Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  Burdett looked up to greet his student when he received a surprise. Bess Chadwell stood in the doorway sporting an arched eyebrow.

  “Absolutely famished, Dan. Up for lunch?”

  Dan looked at his clock. Fifteen minutes remained. “Have a seat, Bess. I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. Taking a class?”

  “I’m quite interested in the medieval world, Professor Burdett. I might audit a class next term. It would be hot to share a bed with my prof. But, actually, I teach a class in the Criminal Justice Department.”

  “That would be interesting. Sharing a bed that is. Though I’m quite sure I signed a contract that included a morals clause.”

  “I’m getting hot just talking about it, Dan Burdett. Let’s say we skip lunch and find a closet.”

  He relaxed back in his chair and shook his head. Bess Chadwick had an inimitable way of talking dirty yet making it sound as innocent as a Disney cartoon. The thought of a closet rendezvous danced in his head. “Let’s! How are you at picking locks? There is a closet nearby I’m sure.”

  “Now you are simply a tease. Time’s up,” Bess said as she stood. “Let’s get that lunch.”

  Chief Nickerson paced close to his office’s bay window. Usually the serene view, along with Indian summer ushering in his favorite season, fall, calmed his nerves. Today he barely took note. A dark cloud was gathering in his universe. And, based on the grisly demise of his prisoner, Pete Gomes, he had a traitor in his midst. He could make that problem go away. Now, however, prying eyes were beginning to cast their gaze in his direction. Dan Burdett was a force to be reckoned with. He too could be silenced.

  The Chief sat down and bore his eyes into the low life that sat across from him. “Go over everything, slowly, from the beginning.”

  Mark Burns was a conman. He was skilled in his trade. Yes, he took action on the games from the ‘two week’ millionaires who rushed to the Cape during the summer and from the fisherman looking to give away their catch after too long out at sea. But, unbeknownst to anybody, he specialized in the scam. How, he was not sure, but Brick Cleary saw through his act in a minute. Burns knew people. He could read them like a book. So when Cleary implied he would break him in two if he didn’t cooperate, Burns knew it was not a bluff. He talked. He wasn’t happy with turning over the ‘lost at sea’ Papi Gomes’ winnings either. But he did. The conman’s greatest gift was the instinctive knowledge of when to fold.

  “Well, I was sitting quietly enjoying a beer when this thug sat down at my table. He started asking me about…”

  The Chief raised his rough hewn hands. “No, Burns, from the beginning. And I mean the beginning, the beginning of the swindle that is.”

  Burns gulped hard. The Chief too had sniffed him out. He thought to deflect and evade but knew that would only prolong his stay in the station. Mark Burns would need to find another angle. But, for now, he’d need to feed the Chief something edible. “Ok, here it is. Pete and Papi Gomes were on to something, in their words mind you, ‘Big.’ But, you see, they were, especially Pete, into me for about one large. They wanted to let me in on their adventure. I’d get paid three large if I forwent the debt and gave them some grease.”

  “And,” the Chief probed.

  “And what? I told them to ‘fuck off, wasn’t interested.’ I wanted my money.”

  “I’ve got you for two maybe three years in the local jail. You will note however that we are alone, the door is still open, and the offer to walk through is available.”

  The Chief’s point was clear. “Ok, maybe I was a little interested. I asked who was financing this buried treasure heist. They didn’t want to say. But when I started to walk away from the discussion, turning it back to how and when they were going to pay up, well I got a name. ‘Captain Mick’ they said. Even added they had done some work for him before. You remember the Wychmere Harbor heist. Son of a gun if that wasn’t the esteemed Mr. Beckham.”

  The Chief knew that heist well. It went unsolved. Naturally, no one in law enforcement looked in the direction of such a pillar of the community as Beckham. “Ok, go on.”

  Burns shook his head in disgust. Chief Nickerson was hungry, Burns was the meal, and the Chief would let him know when he had his fill. “I found out as much as I could about Beckham. He has, as you well know, conducted quite a few dives that have been successful. One of his team, the highly respected Peter Collins, seemed to be his right hand man. The play is in the information. What type of dirt, anything a mark might have hidden in the closet, was the way to wedge open a door.”

  Nickerson leaned forward at the mention of Woods Hole Institutes famed cartographer. “What did you find out about Collins?”

  “He was gay and a bit of a predator. Teenage boys, barely legal, or not, but, well,” Burns stopped and put his head in his hands.

  “Out with it!” The Chief had little patience trying to drag out every little detail from the small time crook.

  “I followed him, you see, from Beckham’s house this past Sunday. He left the house with what appeared to be a map canister. I stayed back a safe distance on my Kawasaki. Then on Woods Hole Road he stopped to help somebody on the side of the road. I rode past and stopped a safe distance ahead and took out my binoculars. When Collins got back into his car I’d continue on towards the Institute.”

  “What was your plan? Why go to the Institute?”

  “Blackmail,” he said somewhat surprised Nickerson hadn’t quickly grasped that obvious detail. “Simple really, I’d confront him with his infidelity. He is married after all. But, I took a look at his wife and, well, what can I say?”

  “I get it,” the Chief said with a smirk. “She’s not much to look at and with a disposition to boot. Ok, then what?”

  “Collins was all about his career, and, quietly, his hobby. That hobby was a career ender. All I’d need, to keep hush hush, would be his cut from the expedition.”

  “But, it didn’t get to that,” the Chief stated.

  “I saw the whole thing.” Burns thought for a second then took out his cell phone and placed it on Nickerson’s desk. “When I saw what was happening I put down my binoculars and began to film it.”

  The Chief picked up the phone and pressed play. His grim countenance did not change. A slight wince appeared as he watched the first blow of the odd looking fish hook. As the murder came to its conclusion he cast a withering glance at Burns.

  Burns felt the icy stare bore into his very being. He raised his hands in defense. “I am who I am, Chief. You are who you are.” Mark Burns had long since come to grips with his lot in the world.

  Nickerson turned the phone off and placed it in the top draw of his desk. Burns thought to complain. ‘That is my brand new Nokia,’ he wanted to shout. But he knew the wise move was to hold his tongue and plot an angle to keep his finger on the pulse of this buried treasure bonanza. He also knew too much. Blood was on the streets.

  Dan lay on the bed his chest heaving. He started whistling the 1970’s hit ‘Afternoon Delight.’ Bess, also laboring for breath, chuckled. She rose and slowly began to put on her clothes.

  “Wednesday’s I have a class in the morning, same as you, then free till my evening shift.” The implication was clear and their schedules had been updated. “Keep whistling that same tune, Dan.”

  Dan gazed admiringly at her body as she strode out of the cottage. The clock read four. He would be meeting Brick for an update at Clancy’s Bar & Grille. His mind jogged back to the first time he had met Bess. Their whirlwind fling had actually begun in the Barnstable County Police Station, then later more intimately at Rumrunners; he alone and her friends a no-show. Coincidence? He would keep that gaze on Elizabeth Chadwell. One eye for pleasure and the other shaded with suspicion.

  Brick had spent most of the afternoon hovered over his laptop. The key objective of the search being names: Sinclair, Nickerson, Chadwell, and Beckham to be exact. The results were illuminating.

  Now he sat nursing his beer in anticipation
of his meeting with Dan. A storm was brewing on the Cape. But you couldn’t tell that from his seat at Clancy’s Restaurant overlooking the serene waters of Swan Lake River gently flowing out to Nantucket Bay. This was a different, more dangerous, type of tempest. Family pitted against family. Brick wondered how many bodies lay dead in the closets of the Cape’s high society. Another, more ominous, thought barged forth. He didn’t want Dan Burdett to join the pile of bones relegated to the darker reaches of Cape Cod history.

  He lit a Marlboro. Brick took a deep drag and treasured the taste as it mingled with his Cape Cod Ale. He missed Molly. But at least he could enjoy a smoke.

  “Hey, watch where you flick that ash, man!”

  Brick looked over the rail. “A kayak! You are shitting me.”

  Dan grinned up at his friend and maneuvered his small craft up on the banks of the river.

  The waitress came over and placed a Shipyard Ale on the table. “Hi Dan! Looking great, the scallop role, as usual, I take it?”

  “Hi, Merry, that will be fine. My friend and I will relax over a couple of beers first.”

  Brick observed the interaction, arms folded across his chest, with an impressed look. He followed Merry’s attractive sway. “You sure have cut out a nice life for yourself, Counselor.”

  Dan answered with a smile. “Things are picking up I will admit.”

  “Maybe too fast.”

  “How do you mean?” Dan’s face turned serious. He knew Brick. And when the jaw was set bad news was on its way.

  “Sinclair, Nickerson, Chadwell, Beckham,” Brick Cleary said slowly listing each name to an assigned finger.

  Dan leaned back in his chair and took a sip from his mug. “Ok, a list of names. What am I to make of that?”

  “It means you should relegate your flings to young lasses such as Merry the cocktail waitress with her hot little ass.”

  Dan frowned. “I told you to check out the docks, not my love life.”

  Brick unfolded a piece of paper on the table. He had made sure they were positioned in the corner of Clancy’s deck overlooking the river. There was nobody to peer over his shoulder.

  Burdett looked on with bemused interest. “Checking on my family tree now are we?”

  “You’re the history nut, Professor. Let me give you an interesting lesson and we’ll start in the year 1656 with a man by the name of William Nickerson.”

  The dark orange sunset over Naushon Island during Indian summer was breathtaking. Henry Sinclair stared into it deeply as he watched John Kilkenny navigate his craft into the Island’s narrow inlet and steer it up to the dock. He was anxious to hear what information his man had been able to come upon. But first they had business to attend to.

  The rack had a long history in regards the Templar Knighthood. Naturally, they had used it to extract information from their prisoners. Though, many a Templar interrogator found it to be less than effective. This, thought Sinclair wryly, was arguably true. During the brutal attack orchestrated by Pope Clement V and the French King Philip IV on that fateful day of 13 October 1307, Templar Knight after Templar Knight carried their secrets to the grave rather than betray their order. Even in death they had emerged victorious.

  A new dawn had emerged. Men, Sinclair knew only too well, were now made of different stuff. Ironically, in today’s world the rack could be used to much greater effect. But modern man was weak. Sinclair was not.

  John Kilkenny joined him and together they entered the sacred mound. A lantern was lit. Kilkenny led the way into the inner sanctum. He was met by a set of eyes bulging with fear. Their captive, earlier in the day, had been tethered to the ancient yet well maintained tool of torture. Just being fit to a rack would be enough loosen someone’s tongue. The wait, at least five hours, hopefully would be enough to elicit a flood of information. Kilkenny hoped so. The shrieks of pain were difficult to bear. Killing was quick and did not register an emotional response. But torture, well that was another story. The cries of pain, the howls of mercy, seeing a man reduced to such a pitiful state, it was not a job he relished. Luckily, his master was made of a steelier substance.

  The methods of torture took on a ritualistic tone. Perhaps, Kilkenny thought, by summoning God, their seemingly inhuman acts were blessed as an act of piety beyond his feeble mind. Henry Sinclair motioned for him to prostrate himself before the grossly decorated altar.

  Sinclair also knelt. He slowly fell into prayer his voice gradually rising.

  Domine, Jesu Christe, sancte pater, aeterne Deus, omnipotens, sapiens creator, largitor, administrator benignus, et carissimus amator, pius et humilis redemptor, clemens, misericors salvator, Domine, te deprecor humiliter et exoro ut illumines me, liberes et conserves fratres Templi, et omnem populum tuum chistianum turbatum.

  Tu, Domine, qui scis nos esse innocentes, facias liberari, ut vota nostra et mandata tua in humilitate teneamus, et tuum sanctum servitium et voluntatem faciamus ; contumelias iniquas, non veras, contra nos oppositas per graves oppositiones, et malas tribulationes et tentationes, quas passi fuimus, et pati ulterius non possumus.

  Omnipotens, aeterne Deus, qui beatum Joannem evangelistam et apostolum tuum valde diligis, qui super pectus tuum in caena recubuit, et cui secreta caeli revelavis et demonstravis, et stante in ligno sanctae crucis, pro redemptione nostra, sanctissimam matrem tuam virginem commendavis, in cujus honore gloriose fuit facta, et fundata religio ; pro tua sancta misericordia liberes et conserves, prout tu scis nos esse innocentes a criminibus contra nos oppositis, et operas possideamus, per quas ad gaudia paradisi perducamur, per Christum dominum nostrum. Amen.

  Latin was foreign to Kilkenny. He had however shown due diligence in having the prayer translated. The words ran through his mind as his hands clung tightly to the rosary beads his parents had given to him as a boy.

  May the grace of the Holy Spirit be present with us. May Mary, Star of the Sea, lead us to the harbor of salvation. Amen.

  Lord Jesus Christ, Holy Father, eternal God, omnipotent, omniscient Creator, Bestower, kind Ruler and most tender lover, pious and humble Redeemer; gentle, merciful Savior, Lord! I humbly beseech The and implore Thee that Thou may enlighten me, free me and preserve the brothers of the Temple and all Thy Christian people, troubled as they are.

  Thou, O Lord, Who knowest that we are innocent, set us free that we may keep our vows and your commandments in humility, and serve Thee and act according to Thy will.

  That was as much as he could get through. But it was comforting. Perhaps, upon further thought, there was a sort of magic in the incantation.

  However, if it provided sustenance for both Sinclair and Kilkenny, it seemed to only add to the horror of the man on the rack who looked on with an increasing dread.

  Chief Nickerson navigated his Jeep through the sparse afternoon traffic along Locust Street. He didn’t need to revisit the scene of gore that Mark Burns had recorded on his phone. He knew the location like the back of his hand. It had been well chosen. But by whom? He took his time occasionally waving at a friendly face. His niece sat quietly.

  “So, Bess, what do you make of this Burdett character?”

  Bess Chadwell held her great-uncle in high regard. Their relationship wasn’t what one would call close, but it was highly professional and a gateway to bigger things. She needed to choose her words carefully. Dan Burdett was an assignment. But, wasn’t life one big assignment.

  “He is, as far as I can tell, trying to rebuild his life.” Her answer was succinct and she knew Nickerson was expecting more. “I did see Julia Beckham arrive at his home on Sunday morning.”

  The Chief shot her a disapproving glance. He wanted to chastise his niece. However, he had given her a task and a woman’s favors were often the best option in accomplishing a fact finding mission. If, the Chief figured, he was at times unethical, he would steadfastly avoid being hypocritical. “And what did she want?”

  “I asked him earlier this afternoon. He said they had visited Jack Beckham, her grandfather, on some bu
siness. I thought it not necessary to dig further as we both know what that was most likely about.”

  The Chief nodded, clearly impressed with Bess’ intuition. “Indeed.” He turned onto Woods Hole Road. His responsibility extended far beyond the basic law and order responsibilities of his small township. He was getting old and Bess Chadwell was being groomed. “You know, Bess, we need to proceed with caution. There are strong personalities involved here and each with their own agenda.”

  “You included,” Bess interjected. She enjoyed challenging her Uncle.

  The Chief rubbed his chin. “Yes, the Nickerson and Chadwell clan as well, so all the more reason to move with care.” A melancholy thought settled squarely in his thoughts. The Lady of the Dunes. The murderer who had got away. Perhaps if he had Bess, or someone like her, earlier in her career, he would have put that scoundrel behind bars.

  Little Harbor came into view on the right and Nickerson slowed his Jeep into the road’s sandy shoulder. He quietly stepped out of the vehicle and surveyed the harbor’s small inlet none too pleased with the grisly task they were about to undertake.

  Henry Sinclair and John Kilkenny, refreshed from prayer, turned their attention to the other man in the room. His eyes readily betrayed his fear. The disheveled man was tethered to a rectangular wooden rack. Though he sensed it was quite ancient he also understood it was well maintained and in excellent working condition. His ankles were tied to one roller while his wrists were chained to the other.

  Sinclair smiled gently. “The purpose is to extract information not fingernails.” Sinclair held aloft a pair of pincers with specially roughened grips.

  The man, his face badly bruised and his mouth parched from lack of water, tried to speak. Sinclair put his finger to his mouth. “Shush, you must conserve your energy. Let us help you make the truth flow easily.” He motioned to Kilkenny. On cue, Kilkenny walked to the left side of the rack and gripped the handle and ratchet mechanism attached to the top roller. He awaited his master’s command.