The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (13 page)

"Really? Hmmmm. Funny you should mention that.
Jack had some interesting things to say about him on the way down
here. So what do you know?"

"Well, first of all, I'm not trying to paint a
villainous picture here. There was no denying his brilliance, or his
good looks. Or his charming personality, or his drive. Perhaps it's
his drive that I'm touching on here. About two weeks ago, I was
visited by two gentlemen in extremely expensive, well-fitting suits.
One of them was big, so big he looked like a linebacker. In the
privacy of my office, they informed me that Andy owed them a lot of
money in the form of an unpaid loan, and could I please set aside
part of his paycheck to square things?"

"Sounds like they weren't from the local finance
company," said Mary.

"Sounds like maybe they were some of your
countrymen, hon," I said. Immediately, I felt a sharp kick in my
shin. Cork soles notwithstanding, the pain was considerable. She
leaned over close to my ear.

"Next one's gonna be higher up, and right over
home plate,” she hissed in a whisper only I could hear. And then,
in an audible voice as demure as a newly sworn-in nun, she said,
"Please continue, Dr. Hagstrom."

"Uh . . . sure. Well, it didn't take me long to
realize these were underworld characters. I explained that I had
nothing whatsoever to do with Andy's pay. And, as you know, the pay
for graduate assistants is hardly extraordinary. Of course I didn't
want to deal with them, but I was a little worried about what they
might do in the community if their so-called 'loan' wasn't repaid. So
after they left I called Andy, who admitted that he had considerable
gambling debts from card games, racetracks, and casinos in Atlantic
City."

Mary and I exchanged a glance.

"I never found out the actual amount,"
Hagstrom continued, "but I'd guess it was in the thousands. I
hope to God it wasn't in the tens of thousands."

"But why would these guys hit you up?"
asked Mary. "I mean, wouldn't they just put pressure on Andy?
Maybe threaten him?"

"I don't think their visit was for my benefit,
really, Mrs. Adams. Personally, I think they'd already let Andy know
where he stood with them. I think their visit to me was simply to add
emphasis. To make it official, so to speak. I'm pretty sure they knew
I'd speak to Andy. Maybe threaten to let him go if the debts weren't
cleared up. From the way they acted, and from that car they were
driving . . ."

"White Cadillac Eldorado, smoked glass windows,
chrome spoked wheels, continental kit?" I asked nonchalantly.

Hagstrom sat bolt upright. "Hey, that`s exactly
right. How`d you know?"

"Jack told me about a so-called 'friend' of
Andy's from Providence. He mentioned seeing Andy sticking his head
inside the driver's window of a white Caddy. I know the car. Not this
particular one, but the ones like it; there are maybe two hundred of
them in the East. Mary's brother's a detective and he's told me about
the mob's wheels. The Wiseguys outgrew black Caddies back in the
sixties. And of course, the new guys, the young bucks, don't drive
Detroit iron anymore. Wouldn't be caught dead with it. They say that
nowadays Caddies are for the black and Hispanic hoods. No, they want
nothing but high-class kraut, the big Mercedes and Beemers. In off
colors, like coffee and claret. A few choose the big jags. But the
old-time Wiseguys, they love their Caddies. Maybe a Lincoln Town Car
or two thrown in—"

"Cut it out, Charlie!" Mary snapped.

"Anyway," Hagstrom continued, "they
seemed to flaunt the mobster look, you know? They wanted to give the
impression that if this thing with Andy weren't resolved, they were
going to hang around Woods Hole until it was. Can you imagine the
effect that would have on morale here?"

"I see what you mean. So they paraded around
here enough to tarnish the kid's image, then split?"

"Uh-huh. They drove off in the afternoon, around
three. Back to Providence, I guess. The car had Rhode Island plates,
but it was one of those custom-made plates. What are they called?"

"
Vanity plates.”

"Right. I'll never forget the name on it:
SLINKY."

"Slinky? Like those kid's toys?" said Mary.
"Those springy things that walk down stairs?"

"
Uh-huh. SLINKY

"And what did Andy have to say about this?"

"Well, he didn't deny it. And he said that he
wasn't gambling for the love of it, either, but because he was hoping
to turn his meager savings into big bucks."

"Did he say he planned to pay them back?"
asked Mary.

"Oh, he assured me there was no long-range
problem. Of course, in light of what's happened, I felt I had to tell
you."

"Why haven't you gone to the police?" I
asked.

"You mean before now? Why? When I first heard of
the boy's death, it was presented as an accidental overdose of
medication. And by the way, it was medication for a condition that
I—and most of the staff—was unaware of. But a state detective
called me early this morning—"

"Paul Keegan?"

"Right. So you know him. He wants to talk with
me later today, and over the phone he filled me in on Andy's death. I
thought it was a good idea to talk with both of you first."

"And for that, we thank you," said Mary
softly. "We might need all the help we can get on this thing."

I left the chair and paced slowly to and fro on the
carpet. A large vessel must have been entering Woods Hole's Great
Harbor; I heard the faint deep blast of her whistle. The windowpane
rattled.

"Andy was a poor boy, you know," said Mary,
and then proceeded to explain his background to Art. I was uneasy,
and continued to walk around the small room. I lighted a pipe and
puffed and thought. Finally, I spoke.

"I don't think the mob killed Andy," I
said. "For one thing, no matter what he owed them, he was
small-time. The mob only kills big shots, and Andy wasn't one.
Secondly, when we consider the way the murder was done, the ingenuity
behind it, we can rule out the Wiseguys. When they make a hit,
there's nothing subtle about it. We've all heard about the bloated,
stinky corpses found in car trunks. There are stereotypes about the
mob, but like many stereotypes, they have some basis in fact. No:
whoever killed Andrew Cunningham knew him intimately, knew of his
illness and medication, his schedule, everything. The murderer even
had access to his pill case."

Hagstrom shook his head and furrowed his bushy black
eyebrows. "Son of a bitch. Then no wonder it looks bad for
Jack."

I turned, stunned at these words. Mary sat frozen,
looking helplessly at Hagstrom. We both knew he was right. Our
optimism brought about by the sacking of Jack's house was fading.
Facts were facts: in the eyes of the law, Jack was the most likely
culprit.

Hagstrom sensed our distress, and made an valiant but
futile effort to comfort us. We thanked him, and he rose to go.

"If I can be any
help, just come over to my office in the Candle House any time. It's
right on Water Street. By the way, though, I won't be here the next
several days. Four of us from the MBL are going to a conference at
the Jersey shore. You can get the number from my secretary. Goodbye,
and best of luck."

* * *

Ah-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-(weee).
OOOOOO
(wee)!
OOOOOO (wee)!

One long, two short. The ship crept ahead, scarcely
raising a ripple at her prow. Her whistle blasts meant "keep
clear; restricted in maneuverability." The ship eased up to the
WHOI dock. She was the research vessel
Knorr
,
operated by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. It was the same
vessel I'd seen from the motel window minutes earlier.

"Did you see that current kicking up on her beam
out there?" said Jack. "Jeez, that tidal rip hits a
two-hundred footer sideways, it's a bitch to get her moving right.
Did you know she doesn't have a prop? She's got directional hydro
jets. She can—"

"Jack, where's Mom?"

"I don't know. I saw her walking down Water
Street a little while ago. I think she probably went shopping up the
way."

"Thanks. I'm going to go looking for her."

I found her in a boutique looking at batik blouses.
But she wasn't really looking at them; she was picking them up and
flinging them down again.

"I'm so scared, Charlie. I'm so scared all over
again about Jack. I mean, look: here's Arthur Hagstrom, a trained,
educated professional, who's known Jackie for two summers now. Trusts
him like a father. And what does he say right off the bat? 'Whew! No
wonder it looks bad for Jack!' Good Christ, Charlie!"

She was looking down at the pile of cloth. Dark spots
were appearing all over it. I lifted her face up and dried her eyes
with the cuff of my sweat shirt. "Sorry hon," she said, and
sniffed. She was talking with that hiccuppy, squeaky high voice that
women have when they're crying, and blinking away a lot of tears.
Well, it melted me, just like that. Always does.

I gave her a hug, right there in the store, and
kissed her.

We glided out of there and down the street. At the
little drawbridge on Water Street she drew me close and hugged me
hard. I could feel her chest shaking as she cried.

"It'll be okay," I whispered.

"Charlie. Promise me you won't quit the medical
examiner job. Promise me you'll keep it."
 

TEN

ONE GLANCE at Alice Henderson and it was easy to see
why the guys were attracted to her. She was lithe and athletic, a
tall blonde with dark skin and eyes. And only a few minutes with her
convinced me of her mental agility and powers of recollection. We
were sitting on the forward hatch cover of the barque
Westward
,
the most beautiful sailing ship I'd been on in years. A beautiful
woman oh a beautiful ship. I was surrounded by beauty. But it didn't
keep me from the business at hand, and I'm afraid, looking back, that
I put Alice Henderson under a lot of pressure that summer afternoon.
I had to; I wanted to find out the truth, and the digging was bound
to be painful.

She wiped her eyes again and lighted another
cigarette, her fourth in the short time we'd been talking. Between
drags, she was winding her long hair around in her fingers, chewing
on strands of it, shaking it back over her shoulders, and fidgeting
in general.

"Look, I mean what is this, Dr. Adams? I told
you already. I am not trying to frame your son. I am not trying to
put Jack in the hot seat. He's a nice guy. I like him a lot. So why
--"

"Hold on. I never accused you of that, Alice. I
know you had to answer the questions Lieutenant Keegan asked you, and
answer truthfully. You did that. And I admit Jack showed very poor
judgment in not coming clean about the fight earlier on. Having
Keegan discover it later makes him look . . . uh . . . doesn't make
him look good."

"It's all been so . . . terrible . . ." she
said, heaving. Her words came in short, hiccuppy gasps, that ragged
breathing that comes after a lot ol` sobbing. Yes, I did feel sorry
for her. I was feeling sorry for a lot of people these days.
Including, probably, me.

"You loved Andy, didn't you? I'm so sorry."

She looked down at the deck, biting her lip and
nodding, the tears pouring out of her eyes. Behind her, the sky was
deep, dark blue. So blue and dark that you thought you could stare
into it. But right away it hurt your eyes. The sea breeze blew her
hair out, and she wiped her tears away and looked up again. A
gorgeous girl, and this was no way for her to have to spend her
summer.

"Do you want us to drive you down to Providence
for the funeral tomorrow?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"Terry and I are going to drive down. Thanks
anyway. I'm not sure I'd feel . . . comfortable . . . riding down
with Jack."

"Because he might be a murderer?"

"No," she said after a second's hesitation.
I didn't like the pause; it was as if she had to think before
answering. "I'd just feel awkward, and he would too. He probably
thinks I betrayed him."

"l doubt that. Have you talked with Terry about
all this? What does he think?"

"He doesn't think Jack did it, if that's what
you mean. We sat around for a couple of nights trying to figure out
who could've done it. What we came up with, we decided it wasn't
anybody here in Woods Hole."

"How about Lionel Hartzell? They didn't get
along, and Hartzell's training would qualify him for the method."

"Yeah, but we just didn't think it fit.
Hartzell's strange, but he's not that mean. Haven't you talked with
him yet?"

"
No. I've called him, but he refuses to see me.
I know Lieutenant Keegan's talked to him at least once. But I'll see
him one way or another. Right now, I'm waiting for a friend of mine
to come down from Boston and interview him with me. He's a
psychiatrist."

"Well, Terry and I don't think he killed Andy;
we think it's somebody out of Andy's past. Somebody we've never met."