The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (20 page)

"I don't know, did he leave them in your car?"

"Yeah, maybe. Let me check." .

But a quick search of the Toyota truck revealed
nothing.

"How much heavier was the duffel, Jack?" I
asked.

"Lots. Like maybe twice as heavy as this."

"Well, that's what Keegan gave back to us.
Anyway, have a good day, you guys; Mom and I will pick you up for
dinner about s1x."

I drove back to the dorm. Finding nobody there, I
walked over to Water Street and along it until I came to the old
Candle House, a stone building where, in the old whaling days,
candles were manufactured from whale oil and beeswax. Over the front
door is the bow of a model whaling ship. It's sticking out of the
building prow first, with only its front half visible, and gives the
impression that this miniature vessel has just crashed through the
stone wall from inside, as if trying to escape from the building.
Beneath the ship, Moe was standing in the doorway chatting excitedly
with a stocky, red-faced, white-haired guy in a fisherman's bill cap
and rubber hip boots. It was Wayland Smith. Jack had introduced him
to us as Smitty. He was skipper of the collecting vessel
Gemma
and in charge of supplies. Supplies as in fresh creatures from the
ocean. When I saw Moe's excited face, like a kid at his own birthday
party, I should have realized what was about to come down. I should
have been forewarned. Moe was bending Smitty's ear like there was no
tomorrow. They looked up when I approached them.

"C'mon, Doc—you oughta see what Smitty's got
around the corner. Follow me."

He hotfooted it around the corner of the Candle House
and headed for a low wooden building with wide, garage-type doors
that sat in the middle of the MBL's cluster of buildings. The sign I
over the big double doors said DEPARTMENT OF MARINE RESOURCES. I
walked with him; I had to trot to keep up. Then I took a good look at
what Moe was wearing. Roman-style sandals with leather thongs laced
up his calves. Balloon-fit canary yellow shorts with elastic
waistband, and a Hawaiian shirt in shades of lime green, purple,
scarlet, and electric blue, all on a field of deep black. Reminded me
of those Elvis paintings on black velvet. Only worse.

"Where'd you get that shirt?"

"Filene's. Why?"

"It's the worst thing I've ever seen, is why."

"What's wrong wid it?"

Q "What's wrong with it? Everything. Every
possible thing. Nothing horrendous has been left out."

"Oh yeah, well look again."

"I can't; I'll get a retinal hernia."

To save the old blinkers, I looked straight ahead,
saw Joe inside the building, leaning over a big circular brine tank
that sat on the concrete floor. His wide rump stretched out the seat
of his slacks as he bent over. Moe and Joe; what a pair. We walked
inside, where the smell of brine and that heady, muddy, fishy smell
of sea creatures was overpowering. I left my gaily hued friend—who
resembled a bird of paradise in heat—and joined Joe at the wide
tank, which was about four feet deep. A cascade of fresh brine
entered the tank from a four-inch pipe two feet above it, filling the
shed with the constant, echoing sound of splashing water. The
building was cool, dark, and damp. I looked inside the tank and saw a
mass of thick, snakelike creatures thrashing a hula dance around the
perimeter in a counterclockwise circle, like lifers in the exercise
yard of the pen. I almost felt sorry for them, but I didn't; they
were too damn ugly.

"Eels," said Joe, with horror on his face.
"Holy shit; remind me never to eat eel. Aren't they gawdawful?"

"You bet. I had an eel sandwich once in Holland,
before I ever saw one close up. I'll never do that again."

"While you were dropping Jackie off, I called
Paul over in Hyannis. He's getting our friend Slinky up here this
week, he thinks. I said you could come along for the interview."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

"
He also traced the call that Andy made from the
Breakers the night he died. Not much help, unfortunately; it's a pay
phone sitting all by itself on a stretch of road."

"Tough luck. But maybe we can—"

"Doc! Oh Christ! Look!"

Eyes wide, Joe pointed at the brine pipe over the
tank's lip. I was amazed, and horrified, to see a big, blunt-headed
eel emerging from it. The monster wriggled, thrashing its primitive
head from side to side as it slid from the pipe and plopped into the
tank.

"Surprised ya, huh?" said Smitty, who had
walked over to join us. "They'll do that, eels. They're
programmed to swim up estuaries and rivers, since they're all born in
the sea. Our pipe takes water from Eel Pond, and the eels there just
naturally like to swim up the pipe. Neat, eh?"

Joe looked as if he'd swallowed a scorpion.

"Neat? It's about as neat as a bucket of
maggots."

He stomped off, hand held lightly to his mouth. I saw
him cross Water Street and walk over toward the beach, facing the
sea, breathing deep. Smitty, stung by this comment, ambled out onto
the rear dock. I heard excited jabbering in the corner, and turned to
see Morris Abramson holding out a plastic bag, into which a lab
attendant was busy scooping things from the briny deep. Nasty things.
Slimy, flipping, wriggling, horrid things. Lord, say it ain't so . .
.

"Hold it!" I said, interjecting myself
between the two. "Stop right there. Moe, what do you intend to
do with these, uh, specimens?"

He beamed a broad smile at me. The biggest smile I'd
seen on him in ages.

"I'm gonna put 'em in my fish ta—"

"No. No you are not."

His face fell.

"Why not?"

"
Because I will not allow it. Because it's
against the rules. Now behave yourself and put down that plastic bag
and follow me outside. Let's take a walk in the nice weather. Come on
. . ."

"What is dis? Smitty said I coul—"

"He was mistaken. I've checked the rules, Moe,
and the answer is no. These cost a lot to get, and you can't have
them." I took his plastic bag full of writhing bad dreams and
handed it back to the attendant. "If Smitty makes more mistakes
like that, I'm sure they'll fire him. We wouldn't want that now,
would we?"

He just stood there, stunned, so I left him and
joined Joe on the little beach out in front. Joe had his eyes set in
the direction of the big docks, gazing at the lofty spars and rigging
of the barque Westward. As we stood admiring her, I glanced back into
the supply shed and was dismayed to see that Smitty had returned and
was standing at Moe's side. Both men were talking and glancing my
way. Moe was angry, pointing at me, then the tanks. Oh well, one does
what one can.

"Dammit, Joe, I never should've brought Moe down
here. I should've known better. I forget about that damn fish tank of
his for a few days and look what happens. He's like a kid in a candy
store in there. This lab's got every repulsive sea creature known to
man. And then some. And now the guys in there who keep the monsters
alive, who've got to feed 'em and clean up their shit, they've found
a guy who appreciates their work. Know what's gonna happen now? Put
two and two together."

"I know. They're gonna lay every blow-lunch
critter from Davy Jones on him for free, that's what."

"
You got it," I groaned. "Our whole
office wing is going to turn into Barf City."

"Know what, Doc? This place is givin' me the
creeps. I liked it when I first got here, but now, I mean, shit. Eels
comin' outa pipes, for Chrissakes. Who needs it? I mean, you get inna
bathtub, turn on the faucet, a friggin' eel slides out. Who the fuck
needs it?"

"Uh-huh. Know whatcha mean."

"I mean, cut me some slack."

"I'm with you, pal."

"And I'm thinking, looking at the old Cap'n Kidd
bar up ahead, or rather, dead ahead. Isn't that what they say on
boats? Dead ahead?"

"
Uh-huh.”

"—that after what I've been through, what with
taking Jackie up to face the judge and all, and what with eels in the
plumbing and all, that I could use a drink."

"I'm with you, pal."

"Yeah, you're with me, but are you buyin'?"

Off to my left, I heard Moe in the supply shed.

"
No. No, not dat one. Over dere, inna corner,
dat big guy. Yeah, that's it! That fat juicy one—"

Dear God, I thought to myself as I made my weary way
to the swinging doors. Cut me some slack.
 

FIFTEEN

THE NEXT DAY, on Tuesday morning shortly before noon,
Detective Lieutenant Paul Keegan and a local Falmouth cop came to get
Lionel Hartzell. They presented him with his marching orders in his
office in Lillie Hall, where, Keegan later told me, they found him
crouching defiantly behind his heavy work counter in the little
protected niche he'd hollowed in the corner of his office for his
desk and himself.

Joe and I heard the commotion on the stairway as soon
as we went inside the building. There was shouting and cussing and
Paul Keegan's voice giving the old guy warnings. He was a crusty old
coot, I'll give him that. The three of them came fumbling down the
stairs, the young uniformed cop and Keegan flanking old Lionel
Hartzell. The guy was strong, as well as obnoxious. I mean, it took
both of them to hold him until they got him into the cruiser's back
seat. The back seat that was full of surprises, like no inside door
handles or window cranks, with a heavy wire mesh between it and the
front seat. But Keegan had said no cuffs. It would look bad, at the
laboratory and all. I guess I would agree, but the commotion they
made getting the old professor to the car wasn't worth it. If it were
me, I'd have cuffed the guy, and maybe gagged him too. Joe agreed.

The crime lab had found no prints at all on my
mutilated shield. But old Hartzell had made a fatal slip: he'd been
careless with the manila envelope, allowing his thumb to rest
momentarily on the gummed flap before sealing it up. And, Joe
gloated, the only thing that takes a fingerprint better than a gummed
envelope flap is an inked plate at the police station, for
Chrissakes. So after they'd fingerprinted the old buzzard and found a
twelve-point positive make, or perfect match, they'd issued a warrant
for his arrest. We all knew the grounds were tenuous at best. But it
was an arrest, which meant another suspect was on deck, and at a
crucial time. Keegan had orchestrated it. Any doubts I'd had about
him were gone with the wind; it was now clear that he was our friend.

just before they pulled away Hartzell stuck his oddly
shaped gray head up against the closed window and started cussing at
Jack, who was standing next to me. He cussed me, too, for being his
father. He was wearing his tortoiseshell glasses with the thick,
half-moon lenses. With those distorting his eyes, which were large to
begin with, he looked like a huge, enraged toad.

"And I trusted you," he yelled through the
glass, wagging an accusing linger at Jack. "You! Of all the
spoiled kids . . . you were the one I trusted most. You idiots can't
match my brilliance, so you stole my secret. And then you got the
police to take me away so I couldn't finish it! But I'll get back at
you! Don't you worry—"

The car went off into the distance, and with it, the
old man's screams and threats.

"That guy's scary," I said.

"Yeah. I've never seen him like this," said
Jack. "What's going to happen now? Will he have to give a
statement?"

"Uh-huh," said Joe. "But let's not get
our hopes up prematurely. It may result in a probable cause hearing
or a grand jury and it may not. God knows it's no crime to deface a
police badge you happen to find in your office. But the act does show
hostility and the desire for retaliation. And the fact that Hartzell
repeatedly denied any connection with the act will show the court he
lied, that his word's no good."

"It shows something else more important, Joe. It
shows he's sneaky. The kind of guy who would mutilate a personal
belonging and slide it under your door is the same kind of guy who
would slip fatal medication into your shaving kit when you're running
his lab. Get it? In both cases he avoids direct confrontation; he
retaliates indirectly by cunning."

"That's good, Doc. That's real good."

"
Moe thought it up."

"Well, in any event, you guys, this should act
as a diversion. It should take some of the heat off us a while."

"
Can we get Moe up there on the stand as an
expert witness?"

"Eventually, if it comes to trial. Certainly
Moe's pretty convinced, based on his observations and this incident,
that Hartzell's a good bet for this murder."

Thus concluded Paul Keegan's five-day investigation
in Woods Hole. He had uncovered not only motive, misplaced and
misguided as it was, but means as well.

Motive: Lionel Hartzell, who in Moe's judgment was a
classic paranoid schizophrenic, was totally, unshakably convinced
that his data detailing the processes governing the concentration of
silver in marine organisms were being stolen by Andy Cunningham. Who
else but this rude and greedy boy would be so eager to steal his
valuable secrets and sell them to a giant pharmaceutical firm? Of
course, to a person in Hartzell's frame of mind, any revenge was
justifiable and necessary.