The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer

by Rick Boyer

  "Your reverse logic insults my intelligence, Dr. Adams. I knew the boy well enough to know that underneath he was venal, greedy, and ruthless. Also, he was rude and disrespectful to me."

  "It appears, then," I said after a silence, "that you had the strongest possible motives for killing him."

  For a second or two, he seemed about to explode. But then he let out his breath in a low hiss and fiddled with the blinds, prying apart the metal slats and peering outside at the people in the street.

  "Don't think that I don't know what's really going on," he said. His tone was hushed and menacing. "I know what you're all after."

  He sat there looking smug, clasping and unclasping his thick hands.

  "What?"

  "You know. You all want the fruits of my labor. The results of my research, which will be worth not millions but billions. Don't think for an instant I don't know this. The proof of its value is that kid's stealing my rough notes, the crude beginnings of this project, which I was going to discard. It's a shame I didn't. I was careless . . . so careless."

  He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily.

  "Professor Hartzell, I want you to know a few things, if you don't already. First, it was I who figured out exactly how Andy was murdered. He was cleverly killed by someone with an intimate knowledge of drugs. He was killed on a day chosen by the murderer, who is somebody in this town. He was killed, you might say, by remote control. The police didn't know this until I told them. I know some more things, too. That's why I'm going to be watching you, Dr. Hartzell, watching you every—"

  "Stop it!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "I won't put up with this anymore. I'm sick to death of having everyone against me. Why should brilliance be hounded, eh? This is supposedly the best laboratory of its kind in the world. So why am I hounded just because everyone wants to get rich off my efforts, eh? Answer me that!"

  "Nobody's trying to get rich off you, or steal your research either."

  "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that! What do you know about what goes on here? Believe me, I know. I have ways of knowing about the people here, and I won't put up with it. I'm sick to death of this eavesdropping—"

  He poked at the blinds again, peering outside, sweeping his eyes back and forth at the people on the sidewalk and the lawn.

  "Dr. Hartzell, I've got one more question to ask you," I said, leaning against a counter.

  "I may answer it; I may not. And I don't care what you try to do to me. I'm tough, in case you haven't noticed."

  "Before he died, Andy mentioned something curious that's just come back to me. He said that last Friday you insisted that he stay in the lab and finish up a project, despite the storm warnings and the fact that he and Jack were going to drive up to Eastham. You recall that?"

  "No," he said shortly, with a half-smile on his face, obviously wishing to terminate the interview.

  "Let me refresh your memory. You insisted he stay in the lab, but you left for an hour on what you called a 'personal errand.' What was that errand, and where did you go?"

  "The boy lied; I didn't leave the lab."

  I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.

  "You stick with that statement? Under oath?"

  "I'll do what I damn well please. Now leave."

  "Because I have a witness who saw you driving around during the hour in question. You were seen driving toward Andy's house."

  "I was not! I was going home!"

  "So you were on an errand."

  "Get out. Get out!"

  Sensing the interview was at an end, Moe and I departed. As we left, the door slammed behind us and we heard the bolt slide into place.

  "Whew!" said Moe as we descended the stairs and went outside into the fresh air. We walked down to the little beach right in front of Lillie Hall and watched a big black Lab frolicking in the shallows. He ran up to us with a stick of driftwood in his mouth, wagging his tail and flipping water everywhere.

  "You big dummy," I said. He sat down and pawed at my leg, his tail carving a shallow crescent in the sand as it wagged. I threw the stick out as far as I could and he dove in after it. I turned to Moe, who was picking up shells.

  "Well, Dr. Abramson?"

  "Well, I think da guy's a classic. A textbook case: paranoid schizophrenic. At least from the outward signs. It's unprofessional to make a thumbnail diagnosis like dat. But he's got the signs. Notice the office? The lab tables all pushed up around the desk, as if to protect it? The drawn blinds? The peeking out at the people who he says are spying on him? And the delusions, the feelings of persecution? They're all there. I'd say he's the one to watch. By the way, was that true about his leaving the lab last Friday?"

  "According to Andy. And you heard him admit it. Tom McDonnough was the witness, and it'll be easy to check with him. Now wouldn't an hour be enough time to go to the boys' house, find the pill dispenser, and switch the capsules? Hartzell knew where Andy was at the time, and he knew Jack was out on the ocean. Tom saw him from his car on the way to somewhere. Hartzell could have found the house empty and made the switch, knowing Andy would self-destruct over the weekend, leaving him in the clear—"

  "Yeah . . . and protecting his precious research data from prying eyes."

  "Notice how it scared him?"

  "Uh-huh. By the way, Doc, you were ruthless in there. You seem to have caught on real quick. Does carrying a badge change a guy that fast?"

  "I guess so, I—hey! Oh shit!"

  "What's wrong?"

  "I can't find my damn badge, Moe," I said, feeling around in my pockets. "I must have left it in Hartzell's office on the table."

  "Well, something tells me you're gonna have a hard time going back in there and getting it back. No?"

  I said nothing, watching the black dog pumping back through the water, stick in mouth and panting hard.

  "I think you're right," I said finally, catching a glance over my shoulder at the impressive brick bulk of Lillie Hall, "and I think Joe's going to be pissed."

  * * *

  An hour after Moe left for his office back in Concord, our sorry little procession wound its way down to Providence for the funeral of Andrew Cunningham. The Adams family went in Mary's Audi. Behind us, Tom McDonnough and Terry and Alice Henderson rode in the Hendersons' big Buick. There are many instances on life's bumpy road when I wish I could push a button and magically advance the time by two or three hours. Most of my patients tell me that's the way they feel about visiting me. Gee Doc, they tell me, when I've got an eleven o'clock appointment with you, I just wish all of a sudden it would be twelve-thirty. You know?

  Sure I know. That's what gets me down so much about my job. And going to kids' funerals isn't exactly my idea of a high time, either. We found the church, parked, and walked up the stone steps together. Andy's parents, Paula and Boyd Cunningham, were standing up at the top to meet us. There they were, standing up near the door, their faces blank with grief. Ohhh, boy. The position I never, ever want to be in. I kept looking at Boyd Cunningham all the way up those steps. Gray, pale, and thin. The very life knocked out of him. I remembered hugging Jack the night Andy died. Hugging and crying a little because he is so precious to me. And the Cunninghams, busting their asses all these past twenty years for their only kid. Good God . . .

  The service ended at three-twenty. The forty-odd people filed out of St. Joan of Arc Church and went to their cars for the ride to the cemetery and the burial. Hey, folks, the fun never stops. The burial was mercifully brief. But then came the part I really dreaded: the home visit. And for us it was obligatory, of that there was no doubt. Now where's my magic button? Just push it and pow, it's five-thirty and time for cocktails.

  Both parents were still in shock, and sat immobile, eyes unfocused, their skin ashen gray. Boyd, as handsome as his son had been, drummed his fingers on his forehead and temple.

  "So hard to get used to. I still can't believe it. So hard—"

  Then he swallowed fast several times, and starte
d to break down again. Mary hugged him tight and talked to him. I stood around like a heron in the Sahara, hating myself and not knowing what to do about it. Hating myself because I had two sons, and they were both alive, and his only son was dead, and it wasn't fair. I was so glad my boys were fine, but it was so unfair I couldn't help hating myself, as if I had cheated at a game and left poor Boyd Cunningham in ruins. I found it terribly hard to face him. Jack consoled Paula, and I went back and forth between the stricken parents, doing the best I could. My patients tell me I've got a good bedside manner. The bedside manner I can cultivate; it's the graveside manner I'm not so hot at.

  Finally, it was time to go. We walked down the modest front stoop and went over to the car. Boyd had walked us out. He summoned Jack and me to stand on each side of him. He put his trembling arms around us and said in a low voice: "I heard it was murder. The detective told me he thought it was murder, and that you, Dr. Adams, discovered it. Is this true?"

  "Yes. We think so, Boyd," I said.

  "Well, that's awful. Who could have done that? The detective said he was sure it was somebody at the laboratory. Is that right?"

  "We just don't know at this point. Jack's even a suspect."

  "We all know better than that," he said. "And listen, I'm going to keep my eyes and ears open, all the time. And if you hear anything about who might have done it, you let me know, hear? Because I just can't—"

  He couldn't continue, so we all hugged him again, giving our word we'd stay in touch and help in any way possible, and left. So we rode back in the car, watching the green world slip by, not saying a word. Tony—a.k.a. the Condom Kid—was driving. Nice of him, and appropriate, since he was less emotionally wrecked than the rest of us. Mary and I sat together in back, holding hands in silence.

  "Tony, can you turn the air up a notch?" I asked. He flipped the switch and the cool air came rushing over me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, trying to doze. It didn't work.

  "Hey Jackie," said Mary, "who was that tall kid with glasses who came up to you after the service? Is he from Woods Hole, or what?"

  "Him? Oh, I kinda forget. He's some nerdy guy who works over at the USGS warehouse, I think. I was surprised to see him there. I didn't even think he knew Andy. Is that cool enough for you, Dad?"

  I said it was fine. Then Mary asked for music, and Jack put on a Handel tape. I let my mind wander then, and didn't wake up until we were back at Swope Dorm.

  "Look Charlie, the DeGroots are here," said Mary, shaking me gently out of my sleep. We walked up toward the dorm and saw them both sitting on the grass, waiting for us. We hiked to the room, Jim carrying a jug with a spigot on the bottom of it.

  "You want a G and T, Doc?"

  "Do I ever. And so does Mary. How long you guys been here?"

  "About an hour. We heard you were all down in Providence for the funeral. Too bad. Joe's here too; we saw his car pull in here a while ago. He's out walking around somewhere. Said he'd be right back."

  So we went up to our room and wrapped ourselves around big gin and tonics. The DeGroots reported on their cruise, and we talked about places and harbors we knew. Joe entered shortly afterwards, looking glum. He made himself a drink and went over and hugged Mary and Jack.

  "Hey," she said. "Weren't you coming down tomorrow? Why so early? An extra day off, or what?"

  "No. I have to tell you something. Doc too. So let's sit down and get comfortable for a second."

  I didn't like the vibes I was getting from him. First of all, why was he walking around while waiting for us to return? Joe doesn't like to hike; he only paces around when he's upset or nervous. And then telling us he had an announcement to make. Uh-oh . . .

  I saw Joe "freshen up" his drinkie. The way Joe makes his G and Ts, it was a little like "freshening up" Lake Erie. He wasn't smiling, but was doing his level best to look happy. Something was up. I didn't know exactly what was headed our way, winging its way toward us like a poisoned spear, but I knew I wanted to jump out of the way, and fast. We all sat down, and then Joe came forward and spoke softly.

  "What it is, is I just came from the D.A.'s office with Paul Keegan—" He looked at Jack. "The lab reports all came back, from your room at the Breakers and from your house in town here. The upshot is, Jack, that your prints are all over Andy's pill case and the bottle of meds. But we knew that . . ."

  We all shifted around in the silence.

  "The bad news is, there are no other prints there, except Andy's."

  "Well so what, godammit!" cried Mary. "Who else was up at the cottage, anyway?”

  Joe held up his hand and continued in a soft voice, with a tone that was soothing and words that definitely weren't.

  "Mary, the D.A. just thinks he can't let it go, that's all. He says we've got to take Jack up there for a statement."

  "And what else?" I said, getting to my feet.

  "And see . . . and see if they want to call a grand jury."

  We all sat, stunned.

  "And, uh, so Paul and I had a little talk, and we—"

  "I'm sick of hearing about Paul Keegan, that son—"

  "No Mary, he's in our corner, believe me. I know. We all discussed it, Paul, the D.A., and I. I told them if it was okay with your mom and dad, Jackie, I'd take you up with me tonight and have you stay with me at my place, and then we can go in there early tomorrow and get it over with."

  Mary, fighting tears, said we were all going together. Joe went over and put his hand on her shoulder.

  "I know that's what you want. But believe me, it'll be easier and quicker this way. They just want a statement, that's all, before the judge. I'm sure, as sure as I'm sitting here, that day after tomorrow we'll all be back down here together with Jack off the hook, okay?"

  Okay? Okay? What the hell did he mean, okay?

  I went over to the window and opened it wide. The cool, tangy sea breeze wafted in. I breathed in deep to steady myself. From over behind the buildings of MBL, from Great Harbor, I heard a familiar sound from a ship I couldn't see.

  Ah-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (wee)!

  One long blast. In ship talk, it said: I am about to depart . . .

  I looked over at Jack.

  "God help us," I whispered to myself. Mayday . . . Mayday . . .

  TWELVE

  I SAT UP IN BED. Mary was purring away beside me. I leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. She didn't stir, and I could smell that sweet vapor of beverage alcohol. My watch said three-thirty. In the company of the DeGroots, we'd really put down the Destroyer after Joe and Jack had pulled away in Joe's car. The party didn't end until after one, if such a glum gathering could be called a party. I sighed, tasting the dry, metallic taste of old booze and pipe smoke. Not good. I smacked my lips. What did I want? First of all, to brush my teeth. And I was hungry. I thought about that cold ham aboard the Hatton. The iced Hackerbrau. And what about the coffee I'd ground fresh before we'd left the dock up in Wellfleet? And those Jamaican cigars Moe had given me? They were probably getting stale by the minute. A ham and cheese sandwich with plenty of Dijon mustard, with ice-cold beer, followed by a cup of strong, steaming java. And a cigar to top it off . . .

  In the near darkness, I scanned the small dormitory room. Nice beds and bathroom, but otherwise none of the creature comforts. And the dock at Eel Pond was just outside the back door of Swope. Barely thirty yards away. I crept out of bed, went into the John, and brushed my teeth. Massive improvement. Massive. I slipped into shorts, a knit shirt, and sockless dock shoes. I left a note on the bathroom counter telling Mary I was down at the boat. In all likelihood, I'd return before she woke up. But if I didn't, she'd worry. And when Mary worries, she frets. And when she frets, she steams. And so on.

  I left the room, went down the silent carpeted hallway, downstairs, and out into the dark. Tiny droplets of cold dew stung my ankles as I walked over the grass. Light danced faintly on the dark water of the pond in shimmers and wavy lines. A pair of mallards, hearing my footsteps on the wooden dock,
muttered and splashed out in the middle somewhere. The sailboats with their tall masts appeared still; there was no metallic pranging of halyards. The powerboats, cruisers, and lobster boats sat hunkered down low in the dark. Out toward the middle of Eel Pond I could see the bright topsides of Jim DeGroot's sport fisherman, the Whimsea. I walked onto the dock and out to the end, where the Hatton was made fast. After jumping down into the wide, shallow cockpit, I unlocked the companionway hatch and crept inside. Flicking on the cabin light, which temporarily blinded me, I took an iced beer from the cooler and retrieved the hunk of ham, which I sliced thin and piled onto chewy rye bread. Rather than light the alcohol stove in the galley, I decided to make the coffee with the tiny camping stove we use in the cockpit when the boat is berthed. I set this up in the cockpit, turned out the cabin lights, and sat in the darkness with my beer and sandwich, watching the stove's bright blue flame underneath the percolator, which was beginning to purr and buzz with the heat.

  I heard the ducks coming closer, quacking softly. Then they were right alongside the boat, begging. I went below and got some bread, which I broke up and dropped on the water for them, their bills clacking and sputtering as they ate.

  Funny, but I thought I heard another faint sound behind me, a sound like a screen door shutting. I turned, listening intently, but all was quiet. So I returned to the percolator, now bubbling merrily away. At my back I heard a faint splash. Turning around again, I saw nothing. I finished my beer and poured the first cup of coffee. No, I wasn't imagining it; there was a measured muffled splashing, a regular flip of water approaching from the middle of the pond behind me. More ducks? Perhaps a lone swan? Who knew what the—

  "Pssst.' . . . Doc."'