Scamper's Find

by Terry H. Watson

  Recovery of the body was a challenging task. Highly specialised cutting equipment was used to release the iron bar with the body still attached to it. Those who released the corpse needed strong stomachs. Foul smells assailed the nostrils of the rescuers, and in spite of wearing face masks, they could not escape the stench which caught in their throats. Once the scene had been photographed and all possible evidence collected from the surrounding area, the shaft was sealed over and cordoned off, hopefully for ever.

  “Too many of these damn things in the area,” said the young constable sent to guard the crime scene as he stamped his feet to keep circulation going. He blew on his hands to emit some form of heat as the cold air, in keeping with the grisly find, seemed to mock him like a sadistic jester on an unsuspecting audience.

  “My grandfather was a miner,” he continued. “He told me these underground tunnels stretch for miles. The body could have floated from miles away.”

  “Not our stiff though,” replied his equally chilled partner. “He didn’t float from anywhere; he was well anchored.”

  Media descended on the area in force like bees round a honey pot. Speculation was rife. What they didn’t know, they surmised. Unable to obtain much information from even the most inquisitive of the rural community, they concentrated instead on Scamper who had become an overnight star. Tabloid newspapers carried the headline: The Mystery of Scamper’s Find and other similar mishmash captions. Scamper was indeed famous.

  Julie, jaded by constant phone calls and requests for pictures and interviews, became more irritated at each passing day. Finally, with more interruptions than she could cope with, she locked up, piled the dogs into her car, and headed to a friend’s house.

  Liz, her bohemian and slightly quirky friend, owned boarding kennels and happily agreed to take the animals to allow Julie time to concentrate on her writing.

  “You know I love your boys and they can have a clean up while they are here,” smiled Liz with a friendly dig at her friend’s reluctance to tackle the messy job. Julie was oblivious to the state of the dogs. She loved them as they were, and seldom took time to notice their unkempt appearance.

  “They will only get messed up again,” she would reply. “Why put all that energy into something that won’t last ten minutes?”

  Julie arrived at the kennels, parked up, and located her friend sitting on the grass surrounded by dogs of all breeds. Liz’s long auburn hair and the full-length dress she favoured were a tangled mess of dog hair. Her pockets bulged with dog treats. She was unconcerned about her appearance, and to anyone who met her for the first time, she gave the impression of being a flower power, 1960’s hippy.

  As her three dogs romped around the enclosure, chasing each other and enjoying the various toys there, Julie discussed her book’s progress with her friend who was an avid reader. The pair often had brainstorming sessions when Julie felt the need for fresh thinking.

  “This incident has set me back so much. My editor is biting my ear for a projected date for completion of the manuscript. I’m off to Craig’s place for peace and quiet. He is back at work so I’ll have his house to myself. Trust Scamper to cause this fuss.”

  Craig worked offshore in the oil industry. He normally worked two weeks on and two off. With him safely out of the way and with no distractions, Julie concentrated on her writing.

  Sitting at her fiancé’s large kitchen table, she continued to write:

  Mary, the enigmatic, tragic monarch, had her claim to be heir to the English throne cunningly thwarted by her cousin Elizabeth 1, who insisted she marry someone chosen by her. The Scottish Queen was to cease referring to herself as Queen of England and agree to the terms of the Treaty of Edinburgh…

  What tragic, confusing times these cousins lived in, Julie thought as her fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard.

  ***

  Doctor Brody Cameron’s team of forensic scientists worked endlessly. Minute DNA samples from ribs, teeth, bone and hair follicles were deemed enough to assist in identification. After some time, reporters and other interested parties gathered outside the village hall to hear Brody Cameron make his initial report:

  “We have established male Caucasian, aged forty to forty-five. He has been in the water ten months or more, perhaps even more than a year. Human remains from water over this period are normally badly decomposed or incomplete, but our victim, by being chained up, had part of his torso intact and hanging just above the waterline.

  “Our guy was alive when submerged. The marks on his wrists showed he struggled to loosen the chains. His mouth was taped, he had chewed away part of the tape, and water had eroded most of it. It was common duct tape available worldwide. The most probable cause of death was cardiac arrest. We have tapped into our own bank of DNA information. You all know that we have the largest collection in the world right here in the UK of which I’m mighty proud. The DNA international data section is working alongside us on identification as we speak. I fully expect a result before too long.”

  He smiled as he spotted a newbie reporter turn chalk white and run from hearing any more gruesome details.

  As he answered questions from the assembled reporters, he lit his pipe, slowly and deliberately, savouring the moment like a skill crafted over the years, and after a few draws on the device, smiled as one by one, the crowd overpowered by the fumes, left the scene. Works every time, thought the crafty man as he headed back to headquarters. Smoke ’em out. One thing he detested was wasting time answering questions from impatient reporters, when there were no possible answers to be given.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thirty miles from the scene of the macabre find, Tommy Graham had not returned from his daily cycle run. He was training for an upcoming rally and covered the same route each day. He normally finished his routine at his parents’ cottage, before heading to his own home. His wife, Ann, contacted her in-laws when her husband was uncommonly late.

  “He hasn’t been here, Ann, and we are beginning to worry. It’s gone dark. He’s normally like clockwork,” said the frantic mother.

  “That’s what concerns me. We know he times himself to the last second. He wants to improve on his personal best. I’m worried in case he’s had an accident. It’s such a remote area out there and there’s no phone signal. His mobile phone is ringing out.”

  Much later, the distraught cyclist arrived at his parents’ home, having limped several miles in the dark over rough ground. His cycling outfit was torn; blood poured from his arm, his ankle was swollen to twice its normal size. His disheveled appearance was in stark contrast to the normally spruce athlete who prided himself on his image. He was fully aware of his striking good looks, a man happy in his own skin and proud of his physique.

  “What happened son? You’re in some state!”

  “Phone Ann, please. Tell her I’m okay. The bike hit a chunk of concrete and veered to the left into water, throwing me off to the right. I’ve damaged my ankle. I think it’s broken. The pain is almost unbearable. I don’t know how I managed to make it here. My flashlight was smashed in the chaos and then I fell over a tree trunk and lost my phone somewhere along the track and couldn’t see to find it.

  “When I tried to retrieve the bike, only the back wheel was visible. It was stuck in an old pit shaft. I tried to pull the bike out by the wheel but it caught in some metal structure or other. But that’s not all, Mum; my hand touched a human head. There’s a body in there, chained to a metal bar. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”

  With that, Tommy struggled to the bathroom where he emptied the contents of his stomach.

  ***

  Once more, a team comprised of the same officials gathered at the crime scene, secured the area and proceeded to obtain evidence by means similar to the previous incident. Yet again, Eric Quigley was called to record the scene with his hi-tech underwater camera. In the dark, murky wate
rs he discovered that part of an iron bar had loosened, leaving the body dangling by one wrist that was handcuffed to the remaining fragile structure. The entire weight of the body hung in a precarious position.

  “Best get this body out ASAP!” he hollered to the waiting cops.

  “The bike seemed to have dislodged a weak bar so it could come away at any moment and the body will be lost. We have to get this corpse out of here.”

  Once more the onerous task of removing a body from a water-filled mine shaft was undertaken by a specialised team.

  “I hope we don’t have any more of these. I couldn’t eat for days after the last one,” said a stoical officer.

  Similarities between the two crime scenes were noted and discussed while the team, once again, awaited DNA outcome. For decades, scientists have successfully used hair follicles to obtain DNA results for identification purposes.

  Brody Cameron explained: “As long as our forensic guys have samples of hair roots, that’s the bit underneath that we can’t see and not just a cut sample, they have something to go on. This victim’s DNA will be identified fairly soon, I’m sure of that. My guys should be well on their way to putting a name to the poor fellow from the other shaft before too long.”

  “What’s the connection here? Until we have positive identification we are left with a hell of a mystery,” said DI McKenzie scratching his head as he attempted to puzzle out the link, silently hoping there were no more corpses to rescue from old mine shafts. He walked around the crime scene, his astute detective mind alert for any minute piece of evidence that might hold a clue, any clue to the bewildering find which must surely be inexplicably linked to the previous corpse.

  Police officers retrieved the body from the pit, but in doing so sent Tommy’s bike into the abyss. Tommy was given the news he had been expecting.

  “We tried to save your bike,” reported one of the detectives to the anxious cyclist, “but it was tangled in the metal and all sorts of discarded machinery. Our priority was to get the body out intact if possible, a difficult job, and the bike plunged deeper into the water. These old pit shafts are hundreds of feet deep and there was just no way of retrieving your bike. Sorry! I’m afraid it’s lost… And now if you feel up to talking we need to log details of it for our report.”

  “Thanks for trying, Officer. I didn’t expect you’d rescue it. When I looked into that shaft it was hellish dark. I knew it was deep. One wheel was above water level, but only just, with the rest well and truly submerged. When I tried to pull the wheel I knew it was caught in something. Then… then I felt something under my hand… man, I nearly passed out when I realised it was a body. I don’t mind telling you I was petrified. At first I thought it was a rat, and then I saw a face like something from a zombie movie, staring at me as if I were invading his space.”

  He took a deep breath as if trying to shake the image from his mind. He continued, “That bike was my pride and joy, only had it six months. I had a cheap second-hand mountain bike to start with which was okay, but when I got serious about cycling I saved hard and bought the hybrid, a Hoy Shizuoka, cost me over £500, a great ride, so efficient, it suited my range of different riding conditions. The hydraulic brakes are reliable…”

  He tailed off, as if in mourning for the lost machine. The detectives knew he was still in shock from the experience and let him chat on about cycling which was obviously a passionate hobby of his.

  “I’m sure your insurance will cover your losses, enough to get you a replacement, and maybe some compensation money. Would you buy the same make of bike?”

  “Hey, I hope that happens! I dream of owning a Colnago 3x zero some day. It’s not cheap. It comes in about £3K. It’s a carbon filtered racer, eleven-speed, but man, that’s only a dream!”

  “You never know, Sir; get on to your insurance. They’ll contact us for our report which will be ready fairly soon. Best of luck with it. Hope you recover well from your injuries.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be riding for a while until this ankle has healed. It’s broken in two places. When I improve on my personal best score I qualify to train at the new Sir Chris Hoy stadium in Glasgow, and to think how near I was to that before this happened.”

  CHAPTER 4

  On the other side of the Atlantic a party was in full swing: wine, food, and conversation were all in plentiful supply. Noise levels increased as the evening wore on and the participants renewed acquaintances with former friends and colleagues.

  Superintendent Benson’s leaving party was well attended. He strutted around the room making conversation with colleagues to whom, in the past, he had hardly given the time of day. He roared with delight at his own attempts at wit, which was met with polite laughter. When she became aware of the discomfort caused by her tiresome husband, especially when he had overindulged in alcohol, his long-suffering wife moved in, suggesting he speak to another group. Her petite frame and outwardly demure appearance hid a toughness that anyone crossing her path was sure to encounter. There was no doubt who wore the trousers in the Benson household. Superintendent Benson may have ruled supreme in his place of work, but within the confines of his home, he came under the strict regime of his wife, who ceaselessly attempted to control his diet and alcohol consumption.

  “I worry about you honey, and want you to enjoy the retirement you have been looking forward to, but if you go on like you’re doing, you’ll lessen the precious time we have to travel and do all the things we’ve planned to do with the grandkids.”

  Her concern fell on deaf ears.

  “I’ll turn over a new leaf, honey, once I retire. I might even go to the gym or take up golf. Plenty of time to think of stuff like that, but for the moment I’m sure gonna enjoy what’s on offer.”

  As he moved around the room, glass in hand, she shook her head knowing that for the time being at least, she was speaking to a brick wall.

  The master of ceremonies called for silence for Mayor Carson who spoke at length and extolled the virtues of the retiring superintendent.

  “Gerry Benson has been an inspirational leader of the police department in our great city of Chicago. He ran his squad with a rod of iron, but fairly and compassionately. He coped honourably with a monumental corruption crisis within our force. I’m sure you will all be familiar with the details of that. He saw off a corrupt cop and thanks to Gerry here and his team, the crook has been dismissed from the force and will languish in jail for a long time. Gerry deserves his time now. I just hope he gets out from under Elspeth’s feet and goes fishing! We wish you well, Gerry, and sincere thanks for the years you gave to CPD.”

  Obligatory applause broke out among the guests.

  Tony Harvey, chief of the Bureau of Detectives, glanced at his deputy chief, Carole Carr, and raised an eyebrow at the mayor’s interpretation of the incident where they were unfairly and wrongly suspended from duty, suspected of leaking sensitive information to the media and almost lost their careers and pensions.

  The newly retired Gerry Benson thanked the mayor for his kind words and assured him he would take his advice about fishing.

  He continued, “Before you all return to the revelries, I’ve been asked by Mayor Carson to announce tonight the city’s choice for my successor.”

  A hush fell over the gathering. Speculation had been rife that an unknown chief from outside the state had been appointed and staff were keen to know who their new boss would be.

  Benson continued, “It’s my pleasant duty to announce the name of my successor, and all hell will break out if he doesn’t come up to my high standards!”

  Once more, polite laughter followed his remark.

  “Get on with it,” hollered a rather inebriated young cop, much to the amusement of the partygoers.

  “Raise your glasses in a gesture of approval as I present to you, the new Superintendent of Chicago Police Department, Tony Harvey
.”

  A cheer went up, a roar of which any baseball scorer would have been proud. The appointment was enthusiastically approved. Tony Harvey was a popular choice. He was a hard-working detective known for his fairness to his squad and attention to detail in solving the city’s crimes. Glasses clinked in approval at the news.

  “Cheers, Tony. Cheers!”

  “Tony, you brute, you kept that quiet from me,” remonstrated Carole, his trusted deputy for many years.

  “It was hard to keep it under wraps Carole, but I wanted to see the look on your face tonight. Believe me, I so wanted to tell you.”

  “Tony, Tony,” chanted the crowd, “come on, give us a speech!”

  Feigning shyness, Tony allowed himself to be dragged to the podium. Once there, he became serious.

  “I’m humbled by your reception of the news and grateful for the trust placed in me by the mayor’s office. I intend building on the foundation set by Gerry, and work you guys to the bone to clean up crime in this city. No mercy will be shown to citizens who flaunt the law and, may I add, no mercy will be shown to corrupt cops on my watch. They will be weeded out of the force.”

  This was greeted with genuine, enthusiastic applause; everyone there knew he referred to the bent cop, Kip O’Rourke, whose betrayal almost cost him and Carole their careers, four years previously.

  “Finally,” continued Tony, “we wish Gerry a long and happy retirement and on behalf of the squad, we would like him to accept this gift which we trust will keep both him and Elspeth happy.”

  A junior officer stepped up to present a state-of-the-art fishing rod and tackle to the delighted retiree who beamed with delight at what he thought was his adoring squad. Just as he was about to launch into yet another speech, a basket of fresh flowers was presented to Elspeth, thus taking the attention from the tipsy retiree. Now officially retired and with his successor announced, Gerry Benson took himself off to the bar with some buddies from his early days as a rookie cop, who had come along to support their former workmate.