Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘Three,’’ Talmadge replied with another glance to Coughlie. ‘‘Only a small percentage-ten percent perhaps-of all illegals claim political refugee status.’’

‘‘Then you support the new policies?’’ she tested.

Talmadge returned quickly, ‘‘Congress has enacted one of the most far-reaching, sweeping overhauls to the Immigration Act this century, making our borders more welcoming than they have been in over seventy years, while reducing paperwork and increasing efficiency on the part of this agency. As to those people out there perpetrating these crimes against their fellow human beings, all I can say is that such behavior will not be condoned by this administration, nor by the Immigration and Naturalization Service. We will ferret out those responsible, and we will see them in prison for their actions. I should add that the Seattle police are currently conducting an active homicide investigation into the three deaths aboard that recent container. Let this serve as notice: The black market in human cargo is over. Immunity will be offered to the first few willing to expose this trade. The rest are going to prison.’’

Stevie then understood Talmadge’s agenda. He had used the broadcast to soapbox for informants.

The floor director signaled Stevie, who wrapped the interview quickly.

‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director shouted. ‘‘William, camera two, two minutes.’’

Talmadge stood and unclipped his mike. He brushed himself off as if he’d eaten a meal.

Brian Coughlie stepped up to Stevie. ‘‘Good questions.’’

‘‘Vague answers,’’ she replied.

Talmadge winced a smile and headed for the exit; he clearly expected Coughlie at his side.

‘‘Dinner?’’ Coughlie asked her.

‘‘No thank you,’’ she answered.

‘‘An off-camera interview? ‘Source close to the investigation’?’’

‘‘You’re getting warmer,’’ she said.

‘‘I can provide more specific stats,’’ he offered.

Stevie told him, ‘‘I’ll call you.’’

‘‘Good,’’ he said.

He reached out and they shook hands. Coughlie kept hold of hers a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t like the feeling. She wouldn’t flirt to get a story. She turned and walked toward the anchor desk, confident that Brian Coughlie was watching.

Seven years had passed since Boldt had consulted Dr. Byron Rutledge at the University of Washington’s-‘‘the U-Dub’s’’-School of Oceanography. Rutledge, a physical oceanographer who had a long history in the department, was a leading authority on the tidal currents of Puget Sound and had once assisted Boldt with a homicide investigation involving a body washed ashore by those currents. As North America’s largest estuary, Puget Sound experiences unusual but highly predictable tides and currents, including some of the fastest surface currents in the western United States.

Rutledge was of medium build and height. With his carefully trimmed Abraham Lincoln beard, his ice blue eyes and his smoker’s pipe, he looked the part of salty dog. The office was cluttered with paperwork: graphs, charts and reports occupying most horizontal surfaces. Its walls were adorned with engravings of square-riggers, brigs and whalers, as well as a chalkboard and a rack of maps that retracted like window shades.

‘‘You know,’’ Rutledge said in a smoky voice, ‘‘about a year after we worked together, a prosecutor from Skagit County asked me up there to work another corpse. I had a hell of a good time with it. I’m almost ashamed to say so. A woman’s remains were found in Bowmans Bay west of Deception Pass, pretty much like the one you had on the beach. This one turned out to have been thrown off Deception Pass bridge by the husband.’’

‘‘A conviction, wasn’t it?’’ Boldt asked, recalling the sensational trial.

Rutledge’s teeth, discolored from the pipe smoking, looked like a rotting picket fence. ‘‘You’re looking at the state’s expert witness. That boy won himself a cell for thirty-one years. His people challenged my findings on appeal and lost again.’’ The smile was contagious. ‘‘So this time,’’ the man said, referring to the phone call that had arranged the meeting, ‘‘it’s a shipping container.’’ He nodded. ‘‘You wouldn’t believe the number of lost containers drifting out there in open water. They’re a primary cause of collision damage at sea. Ask the insurers.’’ Boldt said, ‘‘Your people had a chance to look over the container.’’

Rutledge nodded. ‘‘Did you bring the stats for me?’’

Boldt slid a piece of paper across the man’s desk. ‘‘Weight of the container, number of souls inside, weight and approximate volume of the bolts of fabric.’’ He added, ‘‘The fabric was sealed inside six-millimeter visquine.’’

Rutledge peered over the top of reading glasses he had donned. ‘‘You want to be able to trace that container to its mother ship.’’

Boldt told him, ‘‘We need the ship if we’re to get to the ship’s manifest. Did your inspection tell you anything?’’ Boldt had arranged for Rutledge to visit the container.

‘‘Smelling it did,’’ Rutledge said. ‘‘No Porta-potty.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘You imagine living like that for a two-week Pacific crossing?’’

Boldt repeated anxiously, ‘‘Anything at all?’’

‘‘Open water exerts its personality on anyone or anything it contacts. The waters of the Northern Pacific differ greatly from the more brackish estuary water we find in the Sound,’’ began the professor. ‘‘This can be attributed to the presence of fresh water from the dozens of rivers and tributaries within its seven hundred square miles. The rivers empty into the estuary fast enough so the estuary refreshes despite the higher saline-content ocean water in the outer strait and west of Vancouver Island. For that reason, Puget Sound plays host to several hundred specific floral and fauna indigenous only to estuarine waters, microorganisms that won’t be found a hundred miles north or forty miles west. You remember raising pollywogs in fifth grade science and how fast scum coated the walls of the aquarium? The same thing happens in the Sound or out in the ocean; it’s real apparent if a vessel is left sitting a long time-the algae and barnacles take over quickly. That algae is preceded by bacteria and diatoms that begin affixing themselves within six hours of submersion. A puddle, a freshwater pond, an estuary, the ocean, it doesn’t matter. There is a long food chain just waiting in the cafeteria line. And that gives marine biologists a trail to follow.

‘‘The same way an entomologist can study a corpse for insects,’’ Rutledge continued, ‘‘a marine biologist can study microorganisms and algae on the hull of a ship-or even a container-and estimate fairly accurately how long that surface material has been immersed, and in what kind of water.’’

‘‘A clock?’’ Boldt asked apprehensively.

‘‘Very much so. You gave our arriving students a very valuable field trip followed by equally valuable lab time. I’m grateful for that opportunity.’’

‘‘And did we learn something?’’ Boldt said.

Rutledge answered, ‘‘One man’s slime is another man’s gold mine.’’ He hesitated for effect, leaving Boldt hanging. ‘‘Several million small organisms adhering themselves in predictable progression to the immersed sides and bottom of your container. What these marine bacteria, diatoms and attached larvae tell us is that the container was immersed in brackish water-more precisely, the waters of the Sound’s central basin-for between sixteen and twenty hours. No more, no less. The accumulation of hydrocarbons from the water’s surface that adhered to the sides of the container tell us that it was at one pitch for maybe half that time-about fifteen degrees-and then took on additional water sometime around the eight-hour mark, changing the pitch closer to twenty-two degrees while increasing the depth of its draft by three feet.’’