Bunker 01 - Slipknot (3 page)

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had fled, I understood that my retreat north was every bit as calculated as hers had been.

As I brushed by the sobbing, overdressed woman whose face was buried in the neck of a consoling bystander, I heard single chopped syllables staggering through all her gulps and sniffles. From what I could piece together of the almost unin-telligible hysteria, I knew that, at least in the mind of one woman, this death was not a simple drunken misstep off a dock. Something had “gone . . . too . . . far.”

Alex and Eddie, I learned from Cal, were high school students fulfilling their civic requirements for graduation; they were also sons of two of Green Haven’s most prominent cod fishermen. The sobbing woman was Alex’s mother. The boys were working as a team to maneuver a backboard type of stretcher alongside the corpse. Cal joined the two in rolling Nick Dow onto the clean white sheet covering the thin mattress on the board while the sheriff and Clyde held the opposite side of the stretcher, keeping it from sliding away on the slippery rocks. The body slowly shifted from stomach to side and flopped bluntly onto its back in the middle of the mattress, giving me my first formal introduction to the face belonging to the man I was struggling to remain disinterested in.

The air was still—even the gulls went mute. The five men surrounding the stretcher stiffened and immediately backed away. Spooked, Clyde Leeman stumbled and fell on his rear end, then crawled quickly away like a crab, his eyes fixed on what looked like a blood-filled hole in the middle of the deceased’s otherwise stark white forehead. “He—he—he’s been sh—sh—shot!” Clyde stuttered.

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As naturally as the men had scrambled to distance themselves from the horror of murder, I moved in close with my camera clicking. The sheriff was on his radio, calling for assistance from the state police, as Ginny Turner tried unsuccessfully to pry her employees away from the scene and to their various jobs in and around the plant. A mixture of relief and disappointment was shared as I flicked the limpet from the deceased’s forehead. “Relax, folks. It’s just a seashell,” I said, impressed with my authoritative tone. The entire crowd let out a sigh. I zoomed in on the green campaign-style button pinned to the victim’s chest. I pulled out my notebook and sketched the pin with the same block letters: yes!; the “Y” was artfully drawn windmill blades. Just as I added a dot to complete a question mark, a shot rang out that momentarily stifled the chaotic motion and buzz surrounding the onlookers, now speculators and surmisers. I instinctively hit the deck by diving onto the beach. I rolled for cover behind a large rock and reached for the gun that I no longer carried. All jaws dropped, and eyes were on this strange woman lying in the seaweed.

Stunned and confused, I remained behind the shelter of the boulder, gathering my wits. Cal approached slowly with both palms up, as if to say, “I’m unarmed.” He offered me his large hand, which I gratefully accepted. He helped me to my feet and said, “That was the cannon shot signaling the start of the codfish season.” I tugged my jacket back into place and pulled a tendril of hair from my eyes, tucking it neatly behind an ear. After making certain that the only damage I had sustained was to my ego, Cal added, “You ain’t in Florida anymore, girlie.”

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by the time Nick Dow’s corpse had finally and officially been pronounced dead by the county coroner, who had driven all the way from Bangor, it had been in and out of the bakery truck four times that I had counted. I couldn’t avoid a silent comparison of Dow, all tucked in and shrouded by the traditional white sheet, to a loaf of bread being shoved in and out of an oven. When the bakery ambulance refused to start, it was towed off the dock behind a pickup truck fully loaded with a tower of lobster traps that until now I had assumed were nothing more than very popular lawn ornaments. This small town just kept getting smaller, I thought. The stack of traps pulling the bread van was followed away by the sheriff, a state police car, and a handful of kids on bicycles. From what I could gather, this was the only funeral procession Nick Dow would have.

The morning air was so clear that it hadn’t taken long for the sun, now well above the horizon, to penetrate and soften patches of sand between the ledges steeping in the tepid yellow light. This June sunshine infused the mud, barnacles, and seaweed with warmth enough to send wafts of musty air

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in the opposite direction. The incoming tide licked rings of salt from rocks along the shore and quenched its thirst in pools that had been left by the last ebb. Herring gulls left perches and worked feverishly over a school of bait fish that simmered in a malformed oval of the harbor’s surface off the end of the pier.

As the last bicyclist pumped, crested, and vanished over the hill, the scene changed dramatically from chaos to all business. Cal Dunham was able to resume his duties as plant foreman and chased all employees off to their various jobs.

As much as I wanted to pay Audrey a visit at the coffee shop and hear all of the scuttlebutt surrounding Dow’s death, I diligently stuck to the task at hand. I had been sent to the plant to perform the primary steps of a total value assessment and safety survey. Eastern Marine Safety Consultants hired itself out to insurance companies needing surveys, research, and other information pertinent to insure, reinsure, or settle claims. I was low man on the totem pole, performing the leg-work and making no decisions. Wishing to retain my new job and paycheck, albeit meager, I pulled the checklist from my bag and got busy. Although it was difficult for me to generate any excitement about my new career, I did have a spotless work ethic and a tendency to be a perfectionist. In doing appropriate homework, I had basically memorized the entire Occupational Safety and Health Administration website and every link to and from, so I felt relatively comfortable in spite of my lack of experience. OSHA set all federal guidelines for safety in the workplace, and I had been told I should consider their standards the Bible.

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A hydraulic winch (no visible emergency shutoff ) hummed as it pulled blue plastic crates from the ocean and placed them one at a time on a digital scale (power cord exposed to elements) where two men (not wearing hard hats) worked together stacking the crates onto pallets (loaded beyond capacity) lifted and carried away gently by the tines of a fork truck (no clearly marked, designated traffic area). Each pallet of crates was delivered to the back of a waiting eighteen-wheeler where a husky man (inadequately clothed) in the refrigerated box worked expertly with a pallet jack (ergonomic nightmare) maneuvering dripping pallets (dangerously slippery—

no nonskid) to fully utilize the tight (not properly lighted) space and fully load the truck. Okay, I thought, too much information. I might never get beyond this one workstation!

Perhaps just a walk-through inspection with general com-ments would suffice for now. So I proceeded without the notebook and checklist and tried to get an overall feel for the safety of the work environment. I fought the urge to make a note of the absence of fire extinguishers and first aid equipment and, before I knew it, was making my way around much quicker.

Tons of fresh herring were sucked through a giant straw-like duct from the belly of a boat at the side of the wharf as diesel fuel was pumped back aboard through a smaller rubber hose. The simultaneous pumping on and off came in surges of differing cadence, creating a syncopated beat to which the rhythm of the plant kept pace. From the other end of the duct, shimmering silver and blue cigar-sized fish leaped like spawning salmon onto a belt that conveyed them

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through a stainless steel tunnel where they exited caked with salt. At the end of the belt, freshly salted herring fell into drums marked bait. After a drum had filled, it was whisked away by a young man wielding a hand truck. An empty drum replaced the one in motion at the end of the belt before even a single fish dove to the concrete floor. Impressed with the smooth operation, I winced at the thought of how much electricity the place used. No wonder seafood is so expensive, I thought.

With the back of my hand, I parted the heavy strips of plastic hanging from the top of an extra-wide door frame and entered the plant. Still-steaming crabs were plunged from stainless steel vats into ice water and dumped onto a drain board lined on either side by women armed with miniature steel mallets and delicate picks resembling dental tools. The women brandished the picking tools with amazing speed and dexterity. Although I saw no headphones, each woman along the table appeared to be working to an individual and personal beat. Half-pint containers that filled quickly with tidbits and shreds from crab bodies were topped with whole clumps from sections of arms and claws placed artistically before covers were snapped and sealed. Clams were shucked and fish were filleted. Packers, sealers, and stackers all performed their parts with the grace of dancers. Hand trucks, pallet jacks, and forklifts transported product to and fro with the comfortable, calculated near-collisions of a synchronized trapeze act.

Amid the bustle of the plant activity, I became the answer to the question “What’s wrong with this picture?” My mauve-on-plum mosaic blouse tucked into low-waisted s l i p k n o t

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khaki bell-bottoms looked quite flashy among the white over black topped with hairnets. Like a marble thrown into the gears of a machine, I zigged and zagged abruptly to stay out of the way while snapping a few pictures. Through an unmarked exit, I stepped from the cool fluorescence of the inner plant into the warm sunlight of the wharf. Extending from the back of the plant was a very large plastic duct about two feet in diameter. This was the gurry chute, from which spilled gallons upon gallons of bloody and gut-filled liquid with its unique stench into the harbor. Good thing I’m not working for the EPA, I thought as I backed away from the gory mess. “Watch yourself, dear,” the man controlling the hydraulic winch warned as a crate of lobster brushed the top of my head, parting my hair. I apologized for being in the way and moved into the path of an oncoming forklift laden with boxes marked frozen mackerel. The forklift driver hit the brakes, sending his cargo to the pavement, where box tops flew and hundreds of mackerel stiff with frost skidded, attempting one last splash.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I again apologized. I stooped to collect the mackerel that had come to rest around my feet. The driver cheerfully began repacking his load, forbidding my help. I gladly stepped aside, and within minutes the frozen mackerel were again boxed and en route. I marveled at the pace and productivity of all that went on around me. It was a sweatshop environment—I wondered why the employees appeared so happy. These people may have been at a loss when confronted with a dead body, I thought, but they were certainly handy with dead fish.

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Having completed the tour with minimal necessary measurements, notes, and photographs of Turners’ Fish Plant, I had more than I needed to file a report. I wondered if I would be asked to investigate the scene of Dow’s death. Probably wishful thinking on my part. Although I agreed with Cal Dunham’s opinion that no suit would be filed with regard to a wrongful death, as there were no known beneficiaries, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being swept under the rug. The state police officer, also a member of the Dunham family, had assured me that there would be no autopsy, since they suspected no foul play, and only a routine toxicology report would be done, as required by state law.

That report, everyone concurred, would show only what they already knew: Nick Dow was a lush. But the degree to which his skull had been smashed indicated, to me at least, a very long fall before hitting bottom. I could not buy it. Something was wrong here.

Ducking around a corner to the edge of a parking area, I placed a call to my boss, Mr. Dubois, who was quick to remind me that I was no longer a criminal investigator. I disliked having to report to a boss after so many years of being trusted with much more responsibility, and I understood that the boss was uncomfortable with me as well. It seemed that upper management had drawn straws, and Mr. Dubois had chosen the short one. He was stuck with me. Since Ginny Turner had requested the presence of an insurance representative, he had said that this was an opportunity to update the file as well as to inspect the plant operation for OSHA requirements. That a body had been discovered just as I had s l i p k n o t

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arrived to perform a survey was not a calling or a sign, he said.

In fact, he was adamant that the death was none of my concern. He went on to explain that Ginny, whose original intention in calling the insurance agency had been to increase the value of the plant’s policy, had called again early this morning, when the body was discovered, to cover her ass and avoid any financial outlay. I heeded his warning that Ginny would not be pleased with the resulting list of required upgrades to bring her business into compliance with new, stringent regulations. These changes, costly to the plant owners, would protect the insurance company in potential future claims. And “we” had been hired and paid by the insurance company, he scolded. According to protocol, Turners’

would be given one month to make all necessary changes or risk being dropped from insurance coverage. This development was not news I was eager to deliver to the Ginny Turner I had come to know thus far, but I had my marching orders.

After claiming a low cell phone battery, I almost hung up on Mr. Dubois as he continued to lecture me.

The boss was probably right, I reasoned. I was no longer a criminal investigator. That part of my life had been left down south. Perhaps the right thing to do was to notify the state police with my doubts. They would likely send a detective to investigate, and I could be a Good Samaritan. I had all the photographs of the scene, and I was sure that Cal would co-operate by answering any questions. I quickly dialed Information and was connected to the state police. Following three automatic voice prompts, I was greeted by a human being who claimed to be the detective whose territory included