P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

Chapman had been standing back, observing all of them, his expression intent. For some reason, he didn't look any happier than she was.

His next comment, however, showed that he hadn't softened his stance. "So, Ms. Jorgensen. Your clothes. You can either go to the hospital with an official escort or give them to me here." His lips quirked. "Your choice."

~~~~

Chapter 4

At dawn the next morning, Michael stood with Zeke on the north jetty of the mooring basin, waiting for the state lab technicians to finish their work on the Anna Marie. Pale sunlight pierced charcoal clouds, illuminating the rippled spines of sand bars on the Columbia. Gulls screeched as they fought over the morning's catch, and on the docks, sea lions barked, their frenzied discussions broken only occasionally by the watery chug of a diesel motor as another fishing trawler headed out for the day.

Michael warmed his hands on his coffee cup while he gazed across the vast stretch of the water. Although he'd been in town less than a week, each new day brought moments of beauty so stunning they took his breath away. The river's surface was misleadingly tranquil—here and there, a small eddy the only indication of the turbulence that lay hidden beneath. Softly framed by forested, evergreen hills, illuminated by the choreography of sunlight and clouds, the river fooled most visitors. Only those who lived in its shadow understood that such daily theatrics came at a heavy price.

Initially, Astoria had evoked memories of summers on the Maryland shore. Driving into town that first day, he'd noticed what everyone else saw at first glance—the steep hillsides with weathered clapboard houses clinging to them, the mooring basins with their neat lines of docked fishing trawlers, the sharp smells of the waterfront. Those long ago summers had been a happier time in his life, a time when he'd felt a bone-deep satisfaction from helping his cousins bring in the day's catch.

But after less than a week of talking to Astorians, his impression of the town had quickly changed. On the Maryland shore, danger came from the storms that blew in from sea. One at least had warning. Here, danger was hidden in the submerged, shifting sandbars, and in the treacherous current of an unforgiving river that could reduce your boat to toothpicks in a heartbeat. Michael had come away from his summers out on the Atlantic Ocean with a healthy respect for the open water. But the Columbia…these waters made him uneasy.

He took a sip of coffee, its steam partially obscuring his view of a crab boat moving downriver. A slight breeze off the docks carried the scent of wet, charred wood from the Anna Marie in their direction. Zeke looked up at him, his expression eager as he whined softly.

"Yeah, I know, boy," he murmured. "You can smell it all the way up here, can't you?"

After an exhausting night of battling high winds and rain, Michael had gone home to shower and change clothes only an hour ago. Thanks to a small pump donated by the nearby boat works, the Anna Marie was now sitting much higher in the water, no longer in danger of sinking. And although the weather was calm, more storms were on the way. Which meant he had to hustle, because he wanted every damn bit of evidence off that boat.

Zeke whined again, and Michael drank the last of his coffee, grimacing at its bitter taste even while he was relieved to have the distraction. He'd had better coffee in Boston, for Christ's sake. This was the Pacific Northwest, renowned for its damn coffee. So why was it he couldn't find a decent cup in this town?

The techs from the state crime lab were packing up and preparing to leave. He looked down at Zeke. "Okay, boy. You ready to rock and roll?"

Zeke barked and jumped in a circle around him, nipping at the hem of his sweater.

Michael pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket. "So here's the deal, pal," he said as they walked across the wharf and down the ramp to the dock. "You've got to be careful not to fall through the deck in a couple of places. We need to check out the wheelhouse, and getting there's going to be a little dicey."

"Mawroooo, rooo," the dog responded in his unique combination of moaning and dog talk. His expression was baleful.

"I'm not insulting you—it's just that you're not always so nimble of paw, you know?" The sea lions that had been lazing on the dock slipped into the water, and Michael had to grab Zeke's collar to keep him from going in after them. "Not a good idea, big guy. They'll have you for breakfast. Didn't you see the warning signs up on the wharf?"

He nodded good morning to the lead technician. "You guys do a thorough sweep of the wheelhouse and the flying bridge?"

"Yeah." The kid yawned. "We might've found a hair off the guy; if we're lucky, it will have the follicle attached. With all the soot, there's no way to tell the color until we get it back to the lab. Of course, it could belong to the owners. Or is one of the owners the torch?"

"Always a possibility."

The tech grunted. "Figures. We also dusted the lock for fingerprints, like you asked. Nada. But there's a hunk of melted metal that could be what's left of the ignition source."

"Good. I'll have more for you once I dig out the forecastle and galley. What's your timeline on the hair?"

"We should have a preliminary opinion on the match to the vic by later this afternoon. DNA, you know the routine—like sometime in the next century, unless you've got clout." He grinned at Chapman. "Since you're new in town, I figure I've got plenty of time."

Michael tossed the dregs of his coffee into the water and crumpled the paper cup in his fist. "Put a priority on it. I want this guy yesterday."

The kid held up both hands. "Hey, man, I was just kidding."

"And if you've got any DNA saliva collection kits, I need them."

Mumbling something about no sense of humor, the tech fished around inside his voluminous carryall and produced the tubes. "You know to keep these refrigerated, right? And I'll need chain of evidence forms. I don't want to be sitting in court six months from now explaining who had access to the evidence and could've contaminated it."

Michael slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I'll handle any problems that come up in that area."

"It's your funeral, man."

He waited until the crime van had backed off the wharf, and then held back the tarp at the edge of the deck. "Here you go, Zeke. Jump!"

The dog looked at the decking, then at the dark, brackish water visible between the edge of the dock and the trawler's burned-through railing. He sat down on the dock, looked up at Michael, and yawned.

"Christ, dog. Down-shifting has turned you into a wimp."

"Rooooo, raaoow."

Michael picked him up and transferred him to the boat, earning an enthusiastic licking for his efforts. Familiar with the routine, Zeke sat and waited patiently for his next command.

Once Michael had completed a scaled drawing of the fire scene, he pulled on surgical gloves. He and Zeke picked their way around the gaping hole of charred timbers over the hold and forward to the wheelhouse. Inside, the equipment was badly melted, the wheel charred black and partially disintegrated, the room scorched. Where the fire had burned hottest, the paint on the ceiling was blistered. But the walls were still intact, which meant that the fire had burned here only briefly before spreading quickly to other sections of the boat.

Even after being up all night, which impaired his sense of smell, Michael still had no doubt as to what odor he was picking up. "Okay, pal, are you getting what I'm getting?" He gave Zeke the command to go to work.

The shepherd criss-crossed the room, sniffing eagerly, then focused on a spot at the base of the wheel. He lifted one paw in a positive signal. Michael knelt beside him, studying the floor. Pulling out a pair of tweezers, he picked up a bit of cloth and held it to his nose. Gasoline. Placing the cloth inside a small, clean paint can, he tapped the lid shut, then continued his perusal. A short distance away, as the technician had indicated, lay a melted clump of metal, the remains of a piece of wire, and another smaller, scorched lump—possibly some kind of cheap timer. Michael pulled a large Baggie out of his jacket and carefully put the whole mess inside. Then he sat back on his heels and surveyed the area.