by Cathy Ace
“Let me think more about Tommy, the victim. I can see him clearly now. The sun is on his face, and I can see his pale skin, and his wrinkles. His skin hangs beneath his chin. He’s aggressively clean-shaven, almost glowing. His thinning hair is more gray than brown, and his eyes are a pale, washed-out greenish-blue. He avoids the sun. He’s dressed in long khaki cargo pants, a golf shirt that’s almost the same color as his eyes, and is wearing a pair of black flip-flops. Dress flip-flops? His hands are busy, but his face is impassive. His mind seems to be somewhere out on the ocean, not in the room or at the table. Certainly his motions are automatic. He snaps back to his surroundings, and I see his eyes focus on his hands. He stops, spreads the cards in a fan shape, and shows the Knicelys what he has done. Their faces show amazement. He has been shuffling the deck for a few minutes, but the cards are in perfect suit-order. He grins. The skin around his eyes crinkles. His skin is used to that. Does he smile a lot, or squint in the sunlight?
“Having entertained the Knicelys, for that is what he’s been doing, Tommy rises, and gives each of them a pack of cards, which he encourages them to shuffle.”
“Why did Tommy have you and the Knicelys shuffling cards all the time?” I asked Bud.
“He said I had to get to know the feel of the cards, the personality of the cards, if I was to be able to play with confidence. He said that, whatever the game, confidence was essential, even if a person wasn’t playing for money.”
“Hmm,” was my only comment before I hummed again, this time in earnest.
“Tommy walks to the table with four players already playing poker. He moves around the table, looking at the hands the players are holding. Only Derek Cropper tries to hide his cards, but Tommy taps him gently on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. Derek shows him his cards.
“As he progresses around the table, Tommy bends and whispers to each person. I cannot hear what he says, but it’s a technique that makes me feel uncomfortable. I wouldn’t like him being that close to me. Why do I feel this? Does it reflect my own feelings about personal space? I note Kai Pukui’s discomfort when Tommy whispers to him, and he wriggles in his seat. Kai’s usually very self-possessed. Odd.
“Tommy sits with you at your table, and you two proceed to play gin rummy. Over his shoulder, I can see the hand he is holding. As I look across at you two, I can see Afrim beyond you. He’s clearing and emptying plates. Wait—what does he do at Tommy’s desk? I cannot see properly, because Tommy is now in the way, but I do not see Afrim leave Tommy’s desk with anything in his hands. Why didn’t he clear Tommy’s desk?
“The Knicelys are shuffling cards silently. The chatter at the table with the Croppers, Kai, and Frannie Lang is all about how well Derek plays, and how poorly the rest of them play. Then Laurie Cropper shouts something about seeing dolphins. I can tell that, from her seat, she’s able to look out at the ocean, so it’s natural she’d spot the display first. Now I must concentrate even harder …
“Laurie is the first on her feet; she moves from the card table toward me, because I’m sitting close to the window, near Tommy’s desk. Derek is right behind her and, as they arrive, I stand to give folks more space to get to the picture window. I pull my chair out of the way and back off. The Croppers are quickly joined by the Knicelys, who come around behind me, and Frannie Lang, who is rooting around in her tiny handbag for something. She produces her phone, which she uses to take photographs. She bumps into me and apologizes. Kai doesn’t crowd forward, but does stand, and he looks out at the ocean. He’s taller than everyone else in the room, so he can see over everybody’s heads. I turn to move the chair farther out of the way, and you press against me when you arrive. I call to Tommy, who I’m aware isn’t with us all, then turn to look at him. Afrim has moved to the far side of the room where he’s bobbing about trying to see out of the window without getting in the way of the guests.
“Tommy Trussler is still at the card table where you and he were sitting, and all I can see is his back. If anyone outside the Games Room in the coffee bar is looking in, they will be able to see his face, but I can only see his convulsing back, and I whip around to be in front of him. I see his eyes bulge, his hands clench, his tongue ooze blood; then he collapses. I know he is dead. I call to you, you check for his pulse, then I turn to make the emergency phone call.”
I fully opened my eyes. “Bud, did you see anything I haven’t mentioned at this point in the proceedings?”
Bud looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “I was examining Tommy, then watching you on the phone. I did notice that heads jerked toward the card table when the announcement came over the intercom, then people turned and looked at Tommy’s back—because they were all along the wall with the window in it, so behind him.”
I gave the matter a little more thought. “If Tommy was poisoned, which I believe he was, he could have been dosed with something before he entered the room, or he must have ingested it in what he was eating and drinking at his desk. Yes, he took the bottle of water he was sipping with him from table to table, but that, and everything else he consumed, came from the common food and drink sources; others would, or could, have been affected.”
“I saw him open the screw cap on the bottle of water when he pulled it from the big bucket full of ice on the buffet table,” said Bud.
I nodded. “Yes, everything he consumed came from the buffet table—everything except his pot of poi. If he wasn’t poisoned beforehand, and unless there’s a poisoner on the ship who doesn’t care who dies, any poison must have been in that.”
“Poisoned poi?” said Bud. “That sounds utterly ridiculous.”
“What does poi taste like, Bud?”
“Disgusting.”
“Well, then—what a great way to hide the taste of something that could kill, eh?”
“You might have a point,” replied Bud, “but don’t ‘eh?’ me, right?”
I smiled. “So, if we use this as a hypothesis, that begs the question: Who had the chance to put poison in his poi in the first place?”
We stared at each other across our room, both coming to the same, horrifying conclusion. “Anyone,” replied Bud. “Absolutely anyone on the ship—or even ashore, before we got on the ship. Oh no, this isn’t good. Almost anyone could have killed him.”
“Hang on a minute, Bud, I’m not finished yet. Let me recall a bit more …” I did a quick rethink of the last sweeping look I’d taken of the Games Room before we’d all been herded out. “Aha—got it! It wasn’t there when we left, Bud. The pot of poi had disappeared. When we left the Games Room, there wasn’t a pot on Tommy’s desk anymore. I’m certain of it. Someone took the pot containing his poi. Only someone in the room at the time would have had the chance to take it. And why would they do that if they didn’t know there was poison in it?”
Bud looked thoughtful. “You’re right. Excellent work, Cait,” he said, smiling and slapping his thigh. “If we’re working on the idea of poisoned poi, that’s the crux of the matter. In fact, to be perfectly accurate, someone—anyone—might have put the poison in the poi before we were all in the Games Room, but it could only have been removed by one of the people there at the time, so at least one person who was in the room when Tommy Trussler died had some hand in his demise.”
“So we have an excellent focus for our inquiries,”
“Officer Eisen’s inquiries, not ours, Cait,” corrected Bud.
“Hmm … maybe he’ll let us lend a hand.”
“Who knows, Cait? But you must share your observations with him, and as soon as you can. The implications are significant.”
An Officer and a Gentleman?
A KNOCK AT OUR STATEROOM door made both of us jump. Bud leapt to his feet in response and invited Ezra Eisen into our room. Once he was seated, the head of security accepted a bottle of water Bud had pulled from our little fridge, and drank deeply. Although not out of breath, I got the impression he’d been dashing about. Eisen took a moment to compose himself, then regarded us with a determined expre
ssion as we sat on the sofa across from the desk chair he had selected.
Eisen addressed Bud first. “Your record in Canada is exemplary, and I believe I might know of some of your work in Europe, Commander Anderson.”
He’s been digging into Bud’s background. To which part of Bud’s work was Eisen referring? Probably the stuff Bud had got up to in his last post that needed Canadian Security Intelligence Services (CSIS)clearances. Bud understood, which irritated me a little. I hate that there are things he’s not allowed to tell me.
“You might,” Bud said in a noncommittal tone. “I should mention that I am now retired. Fully retired.” He emphasized the words. “My wife, Cait, and I are on our belated honeymoon, Officer Eisen.”
“Please, call me Ezra, Commander Anderson.” He finally cracked a smile.
Bud smiled. “No longer a commander, Ezra, and it’s Bud, please.”
“Very well then,” replied Ezra. “I hope you don’t mind if I speak frankly. I’ve checked you out as thoroughly as I am able, within such a short amount of time. I have also spoken to the captain about your presence here.” He turned to look at me. “I understand you saw the man’s face as he died, Professor Morgan. Tell me, what did you see?”
I decided to be equally professional. “I don’t know exactly when they began, but when I turned from the window to look at Tommy Trussler, he was being racked by convulsions, which lasted for at least a couple of minutes. His face was contorted—he’d bitten his tongue, I believe. His eyes were bulging, and he didn’t speak or cry out; it didn’t seem that he could make any voluntary movements at all. Then his upper body fell forward onto the table. Bud tested for a pulse. There was none. That’s when I called the emergency response number on the house telephone.”
Ezra nodded, looking grim. “Thank you.”
“We believe he was poisoned,” said Bud.
“I suspect something that acted fast, and that was hidden in his poi,” I added.
Ezra looked thoughtful, regarding us with an enigmatic expression. He’s tough to read.
“I am sorry to say that everyone in the Games Room at the time of Tommy Trussler’s death is someone I must investigate as a possible killer,” he said bluntly. “I do not believe it is possible to hide this fact from you. I ask you to understand that you yourselves must be considered members of the suspect pool.”
Bud spoke rapidly as he scratched his head, an action that always tells me he’s under stress. “I understand exactly what you mean, Ezra, but I must ask you to take me at my professional word that neither Cait nor I had anything to do with the man’s death—though Cait, especially, has some critical observations she’d like to share with you on the matter.”
“You were the last person to be playing cards with him?” asked Ezra. He’s not following Bud’s lead.
“Tommy had spent most of the first hour of the day’s session sitting at his little desk with people visiting him there,” said Bud, “or else he popped over to their tables to give instruction. He happened to be at my table when the cry went up about a dolphin sighting. While everyone in the room was looking out at the ocean, Cait noticed that Tommy was in great distress.”
Bud looked at me, and I took my cue. “Bud’s right, Ezra. And you are too. I understand you’re probably thinking that anyone in the room, or even anyone on the ship, could have poisoned him, but I can only add my assertion that it was neither of us. We’d only met the man here. We have no history with him. We would have no motive to kill him.”
“Apparently everyone in the room had only met him on this cruise,” said Ezra.
“I expect Kai Pukui, and maybe Afrim the server, might have traveled with him before,” I added in what I hoped was a co-operative tone.
Ezra’s glare told me he didn’t consider my suggestion helpful.
“My investigation into everyone in that room will be most thorough,” he said. He paused and sighed, his shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch. Dropping his head slightly, he added, “I will admit that I believe it is highly unlikely that either of you were involved with this matter. As I have said, your records are solid, and I …” Ezra’s expression as he paused for a long moment was complex, with what I judged to be resignation winning through. “I need to trust someone, Bud, Professor Morgan—or is it to be Professor Anderson from now on?”
“I’ll be keeping Morgan,” I replied with a smile at Bud, “as Bud and I have agreed. But I would prefer Cait, please. If you two boys are going to be on first-name terms, I don’t want to feel left out.”
Again, Ezra looked to be deep in thought. Then his shoulders straightened and he sat even more upright. You’ve made a decision. I hope it’s to trust us.
“I have a good team on the ship,” began Ezra. “In common parlance, I suppose you would call all our security responsibilities ‘policing.’ We do not usually have to investigate cases like this. My background has not been in this field. Military service, followed by post-service operations in security and security management, means I am well qualified to head up the security services needed onboard. I have received training in securing crime scenes, gathering evidence, assessing crime scenes and evidence, and have been taught about many sources of information to which I can turn when a possible, or alleged, crime has taken place. I’ll be honest—I have never led a murder inquiry before, neither on land nor at sea. While most of my officers have also received the required training in crime scene management, none of them are trained investigators like you, Bud, and, as I happen to know, your lovely wife.” He flashed a toothpaste-commercial smile at me, and I returned what I hoped was a winsome grin. Charming.
“Nurse Bartholomew Goodman alerted Rachel—Dr. White—immediately,” he continued. “He’s good at his job, and he was quite right to be suspicious. He has a background in this sort of thing.”
I must have shown my surprise, because Ezra turned his attention to me and smiled. “All in good time,” he said. Growing more serious, he added, “I apologize. I don’t mean to be glib. Bud, your record is quite something. Your life of service to the cause of justice, both as a police officer, and,” he paused and glanced in my direction, “in other roles, is admirable.”
“I know something about Bud’s ‘other roles,’” I said.
Ezra looked relieved. “Good. Bud, I know that undertaking any work where national and international security clearances are required shows a determination to represent your country when it needs you most. Given our specific circumstances and the fact that your record suggests you are a man to be trusted, your investigative skills, and your ability to manage investigative teams and complex operations, are appealing.”
“And what about me?” I asked, immediately regretting it, because I knew I sounded petulant.
Ezra looked at me and cocked his head. “Ah yes, you, Professor Cait Morgan.”
I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in anticipation.
“You have quite a reputation, don’t you?” he continued. “A professor of criminal psychology at the University of Vancouver, adept at producing controversial academic papers about victim profiling, and helping the authorities apprehend criminals in various countries and locales, and with a solid track record of aiding an integrated homicide investigation team on your new home turf in Canada.”
“It’s hardly ‘new’ home turf, Ezra. I left the UK over a decade ago, and Wales many years before that. Canada is home now.”
Ezra held my gaze then placed his water bottle on the coffee table between us. “It is your life in the UK that poses a problem though, you see,” he said. No easy grin this time?
I knew what he meant, as did Bud, so I decided to tackle the matter head on. “I’m assuming you’re referring to my being arrested on suspicion of killing my ex-boyfriend?”
“Yes,” said Ezra.
“Well, if you’d dug all the way, you’d have discovered that I was exonerated. Since my arrival in Canada, I’ve been cleared by every organization and body that counts, and have subs
equently worked on a number of sensitive police cases. As Bud mentioned, I consulted for the team he used to head up.”
“I’m well aware of this, Cait. Still, I’m not convinced that your skill set would be of use on this occasion. I believe it will be the factual evidence that will crack the case.”
Bud’s expression shifted to one of determination; he was about to charge to my defense.
“I think it’s exactly the sort of case where Cait could help, Ezra,” he said proudly. “As a professional in homicide teams for many years, I know that most cases fall into two categories: targeted hits within the criminal community, and cases where someone close to the victim is the perpetrator. Random killings are rare. And that’s where Cait’s abilities have proved useful. If it’s not a killing-to-order, and if there are no obvious family members or close friends in the frame as suspects, the victim profile that Cait builds can help focus the investigating officers so they are more likely to discern the perpetrator. What was the victim’s lifestyle? What habits did they have? With whom did they come into contact on a regular, or even irregular, basis? To find a killer, one must first understand the victim. That is what Cait does—and it’s what she could do for you, in this case. And as for me? I have run so many homicide investigations that setting up practical and productive lead-generating and investigation systems is a natural matter for me. I, we, would be happy to help, or advise, in any capacity.”
Once again, Ezra fell silent. After a few moments of contemplation, he said, “I have spoken to the captain, and he has given me complete control in this matter. He trusts me. He and I have worked together on several occasions. Captain Andreas is an excellent Master. If this had to happen, I am glad it is under his command, because he will ensure that we do whatever is necessary to keep our guests and crew safe. Safety is our first concern. If poison is in play, I will need extra detection skills in my armory, which you could deliver. We have procedures onboard a ship, and I would only be inviting you to help me, not to take over.”