Swimming With the Dead (4 page)

“Surely there was some sort of investigation,” I said. 

“The local police asked a few questions,” Duvall said, “interviewed some people at the docks, but they were convinced that Michael was just one of those foolish divers.  We’ve been trying to accept that.  Maybe Michael couldn’t reach James and decided to go it alone this one time.  But then this break-in at the office.  I was so surprised that someone would go through the office that I didn’t think much about it yesterday afternoon.  But why would the intruder go through those boxes so thoroughly?  They were clearly not part of the office files, but rather personal, postmarked from the islands.”

“Maybe they thought they’d find something valuable in them,” I said, offering what seemed pretty obvious.

“Well, I went back last night,” he said.  “It looks like some of Michael’s research material is missing.  When I’d packed his work, I’d been pretty upset.  But I’d put all the research together, thinking I would pass it on to his dissertation advisor.  There had been a stack of files.  Each was labeled with the name of the site that Michael was surveying.  I’m sure that there was one for the
Chikuzen.
  It wasn’t there last night.  I probably would never have noticed that particular file missing except that Michael died at the
Chikuzen.
”

“When did the boxes arrive at your office?” I asked. 

“Just yesterday morning.  I’d been at a meeting.  When I returned, Greta said she had signed for them and had them stacked in the file room.  They’d been there only a matter of hours.” 

I could see where all this was going.  “You think the reason for the break-in was in those boxes?” I asked.  “This all could be simple coincidence.”

“Yes, and you could be thinking we are just two grieving parents trying to find some meaning in the meaningless death of our son.”

“No, not at all,” I lied.  “But why tell
me
all this?”

“Because you’re both a homicide detective and an expert diver.  I want you to go down to the islands and look into Michael’s death.  I believe the office break-in and missing files are tied in somehow.  I’ve spoken with your supervisor and he’s agreed to authorize a leave of absence. I’ve never put pressure on anyone in the department because of my position as commissioner.  But this is one time I’m willing to do it, and your boss will go along if the department is not directly involved.  Caroline and I have personal resources.  We can cover your expenses and salary.”

“You could hire a private investigator.”

“I’ve followed your work.  I know you’re the best diver in the city, and I know your reputation, how you stick to a case long after everyone else has called it quits. What do they call you?  Dead-End Sampson?”

“I don’t think it’s meant as a compliment,” I said.

“I know how it is in the department,” Duvall said, “how fellow officers ride each other.  I also know there’s respect behind it.  And Tom Kane says you’re the best.  He’s not about to go out on a limb, damage his good standing in my office.  He’s convinced you can help.”

“I can’t drop everything.  I’m in the middle of cases.”

“If I can arrange it, would you agree to go?”

“Well, this is pretty sudden,” I said, trying to think it through.  Hmm, zero degrees and a foot of snow in Denver, a sunny eighty in the Caribbean.  Might be okay.  Besides, I liked the Duvalls.  Maybe I could help them finalize their loss by discovering what had happened to Michael, even if it turned out that he really had died in a careless diving accident.  And more than likely that’s just what had happened.  I mean really, who would want to kill a Ph.D. candidate who was studying slimy sea creatures and pieces of coral?  But what the hell.

“Okay,” I said. “If you can get my cases covered, I’ll go.”

Chapter 3

The first half hour of my Sunday morning started just the way I like it to start—in bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper.  Then my boss called.

“Sampson, I spoke with George last night.  I’m okaying this harebrained scheme only because George is an old friend as well as the best police commissioner we’ve ever had.  Normally, I’d trust his judgment, but I think parenthood has colored it in this case.  Go down to the islands.  See what you can find out.  I’m giving you two weeks.  Then get back up here to work.”

By ten o’clock I was back at George Duvall’s office.  It looked bad.  Greta’s blood, now dried and blackened, had soaked into the papers that still covered the floor. 

The investigation would continue, but without me.  People would be questioned, fingerprints run.

“I’ve made your reservations to Tortola.  The flight leaves at seven forty-two tomorrow morning,” said Duvall, who had met me at the office.

Things were moving faster than I liked.  Before the call from the boss, my only plans for the day were to take Sadie for her walk and get to the gym.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Michael?”  I asked. “Anyone have a grudge?  Did he use drugs, owe the wrong people money?”  Though Michael’s death might have been an accident, I was now in murder mode.

“No.  Michael was basically a good kid, certainly honest,” Duvall responded.  “He did experiment with drugs in college.  I think it was fairly innocuous, as much as drugs can be.  Weekend parties involved alcohol and probably marijuana.  But once he started graduate school, he left all that behind.  He said he’d done some pretty stupid things and felt lucky that nothing serious had happened.  I didn’t ask for details, but I think some of his friends had misdemeanor skirmishes with the law, driving under the influence, caught smoking marijuana, that kind of thing.

“Michael was a pretty responsible kid and people liked him,” Duvall said.  “I suppose he might have alienated some with his adamant defense of environmental issues.  But I think most people respected him for it because he was practicing what he preached.”

“Girlfriends?” I asked.

“Yes, a local woman, Lydia Stewart.  We met her when we were down there in December.  Had dinner.  She is a native of the BVI, lived there all her life, though she went to college in the States.  She works for one of the banks in Roadtown.  She is a beautiful woman, black of mixed Caribbean heritage.  They had planned to marry.” 

The fact that Michael was involved in a relationship with a black woman didn’t seem to faze Duvall in the least.  I liked this man more every time we talked.  No wonder he was so well respected by so many elements of the community.

“Michael was crazy about Lydia, and I think she felt the same,” Duvall continued.  “She helped me go through his effects, and I gave her some of his things, photos, a watch, a few mementos that were meaningful to her.” 

“I’ll be talking with her,” I said, jotting the information in my notebook. “Who else did he associate with?”

“Well, we didn’t know many of his friends in the islands.  Of course, his diving buddy, James.  Michael interacted with a lot of the locals—fishermen, people in the boating industry.  Sailing is big in the islands.  Michael also talked about another scientist whom he collaborated with periodically.  Works for the Department of Environment and Fisheries.  We didn’t meet him.”

“Anyone else?” I asked. 

“We went sailing one day with Michael and Peter O’Brien.  He owns SeaSail, one of the big charter boat companies.  He and Michael had gotten acquainted when Michael began inquiring about boat use.  They spent at least an hour that day arguing about the damage the sailing industry was doing to the environment.  Talked about bottom paint, holding tanks, moorings, anchor damage, the tourist economy.  I was too busy enjoying the ride to pay much attention.  We sailed around Tortola to a little bit of an island named Green Caye, ate on the boat, did some snorkeling, took the dinghy to the island and lounged on the beach.  It was a simply fantastic day—the last that we spent with Michael.  We left the next morning for home.”

“What about friends here in the States?” I asked. 

“Well, that would mainly be the people at the university.  His dissertation advisor, his roommate.  I packed Michael’s address book in one of those boxes.  I’m sure you’ll find the numbers.”

He left as I started looking through the first box.  By the time I reached the bottom of the last, it was getting dark, and I was starving.  My right foot was numb from sitting on my heels for the past hour.  I was surrounded by the remnants of a lifetime—photo albums, letters from home, correspondence from the university, shell and coral collections, a well-worn Nike cap, books, one called
Anchoring
that was filled with technical diagrams and directions about the skill of “dropping the hook.”  Christ, a couple hundred pages about putting a piece of iron in the sand.  Evidently, some kind of art in the sailor’s mind.  Peter O’Brien’s name was scribbled on the first page. 

At the bottom of the box, I’d found a copy of
Walden
, its edges bent and frayed.  Michael had underlined passages on almost every page, including Thoreau’s classic:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” 

I’d practically memorized the book when I was twenty.  Like Michael, I had been drawn to ideas about living life fully, finding joy in every moment.  Somewhere along the line, though, I’d lost sight of those goals.  Like most, I was caught up in the rat race, my days consumed by the chase.

I’d guess that Michael’s journey to the British Virgin Islands was motivated by the same idealism that motivated Thoreau, along with a tremendous respect and love for nature.  The story these boxes told was of a sensitive man, who knew the value of life and the world around him.  It made me angry that Michael would never realize his dreams.  What a waste.

I gathered the pile of stuff that I wanted to take with me—a thick collection of Michael’s research notes, a draft of his dissertation, the address book, photos, one of Michael with his arm around a beautiful woman I assumed was Lydia.  There were several miscellaneous shots—Michael working on a boat engine, folks on sailboats.  One old photo didn’t seem to fit.  It was a black and white of three shirtless men around fifty, arms around each other.  I’d found it stuck inside a book about scuba diving sites in the islands. 

I wondered about that missing file.  Had Duvall been mistaken about it being in with the other files?  But then why would anyone have bothered to go through the boxes in the first place?  I put everything that I wasn’t taking with me back in the boxes, turned off the lights, and closed the door. 

I’d been so intent on Michael’s effects that I hadn’t noticed how empty the building was.  Now that I had what I’d come for I was anxious to get out of there.  The building felt hollow, the hallway cold and deserted.  My footsteps echoed off the hard tile floors as I rounded the corner to the elevators.  I pressed the down button and waited.  That’s when I heard it: a door opening back down the hall.  Someone coming in to get a head start on Monday’s work?  Maybe. 

I crept quietly back around the corner and down the hallway.  Duvall’s office door, which I was sure I’d closed just minutes before, was ajar.  I imagined every possible scenario, including Greta’s killer waiting behind the door, ready to shoot.  I stood at the door, heart pounding, gun drawn, listening.  I could hear someone moving around in the office.  Cleaning staff?  Christ, the room was clearly labeled as a crime scene and off-limits.  Whoever was inside knew he shouldn’t be there.  How could anyone have entered without my seeing him?  Then I remembered the back stairs. 

I opened the door just wide enough to slip inside.  No one.  The room was dark.  I stood, blind, every sense alerted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the blackness.  I could hear a faint rumbling coming from the floor and then warm air started blowing across my face.  The furnace in the basement had come on.  A scent, something sweet and musky, drifted in the heated air.  A familiar smell, but I couldn’t place it.  Suddenly the furnace quit and I was enveloped in silence.

I heard a noise in the file room, a kind of scraping sound.  I moved silently across the soft carpet to the file room door, swallowing fear.  I didn’t like the situation at all.  No Mack to back me up.  Neither the time nor the means to radio for help.  The back of my neck tingled; the nagging pain returned to my injured shoulder.  A reminder—
Watch it, Sampson; this time it could be worse
.  I rolled out my shoulder, an attempt to shake off the fear.  I grasped the doorknob, cold in my clammy hand, and burst into the room, gun raised.

Inside, standing on a stool, was a man, straining to pull a file off of the top shelf.  Greta’s killer stupid enough to return?  I’d met plenty of stupid criminals in my years on the force. 

He went flying when I’d rushed into the room.  Now he lay sprawled on the floor as the contents of the file rained down around us. 

“Holy shit!” he yelled. 

Tom Kane.  Now I recognized the smell—his aftershave.  He looked up from under a blanket of papers, face ashen.

“Hannah, what the hell!” he said, shaken.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. 

“I was looking for the demographics that I’d left with Greta.  I’ve got to have that report done for the mayor by tomorrow.  I wasn’t disturbing anything else,” he whined.

“Jeez, Tom, you know better than to disturb a crime scene,” I said as we gathered the contents of the file.  “Take this stuff and stay out of here until the investigation is complete,” I said, handing him the file.

I could feel my heart rate slowing, the pain in my shoulder subsiding, my breath returning to normal.  Now, I was just pissed.  Damned Kane.  I should report him. 

All the accolades that I’d imagined showered upon me for solving Greta’s murder in record time vanished in the stale office air.  Tom Kane was a jerk, but he was no killer. 

By the time I got home, snow was falling again.  Sadie greeted me at the door with her “Where have you been all day?” attitude.  While she ran in the yard sniffing every scent like it was something important, I headed for my landlords’.  They live in the big Victorian in front of my place and were like a second family for Sadie.  Scotty, ten, clairvoyant, and hopeful, answered before I could knock.  There was nothing he liked better than having a dog to call his own for a week or two.