part0007

The tires of Tom Hopkins’ Chevy Impala crunched along the substrate of crushed seashells as it approached the end of the pier. He scanned the landing for an open parking spot.

With boating season in full swing, parking at the West Ferry was notoriously hard to come by. And with the overflow of vehicles stretching several blocks up Narragansett Avenue, he hadn’t been optimistic.

As Jamestown’s Chief of Police, he would have had the latitude to wedge himself in somewhere. Possibly along the small area set aside for picnic tables or up against the small outbuilding that housed the bathroom. But it would have been obnoxious, and the last thing Hopkins needed was another complaint.

Instead, he lingered a minute while a stout man loaded three fishing poles into the back of a minivan. Inside, his two young boys bounced back and forth between the second-row seats.

After the man hopped into the driver’s seat and presumably persuaded the children to buckle themselves in, the illumination of a single working reverse light signified that it was worth the wait. He slid into the vacant spot as the minivan pulled away.

Hopkins walked to the edge of the pier and down a metal gangway leading to the dingy dock. Despite posted signs that the dock was reserved for those utilizing the services of the Dutch Harbor marina, Hopkins found the dock occupied by two local teenage girls. Wearing what he considered age-inappropriate bikinis, they were performing a choreographed dance to a cell phone they had propped on the shorter of two adjacent pilings.

Upon noticing his presence, the startled girls grabbed their towels, scooped up the phone and scurried up the gangway. Having changed from his uniform into civilian clothing, Hopkins figured they probably didn’t know who he was. They had hurried off, not because they thought they would be in trouble, but because they were embarrassed. Or, more likely, creeped out.

Hopkins held his bladed hand to his brow to block the glare from the low hanging sun. He quickly located what he was looking for.

About a quarter mile in the distance, the twenty-five-foot rigid inflatable boat, easily identifiable by the words Jamestown Police scrawled along the side in block letters, had already turned out of the channel and was moving through the mooring field toward his position.

As the boat drew closer, Hopkins could make out Lieutenant Charlie Fuller’s enthusiastic wave. Although not close enough to see the details of his face, he imagined the exaggerated motion was being accompanied by an equally cheesy grin.

A lifelong Jamestown resident, Charlie Fuller was among the nicest people that Hopkins had ever met. So much so that when Hopkins retired from the Providence Police Department and took the job in Jamestown, he distrusted Fuller more than anyone else. In his experience, at a place where even the new recruits were jaded, anyone who was that friendly, that happy, or that helpful was full of crap and likely angling for something.

Eventually, Fuller’s relentless positivity had won him over. Before long, Hopkins had taken the young officer under his wing, even helping him prepare for the Sergeant’s exam and then the Lieutenant’s exam a year later. Ultimately, Fuller was only competing with himself for the Lieutenant position because the other Sergeants, mostly older retired guys, didn’t want anything to do with the added responsibility. But he did well, nonetheless.

Unlike Providence, the fifteen-man police department had no need for a deep cadre of supervisors. There were no Deputy Chiefs or Captains, which made thirty-one-year-old Charlie Fuller second in command. Technically.

As Fuller approached the dock, he cut the wheel, allowing the starboard edge to kiss the dock. Hopkins stepped in with one foot while kicking off with the other in a single motion.

“Were you waiting long?” Fuller asked.

“Not at all. But we’d better get moving. We’re losing daylight.”

Fuller had made good time, thanks to favorable conditions. Jamestown’s only police boat was docked at the Conanicut Marina, located at the East Ferry on the opposite side of the island. Connected by the one-mile-long Narragansett Avenue, traveling between the two points by vehicle took a few minutes. By boat, the journey was considerably less convenient. It required one to first travel south through the east passage into open water, then west around the southernmost point of the island, known as Beavertail, and, finally, north through the west passage toward Dutch Harbor.

It was for this reason that Hopkins had twice proposed funding for a second police boat and dockage at Dutch Harbor. Unfortunately, the line item was shot down by the council on both occasions.

Fuller steered the boat north through the moorings, taking care not to kick up too much of a wake. Many of the boaters were on deck, enjoying a cocktail or a meal. As was the custom, they returned each friendly wave in a repetitious pattern.

“I called everyone like you asked,” Fuller said. “Mostly everyone’s already here except for Bobby and Allison. Both said they were out of town.”

“I’m aware,” Hopkins said.

Robert “Bobby” Berret was the department’s only detective. It was ironic that Berret was absent from the first investigation in two years that involved more than petty theft or mischief, but there was little Hopkins could say about it. After all, it was a Saturday and Berret’s regular day off. On top of that, Berret had put in for a few vacation days to extend the weekend. He said he was visiting family in Maine, but Hopkins knew it was a lie. He and Officer Allison Konesky had been carrying on for some time and, although they went to great lengths to keep it a secret, Hopkins was aware. In fact, after approving Berret’s leave, he penciled in Konesky’s coinciding vacation before she submitted the request.

“Did you read the statements from the kids that were on the boat?” Fuller asked.

“The way they’d described it sounds like this is gonna be gnarly.”

“Most boating accidents are,” Hopkins said.

“Do you think they’re telling the truth? I mean, all of their stories match and everything, but it seems like they gotta be leaving something out, right?”

“It’s possible,” Hopkins said. “They did have time to agree on a story before we separated them. But even the smallest details matched. That’s the stuff you’ve got to focus on, Charlie. The things that otherwise seem insignificant. I’ve never seen a group of career criminals that could put together a story that tight, let alone a bunch of scared college kids. As it is right now, I think we have to assume they’re telling the truth.”

Through the swaying masts of the last few sailboats, the flickering strobes of two identical Coast Guard RBS-II response boats marked the outer perimeter of the scene. Positioned at the mouth of what was essentially a cove formed by a V-shaped recess in the coastline, the two crews could easily cordon off the area by intercepting any approaching vessels.

“Hook up with them for a minute,” Hopkins directed.

Fuller nodded. Having cleared the harbor, Fuller jammed the throttle forward. The bow of the small RIB lifted and planed over the rollers, slapping the crest of each tiny wave in a hypnotic rhythm.

As they closed in on the nearest of the two Coast Guard vessels, Fuller cut back on the throttle. Hopkins grabbed hold of one of the canopy stanchions to steady himself as Fuller swerved hard to the left, then again to the right. The wide S-turn maneuver brought them parallel and about four feet off the port side of the orange and white craft.

A young man with jet black hair and a broad, hairless chest was stepping into the second leg of a wetsuit. His name was Paul Russo. Both Hopkins and Fuller had crossed paths with the guardsman many times, but neither could say they liked him much.

“Feeling better, Tom?” Russo asked. “‘Cause you look like hell.”

Hopkins never ceased to be amazed at how fast gossip travelled. It was bad enough he had to deal with the residents. But if Paul knew about his recent issues, that meant half of Newport knew, or would soon enough.

Hopkins had a few words he wanted to throw back at Paul Russo, but decided not to give him the satisfaction. He tried to force a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Come on, Tom. Just foolin’ with ya. We ready or what?”

“Give me a few minutes,” Hopkins said. “We’ve gotta take some shots. Charlie, grab the camera. I’ll take the helm.”

Fuller stepped away and Hopkins grabbed the wheel. “Hang here, Paul, I’ll flag you down when we’re ready.”

Hopkins didn’t wait for a response before he goosed the throttle, leaving Russo in his literal wake.

Ahead, the small abandoned bowrider bobbed and tugged at its anchor. Beyond it was Zeek’s Creek. Hopkins noticed that several cars had stopped on the edge of the roadway that crossed over the marsh. Motorists gathered outside of their vehicles, no doubt drawn by the Coast Guard’s display of flashing blue and red lights. That kind of attention is exactly what he was trying to avoid.

Hopkins keyed his handheld radio. “Alpha Two.”

“Alpha Two,” came the reply.

“Swing over to North Road. I’ve got a bunch of onlookers impeding traffic. Standby and make sure no one else congregates.”

“Roger. En route.”

Hopkins tossed the radio onto the seat and slowed the boat to a comfortable speed.

“Charlie,” Hopkins said.

Fuller, with the strap of the bulky DSLR camera slung over his neck, came closer.

“I’m going to make the largest circle I can around the scene,” Hopkins explained. “Think of it like a clock. I want you to take a shot at every hour mark. Center the boat in the frame on each shot. Then we’ll get in closer and I’ll do another circle. We’ll do that three or four times, okay?”

“Got it,” Fuller said.

As patronizing as the basic instructions would have sounded to a third party, Hopkins knew Fuller needed clear and thorough instructions. It put Fuller at ease to know exactly what was expected of him, and it was a time-saver for Hopkins, avoiding the barrage of questions that would inevitably follow a vague direction.

Hopkins started his circuitous route. Face pressed against the camera, Fuller snapped away. Hopkins struck up a one-sided conversation.

“One of the things I learned early on—” Hopkins projected over the wind and churning motor. “—is to document the crap out of the crime scene. Even in the case of an accident. You never know where it’ll go. When I was new to the Detective Bureau, we had a suicide. My partner and I went out to the scene. Just like patrol reported, the guy had offed himself with a forty-five. Gun was still in his hand with an empty magazine and there was one spent cartridge on the floor a few feet away. Cut and dry. We decided not to call in the Crime Scene Unit. We did take a couple of pictures, but not before we manhandled the body. Then we left it to patrol to release the body to the medical examiner, in time to make it to lunch. See where this is going?”

Fuller continued squinting into the viewfinder. “It wasn’t a suicide?”

“Nope. The gun and the shell were sent to the State Lab for ballistics as a matter of policy. Turns out, the spent cartridge wasn’t from the gun that was on scene. And, to make matters worse, the old forty-five wasn’t even capable of firing a shot.”

Fuller dropped the camera a few inches and turned to face Hopkins. “What happened?”

“We botched a murder scene is what happened. No search, no fingerprints, no anything. My partner got the brunt of it because he was the veteran guy.”

“But did you end up catching the killer?” Fuller stared like a child waiting for the dramatic conclusion to a bed-time story.

“No. Never did. Now, pay attention to what you're doing.”

Fuller jerked the camera to eye level.

“The point is, you can never go back once you’ve disturbed the scene. If a case ends up going to the jury, all they have to work with is what you documented. The goal of these photographs is to let them see what you saw.”

Of course, Fuller knew all of this. It had been in every book he was required to read for his promotional exams. But Hopkins couldn’t help but use the real-world scenario as a teaching aid. Things like this didn’t happen often and, accident or not, it would likely be the most useful experience Fuller would have had to date.

Hopkins completed several circles with the final lap being only fifteen feet from the bowrider. He slowed the boat to a crawl. As they passed the back, they got their first close-up look at the deceased.

“Aw, that’s sick,” Fuller said. “What a horrible way to die.”

Hopkins couldn’t think of a truer statement. The damage to the poor girl’s face was catastrophic. A blade of the propeller was buried deep into her skull where her nose and eyes would have been. The motor, when tilted, had lifted her body halfway out of the water and her thin, delicate arms dangled as if she were pushing herself up by an imaginary ledge, hidden below the waterline.

Hopkins completed the circle, then came around to the port side. He tossed a line to Fuller, who lashed the police boat to the side of the bowrider, such that the back of the RIB jutted out ten feet past the transom of its counterpart.

“Take some pictures of the interior from here,” Hopkins instructed. “Then jump on and take more. Be careful not to disturb anything. And get a picture of the inside of that cooler. I’ll raise Paul and let him know we’re ready for him.”

Fuller set out to complete his task as Hopkins retrieved his radio. Before he could call, he noticed Russo was already motoring toward him. He crouched down and leaned over, getting as close as he could to the victim without falling in.

“What were you doing here?” Hopkins whispered.

Based on her petite frame, long hair, and feminine clothing, it was clear the victim was a female. How old she was, that was another story. The natural postmortem processes had mottled her skin, and she had already begun to bloat. More so than he would have expected. Hopkins wondered if being half submerged in water had somehow accelerated decomposition.

The Coast Guard vessel arrived and set up in the opposite configuration. The three boats tied together created an open-ended box around the victim. Hopkins was satisfied that the configuration provided some shielding from the nosy residents who had come out of their homes along the shore to gawk.

Russo zipped up his wetsuit and slid into the water. He was able to stand on the bottom with his head and a sliver of his shoulders above the water.

“Ready for me to pull her loose?” Russo asked.

“Yeah, go ahead. Charlie and I will help you pull her up here.” Hopkins waved to Fuller. “Charlie, get some shots while he frees her from the prop.”

Russo moved in close, with a pair of neoprene diving gloves, he grasped the girl’s head on either side and pulled.

“She’s stuck,” Russo said. “Her hair is all wrapped around the prop. I’m going to have to cut it free. Frank, grab me a pair of scissors.”

One of the other two guardsmen handed Russo the scissors. He cut away a clump and held it out toward Hopkins.

“Charlie,” Hopkins said, “grab a bunch of paper bags from under the seat. And a sharpie if we have one. I want to bag each one of these clumps individually. Number the bags sequentially and put the time on them.”

“On it,” Fuller said.

Hopkins pulled two pairs of rubber gloves from one of his pants’ cargo pockets. He put on a pair and tossed the other to Fuller.

Fuller put on the gloves, then took the first clump of hair from Russo, whose slack facial expression gave away his impatience.

Russo continued cutting. On the fourth cut, before anyone was prepared for it, the weight of the body pulled itself free with a grotesque suction sound and a splash.

“Okay, see if you can lift her up a bit. Charlie, give me a hand.”

Russo reached under the girl and lifted her as if performing a military press. Hopkins and Fuller guided her into the boat and laid her on her back.

“Oh my god.” Fuller blurted.

“This was no accident,” Hopkins said.

The thin fabric of the girl’s shirt was torn and tattered, exposing most of her chest, including one of her breasts. A dozen half-inch long stab wounds dotted her torso. Stranger still, the fingers of her right hand appeared to be missing, and the portion of her hand that remained was tightly bandaged.

“Looks like you got yourself a murder,” Paul said. “You up for this?”

Hopkins was in no mood, especially not now. “Thanks for your help Paul, we’ve got it from here.”

“Always glad to help,” Russo hoisted himself out of the water and unzipped his suit.

“If you guys don’t mind holding the perimeter until we can collect the evidence off of the boat and get Sea Tow out here, I’d appreciate it,” Hopkins said.

“Sure thing.” Russo untied, and the crew set off to join their colleagues.

“I had a feeling this girl was in the water for more than just a couple of hours,” Hopkins said. “She didn’t swim into the prop, she was dumped somewhere else and washed up here. Those kids will be relieved. As much as you can be about someone being stabbed to death.”

Fuller grabbed the camera and snapped a few shots of the body. Hopkins lifted the seat and pulled out a small, flexible ruler. “When you take closeups of the wounds, make sure you put the scale in the picture. Closeups can be deceiving without a reference.” He laid the piece of plastic on the victim’s chest, next to the top-most wound.

“What do you think she was stabbed with? It looks like something real thin. Almost like a screwdriver, or something like that,” Fuller said.

“Not necessarily. When someone’s stabbed, the skin stretches and then closes back up. The wound always looks smaller than the instrument that caused it,” Hopkins said.

“Ah, ya learn something new every day. So, what do we do now? If this girl has been dead for a little while, someone would have reported her missing. And we did get that missing—“