“Have you ever seen them before?” Martis asks.
I check my answer. I saw Dalia exiting the ferry in her New York T-shirt the night we met for drinks in Skala. And I saw Mikael trespassing on Charlie’s dock.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Those hippies all tend to look alike.”
Martis chuckles. “Yes, they do. What a scene down at their camp. No clothes and food on the bonfire and so much blasting music. Who can blame them for wanting to join in? Not a bad way to spend the summer.”
I stare at their pictures again, but the memory of Mikael’s smashed face in the grass intervenes and I drop my hand over his image.
“May I ask why you’re showing me their pictures? I thought they died in a motorbike accident.”
The inspector leans back, running his teeth over his mustache.
“An accident is the likely cause. Hit by a car or more probable they drove off one of the hilltop cliffs in the dark. They are nearly fifteen meters high at some of the turns. The village should erect guardrails. It is very unsafe. We are checking all of the cars on the island for evidence of a, how do you call it, a hit and go? In any case, my colleagues here concluded it was an accident. Unfortunately, there are three or four such deaths on Patmos each summer. Motorbikes are irresistible to vacationers.”
Martis’s chubby fingers amble across the desk toward his phone, like a piano player following the rhythm of a song. But he catches himself and tightens his fist.
“But you don’t think it’s an accident?”
“Ah, but that’s just it,” he says beaming. “I do. The doctor at the hospital examined their injuries. His report was inconclusive.”
“I’ve heard that doctor isn’t very reliable.”
Martis juts his jaw out. “He is decent enough, a good man. Their bodies sustained a great deal of damage, consistent with a very serious accident. Obviously this island doesn’t have the resources that you are accustomed to in America. We are not in the business of autopsies. We’ve already sent their bodies home.”
I snort at the ineptitude of Greek protocol. Martis responds with a wry smile, as if to assert, you want definite answers, you should have stayed at home.
“When I pressed the doctor,” he continues, “he could not rule out homicide, the kind of injuries that could be caused, say, by the blunt force of a bat.” I think of Martis’s cousins and their newfound love of baseball, attending Yankees games and posting photos of themselves in the nosebleed seats holding hot dogs laced with ketchup. “However, he feels it is most likely that they drove over a cliff’s edge. And the simplest answer is usually the correct one.”
“So what’s the problem? If everyone agrees it’s an accident, why are you investigating? I hope they don’t bring you to Patmos every time a foreigner runs off the road.”
Martis finally manages to trap his mustache in his teeth. The victory is short-lived.
“No, they do not. I am a very busy man, I assure you. The problem is that someone has come forward. A young woman has made a report. An American like yourself. She claims that the deaths of Dalia and Mikael might be more serious than a random accident.” Even before Martis identifies her, I picture the crying girl with the salamander tattoos writhing up her ankles, Mikael’s companion that morning at the dock. “She told the police she was with the young man when your friend, Charlie, made a direct threat on their lives. That was only a day before the accident.” He watches me for a response, like a man searching a fetid aquarium for signs of life. “She was very upset, very shaken. Understandably. She had just lost her friend. Maybe Mikael was her boyfriend? Now, we do not put stock in the hysterical suspicions of a grieving girl. But the difficulty is, when a report such as this is made, one of possible murder, we are required by law to investigate it. So that is why I am here.” He jabs the pen in the blotter. “It is highly sensitive. As you know, Charlie is from a very respectable family, a family with much esteem on our islands. The Konstantinous have been with us for generations, very good people, and we do not want to offend them with the allegations of a disturbed young woman. So please do not take my questions as an interrogation. All of this can easily be resolved. We do not wish to alarm anyone.”
I nod.
“I looked for Charlie at the dock of his yacht business, and I found only his worker, a Turk named Ugur. The girl mentioned there was a man fitting his description there when the threat was made. I asked this Ugur, but he said his English is so poor, he couldn’t understand what was spoken between them.” I’m jealous of Ugur’s excuse; the best alibi is total ignorance of a foreign language. “What a strange little man he is, yes? Rather unsavory, if I may be honest. I think I frightened him with my questions. And I do my best to frighten no one.” Martis laughs, as if his charm is as involuntary as his heartbeat. “But the girl said a young man with red hair was also present. As you say, you work for Charlie.” He drops the pen. “So may I ask, did you hear any threat made?”
Charlie must be on his way home right now, his boat on the sea, the motor at full blast, at any second the black ripple of the island breaking across his horizon. He will be home soon, and he will speak with Inspector Martis, and the incident will disappear as quietly as the bodies of the backpackers to their home countries. I’m so lost in the vision of Charlie’s return, I almost forget I’m sitting in a police station fielding possible grounds for murder.
Martis’s face rumples with concern.
“Do you need some water, Ian?” He raises his hand as if to call a waiter.
“No, I’m okay. Now that you mention it, I was at the dock that morning and I did see two hippies from the camp. I think they were stoned. They were trespassing, and Charlie told them to leave. He might have yelled at them a bit excessively, but I wouldn’t go as far as calling it a threat. Nothing that would be a reason to kill them.” I copy the inspector’s ingratiating laugh. “I get the sense there’s some hostility between the locals and the members of that camp. Apparently they treat the whole island like their own backyard. But, really, that’s all it was. You have my word. Charlie wouldn’t kill anyone over trespassing. Why would he?” I’m surprised by the sincerity in my voice, as if I can convince both of us of Charlie’s innocence. It was a minor threat in the heat of the moment, just a coincidence that it arrived right before one of them was killed.
“You see,” Martis cries, banging the desk. “The fantasy of a troubled girl. That is all. No reason for me to bother with my trip.”
“Have you spoken to the woman who runs the camp? If by some chance there was foul play, it might have nothing to do with Charlie. Aren’t they down there praying for the end of the world?”
Martis opens his mouth, exposing a silver mine shaft of dental work.
“Christians and their Apocalypse!” he retorts. “Why are you Westerners more fond of that book than the rest of us? The luckiest on Earth are the ones who want it to end the fastest.” He shakes his head. “Yes, I did speak with that woman, Vic. She was very nice, very welcoming. She was the one who provided me with their passports.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, she thinks the same as we do. That this young woman, Carrie Dorr, is mistaken, gone a bit confused in the head. Vic told me some of the youths who join her group can be unstable. She said she tried to reason with her and talk her out of coming to us with the claim. So, you see, everyone is in agreement. A tragic accident. Maybe one day they will erect guardrails!” Martis pushes back in his chair, his swollen stomach curled on his lap like a sleeping dog. “So it is only this young woman who is scared for no reason. Just as I thought.”
“She’s scared?”
His nostrils flare. “Quite scared. Paranoid, I would say. She believes she’s in some danger. I always warn my children not to smoke the marichouana that is so popular now on the islands. It is much stronger than it used to be. Bad for sensitive heads.” He laughs with his hand on his stomach, each wave of it growing fainter like the sea leveling in a boat’s wake. He sighs d
eeply when he’s finished, and I begin to lift from my seat. But Martis isn’t done. He leans forward, braiding his fingers.
“So now there is only the last necessity of speaking with Charlie myself. When he tells me there was no ill will with these young foreigners, the matter will be settled.” Martis stares at me greedily, as if counting the seconds before I produce Charlie between the blinks of the overhead light. I cling to my smile like a life raft.
“Well?” he grunts. “Could you tell me where he is? According to Ugur, you are his number two.”
“I’m not sure, I—”
“I visited the Konstantinou house in Chora this morning. I spoke with Charlie’s wife.”
“Girlfriend. Sonny is his girlfriend.”
“Ahh,” he sings. “He should marry that one.” Martis pretends to fuss with his shirt collar. “I plan to come back as a playboy and have a wife like that.” He waits patiently, his grin frozen. He is the controller of time in this office. “She tells me she has not seen Charlie in two days, but that you have seen him, been with him, just yesterday. So if you could tell me where I could find him?”
One lie. That was all that was asked of me. One lie concocted between old friends to keep a house in order. And now the lie is growing to the size of an island and must be watered and pruned and fed. I consider coming clean, confessing the ruse to provide Charlie with an alibi while he’s busy handling business in Bodrum. But mentioning one deceit suggests the presence of others, and what have I offered the inspector but my word? To admit that Charlie needs an alibi might suggest some credence in the young woman’s claim. Charlie will be back from Turkey at any minute, and he can speak with Martis and clear up the confusion. In the meantime, he won’t appreciate it if I’ve helped to finger him as a possible suspect to the police.
“Charlie and his girlfriend had a fight,” I say, “so he was sleeping on one of his boats. I think he might be out on one now. His job is mostly at sea. He told me he had a little business off the island to take care of.”
“Ugur did not tell me he had taken out one of the company boats.”
“He has others, family boats. Domitian is a big, black sailing yacht.” In case Martis checks on Domitian, I add vaguely, “and I think there are others too.”
“So many boats the Konstantinous have!” Martis roars. “What fortunate people. To be a billionaire in paradise.” He fans himself with his hand. “Will he be back onshore today?”
“I couldn’t say,” I answer meekly. “Most likely. He’s working, and phone reception is so spotty off the island.”
“But you saw Charlie yesterday. Was it after you witnessed the finding of the bodies?”
Now the alibi is working backward, pinning Charlie to the island when the fact of his absence would absolve him of blame. I have no idea what time he left for Bodrum. It must have been in the early morning. I move back the clock hands of the lie, for his protection and for mine.
“No, much earlier. Almost dawn. He might have been at sea all of yesterday for all I know. So he probably wasn’t even here when those hippies were killed.”
“The doctor couldn’t determine an exact hour of death. They had been in the grass for some time. It was probably still darkness, still some night left. Did Charlie seem normal to you when you last saw him?”
The last time I saw him he was anything but normal, lobbing insults in the hope of being punched. “Yes, absolutely,” I assure him. “Maybe a little hungover. We only spoke for a few minutes.”
“On one of his boats?”
“Listen, Inspector, I’m late for work. I’m sure Charlie will be back today, and if I see him, I will tell him to talk to you right away. He’ll want this cleared up as quickly as you do. I feel terrible about this misunderstanding. The poor families of those accident victims.”
“Yes,” he says, wiping a fist over his mustache. “The officer who telephoned them has the hardest job there is. I wish you visitors would be careful on your holidays. If my children died far from home, I would hope the police would be thorough. To see the injuries done to those young people, it was not a painless end.”
For the first time, I catch a tremor of doubt in the inspector’s voice, as if the case isn’t nearly as settled in his gut as it is in his head. I can’t shake the sense there is information he isn’t sharing, a fact that’s stopping him from surrendering the case folder to the desert of lost documents on the desk. Martis glances at his phone and then, less trustingly, at me. He knows about my past. He’s read up on me.
“Just so you know, Charlie’s a good person,” I say. “He’d never kill anyone. We’ve been friends since we were little. I’ve known him my whole life. So even if you do think those two were murdered, Charlie wouldn’t have done it. The whole idea is preposterous. I mean, honestly, they were just trespassing.”
He nods and slides another piece of paper from the file. It lands on top of the passport printouts, a photo of a sharp wood nail lying on a steel tabletop.
“That was found next to the bodies,” Martis says. “That and a scarf, the sort that Middle Eastern women wear around their heads. Do you know what that instrument is?”
“No. Were the backpackers stabbed with it?”
“Not stabbed. But it was there at the scene right beside them. It’s a hand-carved spike, the kind that refugees carry when crossing on their rubber rafts. In case the coast guard finds them floating at sea, they puncture their raft with it. By law, the coast guard must rescue a sinking vessel. It assures they will be taken in instead of ordered back.”
“So you’re saying they could have been killed by refugees sneaking onto the island? Is that why they’re at the station? You’re questioning them?”
Martis again scrunches his shoulders. “They are here to be processed. But it could be that migrants entered Patmos in the early morning when it is still dark and were discovered by the two foreigners. They might have resorted to killing so they could not be reported. They can get to the north much faster if they are not detained. It is only a theory.” He gathers the papers and returns them to the file. “The refugees have been very peaceful. There has been no violence against tourists yet. But it is always possible a few wolves sneak in with the lambs. And it is my job to consider all possibilities. Again, I do not mean to alarm you. I agree, trespassing would be an unlikely motive. Very foolish. After all, Charlie is a Konstantinou.” He glances at me with an expression that verges on pity. “With the terrorist bomb last month, this island has been through enough. We would like this to be an accident. My superiors would like that very much.”
Martis stands and reaches his hand out for me to shake. “Thank you, Ian. Please tell Charlie to stop by, and I will relay what a dependable employee he has. And I will wait for that friend request you’ve promised. I hope we can always be friends.”
When I return to the outside terrace, the detainees have vanished. Only empty plastic bottles litter the freshly hosed brick. I follow the sound of scraping feet and whispered voices over the inner wall, where the building forms a square courtyard cut off from the rest of Skala. In the courtyard below, the refugees are huddled in corners on silver blankets. The boy with the comb sits alone on a bench.
I can still do something right, score a small, symbolic point against the tromping of the undefeated team whose mascot is anybody hunched and suffering. I pull a twenty-euro bill from my wallet and whistle to catch the boy’s attention. His eyes search the blue of the sky and meet mine. “Hello,” he calls again. I wave the bill, and he hurries to the wall, dropping his comb to open his hands. But his action has not gone unnoticed. Three men run over, their palms also clapping the air, nearly knocking the boy to the ground, and their shouts reverberate against the stone. “Here!” “Thank you!” “Sir, for me!” A lottery of hands below me, mouths wild with teeth, and I’m dangling money over them like food over starving inmates. I can’t manage to drop the bill so it will find the boy’s hands. When two officers race into the courtyard, alerted by the noise,
I quickly step back with the twenty still in my grip. When I peek over again the officers are wielding batons.
My shirt soaked, my face burning, I take the steps down to the street. I race to my bike and fumble with my helmet, the shame holding me like a fever. Will the boy remember me, years into the future, a white Westerner high in the sky taunting him with money and then disappearing without dropping a single note?
Two dogs tied to a lamppost are barking. The red is on the water, breaking across its silver crests. I am sick of the uselessness I call helping. I’m more disgusted by this failure than by the twenty minutes I spent lying to the police.
I hope the boy will forgive me. I can barely forgive Charlie for leaving me here to deal with his mess. I told Martis I’ve known Charlie my whole life, but I haven’t truly known him the past eight years. When I picture the refugees clamoring in the courtyard, it’s not me but Charlie at the top. He waves his cash, his handsome face burnished like promise. He smiles. He disappears.
BY THE TIME I park my bike at the Charters dock, my phone has been beeping and vibrating in my pocket like a smoke detector that will be silenced only by smashing it to the ground. The country code is +30. At least it isn’t my half-sister. But it isn’t Charlie either. As soon as I pick up, Sonny’s voice is a crowbar in my ear.
“There you are!” she shouts, her vocal chords corroded. As I expected, the detective’s visit this morning hasn’t been a balm to her nerves. “Police were at my door today. Police! Looking for Charlie! Ian, what’s this about?” There is a brusque command to Sonny’s tone, not an appeal to a friend but a direct order from the boss’s wife. I wonder how long would it have taken otherwise for our relationship to settle into this natural imbalance. By the time we land in Cyprus, will I be carrying her suitcases off the plane? Still, I can’t blame her for being frightened. “What does this inspector want with Charlie?”
The Destroyers Page 27
