The River Killers (25 page)

“We've lost the element of surprise. Griffith knows there's an investigation going on and he's circling the wagons. I don't know to what degree he's involved but I do know he'll try to stonewall us, just as a reflex if nothing else.”

There was a long silence while Mark looked helplessly around the room. Two old drunks huddled over a table in the opposite corner, glasses of draft half full and hand-rolled cigarettes smouldering between yellow gnarled fingers. They weren't going to help us. I wasn't sure who was.

Mark obviously shared my mood. “Sometimes I feel shitty about something that's going on in my life. Sometimes I feel shitty just for being a human being. Tell me something good.”

I was silent. The waiter glanced at us interrogatively and I nodded. He brought two more pints. We sipped quickly. The two old guys were counting their change, hoping for enough for another round. I waved at the waiter and pointed in their direction. He took them two glasses of draft and pointed at us. They raised their glasses to us and smiled graciously. “That guy on the left? He used to run the
Miss Evelyn
.”

“You're right. One of the last of the Bering Sea highliners. Brought enough halibut into Rupert to keep two shifts going at the plant.”

We sat in silence and finished our beer. Mark gestured for another round. “When I was a kid, I was forever banging my head or scraping my knee. I always ran to my Mom and she always made it better. Always. When you're an adult, there's no one to make it better.”

“But we can stop the bleeding. That's important.”

“The way I feel right now, I'd rather
cause
some bleeding. I know the type of people we're dealing with. They're arrogant and selfish and stupid. They hurt people on purpose or by accident. Either way, they don't give a fuck. I'd like to hang them by the balls with number eight trolling wire.”

“Why number eight?”

“Number six wouldn't cinch up and number ten would slice right through under the weight.”

This was better. Anger was much more positive than depression. “Louise and I are eating at Vi's. We can cab it in ten minutes. Why don't you join us?”

“Sure. But we can't talk about this. Okay?”

“Good idea. We've got time for one more.”

“Good idea.”

Two good ideas in a row. Things really were looking up. By the time we got to Vi's, we were thirsty again but wisely switched to vodka. When Louise arrived twenty minutes late, we were confident enough to attempt brain surgery but sensible enough not to try it on each other. “I'm not even going to try to catch up to you two. I suggest we switch to more solid fare. Follow me.”

She conferred with the hostess, who led the way to a table by the window. Louise arranged herself in her chair gracefully while Mark and I somehow attained seatedness. “There's nothing new on my end and I need a break from the case. Why don't you tell me some fishing stories?”

I looked at Mark and laughed. “I'll tell you how I first met Mark. It's sort of a fishing story.”

“Definitely not a love story,” he growled.

“We were up in Rupert. I needed a job because I'd walked off Pete Jacobs' boat. Creek-robbing son of a bitch. I knew Mark needed someone because his crew was always quitting. He wasn't catching much fish in those days. Mark didn't know I needed a job, so when I ‘accidentally' ran into him in the bar, I let him know that I knew the top end of the straits pretty good, and my Dad taught me how to fish the North Shore, and Mark got all excited and offered me a job.”

Mark snorted but I ignored him. “But I played hard to get. Held out for a signing bonus, just like Gretzky. Told him I wanted a new pair of Helly Hansen gumboots. Eighty bucks, at least. And he gave them to me.”

Mark raised a finger. “What the all-star here didn't realize was that the boots were mine but they were way too big. So I got him for a pair of used boots.”

“They fit me just fine. Goes to show you never could fill my boots.”

Louise laughed. Mark shook his head. I waved for another round.

Our first course arrived: steamed mussels, fish chowder, and crab salad. Mark had had the foresight to order a decent white wine, so we sipped moselle and shared our starters.

Mark tried for revenge. “Remember that time you turned the radar on because you thought it was foggy but it was just Christine boiling crabs and steaming up the window?”

“The visibility was bad. Would you rather I didn't turn on the radar?”

“You could have wiped the inside of the windows.”

“Well, that was one option. I preferred to utilize modern technology.”

I poured everyone some more wine as the waitress brought our main courses. I examined my bacon-wrapped tuna reverently. “Hey skipper, remember that time you were talking to your wife on the
VHF
and you forgot to turn the deck speakers off? I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

I laughed as Mark cringed. And so the evening passed in banter and bullshit. When it was time to leave, I looked expectantly at Louise and she asked if I was staying with Mark that evening, and I realized I was. I walked her to her car and we allowed ourselves a goodnight kiss, which became something else entirely: a good-to-know-you-tonight-and-for-many-tomorrows kiss. After that, there was nothing to say.

When I woke up, it
took me awhile to realize I was on Mark's boat. We came to a mutual decision to skip breakfast, and after a medicinal shower, I left. I phoned Louise from the backseat of a cab. “Good morning.”

“It is for me. How about you?”

“I feel like my body is revolting.”

“Not as revolting as Jabba the Hut.”

“Thank you. I'll be there in ten minutes and I expect to be comforted.”

Comfort came in the form of a long, wordless hug. Wordless at least until Louise enquired as to whether or not I looked as bad from my side of my eyeballs as I did from hers.

“I may have over-indulged last night.”

“You and Mark needed to blow off some steam. Actually, you were both quite funny. I enjoyed the evening.”

I loved this woman more with each passing millisecond. “Is Tommy around? We need to do an update.”

We found Tommy in the cafeteria, gazing thoughtfully at a large muffin. I pulled out a chair and straddled it cop-style, resting my forearms on the back. Tommy looked impressed.

“I assume Louise told you that I was going to meet with Bette Connelly yesterday.”

“Yeah, how'd that go? How much did you tell her?”

“Nothing. She was with some
PR
twerp who's trying to do damage control. He's been sicced onto us by Griffith and he wants me to guide you guys away from trouble: trouble for
DFO
, that is. But Bette did volunteer one piece of information. There was an invoice she'd seen from the early days of the sockeye project. It was for a lot of money, which is why she remembered it, but she couldn't remember what it was for. It finally came to her: one hundred thousand dollars' worth of miniaturized radio transmitters.”

“That fits,” Louise said.

“Bette phoned me later, and I hinted that there was serious shit happening and we needed to overcome some trust issues. Bette's smart. She can read between punctuation marks. She opened up about how she got that job. It was old-fashioned nepotism. Griffith was pushing a different candidate. She doesn't owe him anything. So she'll be here at five o'clock, at which time I'd like to fill her in and give her Crowley's files to decipher. But whatever happens here, she's sworn to secrecy.”

Louise and Tommy stared at each other for at least a minute. Tommy pursed his lips, Louise shrugged slightly, and Tommy nodded imperceptibly. “You handled that well, Danny. You didn't give out any info and you picked some up. Good investigative instincts. And that's what a lot of this is about. Instinct. I want to meet this Connelly woman and we'll go from there. Next item: those five names from the personnel list that I was supposed to check out? No joy. Everyone's got a solid alibi. One's in hospital, a couple were at conferences, dinner with friends, etcetera. Pretty rock-solid stuff.”

“Shit!” I was disappointed and frustrated. “I was sure that was a hot trail. I think . . .” My phone rang. It was Cecil Brown in Bella Bella.

“Hey, Danny. What's shaking?”

“A procedure involved in gillnetting herring. What's up?”

“I've been reading over Crowley's logbook. There's nothing unusual except for one little thing, and it's really bugging me. Last year, according to the log, he was fishing prawns on May 6. But the prawn season didn't open until May 8. I double-checked. So either Alistair didn't know the correct opening date, unlikely, or as an ex-
DFO
guy, he chose to fish before the opening. Even more unlikely.”

“You're right. That
is
weird. I don't have my copy with me. What does that May 6 entry say?”

“The usual sort of thing. Left Yeo Cove 0600. Arrived Duck Rock 1300. Set one string. Picked up 1700. That sort of thing. Nothing suspicious except it's two days before the opening.”

“I'll get my copy and look it over. It must mean something. Okay, thanks Cecil. If you hear anything else, give me a call.”

“Roger on that. By the way, Rose Wilson is wondering if there's anything new on Crowley's death. I don't think she ever bought the suicide theory.”

“We haven't got anything definite yet. We're working on it.”

I hung up and relayed Cecil's information to my colleagues. Tommy said he'd leave us to it and went over to confer with a uniformed cop who'd just come in.

Back in Louise's office, she opened the evidence locker and handed me the log. We sat down side by side, and I opened it to May 6, 1993. It was laid out as Cecil had said and as I remembered: basically dates, times, geographical locations, and catch numbers. Each daily entry followed the same basic format.

May 6

0607: left base

1312: set one string, Duck Rock

1718: picked up, 20 lbs large, 6 lbs jumbo

1802: set two strings, 80 fm hole

2214: picked 1st string—55 lbs large

2321: picked 2nd string—52 lbs large, 15 jumbo

2317: dropped hook, Turner Bay

We stared at the page for a long time. “See anything weird, Danny?”

“No. Those catch numbers are realistic. Have you got Nobeltec on your computer? I'll check Duck Rock and Turner Bay.”

“What's Nobeltec? Map software? I don't have it but one of the techs will. Let's go see Gunther.”

Gunther indeed had Nobeltec on his computer. We flashed it up and I found Duck Rock and Turner Bay. Nothing unusual. There was nothing left to do but wait for Bette to show up.

Bette arrived five minutes late, looking competently corporate in a navy blue suit. Louise and I greeted her in the lobby and led her to a conference room where Tommy waited. After introducing Tommy, Louise gestured to the chairs and we all sat down. Tommy led off. “Thanks for coming, Ms Connelly. I know you understand the seriousness of this situation and we value your cooperation.”

Bette folded her hands in her lap and looked squarely at Tommy. “I understand that you're investigating a murder, or murders, and that takes priority over
DFO
departmental concerns. I also understand that there's reason to believe that certain elements within
DFO
may be involved in various activities that impinge on the case. Nevertheless, I'll help in whatever way I can.”

“We understand that you're exposing yourself and we appreciate what you've done.” Louise paused. I stared at her. She looked at Tommy. Things hung in the balance.

A decision was made. “There is something else you could assist us with, information that could be highly sensitive, and of course we must request confidentiality.”

Louise and Tommy didn't know Bette, didn't know the normal mobility of her face and gestures. She sat rigid now and I could read her tension. “Danny alluded to the fact that the situation had deteriorated, that there were aspects other than the murders, God help us. I presume it's all to do with Crowley's work at the lab. I need to know the worst. Not want to know, but
need
to know.”

“Of course. Danny?”

I exhibited the classic startle response. “Yeah, okay, well, here's the deal, Bette. Crowley and his colleagues produced a race of sockeye that spends its entire life cycle in the waters around Bella Bella. That includes saltwater spawning. We caught some. They all carry radio tags that transmitted to a collecting facility in Codville Lagoon. Our bad guy burnt it, but there's lots of evidence left. The environmental risks are profound, not to mention that it violates international law.”

There was silence. I felt sorry for Bette. She'd worked her entire adult life for
DFO
, worked hard and climbed the ladder, taken pride in the good things she'd been part of and shrugged off the crap. She'd just found out Santa Claus was a pedophile and Lassie had torn Bambi's guts out. She hunched a bit, one hand over her mouth and the other arm across her stomach. “They were so smart,” she said once she'd collected herself. “People called Crowley a genius. Maybe he was. But he was arrogant and, in a way, callous. They were like a whole team of idiot savants who had no concept of consequences. And maybe there was just too much testosterone. They saw it as a big competition and that makes for bad research, at best.” She looked down again, spoke quietly, sounding tired. “What do you need from me?”

“I found Crowley's computer. I guess he'd hidden it so the bad guy couldn't get it. It's got lots of files on it, I'm sure they're all to do with the experiment. But they're gobbledygook, created in some program that won't read normally. We need you to decipher them.”