It’s interesting how quickly the police will respond when you use the “M” word. I guess when you tell them you’ve found a body you believe might be a murder victim, it really seems to stir their curiosity, or some other cop instinct. They go straight to high gear and there’s an immediate rush on their part to come and check it out. Why there is such a rush I’ll never know. I could assure them Slim was not leaving soon.
While Scott was making the call, I walked BJ out to the truck and as I passed the houseboat where the old man lived, he was glaring at me from one of his windows. I stood by my truck and petted BJ for a moment and then rolled the windows down a bit before I put her inside. After Scott summoned the police to investigate Slim’s demise, the two of us returned to the houseboat. We moved as quickly back to the boat as we could to make sure we stopped anyone else who might accidentally come by from entering the scene.
Even though I am a WASP, I also qualify as part of a minority group. Somewhere I read that fewer than thirty-five percent of all of the people who live in the Puget Sound area were actually born here. I am able to say I am part of that number. I was born, raised, and other than the time that I spent in the military, I’ve lived my entire life in this magnificent area.
One of the two detectives responding to Scott’s cell phone call was an old childhood friend, Jeff L. Davenport. I have no idea what the L stood for or even why the L was so important, but he had always used it in his name. Every paper he ever turned in was signed Jeff L. Davenport. He took a lot of kidding during junior and senior high school but he had always stuck with the L. Jeff L and I grew up in the same neighborhood, and we had experienced much of our school lives together.
Jeff L. still looks exactly like what he was as a youth, a high school/college football star. He still keeps in shape, and his body looks toned. He cuts his hair as short as a military person would even though he was never in the service. He has a ruggedly handsome face, with a cleft chin. For a long time, when we were kids, I called him Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties. He didn’t appreciate my wit.
Jeff’s partner is called Sakol. I say called, because I have no idea if that’s his first name or last name. Everyone I know has always called him Sakol. As I recall, Jeff once told me that Sakol was of Thai extraction. I’m ashamed to admit that even though I lived in Seattle which is such a cosmopolitan area, and even seeing Asians every day, most of them look somewhat alike to me. I know that in today’s world, that is not a politically correct thing to say, and I’m going to hell for saying it. However, I’m willing to bet that if Asians were honest about it, we all probably look alike to them.
Sakol is not really heavy, but he does have a small tummy. One time I playfully hit his arm, and it felt like I had hit a steel rod. His five foot nine inch body structure has a lot more tone than it would appear. I’ve always really liked Sakol.
Both Jeff L. and Sakol are excellent cops. I have watched the two of them do the good cop/bad cop routine with amazing results. Jeff L. usually plays the heavy, (one look at his size and you understand why) while Sakol keeps telling Jeff L. to lighten up. Sakol then goes on to question the people in his quiet and direct way and people seem to just open up.
The other thing about Sakol is his English is totally fractured. I’ve always suspected he watched too many Charlie Chan movies as a child. Because of his broken English, when Sakol asks a question, you can see by the expression on the face of those being interrogated they are thinking this dumb policeman doesn’t have a clue. This is just a stupid cop, or somehow he is mentally slow. I’ve even heard people say behind his back he should work to develop better English skills. I totally disagree! Sakol will ask you a question in his broken English, and as you answer, he just smiles and nods his head.
Sakol has a round moon face with small crinkly eyes. If you were to describe it, you’d say that he has a happy face. After a short chat with Sakol, you just felt better; he makes people happy. When Sakol asks you a question, he just nods and blinks as he stares at you with this little smile on his face. After you give him your answer, sometimes he will repeat your answer but with a slight mistake in it. The suspect will quickly correct him and then Sakol waits a long time before he asks his next question. Some people feel the need to fill this silence and they’ll start talking again, just babbling away—usually saying things they really had not planned on divulging.
Because of his broken English, many people have viewed him as being not very bright. Too few people see him as the wise old owl he actually is. He just continues to ask what people consider the most stupid questions possible. Several times he will actually repeat the same question as if he doesn’t understand what you’ve been telling him. However, behind that goofy smile, those blinking eyes, and the fractured English, lies a mind that remembers every word you’ve said. Eventually, the suspect begins to relax in front of what they perceive as repetitive questions from a stupid bumbling cop; a cop who probably got his job through affirmative action.
When the suspect is completely comfortable, Sakol will quietly ask, “Ah, excuse please, thought you say?” And then the suspect looks at his nodding, smiling, blinking face, and they start to wonder what exactly their answers had been. Had they told him too much? And then they begin to wonder if they had perhaps sold him a bit short in the smarts department. The suspect now desperately tries to remember all the half-truths and lies they thought this inept person could never understand. His spoken English never seems to get any better. But they soon begin to realize his understanding of English is a lot more than they ever imagined.
Jeff L. is also aware of our infamous poker games, and has informed me on several occasions Sakol would love to sit in with us. Fat chance! I can just see him sitting there smiling and blinking, asking, “Please, sorry, again how game played?” In the meantime, he sits there stacking all of our chips in front of his happy, beaming face, and winning all the big hands. Talk about your poker face, this guy has the best.
Jeff L. had lived a few doors down from me when we were kids. Away from school we were fairly good friends and played together often. During high school, we never ran in the same clique, since he was a super jock, and I was band. During our school years, since Jeff had the looks and the reputation, he also fared quite well with the female population. Occasionally, he would take pity on me, and would send me a few of his discards. After graduation, we went off to different colleges. Although over the years we had drifted apart, seeing the two of us today, you would think that we were still the best of friends. I guess when two minorities meet they have to bond together.
As soon as our greetings were out of the way, Jeff L. and Sakol took me aside, and asked me what I knew about Slim’s death. They also wanted to know why Scott and I were the ones who made the discovery. I proceeded to explain to both of them where I fit into the picture. I also made sure they were aware that I had somewhat of a beef with Slim. But even though that was a fact, it didn’t make me upset enough to do something like murder him.
I was not too surprised Jeff L. took me aside right away and talked to me first. Once before, Jeff, Sakol, and I had spent some time together on another police investigation. I’d been dating a lovely woman for a few months. When I realized she was looking for a lot more out of the relationship than I was, I called it off, and we stopped seeing each other. A few days after the breakup they found her raped and brutally murdered. Her neighbors, who had described me to the police, also mentioned I had been her latest flame. Jeff L. and Sakol were the ones they sent out to interview me. That was the first time Jeff and I had seen each other in several years. During my questioning, I had my first opportunity to see Sakol pull his dumb routine. Lucky for me, I was both innocent and I had an airtight alibi, and in addition all the tests they took proved I was telling the truth.
A few days later, they brought over my friend’s diary, and asked me to read parts of it. At that point, they were at a standstill. They were wondering if I m
ight know anyone mentioned in certain portions of the diary. I agreed to read it. In it, she had written in a few places about me, and I felt badly I hadn’t realized how much she cared for me. I knew I wasn’t ready to make that lasting commitment she was looking for, but I still had feelings for her, and it was painful to read. I should have made the effort to bridge with her, and somehow spared her the pain. No one who has a soul likes to hurt anyone needlessly.
From time to time, she wrote about a character named Arnold. The name didn’t ring a bell with me. From the tone of her writing, it was obvious she was afraid of him. I could not find from the diary why she felt this way, or how it was that she knew him.
For some reason I felt that there was something I was not remembering. I racked my brain trying to remember all of our conversations, and if she had ever said anything about him. You know, that small nagging feeling you get way back in your mind. Well I had it, and it really bothered me.
A few days later I awoke in the middle of the night, and knew just what it was I’d missed. The lady and I had once been together at a large party with a few business associates and some of my acquaintances.
I must admit I have a bit of a checkered past. If you came across some of the persons I have met in my dealings, you’d probably leave with a sour taste in your mouth. Anyway, some people from my past were there at the party that evening. At one point during the evening, while we were standing together chatting with a group of people, I felt her suddenly grab my hand and squeeze it so hard that her nails dug into my palms. I asked her what was wrong, but she shook her head violently no.
She kept looking over my shoulder at someone behind me. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, so I turned and looked. Leaning against the wall was a very large bald man. I could not begin to tell you how old he might have been. However, I guessed that he had at least four or five inches over my six feet three inches, and he was a good eighty to one hundred pounds over my two hundred-twenty. His suit was obviously custom made and it was of noticeably top quality fabrics. It was also obvious whoever had made it was a craftsman who’d tailored it very well to hide his bulk.
The giant had a great tan, and when he lifted one of his massive paws to sip his drink you could see his fingers covered in flashy rings and his wrist encircled with a heavy gold bracelet. I turned back, asked her once again what was wrong, and what it was with the man. I believe I even asked her if he had done something to her. She whispered ‘no’ a couple of times, and then shook her head, as if to shake away what was eating at her. So I forgot about it. Later, whenever I thought about it and wanted to ask her what the entire thing was all about, I’d forget. At the time, it was plain to me she was frightened by the man’s presence.
I called Jeff L. and Sakol the next morning and told them what I had remembered. Jeff L. asked me if I would come down and to try to help the sketch artist do a rendering. Once the drawing was finished, I thought it looked remarkably like the man at my party. I went with Jeff and Sakol to those I could remember being at the party. After every interview, Jeff L. would ask me what I had observed, and what I thought. Jeff L. would then ask Sakol what he had seen and heard.
The experts say that every minute of the day, the average person receives over fifteen thousand bits of information. However, because of the way our minds work, it only retains forty to fifty pieces of that information. I was always amazed what Sakol could add that we had missed. It seemed obvious to me he was retaining more than the forty to fifty bits then I remembered. This amazing man made Sherlock Holmes look like a piker. Because of his silly grin and funny face, people relaxed, and he could get more out of them than Jeff L. and I ever could. In addition, he seemed to hear what they didn’t say as well.
Eventually we found someone at the party who recognized the person. When the police tried to arrest him, he resisted greatly. He struggled with the police who eventually shot and killed him as he tried to escape. In his condominium, the police found a lot of evidence which linked him to a lot more than just the rape and murder of my friend. Jeff L. and his superiors told me how pleased they were with my efforts, and I told both of them I had enjoyed being involved.
Jeff L. and Sakol had been the first ones to take my statement about Slim, and then they took Scot’s. I didn’t see Scot for the rest of the day. My assumption was that the police didn’t want the two of us to have time to compare our stories. I understood the basic reasoning behind this thinking, but on the other hand, what if something one of us said triggered a memory in the other’s mind? I guess that’s why I never took up police work.
Talk about a ton of questions. Scott and I must have told our story at least a dozen times. Every time a new set of detectives arrived, they would want to hear the same story that we had already told the last group.
The police started to go from houseboat to houseboat asking questions. Sometime during the afternoon, the old man from up the dock must have told one of the detectives he had heard a dog barking in the middle of the night on slip fourteen. He must have also commented the barking dog sounded just like BJ. The next thing I knew, a slew of detectives were hotfooting it back to me, and started asking a bunch of new questions.
“No, I didn’t leave home last night.”
“No, I was not on the dock last night.”
“No, I don’t have anyone who can vouch for my story that I was asleep all night.”
“No, I never came back to this dock after my first visit.”
“No, it was not my dog making that racket during the night.”
“No, I didn’t kill Slim”.
“No, I don’t know him by any other name.”
“No, we left each other on good terms after I won his houseboat.”
“No, I didn’t kill him after I found out that I had won a houseboat without any place to tie it up.”
I saw no reason to tell them that I would have liked to do it. If they had asked that question, that no might have been just a tiny white lie. I really was a bit upset about the slip part. Finally, they must have gotten tired of hearing my no’s because they left me alone. Needless to say, I was relieved when they finally lightened up. I was also pleased when the police told me that they would direct the managers of the marina since this was now a crime scene, neither they, nor I, could move the houseboat until they released it. I wondered how long the police would hold off before they told the marina management they could release the houseboat. If management asked how long the police thought it might be, I knew management was going to become very upset. The police said they were going to tell the marina it would be at least eight to twelve weeks, but quite possibly more. I’ll admit, it was not a long time, but it was somewhat of a reprieve to give me more time to find a new slip. At that point, I was willing to take every extension I could.
At one point in the afternoon, I realized it had been a long time since I had given BJ a chance to visit Mother Nature and I headed off to the car to release her. When I was about four feet away, one of the officers guarding the scene put his hand on his pistol butt, and told me I was not to leave. I informed him I was just going to let my dog out of the truck for a few minutes, and then I would rejoin the rest of the party. The cop must have been kinda kinky, because he wanted to watch BJ do her thing. Well, at least he wanted to watch me watch BJ do her thing. I held out a plastic bag for him to pick up her poop to see if he wanted to take part…but he passed. Wimp!
By late in the afternoon, the weather had turned a lot colder and it was starting to rain. By the time the fire trucks, the police, the detectives, the coroner, the reporters, and all the noisy people were through with me, it was also dark. Sure enough, the rain the weather people had promised us started to fall.
Finally, I was allowed to leave the marina and go home.
But I also knew I was taking the gruesome vision of what I’d found sitting in that chair home with me.
It was going to take a lot more t
han just a little rain to wash away those memories from my brain.
Chapter 7
The drive back to my place was just plain wet and nasty, which is fairly typical for a rainy, late autumn evening in Seattle. Traffic was normal, which means bordering somewhere between awful and totally sucks. I parked the truck and found the first thing going right for me today; the elevator was waiting at the garage level.
Stepping off the elevator on my floor, I heard my answering machine calling to me. Well, it was more like the machine making a noise to attract my attention, but in my imagination I think it’s talking to me. Actually, if people knew the truth I hate most of the new gadgets that keep coming to market, but since I have this bad habit of never checking my answering machine, this one at least prompts me when someone has called… and I need to do something about it.
My new machine makes a tone every few seconds, and this wonderful piece of technology will keep annoying me until I listen to the messages, push a button, which turns off the noise, or throw the damn thing off the balcony. I do have a cell phone, but I tend to leave it in my truck or at the apartment and not carry it with me, which really seems to upset a lot of people.
The missed call was from Scott, calling from his cell phone. He was apologizing again because he’d dragged me into this mess. Now that Slim was gone, it also looked as if I now had the houseboat whether I liked it or not. He also promised me he’d secure me a slip somewhere, even if he had to go down in the middle of the night and cut some other floating home loose.
My thoughts about his offer were, Thanks, Scott! Do that and I’ll have to come visit you every Thursday with cigarettes, and what’s even worse, you’ll end up being Bubba’s love slave at the state pen.
From the cupboard, I fetched down a glass and looked over my inventory of favorite brands of single malt. Since I had dealt with such a wonderful day, I felt I had earned some of my rare Balvenie Double Wood 17 year old single malt. I knew I was committing an act of sin by adding a handful of ice to the glass and then pouring in a goodly amount of Scotch over the ice, but since that’s the way I like it and I paid for it, I get to drink it however I want.
Houseboat Page 4
