Black Tide

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Black Tide Page 2

by Brendan DuBois


  When I reached the diver I was well over my head and I treaded water as I tugged the rope coil free. I made a quick slipknot of a noose, and as I got closer to the diver's body, the sound of sirens to the south became louder. I paddled closer and another movement of water came by, and in a slight panic, I realized I was too close. I bumped into the stiff rubber flippers just as they were rising up, and one of them caught me in my mouth. I nearly gagged from the smell and taste of the rubber, and my hands were shaking as I passed the rope around the two flippers and pulled it tight. I then looped the rope a few times around my right arm and began paddling back to shore.

  By then some people were standing at the water's edge, shading their eyes from the glare in an odd type of salute, and as I swam in, I tried to do it at an angle, for the flippers were striking my back with each push toward shore, and the slimy touch of the rubber against my skin almost made me drop the rope a few times. The odor was of rubber and salt and decay, and I saw the flashing lights of a fire truck and a police cruiser, on the street side of the concrete seawall, and the movement of people.

  In another minute or two my feet touched the rough bottom and I began wading ashore, pulling the soggy rope now with both hands. I looked back quickly and saw that the diver didn't seem to have an air tank on him, which made sense. In times of panic, when a diver believes he or she is only seconds away from drowning, they tend to drop everything in a desperate attempt to reach the surface.

  This one's attempt hadn't succeeded.

  I was coughing and shivering as I walked past the surf line and onto the moist sands of the beach, dragging the diver behind me, and the crowd of people there came toward me, hands outstretched, a couple of them carrying cameras, all of them wearing bathing suits. There was an old man with dark, leathery skin, and a white fringe of hair around his sunburned skull. A fat woman in a pink suit with a skirt, holding the hands of a boy and a girl, both looking about age four or so. And a group of three teenage girls, huddled together, wearing sleek one-piece suits, whispering at each other from behind manicured hands held up to their made-up faces.

  And in a brief moment, they scattered, and some of the women --- and even a couple of the men --- started screaming and yelling. Up on the seawall a couple of cops and some firefighters began jogging toward me across the sand. The police had radio microphones in their hands and the firefighters were carrying a Stokes litter.

  I dropped the rope and looked behind me, and then quickly looked back up at the seawall, knowing that I didn't want to get sick in front of all these people, though it seemed to be a marvelous idea.

  For the diver had no head.

  Or hands.

  In about twenty minutes I was sitting against the concrete seawall, still on the beach side, and the overhanging curve of the concrete provided some shade. I had my T-shirt back on but my shoes were at my side, next to my binoculars. I was hot and my legs and feet were crusted with beach sand, and I could feel sand working its way up the wet openings of my shorts. The body of the diver was at the water's edge, now covered by a blanket, and a group consisting of Tyler police officers, firefighters, Diane Woods and another guy I didn't recognize were down there. One of the uniforms was busy taking pictures as another lifted up the blanket, and two other members of Tyler's finest were holding back the crowds. I was by myself, which was fine. I had talked a bit to the first uniforms at the scene and I waited for Diane Woods, the sole detective for Tyler, to come over to talk to me.

  In the north the clouds were quite dark and I made out a bright flash of lightning. I started counting to myself, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, and when I got up to ten, the low and long rumbling of thunder seemed to echo along the sands of the beach. About two miles away, and the clouds seemed to be heading south, toward these people and my resting place. I looked over and Diane was coming toward me, along with the guy in civilian clothes. She carried a clipboard in her hands and so did the guy. Diane had on workout sneakers and was wearing light green shorts, which I guess were long enough to be called culottes. She had on a white pullover shirt and she was wearing her detective's shield on a chain around her neck. I knew without asking that underneath that shirt and against her slim body was a holster and her revolver, a Ruger .357. Her thick light brown hair was cut shorter than its usual wedge shape and her skin had tanned nicely over the summer, except for the short white scar across her chin. That came from when she was a uniform and a drunk banged her head in the booking room at the Tyler police station.

  Diane once told me that when no one was looking later that night in the police station, she had broken one of the drunk's fingers, and although she later laughed and told me that she had made the story up, I didn't believe her. Didn't believe her making the story up, that is.

  When the guy came closer I realized who he was. Roger something. A State Police detective from Massachusetts, up to Tyler for a few weeks to see how their little neighbor to the north handles crime. For the first time in a long time, the governors of New Hampshire and Massachusetts were actually cooperating with each other --- instead of snarling about tolls, border liquor stores and out-of-state taxes --- and this detective's trip was one of the little exchange programs that were going on between the Granite State and the Bay State. When I last talked to Diane she had said, "The selectmen didn't like the idea of another detective coming aboard, Lewis, especially one from Massachusetts, but when they found out he was going to work for free, they practically offered him a full-time job. And don't laugh, but he's told me he likes it in Tyler so much he's thinking of applying for the chief's job. Jesus."

  It could be true, I thought. The police chief was away on medical leave, being treated for cancer, and if anybody knew when and if he might come back, they weren't talking. This boy was fairly smart then. Show the local yokels a good job and they'd think twice of him if the applications started coming in for the chief's position.

  "Lewis," she said when she got close to me. "I want you to meet Roger Krohn. He's the detective with the Massachusetts State Police I told you about."

  Roger looked about thirty-five, which made him my age, and he was a couple of inches taller than me and wearing a short-sleeved blue-and-white-striped shirt and tan chinos. His face was angular and his nose was just a tad too large, and he had light brown hair that was thick and parted on the side, the type of hair that dries in about five seconds and looks perfect for the rest of the day. His smile was tentative, for like all cops, he wanted to know what was going on, and he wasn't sure who I was and how I was connected with Diane. His eyes seemed blue and were squinty, as if the sun off the beach sands disturbed him.

  He held out a beefy looking hand. I reached up and grabbed it, and his grasp was dry and firm. I said, "I'm sure you don't mind that I don't instantly jump up."

  His smile became less tentative. "I can see why. Not a problem." Diane said, "Lewis is our resident writer in this town. He writes for a magazine out of Boston, called Shoreline."

  Roger looked slightly impressed. "Really? A magazine writer. But Lewis, I'm sorry to say that I've never heard of Shoreline."

  "Don't worry," I said. "It seems like no one has."

  Diane smiled at me and squatted down and said, "I've read over what you gave the first guys on the scene. Fairly straightforward, Lewis. Anything else you can add? Anything more since you've been here?"

  The taste of rubber was still strong in my mouth. "Nope. Just taking it easy on my rear deck and spotted something floating off North Beach. Figured it was a lump of seaweed or a large tar ball until I saw the flippers poke up."

  Roger said, "You have good eyesight."

  "I was using binoculars. Seven-by-fifties."

  He smiled. "Checking out the babes on the beach, right?"

  I decided then that Detective Roger Krohn had a wonderful career ahead for him in Massachusetts, where he and I would probably never meet again.

  I said, "I'm sure it might come as a surprise to someone from the big city
, but when you live by the ocean, you like to look at the ocean. Sailboats. The Isles of Shoals. Birds."

  Diane said quietly, no doubt trying to defuse the situation, "Then what?"

  "Then I called Tyler dispatch and grabbed some rope and came down here and went into the water. Damn near froze everything I'm proud to own. And then I snagged the body with the length of rope and dragged it in, and when I saw what happened to it, I nearly lost the day's meals, and then I started talking to your comrades."

  "Why did you do it, Lewis?" Roger asked, also squatting down next to me.

  "Do what?" I said.

  "Go into the water like that to retrieve the body," he said. "It wasn't like the guy was in trouble or was drowning. You could have waited."

  I thought of what I should have said to him. That some years ago friends of mine had died in the high desert of Nevada, and that all their families knew was the lie that they had died in an aircraft accident, that the bodies were burned and charred beyond recognition, and that no remains were retrievable. That somewhere, somebody would want this poor body in the ocean back, and I wasn't going to allow it to drift away.

  Instead I said, "It seemed to be the thing to do."

  Roger nodded and got up and brushed some sand from his pant legs and said, "Pretty ballsy move."

  "I beg your pardon?" I asked.

  By then he almost looked shy, and I noticed that he was developing a bit of gut, and he didn't seem so perfect after all. "Listen, Lewis, I didn't mean to jerk you around like that. Place I come from, the only time someone wants to retrieve a body, they want to see if it's carrying a fat wallet. Know what I mean? So I didn't mean to come on to you that strong. And I meant what I laid --- going in after this floater was a pretty ballsy move."

  I decided then that I was tired and felt miserable and that Roger Krohn probably didn't kill puppies for a living. I said, “Not a problem."

  He shook my hand again and said, "Diane? Will you excuse me for a minute? I want to see how the photos are coming along." She said that was just fine and when Roger was out of earshot I said, "Is he as good a detective as he is a politician?"

  Diane was balancing the clipboard on her knees, which were tanned. "What do you mean?"

  “After giving me the big smart detective routine, he remembered that you and I were friends. And then he was Mr. Apologies.”

  She laughed and said, "Stories he's been telling me about Boston, Lewis, would curl your hair. And I mean stories about politics and the work. So cut him some slack. He's not too to the slow pace of this town."

  I nodded over at the people standing around the body. “Some slow pace, Diane."

  “Yeah, I know."

  "I never did take forensics or animal science in college, but I would say that the poor diver did more than drown, and I don't think his body was nibbled on by sharks or tumbled around by a boat's propeller while he was in the water. Someone took off his head and hands, Diane. Nice and clean."

  She looked down at her clipboard. "That's a fair observation. Someone did take care of this guy, wanting to make it hard for him to be identified, and they did a pretty good job. Oh, we'll check his wet-suit gear to see if it was rental, and we'll do a canvass of the dive shops up and down the coast, see if that works. But I doubt it. If there's anything traceable on that wet suit, I'll give you good odds that it's already gone. Starting the job to ID this guy means we're already starting from a deep hole."

  By now Roger Krohn was back with the small group of officers around the body, clipboard in hand. A few yards away a young Tyler police officer in his dark green uniform was talking to two young ladies in black-and-white bikinis. Their skins were oily and slick and even with that horror only some feet away, they were smiling at the officer. I guess his presence had a calming effect.

  I said, "But without an identity, what's the point?"

  She got back up on her feet. "What do you mean?"

  "Without word getting out that this guy is dead, what's the point?" I asked. "The only people who'll know that our diver is dead are the guys who did it. So maybe they left the wet suit on as a message, so someone reading tomorrow's paper will know that his or her husband, brother or father --- who's also missing from a trip up here involving skin diving --- has just turned up at Tyler Beach with his head and hands missing. They get the message. And it'll be interesting to see what kinds of calls you get, once this hits the papers." "

  Not a bad thought," she said, and when I decided to stand up and go home, she said quietly, "You intending to write a column about this one?"

  I brushed the sand off my hands and looked at her. She didn't look mad or angry. Just curious. Each month I have a 2,0000-word column in Shoreline, called "Granite Shores." I have the freedom to write about practically anything I want, so long as it has something to do with this state's eighteen-mile coast, the shortest in the United States. Shoreline covers the New England coast, from Eastport in Maine to Greenwich Point in Connecticut, and what with the boating industry, the US. Navy and the hundreds of years of history along these New Hampshire shores, I've not yet tired of having to come up with a monthly column.

  Then there are my other projects, my other "columns." One was my current attempt to find out the parties responsible for the Petro Star. Other columns I've done in the past in Tyler have led me down some paths that have also been trod upon by Diane Woods, and over the years we have come to an agreement on what I do. So I knew that my answer to her one question would cause her to make some decisions and assumptions about her investigation. I decided then to make it clean and clear.

  I said, "Diane, I'm tired. I've been tired for a while. I think I'm going to pass on doing a column on this one."

  She put the clipboard under her arm. In the dark clouds approaching from the north, there was a flash of lightning, and a boom that came only a few seconds later. Less than a mile away and closing fast. "You still feeling down from your operation?"

  I shrugged. "I'm doing better. Honest. And I appreciate the cards and visits last month, you know that. And if this had happened last summer, yeah, I'd probably be doing a column. But right now, well, I'm not particularly interested in looking up the names and addresses of people who can sleep at night after cutting someone's head and hands off."

  She nodded. "I know, I know," she said, almost sighing, turning to look down at the group around the body and then turning back to look at me. "This past summer's been rough, Lewis, real rough. And with the chief's condition up in the air… The department's in a shambles, with the two deputy chiefs practically pounding on each other over who sets policy and controls the budget. I just try to do my job, but it doesn't seem like I've been winning that much, Lewis. There's too much going on with too many tourists and not enough cops, and then this diver washes up ashore. And now I'm going to have to try to look up those names and addresses you mentioned."

  For a moment her face was troubled, as though she had gone many hours without sleep and seen many awful things with thick smells, and she said with a bleak tone, ''At least you have a choice, Lewis. "

  And then she went back to the body.

  When I made my way up the short concrete stairs that led to the opening through the seawall that was next to the sidewalk on Atlantic Avenue, a young woman was coming through, wearing loose black slacks, white sneakers and a plain white T-shirt. She had a handbag over her shoulder and a reporter's notebook in her hand, and she had on dark aviator-type sunglasses. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and her ears stuck out at a slight angle. Paula Quinn, reporter for the Tyler Chronicle and second-best writer in Tyler, stopped at the bottom of the steps as I came closer.

  And then she surprised me. She actually smiled. "Lewis Cole. I guess the story is true. You were the one who discovered the body."

  "My reputation precedes me," I said, conscious that she looked as if she had just stepped away from a beach party, while I looked as if I had spent the night inside the North Beach rest rooms. My shorts and NASA T-shirt w
ere soaked and crusty with beach sand. I carried my binoculars in my right hand, and I was happy to leave behind the rope I had brought to the beach.

  "Maybe your reputation does precede you, but the cop directing traffic up there told me you were here."

  "How did you hear?"

  "Came over the scanner, Lewis. We started something where we rotate weekend duty, and I have to check with the local cop shops. I also have to stay within ten miles of home in case a story breaks, like this one. It really stinks. But tell me what happened."

  I said, "Off the record?"

  "Off the record." She nodded, and I told her. She took a few notes, and even with what had happened --- or hadn't happened --- I trusted her not to use me in her story. There are many times I like to keep a low profile, and this was one of those times. Being publicly ID'd as the guy who discovered a headless and handless diver would definitely not contribute to that fine effort.

  Then she looked up at me and said, "How are you feeling, Lewis?"

  A lot of things and phrases came to mind, and I just said, “I’m doing okay. And thanks for your cards. Both of them."

  The minute I said those last three words, I regretted it. But her smile didn't waver. She nodded and said, "That was a good one. I guess you are doing better."

  "I guess." She just stood there, and I said, "It's been a while, Paula. Haven't seen you since you spent the night at my place, back in June. Before I went into the hospital. How are you doing?"

  She shook her head and said, "I'm doing all right."

  I said nothing and she returned the favor, and then she sighed and said, "Lewis, I'm sorry but this conversation is like being in a dentist's chair without Novocain. I've got to get to work and talk to Diane Woods and find out what the hell is going on. Look, I know we've got some things that need to be cleared up but I've got to get this story. I'll give you a call."

  Paula went by and I said nothing else, because with my wet clothes and what I had seen on the beach sand and other things, I was in no mood to talk. I just nodded my head and walked across the street to my Range Rover.

 

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