I shuddered again. “I need to go see Jack again."
Bert smirked. “Does that mean no?"
"Yes, very much so."
* * * *
But I didn't have to go into the cabin, for Jack was coming out, slipping on a pair of heavy work gloves. “Come along, Bert,” he said. “It's time."
Jack went to the rear of the cabin to a set of controls, and there came the sound of the winch turning, its noise loud and whining. The cables grew taut as they started coming up the drum, saltwater dripping off as they rose from the ocean. He and Bert kept their eyes on the cables, and I watched the ocean, another chill coming over me. It seemed ... spooky. Scores of feet beneath us a giant net was closing in on schools of fish, and in minutes, many of these fish would be dead. Oh, I'm no vegetarian, not by a long shot, but it still gave me the creeps to see all these things alive down there that would shortly be dead.
As the cables came up on the rotating drum, I took photographs of Bert and Jack at work, and once Bert winked at me, so I resigned myself to thinking that he'd put the moves on me again before the day was out. But that was many, many hours away.
Jack called out to me. “Ready to see something strange?"
"Sure,” I said.
"See any seagulls around?"
I looked around at the sky. “Not a one."
Jack smiled, hands still on the winch controls. “Just you wait."
I didn't know what he meant, but pretty soon, one seagull showed up, hovering over the stern of the boat, and then there was another, and another, and within five to ten minutes there was a squadron of seagulls over the stern of the boat, wheeling and crying and squawking. I looked to Jack and he threw up his hands and laughed. “Nobody knows how they do that. It's like they're psychic or something. When it comes time to bring up the net, it's like they come out of nowhere."
Bert called out, “Here she comes!” and there was a roiling in the water as the full net came up at the stern. The winch seemed to whine even more as the bulging net broke water, and I stopped taking photographs for just a moment, watching how Jack and Bert worked together, like members of a sports team. They went to the full net, alive with things turning and flipping, and pulled it in close to the boat, so it was hung over the empty rear deck. Then some work with wrenches from an open toolbox and—Plop!—the bottom of the net opened and Bert and Jack were up to their knees in fish skittering and bouncing around on the deck. They reached up and pulled off some fish that were caught in the netting, and in a few more minutes, the net was rolled up and out of the way.
Then the two of them bent down and got to work. They worked quickly, tossing over chunks of seaweed and other debris, sorting the fish, putting some into one plastic container, others in a different container. Then the long knives came out, and without saying anything at all, Jack and Bert cut off the heads of what I recognized as cod, flushing out the guts with hoses. The cleaned fish were then placed into neat piles in large tubs with ice.
Bert looked up at me and said, “Here, catch!” And he tossed something at me, which I caught. It was cool and small and gray and pulsed in my hand. Bert smirked and said, “Heart from a cod. Still beating."
I swallowed. “Cool.” And I tossed it back at him, and he laughed and caught it one-handed and then tossed it over the side.
More work on their part, more photographs on my part, then Jack and Bert went back to the net and closed up the opening. Back at the wheelhouse I asked Jack, “Well, how was it?"
"Not bad,” he said. “But we're going to head off to the east for a bit, try our luck somewhere else."
We never made it there.
* * * *
This is how it happened.
By now I was drowsy from having been up so early and having taken the antimotion-sickness pill, and I stretched out on the padded bench in the wheelhouse to rest my eyes. Bert had gone forward to sun himself from the bow of the boat, while Jack worked the steering and listened to the radio. The idle chatter on the radio from other fishermen out there, the drone of the diesels, and the gentle rise and fall of the boat made my eyes heavy, so I stretched out, pulled my baseball cap down over my eyes, and dozed, though at one point, I made out a change in the pitch of the engine as Jack adjusted the speed. Still, I kept my eyes closed.
I know, dozing while doing a story. Probably grounds for being put in front of a firing squad of opinion columnists from the New York Times, if any of them could be bothered to put their precious hands around a firearm, but I was tired, I had taken scores of photos, and filled half a notebook with my interviews with Jack and Bert. I had enough information to write a novella, no matter a newspaper story
Then, a thump.
Jack's voice, “What the—?"
And then a slam, as he pulled open the sliding door, and I heard him yelling, “Bert! Bert! Where the hell are you?"
Now I was sitting up, rubbing at my face, as Jack flew back into the wheelhouse, slammed the throttles to neutral and looked at me, face white. “Bert's fallen off. I can't spot him!"
I scrambled off the bench and came out to follow Jack as he moved around the bow, leaning over, and he turned to me and said, “He stood up and we hit a wave. He fell off. I think he hit his head on the way over. Hey, Bert! Bert!"
No answer.
I didn't know what to say, what to do. Jack looked to me and said, “Run aft, grab a life ring, tell me if you see anything. Hurry!"
I made my way back to the stern as quickly as possible, taking an orange life ring off the side of the wheelhouse. It said F/V HELEN H TYLER N.H. in big black letters.
I looked along the side and to the rear. Nothing. Just swells of dark gray water.
A yell from up forward. “Do you see anything?"
"No!” I yelled back, the life ring heavy and awkward in my hand, still looking out onto the waters, part of me thinking, nope, this can't be happening, this so cannot be happening. Bert has to pop up in a second or two, wave in my direction, so I can toss the ring out. Nope, this cannot be happening.
He couldn't be gone just like that.
I heard Jack moving back into the wheelhouse, and I dropped the life ring on the stern and joined him as he brought down the microphone to his radio, spun the dial to a certain channel, and started speaking in a slow, clear voice. “Porter Coast Guard, Porter Coast Guard, this is fishing vessel Helen H., fishing vessel Helen H., we have a man overboard at coordinates—” He looked at another display, a little GPS screen by the fishfinder, and read off the longitude and latitude, repeating his message. “Porter Coast Guard, Porter Coast Guard, this is fishing vessel Helen H., fishing vessel Helen H., we have a man overboard..."
Then the Coast Guard came back to him, acknowledging the message. Jack put the microphone down for a second, reached under the console, slapped a pair of black binoculars in my hands. Jack looked again to me, face still pale, and said, “I'm going to motor in a slow circle, keep within the coordinates. You go out on the bow and keep a sharp eye. Okay? Damn it, maybe I ran him down, chewed him up with the prop, damn it! Look, yell out if you see something, anything, even if it looks like a scrap of cloth. Go!"
So there I was, no longer a newspaper reporter but an unwitting member of the Helen H. crew. I stood out there on the bow, binoculars in hand, looking out at the slowly moving but oh-so-unforgiving ocean.
Nothing.
My heart was hammering so hard I thought my throat would choke up. While Jack moved the fishing boat in a slow circle, I scanned the waters, seeing nothing, nothing at all.
After a while other boats began to appear, lobster boats and stern trawlers like the Helen H., even a couple of fishing party boats, chock full of tourists leaning over the railings, all of us looking for poor Bert. No doubt the other craft had heard Jack's message and had motored over to help—at least out here on the ocean, the basic rules of survival and assistance still ruled.
The binoculars seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute, and still, none of us could
find a thing. Despite it all, I took photo after photo, while still using the binoculars to scan the waters. After a while, a bright orange and white helicopter from the Coast Guard station up the coast at Porter arrived, scanning from overhead, and eventually it was joined by a small patrol boat, but even the intercession of the Coast Guard couldn't help.
Bert was gone.
And as the day dragged on, Jack in his wheelhouse with his thoughts and me out on the bow with my own, I looked down and against the dull white fiberglass, saw a smear of brown.
A bloodstain, where poor Bert had struck his head while going overboard.
I stood there, legs trembling, knowing that somehow I would have to write this story up, and not sure if I had it in me.
* * * *
At dusk we motored back to Tyler Harbor. I sat on the padded bench, exhausted, legs and hands trembling, and Jack kept quiet, just staring ahead. Only once did he say anything, when he shook his head and said, “God ... at least he has no family ... nobody I have to tell ... sweet Jesus..."
We went through the channel to the harbor, from where we had motored out more than twelve hours ago. I suppose I should have been hungry or thirsty, but I was just so damn tired. I just wanted to make it to the dock, climb in my car, and drive to my little one-room apartment and collapse.
But other people had other plans.
There was a crowd at the dock as we approached and the flashing lights of police cruisers and the harsh glare of a camera-held light, which meant a television crew had arrived. Jack cussed as we motored up to the dock. He looked to me, grabbed my hands, and said, “Look, usually ... Bert, he handles the lines, but I'm going to need your help. Just hold the wheel steady, and when I yell out ‘Now,’ pull the throttle back to here, neutral. Got it?"
I nodded and he went outside. As I held the wheel, I saw him toss out mooring lines to the men on the dock who wanted to help. Then I heard him yell out “Now!” and I pulled the throttle back to neutral, just like he said. Jack came back and his eyes were red rimmed, like he had been quietly weeping on the way back into the harbor. He just stood there for a moment, shook his head, and said, “Now the real fun begins."
A group of people came aboard the boat, talking, questioning, hugging Jack. I saw a familiar face, the woman in the photo in the wheelhouse, Helen. Jack's shoulders shook as she gave him a big hug. I couldn't wait to get the hell off that boat, so I grabbed my gear and stepped up out onto the dock, my legs quivering now that I was on stable land, and I went to my car, opened the passenger side door, and tossed my gear in. I closed the door and was going around to the other side when I was stopped by a Tyler police officer in a dark green uniform.
"Ma'am, you were on the boat, weren't you?” he asked politely.
"Yeah, I was."
"Then my detective wants to talk to you. Will you come here, please?"
"Sure.” I was too tired to do almost anything else.
He led me through the thinning crowd of people to a dark blue Ford LTD with a whip antenna that was parked next to Bert's Harley-Davidson. God knows who would ride that motorcycle again, I thought, and though I had just met him that day and hadn't particularly liked him much, I still found myself tearing up some. I had a flash of regret—maybe I should have been nicer to him.
At the rear of the LTD, writing notes on a paper-cluttered metal clipboard, was a woman about fifteen or so years older than me. She had brown hair in some sort of bob haircut that looked a decade or two out of date, and she was wearing black slacks, a white blouse, and a short brown leather jacket. She looked up at me and I spotted a thin white scar on the bottom of her chin.
"You're Jenny Wilson, right? The intern from the Chronicle?"
"Yeah,” I said.
She held out her hand, which I shook. “Detective Diane Woods, Tyler police department. You were on the boat when Bert Comstock fell overboard, am I right?"
So far, two for two, but her face was set, and she didn't look like one for joking. So I nodded and said, “That's right."
"I need a few minutes to talk to you."
And I needed a few days to put this whole bloody day behind me, but I just wanted to get it over with, and I nodded again.
"Good. About what time did he fall off?"
"About ten a.m. It was after they had gotten their first load of the day. Jack was heading out to another fishing area when Bert ... when Bert fell in."
She made a few notes and said “uh-huh,” then asked, “And where were you when he fell in?"
"In the wheelhouse."
"And Jack?"
"He was in the captain's chair, steering the boat."
"Did you see Bert fall in?"
"No, I didn't."
She stared at me. “But you were in the wheelhouse."
"Yeah, but I was ... but, I was tired. I had been on the boat since four a.m., I had taken some antimotion-sickness medicine, and I got sleepy. There's a padded bench in the wheelhouse. That's where I stretched out."
"So you didn't see anything."
I bit my lip for a moment. “That's what I said. I didn't see anything."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Yeah, I did,” I said. “There was a thump I heard from up forward. And then I heard Jack start yelling, and he went out to look for Bert, and I followed."
"And did you see anything in the water?"
"No, not a thing."
"Really? He wasn't wearing a life jacket?"
I rubbed my hands together. “They're fishermen ... I think, I think it's a point of pride for them, that they don't wear life jackets. And Jack thought, well, he thought maybe he had run him over, that the propeller had struck him."
More scribbles on the clipboard. “I see ... anything else you think I should know?"
I thought for a bit and said, “Blood."
"Blood?"
"Yeah, there was blood on the bow. Where he hit his head when he fell off."
"Thanks, that's good to know."
I yawned. “Look ... I've had a hell of a day. All right if I head out?"
She went back to her clipboard. “Sure ... oh, one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"Did you take any photos while you were out there?"
"Sure."
"And took notes, I'm sure."
I was quickly becoming more awake. I didn't like where this was going. “Of course I took notes. Lots of notes."
Her face was set. “I'm sorry. I'm going to need to look at your notes, and your photos. As part of the investigation."
I spoke without thinking. “No."
"Excuse me?"
I shook my head. “No. No way. You're not seeing my notes, or my photos. First Amendment and all that, Detective."
It seemed like the white scar on her chin was getting whiter. She said, “And this is a serious business, and I'm investigating an untimely death, and all that, Miss Intern. So I want your notes and your photos."
"You're not getting them."
"I could arrest you, you know, for interfering in a police investigation."
"Do what you have to do,” I said, “because I'm going to do what I have to do."
She smiled a not-so-friendly smile that chilled me. “Your choice, then."
I guess so.
And you know what?
They really do say, “Watch your head,” when they're putting you in a police cruiser, after they put those very heavy and very cold handcuffs on your wrists.
* * * *
An hour later I was in a cell on the first floor of the Tyler police station, about a five-minute drive from the harbor. I had been put in the rear of a police cruiser and brought over, and through the entire booking process, they were quite polite, taking down my name and personal information, taking my fingerprints and a mug shot. It seemed like a big giant joke until it came time for the strip search.
"The what?” I had asked.
"Strip search,” I was told. “To make sure you don't have any contraband either on your body
or in your body."
Well.
A bored police matron, about the age and size of my mother, came in and snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, and when she was done I was issued an orange jumpsuit.
I sat in a small cell with a bed made of thick pad, another small pad for a pillow, and two wool blankets. A stainless steel sink and toilet bowl was in one corner. No television, no newspapers, no nothing, for the cells here were just holding cells. The real jail was at the county jail, a few towns over, with the state prisons being reserved for the really tough stuff.
So when was I getting out? I asked and got a shrug from one of the cops. “It's Friday. We don't do exchanges over the weekend. So you're going to be our guest until you get bailed out."
"And when's that?"
Another shrug. “Two of the local bail bondsmen are up north, at some convention. There's one guy covering this part of the state. Might get here tomorrow. Or Sunday. Depends."
Depends, I thought. Sure. I hugged myself in the cold cell. I knew what they were doing, and they were doing it pretty well. They were trying to shake me up, make me scared, make me want to cooperate. A lot has been written about the romance of being a journalist or a writer and being placed in a jail cell for one's beliefs, but I didn't see any romance or glory. I was cold, tired, and hungry. Earlier, I had been promised my one phone call, and I had hesitated. My mom, down there in Massachusetts? She would freak and get me out eventually, but I wouldn't want to spend the next year or two debating why I did what I did. Mother is still upset about the dress I wore to the junior prom back in high school, and to this day she picks fights with me about that fashion disaster, so Mother was off the contact list.
A lawyer? Didn't know any lawyers, thank you very much. One of my professors at UNH ... possible, but I didn't want to singlehandedly destroy or damage the intern program by the stand I was taking.
My editor, Rollie ... um, no. After getting my butt out of jail, he would probably send my butt back to school, and with one destroyed internship under my belt, I would never have a chance to get another one.
AHMM, March 2008 Page 6