The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer Read online

  "But didn't Andy say something about Hartzell accusing him of stealing some research data?" I asked. "What was that all about?"

  "I don't know; maybe you better talk to Hartzell after all," said Jack.

  Keegan put his notebook away and stood up.

  "I will do that," he said. "And I'll interview Alice Henderson and others as well. But for now, I have to tell you, Jack, that you're the one we'll be looking at most closely. I'm going on the assumption, at this stage of the game, that you won't leave the state and that you'll be available for further questioning as the need arises. We have an officer of the law who's a relative. Joe, am I safe in assuming you'll enforce these conditions?"

  Joe remained seated and nodded wearily.

  Right then, I started to lose it. The words 'you're the one we'll be looking at most closely' took a few seconds to sink in. The starkness of that statement. The accusatory tone of it. Directed at Jack, the kid who waded frantically back and forth to comfort those dying whales fifteen years before. My boy who'd never, ever hurt a living thing in all his life. This boy was the chief suspect in the murder of his friend.

  I felt myself walking up to Paul Keegan, with his goddamn, jarhead, Marine Corps face. My legs were stiff and trembling. "just a minute," I said between clenched teeth. "just a god-damn minute Keegan—"

  "Charlie. Charlie!"

  "C'mon, Doc, cool down—

  But the words swept by me like soft air. I was looking at Keegan, who was turning to look at me, the corners of his mouth starting to draw back. I was bearing down on him now, my hand reaching out for his face.

  "You come into my house, after I've called the force to help you out in this case, you come and tell my son—"

  He held his hand up, then moved it in Jack's direction. I turned quickly and saw Jack's face. The look of fear and helplessness on it. And then Keegan blew it. He turned toward Jack, murmuring something like "If that's the way you feel, maybe we'll take him in now—"

  And then I totally lost it.

  I remember Keegan saying something about "possible custody" and "full rights of the defendant" and approaching Jack—who was still dazed—with that thin-lipped grimace on his Marine Corps face, and grabbing my son's shoulder . . .

  Then there was Paul Keegan's face only inches from mine, beet red, his eyes bugged out. I was shocked to see two hands gripped around his thick throat. Surgeon's hands that were supposed to help and heal. I saw my thumbs inch down below the cartilage of the Adam's apple to the ribbed stiffness of the trachea and press in deep, deep, trying to shut off the air supply.

  I was in a dream. A slow, nasty, semi-silent dream.

  I could hear, from far, far away, somebody shouting. I saw Joe's big form trying to move between us. But then Keegan shot both arms up between mine and flung them outwards, breaking the hold, and an instant later I saw a tan blur cross my face, and felt a heavy blow on my cheekbone. I shook off the punch and managed to stamp my heel hard down on his instep, while bringing up a fist in an uppercut that landed right in his groin, the force of it lifting him to the balls of his feet. Then I was standing again—still feeling no pain from his punch because I had maybe a gallon of adrenalin in my bloodstream—looking down at the bowed-over Keegan. I had cocked my right hand back against my shoulder, making a hard point of my right elbow, and had jumped up high when Joe caught me from behind, snatching me right in midair. I was lucky he did, or I would have probably followed through with step three (as taught by Laitis Roantis), bringing down the point of the elbow in a smashing blow onto the nape of your opponent's neck.

  Joe's bear hug from behind me, and the pain from Keegan's punch, made me come out of my nasty, waking dream long enough for Joe to release his grip and jump between us, keeping us apart until we could limp away from each other. His pounds helped.

  I found out later that Paul Keegan is thirty-seven. I'm about ten years older. Not bad, Adams—you stupid son of a bitch. I had a possible assault charge facing me. Assaulting a law officer, a state policeman. Great. This vacation just keeps getting better and better, I thought to myself.

  SIX

  "LOOK, DOC, it's not as if he's going to jail or anything. Keegan just said what I told you earlier, that Jack's the chief suspect. I mean, that's his job. He's gotta say that. So why you had to go and blow your stack—"

  "I don't want to hear any more shit, Joe. From anybody, and that includes you. Far as I'm concerned, you just stood there when he was accusing him. Any cop or agency who thinks, even for one second, that Jack's a murderer is full of shit. And you didn't say anything in his defense; you just stood there."

  "Listen: I talked to Paul all the way out to his cruiser to calm him down. And I kept you off the hook, too, in case you don't know it. He was ready to haul both of you in."

  "If he sets foot near this place again, there's going to be a dead state cop. You tell him that."

  "Look, Doc, face it; from Keegan's point of view,Jack's the one who had the best opportunity. That's just officially. I'm not saying—"

  I went for him. He ducked through the bedroom door and into the hall.

  "Get back in here!" I shouted. "You get the hell back in here, Joe!”

  No answer. Nothing. With two fast steps, I was out in the narrow upstairs hallway. Joe was there, flattened against the wall, his right arm cocked back and his huge brown hand balled into a fist. A fist as big as a cantaloupe. But I didn't care; I was going for him anyway. I was going to make it two dead state cops. Two in one. Why not?

  "Charlie!" Mary screamed from halfway up the stairs. "Charlie, goddamn you! Stop it!"

  "If he comes one step closer—panted Joe in a hoarse whisper. I felt blood pounding in my head. Mary hustled up the rest of the way and stood between us. She put her hands against my chest and pushed me back. She was careful to do it gently. I noticed she was crying. Can't imagine why.

  "Now you listen," she said softly. "Charlie, you're going out for a run. A long run, okay? I just turned on the sauna. When you get back, you can bake yourself for an hour or so. Now go in and change. Joey and I will go over Andy's things for the lab. Joe will show me what to do. There's nothing for you to do here for a few hours. You hear me, Charlie?"

  I think I managed to nod, then walked back into our bedroom. She followed me, and turned me around, looking at my face.

  "How is it? jeez, it's beginning to turn already. Let me feel—"

  "Nawww . . . it's not broken. Don't worry." I felt her cool hand running over my left cheekbone. "Okay, I'm changing. You can leave now."

  She did. But I could hear their conversation from the next room.

  "I know. I know he was upset, Mare. But hell, assault on a state cop. Holy shit."

  "Keegan hit him first."

  "Yeah, after he broke the choke hold. jeez, you believe how fast Doc moved? Like a panther—"

  "Well he's in great shape. We know that. Anybody who runs that much—"

  "It's Roantis, Mary. He's gotta stop hanging around with Roantis and those loonies at the club."

  "What's Keegan going to do now?"

  "Go to a good urologist first, I imagine. Then he's probably going to go into Mickey Finn's in Boston and buy a steel cup. The kind hockey goalies wear."

  "Do you think he was badly hurt?"

  "Hurt? Oh Mare. You don't know. You can't know. A woman can't know just how much that hurts. And his instep, too. He nailed Doc a good one all right, but you ask me, your hubby got the best of him."

  "That's why you ran out into the hallway when Charlie came for you."

  "Hell yes; I'm not as dumb as I look, you know . . ."

  I was glad we'd sent Jack out to do some shopping after the scuffle. The scene was not one I was proud of. Though Laitis would've probably approved.

  I laced up my shoes, pulled a lightweight nylon shell over my sweat clothes to shed the rain, then trotted down the stairs and outside.

  The rain was now reduced to a blowing drizzle. I started slowly, padding up Sunken M
eadow Road to the main drag. I speeded up gradually, so by the end of the second mile I was setting a pretty good clip. At the middle of mile three I doffed the nylon shell, which was making me hot and clammy, and tied it around my waist. I headed back, going as fast as I could to pump the adrenalin and the queasy trembles out of my system.

  Now it looks as if Jack and I will be sharing the same cell, I thought. How cute. How familial.

  Why had I done it? I wasn't sure. I certainly hadn't planned on it. One second I was the normal, concerned father, cooperating fully with law enforcement officials. The next instant, I had wrapped my hands around Lieutenant Keegan's throat and was trying to kill him. I don't get carried away when people abuse my property. I've had my house ransacked a few times, my car vandalized .. . I even had the unpleasant surprise of finding my murdered dog's head in the oven one fine morning. I can handle those things. But when somebody—anybody, even a cop—fools with my wife and kids, then the lid comes off. And the more I thought about it, the more I was willing to bet that nine out of ten men would have done exactly the same thing.

  I trudged up the flagstone walk to the cottage and went upstairs, feeling much better. I stripped, put on swimming trunks, grabbed a beach towel, and went down into the sauna. On my way, I heard Joe and Mary talking in the guest room, where they were carefully arranging and cataloguing the effects of the late Andrew Cunningham. This sad task had to be completed according to strict guidelines, on which Joe was an expert.

  The sauna is a little lean-to structure of redwood tacked onto the cottage. Since Mary had turned it on for me, it had been on almost an hour, so it was a cozy 165 degrees. I poured a dipper of water over the black basalt rocks and hopped up on the upper wooden ledge, inhaling the invisible, scalding, live steam before it stopped hissing. The sauna is my favorite place to think. For one thing, in that heat blood is racing through your head at practically Mach 2.

  After I'd gone in and out of the sauna three times, showering and resting each time in between, wringing all the bad stuff from body and mind, I returned to the spare bedroom where Joe was labeling items prior to sending them off to the lab. I sat down on the brass bed Andy had slept in.

  "Feel better?" he asked.

  "Yeah. Sorry, I don't deal well with people who threaten my family."

  "Ummm. You'd make a good Italian, Doc. Maybe that feeling is the result of being married to one.”

  "Uh-huh. Or maybe I had the trait to begin with and it's what attracted me to her."

  "The old chicken and egg routine."

  "I guess what's got me so upset is that I'm mostly angry with myself, Joe. There I was, hotshot Doc Adams, uncovering foul play by one brilliant deduction after another, calling the M.E.'s office and steering him in the right direction. Bravo. And where did it get me? After hearing what jarhead Keegan had to say, I'm sorry I ever made that call. If I hadn't stuck my nose in, the boy's death would have been chalked off to cardiac arrest as the result of a seizure and Jack wouldn't be in this bind."

  "Yeah, right," he answered, "except that there'd be a killer on the loose. And who knows? Somebody like Jack could be next."

  "So you're convinced it's murder, too?"

  "Oh yeah. No problem there. Murder all right. We know the medication was tampered with. We know it wasn't suicide. We know it because to kill himself, all Andrew Cunningham had to do would be to gulp down twenty or thirty of those little capsules. Maybe wash them down with a couple of beers, then maybe have a strong highball to cap it off. Presto: into the big sleep, going quietly and painlessly. But that's not what happened. The kid was urinating all Friday, feeling lousy, not knowing why. Getting up in the middle of the night and saying to Jack 'I feel shitty.' That's not suicide; that's murder. And we both know Jack didn't do it."

  "Tell that to Paul Keegan."

  "I did, and will again."

  "Listen Joe, I got to thinking about that dispenser case while I was out running. I knew it was significant earlier on, but I didn't put the pieces together until this morning. It was the murderer's way to determine when Andy would die."

  "By picking the day?"

  "Not only by picking the day, but by concentrating the lethal capsules all in one spot, namely the little compartment for Friday's meds. If you're going to doctor up some prescription meds, you've got the problem of random selection. Say there's twenty or thirty capsules in a vial; you have no way of knowing when the intended victim will take the fatal dose. The problem is compounded when it takes more than one capsule to do the job. How many do you tamper with? Half of them? All of them? No way because—"

  "Because if you do that, the victim then leaves doctored capsules behind for the police to discover."

  "Exactly. Or even worse, suppose he takes just one doctored capsule and another that's normal. He doesn't die; he gets sick as hell, and then calls the police himself . . . and so on."

  "Uh-huh. So you're saying that the murderer slipped the doctored capsules into the Friday slot, knowing that Andrew would take all three meds on that day and then die, leaving no trace of the altered meds."

  "Right. Also, the dispenser case enabled the killer to sequence the drugs for maximum effect. Thursday: Lasix and phenobarb. Friday: Lasix and digoxin. Boom. So, if Jack were the murderer, why in hell would he time it so that Andy dropped dead here? Why wouldn't he instead set the lethal dose for Saturday, and then come up here alone, say Thursday? That would give him an airtight alibi."

  "And so it now seems, following this line of reasoning, that the real murderer did in fact know of Andy's visit up here in Eastham and rigged it so he'd die near Jack. That sounds like a frame as well as a homicide."

  "It sure does. I wonder what Paul Keegan will think of it as a working hypothesis."

  "I don't know. Maybe all Paul Keegan is thinking about at the present time is how much his balls ache. And maybe about pressing charges against you."

  "Do you think he's going to?"

  "Actually, if I had to bet one way or another, I'd say no. Know why? Because he prides himself on being tough. Semper fi, all that shit, you know? Now the way I saw things, you got the better of him. How's it going to look for Paul Keegan's image if he files an assault and battery against a doctor who's ten years older? Huh? How's it gonna look? You tell me."

  I was still uneasy about the incident, especially in light of how it might affect Jack.

  "I think the best thing to do here is for me to apologize to him, and then go on from there. We need Keegan on this, and he needs us."

  "I agree entirely," said a deep voice coming up the stairway. Footsteps came along the hallway, and there was Paul Keegan, standing there in the doorway to the bedroom, sticking out his hand. I shook it.

  "How're the nuts?" asked Joe. He replied they'd recover, and noticed the bluish-green blotch on my cheek that was spreading to my left eye. There was an uneasy silence for a minute or so, then Joe began to explain our recent thinking about the pill dispenser case and the murder. Keegan thought a long time before answering.

  "That could make sense. But I still have to go down to Woods Hole and interview people there. I have to talk with the boy's parents, too. There's a lot of ground to cover, and it's premature to make any theories yet."

  "So you don't think this is significant?" asked Joe.

  "Maybe it is. Maybe eventually it will clear Jack from all suspicion. But not now. Think of it from the state's point of view.

  What's the D.A. got to go on? It boils down to the same old questions of motive and opportunity. The opportunity part is obvious, no matter what our personal feelings are. Hell, Jack was his roommate. We don't have any motive. At least none has surfaced yet. But the opportunity was there, and no matter how much we don't like it, your son remains, officially, the most likely suspect at the present time."

  "Yeah, well remember those words, Paul," growled Joe, " 'official,' and 'at the present time.' When you've been doing this as long as I have, you'll realize how much bullshit they are."

  "I
know what you're saying. I'm just advising you that, since it's official, I've got to follow this lead. Therefore, Jack must stay in touch; he can't leave Barnstable County without telling me."

  "How about me?" asked Joe. "Can he tell me?"

  "That's fine. That's good, in fact. But any way, any time, he's got to notify the state. Fair enough?"

  Joe and I nodded.

  "This crime probably does have antecedents somewhere else. I'm heading down to Woods Hole right after I interview the boy's parents in Providence."

  "Well it just so happens that we'd planned to spend some of our vacation down there ourselves," I said. "We were going to sail down there and spend a few days. I see no reason to change those plans.”

  I saw Keegan's face cloud over with worry.

  "Well, take it easy. I've seen enough of your temper to be concerned about it, Dr. Adams."

  "You can call him Doc," said Joe. "And we won't go poking around where we shouldn't. I'll see to that. And I won't undertake anything in your jurisdiction unless it's okayed."

  "Appreciate it," said Keegan.

  As he turned to go, Joe asked Keegan if he had any theories.

  "No. Not yet. But I repeat," and now he turned to me and pointed, "that you've got to be careful, Doc. I know you're emotionally involved and very upset. But if you get in too deep on this thing and you come up against somebody really mean, he won't stop until you're dead. Think about it."

  Then he left.

  * * *

  Sunday evening, Anthony Hatton Adams, our Number-Two Son, was sitting next to me in my old International Scout. He'd finally arrived at the Breakers—hornet's nest that it had become—just after Keegan departed. Now the two of us were driving up to Wellfleet Harbor to meet the DeGroots, who'd pulled in that afternoon. Jim had told me over the phone that of course they'd decided not to make the run over the weekend. Was I nuts or something? I said they could've called and let us know, for crying out loud; we were worried. He said that Janice had tried twice Saturday morning, but the line had been busy for a long time. This figured; I had been on the blower to the state police, the local cops, the ambulance service, the boy's parents (to no avail), and a host of others, I didn't mention what had precipitated all of this; it could wait.