and you’re the only homicide detective qualified to go that deep.”
The Arabia. He didn’t have to remind me of what that was—I’d been there once before. A hundred-and-thirty-foot schooner at the bottom of over a hundred feet of water—treacherous water. The ship sank in 1884 with no lives lost, but in the less than forty years since the wreck had been found it had claimed the lives of fourteen scuba divers.
And now a fifteenth. But if I was being called in, they believed it wasn’t the wreck that took this life.
It was another diver.
The drive was, as always and as expected, uneventful. There wasn’t much to see along the way, whether it was the scenic route or the less scenic route. One took you north through Goderich and then along Lake Huron, the other took you north through the middle of southwestern Ontario, running through such blink-and-you’ll-miss-them-towns as Varney, Dornoch and Chatsworth.
The only reason to pay attention to the small towns as you passed through was because the speed limit dropped, and OPP officers, in need of tickets, loved to hang out in those areas, waiting for someone to roll on through at highway speeds.
From there it was a straight shot to the elephant’s anus—usually referred to with a little more vulgarity. Take a map of Southwestern Ontario and turn it on its side. It isn’t hard to see the elephant with its trunk reaching to the Windsor-Detroit border, its front foot the Niagara region, Tobermory at the tip of its tail and Owen Sound, right there under the tail at the business end.
It’s an unfortunate moniker for a not-so-bad small city, but one that has stuck around for quite some time. It was nearing two in the afternoon as we drove through the anus, working our way up the tail to our final destination. I could hear Kara’s stomach rumbling and felt mine echoing hers. Both of us were starving but there was no time to stop. Hopefully there would be some food on the boat.
The Inspector called while we were en route and filled me in with more of the details.
“What’s the story?” Kara asked when I hung up the phone.
“A dive charter went out this morning to hit the Arabia. The first pair down found the body partially inside the wreck. Luckily, one of them was a copper from Toronto, knew what he found wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only idiots dive alone. You always have a buddy, especially on a wreck as dangerous as the Arabia. And if you always have a buddy, why would there be a body down there with no one being told about it?”
“Ahhh,” she said, a slight nod of the head in time with the utterance.
“So the cop from Toronto tied the body off to the wreck so it wouldn’t drift away and left it down there. He called it in right after he surfaced. There were no signs of trauma and apparently half a tank of air left—they’re not sure what happened.”
“So, suspicious then. I mean, if it was natural then they would have told someone, right?”
“Yeah, diving is a high-risk activity—I even pay higher life insurance because of it. People die far too often. Lots of times it’s something medical that happens underwater, sometimes it’s diver error, other times it’s the water; temperature, currents, you name it. This one will be the fifteenth diver death on the Arabia.”
“Wow, that’s… wow. And you’re okay with going down there Lin… Detective. Sorry.”
I laughed as she stammered along.
“Apology not accepted. Just don’t call me Detective again.” We were both detectives, really—detective sergeant for me, detective constable for Kara. But Detective, the title, was reserved for higher ranking officers.
There were a few minutes of silence between us after that, broken up by the sounds of Ace of Base playing on some retro dance station I had to change.
“So what do I do?”
I looked over at Kara, while still somewhat keeping my eyes on the road. “Nothing. Sit up on the boat and shoot anyone who comes near my crime scene.”
“Your crime scene?”
“It will be once we get there.” She hadn’t learned my mock bravado sarcastic voice yet. Maybe because it sounded a lot like my regular sarcastic voice, which, incidentally sounded a lot like my normal voice. “You just have to wait in the boat for me to come back up. If I’m not up after a while, come down for me.”
“Right, a hundred-something feet when I’ve never dove before. I’ll start practicing holding my breath.”
“I’m kidding. They’re bringing in another seven OPP divers.”
“Seven more?”
“The wreck is a hundred and thirty feet long. And it’s not like searching a parking lot. We need a few sets of eyes down there, and we always stay in pairs.”
Kara nodded. “You do this a lot?”
“First one like this. I’ve been on a couple of rescue dives, searching for missing boaters, body recoveries, that sort of thing. Always accidents, though.”
“Sorry, I meant just diving.”
“Yeah, got my licence at eighteen and dove as much as I could. Got my Advanced Open Water, Deep Diver and Rescue Diver certifications, and a few others. Just haven’t been out so much lately since the kids are so young.”
“How old are they again?”
“Link’s six and Kasia’s four.”
“That’ll keep you too busy to dive for sure.”
I laughed and nodded at the truth of the statement.
“Maybe when they’re older we’ll go up to Tobermory for a camping trip and I can do a dive one of the days while they do a boat tour. At least this will take care of that itch I’ve had to get back in the water.”
“You know, I’ve never been up there.”
“To Tobey?”
“Never.”
I had to waggle a finger of admonishment at her. “You’ve missed out on a ton. It’s an awesome place. Canada’s first national marine park, Fathom Five. There are twenty-two known shipwrecks, a quaint little town with some of the best and freshest fish and chips, great hiking and exploring. You’ll love it.”
“Too bad we’ll be working the whole time.”
“I’m sure we can squeeze a little break in there somewhere. Let the province buy us dinner. See some of the sights.”
“A taxpayer-paid vacation? Doesn’t sound right.”
“A taxpayer-paid working vacation does. We solve a possible murder and get a little free time and some meals. Who can fault that?”
I didn’t know if I’d won the debate or not. The conversation stalled out there and the ride was pretty much silent for the next hour or so heading up the Bruce Peninsula.
Once I turned into the town of Tobermory, Kara looked stunned. The town was simple, just a bunch of shops and restaurants, a grocery store, dive shops, an art gallery and a liquor store all arranged in a U-shape around Little Tub Harbour.
“That’s it?”
“What more do you need? Food, drink, dive equipment and souvenirs. There’s more behind these buildings, but it’s a pretty simple place. People come for the diving and to explore nature. Most of these shops and restaurants are only open in the summer.”
“It definitely is quaint,” Kara said before pointing emphatically into the harbour. “There’s our ride.”
A black-and-white police boat sat in the water next to the harbour wall, two uniformed officers on board.
We introduced ourselves to Sergeant Nick Mahoney and Constable Deana Miles, exchanged the usual and expected pleasantries, put on our life vests and a few minutes after we arrived we were out on the open water, en route to the Arabia.
It didn’t take long for us to reach Echo Island, a small island near the more famous Flowerpot Island (named because of the two natural flowerpot-shaped rock pillars that stood at the shoreline). Two boats were already in the water, floating as directly above the Arabia as they could.
The closer we got the more a thin yellow line came into view. Crime scene tape stretched around buoys to make a closed off squar
e area. Crime scene tape for a scene that was constantly moving—old water shifting with the currents, taking evidence with it, then being replaced by new water.
A fluid crime scene in the completely literal sense. I began to question if I’d have anything to work with.
I couldn’t stop focusing on the tape. Anyone could just go deep under the water and bypass the tape if they wanted to. The tape was an illusion, a psychological boundary to those who would obey anything and, maybe more, a bit of a show put on by the officers on scene. That’s right, boys, draw further attention to a possible homicide scene.
We lifted the tape as we passed under, our captain maneuvering our boat alongside the one that wasn’t marked ‘Police’. It was at least twice the size of ours—a chartered dive vessel from one of the shops in town. Nick brought us as close to the other boat as he could, a distance of only a few feet.
“So, I’m guessing it’s you in the suit,” came a voice from the other police boat. “You’re the hotshot we’ve been waiting for?”
I recognized the voice, not to match it to a specific person, but a specific type of person—the old, crotchety, cynical cop, often a member of the ‘Constable-For-Life Club’.
“Sorry?” I said, glancing at the rank, or lack thereof, on his shoulder. Just like I guessed—a constable, older than me by the looks of it and as grizzled as they come.
“The hotshot homicide detective and expert diver, the one making us freeze our asses off for the last several hours waiting out here.”
“Detective Sergeant Hotshot, that is. Right, Constable?” There was an added emphasis on the last word and it hung thick in
Full Fathom Five - The Homicide Files (A Lincoln Munroe Novella, #1) Page 2