Dawson's Web (22 page)

Jeff turned the squelch and volume down.

He didn’t need to be reminded.

Jeff took control.

“Okay, guys, when the sheriff comes on board, I’ll do the speaking. They’ll want to question each of you alone. As far as they’re concerned, the entire boat will be a crime scene. So follow my lead.

John, I’ll give them my version of what happened. You tell them yours next.

Randy, you didn’t see it, but tell them the truth. It was a horrible accident.”

They all agreed to do as Jeff suggested. He had the facts. They wanted this whole situation to be over and forgotten.

They were all still in shock.

Stephanie was curious how Jeff knew the boat would be a crime scene. She didn’t know about the caution Snake Brain had given Sane Brain. She didn’t give it a second thought, but uneasiness still lingered.  There was something in his confidence when he said it. It was as if he had been here before.

Arachne was one hundred yards from the outermost mooring when the Sherriff’s boat, with blue lights flashing, sped towards them followed by the battleship gray Harbormaster’s boat.

When the sheriff got twenty yards away, he took his bullhorn out. “Arachne cut your power. I’ll throw a line on your bow. The Harbormaster will throw one on your stern. Attach them both. When you’re secure, we’ll get you moored and then take your statements.”

Jeff ordered John to lower the main. Simultaneously, he pulled in the jib, cut power and waited.

Twenty minutes later after what seemed like a random walk through the buoys, dodging boats left and right, they were safely moored at N2.

The Sheriff, a stout bearded man with coke-bottle-thick glasses who looked like a fireplug, got aboard. He asked everyone for ID’s and took their statements in the cabin, bringing each one in separately, as Jeff had said they would.

Stephanie and Charlene were frenetic when telling what they knew.

When John corroborated Jeff’s story, the Sheriff went below and examined Todd’s body, removing the trash bag from his head. He checked for a pulse, but saw Todd’s eyes were fixed and dilated.

That was all the evidence he needed.

The trash bag, full of gore, spilled out onto the deck when the sheriff loosened the ties.  He jumped back to avoid getting it on his docksiders.

“Sorry about that. I’ll get someone over here to clean up the mess,” he said while retying the bag around Todd’s neck.

Ten minutes later, a second Sheriff’s boat arrived. Another officer carrying a camera and two paramedics in their thirties got aboard.

The officer with them took several photos of the body and the brain matter in the gunnels. He didn’t say a word, but went about his work methodically.

It was surreal, like something out of a crime story on TV.

Stephanie, Charlene, and John remained silent.

Jeff, who had the most direct evidence of what occurred, pointed to the spot on the deck where Todd hit and answered what few questions the photographer asked. He pointed to the blood spatters on the deck, halyard line and mast and described how he slipped and Todd had fallen to the deck.

There was a distinct bloody smear on deck near the mast validating his story.

The photographer made note of it.

Jeff took off his shoes and showed them to him.

The photographer took a blood sample from the deck and Jeff’s shoe, using a swab and put the evidence back into the sealed test tube.  When they reconstructed the scene, it would be good evidence whether or not this was an accident or not.

He documented everything, circled back and re-questioned the remaining three. He then went back to his boat, fireplug Sherriff in tow. They were there on the deck of the police boat speaking in hushed tones only a few minutes comparing notes.

Everything seemed to point to the fact it was an accident, but because of the nature of the possible crime, they had to be sure. None of those on Arachne was innocent in their minds until they could sort through the evidence.

The paramedics went below end examined Todd, spilling more gore out onto the deck.  When they were done, they put Todd’s remains in a body bag and took him to shore.

The stout sheriff reboarded.

“Okay, you four. It looks like your story checks out, but we have to go over it with our superiors before we can clear you. How long are you going to be at the Isthmus in case we need any further statements?”

Jeff answered. “We only plan to be here tonight. We’re going to head back to the mainland tomorrow morning around 10 AM.”

The sheriff nodded. “Oh, one last thing.”  He hesitated, and then continued.

Jeff, aka Sane Brain, was starting to panic. He was paranoid by nature, and now schizophrenic.

The snake slithered into the foreground and took over. He hated and loved situations like these when he had to do this for his weaker alter ego. It gave him a sense of satisfaction and control that he was the smarter of the two.

Fireplug spoke. “Where did you get that awesome knife? I noticed it in a gym bag in the guest cabin.”

Snake Brain answered. He wasn’t quite ready for this. He had hidden the gym bag in the clothes locker under several life vests. How in the hell did this pudgy police officer find it?

He couldn’t have been in the cabin more than five minutes.

Snake Brain knew the cop was good.

But he also knew he was better.

He acted nonchalant and glibly answered.  “It was a gift from my father. He gave it to me before he passed of cancer three years ago. We used to go hunting a lot.  I think you can order them on-line.”

He was cool.

He was convincing.

He was lying through his pointed fangs.

He knew he had told the other detective who interviewed him at their place in Malibu a different story, but that wouldn’t come out—not in a million years.

The sheriff had lost a brother to cancer two years earlier and still missed him. Snake brain’s comments struck a chord with him.

Jeff’s story made Snakey’s diversion believable.

Snake Brain didn’t know this at the time, but he knew if he kept the story convincing he might catch the sheriff off balance.

It worked.

Funny how the quicker you talk, and throw out unconnected facts, that those caught in your web of deceit will bite.  The human mind wants to connect facts, and if those facts are intriguing enough or have enough emotional content, the easier it is to create a diversion.

Snakey knew it and was a magician at deception.

When cornered, Snakey would create a scenario that only somewhat related to the issue at hand, but he would weave an elaborate, disconnected web that would capture his victim, disarming the inquisitor, sending him off balance and shifting the story to one that he could control. He had done this several times before and was doing it again.

It worked perfectly this time: not by design, but by happenstance.

Fireplug was caught up remembering his brother and was disconnected from what was occurring around him. He wanted to believe Snakey. It brought up so many disconnected memories.

“OK. I wrote the model of the knife down.” Fireplug said.

“My brother and I were big deer hunters. We’d go up to Colorado and hunt Elk every other year with our uncle who owned a ranch in Denver. It was some of the best times I had in my life.”

Snakey saw that Fireplug was getting maudlin, a side benefit of his story. He had hit the jackpot with it.

Sometimes it worked out even though it was unplanned.

This was one of those times.

Fireplug continued still caught in the memory of his dead brother.

“Sorry about your loss.  If we need anything further, we’ll contact you.” He had already taken the boat’s registration number, searched it in the DMV files and knew where Arachne’s homeport was.

Slither brain acknowledged while smiling, knowing his story sidestepped the real issue.

“OK. We’ll keep to our schedule then. We can leave in the morning?”

He wanted confirmation.

“Sure.  We will take it from here. We know how to get you. Again, I’m sorry for the loss. We’ll contact the deceased’s next of kin. You don’t need to worry about that.”

With that, still thinking about his dead brother, he got back aboard the patrol boat, gunned the engine, and left.  He’d order the knife off the internet tomorrow.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky and the wind had finally stopped having blown constantly since noon when the thermal difference between the Island and the ocean set up a micro high-pressure system bringing in the wind from the ocean and funneling it through the Isthmus.

The outline of the mainland was hazy, but it was clear enough to see the moored refection of some of downtown LA’s individual large buildings silhouetted against the clear blue afternoon sky.

Although it was only 26 miles to the coast, the mainland could be seen clearly.  In the distance, the details were blurred, but those who left LA for Catalina knew they were leaving the concrete and highway congestion behind for a step back in time that the Isthmus provided.

It hadn’t changed in over thirty years.

It still had dirt roads, clapboard houses, real people who only wanted to get along with life and who made their modest incomes on the backs of the rich yachters who frequented during the prime boating months from March through November when the rainy season began.

The contrast between the megalopolis that loomed on the horizon and the modest Island’s houses dull, dusty homes strewn along the one or two roads that meandered along the beach was startling. The quaintness of the Isthmus and the friendly people who worked there is what drew hundreds of boaters there every weekend except in the winter.

Gray billowy clouds were creeping towards the top of the golden hills on either side of the Isthmus.

Several boats had their generators going, making a low frequency hum and breaking the stillness and tranquility, which is the Isthmus in the evening.

Every so often, a dinghy would drive by Arachne, loaded with partiers carrying beers or their other favorite libations. The occupants waved to the crewmembers, and each gave a half-hearted wave back, pretending to have a wonderful time, each locked in their own vision of the horror, which they had endured earlier that day.

The band, which played on the patio bar during the weekends, could be heard tuning their instruments, playing a few chords from “Stairway to Heaven.”

They would start at 6 PM and go well into the night.

It was 5:30 when the paramedics and sheriff left Arachne. Randy, John and Jeff were seated in the cockpit enjoying their second cocktail.  Charlene and Stephanie were in the cabin alone, both still shaken by what had happened.

No one was talking.

There was nothing more to say.

They were emotionally drained.

Snake Brain and Sane Brain were having an internal argument as to which one of the two women they would do first.

Sane Brain wanted Stephanie.

Snake Brain was arguing for taking Charlene first, because she was already blonde, and bore a better resemblance to their stepmother.

None of the other three was the wiser of this internal conflict.

The decision was made who would be first, when John, Charlene and Randy announced they were going ashore to the bar to continue drinking before happy hour ended.

They needed to chill and lose themselves in happier surroundings after what they had been through earlier.

Stephanie told John she wasn’t in the mood to go and preferred to stay on Arachne and forego the bar.

Both Snake Brain and Sane Brain were happy for her decision. They were now one and could go about their business planning what and how to deal with her.

Jeff watched the dingy wind its way through the moorings and around several yachts and small sailboats lined up in the moorings. He waited until he saw they were at the shore before he went below.

He quietly crept into the stateroom where Stephanie had gone to lie down, rest and calm her nerves.

He had the Clairol box behind his back.

He sat on the bed next to her and began stroking her hair. She was lying on her side under the satin covers, but awoke at his touch.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, showing her the Clairol box.

Stephanie smiled and extended her arms, luring Jeff to lie next to her. She kissed him passionately. He got under the sheets and joined her. He used his hands to explore her neck, the outside of her thighs and both sides of her ribcage.

He steered clear of her erogenous zones, wanting to heighten the intensity of their foreplay and prolong the experience.

She was a willing participant in his passion play.

After five minutes of petting, he stood up, took her by the hand and led her into the shower.

He took off his clothes and dropped them on the floor.

She undressed slowly, teasingly, leaving her pants and blouse in a pile next to his.  Before getting into the shower, he mixed the coloring agent with into the bottle of developer.