by Rick Boyer
"I don't know, did he leave them in your car?"
"Yeah, maybe. Let me check." .
But a quick search of the Toyota truck revealed nothing.
"How much heavier was the duffel, Jack?" I asked.
"Lots. Like maybe twice as heavy as this."
"Well, that's what Keegan gave back to us. Anyway, have a good day, you guys; Mom and I will pick you up for dinner about s1x."
I drove back to the dorm. Finding nobody there, I walked over to Water Street and along it until I came to the old Candle House, a stone building where, in the old whaling days, candles were manufactured from whale oil and beeswax. Over the front door is the bow of a model whaling ship. It's sticking out of the building prow first, with only its front half visible, and gives the impression that this miniature vessel has just crashed through the stone wall from inside, as if trying to escape from the building. Beneath the ship, Moe was standing in the doorway chatting excitedly with a stocky, red-faced, white-haired guy in a fisherman's bill cap and rubber hip boots. It was Wayland Smith. Jack had introduced him to us as Smitty. He was skipper of the collecting vessel Gemma and in charge of supplies. Supplies as in fresh creatures from the ocean. When I saw Moe's excited face, like a kid at his own birthday party, I should have realized what was about to come down. I should have been forewarned. Moe was bending Smitty's ear like there was no tomorrow. They looked up when I approached them.
"C'mon, Doc—you oughta see what Smitty's got around the corner. Follow me."
He hotfooted it around the corner of the Candle House and headed for a low wooden building with wide, garage-type doors that sat in the middle of the MBL's cluster of buildings. The sign I over the big double doors said DEPARTMENT OF MARINE RESOURCES. I walked with him; I had to trot to keep up. Then I took a good look at what Moe was wearing. Roman-style sandals with leather thongs laced up his calves. Balloon-fit canary yellow shorts with elastic waistband, and a Hawaiian shirt in shades of lime green, purple, scarlet, and electric blue, all on a field of deep black. Reminded me of those Elvis paintings on black velvet. Only worse.
"Where'd you get that shirt?"
"Filene's. Why?"
"It's the worst thing I've ever seen, is why."
"What's wrong wid it?"
Q "What's wrong with it? Everything. Every possible thing. Nothing horrendous has been left out."
"Oh yeah, well look again."
"I can't; I'll get a retinal hernia."
To save the old blinkers, I looked straight ahead, saw Joe inside the building, leaning over a big circular brine tank that sat on the concrete floor. His wide rump stretched out the seat of his slacks as he bent over. Moe and Joe; what a pair. We walked inside, where the smell of brine and that heady, muddy, fishy smell of sea creatures was overpowering. I left my gaily hued friend—who resembled a bird of paradise in heat—and joined Joe at the wide tank, which was about four feet deep. A cascade of fresh brine entered the tank from a four-inch pipe two feet above it, filling the shed with the constant, echoing sound of splashing water. The building was cool, dark, and damp. I looked inside the tank and saw a mass of thick, snakelike creatures thrashing a hula dance around the perimeter in a counterclockwise circle, like lifers in the exercise yard of the pen. I almost felt sorry for them, but I didn't; they were too damn ugly.
"Eels," said Joe, with horror on his face. "Holy shit; remind me never to eat eel. Aren't they gawdawful?"
"You bet. I had an eel sandwich once in Holland, before I ever saw one close up. I'll never do that again."
"While you were dropping Jackie off, I called Paul over in Hyannis. He's getting our friend Slinky up here this week, he thinks. I said you could come along for the interview."
"Thanks. I'd appreciate it."
"He also traced the call that Andy made from the Breakers the night he died. Not much help, unfortunately; it's a pay phone sitting all by itself on a stretch of road."
"Tough luck. But maybe we can—"
"Doc! Oh Christ! Look!"
Eyes wide, Joe pointed at the brine pipe over the tank's lip. I was amazed, and horrified, to see a big, blunt-headed eel emerging from it. The monster wriggled, thrashing its primitive head from side to side as it slid from the pipe and plopped into the tank.
"Surprised ya, huh?" said Smitty, who had walked over to join us. "They'll do that, eels. They're programmed to swim up estuaries and rivers, since they're all born in the sea. Our pipe takes water from Eel Pond, and the eels there just naturally like to swim up the pipe. Neat, eh?"
Joe looked as if he'd swallowed a scorpion.
"Neat? It's about as neat as a bucket of maggots."
He stomped off, hand held lightly to his mouth. I saw him cross Water Street and walk over toward the beach, facing the sea, breathing deep. Smitty, stung by this comment, ambled out onto the rear dock. I heard excited jabbering in the corner, and turned to see Morris Abramson holding out a plastic bag, into which a lab attendant was busy scooping things from the briny deep. Nasty things. Slimy, flipping, wriggling, horrid things. Lord, say it ain't so . . .
"Hold it!" I said, interjecting myself between the two. "Stop right there. Moe, what do you intend to do with these, uh, specimens?"
He beamed a broad smile at me. The biggest smile I'd seen on him in ages.
"I'm gonna put 'em in my fish ta—"
"No. No you are not."
His face fell.
"Why not?"
"Because I will not allow it. Because it's against the rules. Now behave yourself and put down that plastic bag and follow me outside. Let's take a walk in the nice weather. Come on . . ."
"What is dis? Smitty said I coul—"
"He was mistaken. I've checked the rules, Moe, and the answer is no. These cost a lot to get, and you can't have them." I took his plastic bag full of writhing bad dreams and handed it back to the attendant. "If Smitty makes more mistakes like that, I'm sure they'll fire him. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"
He just stood there, stunned, so I left him and joined Joe on the little beach out in front. Joe had his eyes set in the direction of the big docks, gazing at the lofty spars and rigging of the barque Westward. As we stood admiring her, I glanced back into the supply shed and was dismayed to see that Smitty had returned and was standing at Moe's side. Both men were talking and glancing my way. Moe was angry, pointing at me, then the tanks. Oh well, one does what one can.
"Dammit, Joe, I never should've brought Moe down here. I should've known better. I forget about that damn fish tank of his for a few days and look what happens. He's like a kid in a candy store in there. This lab's got every repulsive sea creature known to man. And then some. And now the guys in there who keep the monsters alive, who've got to feed 'em and clean up their shit, they've found a guy who appreciates their work. Know what's gonna happen now? Put two and two together."
"I know. They're gonna lay every blow-lunch critter from Davy Jones on him for free, that's what."
"You got it," I groaned. "Our whole office wing is going to turn into Barf City."
"Know what, Doc? This place is givin' me the creeps. I liked it when I first got here, but now, I mean, shit. Eels comin' outa pipes, for Chrissakes. Who needs it? I mean, you get inna bathtub, turn on the faucet, a friggin' eel slides out. Who the fuck needs it?"
"Uh-huh. Know whatcha mean."
"I mean, cut me some slack."
"I'm with you, pal."
"And I'm thinking, looking at the old Cap'n Kidd bar up ahead, or rather, dead ahead. Isn't that what they say on boats? Dead ahead?"
"Uh-huh.”
"—that after what I've been through, what with taking Jackie up to face the judge and all, and what with eels in the plumbing and all, that I could use a drink."
"I'm with you, pal."
"Yeah, you're with me, but are you buyin'?"
Off to my left, I heard Moe in the supply shed.
"No. No, not dat one. Over dere, inna corner, dat big guy. Yeah, that's it! That fat juicy
one—"
Dear God, I thought to myself as I made my weary way to the swinging doors. Cut me some slack.
FIFTEEN
THE NEXT DAY, on Tuesday morning shortly before noon, Detective Lieutenant Paul Keegan and a local Falmouth cop came to get Lionel Hartzell. They presented him with his marching orders in his office in Lillie Hall, where, Keegan later told me, they found him crouching defiantly behind his heavy work counter in the little protected niche he'd hollowed in the corner of his office for his desk and himself.
Joe and I heard the commotion on the stairway as soon as we went inside the building. There was shouting and cussing and Paul Keegan's voice giving the old guy warnings. He was a crusty old coot, I'll give him that. The three of them came fumbling down the stairs, the young uniformed cop and Keegan flanking old Lionel Hartzell. The guy was strong, as well as obnoxious. I mean, it took both of them to hold him until they got him into the cruiser's back seat. The back seat that was full of surprises, like no inside door handles or window cranks, with a heavy wire mesh between it and the front seat. But Keegan had said no cuffs. It would look bad, at the laboratory and all. I guess I would agree, but the commotion they made getting the old professor to the car wasn't worth it. If it were me, I'd have cuffed the guy, and maybe gagged him too. Joe agreed.
The crime lab had found no prints at all on my mutilated shield. But old Hartzell had made a fatal slip: he'd been careless with the manila envelope, allowing his thumb to rest momentarily on the gummed flap before sealing it up. And, Joe gloated, the only thing that takes a fingerprint better than a gummed envelope flap is an inked plate at the police station, for Chrissakes. So after they'd fingerprinted the old buzzard and found a twelve-point positive make, or perfect match, they'd issued a warrant for his arrest. We all knew the grounds were tenuous at best. But it was an arrest, which meant another suspect was on deck, and at a crucial time. Keegan had orchestrated it. Any doubts I'd had about him were gone with the wind; it was now clear that he was our friend.
just before they pulled away Hartzell stuck his oddly shaped gray head up against the closed window and started cussing at Jack, who was standing next to me. He cussed me, too, for being his father. He was wearing his tortoiseshell glasses with the thick, half-moon lenses. With those distorting his eyes, which were large to begin with, he looked like a huge, enraged toad.
"And I trusted you," he yelled through the glass, wagging an accusing linger at Jack. "You! Of all the spoiled kids . . . you were the one I trusted most. You idiots can't match my brilliance, so you stole my secret. And then you got the police to take me away so I couldn't finish it! But I'll get back at you! Don't you worry—"
The car went off into the distance, and with it, the old man's screams and threats.
"That guy's scary," I said.
"Yeah. I've never seen him like this," said Jack. "What's going to happen now? Will he have to give a statement?"
"Uh-huh," said Joe. "But let's not get our hopes up prematurely. It may result in a probable cause hearing or a grand jury and it may not. God knows it's no crime to deface a police badge you happen to find in your office. But the act does show hostility and the desire for retaliation. And the fact that Hartzell repeatedly denied any connection with the act will show the court he lied, that his word's no good."
"It shows something else more important, Joe. It shows he's sneaky. The kind of guy who would mutilate a personal belonging and slide it under your door is the same kind of guy who would slip fatal medication into your shaving kit when you're running his lab. Get it? In both cases he avoids direct confrontation; he retaliates indirectly by cunning."
"That's good, Doc. That's real good."
"Moe thought it up."
"Well, in any event, you guys, this should act as a diversion. It should take some of the heat off us a while."
"Can we get Moe up there on the stand as an expert witness?"
"Eventually, if it comes to trial. Certainly Moe's pretty convinced, based on his observations and this incident, that Hartzell's a good bet for this murder."
Thus concluded Paul Keegan's five-day investigation in Woods Hole. He had uncovered not only motive, misplaced and misguided as it was, but means as well.
Motive: Lionel Hartzell, who in Moe's judgment was a classic paranoid schizophrenic, was totally, unshakably convinced that his data detailing the processes governing the concentration of silver in marine organisms were being stolen by Andy Cunningham. Who else but this rude and greedy boy would be so eager to steal his valuable secrets and sell them to a giant pharmaceutical firm? Of course, to a person in Hartzell's frame of mind, any revenge was justifiable and necessary.
Means: Lionel Hartzell was himself taking Lasix, one of the medications used to kill Andy. This was not surprising, as a large percentage of older men are on this or similar medications. In addition, a quick survey by Keegan revealed that no fewer than eight of Hartzell's contemporaries in Woods Hole were on digoxin, the other component of the fatal medication that stopped Andy Cunningham's heart. Therefore, the proximity and availability of these drugs to Hartzell, and his background in physiology and chemistry, provided him with the means for the murder, the means nobody else had.
"You gotta admit, Doc, Keegan did a helluva job. Comes down here, solo, and in less than a week's time has collared a suspect that looks very, very good for it."
Joe and I were sitting on the concrete quay adjoining the Coast Guard station, watching jellyfish pulsating through the water below. They looked like clear plastic Baggies sprung to life, rhythmically contracting and dilating their parachute-shaped bells, squeezing their way through the brine. Inside the bells lurked some dense material that resembled cloudy cauliflower. Disgusting. I prayed Moe wouldn't see these. No doubt he'd want one—or maybe eight—for his aquarium.
"Well?"
"Well what?" I answered. "What can I say? I think Hartzell looks like a good bet on this thing, the old fart. I always thought so. Question is, can Keegan make anything stick?"
"That's the hard part," he sighed. "In fact, the only thing Keegan's got sticking, at this point, is his neck out. If he can't get an indictment, his case falls apart real fast, and he's got his ass in a sling. I'm sure he's taking this chance for Jackie, Doc; he's convinced Jack's innocent. But for what it's worth, I like Hartzell a lot for it. Every piece fits. And know what? Basically, it's a psycho killing, which fits best of all. Here we were, lacking a motive and trying to figure out if the mob enforcers could have done it. Well, we all suspected the mob would never kill a kid for gambling debts. And we knew they'd never do it in such a sneaky way."
"I was the one who first said that, remember?"
"Uh-huh. And it's true. If the mob had done it, it'd be a straight hit, clean and fast. Something like this: a knock on Andy's door, the fake delivery man holding a bulky package, and when Andy turns around to set the bogus package on the table, out comes the twenty-two auto pistol—"
"Right. That's more their style. Our late friend Carmen DeLucca would have loved it."
"So with the kid's back turned, the button man leans over close, holding the piece, say, half a foot from the head. The pistol, of course, is hot from across the country, with serial numbers filed off, disposable silencer in place, bore of the barrel mutilated with a jeweler's rat-tail file to nullify the ballistics tests, and no prints."
"Yeah, right—"
"Then thuff thuff two quick pops in the back of the head. Before the kid even hits the floor, the delivery man's dropped the piece in the wastebasket and is out and gone, hoofing it back to the car before the kid's even stopped twitching. Now that's a mob hit. Hey, what's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" I answered, almost falling off the quay in a fit of dizziness, "what the hell do you mean, what's wrong? You've just described the cold-blooded murder of a kid and you ask me what's wrong? Sweet Jesus, Joe. And what if the mob did set out to kill Andy, and just by accident got his roommate, Jack, instead?"
"Oh yeah. See what you
mean, Doc."
"But finish what you were saying. Why does a psycho killing fit so well?"
"Because nobody could figure out a motive that was strong enough. Who would want the kid dead? We couldn't find anybody who hated him, and he wasn't rich, so that eliminated the personal gain motive. So we were stuck. Until Keegan put the pieces together. Now it all fits."
"So this nutty professor, who's convinced the effort of a lifetime is being taken from him, thinks up a way to kill Andy while he's away from Woods Hole. He knows he won't get caught because one, he was nowhere near the scene of death and two, everyone will assume the boy died of his epilepsy." `
"Uh-huh. It was almost perfect, and it shows that a crazed mind is still capable of rational thought and painstaking planning."
I sat and thought a minute.
"And so it was Hartzell who tossed the kids' house and ransacked the Breakers?"
"Yep. Look: Hartzell's convinced the kids are stealing his stuff. He confronts them, accuses them. Of course they deny it and tell him to kiss off. So he sits and steams over it. And from what you've said about Andy—the way you and Jack and Mary have described him to me—I'd bet that he was very direct with old man Hartzell. I bet he told him exactly what he thought of him."
"That part's true for sure; Jack told me as much."
"So Andy was the first victim. And I'd say we're lucky Keegan nabbed Hartzell when he did. Because, you ask me, Jack was next."
I gave an involuntary shudder.
"We1l, I hope they commit him for life. But still, I have doubts about the burglary thing. Why would he break into Andy's house, then go up alone to Eastham and do the Breakers?"
"He was searching for the data he was convinced Andy took."
"Listen Joe: Jack's told me more than once that Andy didn't take Hartzell's notes; Andy thought the old guy was wacko and that the project was, too."
"So what? We're talking from Hartzell's point of view: Andy stole the data. So, one, Andy had to die for it. Two: the place to look for it was Andy's house."
