After about forty-five minutes, I got curious and opened the file folder. Much to my surprise and disappointment, it contained all of the evidence to support Manny’s claim of being a “graver.” It appeared that he had been actively researching and visiting burial sites since his arrival on the island. He had maps, genealogies, island history and lore printed off the Internet, and he had a number of pictures of stone rubbings he had done. Thumbing through the stack, I found a map of the Bunker plot including a copy of a tax map that showed boundaries and markers of the property. On a separate sheet, there was a diagram of the grave placement with initials on each square that I took to stand for the names of whoever was buried within. There was a crude family tree with several blank spaces that I assumed Manny would fill in when he had time to do the research. As hard as it was for me to believe, it appeared that his visit to the Bunker plot was purely coincidental. I took a small degree of comfort and satisfaction in realizing that nobody had tipped Manny off regarding my trip this morning. I placed the folder on top of the desk and waited.
My anxious wait time was split between mental preparation and strategy moving forward with Manny to get some sort of confession or information that would incriminate him, and the wonderment of graving. I thought it peculiar that someone would devote so much time and energy into total strangers. And it was morbid, to say the least. My discomfort in cemeteries outweighed any intrigue. Although I was not a certified and licensed analyst of criminal behavior, I could not deny what I felt was a connection between a murderer and a graveyard. And I kept going back to rubbings as souvenirs or items to be cherished. Maybe rubbings inspired Manny to create more graves. That might be a stretch, I thought as I grew impatient with Manny’s absence. It was more likely that Manny simply wanted to spook me or get into my head through my family roots. I felt myself waffling on Manny’s guilt.
Just as I decided to go find him, Manny reappeared. He was drying freshly washed hands with a paper towel as he closed the door behind him with an elbow. Once again he exchanged the boots for dress shoes. I imagined the shoes represented what he wanted, and the boots were his ugly reality. I had no time to waste. “Can you explain why the security cameras here at the plant are shut off every night after the second shift?”
“The cameras were used by Mrs. Kohl as surveillance of crew during work hours. There was no need to have footage of an empty plant. She was mostly concerned with production. Everyone here is aware that they are being filmed.”
“But isn’t there concern about what might be going on after hours?” I asked.
“Like theft? No. After handling product for eight to ten hours, the last thing anyone wants to do is steal frozen lobster tails or lobster mac and cheese. We are honest, hardworking people; not thieves,” he said in a huff.
“No, but there are plenty of other sorts of criminals here,” I said calmly, enjoying the fact that I was getting under his skin. “You know how this game is played. You are the conduit between the employees and the management. You are my best source, and frankly, my only suspect. Now you have some ’splainin’ to do,” I put on my best Cuban accent. The reference to Desi and Lucy struck a nerve. Manny’s face grew red and he drummed his fingertips on the desktop. “I have gotten a glimpse of what happens here after hours, and it’s not pretty.” I pulled a printed copy of the most damning picture in the bunch from my bag and put it in front of Manny. “Honest and hardworking, indeed.” Manny didn’t even glance down at the copy. He crossed his arms over his chest; a red flag in body language, indicating that he was closed off and defiant. “This picture was found in Mrs. Kohl’s deleted email file. And it originated from your email account,” I said, hoping Manny would overcome what was looking like a case of lockjaw. “This looks like pornography.”
“I had nothing to do with killing her. And I don’t know who did it.”
“No, of course you don’t. The brain is an amazing thing. High levels of stress and trauma result in repressed memories. Perhaps placing you under arrest will jog your memory.” I said.
“Arrest? For what? You have nothing linking me to the murder.”
“I have evidence that you were blackmailing Mrs. Kohl. And I have motive. If Mrs. Kohl pulled the plug on ALP, you would lose your job and your residence.” My conviction that Manny was the prime suspect in Mrs. Kohl’s murder was eroding. He could be guilty. But he also might be innocent. Okay, innocent might be inaccurate. But everything that Manny had shared might well result in more than the shadow of doubt needed to convict. I realized that my interest in Manny was evolving from suspect to informant. People who had spent time behind bars were always the most reluctant snitches. Only the threat of returning to prison would loosen lips.
I pulled two more photocopies from my bag and placed them on the desk with the first. “And I do believe that possession and distribution of pornographic material is illegal, and a violation of your parole. And that’s certainly enough to not only arrest, but to send you directly to jail without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars.”
Manny took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. I fought the urge to start firing questions at him, since he appeared to be on the brink of becoming somewhat pliable. I let my not-so-veiled threat marinate while I picked up and pretended to take interest in the file folder of stone rubbings and graveyard maps.
I slowly flipped through pages of rubbings, feigning interest while silently praying for Manny to start talking. I didn’t look up until Manny cleared his throat. Once the clam opened, I was confident there would be full exposure. And there was. “Okay, I admit to putting pressure on my boss to ensure she would do the right thing regarding the plant.”
“What is your opinion of the right thing?” I asked, trying to loosen him up with a benign question before hitting hard-core interrogation methods.
“Mrs. Kohl had agreed to allow ALP to be taken over by the employees, rather than shutting down. The negotiations had been completed, and we were days away from executing the Employee Stock Ownership Plan when Mrs. Kohl got cold feet and was reconsidering her decision. I needed her alive, not dead.” Manny stopped short.
I needed to keep him going!
“What caused the cold feet?” I asked with genuine interest.
“Acadia’s indigenous, year-round population wanted the plant closed and for us ex-cons involved to be relocated—anywhere but on their island.”
The origin of the incriminating photos, according to Manny, was unknown. He claimed to have found the pictures in his email, and yes, had used them to his advantage in persuading Mrs. Kohl to follow through with the ESOP. “Who do you think sent you the photographs?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a disgruntled employee. Plenty of those here. Or a disenfranchised local—lots of those, too.” Manny claimed to have no idea how the surveillance footage had been hacked into and claimed to have been unaware of the after-hours activities of Mrs. Kohl and the mystery lover until the pictures surfaced. “I didn’t understand why Mrs. Kohl wanted the security camera off after second shift until I got the pictures in my email.”
“Geez, the photos are of such poor quality, the male could be almost anyone. Even you.”
“Not if she was the last woman on earth.”
“I’m not convinced. If not you, then who?” I asked. A long silence indicated that Manny was done talking. I knew instinctively that Manny was not the mystery lover. I believed wholeheartedly that Mrs. Kohl’s lover was also her killer. Manny’s reluctance to finger the man in the photos reminded me that there was still a killer on the loose.
While most of Manny’s alibi seemed quite believable, it wasn’t what I had hoped for, I mused, as Manny eventually filled in more details of the employee ownership plan that he and the entire ex-con community wanted and needed so badly. Desperately enough, I wondered, that perhaps someone had lost control and murdered Mrs. Kohl to ensure the plan continued as they’d originally agreed upon. Manny was more comfortable talking about the foiled bu
siness plan than he was about the identity of the man in the photos, which I found telling.
“My IT team found evidence that you had forwarded the pictures to Mrs. Kohl along with threatening notes, and that whoever had sent them to you had done so in a way not to be traceable. Do any of your teammates possess special technical skills?”
Manny claimed to have no knowledge of anyone with such skill, but admitted that he had no way of knowing what level of computer/cyber technology his comrades had. I pulled the final picture from my bag and slapped in on the desk. Although I knew the picture had not been sent to Mrs. Kohl from Manny’s email, I hoped it might shed some light.
“What do you make of this?” I asked of the clearly amateur cut and paste job of the mystery lover humping the cardboard box.
“It means nothing to me other than some real sicko is responsible for the pictures,” he replied. I didn’t believe that the picture had no significance, and found some humor in the slant of his sensitivities. But I also was losing confidence in my theory that he had killed Mrs. Kohl. I now felt some urgency to find some cell reception. Deloris might have information that would clear Manny altogether, I thought. I asked Manny to show me the area of the plant that was shown in the background of the pictures, and assumed that I could excuse myself at lunchtime to call Deloris.
Back into the rubber boots, Manny led me to the scene shown in the photos. “This is the skinning machine,” he said, pointing to a large, stainless-steel contraption with a treadmill-style belt protruding from its side. “It is used to remove skin from fish fillets. We have been processing lobster only, so the skinner has been idle.” The belt was precisely where the photos had been captured by the security camera, I noted as Manny motioned my attention to the parallel handrails that framed either side of the belt’s entrance to the machine itself. “These are for safety—in case someone gets caught on the belt by clothing—when these railings are pushed, the machine shuts down automatically so a hand or arm doesn’t get pulled into the blades; saving the person’s skin, so to speak.”
I found it ironic that sexual activity had taken place on the skinning machine. At closer inspection, I could see traces of the poly bag tape that I recalled finding melted around the wrist of Mrs. Kohl’s charred corpse as well as in the photos. The perimeter of the room was fitted with a gravity roller conveyor system, and I imagined this was used to transport heavy cartons of product in and out of the skinning area (and was easily strong enough to support the weight of a large woman). The conveyors went through plastic-covered ports in the walls that were large enough to accommodate a fully-loaded pallet (and of circumference to easily clear a dead body). I reached under my coat and felt the grip of my gun, which gave me some comfort.
“What is on the other side of this wall?” I asked, pointing to where the conveyor traveled through a window.
“Sorting room. Follow me.” Manny took me to the sorting room, where the conveyor split into three tracks. “To the fresh line, freezing line, and cooking line,” he said, pointing at each track. I asked to see the other end of the cooking line, and he led me to a large, hot, steam-filled room where one conveyor track ended directly over a huge vat of boiling water (huge enough to contain a volume of water more than ample to submerge a human being).
Manny showed me the hydraulic lift above the strainer that lined the vat and how employees could dump boiled product onto either of two “exit belts,” that he defined as cooling and value add. Following the wheeled conveyor system around the plant, I learned the relative ease of killing, boiling, and dumping a body into the back of a truck without getting your hands dirty. Even though I knew that this was where the murder had taken place, the guided tour lent visuals that freaked me out. The attempted cover-up was straightforward, I thought. Once in a vehicle, the corpse must have been driven to the Kohl house, where it was dragged inside and torched with the house to make it look like an accidental death. I was confident that I had now pieced together the timeline and methodology of the murder. This did nothing to soothe my nerves brought on by the knowledge that a murderer was on the loose and may strike again to avoid apprehension.
Manny hesitantly agreed to drive me to the other side of Acadia during his lunch break, where I could purchase a few gallons of gas from the general store to put in the Kohl’s Range Rover. We left the plant as the employees were streaming into the break room for their thirty-minute lunch. In the company truck, Manny explained that he had exactly thirty minutes, so he was only able to drop me in town, where I would have to figure the rest out myself. This suited me, as I needed some alone time to check in with Deloris. When we passed the place where the Range Rover sat, I asked Manny to check the truck’s odometer and measure the distance to the store. When we pulled into the store’s parking lot, Manny reported that we were approximately one and a half miles from the Range Rover. As cold as it was, I figured that I could happily speed-walk that distance, carrying two gallons of gasoline in about twenty minutes just to stay warm. I felt uneasy about thanking Manny for the ride, but did, promising that I would see him back at the plant to resume my investigation, which would include questioning some of his fellow employees. Manny was less than enthusiastic with his reply. The truck was moving away from me before I could close the door.
My plans changed when I read the sign on the store’s door: “Closed for lunch. Back at 1:30.” I cupped my hands around my face and pressed my nose against the glass, peering into the dark, and indeed empty, Island General Store. Seeing no sign of life deflated my fleeting idea that I could’ve eaten here, too. I walked around the side of the building where the lone gas pump stood. The cardboard sign taped to the face of the meter read “Report gallons, not dollars,” indicating that the antiquated pump couldn’t keep up with today’s fuel prices. I picked up the nozzle and flipped the lever. Bingo. The pump had been left on. I searched the perimeter for a jerry can or container in which I could put gas. I found nothing. I wandered up the road, looking around for anything I could use. Time was running short.
The first house I saw had a plowed driveway and a large barn that must certainly have a few empty gas cans, I thought as I approached the front door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, more vigorously. I tried the knob. It was locked. I trudged through snow to take a look inside through an open spot between heavy drapes drawn across a picture window, and saw that the furniture had been covered with sheets; put to bed for the winter. Exasperated, I hiked through the snow to the barn to try the door. Looking through the window, I saw two vehicles, and realized that my best bet was to commandeer one of them. A padlock and hasp stood between me and transportation. The only decision I had to make was whether to break a window, or kick down the door. I opted for the door, and gave it a swift kick. It gave a bit. I kicked again and again. On the third try, the door frame splintered, allowing me to push my way in.
The inside of the barn smelled musty; a mixture of automotive oil that had been soaked into the dirt floor over the years, and a briny scent coming from dried barnacles that clung to the bottom of an overturned dinghy. The only light was what seeped through two small windows, and was insufficient. I searched for switches, and found a string hanging from the high ceiling. I pulled, and nothing happened. The power had been shut off for the winter, I imagined. My eyes adjusted enough to give me comfort moving around without fear of stepping into or onto anything. I walked slowly to the barn door to open it for more light. Cobwebs tickled my face, and I waved my hands in front of me to clear them away. With a little effort I was able to release a deadbolt and slide open a wide door, allowing sunlight to flood in, making the place a tad less creepy. I opened the door of a pickup truck and slid behind the wheel. The key was in the ignition. I turned it. Complete silence. I did the same, with the same result, at the wheel of the other car. I popped open the hood, and was not surprised to see that the battery had been removed. I slammed the hood closed, turned to close the sliding door, and nearly ran into Clark Proctor.
“Yo
u frightened me!” I said as I regained my composure.
“I’ll bet. Can I help you? I caretake for this place, and saw the door open.”
I was sure that Clark expected some explanation, and I supplied him with the truth. He agreed to take me back to the Range Rover with a can of gas so that I could stay on schedule and get off Acadia on the late boat, which left in just over two hours. I apologized for the damaged door frame. He said that he would fix it before the owners showed up in the spring.
Once seated in his truck, I pulled out my phone hoping for a signal. “Your best bet is at the top of Annis Hill,” Clark said as he pulled onto the main road heading in the opposite direction of the Range Rover and the plant. “I’ll take you there.” We rode in awkward silence for a few miles, when Clark seemed uneasy and started conversation with, “Any new leads? I mean, I imagine that’s why you’re here, right?”
“Lots of evidence, but no proof. Not yet anyway. I am making progress, though,” I answered. “I hope there are no hard feelings about my taking your daughter in for questioning. She left me with no choice.”
“No,” Clark laughed. “No hard feelings. That was an adventure for her. She’s been quite sheltered, and with her rebellious streak … Well, let’s just say she’ll be fine. She’s back at school now.” Clark slowed down and grabbed a lever that looked like a gear shift. “Need four-wheel drive for the hill,” he said as he pulled the lever into place. We crept up a steep hill, and pulled into a turnaround. Clark did a three-point turn and placed the truck in park facing the direction from which we had come. “There’s Green Haven,” he said, pointing at the mainland across the choppy bay. “Seven miles. May as well be seven hundred.”
Shiver Hitch Page 22
