by Cathy Ace
“Question,” said Bud. “What’s your endgame? I’m guessing you won’t be charging anyone while we’re on the ship. If we manage to detect the killer, would you simply detain them until we reach Canada?”
“Essentially, yes,” said Ezra. “We have just sailed from a US port. We operate under the Cruise Vessel Security and Safety Act of 2010. I have no authority to charge anyone. I can caution someone I might need to interrogate, but they would then have recourse to obtain appropriate legal advice; they could therefore choose, quite properly, to not answer any of my questions, which could be entirely counterproductive. The most I can do, effectively, is detain; we have minimal detention facilities. Alternately, we can place a guard outside a stateroom, so long as we are confident there is no way for the person we are detaining to leave the room. It’s what we do when we need to place guests under a curfew, or on an ‘accompanied only’ routine, when they are always accompanied by one of my officers when they need to leave their room. Neither the captain nor I are happy to detain everyone who was in the Games Room this morning in such a manner. We do not yet know if any one of them is responsible for Tommy Trussler’s death. They are merely witnesses.”
“But—” I began, but I was silenced by Ezra’s steely gaze.
Bud sighed heavily. “Got it, Ezra. You lead the show. It’s been some time since I’ve worked a case where proper procedure was involved, and much longer since it was an investigation that I was not in charge of. But I understand exactly what you mean. As does Cait, I’m sure. As a consultant to my team, she always played by the rules. I have no doubt we could both follow your direction, and add our own input, as appropriate.”
“Only with my lead, and my say-so,” said Ezra. “Procedures exist for a reason.”
“Agreed and accepted,” said Bud.
“As Bud said, agreed and accepted.”
Room Service
AS SOON AS EZRA AGREED that Bud and I could be formally involved with the case, my spirits lifted. I reasoned that our last couple of days on the ship were bound to be marred by the tragic death, and I’d never been good at taking a backseat when a murderer was lurking in the shadows.
“Thanks for agreeing to include us, Ezra,” I piped up. “As Bud said, although I have been known to work on cases where sleuthing was involved, I’m more than capable of following any procedural guidelines.” I allowed myself a wistful smile as I looked over at my husband. “It could be quite like old times, Bud, with a team doing the information gathering while you and I investigate the victim and then the suspects, with the authority that comes from having a senior officer open doors for us.”
“Yes, but bear in mind that such an approach brings its own challenges,” said Bud. “Even if investigating a murder isn’t something you’ve done before, Ezra, I’m sure you know that people’s attitudes toward any type of law enforcement professional almost automatically affects their level of openness when it comes to sharing information.”
It was Ezra’s turn to smile. “I do indeed, Bud. My approach will be to keep our suspicions about murder confined to those who need to know, and to encourage the guests to share their knowledge about the victim on the basis that we are trying to fulfill irritating bureaucratic requirements because of a death at sea.”
“Can we interview guests with you?” I asked. Bud shot me a warning glance.
“No, that is out of the question,” replied Ezra. “I represent the cruise line; you do not.”
I was disappointed. I thought it would be good for Bud to be involved, front and center, in a structured case again. The last police case he’d worked on, just before retiring from the force, was the investigation that led to his first wife’s death. But even in retirement, his relentless pursuit of justice hadn’t left him; I hoped, now that we were beginning to settle into our new life together, he might find further solace in tackling an inquiry that reflected his police work more closely than that of our sleuthing.
“As Ezra said, he has his procedures, Cait,” said Bud. He spoke quietly, but I believed I could detect disappointment in his tone.
A knock at the door startled me.
Ezra stood. “I hope you don’t mind—I took the liberty of ordering lunch for three to be delivered here. I don’t think there’ll be much chance to eat for the rest of the day; this gives me an opportunity to talk to you and have a meal from the guest menu.”
Bud grinned. “I remember days when all Cait and I got to eat were a couple of slices of cold pizza at two in the morning.” He winked at me. “Eating now, when we have the opportunity, is an excellent idea.”
The next few minutes were taken up with sorting out who would eat what, and where they’d eat it. Although the stateroom was perfectly acceptable when two people wanted to eat, it became a little more problematic when three large trays arrived. We ended up putting all the trays on the bed, and pulling plates and dishes onto our laps as we went along.
Ezra rubbed his hands with glee when he saw the food. Bud and I insisted that he choose what he wanted first, and he selected the seafood ravioli with a lemon and saffron butter mousse. I pouted a bit; I’d rather fancied that for myself, but was happy to choose tender char-grilled lamb skewers, nestled on a bed of wild rice, infused with Mediterranean flavors. Hey, when in doubt, meat on a stick is hard to beat.
Bud tucked into the lemon and herb chicken breast, and looked happy enough. As he picked up his cutlery, Ezra looked at his watch, then wolfed down the plump ravioli as though he’d never eaten before. His plate was clear in about four minutes, whereas I took my time nibbling along the elegant little sticks of lamb, determined to get at every last morsel of the flavorsome meat before filling myself up with the rice.
Seeing that Ezra had finished, Bud said, “Why are you so sure it was poison? I mean, I saw the man, and agree that, with a background in homicide, that’s where my mind flew. But what made your nurse practitioner—Bartholomew Goodman, right?—think that?”
“Yes, Bartholomew. He’s a good man—” he paused and grinned at his own pun, “—who has a background in poisons.”
“Really?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.
Ezra gave a wry smile. “Bartholomew has regaled us with many anecdotes about his time working at the British National Poisons Information Service in Birmingham, England, before he joined us here.” With a more serious expression, he continued. “I won’t tell you any of his stories, because they aren’t appropriate given the circumstances, but he can bear witness that in Britain, an alarming number of people end up ingesting strange things. Then they phone the poisons center to find out if they are going to die, or at least what they should do about it. When Bartholomew saw Tommy Trussler’s body, he immediately suspected poison. He told this to Rachel—Dr. White—on the phone when he called her; she then relayed this when she called me as she made her way to the Games Room from the officers’ sun deck.” He held up his mobile phone. “We all have these on the ship. They never leave our sides. Not even if we are off duty, as Rachel was when this call came in.”
“As I told you, I saw Tommy Trussler’s face as he was dying,” I said. “I admit that I’m not an expert in poisons, but I have studied them to a certain extent, and it’s certainly what came to mind. Will Dr. White be able to establish the exact nature of the poison? His convulsions were extreme and his death swift, which leads me to believe it was somehow introduced to the poi he was served. I saw him eat from the pot, but it wasn’t there anymore when we left the Games Room. Someone removed it. Which means that—”
Ezra held up his hand, and I closed my mouth. “First of all, our procedures for managing a crime scene will establish what is and isn’t in the Games Room, and we will do what we can to analyze everything at the scene at the time of Tommy’s death. But remember—even though I am allowing you and Bud to help with this case, it doesn’t mean I can simply take your word for something. The pot to which you refer might just be lying on the floor out of sight, or we might discover an obvious source of p
oison in the Games Room, or even in the victim’s own stateroom.”
Ezra had a point. The pot of poi could have been knocked off Tommy’s desk and rolled out of sight, rather than lifted by someone on the scene. Or he could have been poisoned hours—even days—before we saw him die. I felt somewhat deflated at the thought, and I could tell that Bud did too.
Ezra sighed. “As for testing possible sources of poison, we have kits onboard used to detect illegal drugs, but Rachel is checking her supplies to see if she has anything we can use under these circumstances. What I can tell you right now is that she cannot perform an autopsy. Death must be properly certified at our next port, which, as you know, is Vancouver, in Canada. She and I will liaise with the authorities there, as well as with the US authorities, and those in our flag nation, the Republic of Malta. The death took place in international waters, so our paperwork will be time-consuming. We even have to bring the FBI in on the act; Tommy Trussler was an American, and the FBI likes to keep track of all US citizens, dead or alive. It is their job. We can store a body on the ship—we have a mortuary to allow for that—but that’s all we can do.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how often it was used. As if reading my mind, Ezra said, “We don’t have a lot of deaths on our ships. I think the average total for all cruise ships each year runs at about 200 unfortunate souls who die at sea. During the past few years, Stellar Cruise Lines has been trying to attract a younger average age of cruiser, and they seem to be succeeding. The truth is, when our guests were older, more died. Now that they are younger, fewer die. That said, few of those deaths are a result of anything other than natural causes. Yes, there are incidents where a brawl might be fueled by too much alcohol, which can cause injuries leading to death. I have witnessed this myself on two occasions during my seven years at sea. But this is the first time I have had to deal with a suspected case of an intentional killing.”
“Now, on that point …” said Bud, but Ezra held up his hand. A favorite gesture of his.
“I know. Let us begin at the beginning, which is the correct procedure. First of all, are we sure this man did not intend to do himself harm? Is it a case of suicide? As I indicated, when I left you earlier I went directly to speak to Captain Andreas. But my team members have been hard at work. My second in command, the astute and efficient Officer Ocampo, whom I believe you met in the Games Room, has already searched Tommy Trussler’s stateroom. The man did not leave a suicide note there—at least not one that has come to light. Rachel, Dr. White, has confirmed already that none has been found on his body. You were both there with him. So I shall ask you—did the man exhibit any signs that might now give either of you a reason to question his state of mind at the time of his death?”
I looked at Bud, and he took the lead. “Immediately prior to his death, Tommy Trussler was teaching me to play gin rummy, which doesn’t seem like the swan song of a man who has deliberately imbibed poison. Prior to joining the rest of the occupants of the Games Room at the window—where, as I have said, we were all distracted by a passing pod of dolphins—I saw no signs that would indicate he was depressed, or resigned to his life ending momentarily.” Bud stopped for a moment, and gave the matter some thought. “No—there was nothing to indicate that state of mind at all. I would say, in my professional opinion, that Tommy Trussler had no idea he was moments from death when we were playing cards. That said, he did look a little pale, and he was sweating more than I would have expected, given the temperature in the room. He looked …” Bud paused again, “… I’d have said he looked as though he might have had an upset stomach. Yes, that might be it. He was drinking a lot of water. Sipping it, as though to settle his stomach, though he didn’t mention any discomfort. He was also breathing rather heavily, though that might have been normal for him. On previous occasions, when I’d met him at the gym, or while walking the deck, he was always breathing heavily, but in those situations it would be understandable. However, the poor guy might just have been suffering from the after-effects of a heavy night. I’m sure you see that often enough on the ship.”
Ezra touched his forehead with two fingers and mimed tipping his hat at Bud. “With your record as a professional observer, Bud, I’ll take all that you have said as valuable, and valid, insights. Thank you.” He turned his attention to me. “And you, Cait—what did you note?”
He had no idea that he’d asked such a loaded question. I looked to Bud, silently seeking his advice.
Having wiped his mouth with a napkin, Bud said, “I think you should tell him, Cait.”
Ezra looked puzzled, and I worked out how to begin.
“What Bud means,” I said, “is that I have an unusual memory. An eidetic one. I’ve found it useful in cases in the past. Bud can testify to its accuracy and usefulness.”
Ezra’s dark eyes glinted with what I read to be uncertainty and suspicion. He looked to Bud for reassurance.
“Cait is telling the truth,” said Bud. “Her abilities have been critical on many occasions, though we keep them as private as possible. Cait’s not keen on being subjected to a host of laboratory tests any time soon, and I understand why not. We trust your discretion, Ezra.”
Ezra nodded slowly. “So … you remember everything?” he asked.
I had piqued his interest, and knew from experience I’d have to take a few moments to explain myself. I tried not to sigh as I began.
“It’s complicated, Ezra. Basically, all my senses pick up on the stimuli to which they are exposed, and grab onto them, never letting go. That’s not terribly useful on its own, because, as human beings, we overlay every stimulus with our own interpretation, and that is colored by our experiences and attitudes. For example, I might smell something for the first time, and it could remind me of something I’ve smelled before, so I connect the new smell with the old one, and they become linked in my memory. When I try to recall the memory of the new smell, it will re-emerge with all the associations I have given it, some of which will have nothing to do with the circumstances under which I encountered the new smell. My skill set is only as reliable as my ability to interpret what I have retained. As human beings, we’re not capable of experiencing the world as it is—we always experience it as we are, with all our faults, flaws, preconceptions, and prejudices filtering and infusing everything we perceive.”
“Cait’s pretty good at sorting out what her memories mean,” added Bud, “but she does the best job when she’s had a chance to mull it over for a while. It’s not an instant thing. She’s already recalled the time we were all in the Games Room this morning.”
Ezra plucked a tangerine from the fruit platter he’d ordered and began to peel it as he spoke. The aroma of its zest filled the air, reminding me of a fancy restaurant in Las Vegas, until a breeze wafted it away.
“Did you see anything that might suggest that someone administered a poison to Tommy Trussler while he was in the Games Room this morning, Cait?” he asked.
“All I can say at this stage is that I do not recall seeing anyone doing anything that gave me cause for concern at the time, though I believe that everyone present would have had the opportunity to drop a poisonous substance into Tommy Trussler’s pot of poi.”
Ezra’s expression told me that he didn’t think I’d been helpful. “That’s it?” he said, sounding unimpressed.
I bit, and gave Ezra two solid minutes of detailed recollection from the morning’s events—just as I had for Bud, only much faster and with good deal more annoyance. Ezra’s listening expression changed from skepticism, to alarm, to curiosity, to impatience. When I could tell I’d proved my point, I added, “I understand the comments you made about the idea that Tommy might have been poisoned before he entered the Games Room, and that the poi pot might still be in there, just out of sight somewhere. However, I believe you’ll find the pot has gone, which means someone in the room knew there was poison in it. This is the most critical observation I have made.”
Ezra looked resigned. “A rapid investigat
ion is called for,” he said tersely. “Following my initial report, the captain’s decision was to continue our journey on to Vancouver because, as I’m sure you’ve already calculated, we are now closer to Canada than our last port of call in the US. He has instructed me that if Tommy Trussler was poisoned by someone on this ship—and that is the assumption I must make at this stage—I must apprehend that person. I must ensure the safety of everyone onboard. It’s my duty. It’s a big responsibility, and, while I face it every day in general terms, this is the first time I have felt it weigh so heavily upon my shoulders. I have never been aware of a murderer being on my ship before this. And I don’t mind telling you that I do not care for that feeling at all.”
He seemed a little overwhelmed.
“If Dr. White can establish the family of poison, she might be able to work out how long it would have taken to affect him,” I said, having enjoyed my final mouthful of lunch.
“She is aware of that,” Ezra snapped, “and will do all she can, without using any invasive techniques upon the body—and,” he glanced at Bud, “without compromising any possible evidence that a future investigator might need to access. I have already informed her that she must take many photographs of the body before it is put into storage. We know the exact time of the onset of his symptoms, and we know when she pronounced death. But knowing all that doesn’t help much, unless we can ascertain the type of poison used. Only that would allow us to calculate when the poison was ingested—if, in fact, it was ingested at all. Rachel will remove and protect the clothes of the deceased, check the body for any signs of a topical poison, and do her best to ascertain if it was injected into his person. She can tell me how she’s getting on when I meet with her.”
“When he was convulsing,” I noted, “Tommy Trussler was having trouble breathing, and his whole body was affected. Like Bud, I’m no expert, but I’d have guessed at a cyanide type of poison—fast acting and painful. I could have been witnessing the endgame of a slower-acting toxin. Do you know if he’d sought any medical attention prior to today’s incident?”
