by Ted Wood
Dobos nodded. "I remember that, yeah."
"Good." I turned back to Murphy. "Can you get back on the phone to the Levine house, please, Murph. They've got a place on the east shore, up past the narrows. Ask them to get the boy to call me when he comes in."
"Okay," Murphy said. "And McKenney's on his way down; should be here in a few minutes."
"Thanks," I said, and turned to the two men again. "I've got some things to do right away. I'd be obliged if you could wait until I can take a proper statement."
They agreed, and I stepped into the boat and took a close look at the boy's face. There was the ugly break of the wound, and the rest of his face was dull reddish and puffy. The eyes were half-open, and the jaw had dropped. He looked as if he might have drowned, but I would have to wait for Dr. McQuaig to tell me for sure. In the meantime, I was juggling the obvious first questions. Had these two men killed him? They seemed innocent, but it's an axiom of homicide investigations that the body is often "discovered" by the perpetrator. Many of them can't stand the tension of waiting for somebody else to find it.
I was also thinking about the geography they'd given me. To land up south of Indian Island the boy must have gone in at the west side of the narrows or from a boat. I dismissed the idea of his falling in at the narrows. He must have gone off a boat to have drifted as far as he had in four hours. And that meant that somebody else knew something about him, either his killer or the person whose boat he had fallen out of. Of course, he might have been out alone and fallen, banging his head on the way, but the wound looked more serious than something he could have done casually like that. And besides, the men who found him would probably have seen an empty boat.
I stepped back out and spoke to them again. Tossing the question out as if it had nothing to do with the case.
"You gentlemen up here alone or with other people?"
"I'm with my wife and daughter. They're at the house," Dobos said immediately. "So's Jack's fiancée."
"Well, we won't keep you long," I promised, feeling relieved that my judgment had been right: they were both straight. It didn't mean they couldn't have killed the boy, but it cut the odds considerably. I ignored them and thought over the information Kennie's parents had given me. "Was he wearing a camera around his neck when you found him?"
They looked at one another blankly. Then Innes said, "No, he was just like this. I never saw anything else, even before we got him into the boat."
I stepped back into the boat to look at the body again. The crowd was still shoving toward Sam's magic circle, waiting for me to do something brilliant, I guess. Only there isn't room for brilliance at a time like this. You move slowly. The investigation has to start with facts, and finding them takes time and patience, not car chases. Life can be a lot more boring than television.
Without moving the body, I saw that there was a round cylinder in the right pants pocket. A film container, possibly, hopefully the one he had finished before he put in the new film he had bought at the store. Maybe there'd be something useful on it. Aside from that there was nothing else remarkable about the body, but I kept looking until the hearse arrived from the funeral parlor.
McKenney got out. He's short and round, and he never wears anything other than a black suit with white shirt and black tie. He was in uniform now, incongruous among the T-shirts and casual wear of the onlookers. He stopped at the back of the crowd, and I got out of the boat and moved the people aside so he could back the hearse up, close to the water's edge.
He opened the back door and took out a little trolley, like a hospital gurney, only flat-bottomed and squared, big enough to accommodate a coffin. It's not fancy, but we don't have a local ambulance. McKenney is the only person for fifty miles with anything suitable for moving a body. He nodded to me and glanced at the boy, as if he were wondering if he had the right size of coffin in stock. "Just a child," he said with practiced sadness.
"Thirteen years old," I agreed. "Can you give me a hand, please?"
The body was still fresh enough to be limp, and it weighed almost nothing as we lifted it out of the boat and set it on the cart. I helped McKenney lift the cart back into his vehicle. Some overanxious youth in the crowd started forward to help us, rolling his cigarette dead center in his mouth for the effort, but Sam snarled and he retreated, muttering. I glanced at him, storing a note of his description. The murderer of a child often turns up at the murder scene or at the funeral.
I got back into the boat and checked it, from end to end, especially where the body had been lying. The boat was a cedar strip, hired from the lodge where the young men were staying. They keep their equipment tidy, and there was nothing in the bottom but two fishing rods and tackle boxes, a minnow bucket, and a cooler.
I flipped open the cooler. It was full of beer, on ice. Somebody in the crowd said, "I'll have one o' them," and people laughed. Now that the boy was out of sight, the festivities could continue. I shut it down and opened the tackle boxes, which were full of the kinds of lure we use up here, Mepps and Daredevls and Williams Wablers—nothing unusual. I glanced at the ends of the fishing rods. Both men were using minnows that had dried and withered out of the water. Their story was holding up. The bait pail was almost full. The men seemed to be legitimate, a couple of ordinary fishermen who had stumbled on the body.
I got out of the boat and nodded to Innes and Dobos. "Thanks for what you did. Can I see you at the station around seven this evening, just to finish the paperwork?"
They both agreed, and I spoke to McKenney, who was standing at the door of his hearse, ignoring the crowds, like a chauffeur waiting for a rock star. "Shall I go now, Chief?" He smiled at me, uncovering store-bought teeth as white as a fresh marble headstone.
"Sure, Les. Can you take him to your place? I'll be up there as soon as I've visited the parents."
"Sure, Chief," he said in the same hushed voice.
"One moment, first." I stopped him as he went to shut the door of the hearse and reached inside to dig into the boy's right-hand pants pocket. As I'd thought, the bulge was a roll of film, in the little black cylinder with the gray cover. I should have waited until I'd formally searched the body, but I wanted to get this to Carl for processing right away.
I spoke to the crowd. "Okay, everybody, that's it. Go on home now." They looked at me as if I were Moses pointing to the Promised Land, but nobody moved.
Murphy was still standing in the same place, ill at ease. I turned to him. "Thanks, Murph. If anybody comes down the lock who might have been in the vicinity between noon and now, hold them and call me at the station, would you, please?"
"Sure will." You could tell he was wishing he was coming with me, still part of the police department, privy to all the answers I would try to find. He turned away, hiding his bitterness, and said, "I'll just open the lock now. Mustn't keep people waiting."
Sam came with me to the car, and the crowd started to disperse, the younger people laughing, kidding one another, brave again now that death had been put out of sight. One kid around seventeen puffed up beside me as I walked and asked, "What happens now?"
His face was a posy of acne blotches, and he was bursting to ingratiate himself, a lonely loser. Behind him I could see a couple of others his age, ordinary-looking boys who probably figured he was going to get his ears burned for talking to me, hiding their sniggers as they watched. I told him, "I have to do a few things. There's a procedure, you know."
"Is there?" He was screwing his courage up tight, and he blurted out, "Do you ever deputize guys, like when you need help?"
"Doesn't happen often," I told him, "but if it does, I'll keep you in mind. What's your name?"
"Ron Lacey," he said eagerly. "I'm at Bass Rocks Lodge—you know where it is?"
"Sure. Thanks." I nodded to him and went on. I'm not in business to play games with people, but lonely kids get to me. The car seats were scorching hot under the August sun, and I wound all the windows down before setting out on the errand I hated to make. It's
the worst part of a policeman's job, breaking bad news. I went over a couple of approaches in my mind, searching for a way to soften the worst words a parent can ever hear.
Their car was still parked where it had been before, and there was nobody in sight, but the moment I got out of my car the screen door burst open and Mrs. Spenser ran out, her face anxious. "Have you heard anything?"
I waited until I was close before I said, "Yes, Mrs. Spenser. I'm sorry to tell you I have, and it's bad news."
She buckled at the knees, and I grabbed her elbow to stop her from collapsing. She was sobbing helplessly. "He's hurt. That's it, isn't it?" God, I hate my job at times.
"Shall we go inside where you can sit down?" I suggested, but she toughened at once and jerked her elbow away from me. "What is it? Don't play games with me."
Behind her the screen door had opened, and her husband came out, his hair ruffled as if he had been sleeping. He shouted something, but I didn't listen. I told her, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Spenser, but a boy answering Kennie's description has been found drowned."
She turned away from me, blundering toward the cottage, both arms pumping as she wailed, "No, no," over and over. I stood for a moment, expecting her husband to try to hold her and console her, but he didn't. He stormed out at me, finger pointing like a gun.
"You useless, stupid bastard. Why didn't you find him before this could happen?"
I said nothing, and suddenly he collected himself and turned away, still not holding his wife but walking beside her as if she were a stranger in distress. "It's a mistake. I'm sure it's a mistake," he said, and turned to me and shouted, "It's a mistake, isn't it?"
I shook my head and said, "No, I'm sorry. A boy was found by two fishermen. I'll have to ask you to come and see if it is your son."
"You're not sure?" He roared it at me, posturing again.
"It's a sandy-haired boy wearing a Camp Sunrise T-shirt and blue jeans," I said, and he closed his mouth abruptly. After a moment's indecision he went to his wife, who was leaning against the wall of the cottage, her face buried in her hands. He stood for a few seconds, then reached out to touch her shoulder, moving cautiously, as if he were afraid she would brush his arm aside. He spoke softly. "It still might be a mistake, Carol. I'll go with the cop and see."
She whirled and held his sleeve. "I'll come, too." She had bitten back her tears now. Her face was desolate, but she brushed her hands across her eyes and repeated, "I'll come." He hesitated, and I could sympathize with him for the first time. He wasn't the boy's father; there was almost nothing he could do to soften her grief. I could see his mouth working, and I guessed he was craving the comfort of his gin.
She came toward me, with him a pace behind her. "Where is he?"
"In town," I said. She'd see the location soon enough. I didn't want to hurt her anymore.
"I'll drive behind you," she said, and turned to her husband, quiet and strong. "Get the keys, Ken. They're on the table."
We waited without speaking until he returned. She swiped at her eyes once more with the sleeve of her T-shirt and sniffed. When her husband came back, he was calmer. I wondered if he'd given himself a quick snort. He gave her the keys, and they got into the car.
We drove back, them twenty yards behind me. There were still a lot of people at the lock, but I could see in the rearview mirror that she didn't even glance their way. She followed me as if I were leading the funeral procession that would start in a few days' time.
I took them in, through the front of the funeral parlor. A small crowd had gathered outside, and they fell silent when we arrived. Mrs. Spenser didn't even look at them. She walked stiffly up the steps a pace in front of her husband.
Inside it was cool and smelled of flowers. Organ music was playing softly, and a couple of elderly women were standing in the doorway of one of the two rooms where McKenney laid out his clients. They looked at the Spensers and then at one another, and one of them nodded.
I sat the Spensers on chairs in the passageway and asked them to please wait. Then I went in through the double doors at the back, to McKenney's workroom. It's a sinister place with stainless-steel tables and a big sink and bottles of chemicals on shelves. McKenney was there with his assistant, a not-too-bright local kid who probably took the job because nobody else wanted it. His biggest assets are a permanently sad face and a total lack of imagination. They were standing over the boy's body, staring at it with professional interest.
McKenney said, "You know, Chief, he didn't drown."
"Are you sure?" I looked at the body again, comparing it with the very few drowning victims I've seen. The only thing I could see, beside the injury, was the absence of one shoe and sock.
McKenney put his pudgy white forefinger down close to the boy's mouth. "Most times, if the body's fresh, like this one, there's froth around the mouth. The doctor says it's something to do with the lungs being full of water."
"The guys who found him said he was deep. He'd have been closer to the surface if his lungs were empty," I said, not arguing, just looking for facts.
McKenney nodded. "Yes, I agree. I'm just saying, it's unusual."
I thought about what he was saying and then reached out and pushed the cuff of the boy's jeans up on the bared foot. The ankle was scraped raw.
McKenney pointed to the scrape before I could speak. "Look at that. His foot must have been snarled in something—rocks, maybe."
"Maybe," I said thoughtfully. It all jibed with what the fisherman had said. The body had been slow to move. Dobos thought he had struck a rock; then it came easily. He must have pulled it free of the encumbrance, pulling the shoe and sock off at the same time. "Look, I want Dr. McQuaig to see him as soon as possible, but first we have to get the identification done. I've got the parents out front. Can you bring him out? Put a sheet over him first and give me a half minute to settle them down."
They both nodded, and the kid reached for a sheet. I went out again into the hall where the parents were standing, apart, like strangers on a subway platform. I spoke to the mother. "I'm going to ask you to tell me if the boy is Kennie," I said gently. "I'm afraid it most likely is, but I have to ask you to look at him." She nodded without speaking, and her husband came over to her, timidly, and took her elbow. Behind me the doors swung open, and McKenney came out with the trolley. He brought it up beside her and gently moved the sheet away from the dead face.
The mother fainted, her weight slipping away from her husband's hand on her elbow as she collapsed. I caught her and laid her flat on the floor. The husband crouched down beside her, trying to lift her head and cradle it in his arms. It was the first real tenderness he'd shown, but I had to stop him. "Leave her flat, please, Mr. Spenser. The blood's gone from her head. We have to let it circulate back again."
He let go, and I lowered her flat again. She lay still for about thirty seconds; then her eyes opened, and she tried to sit up. I restrained her, gently, pressing on one shoulder. "Lie still a moment, please. You've had a shock."
She lay still, and then, as consciousness brought memory back, she began to weep silently. After a moment or two I helped her to sit up, and McKenney brought a chair. Her husband lifted her to her feet and sat her down. McKenney's assistant appeared with a glass of water. "Sip this," I told her, and she drank while the tears ran down her face.
I turned to her husband. "I think you should take her back to the cottage, Mr. Spenser. I'll be over to see you both later, in about an hour."
He nodded, and then he spoke quickly, so softly that I had to lean close to hear him. "Listen, Chief, I'm sorry I was difficult earlier on when you came around. I'd been drinking."
I was surprised but gave him a formal little smile and said, "Don't worry about it; you're on vacation."
He nodded, grateful for the out. "I know. But I drink too goddamn much."
He stooped and put his arm around his wife's shoulders and eased her to her feet. I watched them leave and wondered why he was apologizing, and to whom.
; Chapter Five
Dr. McQuaig must have passed them as they left. He came in thirty seconds later, carrying his scuffed leather bag, head down and hurrying as he always is. He's a lean old Scot who settled in the Harbour because he likes to fish and can be on the water in two minutes from his big old house on the shore.
He smiled when he saw me, a businesslike flicker of the mouth. "Hi, Reid. Is that the kiddie under there?"
"I'm afraid so, Doctor. Shall we take him out back again?"
"That would be best," he said, slipping out of his jacket as he walked. McKenney's assistant pushed the gurney back into the preparation room, and we all followed. The doctor flung his coat carelessly over an empty coffin and flicked the sheet back from the dead face. He grunted. "How long since he was in the water?"
"About forty minutes."
McKenney's soft voice said, "There was no frothing at the mouth or the nostrils that I could see."
The doctor glanced at him, then back at the boy. "That bump could have killed the wee lad." He opened his bag and took out his stethoscope. He put it into his ears, rolled back the Camp Sunrise T-shirt on the dead boy, and put the little cup on the chest, low down. I wondered if he was checking for signs of life, but he tapped the chest with his hand, keeping the cup pressed down while he did it.
We watched him as he rolled the body over and did the same thing low on the back, at the bottom of the ribs. Then he took the stethoscope out of his ears and stood looking at the body for a few seconds. Nobody spoke. He rolled the body right side up, moving as gently as if the boy were asleep, and stooped to check the face, tilting his bifocals up with his left hand so he could come in close. Then he picked up the boy's limp hand and studied the fingernails.
At last he lay the hand down and straightened up. McKenney and his assistant were watching him, poised like birds of prey, waiting for him to speak, but McQuaig's lived in Murphy's Harbour long enough to know that McKenney's one vice is gossip. McQuaig smiled the same tight smile and said, "I'd like a word with the chief in confidence, if you'll excuse us, Les."