Friday harbor, p.9
Friday Harbor, page 9
"So, let's say Hans located it and it's at an accessible depth. Then what?"
"Beats me. He obviously wasn't equipped to salvage the scrap metal. Maybe the propellers are worth something. Not my province, I'm afraid."
FOURTEEN
Miles got back to the station in the early afternoon to find Bill waxing his boots.
"Any updates, Bill?"
"Luke Gruden radioed to say that they've dragged about an eighth of a square mile of the bottom over near D'Arcy Island, but haven't found anything yet. Oh, and they've already lost two drag rigs by snagging them on reefs. They want to know if you're going to reimburse them. Gruden said he told you so."
"Wonderful. Any calls for me?" he asked, his mind on Marion.
"Yes. But, uh, where's Floyd?" Bill asked, his voice suddenly hushed.
"Ran to his hotel to change out of his salt-sprayed clothes. Why?"
"A fella named John Staggner called. Said he was an old friend of yours. Said he had his cousin in the Seattle Police Department ask around about Floyd."
"And?"
"Said Floyd is supposed to be a straight shooter. A Boy Scout."
"Huh. Well. They always look like that on the outside, right?"
"Some of the cops think he's some sort of a protee, uh, proto . . ."
"Prodigy?"
"That's the word. But Mr. Staggner also said some of the cops don't like Floyd. Call him a know-it-all."
"Ah! He's a pedant." And probably a lonely man because of it, Miles thought.
"He's a what?" Bill asked.
"A pedant. He makes an ostentatious display of his academic . . . He likes to look smart."
"Ah. Well anyway, Mr. Staggner also said you're a rat bastard if you don't call him back to catch up, or better yet come meet his new wife."
"A rat bastard?"
"His words."
"Any other calls?"
"No, sir," Bill said. "But I talked to every man on the docks this morning. Not a one of them saw Lucky Lena on Tuesday. And the only vessels anyone remembered seeing in Haro Strait or anywhere near D'Arcy Island that evening were two big steamships and one salvager."
"A salvager," Miles echoed, thinking about the dive suit again.
"The Deepwater Doubloon, out of Seattle."
"Salvaging what? A wrecked fishing boat?"
"Nobody said. And nobody has seen hide nor hair of Lucky Lena's crew. Seems they vanished into thin air."
"Well, shoot," Miles said.
"Also, your mother was just here. Said you forgot your lunch again. Left a basket on your desk."
"Did you look in it?"
"Of course."
"Any cookies?" Miles asked.
"No, sir. No cookies. In fact, she told me to mention that to you."
"She told you to mention to me that she didn't include any cookies?"
"She did."
"For heaven's sake."
"Your mother still makes your lunch?" Floyd asked, appearing in the open front doorway. "Well, well."
"She lives close, and makes herself lunch anyway," Miles said. "It saves money over eating at restaurants."
"Hey, you don't have to justify yourself to us, Miles," Floyd said. "How did you phrase it? If a grown man wants his mother to make his lunch every day, that's his prerogative."
That got a laugh from Bill. "He got you there, Sheriff."
"Alright, alright," Miles muttered, grinning. "Where's that giant revolver of yours, funny man?" he asked Floyd.
"At the hotel."
"Bring it to this next interview."
"Really? On this island of sheep and goats and septuagenarians?"
"Yes, really."
"Want me to come along too?" Bill asked.
"I appreciate it, Bill. But if two armed police can't handle one local looney, we need to look for other jobs. Plus, I need you here in case anyone calls in with something important."
Miles grabbed his gun belt from a hook behind his desk, strapped it on, and holstered a fully loaded Model 1911 pistol that he took from a locking desk drawer. Then he and Floyd drove over to the hotel so that Floyd could retrieve his own gun.
"What on earth is that cannon you carry?" Miles asked, eyeballing the large-frame, long-barrel revolver in Floyd's shoulder holster as he got back in the truck.
"Colt New Service. .45 caliber."
"Looks heavy."
"It's no feather. But it always shoots when I pull the trigger. Straight as an arrow."
"Good to know."
"You going to tell me why we need our guns?"
"This next fella, he's big. And volatile."
"Volatile? What is he, a drunk?"
"A preacher."
"Preacher?"
"Lay preacher. Zealot. Temperance fanatic."
"Temperance fanatic! A suspect at last."
"Yes. The good Reverend Gabriel Leviticus McCaskill."
"Middle name Leviticus? And a Highland Scot name? I think I get the picture."
"He moved here from some dead mining town out in the desert wastes of northern Nevada."
"To the deserts go the prophets, as they say."
"And from the deserts come the lunatic zealots. McCaskill's a mossy, hotheaded Puget Sound version of Billy Sunday."
"Who?"
"You're not a baseball fan? Billy Sunday was a so-so hitter for the White Sox and Phillies before retiring to become a crazy evangelical prohibitionist who traveled the country preaching fire and brimstone sermons about booze being an instrument of Satan. He even came and spoke at the Odd Fellows Hall here when I was a kid. McCaskill just plagiarized about half his sermon."
"Plenty of regular folks say booze is the Devil. What makes you call McCaskill a lunatic zealot?" Floyd asked.
Miles considered the question. "I'll tell you a little story, Floyd. When I was a kid, I watched McCaskill lash a man with a horsewhip. I mean to within an inch of his life. The man was a drunk, and his now ex-wife was a member of the good reverend's small congregation of sadistic, half-rabid temperance loonies. She asked the reverend to help straighten her husband out. Get him sober. So McCaskill literally dragged the man out of a saloon by his hair, out onto Front Street, where he whipped the living hell out of him right there in broad daylight, shouting scripture between blows, while half the town stood watching like a bunch of damned pigeons."
Miles lost himself in the memory for a moment. McCaskill shouting at poor, stumbling, whimpering Rupert Hawkins, calling him a drunken worm. Beating him savagely. Beating him to the ground, then hollering that he stand back up and face the Lord's punishment. That he drink the wine of God's wrath, poured full strength into the cup of his anger—or some such thing. Telling Hawkins that he'd be tormented with fire and sulfur, and that the smoke of his torment would go up for all eternity. Miles remembered blood flowing from lash cuts on Hawkins's arms, back, neck, and face. Remembered the man at last falling unconscious, his face coming to rest among a scattering of horse droppings in the middle of the muddy street. For his grand finale, McCaskill had thundered to the audience gathered round, "The saloon is the church of the anti-Christ. Liquor steals the soul. Close the saloons, I say. Take the temptation of the Devil's drink away to spare our weaker brothers and sisters."
"Where was the sheriff during all of this?" Floyd asked, bringing Miles back to the present.
"Watching, like everybody else."
"Sounds like the Wild West."
"There's more. A week later, on a hot, dry, moonless July night, the back porch of that same saloon mysteriously caught fire. Building burned to the ground, causing severe burns to the live-in owner and a member of the volunteer fire brigade. No witnesses. No arrests. But probable arson."
"And you suspect McCaskill."
"Damn right I do."
*****
They took Miles's truck out Beaverton Valley Road, into the heavily forested interior of the island, to where Reverend McCaskill had his homestead and self-styled chapel. As they turned off the main road, a dense canopy of tree branches blocked out the sky above the long, winding, fern-lined dirt drive.
"Now this is the forest primeval," Floyd said. "Did you ever read Longfellow?"
"My mother made me."
"How cruel."
"She's a retired English teacher."
"Ah."
"I hate poetry."
"So do I."
They emerged into a clearing, maybe an acre in size. Much of it was dotted with large tree stumps—the dead ruins of a once pristine and ancient forest. A cabin with a mossy roof stood alongside a small, unadorned clapboard chapel. McCaskill stood next to it with his back to them, wearing nothing but heavy boots and a homespun loincloth, splitting rounds of maple firewood with a heavy axe. Miles parked the truck and double-checked the chamber of his gun to ensure it had a bullet in it. "This should be nothing if not interesting," he said. "Stay alert."
They got out and approached McCaskill from different angles. Floyd had to go around a large tree stump with a hatchet lodged in the top of it. It stood a few feet from a filthy, overcrowded chickencoop in which several pitiful fowl were missing large patches of feathers and had inflamed peck wounds on their hind quarters. Distracted by the spectacle of the coop, Floyd stepped into a scattering of severed chicken heads alongside the stump.
"Oh!" Floyd said, drawing Miles's attention.
The heads were in various states of decay—some of them relatively fresh, some already hollowed out by wriggling maggots. Flies buzzed overhead. Vertebrae protruded from under bloody neck feathers, and any chicken eyes that were open were glazed with a milky, gummy film. Miles watched as Floyd, looking revolted enough to vomit, tiptoed out of the patch of heads and wiped the soles of his shoes on a clump of dandelions.
McCaskill still held his big axe but had stopped chopping wood and was now turned to face them.
"Reverend," Miles said, coming to a stop a good twelve feet away.
McCaskill—all six-foot-four of him—stood mute, staring at Miles. He had a long red beard to match his long red hair. His muscular body glistened with the sweat of his labors as his eyes scrutinized the officers with a penetrating, hostile intensity.
"We need to ask you some questions," Miles said. "Put the axe down on the ground and step back away from it."
McCaskill continued to stare. At last, he set the axe down at his feet and in a deep, husky voice said, "You're Nellie Scott's boy."
"And sheriff. We need to know where you were the evening before last."
"Where's Sheriff James?"
"I'm filling in until he comes back."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Sheriff James is convalescing."
"What's wrong with the old bastard?"
"Back trouble."
McCaskill shook his head. "No. Not back trouble. I don't think so."
"Reverend, where were you the evening before last?"
"So, you're just the acting sheriff then. Temporary."
"Call it what you will."
"I don't have to call it anything. That's what you are. Acting."
"And sworn in by the county government to enforce the law. So, I'll ask again. Where were you the evening before last?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"It pertains to an investigation."
"Into what?"
"A murder."
At this, McCaskill's eyes grew dark.
"'Whoever sheds human blood by humans shall their blood be shed, for in the image of God has God made mankind.'"
"Rev—"
"'You shall not murder. Love your neighbor as yourself.'"
Miles took a breath. "Right. I saw your deep love for your neighbor at work when you horsewhipped Mr. Hawkins in the street a few years back. He shed a fair bit of blood too, didn't he?"
The hint of a sinister smile appeared McCaskill's face. "I was trying to save him."
"Kind of you."
"Hawkins was in a saloon partaking of alcohol. I had as much moral right to beat him as I do to beat my own wife when it's called for."
"Of course."
"I trust you know your Book of Ezekiel, Sheriff. If I do not speak out to dissuade a wicked man from his ways, that wicked man will die for his sin, and the Lord will hold me accountable for his blood. But if I do warn the wicked man to turn from his ways and he does not do so, he will die for his sin, yet I will be saved."
"Look, I'm going to ask you one more time—"
"I was here Tuesday evening."
"Here?"
"Right here."
"All evening?"
"All day and all night."
"Doing what?"
"Praying. Threshing barley. Praying again. Greasing a pivot joint on the well pump. Praying, eating, praying, sleeping."
"Can anyone else confirm your presence here?"
"God."
"Right. Anyone else?"
"No."
"Not even your wife?" Miles asked, already knowing she'd left McCaskill the year before and moved back to Nevada. McCaskill didn't answer.
"Reverend, are you familiar with Romans 1:18?”
McCaskill squared his shoulders and looked Miles right in the eye as he spoke. "For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men."
"I'm obliged to ask you—"
McCaskill raised his hand. "Are you arresting me?"
Miles exchanged glances with Floyd before muttering, "No."
"Then go with God."
"Do you own a boat, reverend?"
Not bothering to answer, McCaskill bent his powerful back to pick up his axe, prompting Miles and Floyd to move their hands toward their guns. But then he turned and went back to his woodpile as if the men had already left.
Miles gave serious thought to cracking McCaskill over the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. But insolent or not, the man was a so-called preacher. The public, and the county council, wouldn't be impressed by an attack on an alleged holy man. Still, Miles was tempted.
As they walked back to the truck, Floyd spotted a small chisel sitting on the top of another tree stump McCaskill seemed to be using as a rough work table. Floyd sidestepped over to the stump and, with just the tips of his thumb and foreigner, carefully picked up the chisel by its blade. "For fingerprints," he said in response to Miles's questioning glance.
*****
"Took it kind of easy on him, didn't you?" Floyd asked as they drove off McCaskill's property, back out onto the main road to Friday Harbor.
"Two of the more screwball county councilmen are members of his congregation."
"And the sheriff answers to the county council."
"Correct."
Floyd nodded. "Then I'm glad I didn't pipe up."
"What do you mean?"
"It would have needlessly enraged him. But I was dying to point out that Jesus turned water into wine for his apostles."
Miles smiled. "I suppose, like most religious people, McCaskill interprets scripture to say whatever he wants it to say."
"I'm guessing you aren't religious."
"Good guess."
"Not at all?"
Mile shrugged. "Let's say I'm agnostic." He considered asking Floyd whether he was religious, but he didn't see much of a point.
"Unfortunately," Floyd said, "all we learned is that McCaskill has no verifiable alibi. Though I will say his responses and demeanor were extraordinarily odd. It seemed as if he were angry and amused at the same time. What do you suppose that was about?"
"Who knows?" Miles said. "You ask me, lay preachers are all lunatics. I mean, really, you can't find one mad hatter denomination that'll stoop to take your application money and ordain you? That's saying something."
"Amen."
"What did you make of him?"
"You mean do I think he's a killer?" Floyd asked.
"Yes."
"With all that smoldering anger? Bearing in mind that he's perfectly willing to horsewhip a man unconscious as half the town looks on? Sure. I could see him snapping. Smiling as he cut someone's throat open with a straight razor."
"And again," Miles said, "he'd probably find some way to twist scripture to justify it."
"They always do."
They passed a car headed in the opposite direction, trailing a thick plume of blue oil smoke that got them both coughing.
"Then again," Miles said once they cleared the smoke, "McCaskill's hot-blooded. And you said the murder scene implicated a methodical, cold-blooded killer."
"Well, I'm no doctor of psychology. But yes, I would guess that whoever hijacked the Lucky Lena may be afflicted with mania sans délire."
"Sounds like a French cheese."
"It's something Doctor Julius Koch would call psychopastiche."
"For heaven's sake, speak English, man."
"Psychopathy. Moral insanity. A lack of empathy or remorse."
"Your point being that a raging hothead like McCaskill would have left behind a very different-looking crime scene—especially if he were dealing with rumrunners."
"I think the crime scene would have been more indicative of a furious anger."
"Like how?"
"I don't know. Maybe he would have nailed his victims to crosses."
FIFTEEN
"Any calls for me?" Miles asked once again as soon as he and Floyd walked through the front door of the station.
"No, sir," Bill said. "Are you expecting a particularly important call or something?"
"I—no."
"Well, anyhow, did you get to look over the steamship passenger lists yet?"
"Only the first page."
"Take a look at this," Bill said, handing one of the pages to Miles. "About halfway down."
"What is it?"
"Two Chinks came in on the Bangor," Bill said.
"Two Chinese arrived from Seattle on the SS Bangor?"
"Last Saturday. Three days before the bloodbath on the Lucky Lena."
"Is it unusual for Chinese to come in on the Bangor?" Floyd asked.
"Very," Miles said. "Especially in September. Most Chinese here are seasonal cannery workers. They come up in early summer, usually by hitching a free ride from Seattle or Port Townsend on one of the cannery's tenders or cargo boats—not on the regular passenger steamer."
