“You sees all kinds of t’ings. Trawlers, tankers, even cruise ships. And I don’t spend all my days peering out to sea. I’m down in the hold sometimes too.”
“Come on, Liz. You know what I mean. Anything odd? Suspicious? It would be a big help to our investigation.”
The flattery worked. She shrugged in her nonchalant way, but narrowed her eyes as if thinking. While he waited, a vehicle turned off the road onto the pier to the murmur of the crowd, and the guard constable moved his cruiser to allow it access. Chris watched as it drove along the pier and pulled up beside the boat. A man climbed out, carrying a small suitcase. The medical examiner, Chris hoped. Liz watched him too, as he disappeared on board and then turned to Chris with a shrug.
“Maybe a couple of sailing yachts I was surprised to see out that far, some offshore trawlers.”
Chris felt a quiver of interest. “Did they have names? Numbers?”
“Couldn’t see.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Maybe.” She pointed to the large ship moored in front of her father’s boat. “Could be that one, but I couldn’t make out the name. Lots of ships from places I never heard of. If it floats, that’s all that matters.”
The cabin door of the boat opened and Corporal Biggs stuck his head out. “Hey, Tymko!” he shouted. “You got a decent camera on you?”
Chris nodded. “In my truck.”
“You any good with it? Low light and all?”
Chris was already moving, after a hasty thank you to Liz. Within two minutes he was up on the deck, fighting off the stench of fish as he stared at the seething ball of shrimp and netting that was still suspended from the frame above. Bits of foot and arms, and, incongruously, a vividly patterned jacket, were just visible amid the mass.
The doctor was already backing away, pressing his hand to his nose. “Put the biggest tarp you can find underneath, and we’ll empty the net on it. That way, if there are parts of him … ah … loose, we’ll get them all. Then use the hoist to move the whole thing off the boat. Once you get the tarp down on the pier, I’ll have a better look.”
Both the skipper and Biggs went in search of a tarp, leaving Chris alone with the body. He circled it, photographing it from all angles and scrutinizing it for hints as to its identity. He wracked his brains. Would Phil wear such a brightly coloured jacket? Possibly. Many of his clothes had been bought in Asia or Africa. The one visible running shoe was filthy and frayed, providing little protection or comfort.
Chris had just finished photographing when the men arrived back, hauling a large tarp, which they unfolded beneath the net. Chris watched in fascination as they worked the pulleys and tugged the net onto the centre.
“Try to release it slowly,” the medical examiner said. “I don’t want any fingers or toes going flying off the edge.”
A complicated-looking knot held the ball in place. Once released, the bottom of the net burst open, spilling its contents of wriggling pink shrimp all over the tarp. Then came the body, jackknifing open from the ball onto the tarp, its limbs hitting the metal floor with a clunk. Chris had switched to video to capture the whole process, pausing only briefly when the head snapped back and long strands of coarse black hair fell back from the face. He raced forward for a close look at the perfectly preserved face, the Roman nose, high cheekbones, and sunken, nibbled eyes.
Not Phil! He nearly cheered aloud.
“That poor bastard’s been down there no time at all,” said the skipper. “The sea critters have barely started their dinner.”
Corporal Biggs poked the foot gingerly. “Not much rigor mortis, either. Of course, the sea is damn cold. We’ll let the boys in St. John’s figure out —”
He stopped in surprise when a length of thick yellow rope came into view through the cascade of shrimp, one end of it peeking out from the waist of the coloured jacket. A second later the rest of the rope plunged through.
They all stared as a stone anchor crashed to the tarp with a thud.
Chapter Eight
Within seconds, Corporal Biggs was on the phone to the RCMP Major Crimes Unit in Corner Brook for advice on how to proceed. Judging from his tense, red face, Chris suspected Biggs had never faced a murder investigation in which the trail of blood did not lead straight to the perpetrator in the next room.
It was remotely possible that the deceased had not been murdered but had died instead from some misadventure or illness on the boat, and his companions had attempted a primitive burial at sea. If so, of course, they should have reported the death the moment they landed ashore. That was Biggs’s first question to Corner Brook. No such deaths had been reported, Corner Brook replied, and advised him to sit tight until they could mobilize the Major Crimes Unit.
While Biggs was on the phone, Chris rummaged carefully through the man’s pockets, finding nothing other than a sodden paper with some illegible printing scrawled on it. He knew the search went against protocol, but he doubted much forensic evidence would be left on the body after its watery travels. He stuffed the paper back and busied himself taking close-up shots of the body, particularly elements that might help with identification — the garish jacket, the dirty shoes, and, most importantly, the man’s face.
He suspected they were in for a long night. Amanda had already texted him multiple times to ask whether the body was Phil. He was finally able to reassure her.
“Whew!” she replied. “Then who is it?”
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
He was just finishing up the photos when Biggs reappeared. The man seemed calmer now that he had sent the problem higher up. “They’re sending the helicopter over from Moncton to evacuate the DOA to St. John’s, and forensics and major crimes teams will drive up from Corner Brook in the morning to head up the investigation. Meanwhile, they instructed us to bring the body onto the pier so the medical examiner can do a preliminary examination, and to take witness statements from the crew and harbour staff so folks can go home. We’re to keep the scene secured.”
Chris stepped forward. “I can take statements, sir.”
“Let’s get the poor bugger off the boat first.”
It was almost midnight by the time the officers managed to hoist the body, wrapped in the tarp, off the boat deck and onto the pier, where they laid it out under the bright RCMP spotlights. Chris took more photos while the medical examiner, who had been keeping warm in his car, re-emerged for a closer look. He lifted the clothing, moved the body carefully from side to side, and probed it for broken bones and lacerations. Then he took a temperature reading and used a powerful flashlight to look into the man’s eyes, ears, and mouth. Finally he pressed hard on the victim’s chest. Only a faint gurgle and a trickle of foam escaped his lips.
As he worked, he dictated into his iPhone and Chris bent close to catch every word. “Victim is an adult white male estimated age twenty-five to forty years, approximately six feet, thin build. There are no obvious broken bones or signs of trauma, only superficial lacerations on his exposed flesh that appear consistent with marine feeding. He appears malnourished and has had several teeth pulled. Health and dental care seem to have been poor.”
“That goes along with the shoes and clothes,” Chris said to Biggs, who was observing beside him. “This is not a rich guy.”
“Not a tourist, either,” said the skipper. “Look at his hands. Calloused, nails broken off. This feller did hard, dirty labour.” He held out his own hands. “Just like my hands. You never get the dirt and slime out of them.”
“A fisherman, then?” Chris asked.
“Not in them clothes.”
The doctor cast them an annoyed glance