Although it was a dark, moonless evening, I could see that we were very close to the shore of what Cal had called Squirrel Island when I looked at the radar screen. Cal switched on the weather channel on his VHF radio, and we all listened intensely for an updated forecast. When it came, it was bad. The low pressure system that was upon us had stalled and was intensifying. Cal quickly set the anchor and worked at deicing the Sea Pigeon with the handle of his deck broom. I sat and stared at Trudy, who stared back while we listened to the thump, thump, thump of broom against soft saltwater ice. “Feeling okay?” I asked.
“Never been better.” Trudy stretched out on the bench seat and used her coat as a pillow. I didn’t dislike many people. But I found Trudy entirely distasteful. I had apprehended many criminals whose actions were despicable. But there had always been something, even if very tiny, that I could appreciate or sympathize with without losing sight of my goal to have them convicted and punished appropriately in the name of serving justice. Perhaps some microscopic idiosyncrasy would surface, giving me reason to not hate Trudy so intensely, I thought as she filed her fingernails with an emery board. “What I did on my winter vacation…” Trudy said. When she brushed the fingernail dust from her shirt into the air that I was breathing, I thought I might lose it. I bit my tongue.
Trudy pretended to sleep when Cal reentered the wheelhouse. Cal confirmed that the anchor was holding us in position, and that we would remain here until the wind dropped out, which might be daylight. Cal then radioed ashore and got someone who agreed to call his wife, who would be instructed to call the sheriff to alert all concerned parties as to our plight. I asked that Cal relay specific instructions to inform Joan and Clark Proctor. “They will be worried,” I said. At this, Trudy sat up and started flossing her teeth. “Or not,” I muttered under my breath. Wow, I thought, this girl had an uncanny ability to irk me.
Time passed slowly. Even the second hand on my watch seemed to be dragging its feet between ticks. I avoided looking at my cell phone after I saw that service was not available. Trudy asked what time it was every five minutes, and then calculated how many hours and minutes remained in her detainment before being released. Other than that, we were silent until Cal announced that he needed a cigarette, and left the wheelhouse. I joined him in the cockpit for a minute, just to get a breath of air and some distance from my annoying suspect. I knew Cal would not ask questions, nor would he offer an opinion or advice. He was good that way. It was brutally cold, and the wind buffeted by the island screamed over our heads like a flock of vultures waiting to feed. Twenty minutes away from Green Haven, and twenty minutes from Acadia Island; I thought this was what Purgatory must look like.
When I reentered the wheelhouse, I was horrified to see Trudy posing for and snapping selfies with the cell phone that I had confiscated from her bedroom. “Did you take that phone from my bag?”
“Yes. It’s mine.”
“Stealing or tampering with evidence is a criminal offense. You have learned about obstruction of justice, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I learned about that in the same class in which I was taught about false arrest.”
“You are not under arrest. Yet.”
“Mind if I tape-record this conversation?” Trudy asked as she tapped the screen of her phone, I assumed setting it up to record.
“Knock yourself out,” I said, mocking her with her own words, and quietly optimistic about a pending conversation.
“Time?”
“Eight forty-five p.m., February fourteen.”
“Forty-one hours and fifty-three minutes remaining until my release,” Trudy said smugly. “I need to use the bathroom. And I would like a glass of water.”
I had an unopened bottle of water in my bag, which I gladly handed to Trudy just as Cal came in from having a smoke. “Cal, do you have a head down forward?” I asked, referring to the possibility of a marine toilet in the forepeak of the boat.
“Nope. I have a clean bucket though.” Cal opened the door, reached out, and untied a short piece of line, retrieving a white, plastic, five-gallon bucket. “You can take it down forward for some privacy.”
“I have to use that?” Trudy was skeptical.
“That is better than what you’ll have in jail,” I responded honestly. “Take it below and use it in private, or take it on deck where I will escort you.”
Trudy grabbed the bail of the bucket and headed toward the companionway steps that led to a tiny compartment in the bow of the boat. “Gender neutral?” she asked as she descended the first step.
“All inclusive,” I answered as I handed her a few tissues from a pack I had in my coat pocket.
Within two minutes Trudy stuck her head up into the wheelhouse and asked, “Now what?” Cal informed her that she should toss the contents of the bucket over the rail and secure the bucket. “Throw it in the water? With Dickless Tracy here? She’ll add that to my rap sheet…” I was amused with the reference, surprised that Trudy would know of Dick Tracy at her age. Cal thought better of his suggestion to throw the sewage overboard, and asked that Trudy leave the bucket below for the time being, which she was quick to do. “Time?”
“Eight fifty-one.” This was followed by an updated accounting of time remaining in custody, and on and on it went until midnight. I watched condensation on the inside of the windows form drops that rolled down the glass and splashed on the sills. Cal flipped the VHF radio to the weather channel, where the automated forecast had just been updated. The computerized voice held no more good news than it did inflection. If the forecast was accurate, we would be sitting on anchor behind Squirrel Island for at least another twelve hours. Trudy asked about food. Cal produced a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter from a cubby in the forward console. Trudy looked dismayed at the offering and closed her eyes again. “Let me guess,” I said. “Nut allergy, right?” Trudy ignored this, and spread out on the bench, leaving no room for me to sit down. Cal offered me his seat. I politely refused, since Cal was nearly thirty years older than me and needed the seat more than I did. When my legs tired, I squatted with my back against the door.
At two a.m., the wind shifted slightly, swooping around the end of Squirrel Island and rolling the Sea Pigeon in the long swell it produced. Trudy sat upright and grabbed the trash can that Cal had emptied over the side while she was feigning sleep. After a bout with dry heaves, Trudy had had enough. She stood up shakily and said,
“Okay, okay. If I answer your questions, will you take me home? I thought I was going to jail for a night or two, not being tortured with your company. No offense, Captain,” she added for my benefit. “You are not the one making me sick.”
“Are you waiving your right to silence and to an attorney?” I asked. “And you understand that anything you say can be used to prosecute you?”
“Yes, I understand my rights.” Cal nervously got up and headed toward the door. “No, please stay,” Trudy pleaded. Cal turned to me with a questioning look. I nodded that it was fine for him to remain, and was relieved that it had been at Trudy’s request. She knew enough about the law to make her a tricky one, I thought. And the last thing I needed was for Trudy to be let off the hook on a technicality. I started the recording function on my cell phone and began.
“Do you know Roy Knight?” I asked about the man whom I was convinced had shot at me, and killed someone else. Trudy’s face grew red and the tears started. She tried to control her breathing, and swallowed sobs before they could escape. She opened her mouth to speak, and her voice cracked. She took slow, deep breaths, exhaling through pursed lips. “Take your time,” I advised. “You need to tell me what happened. I have pictures and other evidence. I know you did not act alone, and you do not have to go down alone,” I said. “I will get to the bottom of this. And the more help I get from you, the better the outcome will be for you.”
“But I did act alone,” Trudy sniffled. “At least it started out that way. I just wanted everyone to get what they deserved. Then everyt
hing got out of control.”
I waited silently for more. Cal’s eyes had grown wide. I was sure that his experience with interrogations, statements, and confessions was from television shows. But instead of what is seen in a police drama, my best information is gained through patience, not screaming and badgering and repeating accusatory questions.
“I just got caught up in it. I never intended for things to go so far. My life is over,” she said quietly.
NINE
Trudy’s tough exterior had cracked like an eggshell, exposing a soft, gooey inside. Now that she had broken down, I needed a written statement, I thought as she sobbed with her head in her hands. Once I had her signed, detailed statement, I would return to Acadia Island with the sheriff and arrest Roy Knight and whoever else Trudy might implicate. The first step was to get Trudy to Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, where I would encourage her to accept legal counsel prior to saying anything more. Once she had an attorney working on her behalf, I would feel better about raking her over the coals and getting a full, legal confession. As the communication of our location and situation had been broadcast over the VHF radio, I suspected that all residents of Acadia were now aware that Trudy had been apprehended. As it turns out, I thought, there is no better protective custody than being stranded at sea with weather conditions that prohibit anyone from venturing offshore to find you.
Trudy needed food and sleep, I thought as I watched her hands shake. I considered asking her to ID Roy Knight’s accomplice. Whom had I seen helping with the shooting victim and driving the getaway truck? As soon as the accomplice was arrested, he would turn on Roy just as Trudy was turning on them both, I assumed. None of this could happen from behind Squirrel Island. As long as we were aboard the Sea Pigeon waiting for a weather window to open, everything was on hold, except for covering tracks and destroying evidence on Acadia. I prayed for the wind to drop out.
Once Trudy gained some composure, I informed her that I was placing her under arrest for the murder of Midge Kohl. The word “murder” acted like kryptonite on the defeated girl’s shattered psyche. She sat bolt upright. Her bleary eyes turned to sharp, fiery holes that flickered around the wheelhouse. Tears dried like beads of water in a hot skillet. I was glad that both Trudy and I had recorded all that had transpired to this juncture, as I was certain that her tune was about to change. “I hated that pig. But I didn’t kill her,” she said coldly.
“Oh God!” Cal sprang from his post at the door. “Don’t use that word on my boat!” He was in Trudy’s face, wagging an index finger back and forth. “Don’t ever say that again. Terrible, bad luck…” Cal was very upset.
“What word? Hate? Sorry, man,” Trudy apologized.
“No. The three-letter word. The word for the curly-tailed animal. It’s wicked bad luck. Now you’ve done it,” Cal admonished Trudy for committing what is a cardinal sin aboard any boat.
“Hey, I said I’m sorry. How was I supposed to know that pig is forbidden?” Trudy took some evil joy in saying pig again in spite of Cal’s warning. She smirked as Cal trembled. “Wow. What a basket case. I’d like to know how things could get worse than being stuck here with the two of you and being accused of murder.” Trudy was now regaining her hateful cockiness. I advised Trudy to remain silent, and knew that there would be no more questioning until we got ashore and could do so in a more appropriate setting (and one that would not get my case thrown out of court). The DA would not look kindly on what had transpired so far, I knew. Trudy slumped in a corner and closed her eyes while Cal tuned the radio to the weather channel again.
“There’s just some things you don’t do or say aboard a boat,” Cal insisted to me. I had never seen Cal upset. I totally understood how intensely old-time mariners held and obeyed superstitions like the use of the word “pig.” “She’s already killed one person, and now she’s gunning for us!” Cal was absolutely exasperated. Trudy snickered, rubbing salt in the open wound. “She’ll pay for that. We all will.” Cal snapped at me as if I were somehow responsible for Trudy’s behavior. Cal paced back and forth nervously waiting for something to happen as a result of Trudy’s noncompliance to what he held as the gospel.
Cal and I listened to the endless loop of weather statistics and forecasts for several zones up and down the coast “From Eastport to the Merrimack River and out to twenty-five nautical miles from shore…” without much change. At four a.m., the weather service updated the automated system, and the update was slightly improved according to Cal, who was still seething from his passenger’s comments and attitude. We couldn’t tell from where we were anchored, but the wind had apparently shifted to a more easterly direction, and had dropped out a bit. The forecast continued, adding that more wind was expected by noon and there would likely be warnings issued for “moderate to heavy freezing spray.”
Cal explained to me his opinion that we had better run for the small window of opportunity to get ashore, or remain here for another twelve hours. He seemed delighted to note that we would be running “side to it,” or in the trough of the waves, making for an uncomfortable ride from Squirrel Island to Green Haven.
“And if she didn’t like the pounding, the roll will really get her. Better have the trash can handy.” Trudy responded with a groan of anticipation as Cal went on deck to haul the anchor and secure it before leaving the leeward side of our shelter of Squirrel Island. I couldn’t help but think that Cal’s decision to leave our sheltered position was at least partly based on his wanting to punish Trudy for treading on his beliefs. Although I knew that Cal would never intentionally put us in real danger, I also knew that Mother Nature had a mind of her own and didn’t often listen to the weather forecast.
Sure enough, Cal was right about everything. This was a good (and likely our only) opportunity to make a break for it. “If we don’t go now, we will have to wait another twelve hours,” Cal said anxiously as he ran Sea Pigeon around the sheltered end of Squirrel Island and into a choppy, confused sea that resulted from a changing wind direction. The long swells from the northeast were now competing with an easterly wind that blew the tops off the waves, beating them down slightly. The easterly wind didn’t have the same biting cold that the northerly did. No ice formed. It was still pitch dark.
“Six miles of open sea, then we’ll be in the lee of the mainland and things will settle down,” Cal stated as he worked to keep his boat on course while the seas mounted, rocking and rolling Sea Pigeon rail to rail. Trudy was even more miserable than she had been when pounding into the waves. The rolling motion hit her hard, just as Cal had predicted. She was violently ill. I tried to get her to take a few sips of water, which she refused. Suddenly Sea Pigeon was smashed by a wave broadside, jarring Trudy from the bench seat to the floor where she rolled around helplessly like a rag doll in a washing machine. The trash can and contents now sloshed back and forth across the floor with each roll of the boat. Trudy was entirely soiled with the bile from her own stomach. The stench was overwhelming. I couldn’t offer Trudy help as I couldn’t release my grasp of the handrail that was keeping me on my feet.
After rolling around the floor like a marble, Trudy finally came to rest with her back against the port side of the wheelhouse, where she braced her feet against the base of the settee. She hung her head between her bent knees and exhaled a low, weak moan. Every wave that struck our starboard side sounded like a clap of thunder. Cal fought the wheel, and steadied the boat as she fell into a giant trough, then rolled off the backside of a wave, nearly rolling us over. “We should be at the dock by five forty-five,” Cal advised. I suspected this would be the longest thirty minutes of Trudy’s life—up to this point, that is. She would surely have some longer ones in the future. We’d see how Little Miss Tough Guy responded to a night in a jail cell and real interrogation.
I carefully made my way to the deck outside to use my cell phone. I found a dry, warm spot on the port side of the boat where I ducked behind the exhaust system and I called the sheriff, who had been anxi
ously waiting to hear from me. I advised him of our ETA in Green Haven. He promised to meet us there and take charge of my suspect. We agreed on a plan. I would go home for a shower and clean clothes, grab a bite to eat, and drive to the station, where I would lead the questioning of Trudy. The Proctors had retained an attorney to be present at all times, according to the sheriff. I warned the sheriff that he would have his hands full with Miss Proctor, and filled him in on what she had said so far and that I had recorded all.
I slowly made my way back across the deck and into the wheelhouse, lunging and grabbing anything that I could hold on to, timing my moves with the wildly rolling Sea Pigeon. A wave slapped the starboard gunnel, sending spray that soaked my backside before I could shut the door. Trudy was incapacitated, otherwise she would have been elated to see me dripping with salt water. My suspect had assumed the fetal position between the stanchions that supported the end of the settee. I could see the calm water ahead of us, and knew that our ride would flatten out and that Trudy would recover when her feet hit terra firma. Cal’s focus was on steering Sea Pigeon up, over, and down the waves and troughs that had grown in height. I watched a bead of sweat roll from his temple to the corner of his earlobe, and was thankful that this would soon be over for our captain.
We rounded Sewall Point and entered Green Haven Harbor, where the wind was unable to torture us. Trudy crawled out from under the settee and stood to look out the windows. It was dark, but a crease of sunlight nudged the black curtain on the eastern horizon. We were silent as Cal navigated through dots on the radar screen that I knew were boats on moorings. A streetlamp at the end of a dock marked the floats where Cal berthed Sea Pigeon. Cal gently landed the boat on the float and tied her up at the stern and bow. I was comforted by the sight of the sheriff on the dock under the light. He would relieve me from my charge of tending to Trudy while I regrouped. I gathered my bag and explained to Trudy that she would go with the sheriff to the station where she could get a shower, food, and a nap before I would meet her there to get her statement. She extended her wrists out to me to be cuffed. I explained that handcuffs were not necessary. She insisted, so I obliged her and helped her over the wash rail and onto the float. I led Trudy to the sheriff, who looked a bit surprised to see her cuffed. I shrugged and helped Trudy into the backseat of the sheriff’s car.
Shiver Hitch Page 16
