by Bill Bernico
I thought for a moment. “Can swimmers enter the water from any other place around the lake?”
“I suppose they could if they wanted to,” Chester said. “But that’s not too likely.”
“Why’s that?” I said.
“Well, because directly across the lake it’s all cattails and mud,” Chester explained. “And on the west end it’s all rock ledges. You could jump in but you couldn’t get back out again. On the east end there’s a traffic bridge. Anyone would have to be a little crazy to jump in the lake off that bridge. No, I guess if anyone’s going swimming in this lake, they’d most likely get in right here.”
I extended my hand. “Well, thank you for your time, Chester,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. Would you have a phone number where I could reach you if I think of anything else?”
Chester gave me the phone number here at the bathhouse and I wrote it down on my notepad and slipped it into my pocket. “Thanks again,” I said.
“Glad to do my part,” Chester said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr. Cooper.”
“So do I,” I said, and walked back to my car. I needed to talk to the county medical examiner, Jack Walsh. There were too many things that just didn’t add up.
Jack was in his office when I arrived. He looked up from his paperwork, smiled and then stood.
“Matt, how are you?” Jack said.
“Good, and you?” I said.
“Still on this side of the slab,” Jack said. “And that’s always a good thing. What brings you here?”
“That drowning victim that was brought in last Saturday,” I said.
“Which one?” Jack said. “We had three drownings on Saturday.”
“This one would have been a young man, around twenty or twenty-one,” I said. “They’d have probably brought him in around noon or so.”
“I remember,” Jack said. “His mother came here to identify the body. She was in bad shape, Matt. But I tell you, once she saw his blue face she just came apart. I really felt for her.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions about the kid, Jack?” I said.
“Sure,” Jack said. “Something troubling you about this one?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Just a couple of loose ends that I need to tie up.”
“Like?” Jack said.
“This may sound strange, but did he have water in his lungs?” I said.
“Most drowning victims do,” Jack said.
“No, what I mean is could this guy have been dead before he went into the water?” I said.
“Okay,” Jack said. “I see where you’re going. No, his lungs were full of water. And it wasn’t bath water, if that was going to be your next question.”
“So there’s no chance someone killed him in the bathtub and then threw the body into the lake?” I said.
“None,” Jack said. “The bath water would have had chlorine and a few other chemicals in it, maybe even soap. The water we took out had microscopic organisms in it, like you would expect to find in lake water. No doubt about it, Matt. He drowned in that lake.”
“What about any cuts or bruises on the body?” I said. “Find anything like that on him?”
Jack swiveled around in his chair and opened a drawer behind him, pulling out a report. He flipped two pages over and then turned the report around to face me. There was a drawing of a body with notations circled where there was any trauma. Jack pointed to the circle on the victim’s head.
“He had a scrape and a lump on the back of his head,” Jack said. “But that could have come as a result of being run over by the boat or the skier’s skis.”
“Is the wound consistent with the time of death?” I said.
“It was no more than an hour old by the time he ended up on my slab,” Jack said. “If you’re thinking someone slugged him and threw him in the lake, I’d have to say no. If that were the case, the wound would have had different characteristics to it. No, I’m sure that happened just before he was pulled out of the water.”
Jack pointed to two other circles on the report. “There were bruises here and here,” he said, pointing to the left shoulder area and the right wrist.
“What do you suppose made those?” I said.
“Not sure,” Jack said. “But they are a little older than the head wound. If he fell in and hit his shoulder on something, that might explain the shoulder bruise. The cut on the wrist looks more like a scrape, like he may have scraped it on a rock earlier. No way to tell.”
I scratched my head. “Back to square one,” I said. “Anything else you can tell me about this one?”
“Like what?” Jack said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem. I’m grasping as straws.”
“Well,” Jack said. “He came in here wearing swim trunks.”
“Okay,” I said, waiting for more information.
“I don’t know if it means anything or not,” Jack said, “but the string wasn’t tied.”
“String?” I said. “What string?”
“You know,” Jack said. “The string that goes around the waistband and you tie it to keep the trunks from falling off when you dive in the water. That string.”
“So?” I said. “Couldn’t it have come undone in the water?”
“Maybe the bow part,” Jack said. “But the first part of the knot would still be there. It wasn’t on these trunks. Think that means anything?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe not now, but who knows if it’ll mean something later. Thanks, Jack. I gotta get back.”
I drove back to my office no further ahead than when I started. The Wheeler kid did drown in that lake and he wasn’t hit on the head beforehand and his trunks were untied. What did all that mean? I had no idea what I was going to tell Valerie Wheeler the next time I saw her. I unlocked my door and hung my hat and coat on the rack before settling in my chair.
I turned to check a date on the calendar and noticed that I had neglected to flip it over on July first. The June picture was of a green meadow with the sun setting beyond it. I turned it over and hung the calendar on the nail again. The July picture was of a couple in a motorboat, speeding across the water and waving at someone unseen. I sat again and thought about where I might turn next for answers. A moment later I turned back and looked at the July picture. That was it.
The motorboat that was pulling the skier who had bumped over Tommy Wheeler had to have come from somewhere on the lake. I hadn’t seen any boat rental places when I went to talk to Chester, but maybe he knew of a place nearby that rented them. I pulled the notepad from my coat pocked on the rack and brought it back to my desk, flipping it open to Chester’s phone number. He answered on the third ring.
“Chester speaking,” he said,
“Chester,” I said. “It’s Matt Cooper. I was there earlier today asking about the drowning victim.”
“Yes, Mr. Cooper,” Chester said. “Did you think of something else?”
“I just wanted to ask you something,” I said. “When I was there I didn’t notice any places where a person could rent a motorboat.”
“That’s because we don’t have any,” Chester explained.
“But I saw some boats on the lake that day,” I said. “Where would they have come from?”
“The boats you saw on the lake Saturday could be personally owned or they could have been rented from Brennan’s on the other side of the bridge,” Chester explained. “The river that runs east from the bridge feeds that lake. Most people either dock their boats there or rent one from Brennan.”
“Sorry to bother you and thanks again, Chester,” I said.
“No bother at all,” Chester said. “Good bye.”
I hung up and pulled my phone book out of the bottom drawer of my desk and looked up Brennan’s. It was listed as a boat rental facility and bar. The ad in the Yellow Pages also listed water ski rentals and life jackets, along with other boating-related items. I called and waited as the phone rang
. After six rings I hung up and double-checked the number, dialing again. This time it was answered on the first ring.
“Brennan’s,” the voice said.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m checking into boat rentals. Are you the right guy to talk to?”
“Did you just call here a few seconds ago and let it ring?” The man said.
“Yes, but no one answered,” I explained.
“Well, it sometimes takes me a while to get to the phone,” he said. “So next time, just let it ring. Someone’ll answer it eventually.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Now, about those boat rentals.”
“What did you want to know?” The man said.
“Could I stop by and take a look at the boats before I make a reservation?” I said.
“Come on down,” the man said. “We’ll be here until eight tonight. Ask for Gus.”
“Is that you?” I said.
“Yup,” Gus said.
“Thanks, Gus,” I said. “I should be there within the hour.” I hung up and slipped my coat on over my .38 and dropped my hat on my head and locked up again.
Just over the bridge on the east end of the lake I found the access road to Brennan’s. I parked in front of a hitching post that seemed better suited to tying up a horse. The front door was open but covered by a screen door. As I entered a bell tinkled overhead. A voice from somewhere unseen called out to me.
“I’ll be right with you,” I heard someone say. A few moments later a man came out of the back room carrying what looked like a tackle box. He set it on the counter, wiped his hands on a towel and stepped up to me. “Can I help you, sir?”
“You Gus?” I said.
“Until someone proves otherwise,” Gus said.
“My name’s Matt Cooper,” I said. “I called a little while ago and said I’d be coming down to talk to you about boat rentals. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
Gus looked up at a round black clock on the wall, like the ones I’d seen in some of my classrooms back in high school. “I can spare five minutes,” he said. “What did you want to know?”
“I wanted to ask you about boat rentals,” I said, and waited for a response.
Gus said nothing, but raised his eyebrows as if that was an answer.
“I’d like to know about a boat you may have rented to someone last Saturday,” I said. “This rental would have probably been taken out some time in the morning. Do you remember renting a boat out around then?”
Gus thought about my questions for a moment and then offered, “I thought you wanted to rent a boat,” he said. “That’s what it sounded like when you called. Now all you want is to know about one of my renters?”
I pulled one of my business cards out and handed it to him. He read it slowly and handed it back to me. “One of my renters in some sort of trouble?” He said.
“Mr. Brennan,” I said, “Gus, I was at the lake on Saturday when that kid drowned. I’m the one who pulled him out of the lake.”
“That so?” Gus said.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “I have reason to believe that his death was not accidental and I need to find out if whoever did this to him may have rented a boat from you that morning. The boy’s mother is frantic and I’m just trying to help.”
Gus digested this new information and then offered, “I rented six boats out on Saturday.”
“Were any of those rentals in the morning?” I said.
Gus pulled a small metal recipe box off the shelf behind him and thumbed through the index cards. He pulled one out of the box and looked it over. He looked at me and said, “Now I ain’t sayin’ these fellas done anything wrong, mind you. But this was the only rental I handled before nine o’clock. The other five all went out after twelve.”
“Can you tell me who rented the boat?” I said.
“I ain’t ‘sposed to, you know,” Gus said. “My customers have a right to their privacy.”
“If there’s no connection between the drowned man and your renters, this information won’t go any further,” I assured him. “I just need to know who rented it so I can eliminate them as suspects.”
Gus looked sideways at me and then handed me the index card. I pulled my notepad out of my pocket and copied down the two names from the card. I handed the card back to Gus and he slipped it back into the box and closed it. I looked at my notes.
“This Vincent Casey and Willie Davenport,” I said. “Do you know either of them?”
“Never met either of them before,” Gus said.
“Let me ask you, Gus,” I said. “When someone rents a boat do you have to see their identification and do you get a deposit from them”
“Be a damned fool if I didn’t,” Gus said. “Otherwise they might not come back with my boat.”
I looked at the names again. “Can you describe Vincent Casey?” I said.
“Now let me see,” Gus said. “He was the taller one. I’d say he was five-ten or eleven, a hundred eighty pounds, brown hair, brown eyes and a mustache like the one Boston Blackie had, you know, a real skinny one.”
I wrote this information in my notepad. “And what about Willie Davenport?” I said. “What’d he look like?”
“Oh, he was a few inches shorter than the first guy,” Gus said. “Maybe five-seven, but heavier. I’d say close to two hundred pounds. A regular Humpty Dumpty he was. All I could see of his hair was what stuck out from under his hat. And the hair that I could see was red.”
“How old would you say these guys were?” I said.
Gus opened the recipe box again and took another look at the card, reading the information he’d taken off their driver’s licenses. “Casey was thirty-two and Davenport was thirty.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering that I’d already written this down in my notepad. “Thanks for your time and for the information, Gus. That’s all I need for now. I’ll be sure and let you know if this turns into anything.”
“Yup,” was all Gus said.
I slipped my notepad back into my pocket and left the store. I drove back downtown and parked behind the twelfth precinct. Dan was in his office when I got there.
“Come on in, Matt,” Dan said when he saw me in the doorway.
“I may have something on the Wheeler kid’s drowning,” I said. “Can you run a couple of names through records and see if anything jumps out at you?”
Dan held his hand out and I gave him my open notepad. “These two guys,” I said. “They rented a boat Saturday morning and I just need to know if they’re viable suspects or if I’m barking up the wrong tree.”
“Make yourself at home,” Dan said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
I sat there, looking around the room for anything that could hold my interest until Dan returned. On the shelf behind his desk was a framed portrait of him and his wife, Laverne and their son, Dean. Next to that was a picture of Dan in full uniform, shaking hands with the police commissioner. That must have been taken when he got promoted to lieutenant. I lost myself in thoughts of my three years on this same police force and the circumstances under which I left.
Dan came back in with a printout in his hand. He handed it to me and I read from it.
“Couple of Boy Scouts they ain’t,” I said. “Assault, ADW, racketeering, numbers and loan sharking. Regular saints. Now what would a couple of thugs like that want with a boat? I doubt they’d even know how to bait a hook, let alone reel in a fish.”
“Oh, they know how to reel in fish,” Dan said. “Only the kind of fish they go after are the ones who can’t pay back the loans. You think they were connected with the kid’s death?”
“If they are, they just sent out a message to anyone else who might be thinking of not repaying a loan,” I said. “Collections probably just got a little easier for these guys.”
“What about the kid?” Dan said. “How do you suppose he’s involved?”
“That’s anybody’s guess,” I said. “Maybe he lost a bundle gambling, I don’t know. His moth
er said he’d sometimes stay away for days. Now where do you suppose he was all that time? I’ll bet it wasn’t at a church social.”
“Suppose we look into his past as well?” Dan said. “What was his name again?”
“Tommy, Thomas Wheeler,” I said. “His mother is Valerie Wheeler.” I gave Dan Wheeler’s address and he excused himself again, returning a few minutes later with a second printout. I read this document and whistled. “Tommy’s been a busy boy, too,” I said. “Chances are he got himself a loan from either or both of these other guys and thought he’d be sitting on top of the world before long. I’d say he probably tried to parlay the loan into a bundle at some other hood’s club and lost it all. I imagine he was confronted by Casey and Davenport and gave them some hard luck story about needing an extension on the loan. I think you can fill in the rest.”
“What about Walsh’s report that ruled his death an accidental drowning?” Dan said.
“Base on what he knew at the time,” I said, “he made the right call. But he also told me that the Wheeler kid had an older bruise on his shoulder and a cut on his wrist.”
“And what do you suppose that means?” Dan said.
“I was thinking about that all the way down here,” I said. “Here’s how I see it. Casey and Davenport rent the boat Saturday morning. They somehow get Tommy Wheeler into it and get him out in the lake. My guess is that they tell him to change into the swim trunks and give him some cock and bull story about cutting him a break if he can swim back to shore. So Wheeler goes along with it, thinking he might be able to do it. He lowers himself over the side of the boat and that’s where these two guys grab him and try to hold him under the water.”
“Pretty wild scenario,” Dan said.
“I’m just guessing,” I said. “But from what I know so far, it fits. Think about it, Dan. There were no clothes, shoes or towel left on the beach or in the baskets at the bathhouse. So where were Wheeler’s clothes if he went swimming voluntarily? And his mother said he couldn’t swim anyway. He’d have to be pretty desperate or out of options to agree to try to swim to shore to keep the loan sharks at bay. Also, I spoke to Walsh and the older bruises could very well have been from a hand clamped onto his shoulder, like someone holding him under the water. The cut on his wrist, I’d say that came from thrashing around, maybe hitting it on the edge of the boat as they held him down.”