The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer

by Rick Boyer

  "Tony and I talked about it," he said.

  "About screwing?"

  "No. About Andy dying. And it being murder. And I told him about your fight with Detective Keegan. Anyway, he thinks it's somebody who hates me. Trouble is, we can't think of anyone who hates me."

  "Well, if whoever-it-is hated you, he hated Andy Cunningham worse. Think about the people in Woods Hole. Is there anyone there you don't get along with?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. Of course, somebody there could hold a secret grudge, but I haven't done anything that bad to anybody."

  "How about somebody who could have hated Andy?"

  "Well, there's old Lionel Hartzell, his lab supervisor. It's true that he's a little nutty, and he seems paranoid about his data; keeps thinking everybody's out to steal it. Andy told you Hartzell accused him of stealing it. But I don't think that holds water."

  "Why not?"

  "A couple reasons. Andy was kind of hotheaded. He had a temper, and a mouth to go with it. And while I agree that Hartzell's a little weird, I really doubt if he's violent or nasty; he's just eccentric. Personally, I kind of like the guy. He can be pretty funny sometimes when he's relaxed. As long as you respect his perfectionism and don't ride him, he's okay, at least in my book."

  "And you think most people in Woods Hole would agree with you?"

  "Uh-huh, I do. But you'll have to see for yourself."

  "And Andy rode Hartzell?"

  "Oh yeah. They clashed right away. They both had strong personalities. See, Dad, Andy was pleasant most of the time, and God knows he was bright. But he was driven and ambitious, too. Anything that got in his way or wasted his time, he had no patience for, and he'd let you know it."

  "Sounds more and more as if you weren't really that close. In fact, it sounds as if you preferred Hartzell to Andy."

  "No. I think Hartzell can be a roaring pain in the ass sometimes. It's just that he's not the ogre Andy made him out to be. As for Andy, it's true he's not—he wasn't—my bosom buddy. But what the hey, he was my roommate, my age, we had a lot in common . . . you know."

  "Sort of a friendship of convenience for the summer?"

  "Right. Exactly. And I'm real sorry he's gone. I guess I feel sorriest for his mom and dad."

  "You said it. Let's get back to Hartzell for a second. Why's he so fanatical about his data?"

  "Because he's a research scientist. They're all fanatical about their projects. At least the good ones. And since the labs at Woods Hole are the best in the world, they naturally attract the best talent."

  "Is his data valuable? Would it be worth stealing?"

  He shrugged his shoulders and cranked the winch in a few clicks. The mainsail stopped popping.

  "Who knows? There could be big money in it. See Dad, some of these research jocks, they get enough data and some theories that test out in initial phases, what they do, they take their stuff and quit academics. They sell their secrets to a major pharmaceutical firm or research lab for a million bucks. Or they just borrow some money and set up their own corporation. Then the bucks really roll in."

  "If they're right," I said.

  "Sure. If they're right. But usually, if they're on to something, they know it. If their hunches and procedures test out, they know they've got something worth big bucks. The university can't hold them. And it can't claim title to the discovery. Now, say you work for Bell Labs, or any of the big commercial establishments. They pay you very well. But you can bet that whatever you develop there, they own it. And they won't let you take it away for your own. Most universities don't have that kind of hold on their people. If a guy hits the Jackpot, the royalties are his, at least most of the time."

  "And you think Hartzell is close to such a breakthrough? With his Midas-touch project, getting silver from sea water?"

  "I really wouldn't know."

  "Would Andy know? And if he did, would he steal the data and try to sell it on his own?"

  "Naw. First of all, Andy was convinced that Lionel Hartzell was just a bunch of hot air and paranoia. Frankly, I think he underrated Hartzell. But Andy had no respect for him or his work. But the second part of your question, would he steal it . . ."

  "Well?"

  "Oh, hell. I feel guilty, talking about somebody who's dead."

  "Tell me, dammit."

  "This may or may not figure into it, but I know that Andy had debts. He owed some money from gambling."

  I was stunned at this revelation; it sure didn't fit the impression I'd formed of him.

  "How do you know this? Are you sure, or just speculating?"

  "I don't know the amount he owed, but I know he owed money because he told me. I don't think he was a compulsive gambler. He was just very money hungry. He wanted more than anything to lay away a nest egg for med school and take the pressure off his parents. Once when I was out running, I saw him talking to a guy driving a big white Cadillac. The kind that has an extra tire case on the back, behind the trunk? And the windows all darkened? It was on the edge of town, up near Oyster Pond Road. Andy was sticking his head inside the driver's window, talking with whoever was inside. That's just not the kind of car you see around Woods Hole very often. I asked him who the guy was and he said, 'He's an old friend from home I met after high school. I owe him a little money from loans, but he knows I'm good for it.' "

  "Why didn't you tell this to Paul Keegan, for Chrissakes?"

  "Why? What's it got to do with the murder?"

  "Who knows? Possibly everything."

  "Then we'll tell him next time we see him. But Andy said he was a friend. An old friend from high school in Providence."

  "Who else in Woods Hole did you and Andy hang around with? Whoever killed Andy must have known about his epilepsy and the medication, right? So they would have to have known him pretty well."

  He leaned over the side again, dragging a hand in the water. Then he brought his wet hand up and rubbed the cold water over his face. Sensing his fatigue, I took over the wheel while he stretched and yawned.

  "Yeah, but see, the problem with that is, that's me."

  "I was afraid of that. But think hard. Anybody else?"

  "Well, Alice. She'd know about his condition. Then there were the rest of us living in houses around the campus. There were parties every weekend, with people coming and going in and out of our house. They'd go use the John, where Andy kept that big brown bottle of meds in the cabinet. It had the label right on it, with the drug and the dosage, the way all prescription drugs do. I suppose if they'd snooped in the cabinet, or were looking for an aspirin or something, then they could have seen the medication. Everybody there is a scientist at the graduate level; they'd be able to figure out what the meds were for. I mean, it wouldn't take a genius. Andy kept his problem quiet, like I said earlier. But I'm sure more than a few people knew he was epileptic."

  "Tell me about Tom McDonnough."

  "Nice guy. But he has his own private bedroom. You remember the layout of the house, don't you?"

  "Vaguely," I answered. "Isn't his room upstairs, around the corner from yours and Andy's?"

  "Right, and we all share the three rooms downstairs."

  "Well, how did Andy and Tom get along? Any arguments? Resentments?"

  "Nope. And Tom's not a good bet, Dad. He's a down-to-earth, talented professional. He's got a job next fall teaching at Holy Cross. He's engaged to be married next Christmas. Is that kind of guy going to wreck his life by committing murder?"

  " 'Course not. But we know you didn't, so our inquiries will be focused outward from there. And so they'll have to include—"

  "Wait a second, Dad. You said 'our inquiries.' Are you planning on making inquiries?"

  I thought about it for a second. A second was all it took.

  "Yes I am. I never thought about it fully until just now, but I will be digging around a bit. You're a suspect in a first degree murder case. Somebody killed Andy Cunningham in our house, probably knowing you would be put on the hook for it. Damn right I'll be
making inquiries."

  "Well . . . I don't know, Dad. I mean, what if people don't want to talk to you? You don't have any real authority. You're just my dad."

  "One: being your dad is enough. It's plenty. Two: it so happens I do have authority. I am the temporary medical examiner for Barnstable County."

  "But you told Uncle Joe you didn't want that job."

  "I said I'd think about it. Well, I've thought about it, and decided. I'm going to take it."

  "Medical examiner? Doesn't that mean you'll have to cut up dead people?"

  "Uh . . . yes. If there are any dead people that need cutting. I'm just praying there won't be. The M.E. title will enable me to ask questions on an official basis. Remind me to inform Uncle Joe."

  He sat on the cockpit cushion, head in hands, and groaned. I decided to change the subject and give the kid a break.

  "We've got another three, three-and-a-half hours to the mouth of the canal if the wind holds. So say we'll arrive at around four. If we enter the mouth at four-thirty, we'll buck the current for a little bit, but it will be slowing down. Then slack water will arrive at five. Halfway through the canal, the current will turn our way."

  "And how fast does it get?" he asked.

  "Four to six knots. So if we add our motoring speed of five knots to the current, we'll be shooting down the ditch at nine or ten knots. That's flying."

  So we sailed on, dipping and bouncing over the bay, sometimes heeling over a tad, sometimes rocking with the gentle roll of the swells. We saw pleasure craft and bay trawlers, draggers, purse-seiners, sport fishermen, and, as we neared the mouth of the canal, an increasing number of cargo freighters anxious to save the 162 mile leg around the outside of the Cape on the Boston-to-New York run. Of course the really giant vessels, especially the huge oil tankers and container ships, still went around the long way. They had to; they were way too big for the canal, even though, at over four hundred feet across, it's the widest sea-level waterway in the world.

  * * *

  We arrived at the canal mouth at quarter to four. Even a novice navigator can't miss the canal's eastern terminus: the three-hundred-foot smokestack of the Sagamore power plant, complete with flashing strobe lights, stands right on it. Standing off the canal about a thousand yards in a freshening breeze, I raised the canal office on VHF channel 13 and inquired about the tide currents and traffic. As I'd suspected, traffic was light on a Monday, and the keeper told me the head current was slowing. Slack water was due shortly. If we waited another forty-five minutes, we could catch the start of the westbound current. We dropped sail and motored into the canal mouth, then into a tiny mooring spot called the Harbor of Refuge. This dredged pocket of deep water within the land cut is a handy and protected stop-off point for small craft awaiting a fair tide.

  We moored in a slip there, and I dove below and brought the chilled ham out from the ice locker. I'm not much on ham, frankly. But I prefer cold ham to hot, and a big chilled ham that you can carve away on at your convenience is the perfect thing to take on a sailboat cruise. We'd packed some Italian-style sub rolls, which I now sliced down the middle and packed with thin-sliced ham and Swiss cheese. I slathered Dijon mustard over the sandwiches, then spooned out Mary's cold broccoli vinaigrette on paper plates. We sat in the cockpit, fighting flies and eating our early dinner with iced bottles of Hackerbrau. I realized we'd skipped lunch, something I do regularly. But Jack was famished. He destroyed his ham and cheese immediately, and went for seconds on the cold broccoli salad. We had finished our meal and cleaned everything up shipshape by the time the tide had turned.

  Engine running, we cast off and swung out into the canal traffic and kept to the right—just as on a highway—watching a Peruvian freighter dead ahead of us churning down the ditch. She was empty: riding so high we could see the violent, fountainesque wash of her screw beneath her tall, rounded stern. Behind us was a big "motor-sailer" yacht. We cracked open two more beers and sat in the dying sun. This part of the trip was delightful. We watched the shore slide by us at a rattling good clip.

  There was one eerie sight: an overturned aluminum boat floating just below the surface. Undoubtedly a victim of the gale, it bumped up against our hull before we even realized it was there.

  I sure hoped nobody was underneath it. Before we could grab it, it was gone, doomed to drift on its dismal journey by itself. The Sagamore Bridge looked awfully big and high as we slid underneath it, much more impressive than it looks from on top. A light touch on the wheel was all that was needed, and I steered while Jack stripped off his shirt and lay down on the cabin top to catch the last of the sun. I lighted my pipe and reflected on how

  good it was to be on the water.

  When we got down toward the Bourne Bridge, the canal authority turned the shore lights on, though it was still fading daylight. The big mercury vapor lamps glowed yellow on our side of the shore and white on the south side. They're spaced about five hundred feet apart. I watched them as Jack dozed on the cabin top. They seemed to be whizzing by faster and faster . . .

  By the time we passed under the raised railroad bridge near the canal's mouth, we were fairly flying down toward Buzzards Bay. From experience, I knew that the easy, fun part of the sail was over. I woke Jack up and told him to get ready. He slipped his pullover shirt back on in the evening chill and joined me in the cockpit for a cup of coffee. I pointed up at the telltales, strips of bright woolen yarn and lightweight ripstop nylon that are fastened to the stays. They blow around in the slightest breeze, miniature weathervanes that tell the sailor where the wind's coming from and at what velocity. They were standing straight out now, whipping and snapping in the wind. A southwest wind, and strong.

  "Okay pal, this is it," I warned as we neared the western mouth of the land cut. "The party's over. That southwest wind is driving a lot of big water up Buzzards Bay right towards us. And the canal current is blasting down towards the water. Get the picture?"

  "Collision course."

  "You said it. When the tidal bore meets that incoming sea, it'll raise a chop to wake the dead. So hold on. Here we go."

  We shot out of the canal mouth into waves that were three and four feet high. They smacked into our little catboat head on. Since her wide, shallow hull won't slice through seas, Ella Hatton was thrown up and down like a steam hammer. The foredeck and cabin top were soaked, and we were continually doused with spray. We shouted at each other over the thumping and splashing, agreeing that it wasn't fun. And we still had another five miles to go down the dredged channel until we could veer off to our anchorage for the night. I finally figured that the best thing to do was cut engine speed and let the tide do the work. With some of our forward motion gone, the chop was less intense. Still, we kept the sails down and took turns fighting the helm.

  After an hour of this thumpity-bump, we approached flasher buoy R-4 opposite Wings Neck and bore off to port. Almost immediately after leaving the channel, we could feel the water relax. We raised sail, cut the engine, and swept along past the point of Wings Neck and its spooky, abandoned lighthouse, towards Pocassett Harbor. We'd had enough for one day, and were looking for a roost for the night.

  * * *

  We lounged in the Hatton's cockpit looking at the glowing red-gold sky above as darkness fell. It was now nine-thirty, and there we were, anchored in behind Bassetts Island, inside a cove in Red Brook Harbor, in water still as a mill pond. The water slapped and chuckled around our hull. A family of ducks paddled past, quacking and peeping. Jack dipped up some sea water and doused the dying embers of charcoal in the bottom of the hibachi that was clamped over the gunwale to cook our steaks. I put the garbage in a plastic bag, then dragged up the big oil anchor light from the fore hatch, lighted it, and attached it to a halyard and hoisted it aloft. It would keep other vessels away from us.

  "So you're really going to go around Woods Hole questioning everybody?" asked Jack, working a toothpick in his mouth. "Gee Dad, that's such a drag."

  "I'm not going t
o do that. I'm going to lurk in the shadows, so to speak, and see what's up."

  He bowed his head and didn't say anything. I could tell he was thrilled.

  "Perhaps you'd prefer Uncle Joe to do the walking and talking?"

  "No, dammit! I would prefer that you all stay out of it. The police will find out who did it, Dad; they don't need your help."

  I fell silent, amazed at his naiveté.

  "Don't assume that your innocence exonerates you. That can get you into deep trouble real fast."

  "Okay. You and Joe can look into this. just don't just don't—"

  "Make an ass of myself?"

  "Right."

  "That's going to be the tough part."

  * * *

  I pulled up the sheet and stretched, yawning. Jack blew out the little gimbaled brass oil lamp and went topside to sleep in the cockpit. I could smell the insect repellent he'd doused himself with. Darkness and quiet settled down around us like an old woolen comforter. One more time, I thought. I knew I couldn't sleep if I didn't find the answer.

  "C'mon, guy. Indulge your old man's curiosity just a little bit."

  "Hmmm? What?"

  "You know what. Inside-the-park homer."

  "You know what it means. I just meant it sort of happened fast. And inside a car. You know: vidi, vici, veni."

  I thought about the quote for a second. There was something out of line with Caesar's words, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly what . . .

  "Good night, Jackie."

  "Good night, Dad. I love you."

  "Don't be a sap," I said, trying to hide my growing anxiety. I rolled over and shut my eyes.

  EIGHT

  WE AWOKE BEFORE SIX the next morning, Tuesday, hauled anchor, motored out from behind our little island in the cove, and headed back toward Buzzards Bay. Jack made coffee and heated breakfast rolls in the galley while I minded the helm, keeping one eye on the chart, the other on the channel marker buoys. I estimated the distance to Woods Hole passage to be about twelve miles. The passage is a narrow, winding channel between Penzance Point and the islands to the south, and separates Buzzards Bay from the open Atlantic. It's this passage, or "hole," that gave Woods Hole its name. For the navigator, it's very tricky, with ledges and tidal rips. To make things more difficult, the passage is buoyed and lighted for an east-to-west traverse rather than the way we were headed. Therefore, to us, all navigational aids would be backwards. It was rather like navigating through a rearview mirror, or driving in England.