The River Killers

by Bruce Burrows

  We headed back to the Coastal Provider in silence. Parts of the puzzle were becoming clear to me, but certain areas were still obscured. It was like running a boat in the fog. Sometimes you could sense things, shapes in the fog that you couldn’t quite see. Sometimes you saw things that weren’t there. And the more you concentrated, the more the lines blurred.

  It was five-thirty and almost dusk by the time we got back to the boat. Mark had dropped the hook. We described what we’d seen while Mark and Fergie listened calmly. The troops were getting impervious to shock.

  “No sense rushing off anywhere,” Mark said finally. “We might as well have a relaxing supper.”

  Fergie had something in the oven. It smelled roastlike. There was a bottle of red wine on the table, so I sat down and poured myself a glass. Louise retired to the fo’c’s’le to slip into something a little more comfortable, which meant divesting herself of her .38 Special, but she soon returned, and we all sat around the table and sipped wine reflectively.

  “The lagoon must have really low salt content,” Mark said, “more fresh water than salt. That must be what enabled the fish to spawn there. It’s obviously all part of the plan, but what the hell is the plan?”

  Fergie delved into the wine cellar under the forward bench and produced another bottle of red and one of white. It was completely dark outside, and the galley windows showed only our reflections. The oil stove produced a comfortable warmth and the smell of the roast intensified. The five of us sat close together around the table, insulated from the vastness outside. Self-sufficient. It was boat life.

  We batted around theories about the case, but soon ran into the wall of the unknown. Conversation shifted to more mundane matters; movies we’d seen, the last good book we’d read. Before hunger had progressed to the point of drooling on the table, Fergie took the roast out of the oven, along with sourdough biscuits and roast potatoes. He’d boiled some peas, so as not to discriminate completely against chlorophyll-based life forms, and while he made the gravy, I carved the roast.

  The two of us sitting on the outside of the table served the three trapped on the inside along the wall, and then served ourselves. There ensued a scene of serious nutritioning. The roast never stood a chance. When the only clues to the roast’s erstwhile existence were some bits of fat and stained string, we celebrated our victory over meat by finishing the wine. We then launched the desert campaign, plotting the destruction of a gallon of chocolate ice cream topped with frozen strawberries. Having achieved total food domination, we celebrated our success with coffee and Baileys and brandy.

  When it was bedtime, Mark offered Louise his cabin so she wouldn’t have to sleep with the rabble in the fo’c’s’le. She demurred, saying she was third-generation rabble herself. She again took the bunk above mine, and gave me a quick kiss before nimbly climbing in. As I lay below her, separated only by some plywood and a mattress, I tried to keep my thoughts pure. I failed.

  Fifteen

  In the morning, we were forced to invoke the anti-hangover clause. (If you ignore it, it doesn’t exist.) Nevertheless, many crew members were unusually contemplative.

  The consensus was to skip breakfast, so Mark brought the engines to life, we rattled the anchor chain onto the winch drum, and set forth for Bella Bella, where we tied up at the government dock and gathered in the wheelhouse for a conference.

  It was agreed that there was, at present, no more need for the boat here. We’d discovered what there was to discover. Mark could head back south, taking Fergie and Christine. Louise and I would fly south.

  Louise and I grabbed our bags and jumped off the boat. I untied the lines and waved as the Coastal Provider backed away. It was noon. “What next, Commandante?”

  “I want to check in at the office,” Louise said. “And I’ll send my dive crew back to the lagoon to check out those cables.”

  “Okay, I’ll wander around in a purposeful manner.” We were walking up the hill. Louise peeled off into the RCMP building and I carried on alone with my thoughts. I began sifting through the latest amalgamation of knowns and unknowns.

  Known: Someone, probably our bad guy, had burnt a building where no building should have been, in isolated Lagoon Bay.

  Unknown: How had he gotten there? I was sure we had his boat, the Kelp. Had he stolen another one?

  Known: There was a thick electrical cable running from the burnt building into the ocean.

  Unknown: What was it for?

  Known: Sockeye salmon were spawning in a saltwater lagoon, at the wrong time of year.

  Unknown: How was this even possible?

  I wandered thoughtful as a cloud and eventually found myself down at the public dock. The afternoon sun warmed my shoulders and glinted off the water. The water taxi had just landed and some people got off the boat and some got on and some just stood and talked. A clap on my shoulders distracted me and I turned to see Cecil Brown grinning at me.

  “Herring season’s over, Danny. It’s too late to bust anyone now.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on serving bad coffee.”

  “Or impersonating a Fisheries Officer.” The grin disappeared. “You find anything out about that boat?”

  “Not yet, but we’re on the guy’s trail.”

  “I used to pack Crowley’s prawns. I sort of know his routine. Did you find his logbook?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a copy of it” I said.

  “If I could take a look at it, I might be able to spot something. I know he’d had a few run-ins with other prawn guys.”

  “Like who?”

  “Not mentioning any names, but someone with the initials Joe Vukovitch, in particular.”

  “A Yugoslav prawn fisherman. Bound to be trouble” I said.

  “That sounds racist to me.”

  “No, just gear-typist. I’ll make another copy of the log and drop it off at your boat. I’m flying out tonight so call me if you pick up on anything. You’ve got my cell number?”

  “It’s written on the ceiling above my bunk,” he said, deadpan.

  “I’m touched.”

  “I know that. Your number is right there with all my other emergency numbers, search and rescue, oil spill response, late-night pizza delivery.”

  “What sort of emergency am I supposed to respond to?”

  “Bad fisheries policy.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t called before now.”

  “I have. Your secretary wouldn’t put me through.”

  “I don’t have a secretary, just voicemail.”

  “Silly me. If I’d known that, maybe we could have avoided the whole sorry mess that we’re in.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess that makes it all your fault. I’m gonna go and copy Alistair’s log. Catch you later.”

  I headed back to the RCMP building. Louise was out. While I waited for her, I made a copy of Crowley’s log to give to Cecil. I then charmed the office staff for an hour or so, until Louise returned. I joined her in her office. “Has anyone reported the theft of a boat?”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  “I was hoping that our bad guy stole a boat from here to get down to Codville Lagoon. The alternative is another Les Jameson scenario. I don’t want to find any more bodies.”

  “He could have stolen it and returned it the same night so it wouldn’t be missed. That means he flew out of here yesterday, maybe the day before, or he’s still here. I’ll check the Pacific Coastal passenger lists, but he wouldn’t have used his real name.” She gestured to the window and I turned in time to see a government green pickup truck pull into the parking lot. Two guys in drysuits jumped out of the back and I deduced they must be the divers. We went out to meet them. I recognized one as the constable who’d been with Louise when I first met her at Crowley’s float house. I went up to him and said “Hi,” and he introduced me to the other guy, Calvin Reid.

  Louise greeted them. “That was quick, guys. Find anything interesting?”

  Calvin held
up a large baggie with a black box inside. As I peered at it, I could see two wires sticking out of the box.

  “The cable ran for about one hundred meters under the water. There were four of these boxes attached to it by wires. We cut this one off and bagged it. We were wearing our diving gloves so evidential integrity is intact.” He grinned and I could tell he got a kick out of sounding so officially correct. A potential bureaucrat.

  “Good job. I’ll take it to Vancouver and let the all-stars check it out. Do you know what it is, Danny?”

  “Radio receiver. That cable was set up to receive signals from those little transmitters in the fish. I think the cable ran to an amplifier, maybe an on-site recorder, and then to an aerial for long-distance transmission.”

  “So Crowley could have received the information at his float house? And someone in Vancouver could have received it?”

  “Crowley definitely could have received it. Maybe he relayed it to Vancouver.” I thrust my hands firmly into my pockets and thought hard. Louise looked at me expectantly.

  “We’re supposed to be on that seven o’clock flight tonight.”

  “Okay. You carry on here. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  I walked down to the dock and found Cecil’s boat. He wasn’t there so I left the copy of Crowley’s log on the galley table. By that time, I was feeling hunger pangs. The restaurant was crowded when I got there; no available tables, but a familiar-looking guy waved me over.

  “There’s a spare seat here. Sit down.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I sat down and nodded at the other people at the table. They made eye contact over their burgers and grunted greetings. I remembered who the guy was: Sam Wilson, a gillnetter of some repute.

  “Hi, Sam, were you out on the herring?”

  “Yeah, we were at Stryker Bay. Did good. I heard you ran a good fishery here.”

  I shrugged. “We can’t screw everything up.”

  The guy at the end of the table, another familiar fishing face, piped up.

  “Don’t bet on it. You keep letting the seines catch all that fish in Spiller Channel and you’ll kill the small-boat fishery in the outer bays. It’s the same fish.”

  It was a familiar argument with some truth to it. Fortunately, the waitress showed up and saved me from answering. “Hey, you’re Louise’s boyfriend.”

  “Apprentice boyfriend. Haven’t done the practical yet. Can I get a medium-rare steak?”

  “I’ve never heard it called ‘Doing The Practical’ before. White people are strange.” I must have looked sufficiently embarrassed because she asked what I wanted to drink, noted it on her pad, and walked toward the kitchen.

  “So what’s the deal with Alistair Crowley?” Sam asked while he played with the straw in his glass. “I’m hearing weird stuff.”

  I could almost see ears perking up around the table. Hell, it was their community and they had a right to know. Besides, I was getting tired of keeping secrets. “It’s almost certain he didn’t commit suicide. Which means someone killed him. And whoever did it might have used a boat that’s tied up at the fishermen’s dock, the Kelp. Ever see anyone using that boat?”

  “Cecil Brown asked me that the other day. Couldn’t help him. It kind of puts everything under a cloud, Crowley and Les Jameson, not that I care much about Jameson. He was a prick. But a death is a death and that’s two of them in the same month.”

  Everyone’s head turned as a scuffle broke out at the back table. A stocky young guy, eyes not fully focused, swore at his companions and made gangsta-like aggressive motions. A shrill young woman suggested that he fornicate away to another place and he did, rushing unsteadily toward the door. “Who’s that?”

  Sam answered scornfully, “One of our weekend warriors. My nephew, Mathew Wilson. Never quite grew up.”

  “Melissa’s brother?”

  “Yeah. Nice family. Every family has bad apples, I guess.”

  While everyone was shaking their heads, the waitress brought my steak and beer. I wasn’t synchronized with my tablemates and they soon drifted off, leaving me alone to ruminate. I had two more beers, declined dessert, and grabbed a cab out to the airport.

  An hour later, we were shielding our eyes as the Pacific Coastal Airlines scheduled flight took off into a low western sun. We crossed a dappled Queen Charlotte Sound and followed the sun-sheened metallic ribbon of Johnstone Strait south toward Vancouver. The west was bright and the east was darkening. The planes and angles of various peaks and alpine lakes reflected fire or sucked light into blackness. For some time, I was mindless and only slowly became aware again and conscious of Louise beside me. She had the window seat and was still staring raptly at the celestial theatrics to the west. When the curtain of night had fallen, she turned to me and smiled.

  Vancouver was only three degrees south of Bella Bella but at least six degrees warmer. I doffed my fleecy as I walked across the tarmac at the south terminal. We had only hand luggage so we went straight through the terminal and into a cab. Settled into the back seat, I looked at Louise and asked the question as neutrally as possible. “Where shall we stay tonight?”

  Louise put her hand on top of mine. “Danny, I can’t think about this case and have a love affair at the same time.”

  “Interesting. I’ve never had a problem separating mental activity from sexual activity.”

  “Really? You think about sex all the time.”

  I noticed I was coming in second in a lot of our verbal exchanges. But maybe that was good enough to make the play-offs. I shifted to what was proving to be one of my stronger events: crime, the analysis of. “Okay, action plan. In the morning, I’m going to check in at HQ and suss out the best way of penetrating the West Vancouver lab. That’s where everything started and that’s where the answers are.”

  “And I will go to my HQ and grovel to the local brass in order to get the resources we need to solve this. And we’ll need to work with the Vancouver Police Department. It’s their turf.” She handed me a card. “That’s where I’ll be. Phone me tomorrow.”

  Rush hour was as over as it ever gets in Vancouver, so it was less than half an hour before we were deposited at the Hotel Georgia. We fumbled our way into an embrace and kissed as seriously as you can kiss in a hotel lobby. I left her there, resolving to eliminate the need for such partings as soon as possible.

  I walked a few blocks south and checked in to the Chateau Granville. It was not as grand as the name suggested, though it was cheap and close to my favorite blues club. In the morning, it was still overcast but in a state of definite non-precipitation as I walked briskly along Granville Street, left on Georgia and then right on Burrard. I was therefore dry, albeit feeling somewhat wet behind the ears, as I stood outside and contemplated for a moment the grandeur of DFO headquarters. The edifice was perhaps more grand than its contents, a shuffle of bureaucrats whose numbers almost equaled the fishermen they were supposed to govern, yet was failing so miserably that it necessitated the employment of a PR department of Disneyesque proportions.

  I rode the elevator up to an executive height and found my way to the regional director general’s office. On my way down the hall, people shouted greetings and congratulations. “Way to go, Danny. Good job up there. That was a well-run fishery.” I shrugged modestly, feeling like a football player who’s just scored the winning touchdown. When I entered Paul Desroche’s office, he was on the phone but quickly said good-bye and hung up, something I took to be another sign of my increased stature.

  “Danny, welcome back to civilization.” He stood up to shake my hand. “If we ever gave out bonuses, you’d be getting one.”

  “Thanks, Paul. Between Pete and George and me, we managed to fumble our way through. Bit of a scare when we lost the fish.”

  “Yes, well, all’s well, etcetera. Listen, I hate to put a damper on things, but it sounds like Griffith is still mad at you. He’s lobbying to get you assigned to the drag fleet.”

  The draggers were the trawlers, big boats th
at worked offshore in unsheltered waters for weeks at a time. It wasn’t a popular assignment. “Fleming will have to find another victim. I’m going to take a couple weeks’ holiday. Besides, he’s just in a bad mood because someone impersonated him on the SPLAG website. By the way, who’s the operations manager at the West Vancouver lab? I want to get some background for a paper I’m working on.”

  “It’s a brand new person. We were just notified of her appointment two days ago. Bette Connelly. You know her?”

  “Yeah, I do. Hey, I gotta go. If you hear from Griffith, tell him I think that abalone trap policy was his finest work.”

  As I rode down in the elevator, I was thinking about what a break it was that Bette was running the lab. I’d have to tell her Paul considered her a brand new person: at her age. She’d be a huge asset in digging up whatever secrets were there.

  I phoned Louise from the back of a cab to tell her I was on my way over. She sounded quietly triumphant. “I’ve spent the whole morning working out protocol issues. I’m in foreign territory here, so I have to have a Vancouver Police liaison. It turns out he’s a really good guy who’s been on the major crime squad for twelve years. Inspector Tommy Yamada. Smart guy. And because he’s a street cop and not a bureaucrat type, he’s more or less accepted your presence as an unofficial team member.”

  Vancouver Police HQ was way over on Cambie and Sixth Avenue. I strode into the reception area and asked to see Staff Sergeant Louise Karavchuk. She came out to great me, didn’t kiss me, and led me back to a meeting room where Tommy Yamada stood up and shook my hand. He was average height for a Japanese guy and sported a broken nose that, I learned later, was the legacy of his years playing rugby at the rep level. We all sat down around an oblong table that was scattered with papers, photos, and a box with a single doughnut left in it.

  “Danny, this is a hell of a case you’ve dragged us into. Bodies all over the place, crime scenes up and down the coast, possible political involvement, and key players in the investigation lacking, shall we say, official credentials. It could be kind of fun. Before we talk about what our next steps are, I’d like to tie up some loose ends from the scene at Crowley’s float house. Louise, have we confirmed the time of death?”