Glass Eels, Shattered Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  The interview went on like that for nearly an hour. I gave my account of it all—the path, landscape, river, eels, Nelson and Jack, walking back to the truck, the shot and Purdy asked for more specifics. After two cups of tea, I was spent.

  The sergeant announced the time and pushed the stop button on the tape recorder. “Thank you, Dr., uh, Mara. You look done in.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I have a question for you.”

  He leaned back in his chair and put both hands on the table. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “When we were in the cruiser, you spoke to your dispatchers. I thought I heard you say something about Fish and Wildlife.”

  Purdy nodded. “Um, I’ll ask Mr. Maloy to join us and we can talk about it.”

  Gordy, who’d been interviewed in the adjoining room, stood in the hallway waiting for me to finish. Purdy invited him in, closed the door, and took his seat again. “We’re done with the interviews for now and really appreciate all your time, both of you. I’ll contact you for any follow-up questions, but before you go, I’ll try to explain something Mara just asked me about.”

  Gordy slid into the chair next to mine and looked over at me. I shrugged.

  “In the cruiser Mara heard me talking about Fish and Wildlife in South Carolina.”

  Sounding as bewildered as I felt, Gordy said, “South Carolina?”

  “Operation Broken Glass,” Purdy said. “It’s what the Fish and Wildlife Service named their investigation of glass eel trafficking. South Carolina is ground zero for illegal sales of glass eels to Asia.”

  Gordy knit his brows. “You can’t possibly be telling us that Nelson Ives is involved in eel trafficking. I’ve known Nelson Ives for a long, long time. He’s a great guy.”

  Purdy shook his head. “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “Let’s back up for a moment,” I said. “Nelson Ives is a Mainer. What’s he got to do with South Carolina?”

  “Perhaps you read in the paper about a Portland seafood dealer who recently got caught trafficking a million dollars’ worth of elvers. He paid a trucker to transport the eels down to South Carolina. Glass eels get shipped to Asia from there,” Purdy explained.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s an astounding amount of money. What happened to him?”

  “He got six months in jail and a $25,000 fine.”

  4

  “That’s some seafood guy,” Gordy said. “But Nelson Ives has got a nice little house and everything else he needs. There’s no reason in this world he’d be trafficking eels.”

  Purdy shook his head. “I didn’t say he was and am only trying to answer Mara’s question.”

  Clearly unhappy about the direction of the conversation, Gordy said, “Whatever you think, Nelson’s got a goddamn bullet in his chest. Somebody shot him, and it’s up to you folks to find out who and why.”

  The sergeant took the comment in stride. “Yes, it is, so let’s go there.” He flipped on the tape recorder once more, described who was in the room, and noted the time. “You said you heard the shot, ran back to the river, and found your friend bloodied and unconscious on his back. Did you hear or see anything that might help us? Take your time.”

  Turning away, I stared at the wall and pictured the terrible scene once more. Was there any useful detail I had forgotten? “The river was running hard and loud. You could only hear what was close by. I held Nelson’s hand. Like I said, he was mumbling something.”

  “Tell me again. What was he saying?”

  “It sounded like ‘ham’ or ‘yam.’” I shrugged. “After that, he mumbled ‘Siamese’ or something like it. That’s the best I can do.”

  Purdy repeated, “‘Siamese’ and maybe ‘ham’ or ‘yam.’ Huh. And when Jack ran down the path toward you and his father, he had his shotgun. How was he holding it?”

  “Um, it was diagonal across his chest with the barrel pointing up,” I said.

  “Mara’s right,” Gordy said. “Jack ran with the shotgun like they teach you in the army.”

  Nodding, Purdy asked, “When Jack got to you and his dad, what did he do?”

  “He dropped to his knees, frantic,” I said. “I told him I’d just called 911. Gordy held a towel we found against Nelson’s chest to stem the bleeding. Nelson was unconscious at that point. Jack was sobbing.”

  “Did Jack say anything?”

  “That I don’t remember,” I said.

  Purdy looked at Gordy, who answered, “Um, he said, ‘Oh my god,’ and ‘How could this happen?’ Things like that.”

  “Anything about the shooter?”

  “That the guy got away or he couldn’t catch him,” I said. “And the bushes were thick. I got the idea he thought maybe the shooter might have hidden in the shrubs.”

  “You distinctly recall him using the word ‘he.’”

  Blinking, I thought back. “Yes, he said, ‘He got away,’ or something akin to that.”

  Purdy looked at Gordy again. “Mr. Maloy?”

  “Jack said ‘he.’ No doubt about it.”

  It was after two a.m. when Gordy finally pulled out of the Ellsworth Police Station parking lot. My adrenaline long gone, I struggled to maintain an upright position and keep Gordy company during the ride down to Spruce Harbor.

  I said, “Sergeant Purdy seemed very interested in Jack’s shotgun—how he held it as he ran, that kind of thing. Also how Jack seemed. What was that all about?”

  “They’ll compare the shell in Nelson’s chest to what’s in Jack’s shotgun, but I didn’t get the idea they think Jack shot his dad. Maybe Purdy wanted to see if Jack was as panicked as he said he was.”

  “He was beside himself. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  Gordy shrugged. “I dunno. If Jack knew whoever it was who shot Nelson, he could make up the story about not catching anyone. Somethin’ like that.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said.

  “It was—how do you say it? Hypothetical.”

  “Got it.”

  Gordy yawned and scratched the top of his head. “If Jack had a criminal background, Purdy would know it. In a case like this, checkin’ on people’s histories is one of the first things they do.”

  “You mean they did that on us too?”

  Gordy patted my thigh. “I can tell you don’t watch cop shows, Mara.”

  “Gordy, what’s your take on what happened?”

  “Couple things. First off, whoever shot Nelson didn’t take his eels. Jack said he’d walked up the path some while his dad was packing it in, and that’s when Nelson got hit. Jack said the shooter ran off without the eels when he heard Jack yelling. Could’ve happened that way, I suppose.”

  “But what else could it be but a robbery gone wrong?”

  “Hard tellin’ not knowin’.”

  Rolling my shoulders to loosen tight muscles, I said, “Whatever happened, our eel field trip sure turned out different than we expected.”

  “You got that right.”

  “What do you think of Purdy?”

  Gordy adjusted his rearview mirror. “He’s a decent cop just doin’ his job. Got more than he expected though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it was just one Mainer shooting another Mainer, that’d be one thing. But eel trafficking? It’s a whole ’nother can of worms. If that’s what’s going down, I mean.”

  “But you seemed so sure Nelson was innocent,” I said.

  “Still am. But I haven’t seen the man in, what, twenty-odd years? Things happen and people change.”

  “Things happen? Like what?”

  “Don’t take this wrong, Mara, but you never had to worry about next month’s rent or the grocery bill. Maine’s a poor state. People get desperate.”

  Gordy was right. In a third of Maine’s counties, poverty rates ran about twenty percent. A few years back I had visited Washington County on the border of New Brunswick, Canada. Away from the coast, lots of people lived in rundown homes and trailers. Local newspapers ran articles about the uncertain f
uture of jobs in farming, fishing, and lumber.

  “I don’t know, of course, but Nelson didn’t strike me as someone just scraping by,” I said. “Didn’t you say something about his nice home?”

  “Ayuh. Nelson’s got a pension from Bath Iron Works, so he’s doin’ good. But Jack might not be.”

  “Huh, I said. “If Jack needs money, wouldn’t Nelson just give him some? It doesn’t make sense he’d help Jack get illegal eels.”

  “When Nelson’s wife died, Jack was the only family Nelson had. He’s everything to the old man, Mara.”

  “But…”

  Gordy cut me off. “To tell the truth, I’m tired of the whole thing right now.”

  I let it go because I had to. After that, in silence we rolled by one empty parking lot after another, lit only by the partial moon. In a few months, we would have seen the occasional light of a baker or grocer getting ready for the first tourists of the day. But in the wee morning hours of early spring, coastal Route One was graveyard-quiet.

  I was just nodding off when Gordy’s question woke me right up. “If you want to call Ted and tell him what happened, better do it while the Belfast cell towers are still close by.”

  I blew out a long breath. “Actually, things aren’t so good with Ted right now.”

  5

  Gordy glanced over for a moment. “Oh. Sorry to hear that. I thought you guys had a great time on that submarine trip and were gonna live together.”

  Vivid images of the dive down to the Gulf of Maine’s stunning coral gardens came flooding back—glorious pink and orange corals waving in the current, fish flashing by, my colleague and lover, Ted, taking my hand as we rose up five hundred feet to the surface.

  “You’re right. But I’m, um, still not positive it’s a good idea. Now with all that happened tonight…oh, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe the day you want your love will be the day they give up.”

  “That’s harsh, Gordy. Who said it?”

  “Dunno. But I’m sure they were Irish.”

  I was still brooding about Ted when we drove through Spruce Harbor, past Maine Oceanographic’s dark laboratories, and finally down the dirt road to my house. Promising I would buy Gordy beers in Spruce Harbor’s new Tap House within the week, I jumped out of his truck, and waved as he pulled out of my driveway. After a quick, hot shower, I crawled into bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  I was swimming in warm, tropical waters with dolphins when my cell’s old-fashioned ring dragged me into the rude reality of morning.

  Coughing, I managed a hoarse, “Hullo?”

  Ted was all cheery. “Hey, good morning. Have to say you sound a little, um, played-out.”

  “We didn’t get back until after three. Lots to tell you, but right now I need coffee, and lots of it.”

  “Maybe we should postpone my coming for dinner and spending the night?”

  I wiggled up to a seated position and shoved my hair up off my face. “The house is pretty messy, so yeah. Do you mind?”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said.

  But Ted’s tone said otherwise. He minded very much.

  I dropped the phone in my lap and looked out the window. Having made its entrance an hour earlier, the sun played off waves breaking against granite boulders in the distance.

  Three hours later than my usual morning arrival time, I unlocked my office door at ten. On the desk was my computer with the usual scientists’ work—grant proposals to review, my own to write, student drafts to read—patiently waiting for me. Although all of it was important and interesting, my brain was still operating on slow-mo.

  The phone rang and saved me from postponement guilt. “Mar—”

  “Morning, Mara. Let’s have some coffee and you can tell me about last night.”

  The caller was Harvey Allison, properly called Harvina, one of the few other female oceanographers at MOI and my best friend.

  “Harve, I’m only half-here. We didn’t get back until after three this morning. You wouldn’t believe what happened.”

  “Like I’ve said a dozen times, with you I can believe almost anything. Coffee’s hot in the lab waiting for you.”

  For once, Harvey wasn’t fighting with her AutoAnalyzer, the instrument she used to measure elements in seawater such as nitrogen and phosphorous, among others. Loaded with a maze of little tubes carrying water samples separated by bubbles, the thing was a plumbing nightmare.

  A mug of steaming, caffeine-rich brew in hand, I had just described what happened to Nelson when a young man who looked to be in his early twenties knocked on the open lab door and stepped in. He wore a typical scientist’s not-everyday-but-not-too-dressed-up attire: pressed chino slacks and a button-down shirt tucked in.

  He looked at me, then Harvey. “Dr. Allison?”

  “That’s me,” Harvey said. “I’m guessing you’re the new grad student making rounds of our labs.”

  Hand out, he walked over to Harvey. “Michael Mahoney. I’ve been reading some of your climate change papers. It’s really great to meet you.”

  Harvey shook Michael’s hand and said, “Meet my good colleague, Mara Tusconi.”

  “Wow,” he said. “This is terrific. I’ve read your papers too.”

  Since research papers are scientists’ currency, I was pleased.

  “We can stay here in the lab and talk,” Harvey said. “There’s coffee, Michael, if you’d like some.”

  Perched on stools, Harvey and I sat on one side of a lab table. Michael, who explained he was too jazzed for coffee, faced us on the other side and described his research interests. “My senior research project in college was about fish and climate change. I’m especially interested in American eels, one reason why MOI is a great place for me. I’ll be working with Dr. Fisher on warming impacts.”

  Three ichthyologists had labs in our building’s top floor. Nick Fisher, whose last name matched his profession, was well known for his eel research.

  “Nick’s got a great group of grad students,” Harvey said.

  Michael nodded. “He sure does. I sat in on their weekly lab meeting yesterday afternoon. Before the meeting got going, each student described their research—things like the impact of warming on an eel’s ability to pinpoint higher temperatures of rivers they normally migrate up.”

  “One of Nick’s students gave an MOI seminar about the use of, ah, pop-up satellite archival tags, I think they were called. An amazing tool,” I said.

  Clearly enthusiastic about the tags, Michael said, “Right. They let you track individual adult eels. We know hardly anything about eel migration—like if they follow the continental shelf hundreds of miles off the coast or swim in shallower waters on their way to the Sargasso Sea.”

  “Mara was on a river with a Maine eeler last night,” Harvey said.

  I nodded. “But he got shot, so it didn’t turn out too well.”

  Michael’s eyes grew large. “Good lord.”

  Like mine, Ted’s office was on the second floor, and I stopped by to give him a fuller account of the previous night’s drama. His response to my description of Nelson’s wound mirrored Michael’s: “Good lord.”

  “Yeah. So besides not getting to bed until after three, I’m still pretty shaken up by what happened.”

  In the past, Ted would have said something like, “Trouble follows you around,” but he finally understood that the comment irritated the crap out of me. Sure, I stumble across a dead body now and then, but it’s not like I go looking for cadavers or anything.

  Ted seemed genuinely concerned. “I’m really sorry your field trip turned out so bad. How are you doing now, and what about Nelson?”

  “I’m okay, thanks. And I think I’ll call Sergeant Purdy and get an update on Nelson.”

  6

  I wasn’t at all ready for Purdy’s response to my question about the old fisherman’s wellbeing.

  “Sorry to say we just got bad news. He died not long ago in the ICU.”

  It was lik
e Purdy had punched me in the gut. “Nelson is…he’s dead?”

  “Yes. Jack was with him when he passed.”

  “I thought, um, hoped he’d be okay.”

  “As you know, it was a pretty serious wound,” Purdy said.

  “So what happens now?”

  “It’s a homicide, so we take it slow and get it right.”

  Homicide. The word stopped me cold.

  Purdy said, “Mara, you still there?”

  “Sorry. Um, do you mean homicide as in murder?”

  “You know, I’d rather talk to you about all this in person. Any chance you could drive up to Ellsworth later this afternoon?”

  So six hours later, my Subaru and I were on Route One going north—“Down East,” as Mainers call it. I called Gordy to see if he wanted to ride up with me, but he didn’t answer his phone.

  This time Purdy invited me into his office. He pulled back the wooden chair behind his desk and gestured toward its mate on the other side. Opening his notebook, he flipped on the tape recorder, and dictated the essentials.

  The sergeant jumped right in. As he spoke, I got the idea that he’d given talks to the public titled something like, “Crimes Involving Death.”

  “Cops often say that no homicide is like any other, so we always take it slow to get it right,” he said. “First off, the terminology can be confusing. A homicide is the killing of one person by another. Sometimes, as in self-defense, it’s justifiable. Malicious homicide is called murder.”

  After a beat I said, “How could Nelson’s death be self-defense?”

  “The bullet in the old man’s chest didn’t come from Jack’s firearm. Another shooter was there.”

  “And that means when Gordy and I were out there, the shooter was nearby.”

  “Correct.”

  I let that chilling thought sink in for a moment and said, “So Jack might’ve heard someone on the path and fired. If they shot back and hit Nelson by mistake, the shooter would’ve fired in self-defense.”

  “If that’s what happened, yes. As you recall, you weren’t certain about the number of shots.”