Murder over Kodiak

by Robin, Barefield

  “4:00 is fine,” I said. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “I know her parents, and they live in town now. I think Toni still lives with them, but maybe I should call and check that she will be there this afternoon.”

  “No,” I said. “Let’s not give her any time to think up answers.”

  Steve paid for the coffee, and we left the cafe. The day was still dark, and the fierce wind drove the rain at a forty-five-degree angle. I sprinted for my Explorer, started the engine, turned on the windshield wipers, and cranked up the heater. I stared through the rain-spattered window at the boat harbor and pitied the poor fishermen working on their boats in this weather. A man in a thin, blue windbreaker walked down the dock, his shoulders hunched against the unsympathetic elements, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his Carharrts. At least he was in the boat harbor. I wouldn’t want to make my living at sea in this weather.

  Three cars occupied the marine center parking lot when I arrived, and I was relieved I wouldn’t be alone with Betty in the big building. One of the vehicles was Peter’s Audi, and the other, a small compact, belonged to David Miles, one of the chemists at the lab.

  The front door was unlocked, and I hurried down the hallway, hoping to avoid Betty. I took two steps past the door of the central office, when Betty’s shrill voice pierced the silence. “Doctor Marcus!”

  I stopped and stepped back to the office door. “Yes, Betty?” I was pleased to hear the sharpness of my tone.

  Betty was not contrite. Her own words dropped the temperature in the already-cold building another two degrees. “You had a call from an FBI agent.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she simply stared at me as if waiting for me to react to this news. “What did he want?” I finally asked.

  She looked down at her desk, picked up the small pink message slip, and held it out for me. “He didn’t say, but he wants you to return his call.”

  I walked toward her and plucked the slip from her fingers. I wished I had the power to fire marine center employees, but both Betty and I knew I lacked that authority.

  I waited until I was locked securely in my office before I looked at the message slip. In Betty’s neat, cursive handwriting, it read: Agent Nick Morgan. A local telephone number followed the name, so I picked up the phone and dialed it. A young woman informed me that I had reached the Kodiak Police Department, and I asked for Agent Morgan.

  A moment later, a deep voice said, “Agent Morgan.”

  “Hello, this is Jane Marcus. I have a message to call you.”

  “Yes, Dr. Marcus. Thank you for returning my call. I’d like to meet with you and ask you a few questions about Nine Nine November.”

  “Okay.” I felt my heart pound.

  “Do you have any free time today?”

  “Now would be fine.”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Do you know where the marine center is located?”

  “No, but I have a local policeman for a chauffeur.”

  Twenty-two minutes later, a sharp knock rattled my office door.

  “Come in.” I stood.

  The door opened smoothly, and the man that walked through it held out his hand to me.

  My previous association with the FBI had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I found it difficult to trust any FBI agent. As Agent Morgan grasped my palm in a firm handshake and stared squarely into my eyes, however, I decided to reserve judgment.

  I notice a man’s eyes and teeth; hairline and physical build are secondary considerations. Nick Morgan rated high in all four categories. He had grey-blue eyes that reflected his intelligence. I also thought I saw honesty and sincerity in the sparkling depths, but I know eyes can lie about honesty. A man’s honesty cannot be determined so easily.

  “I have a few questions for you, Dr. Marcus.”

  “Please, sit down.” I gestured to the chair sitting against the wall, and Morgan pulled it in front of my desk and eased himself into it. He folded his hands in his lap, and I noticed the gold band gleaming on his left ring finger.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the FAA inspector,” I said.

  “I’m sure you know that our bomb experts have concluded that the explosion was no accident.” He must have worn braces when he was young. His white teeth were perfect. His smile would be dazzling, but I doubted that many people saw it.

  “In other words, someone planted a bomb on the Beaver.”

  “We think so.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t think you can consider Craig a valid terrorist target. From what I’ve heard, some of the other passengers were much more likely than Craig to attract powerful enemies. Craig was just a college kid with his entire future ahead of him. He was an innocent bystander.”

  Morgan bit his lip and nodded his head. “I know,” he said in a quiet voice. “My deepest sympathies for your loss. I don’t believe that someone blew up this plane to kill your assistant, but my job requires me to interview the associates and families of all the victims.” A light speckling of grey tinged his short, black hair at the temples, and fine lines creased the corners of his eyes. I wondered how old he was.

  “I should have been on that plane.” The words fell unwillingly from my mouth.

  “What?” He cocked his head to one side.

  I laughed and pushed my chair back from my desk. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that I sent Craig alone at the last minute, and I feel guilty about that. I don’t like to fly, so I found an excuse not to go.”

  I saw Morgan struggling to form his next question, and I realized what he must have been thinking. “I don’t think the bomb was meant for me, either,” I said. “I don’t know many people in Kodiak, and everyone at the lab knew I didn’t fly out to Uyak with Craig. A fish biologist does not attract many violent enemies.”

  An embarrassed grin played across Morgan’s face. “No angry ex-boyfriends?”

  “My life should be so exciting.”

  “What about Craig? Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Craig attended the University of Washington, and I think he had a casual girlfriend there. I kept him too busy for a social life here in Kodiak. He bunked with some students from the marine center, but we’ve been working seven days a week since this paralytic-shellfish-poisoning crisis began.”

  “That’s what he was doing in Uyak Bay?”

  “Yes. He was collecting clams from a site where a lady was poisoned. He could only dig for the clams at low tide, and only the early morning tides were low enough to get a proper sample. He camped for two nights, so he could make two collections.”

  Morgan paused for a moment. “Will you have to take more samples, now?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’ll have to repeat the collection procedure on the next series of extreme-low tides. The results won’t be as valuable, because so much time has passed since the poisoning, but they’ll be better than nothing.”

  Morgan stood. “You’re a busy woman, Dr. Marcus. I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.

  The warm flesh of his hand distracted me. I had questions for this man, but I couldn’t remember what they were. I drew my hand away. “Have you already talked to the relatives and associates of the other people on the plane?”

  He stretched his neck and frowned at me. “I’ve talked to some, but we’re still in the early stages of our inquiries.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why?”

  I smiled. “You know how it is in a small town. I’ve heard rumors. I’m sure ninety percent of them are false, but I don’t think the senator and her husband were the only people on the plane with enemies.”

  “I would be happy if you would tell me everything you know, Dr. Marcus. I would appreciate information about any of the people on that plane.”

  I pulled my chair up to my desk and folded my hands in my lap. “That’s the problem,” I said. “I don’t know anything but gossip, and I don’t think I should b
e repeating gossip to you.”

  “Sometimes that’s all we have to go on.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I held his gaze and said nothing.

  “Well,” he said. “Thank you for your help, and if you think of anything else you want to tell me, I can be reached through the Kodiak Police Department, or here’s my card with my cell number.”

  I nodded, and Agent Morgan left my office, shutting the door behind him.

  I stared at the smooth, white door for several minutes. What kind of person could kill six people just because he or she wanted one of them dead? I read about monsters like that each day in the paper, but I associated such psychopathic behavior with cities, not with the wilderness. I wanted to believe that this evil had come from the outside, that the killer was from some other place, and that his reasons for killing had nothing to do with the people of Kodiak or the island itself. The more I learned about the pilot and passengers of Nine Nine November, though, the more I believed that the murderer and the intended victim could be local.

  I pushed my chair away from the desk, stretched, and stood. I was wasting my time here and was really in no mood to interact with my colleagues. I grabbed my jacket and purse, shut off the light, and locked my office door. I hurried quietly down the hallway, rushing past the office door holding my breath in fear that Betty would call my name. I felt as if I were back in high school, skipping class.

  I drove to the grocery store and bought some fruit, fresh vegetables, and a two-pound can of coffee. The hostile weather was keeping shoppers away from the large Safeway store, and I hurried through the checkout with no wait. I was cruising to my apartment when I remembered I still hadn’t called my father.

  As soon as I got home, I dumped my sack of groceries on the counter and called my dad in Kansas. The phone rang three times before he answered with a breathless, “Hello.”

  I assured him I was okay and tried to play down the fact that Craig had been my assistant. He wasn’t fooled, and my clumsy attempt at trying to protect him only served to irritate him.

  “Tell me the truth, Jane. Are you in any danger?”

  I sighed. “No, Dad, I don’t think so. The FBI doesn’t know who planted the bomb or why they did it, but I’m sure the motive had nothing to do with Craig or me.”

  “They said on the news that Senator Justin’s political opponent ordered someone to plant the bomb.”

  “That’s just one theory.”

  “No,” my dad said. “Haven’t you heard the latest? A member of Eaton’s election campaign staff came forward and says he believes Eaton was behind the bombing.”

  I pulled the stool away from the counter and sat down. “When did you hear this?”

  “A few minutes ago. I turned on CNN as soon as I got home, and it was on the news.”

  I tried to change the subject, but all my dad wanted to talk about was the bombing and my safety. The conversation depressed me, so I told him that someone was at the door and that I would call him soon.

  I flipped on the TV, and while I listened to the news around the world, I cut up bananas, grapes, apples, and oranges for a salad.

  “Startling news from New York today, where a former staff member on Alfred Eaton’s campaign came forward to finger his ex-boss in the bombing in Alaska of the small plane on which Senator Margaret Justin was a passenger.”

  I laid the knife on the counter, wiped my hands on my jeans, and hurried to the living room.

  The grey-haired male anchor stared grimly through wire-rimmed glasses at the camera. “Eaton and Justin were fighting a brutal campaign battle for the senate seat, and while polls just before her death gave Eaton a slight edge, Justin promised to reveal damning evidence against Eaton, linking him with the importation of drugs into the United States.”

  File footage of Eaton giving a speech flashed on the screen. “According to an FBI source, the ex-staff member, whose name is being withheld, says Justin’s allegations against Eaton were true, and he believes Eaton took steps to silence Senator Justin. The FBI is taking the accusation against Eaton seriously and their spokesman says they will follow up every lead.”

  A commercial came next, and I turned off the television and returned to the kitchen. I was skeptical. The mysterious source who reported Eaton’s involvement with the bombing was an ex-employee, no doubt disgruntled. Why would the FBI report such obviously biased, unsubstantiated information? I wondered if they released this tidbit to the press to quash criticism that the investigation was not moving forward.

  I ate my fruit salad and then stretched out on the couch, planning only to rest for a few minutes.

  I sat up straight when the phone rang. I looked at my watch: 3:45. I hurried to the phone.

  “Hi,” Steve said. “Do you want me to pick you up at your place?”

  I sat on the bar stool and rubbed my forehead with my left hand, slowly recalling that I’d made plans with Steve to visit Toni Hunt. I recited my address to Steve, washed my face, grabbed my jacket and purse, and walked down to the parking lot to wait for him. The weather hadn’t improved, and I huddled under the protection of the roof near the stairs, watching the rain splatter off the pavement in front of me.

  A red Ford pickup turned into the parking lot ten minutes later and stopped beside me. I opened the passenger door and climbed in beside Steve.

  “You sounded out of it when I called,” Steve said, as he nosed his truck onto Spruce Cape Road. “Did I wake you?”

  “I fell asleep on my couch this afternoon and slept better than I have in days.”

  Steve nodded. “I know about insomnia. The last few days have been one long nightmare.”

  “I wish I didn’t feel so responsible,” I said. “I can’t get over the fact that I sent Craig to his death.”

  Steve slowed the truck to make the turn-off and looked at me. “How do you think I feel?” I studied his face. His red-rimmed eyes looked yellow and his skin was drawn and sallow. He looked years older than he had a few days before, and I realized what a strain this had been on him. I had been so caught up in my own grief, guilt, and self-pity that I hadn’t thought about how terrible Steve must feel. He bore the weight not only of one death, but six. No matter how this turned out, he always would feel that he should have been able to protect his pilot and passengers.

  We turned left onto Rezanof, and I watched two kids ride their bikes down the sidewalk, heads bent against the driving rain. Steve pulled up in front of the large, one-story, cedar home, whose beautifully landscaped lawn I had admired since I’d moved to Kodiak. Brightly colored lilies framed an emerald lawn, and rhododendrons skirted the house. White, yellow, sapphire, and fuchsia plants hung from beams above the porch.

  “These plants are taking a beating in this rain,” Steve said.

  “This is where Toni Hunt lives?”

  “This is her parents’ home. She still lives with them, and I guess she will awhile longer now,” Steve said. “She was trying to convince Bill to let her move in with him, but I don’t think he was crazy about that idea.”

  Steve sprinted to the front door, and I hurried after him. He pushed the ivory doorbell, and we waited only a few moments until a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a lacy apron over her sweater and jeans opened the door.

  “Hello,” she said, scrutinizing our faces. “Well, hello, Steve. What can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Hunt, uh Marge, this is Dr. Jane Marcus from the marine center.” Marge smiled at me, wiped her right hand on her apron, and then held it toward me. I gripped her damp, soft hand and smiled back. “Jane lost a coworker in the crash the other day, and we were talking and thought we would stop by to see how Toni is doing.”

  Marge looked a little confused, as if she didn’t understand what the loss of my colleague had to do with her daughter. She stepped back into the hallway. “Forgive my rudeness. Please come in out of the rain.”

  We stepped into the tiled entryway, and Steve shut the door behind us. Marge Hunt was silent for several moment
s. “Toni isn’t doing so well,” she said. “I’m not sure she is up to visitors.”

  “I know this has been difficult for her,” I said.

  “Yes, it has. She and Bill were very close.”

  “We won’t tire her out,” Steve said. “I just want to let her know we’re here if she needs us.”

  Marge didn’t know what to say to Steve’s persistence, and I was glad and a little surprised that Steve hadn’t meekly backed out the door. He hadn’t been crazy about approaching Toni, but apparently once he decided to do this, he planned to carry it through.

  “Well,” Marge shifted from one foot to the other, burying her hands in her apron pocket. “I guess you could talk to her for a few minutes, if she will see you. She won’t come out of her room, so you’ll have to talk to her there.”

  Steve and I pulled off our rain gear and shoes and left them in the entry hall. We followed Mrs. Hunt through a large living room and up a flight of stairs. The upstairs hallway was dark, and Marge didn’t bother to turn on a light. Through the gloom, Steve and I followed her to the end of the hall.

  She stopped in front of a closed door and knocked twice. When nothing happened, she knocked again. She cracked open the door and called Toni’s name. Nothing. She shouted louder, and I heard a muffled, “What do you want?”

  “You have visitors,” Marge said.

  “Who?”

  “Steve Duncan and a friend.”

  I didn’t hear Toni’s reply, but she must have agreed to see us, because Marge held the door open and motioned for us to enter. The dim light from Toni’s room revealed Marge’s down-turned face as she slowly shook her head.

  Toni’s room was black and in the process of becoming blacker. A black rug, a black bedspread, and dark grey walls that Toni was in the process of covering with a coat of glossy black paint sucked up light filtering through shrouded lampshades.

  “Wow,” Steve said. “This is a black room.”

  “I’m in mourning,” a petite brunette said. She placed the paint roller in its pan and covered it with a cloth. Headphones drooped around her neck over her black T-shirt, and I wondered what dark music she had been listening to.