The Battle of Bayport

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “If you see this Mr. Lakin, please inform him that I’d like to seek an audience with him posthaste.” He handed me a gold-embossed business card with the name DIRK BISHOP and the words ANTIQUES & ANTIQUITIES.

  “Any specific message you’d like us to relay when we see him?” Joe went fishing for more information, but Dirk Bishop didn’t take the bait.

  Bishop looked down at Joe’s private’s uniform dismissively. “No. I’d say these matters are above your rank.”

  He turned abruptly and started walking up the path to the park. After a few steps, he stopped to look back over his shoulder at the USS Resolve docked in the harbor below.

  “Rather a shame, indeed. I had so hoped to speak with Mr. Sterling,” he mumbled absently to himself before continuing on his way.

  “Well, I guess that’s our Londoner,” Joe said after he was gone and we’d started walking back down the hill to the harbor.

  “Strange guy,” I observed.

  “Rude dude too,” Joe added.

  “Him showing up from England right after the Don’s death could be a coincidence or it could be connected somehow. We’ll have to keep an eye on him, see if we can find out what he wants to talk about with Mr. Lakin,” I told Joe.

  “Speaking of Mr. Lakin . . . ,” Joe began.

  “I know,” I said wearily. “He has to be a suspect, but I just can’t believe Mr. Lakin would do it.”

  I knew where Joe was going with this, and I didn’t like thinking about one of my favorite teachers maybe also being a murderer. I hoped we could prove otherwise, but I wasn’t going to let my feelings compromise our investigation either way. I was going to follow the evidence wherever it led, even if it led back to Mr. Lakin.

  “I don’t like it either, but we have to consider the possibility,” Joe told me. “Chief Olaf is right; their beef gave him a motive, and everyone saw him charge at the Don, firing his pistol right about the same time the Don was shot for real. We can’t eliminate him as a suspect.”

  We were quiet for a minute, letting the information sink in while we made our way through the harbor toward the Resolve. I wondered if Mr. Lakin really hated Don Sterling enough to kill him. And could he really be brazen enough to gun a man down in cold blood with the whole town watching? It was hard to imagine. Not just because he was my history teacher, but it would take a pretty good shot to hit a moving target from a galloping horse. Then again, Mr. Lakin had already displayed hidden talents by even riding a horse in the first place, although he had almost fallen off in the process.

  Joe echoed my thoughts. “I’m not convinced Mr. Lakin could make that shot even if he wanted to. I think he’d be too smart to take such a difficult shot from horseback and risk missing the Don and hitting someone else. So either Mr. Lakin is secretly an expert marksman or I don’t think he’s our shooter.”

  I hoped Joe was right.

  “Well, right now it looks like he’s the chief’s number one suspect,” I said.

  We both knew Chief Olaf had been wrong before.

  “So who else wanted Don Sterling dead?” Joe asked the obvious question we’d need to answer to solve the crime.

  At the start of a new mystery, Joe and I like to review the facts, figure out what we know, what we don’t, and who to look at to start filling in the blanks. Some cases were pretty straightforward. This wasn’t one of them.

  “Besides half of Bayport? It’s not hard to find people around here with motive,” I replied. “Don Sterling wasn’t exactly citizen of the year.”

  “Well, we know who had the means and the opportunity, but that doesn’t help us much, since it includes just about everyone on the American side of the reenactment,” Joe observed glumly. “At least half of them probably have reason to hate Don Sterling. Mr. Carr and the rest of the Bayport Players actors couldn’t stand him. Pete Carson and Rob Hernandez both lost their jobs when he shipped the furniture factory overseas, and Amir Kahn and a bunch of other Bayport High kids had parents who did too.”

  “I don’t know the details, but there was also that thing with Mr. Griffin attacking the Don last year after the factory closed. I think he was arrested or something. So even Mikey could have had a motive,” I said reluctantly, knowing Joe wouldn’t be happy about possibly having to investigate Jen’s brother.

  “Great,” he huffed. “That should really help my cause with Jen.”

  “For all we know, it could have been any of them. So how do we figure out which one of those guns fired a real shot? Using a musket was a stroke of genius. Ballistic fingerprinting on smoothbore muzzle loaders is almost impossible,” I told Joe, thankful that the online course in forensic ballistics I’d taken from the criminology college had finally come in handy.

  Unfortunately, the news wasn’t good. A lot of times, police forensics experts can use a gun’s “fingerprint” to match a bullet back to the gun that fired it by looking at the unique markings the gun’s barrel leaves on the bullet once it’s recovered. But the old muskets from the reenactment had “smoothbore” barrels. That means they’re basically just a smooth metal pipe on the inside without the “rifling”—the spiraled grooves inside the barrels of modern guns that were invented after the Revolutionary War to make the bullet spin so it flies straighter. A smooth barrel is kind of like a thumb without a print.

  Joe sighed. “And even if a lab gets lucky and somehow figures it out, the chief would still have to send every gun that was fired to New York, and that could take months. And that’s only part of the problem. Even if we know which gun fired the shot, how do we figure out which soldier fired that gun? There must have been fifty identical muskets fired, and they all look the same. Bernie collected them all after the reenactment and piled them all together. Just matching the guns back up to their shooters could be as hard as figuring out which one fired the shot.”

  “Unless we get lucky with a print or DNA,” I said.

  A second later it hit us.

  “Bernie!” we both said in unison.

  “We have to get down to the museum before he accidentally messes up the evidence without even knowing it,” Joe exclaimed.

  “Once he cleans the guns and puts them away with the rest of the ship’s muskets, we won’t even be able to tell which ones were used in the reenactment, let alone who used them,” I called back to Joe as we started running toward the Resolve.

  We pushed our way through the crowd that had gathered on the dock as quickly as we could without throwing people to the ground. Chief Olaf must have radioed to tell the officers we were coming, because they let us right through the police barrier onto the Resolve.

  It was hard to really appreciate while rushing up the gangplank, but the Resolve was an impressive vessel. At 140 feet long, with three towering masts and ten big cannons poking out of gun ports along either side of the black-and-gold hull, it definitely stood out in a modern harbor full of fishing boats, small yachts, and water taxis.

  The deck of the ship was like an awesome interactive outdoor museum, where visitors could explore and learn how the ship sailed. Most of the museum’s exhibits were inside on the lower decks. The galley, the captain’s cabin, the berth deck where the crew slept, the gun deck where the cannons were, and a bunch of other parts of the enormous ship had all been restored, with different exhibits built into them, displaying all the things they’d found in the crates.

  If we were lucky, one of those exhibits would contain the murder weapon. That’s the one we wanted, and our destination would turn out to be every bit as dangerous as it sounded.

  We were headed for the armory.

  BELOW DECK

  6

  JOE

  SO YEAH, RUNNING THROUGH THE empty ship was pretty eerie. Frank knew his way around the Resolve really well by now, so I let him lead the way down into the big frigate, where the gun deck was. I’d heard rumors that the ship was haunted by the Colonial sailors who died on it when it was attacked. Not that I believed it or anything, but . . .

  Well, all e
mpty like that, with the clomping of our boots on the old wood floor echoing around us like we were trapped inside a giant barrel and the smell of black powder still in the air from the cannon fire, it was easy to imagine we were being chased through a ghost ship. I tried not to think too much about it as I followed Frank past the rows of cannons toward the armory, where they kept the displays with the guns and ammunition.

  As we got closer, we could hear what sounded like Bernie humming some kind of tune from inside the armory. I think it might have been classical music, which was weird, because Bernie is this big, tough, action-hero-looking guy.

  “Hey, Bernie, it’s Frank Hardy!” my brother called out. “We need to talk to you!”

  There wasn’t any response. When we ran into the armory, we saw why—Bernie sat on top of a crate with his headphones on, calmly cleaning one of the muskets with expert speed and precision while humming along to music so loud you could hear it blaring out from inside his ears. The guy had to be half deaf already to listen to music that loudly without his ears bleeding. No wonder he couldn’t hear us. I guessed our gun safety instructor hadn’t followed his own advice about wearing earplugs when you shoot to protect your hearing.

  “Bernie!” Frank yelled again, but Bernie didn’t even notice we were there.

  He went right ahead with the next musket, obliviously obliterating any trace of forensic evidence as he wiped it down with an oily cloth, ran a fluffy white rod down the barrel, and added it to the racks of pristine muskets that lined the walls behind the open glass case. He’d already cleaned over half the guns. As hard as it might have been to identity the murder weapon before, this could make it impossible.

  We hollered like crazy for Bernie to stop. The room was a lot smaller than the gun deck but still pretty big, and it seemed like there were enough muskets and other weapons in it to equip a small army. We ran across it screaming Bernie’s name, but he might as well have been inside a soundproof bubble.

  Frank reached out to tap his shoulder and get his attention. Big mistake.

  The instant Frank’s hand touched his shoulder, WHAM. In a flash, Bernie had Frank slammed up against the wall with his feet dangling off the floor. It was like someone had surprised a very large, very angry viper. He had struck so fast, neither of us had time to react. Now, I’m a green belt in tae kwon do and I’d like to think I’m pretty quick, but this guy moved like a real professional warrior. Which made sense considering the large Marine Corps logo on his bulging forearm. I’d forgotten that Bernie had gotten the job because of his experience as an armorer while serving in the Special Forces. His military background was hard not to notice now that Frank’s unexpected tap on the shoulder had sent him into full-on soldier mode. This was one guy you didn’t want to accidentally surprise in a roomful of weapons.

  “Bernie, no! It’s just Frank!” I yelled as loud as I could, hoping my voice would penetrate the wall of music being pumped directly into his brain by his headphones. It had been a lot funnier when it was just Frank forgetting to take out his earplugs after the reenactment.

  It may have felt like forever, but the whole thing really only lasted a second before Bernie realized who it was and dropped Frank like he was a hot potato.

  “Frank Hardy?” he asked with a bewildered look on his face.

  “Graackafrack!” Frank sputtered.

  “What are you doing in here?” Bernie said in confusion. “Are you crazy, running up behind an armed man like that?”

  Frank muttered something that sounded like a cross between an apology and a whimper. I don’t think he was really hurt, just too shocked to respond coherently.

  “I could have killed you.” Bernie sounded horrified. And angry, too. “Didn’t you learn anything from the firearm safety class? If we had been using live ammunition today, you could have been accidentally shot!”

  “But someone did use live ammunition,” I told him. “That’s why we’re here. Don Sterling was shot.”

  Frank nodded. “And it wasn’t an accident.”

  Bernie furrowed his brow and grunted. He’s usually the strong, silent type. That and a stern look of concentration were about as much reaction as we got out of him for the next few minutes. I translated his grunt as, What are you talking about? Tell me more. So we filled him in on the Don’s murder and needing to preserve the guns as evidence for the police.

  Bernie looked down at the stack of uncleaned guns like they were a difficult puzzle he didn’t know the answer to.

  “Bernie, do you know how someone might have really loaded one of the muskets after you brought them to the reenactment? Did you see anything?” I asked.

  “Hardys!” Chief Olaf bellowed from the armory doorway.

  It looked like we were going to have to wait to get any useful information out of Bernie.

  “This might sound like a dumb question, but why are you questioning my witness?” the chief wanted to know.

  “We were on our way here to help close up the museum, Chief, just like you asked, when we realized Bernie might not know to put the guns aside as evidence and not clean them,” I tried to explain.

  “As you can see, I am perfectly capable of coming to that realization on my own,” Chief Olaf retorted defensively. “It is my job, after all.”

  “Yes, sir, but we just realized it quicker.” I pointed out the stack of uncompromised guns we’d managed to save by acting fast.

  In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best idea. The chief shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. I think he was counting to three to try to calm down. I can have that effect on him. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “I don’t know which of you boys I don’t like more.”

  The chief gave Frank a long look. “You okay, Frank? You’re paler than usual.”

  He really was. I still don’t think my brother had gotten over the shock of Bernie attacking him like that.

  Frank threw me a look that said, Do we tell him? He was struggling with the same thing I was—would it do any good to get Bernie in trouble for assaulting Frank? I wanted to give Bernie the benefit of the doubt. I actually really liked the guy. He had that cool commando thing going, and all the kids in the gun safety class were kind of scared of him and looked up to him at the same time. Besides, Frank hadn’t gotten hurt, and I don’t think either of us wanted to get further on Bernie’s bad side, especially if we hoped to get information out of him.

  The chief’s antenna must have gone up when Frank didn’t answer right away. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Bernie saved us the trouble and came clean on his own.

  “He took me by surprise,” he said, absently rubbing the Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm. “Frank came up behind me while I was cleaning the guns and caught me off guard. I thought I was being attacked. I acted on instinct and put a defensive move on him before I realized who it was.” Bernie sounded ashamed of himself.

  “You’re telling me you mistook Frank Hardy for a threat?” The chief smirked. It was pretty funny when you thought about it. Frank is in decent shape, but he isn’t exactly intimidating, and next to Bernie he looked about as threatening as a toddler. I don’t think either Frank or Bernie saw the humor in it.

  “I wouldn’t have really hurt him,” Bernie said defensively. “And he should have known better than to sneak up on a man while he’s handling weapons. You do that to a man in combat, and chances are you won’t be around anymore to learn your lesson.”

  “Lucky for us we aren’t in combat,” the chief said, giving Bernie a weary look. “Frank? That what happened?”

  “It was really stupid of me, Chief,” Frank admitted. “He couldn’t hear me because of his headphones, and I shouldn’t have surprised him like that while he was cleaning a gun. Bernie is right. It’s poor gun safety, and I should have known better.”

  I could tell Frank really did feel bad about not being more careful. I think he felt kind of like he’d failed an exam. It’s not often you can get Frank Hardy to admit he’s stupid
about anything.

  “You’re right, Frank, that was stupid of you,” the chief said, before turning to Bernie and adding, “But you should know better than to let yourself be distracted by music while handling firearms.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bernie snapped to attention like he was being dressed down by a superior officer. “It won’t happen again.”

  The chief sighed (he does that a lot around us) and turned back to Frank and me. “Why is it whenever there’s trouble around here, you two always seem to be in the middle of it?”

  “In our defense, Chief, we did save a lot of evidence from being ruined,” I reminded him.

  “That was a rhetorical question, Joe.” Chief Olaf sighed again. “But you’re right. And to thank you, I’m going to allow you to leave the boat without arresting you both for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “It’s actually—” Frank started, but the chief stopped him.

  “Yes, Frank, I know, the Resolve is technically a ship and not a boat. Now go!” He sounded totally exasperated, not that I really blame him; Frank doesn’t always have the best timing.

  “Yes, sir,” we both said, and turned to leave.

  “Your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards expire in one minute,” he called after us. “If I catch either of you anywhere near this ship before this investigation wraps, I’m taking you in.”

  We hadn’t even made it to the door yet when we heard a loud clatter behind us. I turned around just in time to see Bernie trip and knock a large tin of gun solvent all over the pile of uncleaned guns.

  For an awful moment the only sound in the armory was the glug-glug-glugging of spilled oil, washing away whatever was left of the evidence.

  OFF-LIMITS

  7

  FRANK

  EVIDENCE I’D NEARLY GOTTEN KILLED trying to protect!

  Bernie looked mortified as he fumbled to recover the tin canister and put the cap back on, but the damage had already been done. Oil had soaked the flintlocks and trigger guards of a lot of the remaining muskets. If there was trace evidence that might help us link the muskets back to the shooters, there was a good chance that’s where it would be. Or would have been if Bernie hadn’t poured oil all over it.