Dana Stabenow - So Sure Of Death

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?” She recollected herself. “Molly? The kids?”

“I'm afraid not,” he said regretfully, watching with interest as more color washed from her face. “I really can't say any more, Tanya.” She remained still, staring at him, and he said gently, “Your boss?”

She recollected herself with a start. “Oh. Right. Just a moment.”

She walked back to the office on not quite steady feet. Interesting. She tapped on the door. “Mr. Ballard?” She waited a moment, then opened the door just wide enough to stick her head in.

It was wide enough for Liam to see the feet propped on the desk, and certainly wide enough to hear the crash when the chair tipped over. There were some oaths. Tanya, with a discretion worthy of a personal assistant of many years' experience, slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

A few moments later the door opened, revealing a tall, bald man with a solid beer belly, wearing a rumpled navy blue sports coat over a brown plaid cotton shirt and khaki pants. “Yes?” He stifled a yawn and looked mildly puzzled. “Er, you're a trooper?”

“Yes,” Liam said. “I need to talk to you about one of your fishermen. Could we go into your office?”

He went in as Tanya went out. “I'd appreciate it if you would stick around until I can talk to you,” he told her.

She met his eyes with perfect composure, armor firmly in place. “Certainly.”

Five minutes later the superintendent's bewilderment had given way to sick comprehension. “All dead?”

Liam nodded. “All.”

“But… how?”

Liam had already told him once, but typically news this bad had to be repeated, and often more than once, to be fully assimilated. “It appears they died of smoke inhalation during a boat fire,” he said, which was perfectly true, so far as it went. Someone had certainly gone to great lengths to make it seem so. Anticipating the next question, he added, “In Alaska, violent death, even by misadventure, must be thoroughly investigated. Which is why I'm here, Mr. Ballard.”

Liam rearranged himself more comfortably in the hard plastic chair. “The bodies have been transported to Anchorage for autopsy. While we wait for the results, I am reconstructing the last known actions of the victims.” He produced his notebook and a pen, and fixed Ballard with a polite, inquiring stare. “It is my understanding that theMarybethiadelivered to Seafood North. Is that correct?”

Ballard, still numb, nodded.

“It is also my understanding that your tender, theArctic Wind,was taking deliveries in Kulukak Bay yesterday.”

Ballard nodded again.

“Did they take delivery anywhere else?”

Ballard pawed through the paperwork on his desk in a haphazard fashion. “I don't think so.” He raised his voice. “Tanya!”

The rollers of a chair protested, footsteps sounded, the door behind Liam opened. “Yes, Mr. Ballard?”

“Are you still working on the fish tickets from theArctic Wind?”

“I just finished the tender summary.”

“Could you bring them in here, please?”

Tanya hesitated. “Did you want a printout?”

Ballard stifled a curse. “Oh hell, I keep forgetting.” To Liam, he said, “I'm used to everything being done by hand, in triplicate, one for us, one for the Fish and Game, one for the Seattle office. With carbons, no less. Unfortunately, we have now moved into the Information Age.” To Tanya, he said, “Yes, please, bring a printout.”

There was a whir and a click from the outer office, followed by the sound of an ink cartridge going back and forth on a carriage. Ballard shook his head with admiration. “That Tanya, she can make those electronic bastards sit up and beg. I don't know what I'd do without her.”

Moments later Tanya was back, carrying a sheaf of flimsy yellow tickets, letter-size, and a spreadsheet, white and legal-size and read sideways.

Ballard indicated the yellow sheets. “Those are our copies of the fish tickets. The originals go to Seattle, one copy to the Fish and Game, the third stays here.” He held up the spreadsheet. “This lists all the tickets written by theArctic Windduring the last period in Kulukak.”

Liam picked it up and scanned it. “So anyone who was fishing that period who delivered to your tender would be on this list?”

“Well…” Ballard said.

Liam looked up. “Well, what?”

“The ones who caught enough fish to deliver are the ones who delivered,” Ballard said. “Sometimes, if they get skunked, or maybe only pull a dozen reds, they'll head for home and can them for their own use.”

Liam repressed a sigh. “So the boat skippers sign the tickets?”

“Yeah, or one of the deckhands.”

TheMarybethiawas on the tender summary list, in theM's under Malone, David A. His name was followed by a series of columns headed with salmon species, “King,” “Red,” “Coho,” “Pink,” “Chum.” Each of these columns was divided into two, “Number” and “Pounds.” TheMarybethiahad delivered one thousand seven hundred and fifty reds, for a total of fourteen thousandpounds. He sifted through the tickets to find theMarybethia's. It had been signed by Jason Knudson, with a signature formed of large, almost childish loops. Jason Knudson, 18, of Bellingham, Washington; just another statistic the insurance companies would incorporate into their databases to help them calculate rates for term life policies. Just don't be a fisher, and you'll be eligible, Liam thought.

Jason Knudson, 18, of Bellingham, Washington, no longer had a choice. “Is that a lot of fish?” Liam said.

“It'd be a three-cherry jackpot for anyone else,” Ballard said, “but for a twelve-hour period, with a boat the size of theMarybethia,that big a crew and a skipper of Dave's experience, it's just pretty good. He's-” Ballard halted. “He had done better,” he said, sounding out the past tense with doubtful care.

“Fourteen thousand pounds seems like an awfully even number.”

Ballard nodded. “It's generated by an average weight. The tenders take an average at the beginning of every period, weighing a batch of whatever's being delivered and dividing by the amount of fish they are weighing. It saves time.”

“The fishermen agree to this?”

Ballard gave a short laugh. “Absolutely. Our tender captains always make sure there is someone right there watching.” He leaned forward. “There is no one on earth as pigheaded and as ornery as an Alaskan fisherman. You screw with one of them, you screw with them all. He-or she-will never forget and he'll never forgive. He tells his friends, too. If we want their fish, not just this year but next year, we deal fair and square.” He leaned back and shook his head, repeating, “Fair and square, or a processor can just pack it in.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “The infighting that goes on over the price negotiations is bad enough. This year it's even worse because for the second year in a row the catch is coming in at below half of the projections. In one way, it's good, because when they do catch them, they're getting a good price, so guys like Malone make out okay.”

He sighed. “In the obvious way, it's lousy for the guys not like Malone. I've already had some in here wanting to settle up.” He saw Liam's eyebrow go up, and explained, “Year-end accounting. We add up the price of all the groceries and gas they've bought through us, price out their fish tickets, subtract one from the other and hopefully write them a check. This year, they're taking their checks and financing a change of profession.”

“It looks like Malone delivered the most fish this period.”

Ballard scanned the spreadsheet. “Looks like it. He was high boat a lot.” This time, the past tense came more easily to his tongue.