Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (7 page)

Tim spoke up. “The captain’s right. They won’t be coming unless there’s an impending crisis.”

DuLac turned to George. “Would you serve breakfast at nine o’clock as planned? And could you make us some hot coffee before you go back to bed?”

“Aye, Captain.” George glanced toward the body once more before heading down to the galley.

“Scott, you can go back to bed, but when Brie is finished up here, I’m going to call you to stand watch with me for the rest of the night. I’d like two people on deck until morning.”

“Aye, Captain,” Scott replied.

DuLac turned to Tim Pelletier next. “Tim, I’ll need your help as well. Would you plan to be on deck at 6:30 a.m.? We’ll have to move the body, and possibly get it to shore, if the Coast Guard can’t get here.”

“I’ll be glad to help in any way I can, Captain,” Tim answered.

“That’s all for now,” DuLac said. “I’ll see you all at breakfast.”

The passengers silently filed back to the companionways and disappeared down to their cabins. DuLac overheard Rob asking Alyssa, in a concerned way, if she was all right. Their voices drifted off before he could hear her reply.

Fortunately, Brie had grabbed her rain slicker when she dashed out of the cabin, but the wool socks on her feet were soaked from the water on the deck, and the cold was creeping up her body. DuLac was in bare feet, wearing a set of waterlogged sweats. And although the rain had slacked off temporarily, the wind coming off the bluff above their anchorage chilled them through and through.

“You go below, Brie, and get into some dry clothes. I’ll stay up here until you get back. George should have some fresh coffee for us soon.”

Brie nodded. “I’ll be back as quick as I can. I just need to get my camera and notebook. Would you ask George if he has some small paper bags and a few zipper baggies?”

“Sure,” John responded.

“Oh, and do you, by chance, have any sort of magnifying glass?”

“I have one I use for chart reading. It’s down in my cabin. I’ll grab it.”

“That’ll be great.” Brie turned and walked aft.

Down in her cabin, she peeled off the wet socks and pulled on a pair of dry jeans, followed by the pants to her foul-weather suit. She put on dry wool socks and slipped her feet into her rubber loafers. Then she clipped on her gun, grabbed her camera bag out of the corner, and removed her Nikon and large flash. She removed the SD card and loaded a blank one into the camera.

Next she pulled a small cosmetic case out of her duffel, located her tweezers and dropped them into her raincoat pocket. From her shoulder bag Brie retrieved a pocket tape recorder that she had started carrying after she was shot. One of the psychologists had suggested that she talk into it daily about what she was feeling. It was one of the things she had actually found helpful, so she’d kept on with it. She placed the recorder in her raincoat. She’d given up on the idea of a note pad when she heard the rain start again. Brie hung the camera around her neck, put on her raincoat, and left the cabin.

As she emerged from the companionway and started forward, a violent gust of wind charged past her out to sea, threatening death to sailors in its path. DuLac was standing at the port rail near Pete’s body. He turned as she approached, and in the lantern light she saw the hint of a tired smile.

“I feel responsible for this,” he said.

“You’re not, though,” Brie said. “Sometimes bad things just happen, and much as we’d like to stop them, we can’t.”

He gripped the rail, staring into the darkness. “It goes with the territory of being a captain—you’re responsible for everything aboard your ship.”

Brie nodded, knowing how he felt. “I used to feel responsible every time my partner and I would get to a call too late and find someone dead. I had to learn how not to do that or the guilt would have crippled me—kept me from doing my job. It took a long time before I could separate my emotions from a crime scene. What you’re experiencing is normal. Just give yourself some time to deal with all this. Okay?”

“I’ll try,” John said.

“You should go below now and get into some dry clothes. You’ll feel better. I’ll start photographing the scene.” Brie removed the lens cap and slipped it into her pocket.

“I’m going to radio the Coast Guard about the murder. They’ll need to pick up the body.” But he knew with the seas out there, help wouldn’t be arriving very soon. “Tim’s right—if no one’s in immediate danger, any distress call at sea will take precedence over ours. And having you aboard somewhat stabilizes the situation. Even though you’re out of your jurisdiction, you’re still a police officer.”

John looked down at Pete’s lifeless form. “I can’t believe one of the people sleeping below deck right now could have done this. It scares me. What can we do to keep the others safe?”

“Aside from being watchful, I’m not sure. Being stuck aboard the ship in this remote place doesn’t give us a lot of options. At least the killer can’t escape; nowhere to go.” She didn’t speculate any further, but instead attached her flash to the camera and snapped off the first two shots.

George stuck his head out of the galley companionway. “I have coffee, Captain, and here are those bags you wanted, Brie.”

“Thanks, George,” she said, setting them down in a dry corner.

“Just leave the coffee on the table down in the galley,” DuLac said. “We’ll get to it in awhile. You go back to bed now.” He turned to Brie. “I’ll be back up in a few minutes. Are you okay by yourself, or should George stay?”

“You go on, George. I’ll be fine.”

George headed back down to his berth.

“I need the flashlight left on the deck. Right there,” Brie said, indicating the spot. “And don’t worry, John. I’m wearing my gun.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “I forgot about that. I’m glad you’ve got it with you.”

“So, I’m fine here,” she said. “You go ahead and get changed.” She understood his concerns, but she wanted to be alone. At this point she needed to carefully take in the details of the scene without distractions. She looked through the viewfinder, adjusted the lens to zoom in more tightly on the body, and snapped off two more shots.

Brie continued photographing the crime scene, moving around the body to cover all possible angles, taking a total of twenty-four close-up and slightly wider angle shots. She had just put the camera down in the galley when John arrived back on deck, wearing his rain gear. His face was grim.

“Well, we won’t be calling the Coast Guard tonight. The radio transmitter’s been tampered with. It’s not working.”

Brie looked surprised. “How can that be? The transmitter is in your cabin. You were sleeping when...”

John caught the look that barely registered on her face. “Unless I killed him—then taking out the radio would have been easy. Right?”

“Unfortunately, in a situation like this, everyone remains a suspect until they’re cleared,” Brie said uncomfortably. “But let’s assume you didn’t do it. What would the other possibilities be? How about during dinner—who was the last one to arrive?”

“That would be me again,” John said with a chuckle. “Things aren’t looking good in my defense.” He took a magnifying glass out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here, you wanted this.”

“Thanks,” Brie said, putting it in a pocket. She picked up the flashlight and began carefully scanning the area around the body as she worked her way in toward it. “Scott and Pete both went up on deck when the fisherman came out. Scott was alone when Pete came down to get the money,” she speculated. “But it was only for a couple of minutes.”

“It doesn’t take long to disable the radio if you know your way around it,” John said. “Anyone on the crew could do it.”

“Who was the last one on deck tonight when we found Pete?” Brie asked.

“Howard and Will arrived last, I think.” DuLac was silent for a minute while he mulled over the possibilities. “I didn’t go to my cabin right away when everyone retired last night. I talked to George in the galley for awhile as he made the coffee. I guess anyone could have slipped down there then.”

“That would indicate premeditation,” Brie said. She pulled the small recorder out of her pocket, turned it on and began recording a running commentary of the scene before her as she looked for clues. “Wednesday, May 14th, 3:45 a.m. The victim is Peter McAllister, age 28, second mate aboard the schooner
Maine Wind
. The body was found at 3:15 a.m. by Alyssa Lindstrom, a passenger. Condition of the body and color of the victim’s skin indicate a time of death somewhere between 1:30 and 3:15 a.m. The victim was stabbed with a marline spike—approximately ten inches in length. A rope wrapped around the victim’s neck, as well as abrasions on the neck, indicate that the victim was strangled and that the assailant attacked from behind.” Brie bent closer to the body and, using the flashlight, inspected the abrasions on Pete’s neck. Then she carefully took the rope from around his neck and placed it in one of the paper bags that George had provided. She folded the top over and put it in one of her large outer pockets. The rain started down again, hard, and with each gust of wind the ship creaked and groaned.

Brie worked her way meticulously over the body and the surrounding area. She was conscious of the captain watching her as she continued collecting evidence and recording her observations. Using her tweezers, she scraped slight traces of black fiber from under the fingernails on Pete’s right hand into one of the baggies and zipped it closed. Inspecting the area closest to the body, she noticed a thick white rubber band lying near Pete’s left hand.

“Do you know why this might be here?” she asked, illuminating it with the flashlight and looking up at John. The blustery conditions made it hard to communicate.

John squatted down. “It’s a band used on lobsters’ claws so they’re safe to handle,” he said over the wind. “Pete had dozens of them in all different colors. He’d devised this method of weaving them into things.”

“Of course. I saw him doing that on deck one night and asked him about it. He said it was just an odd hobby he’d invented to pass the time, since he didn’t much like reading and didn’t play an instrument like Scott.”

“That one must have fallen out of his pocket in the struggle,” John speculated. “Or he may have been playing with it when he was attacked.”

Brie felt in Pete’s raincoat pocket and discovered a stash of lobster bands. She picked up the one on deck with her tweezers, bagged it, and dropped it into her pocket. She continued her painstaking inspection of the body and its surroundings for another fifteen minutes. When she was satisfied that she had recorded all her observations and collected any evidence present, she turned to John.

“We can cover him now. I’ll check for evidence underneath the body when we move it in the morning. Do you have a tarp on board?”

“Down in the storeroom. I’ll go get it.”

John was back up in a couple of minutes with the tarp. He helped Brie drape it over the body and tuck it securely underneath so the wind wouldn’t blow it off.

“That should work for the next couple of hours,” he said, standing up and stepping back. There was a moment of awkward silence as they stood over Pete’s corpse. At length John murmured, “Lord, bring him to a safe and peaceful rest.”

“Amen,” Brie said softly.

As they turned away, John put an arm behind Brie. “I could stand some coffee,” he said, looking down at her. “Will you join me?”

“Sure,” said Brie. “It’ll feel good to get out of this wind and rain.”

They descended to the galley, where George had left a kerosene lamp burning and a carafe of coffee on the table with two mugs. Alongside was a plate covered in plastic wrap with what looked like banana bread on it.

Brie collapsed onto one of the benches behind the table. She felt the familiar pressure of the holstered gun at her side, but it offered little reassurance. After all, it hadn’t saved Phil. DuLac pulled a short wooden stool out of the galley and sat across from her. They both reached for the mugs, and John poured out coffee for both of them. With a tired gesture Brie pushed the hood off her head and leaned back against the ship’s hull. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. A shiver ran through her, as much from the crime scene she’d been poring over for an hour as from the effect of the mug on her cold hands.

“I can’t imagine doing that kind of work for long without burning out.” John took a large gulp from his mug as he studied her. “Is that why you took a leave?” He watched a shadow pass over Brie’s lovely eyes. When she started to speak, there was a hollowness in her voice.

“My partner and I were heading back from a crime scene one night. An intruder call came across the radio. We were nearby, so we responded. We entered the house. He came out of nowhere. Phil lunged in front of me. Took the bullet.” Her sentences came in short bursts like gasps for air. “I woke in the hospital. The bullet had passed through Phil, killing him, and lodged in my left side—an inch from my heart.”

John saw the torment in her eyes.

“It should have been me. Phil had a wife and a young son. I had no one.” Brie looked at her coffee, unable to lift it, her arms weighted down by her words.

John spoke quietly. “The instinct to save another is very strong in good people.” He reached out and took her hand, hoping to bring her back from that dark place. The
Maine Wind
creaked in the silence.

“After I healed up, I went back on duty. Thought I could work through my anxiety. Then the dreams started, and I began reliving that night more often. So I got counseling. They told me it was post-traumatic stress disorder—you know, like the soldiers get. They gave me lots of strategies for dealing with the panic attacks, but none of it worked very well. So, I took a leave. The irony of all this is that I came to Maine, to the sea, to get as far away from my work as possible. Hopefully gain a new perspective. And here I am again, in the thick of it.”

“Unfortunately, evil never takes a leave.”

“Most people think of my work in the field of criminology as something dark and macabre.” She looked down at her hands on the mug. “It’s not, entirely.”

John watched her for a moment. “Revealing the truth… it’s noble work, Brie.”