Murder over Kodiak

by Robin, Barefield

  Next, I tried Kodiak Flight Services and was informed that Steve was at the dock. I grabbed my purse and jacket, locked my office door, and hurried from the building. I felt too edgy to sit around. I needed to talk to someone.

  The fog was thinner than it had been when I’d driven to work, but the visibility was still less than a mile, and the ceiling was no more than eight-hundred feet. What was Steve doing at the dock? Certainly he wasn’t flying anywhere. I wondered who Jack Justin had found to fly him to the crash site. The weather had not been flyable for the last several days.

  Steve was the only person at the floatplane dock, and he was fueling a blue-and-white Beaver. I parked my Explorer and trotted down the ramp toward him. He waved at me, and I stood back until he finished filling the fuel tanks. Then, he coiled the hose and walked toward me, wiping his hands on his black jeans.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “You’re not flying in this, are you?”

  “No, I’m just getting restless. The forecast is good, and we’re backed up, so I want to be ready to go as soon as the weather breaks.”

  “Have all the airlines been on hold the last few days?”

  “Pretty much.” He slid his hands into his back pockets.

  “I just talked with Jack Justin, and he said someone flew him out to the crash site, dropped him off, and then came back out the next day to get him. Is that possible?”

  “Adventure Air,” Steve said, and shook his head. “Their motto should be, ‘Each flight with us is an adventure.’“

  “They’ve been flying in this crap?” The thought made me shudder.

  “I heard they took a few flights out. I also heard they got stranded on the other side of the island. Maybe that was Justin’s flight.”

  “Has Justin talked to you?” I asked.

  “He called me two days ago and asked about a briefcase. He thought maybe I’d seen it at the crash site.”

  “He’s convinced that either you or I have his father’s briefcase.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I couldn’t reason with the man. He says his and my lives are in danger, unless I give him the briefcase.” I felt tears in the corners of my eyes. “He scared me, Steve”

  Steve reached toward me with oily hands and embraced me. I fought to keep control over my emotions. “I thought I should warn you,” I said. “He’s distraught, and he’ll probably try to contact you next.”

  “If that briefcase was on the plane, there wouldn’t be anything left of it,” Steve said.

  “That’s what I thought, but Agent Morgan thinks this particular briefcase could have possibly survived the crash.”

  Steve released me. “I didn’t see a briefcase.”

  “You and I know that,” I said, “but I can’t seem to convince Justin that we didn’t walk off with it.”

  “I wonder what was in the case that is so important.”

  “Justin believes that the people who planted the bomb are after the briefcase. He says they will do anything to get it back.”

  Steve stepped back. “We’ve got to tell the FBI this.”

  “I called Morgan, but he was out, so I left a message.”

  “Why hasn’t Justin told the FBI?”

  “He claims he’ll be killed if he says anything, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t trust Jack Justin, and I don’t think he’s an innocent bystander.”

  “You think he blew up his parents?” Steve whispered the question.

  I thought about my answer for a moment. “I think he knows more than he’s saying. Just be careful, Steve.” I turned and retraced my steps up the ramp.

  “You too!” Steve yelled after me.

  My stomach growled with hunger, but I had no appetite. I considered stopping someplace for coffee, but I didn’t want to deal with people, so I drove slowly back to the marine center.

  I passed Peter Wayan in the lobby of the marine center. He wore his biggest smile and was acting as tour guide for an elderly couple. He undoubtedly smelled money and was going for the kill. I felt sorry for the couple; they didn’t stand a chance. I could almost see Peter’s fangs. Peter gave me a curt nod and then looked away. He usually introduced me to future, possible grant-givers as one of the center’s assets, but today, he must not have thought I would help his cause. Avoid infection by scandal, Peter. I liked Peter, but I knew he would not be my closest ally if my troubles involved the marine center. I was not even certain he would stick by his own wife if she did something to hurt his precious center.

  I was thinking about Peter as I walked down the hall, and didn’t notice the note taped to my door until I was in front of my office. Then, it assaulted my senses like a neon sign.

  “YOU WILL BE NEXT BITCH” was written in red, felt-tip pen on white, lined notebook paper.

  I snatched the note from the door and looked around. My first thought was one of embarrassment. I wondered who else had seen the note. What must my colleagues think of me? Then, I began to shake. I dropped my keys and fell to my knees to retrieve them. Had Jack Justin returned and left this note? The childish threat seemed out of character for the man, but he had been unreasonable and desperate. Maybe he thought fear would motivate me if his promise of a reward did not.

  I stood, stuffed the keys in my pocket, and hurried toward the main office. A dull pressure pounded behind my eyes. I trotted through the door of the office and screeched to a halt in front of Glenda’s desk. She wasn’t there.

  “Can I help you?” The crisp enunciation of each word caused my spine to stiffen. I wasn’t prepared to confide my problems in Betty; she was the last person I wanted to smell fear on me.

  “Did you see any strangers walk past the office in the last hour?” I asked.

  She hissed, and I knew I was wasting my time. “I’m too busy to sit here and stare at the hall,” she said.

  “As always, Betty, thanks for your help.”

  I stomped out of the office. We weren’t likely ever to become friends, but at least her sarcasm had served a purpose. Anger mediated my fear, and as I walked toward my office, reason began to prevail. I looked at the note I still gripped in my hand. The neat, block letters looked like something a teenage girl would write. This was probably just a childish prank; the work of Toni Hunt’s disturbed mind. If I could believe Jack Justin, the people who wanted his father’s briefcase had planted the bomb on the plane. Toni might be innocent, but she was distraught and confused. If Steve and I had upset her as much as her mother said we had, then this might be her way of striking back.

  I convinced myself I was right and wondered if I should call Mrs. Hunt and tell her what her daughter had done. My purse buzzed twice, and I fumbled my phone from it. “Marcus,” I said after the fourth ring.

  “Jane, this is Nick Morgan. I got your message.”

  I felt my muscles unlock and realized how tense I had been.

  “Agent Morgan, I need to talk to you again.”

  “Are you okay?” Morgan asked. “You sound out of breath.”

  “I’m fine,” the words rushed out, “but I’ve been threatened twice this morning.”

  “By whom?”

  I heard talking in the background, and then Morgan’s muffled voice, as if he’d put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m on the run,” he said. “Can I stop by your office around 5:00 this evening?”

  “That will work.” I hoped my disappointment didn’t transmit over the phone. I wanted him to drop everything and come now. I wanted a knight in shining armor, but I reminded myself that they only exist in fairy tales.

  I sat at my desk and began sorting through the pile of papers, but I couldn’t focus. Was my life in danger? What had I done to become a threat to someone? Had I asked too many questions, or was it just that confounded briefcase? What could I do to convince Jack Justin that I did not have, nor had I ever seen his father’s briefcase?

  I pushed the papers aside and stood. My collection
trip was Thursday, and I could begin getting my gear ready. I went down to the lab and flipped on the light switch. Fluorescent lights lit up the space, and I stood staring at Craig’s computer and personal gear. An unexpected flood of grief washed over me, and I sat on one of the lab stools. After a few minutes of tears, I wiped my face and stood. I had to move on. I searched through the basement labs until I found two large boxes. Then, I began packing Craig’s gear into the boxes.

  I turned on the computer and checked the hard drive for files relating to our research, and when I saw the file labeled, “Cycek Collection,” I struggled against more tears. I brought up the file and smiled at Craig’s careful work. He had mapped the beach and plotted where he would dig his bivalve samples. In practice, this was good scientific technique, but I knew from years of experience that a large rock sitting in the middle of a plotted collection grid could screw up the whole plan. Nevertheless, I printed a copy of Craig’s grid and decided that in memory of him, I would do my best to follow his collection plan.

  I finished boxing up Craig’s gear and wrote his parents’ address on the outside of the boxes. Now at least I could look around the lab, without being bombarded by reminders of him.

  I made a list of the gear I would need for Thursday. Since my equipment all had been lost in the crash, I would have to scrounge replacement gear from the other researchers in the building. I decided I would keep the trip simple. I needed a tent, radio, and a battery, but I could do without cooking gear, and even decided to forgo the kerosene stove. As long as I dressed warmly and took a good sleeping bag, I would be warm enough without heat.

  I considered borrowing a satellite phone but dismissed the idea. On Kodiak, with its mountainous terrain and thick vegetation, it often was impossible to get a satellite signal when camped at sea level. A sideband radio was more reliable, and on it, I could receive as well as make calls. I had plenty of collection containers and a spare shovel. I would need little else. Digging for bivalves was not a complicated scientific procedure, and I planned to collect what I needed and get back to town as quickly as possible. I would fly out to Uyak Bay on Thursday, make one collection on the low tide Friday morning, and a second collection on the low tide Saturday morning. I’d set up the charter to return to town for noon on Saturday.

  I left the lab and walked upstairs to the main office. I was relieved to see Glenda sitting at her desk, and turning my back to Betty, I asked Glenda to check around for a spare battery, radio, and tent for me. She made a note and assured me that she would have the gear by the following morning. I told her I had boxed up Craig’s personal effects.

  “Don’t worry,” honey,” she said. “I’ll get one of the graduate students to mail those for you.” She nodded her head. “I’ll get them out of here this afternoon.”

  I smiled at Glenda, resisting the urge to look at Betty. I returned to my office and began making a list of the personal gear I would need for the collection trip. I was in my office for less than fifteen minutes when my cell phone buzzed. Dana Baynes’ contrite voice greeted me.

  “Are we still friends?” she asked as soon as I answered the phone.

  “Of course.”

  “I was a bitch when you called the other night. I want to apologize.”

  “It’s okay, Dana. I understand.”

  “You were being a Good Samaritan, and all I wanted to do was stick my head in the sand.”

  “I became involved in this disaster the minute my assistant was killed,” I said. “You don’t have that responsibility.”

  “Maybe not, but I owe it to you to help. You’re my friend.”

  I thought about the threats I had received that day and wasn’t sure I wanted a friend’s help. I didn’t need anyone else’s blood on my conscience.

  “There’s not much we can do now, Dana. It’s in the FBI’s hands,” I said.

  Dana paused, and I listened to her shallow breathing. “I hope you’re letting the FBI handle this investigation, Jane. The person who planted that bomb is a cold-blooded murderer. If you aggravate the killer, one more life isn’t going to bother his conscience.”

  “I’m being careful.”

  “I did find out something,” Dana said. “But please, pass this on to your FBI agent. Don’t look into it by yourself.”

  “What?” I stood and paced behind my desk.

  “I’ve been feeling guilty about the way I treated you the other night, so I asked a few questions about George Wall.”

  “And?”

  “I was surprised to learn that he’s here in town, working as a freight hauler for Afognak Air.”

  “Afognak Air, the airline that services the logging camps on Afognak Island?”

  “Right,” Dana said. “I thought he was in jail, but he must be out on bail?”

  “And he’s still here?”

  “Since the explosion, you mean? I don’t know. I didn’t call Afognak Air, and I don’t think you should either, Jane. Call the police.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Don’t get involved,” Dana said.

  I didn’t tell her that I already was involved in this mess, and I was in over my head. “Thanks, Dana.”

  “Let’s go out for dinner soon.”

  We didn’t make plans, but I promised I would call her in a few days. I sat and stared at my desk for a few seconds and then grabbed the phone book and looked up the number for Afognak Air.

  Dana’s warning as well as the two previous threats of the day hung in my head. I didn’t give the Afognak Air dispatcher my name when I asked if George Wall worked for the air charter company.

  The lady paused. “Yes,” she said. “He isn’t here right now, but if you give me your name and number, I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Where is he?” I asked, and then quickly added, “When do you expect him back?”

  “He’s loading a plane. He should get back to the office in an hour if everything goes well.”

  So George Wall—a man who hated and had promised revenge against Dick Simms, a man who had done time for blowing up a pickup truck—worked on the floatplane dock, where he had access to any of the planes tied there. Was I missing something? Agent Morgan hadn’t seemed that interested in George Wall, but I believed the man wore a big red banner that said, “Number One Suspect.”

  “Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice startled me. “Would you like me to have George call you?”

  “No thanks. I’ll call back later.”

  If Wall had planted the bomb, why hadn’t he left the island? Then again, why should he? It didn’t seem the authorities were that interested in him. I didn’t know George Wall, but from what Dana had told me, I believed the man was dishonest and possibly quite dangerous. When Morgan arrived, I would talk to him again about Wall.

  As if in response to my thoughts, a sharp knocked cracked on my door. “Yes?” I called.

  The door pushed open and Nick Morgan looked into my office. “I’m a little early. Are you busy?”

  I was reclining in my desk chair, feet propped on the corner of the desk. I swung my feet to the floor and sat straight. “Not very,” I said. “Come in.”

  He shut the door behind him, placed his briefcase on the floor, and sat in the chair by my desk. Today, Agent Morgan was dressed in a black trench coat, a charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a maroon and grey pinstriped tie. His eyes appeared dull, and the creases at their corners were more pronounced. This case was beginning to wear on the FBI agent, but his fatigue made him no less attractive. I forced myself to look at his left ring finger. The gold band helped me to focus. I wondered again how old Morgan was. Before, I would have guessed mid-forties, but today he looked fifty.

  He regarded me with a weary smile. “I was concerned about you after we spoke earlier. What happened?”

  I told him about Jack Justin’s visit. Morgan sagged in the chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Justin thinks he knows who the bombers are,” I said. “Do yo
u have any idea who he’s talking about?”

  “I think he believes his father was the target of the bombing.” He spread his hands and placed them on the desk. “And, right now, I would have to agree with him. Unfortunately, Mr. Justin has not provided us with any details. We’ve been looking all day for Jack but haven’t been able to find him. I don’t suppose he told you where he was going.”

  I shrugged. “No, and he was frantic. I know he believes his life is in danger unless he finds that briefcase. He even flew out to the crash site to look for it.”

  Morgan sighed and stared over my head, his gaze unfocused. “I wonder how Jack knows his father had the briefcase with him.” He paused. “And if George Justin did have the briefcase, I wonder what happened to it.”

  “I still don’t believe it survived the explosion,” I said.

  “Our experts assure me it would have.”

  Blood began to pulse in my temples. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that Steve or I took the case from the crash site.” I folded my arms across my chest and watched Morgan’s face.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone took the briefcase from the crash, but an object the size of the briefcase might be hard to find in the thick vegetation near the wreckage. The debris from the explosion was scattered over a large area. If we could find that briefcase, we might be able to answer a few questions.”

  “There is something else,” I said. I opened my desk drawer and retrieved the note that had been taped to my office door. I handed it to Morgan. “I’m sorry. I was so upset when I saw it that I handled it before I thought about fingerprints.”

  He grasped the note by the corner and held it up. “When did you get this?”

  “Just before I called you today. A little after noon.”

  “Do you think Jack Justin left it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem like his style. I think an anonymous note is too subtle for him. And,” I added, “there’s the writing.”

  “Mmm.” Morgan squinted his eyes, considering the penmanship. “I’m no expert, but it doesn’t look like a man’s handwriting.”