by Alex P. Berg
I gave Harris a nod. “Did you or anyone else touch the body?”
“Didn’t have to,” said the dock worker. “Tide’s going out. Will be for another couple hours. Besides, none of us wanted any part of touching that.”
I understood what Harris meant as I closed to within sniffing range. The dude was ripe, like a dumpster behind a sushi restaurant on the hottest day of summer. He wore similar garb to Harris: a woolen sweater underneath a wine-colored jacket, a thick woolen cap of the same hue, grey canvas pants, but no shoes. He was also only barely discernable as a ‘he.’ The beard gave his gender away, but the other fleshy parts of him were a horrifying mess. Birds, fish, and crabs had eaten their fill of the man, pecking at his eyes and cheeks and lips. Bits of bone, teeth, and gristle peeked through holes in his face, the majority of which had turned a shade of bluish-green.
I swallowed hard and looked away, keeping the contents of my stomach in place only through sheer force of will.
Steele shook her head, giving me a disappointed look. “And to think you gave me a hard time for getting queasy during our early cases.”
“Hey, gore I can handle,” I said. “Decay is another matter. Cairny? You’re up.”
Cairny pulled a pair of delicate white gloves from the pockets of the jacket she wore and donned them before kneeling next to the body. She trailed her eyes across the mangled corpse, touching an ear, tilting the head, pulling on the edge of the jacket or the hem of the pants, her lips pressed tightly together all the while.
I gave Harris another nod. “Tell us everything you know.”
“There’s not much to tell,” he said. “Already told you how me and Frederick and Tolliver ran across the body this morning. Around eight I’d say. We sent for the police. Your man arrived within the hour. We’ve been waiting for you ever since.”
“And I’m assuming you didn’t see any signs of activity around the beach this morning? Mysterious individuals loitering about, footsteps in the sand, anything of that nature?”
The dock worker gave me a cockeyed look. “Look, mate, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure he washed ashore.”
“Just checking,” I said. “It’s possible someone left him here, intending for you to find him, looking like he’d been brought in by the tides. I’ve encountered weirder things in my time.”
Harris shook his head. “Well, I didn’t see anything like that. Just the body, that’s it.”
I turned back to the mangled corpse. Shay and Quinto had joined Cairny and the flies within buzzing range. I tied my stomach down and joined them.
“So, Cairny,” I said. “What are we dealing with? A death, or a murder?”
“Oh, definitely the latter,” she said without looking up. “Check out the feet.”
I grimaced. “Do I have to?”
“The man’s skin has been picked apart by wildlife,” said Cairny, “but if you look at his ankles, you’ll see more than that. The flesh has sloughed off, a result of ropes cutting into his muscle and ultimately slipping off after a number of days of decomposition. I’d say somewhere between seven and ten.”
“So someone tied weights to his ankles and pushed him off the edge of a boat?” asked Shay.
Cairny nodded. “I’d assume as much.”
“Could be a mob hit, except for the shoddy knot work.” I rubbed my chin. “Was he dead when he hit the water, or did he drown?”
“Hard to tell,” said Cairny. “As you can see, he’s in rough shape. I’ll need to get him back to the morgue before I make any guesses as to the manner of his demise.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out what did him in sooner or later,” said Shay. “The bigger problem, I think, is going to be figuring out who this guy is.”
Quinto nodded grimly. “Yeah. Every last scrap of Boatreng’s artistic ability isn’t going to help us if the sketch he produces looks like something out of a nightmare. I’m not even sure if one of this guy’s next of kin will be able to identify him given the state he’s in.”
I thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, but Quinto was right about the sketch. We wouldn’t be able to figure out his identity showing that around. All we’d accomplish would be to give people the shakes.
I shrugged. “We haven’t checked his pockets. We might get lucky.”
Shay shot me a glance. “I don’t see you volunteering.”
“Damn right you don’t.”
Quinto sighed. “And to think you two get paid more than me.”
The big guy knelt, rolled up his sleeves, and starting patting down the corpse’s coat. He lifted the flaps and checked the interior pockets, then moved on to the pants. He shook his head, wiping the sand from his knees as he stood.
“Nothing,” he said. “Looks like his assailants cleaned him out before leaving him to the fishies. Unless the crabs stole his wallet…”
“Unlikely,” said Cairny. “To my knowledge, crabs aren’t one of the species that exhibit symptoms of kleptomania. Many animals are thieves, but only when it comes to food or other natural resources that grant a tangible benefit to survival. A wallet wouldn’t. A bowerbird, on the other hand, might’ve taken it, but there’s none of those in these climes.”
“A what bird?” said Quinto.
Cairny looked up from the corpse. “A bowerbird. The males of the species build mating lairs out of sticks and decorate them with all sorts of gaudy trinkets to attract females. In the wild, they use brightly colored objects such as stones and fruit, but bowerbirds living in proximity to urban environments have been found to use trash of all kinds as decorations. But that’s not even the most intriguing fact about bowerbirds. Did you know they employ the physical principle of forced perspective while crafting their bowers? Ornithologists suspect they do so to make themselves appear larger and more attractive to prospective females.”
Quinto scratched the buzzed hair on the top of his head. “Really, I was just making a joke…”
“More on topic, though,” said Shay as she gazed at the dead guy. “I think we might be able to identify the victim via other means.”
“Such as?” I asked.
Shay gave me a sharp look, one that either indicated disappointment in me for not noticing the same clue she had or one that meant she was still steamed at me for other reasons. “The man’s coat is monogrammed. Over the right breast. NFC. Could be his initials. Or given that his coat and hat are matching in color, his clothing could be part of a uniform. It’s possible NFC are the initials of the company he worked for.”
I hadn’t noticed the lettering initially, probably because the coat was so tattered. The crabs and fish may not have stolen the man’s clothing, but they’d certainly tried to eat it. There were at least a hundred small rips, tears, and pockmarks in the fabric, as there were in the stiff’s pants and, presumably, his cap and sweater. Those were knit, which made it harder to tell.
I turned to Harris, who stood by the edge of the wooden steps with Poundstone. “NFC mean anything to you?”
The dock worker shook his head. “Sorry. But I’m only familiar with the shipbuilding and transportation businesses here in the district, east of the Earl.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I said.
Harris pointed into the water. “Currents flow west to east. Do all along the shoreline, for hundreds of miles until the transverse thermals break the trend. If this guy got dumped at sea, he probably floated here from someplace to the west. No way to know where, though. He could’ve been dumped five miles out or a hundred.”
“A hundred miles?”
“Or more.”
I sighed, turning back to my crew. “I think this case is going to redefine the term legwork.”
“Not for me,” said Cairny. “I need to get this body to the lab to start a more thorough analysis. Canvassing the surrounding areas lies on the wrong side of the line separating mortuary and detective work.”
“Lucky you,” I said.
“You could help me transport the body first,�
� said Cairny. “I’m sure Captain Knox wouldn’t object.”
My nose wrinkled as I took another look at the corpse. “On second thought, I could use the exercise. Quinto? Steele? Let’s hoof it.”
4
I walked down a rickety dock, the salt- and spray-weakened boards under me clattering against their loosened nails with each of my steps. A fisherman wearing a set of suspenders and with his arms bare coiled rope on the deck of his boat, a modest vessel with a green hull and the name The Drag Queen painted in stenciled letters across the bow.
I waved as I got close. “Ahoy there. Nice ship you’ve got.” I made sure not to call the vessel a boat. I’d made that mistake more than once already.
The fisherman looked up. “Ahoy there, yerself. An’ the Queen accepts yer praise with a knowin’ but humble thanks. She’s one of the best trawlers in the Wel Sea, an’ she darn well knows it.”
Was the fisherman speaking on behalf of his ship? I’d met some oddballs on my morning’s travails, but none that odd. “A troller?”
“Get the wax outta yer ears,” said the fisherman. “Do ya see any outriggers? She’s a trawler, not a troller.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Right. My mistake.”
The man kept coiling rope. “Ya need something?”
I felt a sense of déjà vu as I launched into my spiel, probably because I’d gone through the same set of questions about fifty times already over the past hour and a half.
“I do, actually. The name’s Jake Daggers, NWPD. We found a body washed ashore this morning a few miles from here, over at A&G Shipbuilding. The guy’d been lost at sea, probably for a week or two based on our best guess. We’re trying to figure out who he is. He was wearing a jacket with the letters NFC stitched over the right chest. I don’t suppose that acronym means anything to you?”
The fisherman barely looked at me as he finished with one massive coil and moved onto the next. “You be supposin’ right. Them letters aren’t ringin’ any of me bells.”
“They could be the man’s initials,” I said. “Or an abbreviation of his company.”
“Or an abbreviation of his ship’s moniker.”
I perked. “You think?”
“Probably not. Never heard of any bloke who put his ship’s initials on his jacket, but there’s all kinds o’ odd folk out at sea.”
I held my tongue. “So can you think of any ships with names that start with the letters NFC?”
The fisherman stood and scratched his temple. “Well, let’s see now… The Naomi Francone? No, that would just be NF, wouldn’t it? Well, if not her… Oh! I’ve got it. The Knack Fer Catchin.’ I’ve seen her out in the bay a few times. I’d guess she’s local.”
“Wouldn’t that be KFC?”
The fisherman frowned. “Would it? Eh, I suppose so…”
I suppressed a sigh. “What about a uniform? Do you know any seafaring companies or organizations where the employees wear maroon jackets and knit caps?”
“Not sounding familiar, there. Sorry.”
I gave the man a halfhearted wave. “Not a problem. Thanks for your time.”
I headed back up the dock toward the main wharf, where I saw Steele and Quinto approaching from the far side. Upon reaching solid ground, I rested my backside against the concrete railing and waited, letting the cool sea breeze tickle the back of my neck.
I tried not to let a sour mood overtake me, but my feet were already complaining from all the walking. Canvassing was unequivocally my least favorite part of detective work, and I couldn’t help but simmer over the fact that Steele had once again chosen to head off with Quinto rather than stay with me. Not that we were working together, exactly. We’d all split up upon arrival at the wharf to be able to talk to as many fishermen as possible, but my eyes didn’t deceive me. Shay had chosen to head over to Quinto’s side of the pier each and every time before branching out on her own.
I gave the pair a nod once they broke into hailing range. “I sure hope you had better luck than I did.”
“By the tone of your voice, I’d guess not,” said Quinto. “Not a man I talked to had ever heard the initials NFC, much less knew what they stood for.”
“Man or woman,” corrected Steele.
Quinto gave her a dubious look. “I’m all for political correctness, but I’ll be honest, I didn’t meet a single female working any of those vessels. Did you?”
“Yes, actually,” said Steele. “At least, I think so. She was an ogre. It was hard to tell.”
“Gender confusions aside, I’ll bet your outings fared better than mine,” I said. “This last guy I talked to thought his boat had a mind of its own, and he mistook the letter N for the letter K.”
“Like in the word knot?” asked Shay.
“Knack, actually, but yeah.”
Quinto sighed. “Normally, I don’t mind legwork, not on nice days like today, but it could take us days to canvass all the marinas in New Welwic—and weeks longer if we have to expand our search outside the city.”
“Think the dockworker at A&G was giving an accurate estimate of a hundred miles as our target radius?”
Quinto shrugged. “Might be, but I’d suspect it’s what we’d normally call a WAG.”
“Wives and girlfriends?” I said.
Quinto snorted. “The other meaning. Steele, you noticed the monogram in the first place. You have any better ideas for identifying the stiff than our current spray and pray method?”
Shay cocked an eyebrow. “Well—”
“Fishy,” I interrupted.
Steele and Quinto both shot me odd looks.
“The corpse needed a name. I like Fishy. It humanizes him. Makes him more than an odious pile of rotting flesh. And how come you automatically assumed Steele would have a better idea about how to proceed than me, Quinto? I noticed the monogram, too, you know.”
Quinto frowned. “I asked her because she has good ideas. And it doesn’t matter if you noticed the lettering. This isn’t a competition.”
“Good thing, too,” I muttered. “Otherwise I’d get picked last every time.”
Shay crossed her arms. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just seems like no one wants to ride in rickshaws with me. No one wants to canvass the piers with me. Either I smell worse than Fishy or I’m really bad at dodgeball.”
Quinto held up his hands. “This isn’t my fight. You two do whatever you want. I’m heading to Public Records. They should have information on individuals and corporations with the initials NFC. It’s a scattershot approach, but it’s sure to be better than this. I’ll see you back at the precinct.”
Quinto shook his head as he stomped off between the seaside warehouses and back toward the main thoroughfare. Shay stood there, her arms still crossed and a piqued look on her face. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“We’re here. Alone, more or less. Would you care to talk things over, perhaps in a more reasoned manner this time?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
“Great. You can start by apologizing.”
I sputtered as I pushed myself off the concrete railing. “What? Apologize? For what?”
One of Shay’s eyebrows shot up. “You seriously can’t think of anything?”
“Hey, I’ve gotten to a point now where I can admit mistakes. I fully agree the crap hit the proverbial fan last night, but I don’t see how any of it was my fault.”
“Okay. Let me count the ways.” Shay ticked items off on her fingers. “You deliberately stepped on and nearly killed my parent’s cat. You spilled wine all over the table. You spilled wine all over my mother. You accused my family of badgering and needling you incessantly, and you acted like a huge ass about all of the above in the aftermath. Need I go on?”
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” I said. “I didn’t intentionally kick Barnabus. He bit me. I lashed out. It was instinctual, and everything else was a logical extension thereo
f. The wine went flying because I lost my balance. And I’m telling you, I already apologized about kicking the little feline agitator when it happened.”
“You said you apologized about the wine, not the cat.”
“Whatever. Same difference. It was all connected.”
“And my family?”
“What about them?”
“Do you plan on apologizing about the way you treated them?”
I sputtered some more, my eyes bulging. “Are you kidding? They’re the ones who should apologize to me.”
Shay scoffed. “About what?”
“Look,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’ve told you why. I’ve explained how they welcomed me. At some point you’re going to have to make a decision to trust me or them. It’s not always going to work both ways.”
Shay sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Clearly you’re not ready to deal with this like an adult. Let’s just…go back to the station. Maybe the Captain will have some suggestions about what to do next.”
Shay set off along the same path Quinto had taken. Part of me wanted to hang back and sulk, to stew in my sorrowful, masculine juices, but I couldn’t. Shay was my partner. Even though I might be upset with her, I couldn’t let that get in the way of our work. The captain wouldn’t forgive me for it, nor would I in the long run. Besides, two separate rickshaw rides back to HQ weren’t in the budget, and I didn’t feel like walking.
5
My ride back to the precinct was roughly the same as the one out to A&G, containing slightly less conversation and equal amounts of breeze-driven hair slapping me in the face. I didn’t think any of it boded well for my immediate future, and I fully expected to return to my desk to sit down and begin an extended period of brooding interspersed only by the occasional piercing stare from my partner or a dressing-down from the captain.
Thankfully, a note circumvented that most unpleasant of possible futures. I picked it up as I reached my workspace, scanning my eyes across the neat calligraphy.