*
The office was small and ordinary in every sense of the word. With the exception of having no file cabinets, Mrs. Kohl’s place of work was just that—a place to work. Similar to her electronic correspondence, her space was void of personality. After dusting the laptop computer for fingerprints, I unplugged it and tucked it in my bag. This would be great for Deloris as she rehabbed her heels, I thought. I dusted the outside of the desk drawers, then looked through them carefully. There wasn’t much in the way of paperwork, which was not at all meaningful in this day of electronic records. I found some paper clips, ink pens, and Wite-Out. There were empty file folders. Strange to find things to do with paper, and no paper itself, I thought. There was quite a large inventory of printer paper, and some ink cartridges stacked neatly beside a color printer, but no copies or printouts of any kind. No thumb drives laying around indicated to me that someone may have beaten me to the office and grabbed everything that may have contained evidence. Either that, or Mrs. Kohl kept everything on her laptop.
I opened the door to a small coat closet. There was a long wool winter coat on a wooden hanger. I patted down the length of the coat, feeling a sizable, soft lump. I rifled through the pockets and found a miniature rag doll wearing a PETA button. The doll was hastily made from an off-white ladies’ knee sock, and quite primitive with eyes drawn in black ink. The button’s pin had been pushed through the doll’s chest and the point exited through its back. This was it. My heart raced with excitement as I bagged and tagged the doll that I assumed was intended to send a message to the owner of the coat, whom I assumed was the late Mrs. Kohl. If I could tie the email account from which the PETA video and other hate mail had come from to Trudy Proctor, her fate was sealed, I thought.
The only other personal items in the closet were a pair of ladies’ shoes. The shoes were what I would refer to as sensible, which meant they were ugly and comfortable. I thought they looked big, and upon inspection learned that they were in fact a size eleven double E. Knowing that the average woman’s shoe size worldwide is an eight and a half, I assumed that Mrs. Kohl was of above average size. The extra width could be due to being overweight, I thought.
I did a very quick check in the restroom, and found nothing of interest. I shut off all lights and closed all doors, locking the storage room. No need to set up the crime scene tape, I thought. Someone had already been here. And I had what I needed. Now I would drive to the Kohls’ house and sift through the rubble for anything that I may have missed in my cursory investigation. I would be examining the scene through a different lens now that arson had been confirmed, I thought as I made my way back through the lobster cooking area and to the processing floor, where I found Manny doing quality control on packaged lobster tails with a small digital scale. I thanked him for his help, which we both knew was a stretch.
The Range Rover was parked in a back lot by itself. I found the key under the mat and headed toward the Kohls’ house. Stopping on a hill where I had strong cell reception, I realized that it was nearly noon. Time to check in with the sheriff as promised, I thought as I dialed his cell number. “I hope you come home with a suspect or a strong lead at the very least” was his greeting.
“I have more evidence that points to Trudy Proctor. And I have Mrs. Kohl’s computer, which I hope Deloris can tackle. I’m heading to the Kohls’ house now to look around, and will be back at Green Haven with my prime suspect at three-thirty. Can you meet me at the dock?” I asked.
“Oh, I will be there,” the sheriff said. “Did you get the text I forwarded from Dr. Lee?” He asked. “When news gets out of the autopsy findings, all hell will break loose. Be diligent with Miss Proctor. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
“Dr. Lee works fast! I’ll check my texts when I can. For now, can you give me the abbreviated version of his report?”
“Salt water in the one remaining and severely damaged lung indicates drowning as the cause of death. Here’s the catch: It appears that Mrs. Kohl drowned in scalding water. He also found immersion burns on the left arm.”
Mrs. Kohl had been boiled to death—like a lobster.
EIGHT
Heinous is a word that I have seldom used to describe crime. It’s a word that I do not take lightly, and save for the most wicked of the worst, unspeakable criminal activities. I had investigated murder by many odious methods including but not limited to beating, bullets, bludgeoning, butchering, battering, and burning. But this, if the pathology was correct, would be my first boiling.
As I digested the news of the autopsy, I pondered how the new information might help or hinder my case against Trudy. If the murder weapon was indeed a vat of boiling water, ALP was the most likely place the murder could have been committed. Where else would one find a volume of scalding water large enough into which an adult human could be submerged? And my prior visit taught me that ALP was not big on security. The exterior door at the main entrance had not been locked. And there had been no passcodes or swipe cards needed to access interior areas. I could not rule out anyone as a suspect on grounds of accessibility to the crime scene, I realized. I remained parked on the hill and waited patiently for the text of the autopsy report to come in from the sheriff. My pulse quickened when a series of alerts dinged from my phone, indicating that Dr. Lee had sent a number of short texts.
Although other aspects of the autopsy paled in comparison to the boiling, another key finding reported by Dr. Lee was the presence of something close in chemical composition to sodium tripolyphosphate (STPP) in the water found in Mrs. Kohl’s lung. Dr. Lee had reasoned that as STPP was used in seafood processing, he was not alarmed by its presence in water that was intended for the cooking of lobster. I recalled from recent research that STPP was also similar chemically to one of the ingredients used in illegal designer drugs such as U-4700. But there was no reason for me to factor drug use into the equation when seafood processing fit so perfectly. The autopsy also reported skin slippage indicative of scalding, and some second-and third-degree burns characterized by charring as a result of direct contact with flames. No surprises there, I thought as I drove slowly toward the Kohls’ house, or what was left of it. It seemed clear that Mrs. Kohl had been boiled to death and the arson was a failed cover-up attempt by the killer.
ALP had now become crime scene one, and with the amount of disinfectant cleaning and sterilizing agents, I was sure there would be no trace of evidence in the plant itself. But I would have to revisit the cooking area to judge the degree of possibility that Trudy or someone else may not have acted alone. Mrs. Kohl was not a small woman. Trudy may have needed help, I surmised. If so, there was a much better chance of someone cracking and confessing under the pressure. I needed to find out the hours of operation of the processing end of ALP to determine if the killer would have had access to a large vat of boiling water with or without witnesses. Then there was the question of motive.
If Trudy really is the militant guardian of lobster life, perhaps she rationalized that killing Mrs. Kohl was an eye-for-an-eye type of justice. It was twisted, but some animal rights activists could be pretty radical, and college-aged kids can easily be recruited by groups with similar beliefs and converted to extremism. The texts, emailed video taken of the ALP processing line, protesting at the front door, the doll with the PETA pin, and Trudy’s nonchalance at learning that the Kohls’ house had burned to the ground all supported my theory. And boiling Mrs. Kohl in the way that she had killed so many innocent and defenseless lobsters would be considered poetic justice in the mind of a confused and impressionable girl who was desperately trying to prove herself to whatever cultish organization to which she aspired to be ordained. I figured I should look into Trudy’s background and early life, and as the Kohls’ burned-out house came into view, I decided to move Trudy Proctor’s history to the top of the priority list of digging details for Deloris.
It was immediately obvious that Clark Proctor had done some clean-up at the scene of the fire. Although nobody was here no
w, there were new tracks in the fresh snow—both footprints and belt tracks made by a large piece of equipment, probably a bulldozer or backhoe. The only wall of the house that had been left standing after the fire was now bulldozed flat. There was a pile of other debris that had been stacked as neatly as was possible, given the contents of the pile. The footprints were all made by one person, and appeared to be a man’s size twelve with an intricate and aggressive tread, like the sole of a work boot.
I found the beginning of the prints next to where the large tracks stopped, where the driver had jumped out of the machine. I followed the prints around the piles of rubble and throughout the house’s foundation. It appeared that the man, I assumed Clark, had worked hard to make the property as picked up and organized as possible, and suspected that this was part of his duties as the Kohls’ caretaker. I found a pile of metal drawers and the remains of a small file cabinet. The drawers still contained burned up bits of ink pens, a metal ruler, and some small fragments of melted plastic with USB flash drive plugs. Although I suspected the flash drives were totally destroyed, I bagged and tagged them. This would account for the lack of evidence at Mrs. Kohl’s office, I thought. One of the drive units that hadn’t totally melted had been labeled “AIPIA.” That would be another task for Deloris, I thought, and wondered what the acronym stood for—Acadia Island something … Maybe Joan Proctor knew. I would have to ask her—before I accused her daughter of murder.
I carefully inspected the propane gas line where it penetrated the foundation. It was broken off on the inside of the foundation, indicating that it had been broken with the intention of helping to fuel the fire. The broken gas line had been used to throw off the fire investigation, making it appear that Mother Nature had been the culprit by sending a frozen piece of earth bulging up and snapping the copper pipe. But if a frost heave was actually responsible, the pipe would have been broken on the outside of the house. Diesel fuel was the primary accelerant, and propane was a bonus. It seemed likely that most residents of Acadia not only had access to diesel, but they also had use for it, making diesel more of a fact than evidence that could incriminate.
Making my last lap around the footprints, and finding nothing more to add to the evidence, I started back to the Kohls’ vehicle. Suddenly shots rang out.
Bang! Bang!
I instinctively hit the ground and rolled behind a stack of charred boards. Jesus! I had been caught off guard. The shots had come from the edge of the woods on the property’s northern border, and the bullets had whizzed closely over my head. I drew my gun. I waited for more shots. The silence made me nervous. Two more shots boomed out, and it sounded like the shooter had moved in closer. I forced my breathing back to normal and slowly moved from a prone position on my back to a low crouch. I peeked quickly over the pile. I saw nothing. I stood, pointing my gun toward where the shots had come from; straining to see color or movement among the trees. I saw a flash of bright red out of the corner of my eye, and quickly swung the sights of my gun toward it. I waited, and saw nothing more. I walked sideways to the car, keeping my gun pointed toward the woods. I was a sitting duck; all alone in a wide open space with nothing substantial behind which to take cover. Once behind the Range Rover, I breathed a sigh of relief and climbed behind the wheel to compose myself. Had someone taken potshots at me? If so, I assumed they were meant as a warning. Otherwise, I would have been hit. Residents of rural Maine exercise their second amendment right vehemently. If the shots had been intended to scare me off, I wondered what I had gotten close to that forced the hand of the shooter. ALP? The fire scene? Trudy? I set my gun on the seat beside me and put the Range Rover into four-wheel drive. I needed to get to the edge of the woods within the protection of the vehicle, I thought.
The Range Rover crept slowly but surely through and over the snow-covered clearing. I thought about the gunfire, and how narrowly the shots had missed me. If there were as many people who disliked Midge Kohl as I was being led to believe, and “island justice” prevailed as I had learned about from Cal and others, then anyone would be compelled to scare me off. I had never been the type to run scared. Islanders did not like law enforcement; they took care of problems in their own way. And if someone died, well, that’s just the way it was. If someone like Midge Kohl had been murdered, I could expect to get no help in the investigation. Worse yet, my investigation could even be sabotaged. The Range Rover bogged down into a deep drift of snow. The wheels spun freely. I was stuck. The snow was deep in this spot. If I had to get out and walk, I would be fully exposed to the shooter. I certainly couldn’t run the zigzag, random shot avoidance pattern I had always practiced.
I tried backing up, and got about two feet before the tires were spinning again. I had very little experience driving in snow, but had driven in soft sand while in hot pursuit of a criminal. I dropped the Rover into the lowest gear, and applied the smallest amount of pressure to the gas pedal that I could. Luckily, the vehicle responded. I steered toward a flat-looking area, made it out of the drift, and tried a different route to the woods. I heard myself exhale in relief.
I thought about how vulnerable I was, just by being on the island itself. There was no way off, except by boat. Everyone here knew the lay of the land far better than I did. If someone wanted me dead, they could toss my body into the ocean to be eaten by the crabs. Other law enforcement officers would not venture out to investigate, I knew. And if a fisherman happened to pull up my remains, they knew to practice catch-and-release rather than put themselves in the line of fire. So, the question was: Why hadn’t Midge Kohl’s body been thrown into the ocean? If the house hadn’t been burned, there would have been no fire investigation. There would be no corpse, no autopsy, and no murder. It seemed that her killer had acted out of rage, and without careful planning. I wondered about the possibility of Midge Kohl having been killed prior to boiling, and knew that Dr. Lee would have no way of proving that. Salt water in the lungs and cause of death being consistent with that of drowning meant that Mrs. Kohl may had been submerged in the vat of water for as little as four minutes.
I realized that if the shots fired had been those of warning and intimidation, I needed to find out who had fired them without getting shot. I could not allow myself to get panicky. I must be onto something incriminating, elsewise, why the intimidation? The lack of solid leads and majority opinion that everyone had motive pulsed courage into my shaken psyche. I had to now investigate the shots. It was urgent. The Range Rover was moving so slowly! I was anxious and considered trying to go faster. But each time I depressed the accelerator, the beast bogged down rather than surging ahead. The minutes it took to reach the woods seemed like an eternity.
*
When I reached the location where trees kept me from driving any farther, I parked the Rover, shoved my cell phone into my coat pocket, and got out with my gun drawn. I trudged into the forest through knee-deep snow until I came to an area that had been packed down by snowshoes. The snowshoe tracks were of two different and distinct patterns; evidence of two people having been here. Two bright yellow twenty-gauge shotgun shell casings had landed on the trail. I picked them up as delicately as I could and stuck them in my pocket. The walking was easier on the snowshoe path, and I assumed that I would gain ground quickly on whoever had fired at me. Moving as quietly as I could, I stopped every twenty seconds to listen for any sign of the shooter, who might be just out of my range of sight.
The tracks seemed to be heading back toward the road, I thought. I saw a flash of bright red darting between trees. I stepped behind a large spruce, and peeked around to watch. I caught glimpses of what appeared to be a man. Where was his accomplice? The man slowly worked his way to the edge of the trees, where I could see that he was standing over something as if inspecting. The man had a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He stood and straightened up with his hands on his lower back as if stretching after exerting himself.
After a minute or so, the man bent over and grasped something and started dragging
it toward a small clearing between the road and woods. A sudden pang of angst hit me in the stomach as I realized that the second set of tracks could have been made by what was now being so difficultly towed through the snow!
While he worked, I moved closer, keeping trees between me and the man. I was now able to see the road. The man struggled and stopped to rest again. I heard a very loud vehicle approaching. An old beat-up pickup truck appeared from the other side of the bend, stopping on the corner. It looked like the truck had been pieced together with parts from several vehicles. The driver got out of the truck and hiked through the snowy clearing, joining the man in the red coat. Was this a third party? I ducked into a thick stand of spruce trees, pushing branches aside to open my view. I snapped a few pictures with my phone, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying. The men looked around, and satisfied that they were alone, worked together to drag whoever had been shot. Once they were behind the tailgate of the truck, my view was partially obstructed by the truck itself. What I did see left me breathless. The men quickly hefted their victim into the back of the truck, climbed into the cab, did a three-point turn in the middle of the road, and drove away.
As soon as the truck was out of sight, I hustled back to the snowshoe path and followed it to an area that was totally blood soaked. I took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. The blood pattern and number of tracks all on top of one another indicated that there had been quite a struggle. The path beyond the circular area was streaked with blood. There was no mistake. A dead body had been dragged, obscuring parts of the snowshoe tracks and leaving a trail of blood that got thinner as I followed it. I bent over for a closer look, and found a few hairs in the blood. My heart raced with the knowledge that whoever had fired the shots, had connected with at least one target, and may have me in their sights next. I needed to move quickly. The killer must know that he had missed me. Or was I simply in such close proximity to the shots that I mistakenly assumed they had been meant for me? Either way, I couldn’t risk the truck beating me to the Range Rover, I thought as I began sprinting along the path.
Shiver Hitch Page 14
