Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  "Maybe not that expert," Pepper said, pointing. "Who puts a starfish in a clambake?"

  It was a bright red starfish, sitting on the dead man's chest, almost blending with the man's red athletic jacket. Not even seagulls eat starfish, they're one of the most disgusting food sources in the ocean. Definitely not people food.

  "Good catch Pepper! You channeling Jake?" joked Larch.

  Jake, his older brother. The finest young homicide detective in Boston in the last twenty years, everyone agreed. Right up until a little over three years ago, when he stepped in the path of that damned jewelry store robbery, off duty and under-armed. The Ryan curse, taking the job too far…

  "Sweet jumpin' Jesus," said a voice from right behind Pepper's shoulder. "New Albion just made tonight's news." Lieutenant Hurd had arrived. Hurd was a medium-sized white guy. Wiry. His nose was way too long for his thin face and the small mustache under it didn't help. Hurd had joined the New Albion force during Pepper's absence so Pepper didn't have a good read on him yet.

  Pepper stayed bent as close as he could get without touching the body. Studying the dead guy's swollen face. Definitely a guy, maybe late thirties. Black hair. And the guy looked a bit familiar…

  "Ah shit," Hurd was muttering in Pepper's ear, so softly probably only Pepper could hear him. "Ah shit, ah shit, ah shit..." Like a meditation.

  Then Hurd seemed to collect himself. "Is an M.E. on the way? What about Barnstable? And where are the wits who phoned it in? I'll interview them myself."

  "Sir, this was weird enough we thought the General would wanna call the shots before we bring down the M.E. and any, er, outside resources," said Phillips. They all called Chief Eisenhower 'The General—meaning it as a kind of compliment, and maybe also to be funny, since he didn't resemble the original General Eisenhower at all. But no one would ever call him that to his face.

  Pepper knew it was usual for murder scenes to bring in the Cape and Islands District Attorney's Office from nearby Barnstable, which would send a team of state police detectives. But turning this over to the staties before the Chief of Police was in the loop would probably not be appreciated. Like his predecessor Chief Ryan, the General took a pride of ownership in criminal activity in his town, despite the limits of his resources.

  Phillips was wringing his hands. "And our witnesses are over on that log. Oh, crap!” The elderly couple wasn't on the log anymore, they were being interviewed by the TV news lady.

  "Larch, get 'em away from that reporter," barked Hurd.

  Pepper was still fixated on what he could see of the body. The dead man's face. A face he was 90% sure he'd seen once before... But since he'd absolutely promised himself to be less impetuous this time, for once in his checkered law-enforcement career, wouldn't it be better to keep his lips zipped, for now?

  "As for the body," continued Phillips. "His pockets are empty except for a big cigar tube. Weird for a guy in a jogging suit, right? But no I.D."

  "You touched the body?" asked Hurd, his nose in too close to Phillips. His face flushing red.

  "Lieutenant, about this victim?" interrupted Pepper, surprising himself. "I think he was a fed."

  "What?" asked Hurd and Phillips, simultaneously. Phillips wringing his hands.

  Pepper focused on the lieutenant. "I'll bet he was a federal officer."

  Hurd tilted his head. "Pepper, you know the vic? What's going on?"

  "No, never met him. But a few days ago I saw four men in suits walking down Shore Road, right past the driveway to my family's house. Like they were surveying the road. I thought maybe reconning for the upcoming presidential vacation at Eagle's Nest, since it's about a mile further down? Unless he has a brother in town, this man was there."

  Lieutenant Hurd was giving Pepper a look, like it sounded pretty thin. Hurd might have taken lessons from Pepper's dad—he had exactly the same skeptical scowl, plus the bonus impact of his long pointy nose. But finally he said, "Ah, shit... Phillips, check it with the station. Any missing, ah, federal officers. But on your cell phone."

  Phillips trudged down toward the shoreline to make the call. Pepper saw him striking a pose by the water's edge as he talked on his phone, gesturing dramatically with his free hand. The TV crew was filming his whole act.

  Two minutes later, Phillips came trotting back and slapped Pepper's back with an attaboy. "A Secret Service agent named Keser was just reported missing—Zula was about to put out a BOLO. He hasn't been seen since yesterday morning. You think it's him? And the reporter asked, can she have a quick interview with Wonderboy?"

  "Nice catch again, Pepper," said Larch. "You sure you're the guy who flamed out last time? I may need to go change a bet."

  But Pepper didn't smile, because he could feel Hurd 's eyes still on him. Like he suspected Pepper knew something more than he was saying.

  Chapter Three

  By late that afternoon, Pepper was waiting alone in the New Albion police station's only conference room when Zula led in two Secret Service agents.

  The Secret Service had arrived at Dill Beach a few hours earlier and immediately taken over the crime scene. After a brief call with the General, Lieutenant Dwayne Hurd conceded jurisdiction, which made good sense to Pepper. The Secret Service wasn't going to negotiate—that was one of their guys in the clambake pit. A team of state detectives had beaten the Secret Service to the crime scene and had adopted a more territorial attitude. Less cooperative. Until the Secret Service called the staties' boss elsewhere on Cape Cod and had them pulled off, along with the local M.E. A while later, the Secret Service had requested this meeting with the New Albion police and to Pepper's surprise he was asked by the General to sit in, despite being the newest hire and low man on the department's totem pole.

  "I thought we're ah, meeting with the Chief?" asked the younger guy, his hands gesturing what looked like fake confusion. He was tall and too thin in his shiny blue suit. He had blond hair, shaved shorter on the sides but a little too long and styled to one side on top. Handsome, but not as handsome as he probably thought. The older guy, heavier, gray temples, a long pale scar on his cheek, made a relax gesture with his hand.

  They introduced themselves. The skinny guy was Special Agent Dan Alfson. The older guy was a big dog—Special Agent in Charge Daylan Hanley. He carried himself like Pepper's dad always did—with casual but absolute authority.

  Zula Eisenhower left to get her dad, with a parting eye roll to Pepper and a flip of long black hair. Pepper had to admit she'd grown to be an attractive woman, reflecting her African-American dad and Malaysian mom. But more than unofficially off-limits to any New Albion officer looking to keep his job and his nuts. Pepper had heard that Jackson Phillips took her out for ice cream soon after joining the force and ended up on speed-trap detail for six months.

  But Pepper saw Special Agent Alfson tilt his head for an exaggerated appreciation of Zula's rear end as she departed. Practically whistled. Alfson noticed Pepper catch him gawking, reddened a bit, then started fumbling a pad and pen from his black briefcase.

  "So, you met the Chief of Police's daughter?" Pepper asked him with a chuckle and a nod to the door.

  Alfson smirked, said, "You don't—" but stopped when Hanley stood as Chief Donald Eisenhower came through the door, accompanied by Lieutenant Hurd. Chief Eisenhower was a big man—even taller than Pepper. And much thicker. Freckles on his broad African-American face. A gray fringe of hair, which Pepper knew he'd contributed to over the years. The General's gravitas dominated every room he was in, even with heavy hitters like these Secret Service agents.

  Eisenhower introduced himself and Hurd to the agents, but also picked up on an awkward vibe, raising a quick eyebrow at Pepper as if to say, have you already screwed things up? But they all found seats and settled in, the locals on one side of the table and Secret Service on the other.

  "I appreciate you taking the time, Chief," said Hanley. He gave a quick summary of the facts so far. The body was Arnold Keser, an intelligence officer on the Secre
t Service's advance team for the POTUS's vacation. Keser had gone for a run on Saturday morning, went missing. Turned up in that clambake pit. He was shot in the gut with double ought buckshot but didn't die from that wound. He'd been steamed to death.

  "And then there's this," Hanley continued. He lifted a laminated photograph from a manila folder, spun it around so it was facing them. Tapped it instructively with his pen.

  "This is a copy of a document found tucked in Keser's pocket, folded and rolled up in a cigar tube. You may recognize it."

  It was the Declaration of Independence. Pepper remembered it from history class. He squinted, tried to follow the small handwriting. There were a few phrases underlined, so Pepper focused on those:

  --We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.--

  --But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.--

  --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states.--

  Then on and on, but no more underlining. A long list of grievances against bad old King George III. And then the kiss off—declaring the split from Great Britain. Followed by the many politicians' signatures, all dwarfed by John Hancock's sprawling alpha male signature. But off to the right, someone had hand printed the planned start and finish dates of the president's vacation, drawn a crude picture of a starfish in red ink, and printed below it: R.I.P. Garby. U took my candy!

  "Pretty fucking weird," said Chief Eisenhower.

  "Let me open the kimono," cut in Alfson, clicking his pen. "The POTUS gets around ninety death threats a year, more in election years. Most are drunken scrawls by nobodies who piss themselves when the Service pays them a visit. But our folks in Forensic Services study every note. The handwriting, the quality of paper, the ink. Scan for DNA, the whole nine yards."

  "So?" asked Pepper. Which earned him a hard cough from Chief Eisenhower.

  "So a couple dozen threats every year are treated as more credible, for one reason or another. A few really get our attention, like this document. We read it as a direct threat to kill the POTUS. We only have a preliminary report, but so far? No helpful DNA. We have an unsub or group of unsubs who've proven they're willing to kill. And the weirdness worries me. The crazy bit about the candy—what's that all about? Why a clambake grave? Why shoot Keser? It appears he was paralyzed by an injected drug, then shot while lying in the clambake pit."

  "Sounds like he might've pissed someone off. Any thought there was something personal between Keser and whoever shot him?" asked Hurd.

  "Maybe," said Hanley. "Or maybe they think they're clever. Breaking that old saying, 'Don't shoot the messenger'? And our intel is there's something weird going on big picture too, with the upcoming POTUS visit to this town. Many more activist and protest groups than usual are chattering about traveling here during the presidential vacation. And in much bigger numbers. It's got the hairs on my neck standing up. And that's why we need two favors."

  Ah, thought Pepper. The punch line.

  "First thing, Chief," said Hanley, "I need you as point on media relations. But for national security, don't mention the POTUS death threat or that the victim was Secret Service. Just give the media as little as possible: all leads are being followed…no information's available yet about the victim, but any witnesses are encouraged to contact you. That kind of play."

  "But in practice, your town officers will need to stand down on the case, hard stop," added Alfson. With just a drip of condescension?

  Hanley put a hand on his agent's shoulder. Almost," he said. "Our theory so far is maybe the unsubs have some local connection. That whole clambake thing, and the way Keser was grabbed so cleanly, like they knew the best spot. So if you have an officer with real local knowledge, I'll take him on loan. A local liaison. And it'll help your optics—you can tell the press he's your lead investigator."

  What they call, thought Pepper, a fall guy. And for once Pepper would let someone else have the honor of blowing up their career…

  "We'd be happy to help," said the Chief. "This is New Albion's most shocking murder since... well, probably ever. With the President vacationing here, the media'll be thicker than sand fleas. There'll be a lot of local panic, what with the public not knowing who the victim is. The impact it'll have on summer rentals if we don't catch this nut."

  "So if I need to borrow someone who's familiar with all the native troublemakers and lowlifes, who's the best you've got?"

  Lieutenant Hurd gave a thoughtful grunt. "Can we chew on it, get back to you? We're stretched past breaking already, schedule-wise. But we'll free up someone and let you know."

  Special Agent Alfson was eyeing his boss. Maybe trying to decide whether to complain about recruiting a local in front of the actual locals, or to save his whining for later?

  Chief Eisenhower leaned back, put his hands behind his head. "How about Ryan?" he asked, with a nod toward Pepper.

  What?!? Pepper's stomach tightened like he'd been punched. He was too shocked to even object.

  But Hurd dragged forward his chair with a squeal. "Chief, he's been back one week!"

  "Maybe someone with a tad more experience?" asked Alfson.

  Did he intentionally sound like he was talking patiently to stupid people?

  Eisenhower crossed his arms. "This is Ryan's second tour with us. And investigation's in his DNA. His dad was chief of this town, before me. And he's as local as it gets. He grew up here, knows all the scumbags and they know him."

  "Aren't you the one who flagged Keser as a federal officer?" Hanley asked Pepper.

  Pepper nodded. He still couldn't speak, his mind was racing too fast. His plans were going out the window. In fact, it might be a complete disaster.

  "Sir!" complained Alfson to Hanley. Ignoring everyone else. "Shouldn't we take this offline with whoever you're sticking him with?"

  "Not to worry Dan, he'll be partnered up with you."

  "What?!?" asked Alfson and Pepper at the same moment.

  "See? They're already on the same page," said Hanley. He and Eisenhower stood, shook hands.

  "Thanks again," said Hanley. "We briefed the POTUS about the threat against his life and he didn't even blink. He's determined to come here as previously scheduled. So let's catch these assholes before he arrives."

  Chapter Four

  It was four days prior to the clambake murder scene that Pepper Ryan had seen the dead man. And only in passing. But it was at the crucial moment of Pepper's homecoming after almost three years away from New Albion. So the man's face was glued to Pepper's mind, by association.

  Pepper had driven home to Cape Cod from Nashville in two days. He'd made one stop on the Tuesday afternoon and then passed a semi-restless night in a motel in Virginia. On the next day, Pepper had driven through almost nonstop for nine hours. By evening, he'd crossed the Sagamore Bridge. Then hit the New Albion exit around thirty minutes later, bone tired with an aching butt. Pepper hadn't called ahead to tell his dad that he was coming home, let alone his return to the police force. Of course, his dad was close buddies with Chief Eisenhower, who must have been tempted to spill the beans, despite promising Pepper he wouldn't.

  Pepper hadn't seen or talked to his dad in almost three years. Memories of that final day were still raw in Pepper's chest—the damn ice cream truck chase, leading to a shouting match with Chief Eisenhower, leading to Pepper quitting the force. The anger and argument had carried home, become an even louder confrontation
with his dad, who took his old lieutenant's side, of course. Pepper had walked away just a twitch short of punching out his dad—he'd grabbed his guitar, a backpack of clothes, not much else. Driven away and stayed gone.

  So it was with a dull ache of anxious hostility that Pepper cut down to Shore Road a couple streets early. The scenic route. And it seemed nothing had really changed. Mostly Cape-style homes, a little on the larger side. He rounded the bend past Rogers Lighthouse, then along the stretch of significantly larger houses. Pretty much mansions, mostly, on estate-sized lots. Except one smaller, low Cape-style cottage tucked away on a small peninsula, a long stone's throw removed from Mansion Row. The Ryans' snug home.

  From the road, it appeared nothing had changed. The house was small but to Pepper, perfect. It was lopsided in shape since the left side had been raised decades ago to add a second-floor dormer for his and Jake's bedroom. The home was covered in cedar shingles washed to gray by the Cape Cod weather. The windows were framed by neat white shutters.

  On one side of the house, his father had planted roses for his mother, many years ago. Pepper could faintly picture her tending them in a big straw hat and a red dress. Pruning shears in her hand, turning to smile at Pepper as he ran across the lawn to her. But he knew he'd been way too young when she'd died for the memory to be real. Maybe it had been Jake's memory, had he told Pepper? The rose bushes were now climbing wildly, almost blocking the dining room window. A thick collection of low evergreen bushes ringed the house.

  But before he could turn into the Ryan driveway, Pepper had to wait for four men in dark suits who were walking past his driveway opening. Pepper felt a flare of irritation. The men were all wearing white shirts and bland ties. Matching shiny round pins on their left lapels. They were gesturing at both sides of Shore Road as if assessing the roadway. Unusual pedestrians to be strolling along the sandy edge of their street at sunset. One man stopped in the middle of the driveway, gesturing and saying something to the other two, ignoring Pepper's truck. After a long three count under his breath, Pepper lightly honked his horn, like hey, wake up.