Thought you’d like to know about the weapon before I send over the report.”

  “I do...and, thanks again.” I hung up.

  I sat back thinking about what Wilson had just told me. This put the killing, and the killer, in a new light. It sounded like this was more than a beef between two men. If that blade is what he had suggested then that meant one of two possibilities: the killer was off one of the ships at anchor in the Basin or, he might be a German agent. We had received reports that the Germans would try and place agents in the city to report on the convoys. This was something I needed to pass along to Parks, but it could wait until I received the report.

  “You got that funny look again,” Pete said, breaking into my thoughts.

  “That was the ME. He raised an interestin’ possibility that needs lookin’ into,” I said, sitting up.

  “Yeah?”

  “We might be dealin’ with another Nazi agent.”

  “Hmm. Guess it’d make sense,” he said. “I can’t think of any reason anyone would be down that part of the city after dark. Nothin’ there except for a clear view of the Basin. Besides, they gotta be tryin’ to place people here to spy on the convoys. You gonna pass this over to Parks, or Mulroney?”

  “Yeah, soon as I get the ME’s report. We got our hands full with the Slaunwhite case. Speakin’ of which, what’d the prison say?”

  “Butler sez he wants to talk to us. Been tellin’ them to call us,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s go see what he�
��s got to say.”

  “Maybe he’ll put us onto Kline. You think he’s still in the city?”

  “Yeah. I gotta feelin’ he’s still in the city somewhere.”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “I know. I think for now we gotta get our hands on Jencks. We know he’s around. We jus’ need to nail down where.”

  “I was thinkin’, why don’t we check out that place down by the tunnel? It’s popular with the dockers and it’s close to where he’s supposed to be billeted. If nothin’ else, we might get a lead on him.”

  “Good idea,” I said, checking my watch. “Let’s go.”

  We grabbed our coats and headed up to the parking area for one of the unmarked cars.

  The tunnel is a pedestrian passageway that runs from the docks under the rail tracks exiting at the point where Barrington and Inglis Streets met. There were several known bootleggers and blind pigs in the vicinity that we knew about. We kept a constant watch on the area with stepped up street patrols to make sure people behaved, which wasn’t always that easy these days with so many sailors and soldiers adrift and looking for anything to vent their frustrations and built-up tensions. Most of these places were run out of private homes, some were quite large and also offered rooms for rent. Generally, the owners did a good job of self policing the crowds that gravitated to the area.

  We were heading to one place in particular on a short side street off Inglis just above Barrington. It was run out of an old vacant shop that the owner had partially converted into a three-room residence. When we reached the street, it was full of men in work clothes and uniforms.

  “Shit,” Pete said as he looked out the side window. “No place to park.”

  I looked up the street and saw a spot half a block up.

  “There,” I said, pointing. Pete drove ahead and eased to the curb. We got out and walked back to our destination.

  We squeezed our way through the crowd. About fifteen or so stevedores and servicemen mingled around the building front, many tending to stand with their own, smoking and talking. A few had bottles of some form of alcohol that they passed around among their mates. We noted the fact there weren’t any women in the crowd; too early in the day, besides, most of the men were dock workers and only interested in a drink. We managed to get to the door without more than a few curses from the men.

  Once inside, we found ourselves standing in a large parlor. There were other men inside all looking to purchase a bottle. The place was only large enough to accommodate a few at a time so once you got your bottle it was outside for you.

  The owners were an old couple named Gordon and Ethel Morse. He used to be a blacksmith and metalworker before arthritis set in. This was where he once ran a forge, fixing wheels, shoeing horses, and other metal work. Both Pete and I knew them.

  Ethel was just finishing a sale with a large burly man dressed in overalls and a wide black leather belt with a cargo hook wedged under it. She was around fifty or so, portly built with a full bosom. Her hair was grey and tied up in a bun on the top of her head. She wore a plain frock and an apron. At the moment, she was taking the man’s money and passing him a bottle. It looked like a pint of some kind of dark liquid. I guessed it was likely ‘shine’ made outside the city at one of the stills.

  “Well, bless me if it ain’t Detective Robichaud,” she said with a grin. “Ya ‘ere to bust us?”

  “Hello, Ethel,” I said. “No, we’re not here for you.”

  “Yeah? What din?” She was never big on chi-chat.

  “We’re lookin’ for someone. He lives up on South Bland, so he probably comes in here a lot.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “An’ who’s dis fella? Gotta name?”

  “Jencks,” I said, giving her his description.

  “Hmm, yeah, I t’ink I know the one ya mean.”

  “Good. You seen him lately?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not fer some days. Dat it?” she asked as another man nudged past me.

  “Yeah.”

  Pete had stayed by the door and was checking the crowd for Jencks. When I reached him, I asked, “Anythin’?”

  “Maybe,” he said, indicating a general area with a slight nod of his head. I looked in the direction and spotted who he saw. I had to admit, it did look a lot like the description we had for Jencks.

  “Okay, you ease that way and I’ll go this way. Let’s not spook him in case he knows we’re lookin’ for him.”

  Pete stepped down from the doorstep and blended into the crowd. I did the same the other way. Within a few minutes we were on him. I was convinced it was Jencks.

  He was about five-foot-six inches tall. He wore a heavy overcoat and a salt and pepper hat which he wore at an angle like most of the men did. He had his back to me and was talking to a couple of men. Suddenly he stiffened; must have spotted Pete closing in on him. He turned to head away and almost ran into me.

  “Jencks?” I said, as he came to an abrupt halt a few feet in front of me. “Been lookin’ for you.”

  “Shit,” he muttered, looking wildly around for a way out.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking him by the arm as Pete cuffed him. I felt his arm tighten under my hand. “Don’t be stupid. You can come easy or hard.”

  “I ain’t done nuttin. Ya cain’t do dis,” he said, sounding scared and looking over his shoulder at Pete who stood right behind him.

  “We’ll talk ‘bout that back at the station.” I started to lead him out of the crowd toward the street.

  “‘Ere, ‘Arry,” one of the men Jencks was talking with piped up. “Ya gotta a problem?”

  Pete pulled out his wallet and turned to look at the man, showing him his badge. The man put up a hand and took a short step back.

  “Smart move,” Pete said, turning away.

  We headed back to the car. I got in the back with Jencks while Pete slid behind the wheel and started the car. Jencks kept pressing us for the reasons why he was picked up, but we said nothing. I wanted to wait until we were back at the station and for him to get a lot more nervous.

  Back at the station, I put Jencks in an empty windowless room we used for interrogations then left, closing the door behind me, signalling a uniform over and telling him to make sure Jencks stayed in the room. The room was ten foot by twelve foot with only a wooden table and four wooden chairs in it. A bright harsh white light screwed into a wide brim tin shade hung from the ceiling over the table.

  “Now what?” Pete asked when I came out.

  “Let him sweat for a while.”

  “Sounds good to me. What about Butler? We still goin’ up to Rockhead?”

  “I figure you can handle him on your own.”

  “Works for me,” Pete said with a smile. “When you want me to go?”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” I said. “Me, I’m gonna have a coffee an’ read the paper before tacklin’ Jencks.”

  “You’re a cruel bastard,” he said, chuckling.

  “A perk of the job.”

  Pete laughed as he turned and headed out.

  “Good luck,” I said to his back. He tossed a short wave of his hand.

  Twenty minutes later, I returned to the interrogation room carrying two mugs of coffee and a file under my arm. Jencks was pacing the floor when I entered. I closed the door with my foot and went to the table, setting the mugs down.

  “Sit down,” I said as I sat on one of the chairs, sliding a mug across the tabletop.

  Jencks stopped, eying me suspiciously.

  “I said, sit down.”

  He slowly came to the table and sat down.

  “What’d I do? Why ya bracin’ me? I ain’t done nuttin’.”

  I opened the file and looked at him and began.

  “You were working the midnight to dawn shift at pier twenty-four three nights ago, correct?”

  He hesitated a moment then nodded his headed, “Yeah, so?”

  “Ed Kline also worked that shift with you, correct?”

&n
bsp; I could see a worried look cross his face.

  “Correct?” I repeated.

  “Why yer askin’ me? Looks like ya already know the answer.”

  “Jus’ answer the question,” I snapped.

  “Yeah...sure he was workin’ dat night, so what. So was a lotta other guys”

  “Good. Now tell me what happened between midnight an’, say, four am.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Tell me about when Louis Slaunwhite showed up.” It was a stab in the dark but maybe hinting we knew what happened might shake him up.

  “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about. I was on da apron an’ didn’t even see ‘im,” he blurted out. I saw he was really rattled now.

  “Now you know that’s a lie. So, try again.”

  “Sez who,” he said, his voice sounding shaky.

  “Never you mind who, we got witnesses that put you at a murder scene.”

  “I don’t know nuttin’ ‘bout any fuckin’ murder.” He definitely looked worried.

  “You sure ‘bout that?” I asked. “This is serious. You’re lookin’ at a possible charge for murder at the worst, or as an accessory to murder, at the least. One brings the rope.”

  “You got nuttin’ on me.”

  “Look. I know you an’ Ed Kline are mates. An’ I know you an’ Kline an’ some others, work for a man in Dartmouth, right?” I asked, trying a different tack.

  This caught him off guard.

  “How’d...?” he started to say then clammed up.

  Gotcha, I thought.

  “So?” I said.

  “I ain’t got nuttin’ to say,” he said again.

  I stared at him for several moments then stood up, closing the file. Okay. Time to turn the screws on this guy.

  “I’m tired of pissin’ around with you. You don’t want to cooperate, maybe save yer ass, then so be it,” I said. “Harry Jencks. I’m arrestin’ you for withholding information in connection with the murder of Louis Slaunwhite, an’ obstruction, an’ as an accessory in the murder of Louis Slaunwhite.”

  “Wh...!” Jencks said, jumping up from his chair.

  I went to the door, opened it and called for a cop.

  “Take this prisoner to a cell. Log it as charged with obstruction an’ the murder of Louis Slaunwhite.”