Alaskan Legal: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  “Thanks,” I said as I turned to look at the boat.

  Now that I was up close, I could see the full name of the boat, the Vintage Vann. The white paint of the letters and the wheelhouse looked slightly faded, which was probably why I hadn’t been able to pick out the name from the other dock. But the blue hull was clean, if a bit dulled, and I could imagine how brightly the boat had shone in the summer sun when it was new.

  “You really think you’ll find something on there that’ll clear Austin’s name?” Yura called out.

  Her voice wasn’t laced with doubt or mockery, the only one that hadn’t been so far.

  I turned around again and found that she looked genuinely concerned.

  “No,” I replied, and she arched her eyebrows at me. “Clearing his name won’t come that easily. I hope to find something that will cast doubt on Morris being the only suspect in this case.”

  She frowned as she tried to imagine what kind of evidence I hoped to find. I gave her a quick smile, and then walked along the side of the boat to the gangway. I heard the officers behind me hold a quick conversation, and then heavy footsteps ran after me. I was surprised it had taken them this long to realize that they shouldn’t let me on board unescorted, and when I looked back, I saw the chuckler right behind me.

  We stepped onto the boat, and I stood still for a moment just to look around. It looked like every other fishing boat in the fleet, aside from the discarded latex gloves left behind by the Coast Guardsmen who had probably tried to revive Vann and a yellow tab used by the forensics team to mark evidence.

  “What was here?” I asked my escort.

  Chuckler shifted uncomfortably and looked toward his fellow officers, but they were too far away to provide any guidance.

  “It will be in the report,” I reminded him. “Are you really going to make me wait and read about it?”

  “It was a wine glass,” he said.

  Now that was interesting, and raised a whole host of questions in my mind. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine Vann heading out into the Chukchi Sea with a wine bottle for company. He was too experienced to know how bad of an idea that was. So had Vann had company? Maybe someone who had been hiding during the fight?

  “Just one glass?” I clarified as I snapped a picture.

  “Just one,” he agreed.

  “Seems an odd choice for the captain of a fishing boat,” I remarked.

  Chuckler grunted behind me, but I ignored him. I took in the ropes, nets, and clubs, and I suddenly realized just how many possible weapons there really were on a boat. So why take a chance on drowning someone?

  I glanced up, sighed, and spotted the wheelhouse. Morris hadn’t said much about it during his story, but it seemed like a natural place to start with. If nothing else, maybe it would hold some clue as to why Vann had been out on the water that late at night.

  I climbed the ladder, much to chuckler’s dismay, and pushed open the door to the control center of the boat. The place was dim despite the sunshine streaming in through the tall windows, but I could pick out the wheel and the control panels well enough. The power was off, so the LCD screens and the small panel lights were dark.

  The captain’s chair was a brown, leather contraption in front of the wheel that was taller than many barstools I’d seen. There was a counter on the back wall, covered in electronics and a roll of paper. I stepped over to the counter and unrolled the paper under chuckler’s watchful eye, but all I found was a map. A few spots had been marked, but there was nothing that would explain what the marks were for. The obvious answer was fishing locations, but I was never one to simply accept the obvious. I pulled out my phone again, snapped a picture, and then rolled the chart back up and returned it to its spot.

  Nothing else caught my eye, so I took a few more quick pictures just for my own records, and then climbed back down to the main deck. I pulled out my journal, made a few quick notations about what I’d seen so far, and then walked around the area where the wine glass had been found. Near the marker, I found a dark red stain, but nothing else looked out of place.

  I made another quick note in my journal along with a quick sketch of the scene, and then I stood up and walked to the stern. This seemed like the easiest place to tip a body into the water, and I wanted to see if I could find any scrapes or trace material that would show that this was where Vann had gone over.

  But there were no obvious fresh scrapes in the paint or convenient tufts of hair caught in a crack. Still, I leaned over the edge to check, and I spotted a metal handle jutting from the hull of the boat with a yellow tow line attached. The line hung limply in the water, so there was probably nothing on the other end.

  I needed to be sure, though, so I pulled the line from the water. It was, as I’d suspected, empty, but I noticed that the line had been untied rather than cut. Sadly, any DNA evidence that might have been caught in the rope was probably long gone, and with a sigh, I let the line sink back into the water.

  I stood up, added a few more notes to my journal, and then pondered what Vann could have been towing behind his fishing boat. It was a working vessel, after all, so it wasn’t like he’d be pulling an inner tube full of kids around. A rubber dinghy, maybe, but why had it tied up with Vann’s boat? The rope was still in good condition, so this wasn’t something that had taken place months ago. Taken together with the wine glass, I would say that Morris hadn’t been Vann’s only visitor the night before.

  “You do that a lot?” chuckler asked.

  I looked up and gave him a puzzled look.

  “Tapping your nose while you think,” the officer explained.

  “Habit,” I said with a shrug.

  “We all got those,” he replied as his hand found his packet of cigarettes again.

  I nodded and then walked back to the bow again. I felt like a celebrity as the crowd pointed at me, and I even saw a few cell phones aimed in my direction. Yura Lynn was still there as well, and apparently still locked in argument with the troopers.

  “Ms. Lynn,” I called out.

  She stopped pacing, ducked past the female officer, and sidled up to the edge of the boat.

  “Call me Yura,” she said.

  “Yura,” I began. “Did Vann own a jet ski or raft, anything like that? Something he could tow behind this vessel.”

  “Yep,” she replied. “Just about everyone does.”

  “Did he always leave his tow line attached to his boat, even when he wasn’t planning on taking his jet ski out on the water?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered slowly. “That’s too risky. It might get caught in the engine or get wrapped up in the nets. The only times I remember seeing the tow line was when it was being used to pull his jet ski.”

  “And when he wasn’t using the jet ski, where was it stored?” I asked.

  “In his garage,” she replied.

  “Makes sense,” I said as I added a few more notes to my journal.

  I gave her a smile as I tucked my journal back into my pocket, and then I studied the scene on the deck again. I was certain there had been a third person on the boat, and if I found Vann’s jet ski was missing from his garage, that would seem to confirm my suspicions. There was always the chance that this other person had brought their own raft or jet ski, but then why not take the tow line, if only out of habit? No, it only made sense if Vann had brought his jet ski along, possibly for a little late-night fun with his guest.

  But before I could head over to Vann’s garage, I needed to finish my inspection of the boat. I stepped across the deck to the hatch that led to the lower deck and pulled it open. There was a small room on the other side, barely wide enough for the gear stored there and the ladder that led below.

  I climbed down and found myself in a dark, narrow hallway lined with counters on one side and cushioned seats on the other. At my feet was another hatch, but I ignored it to focus on the wine bottle on the counter. A yellow evidence marker was placed next to it, and the glass was covered in the fine dust us
ed to check for fingerprints.

  I leaned in for a closer look at the label and saw it was a decent bottle of Barolo wine. The cork and corkscrew were still resting on the counter as well, and I could still smell the tannins that clung to the cork.

  “I can tell where your mind is going,” the officer said as he watched me write in my journal. “You think someone else was here on the boat drinking with Harrison, and they used his jet ski to leave the crime scene after they killed him.”

  I shrugged, even though that was my current theory. Obviously, the locals had considered it, and I was curious to hear why they had discounted it.

  “I’m just observing the scene,” I said.

  “There’s a problem with that,” he continued. “Only one wine glass is on this boat, and it’s up on the deck. If someone else had been on the boat, then where’s his companion’s wine glass?”

  In the ocean, would be my guess, but I didn’t see the need to explain that to the man in front of me.

  “Did you know Vann personally?” I asked him instead.

  “Yeah, I did,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “I grew up with him. He was a pretty arrogant guy, but he was good. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “No one does,” I said. “Was Vann a social drinker?”

  The officer glared at me for a moment before he turned his head to stare at the wall. I waited for a moment before I realized he had no intention of answering my question. I wasn’t sure whether to interpret his silence as a sign that Vann was a social drinker and the officer was too angry to admit it, or as a sign that I had caught him in a lie. If the latter was true, then he and Vann weren’t as close as he’d suggested, and I wondered how many other ‘good friends’ Vann was suddenly going to gain in death.

  I shrugged again and turned back to the cabin. The far end had a sunken floor lined with two bunks on either side and a small door tucked into the corner on the right-hand side. I took the two steps down into the bunk area and opened the door to reveal a tiny bathroom. There were a handful of toothbrushes shoved into an old tin cup, a hairbrush, and a can of deodorant, but otherwise it was empty.

  A quick check of the bunks didn’t turn up anything unusual or interesting, either, so I turned my attention to the hatch in the floor. I knew it led to the hold where the fish would be stored for the trip back to shore, which struck me as a great place to hide something.

  I pulled the hatch open and then knelt down along the edge. The strong stench of fish filled my nose, and I felt my eyes start to water. I pulled out my phone, turned on its flashlight, and shone the light down into the hatch. The place was empty at the moment, but I needed to be sure.

  I climbed down the rungs and dropped onto the floor of the hold. The floor was still slippery, and I had to grab one of the rungs to keep myself from toppling onto my butt.

  Once I had my balance, I walked slowly around the perimeter of the room as I checked for any handy hiding spots. But there were no little nooks where something could be squirreled away, and nothing that looked out of place. Satisfied, I climbed back up and closed the hatch.

  “You seen enough?” the officer asked as I stood up.

  He still stared at the wall as if he were talking to a ghost.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve seen all that I need to,” I said with a nod.

  “Yeah, and now you’ve seen there’s not a lot working in your client’s favor,” he snickered as he risked a glance in my direction

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said with a shrug. “But there are a couple of things I want to confirm. And there’s still the forensics reports and the autopsy, so I’m feeling pretty confident.”

  “About what?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

  I smiled as I walked past him, but I didn’t respond. If he wasn’t willing to answer my question, why would I answer one of his?

  Fresh air greeted me as I returned to the deck, and I took a deep breath to try and rid my nose of the smell of fish. I heard a commotion from the crowd, so I walked toward the bow so I could see what had the locals so excited now. Their numbers had grown, and I wondered what they were waiting for. Did they expect me to come out and announce to them that the case was closed? That the police were right? That all the evidence pointed at Morris?

  I chuckled at the idea, but my smile fell away when I realized Yura was nowhere to be found. I had wanted to ask her about Vann’s drinking habits in the hopes she had spent plenty of time with him outside of work hours. Maybe he was the kind of boss who took his crew for drinks after a successful fishing trip. She might even have an idea or two about who would have been on the boat with Vann. Well, I would just have to catch up with her later.

  I stepped back onto the dock with the chuckler right behind me. I brushed past the officers who’d remained on crowd control duty without looking back.

  “Find anything interesting?” the female officer asked as I passed her.

  Her tone was genuine, not mocking, so I stopped and turned around.

  “I think so,” I replied, and I could see the answer both intrigued and bothered her.

  “You didn’t find shit!” a man with gray hair yelled from the crowd. “Austin killed that poor man, and you have no business taking on his case. You know this is a lost cause, you leach. I almost feel bad for Austin being ripped off by you.”

  I met his angry glare with a steady and confident look, and the man flinched away from me, though I could still hear him muttering to some of the other people in the crowd.

  “Where is Vann’s house?” I asked the three officers when I turned back to them.

  “Why do you want to go there?” the female officer asked.

  “I don’t know anything about Vann,” I told her. “That’s why I need to go there.”

  She eyed me suspiciously, but unlike her two cohorts, she did seem to care about the case and where the evidence would lead. She sighed, and after a quick glance at the crowd, she hooked her thumb to the left.

  “Just off Stevenson here, on Boxer Street,” she replied. “Number thirteen.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  I waved to the troopers and then walked toward the crowd. The people moved out of my way, some more quickly than others, and a few even flinched away. The braver ones gave me angry glares, but I made sure to keep my hands in my pockets and my eyes forward. If a fight broke out, it wouldn’t be because of me.

  Reluctantly, the crowd parted, and I crossed the street briskly under the weight of their angry stares to the parking lot that held my Ford. I hopped inside, cranked up the heater, peeled out of the lot in the direction of Vann’s house. I just had to hope that the victim’s jet ski was nowhere to be found on the property.

  Chapter 4

  The image of the puzzle with missing pieces returned as I made the turn onto the street where Vann had lived. The houses were separated by wide gaps that the children had turned into their personal playgrounds. They waved at me as I drove past, and as I waved back, I wished I was in their neighborhood for a less gruesome reason.

  Google Maps announced my arrival at Vann’s house, located on the right. I pulled up in front of a one-story, white house with a garage. It looked like a long rectangle, or maybe a trailer without wheels that had been left propped up on cinder blocks. Whatever it was, it was not a contestant for the cover of Architectural Digest.

  There was no driveway or path to the front door. Ruts had been carved into the grass from the garage, and a narrow strip of dirt ran from the street to the door. The rest was covered in green grass, though in a month or two, it would all be covered in snow again.

  The garage was wide open and a black truck sat inside. I took that as a sign that someone was home, but more importantly, there was no jet ski anywhere in the garage.

  After a moment of indecision, I pulled my truck onto the path to the garage and parked behind the black truck. I climbed out, but instead of heading for the front door, I ambled around the side of the house to check the backyard for the missing watercraft.
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  I felt a rush of excitement when I saw the backyard was empty. There was no furniture, no toys, and definitely no jet ski. The only thing it held was an old tool shed that was too small to hide anything bigger than a push mower.

  Since no one had come outside to investigate my arrival, I darted across the yard and peered into the shed through one of the dirty windows. I could see a shovel, a workbench, some old paint cans, and an assortment of tools that had definitely seen better days.

  Satisfied that the jet ski wasn’t at the house, I walked around the house again and cut through the overgrown grass to the steps that led to the front porch. But before I even reached the top, the front door opened. Yura stood in the doorway and held it open for me to enter.

  She didn’t appear surprised by my presence, but I was shocked to see her. She had suddenly left the docks to head here? Vann’s house? Not only that, but she had a key to his home. I thought of Cassandra with my keys and wondered if the same employer-employee relationship had existed between Vann and Yura.

  “Come on in,” she said as she retreated into the house.

  I looked around, but none of the neighbors appeared to protest, so I followed the woman inside. The place reeked of fish, but given Vann’s profession, it made sense. Shallow breaths seemed like the way to go, and I fought the urge to cover my nose with my hand.

  The entrance led into a dining room on the right and a living room on the left. In the living room, a gray sofa was pushed against the wall across from a mounted flat screen, and a coffee table occupied the space in between. Dust lined the top of the TV, and stacks of mail and coupons were scattered across the table. A loveseat had been crammed into a corner and served as the resting spot for another large collection of discarded papers.

  The only really personal items in the room were a collection of photos that had been hung on the wall above the loveseat. They were pictures of Vann, either alone or with other people present, and I took a moment to study the man whose death had brought me to the far north.