Fisherman's Bend

by Linda Greenlaw

  “Do you have an ID, or a visitor’s pass?” I whipped out my badge and introduced myself as the Knox County Sheriff, leaving out the deputy part in the interest of brevity. He lowered the gangplank, allowed me to board, and cranked it back up and away.

  The deck of the Asprella was the size of a football field. Large pipes ran in mazelike confusion to pump boxes and valves that I stepped over as I worked my way toward a set of stairs that went up to the bridge. I needed to find the captain. The ship was made fast to the wharf by steel cables that were now being slacked off of drums to release the ship for departure. The tugboats strained against steel bridles, waiting to take control of the tanker and escort her down the river to the ocean. I banged a couple of hardy knocks on the steel door at the top of the stairs and let myself in. The bridge was massive, and although the overhead lamps had been doused, the electronics—all in duplicate—emitted enough light for me to comfortably see three men. I introduced myself, showing the badge, and asked to see the captain.

  A uniformed gentleman shook my hand and asked what I was doing aboard his ship. I explained as briefly as I could that I was investigating the death of Jorge Aguilar and that U.S. Customs records showed that he was employed aboard the Asprella. The captain looked pained with the news of the death and quietly introduced the other men as his first and second mates. “Jorge was one of our crew. This is most upsetting. We will, of course, cooperate with your investigation, but right now we’re casting off.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, relieved that I had indeed found someone who might provide at least one more piece of the puzzle. “I’ll hop off at your next stop. I just need a little time to ask some questions of you and Jorge’s shipmates.”

  A voice from the remote radio on the captain’s belt said that all lines were clear. The captain took the radio from his hip and handed it to the first mate, who keyed the microphone and said, “Roger.” The ship started to move sideways away from the wharf, pulled by the powerful tugs. The captain asked his men to man the helm and radio while the tugs navigated the Asprella to the mouth of the river; once there, the ship would be under her own power.

  “I have about thirty minutes before I have to pay attention. You, on the other hand, have plenty of time. Our next port is in Central America. Unless you want to jump off with the pilot once we’re out of Maine state waters, you can make yourself comfortable in my quarters. I’ll move in with the chief engineer.”

  Central America? I hadn’t given this plan much thought, I now realized. “I’ll jump with the pilot. It’s Willard Kelley, right? Where is he?” The captain explained that “Willy” had had a long day and was freshening up, which I understood to be sobering up. I figured if Willard could get from the ship to the lobster boat in his condition, then I would certainly have no trouble doing the same. “Isn’t he supposed to be piloting the ship right now?” I asked. The captain explained that, yes, that was the law. But it seemed that the piloting gig was a formality that cost shipping companies tens of thousands of dollars a year, and totally unnecessary after a captain has been in and out of any given port once. “How long before I bail out?” I asked. The captain explained that I would have ninety minutes before the pilot boat was alongside, and led me to the officers’ dining room, where we sat at a small table and were served coffee and pastries by a man who looked a lot like Jorge Aguilar.

  Before I revealed the little I knew about the circumstances surrounding Jorge’s death, I asked the captain to tell me if and when he had first noticed or been notified that one of his crew members was not around. By the time the captain finished speaking, I had come to regard him as a decent and honest man, which was my first impression anyway. I was pretty certain that he hadn’t taken part in, nor had he any knowledge of, wrongdoing aboard his ship. It seemed that the captain had received a call from the home office in Venezuela that Jorge Aguilar’s wife was very ill and it was necessary, if Jorge was to see his wife alive, for him to go home to Guatemala right away. The captain excused Jorge from his contract and made arrangements for his travel. The captain bought Jorge a bus ticket from Bangor, Maine, to Boston and plane fare to Guatemala with his own personal credit card; Jorge was to pay him back when he could.

  The travel arrangements for Jorge included a ride on the pilot boat. That was the fastest way to get Jorge ashore, since the pilot was on his way to meet the ship to bring her into Machiasport when they got the news about Jorge’s wife. The plan had been for the pilot to board the ship, and for Jorge to leave the ship and board the lobster boat to go ashore, where the boat’s captain would drive him to the bus station in Bangor. The captain knew that the pilot boat Willard Kelley had been using was the Eva B., and that was the boat that delivered Kelley on that trip. “Did you see Jorge get aboard the Eva B.?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not. The shape of the Asprella’s hull hides the pilot boat once it gets within striking distance. My job is to maintain course and speed while the lobster boat does the maneuvering alongside and away after transfer. I can’t see a thing from the bridge and rely on radio transmissions from the deck. The first I see of Willard is when he climbs over the rail onto the deck and the last I see of him is in the opposite direction.”

  “That sounds a little hairy.”

  “It can be, in bad weather. We’ve never had a mishap, but the minute or so when the pilot is going up or down the ladder out of my sight and the radio is quiet can be fairly long and agonizing.”

  “Who can see the pilot boat and full transfer?” I asked, wondering who to question next. This, I learned, varied from transfer to transfer. The captain said that a couple of crew members always stood at the rail of the ship to assist if needed. In fact, sometimes a man would travel down the ladder to help with the pilot’s bag so that the pilot could use both hands while climbing on and off the ladder. One of the crew members was responsible for radio transmissions to the bridge—sort of remote eyes for the captain, he said. So it was immediately clear that I needed to speak with the crew members responsible for the pilot and Jorge’s transfer on that leg of their trip three days ago. And I didn’t have much time to get what I needed from them. The captain had to resume his responsibilities on the bridge now, so I followed him back up to find Willard Kelley slumped on a bench seat in a corner.

  The light that came in through the wheelhouse door from the gangway snapped Willard Kelley to a more attentive posture. He struggled to his feet and greeted me in an overly friendly way. He embraced me with a bear hug that could have crushed my ribs had I not been of hardy stock. He smelled of aftershave and mouthwash, and his hair had been glued into place against a wet-looking forehead. “Jane! How nice to seeeeee you. The mates told me that you were here and why. Such sad neeeeews about Jorge. He was a good man.”

  I pressed my palms against his chest, forcing him to release his grip on my shoulders. He teetered, but quickly found his sea legs and balanced, holding the edge of a radar screen. “Hello, Mr. Kelley.” I tried for a professional tone somewhere between friendly and brusque. “The captain has explained the arrangements he made for Jorge’s travel, and what I need from you is a statement as to when you last saw him. My understanding, if I have it right, is that you were boarding the Asprella and Jorge Aguilar was disembarking this ship and boarding the Eva B. to be taken ashore.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all correct. Jorge and I were like two ships passing in the night—and it waaaaas at night as I recall. I can check for an exaaaact time in my log. Jorge scrambled down the side of the ship, I handed him my baaaag, which he placed on the hook to be hauled aboard by his cohorts up on deck. I ascended the ladder, climbed over the rail, and never looked baaack.”

  “So you can’t say for certain whether Jorge Aguilar made it aboard the Eva B. or not, right? He could have slipped and fallen between the ladder and the ship, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was your pilot boat captain Parker Alley on that trip?” I asked, knowing that it had to have been.

&
nbsp; “Yes indeed, it waaaaaaas. Good old Parker. Any luck recovering his body?”

  “Not yet. Do you recall who the other crew members were on the deck of the ship when Jorge left? I need to speak with someone who could say he saw him actually get aboard the Eva B.”

  “These guys aaaall look alike to me. I can’t tell one from another.”

  “Okay. May I have some time with your crew, Captain?” I asked.

  I explained to the captain what I needed and he asked his second mate to assemble the eight members of the ship’s crew, including the cook, in their mess area. I waited on the bridge for the mate to return and show me the way. The radio was noisy with tugboat traffic, mostly from the two hooked up to the Asprella—one towing from the bow and the other secured to her hip—which were making preparations to let the ship go. The captain warned me that the pilot boat would be alongside in about twenty minutes. I was thinking that twenty minutes would probably be long enough for me to ask a few questions. “Only one problem,” interjected Willard Kelley. “They don’t speak English.” I assured Willard that I was comfortable with Spanish, which seemed to annoy him slightly.

  Eight men sat at a long galley table and rubbed their eyes in sleepiness. My request had clearly required waking most of them. “Discúlpenme por interrumpir su descanso. Necesito su ayuda. Tengo que hacerles unas preguntas muy importantes.” I apologized for interrupting their sleep, emphasizing the importance of my visit and my need for their help. I didn’t feel as though I had anyone’s attention. They looked bored and suspicious; I realized they probably thought I was from immigration and was there to cause trouble, but they had probably been questioned by immigration many times in the past and had all their papers in good order. “Encontraron muerto a su compañero Jorge Aguilar.” I dropped the bomb regarding their shipmate.

  A group gasp and looks of shock assured me that they indeed comprehended what I had said and were now interested in helping. I knew full well that he was probably one of their good friends and I hated giving them the news so abruptly. But time was short. “¿Cómo? ¡No puede ser!,” cried a young man in disbelief. There were a few tears and many of the men crossed themselves and mumbled prayers. I told the men that I was aware of the fact that Jorge Aguilar had intended to go home to see his sick wife, and asked who was on deck duty the night he was to start his trip home aboard the Eva B.

  Two hands shot up instantly. “Yo era el que estaba de guardia.” One of the hand-raisers said he was one of two crew members on watch that night. The other said he was the second man on watch.

  “¿Alguno de ustedes vio cuando abordó el Eva B.?” I asked if either man had actually seen Jorge get aboard the small boat. Both men confirmed that they had indeed seen Jorge safely aboard the Eva B.

  “¿Saben si Jorge andaba metido en líos? ¿O si estaba amenazado?” I asked if the men were aware of any trouble that Jorge might have been in and if they knew of anyone who would want to kill him. Eight heads shook emphatic negatives and the men all frowned in greater shock when they understood that Jorge’s death might not have been an accident. I followed up with questions about Jorge’s mental state and asked if he might have been suicidal. “¿No estaría deprimido? ¿No se habrá suicidado?” More head shaking and sour looks were accompanied by one voice that stated the opinion that no, Jorge was not sad. He was going home to see his children, who made him very happy.

  “Pero que Jorge supiera que su esposa estaba grave podía tenerlo deprimido, ¿no?” I reminded the group that Jorge’s wife was very sick, and insisted that this would naturally be a cause of great sadness.

  “El suicidio es un pecado mortal.” The retort from one of the men that suicide was a mortal sin was irrefutable. Just then the second mate returned and announced that the pilot boat was approaching. This was my exit cue unless I wanted to visit Central America, which I did not. I thanked the group, wished them safe passage, and followed the mate out onto the deck. Two of the crew members came along; it was their turn to oversee the transfer. The mate said goodbye and disappeared up to the bridge, where I assumed he had more important duties to perform.

  Willard Kelley leaned against the rail unsteadily. He looked as though his hard night was catching up with him. I was sure he was bound for a terrific hangover once he came out of his drunken stupor. The wind had picked up to a brisk twenty knots or so. The ship was not bothered in the least by the chop, but the running lights of the pilot boat bobbed up and down spasmodically. I was nervous about Kelley making it down the side of the ship and onto the deck of the lobster boat in his present state. The ladder was made of rope and was swinging fore and aft. I assumed that the fisherman captaining the small boat was relatively new to this task, and hoped he had superb boat-handling skills. The ship held course and sped directly into the wind while the lobster boat closed the gap between the two vessels. When the small boat was almost against the Asprella’s hull, Willard said, “Wait until I am on the bottom rung before you come dooooown and don’t dally.”

  One of the crew members took Willard’s bag and asked for mine, which I gladly handed over. He placed both bags on a hook tied to a coil of rope and lowered it over the side and into the waiting arms of the lobster boat’s stern man as Kelley hoisted himself over the rail and onto the ladder. I watched as Kelley made his way down. He hesitated. The ladder was swinging rather violently, with his weight enhancing the pendulum effect. The crew members motioned for me to get moving. I slipped a leg over the rail and placed a foot on the first rung of the ladder. Once I had turned around facing the ship and had both hands solidly around rope, I was quite comfortable even with the swinging motion. I started down the ladder, and waited a few rungs above Kelley for him to make the leap aboard the boat. He seemed to take forever. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity, which might not come, I thought. Finally, he released his grip and fell into the boat, knocking the captain away from the wheel.

  I watched anxiously as the two men untangled themselves. With nobody at the wheel, the lobster boat had now peeled away from the Asprella’s hull, leaving me dangling over the open ocean. The boat drove away, and then started to circle back to make a fresh landing. The waves had increased, making maneuvers more difficult. I wondered whether I should remain here or go back aboard the ship and wait for the lobster boat to come back alongside. There was some shouting between the lobster boat’s captain, the stern man, and Kelley. They seemed a bit frantic, which did nothing for my confidence. They didn’t seem to be making much headway. I looked up to the top of the ladder for some advice from the crew. The deck lights were very bright, nearly blinding me. To my horror, I could see the blade of a knife sawing one side of the ladder. Pop—it parted. I was now hanging by a virtual thread on a ladder that was heaving back and forth with some velocity. I clung to the ladder for my life. Climbing back aboard was no longer an option. Going overboard in the dark from a steaming ship was certain death. The small boat was coming closer ever so slowly. The knife was working feverishly against the last strand of the rope that held the ladder to the ship. I was all about gut reactions now. I pulled my gun from its holster and took aim just above the knife, where I assumed a head must be hidden by the glaring lights.

  14

  BUT THEN ANOTHER INSTINCT took over and I paused before firing what could easily be a lethal shot. The ship was changing course, raising the bar for the new pilot boat captain to make and maintain contact with the Asprella. But still I didn’t fire. I kept my gun and attention fixed on the top of the ladder and prayed that the few strands of hemp remaining would hold. The ship continued to turn. The crew must have radioed the bridge that we were clear. The wind was now blowing directly on my back, pressing me against the hull so that I could no longer see anything above but a black steel wall. And then I realized that I was now dangling right over the lobster boat. I quickly holstered my gun and was snatched like a rag doll from the ladder by the back of my jacket.

  I came down hard on my right side directly on and perpendicular to th
e rail of the lobster boat, which had been at the top of a surge when Willard Kelley grabbed and pulled me to safety. A wave of icy water walloped me full in the face. Kelley and the young stern man helped me off the rail and onto my feet while the captain steered away from the ship. I leaned against the bulkhead, holding my ribs, which I was sure were broken, and watched the Asprella slip into darkness while cool saltwater dripped down the back of my neck. “Well, that was what we would call a cluster fuck,” said Willard, as he relaxed and exhaled a huge, fully intoxicated breath. “Good job everyone, good jooooob,” he continued. I guessed from his reaction that he hadn’t seen my gun or the knife while looking up into the bright deck lights. “Nobody’s hurt. That’s the important thing.” I begged to differ, but kept my mouth shut while Willard entertained us with a number of stories of harrowing transfers that made this one seem like child’s play.

  As Willard regaled the captain and his stern man with tales of blizzards and hurricanes, I suppressed the pain in my rib cage by concentrating on how I would conduct the next leg of this investigation. It wouldn’t be possible to interrogate further the crew of the Asprella, since they would soon be long gone, and I was certain that the ship would have a crew change before returning to this region a month from now. I couldn’t pick the man with the knife out of a lineup of the eight I had seen at the galley table; the lights in my eyes were too bright. He could have been one of the two who were supervising the transfer but he also could have been one of the remaining six. And I had believed the men who claimed to have seen Jorge Aguilar safely aboard the Eva B. were being truthful, but now I couldn’t be sure.

  Every wave that hit the side of the boat jarred my side, sending pain so severe it buckled my knees. When the stern man got busy preparing to grab a mooring in Green Haven Harbor, Willard sidled over to me, placed a heavy arm across my shoulders, and quietly asked if I was okay. I assured him that I would be fine, explaining that I had reinjured some ribs that I had broken months ago. “Did you learn anything useful from the monkeys about their fellow countryman?” he asked. I shook my head in reply and decided not to take the bait on the “monkey” comment. “Well, I’m not surprised thaaaaaat they were uncooperative. You know, if Aguilar had been found dead in his own country, there would be noooo investigation. Human life isn’t held at a premium where they come from.”