The rest of the Owls were already hanging around the lobby. A few parents were there as well–only a handful had made the long trip–and Mr. Dillinger was organizing coffee. Muck was deep in conversation with a heavy-set, grey-haired man in a dark blue suit. Waiting to one side, both with Styrofoam cups of coffee steaming in their hands, were two other, powerful-looking men, also in dark suits.

Muck moved to the centre of the floor and cleared his throat. Everyone fell silent at once; they all wanted to know what was up.

“This here,” said Muck, again clearing his throat as he turned to the grey-haired man, “is Inspector Bronson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He’s going to fill you in on what’s been happening regarding the…incident.”

Inspector Bronson, ruddy-faced and smiling, rubbed his hands nervously as he took his place beside Muck. He introduced the two men who had come with him, also with the RCMP.

“This has been a complicated investigation,” said the inspector. “We’ve tried to co-ordinate matters, but it’s also involved the Coast Guard, City of Victoria Police, and the Department of Oceans and Fisheries. We’ve also been helped out by the good people at the Aquarium.

“I also want to thank you all for your valuable contribution. If you hadn’t sighted that body–”

“Two bodies,” a voice interrupted.

Travis turned sharply. It was Sam, her green eyes flashing with something very near anger.

The inspector’s red face turned even redder.

“Yes, well, of course,” he sputtered, the air before him raining with spittle. “But we’re conducting a murder investigation, miss. For the purposes of that, we are speaking of one deceased…Mr. Bradley Cummings.”

“The dolphin was murdered, too,” protested Sarah.

“Yes, well,” the inspector began. A fleck of white foam danced ridiculously on his bottom lip as he fumbled for his words. The girls had clearly thrown him off. “The dolphin was killed, we have now ascertained, by fishermen’s nets. The animal pathologists at the Aquarium found rope burns on it. We believe that Mr. Cummings was engaged in some sort of effort to rescue the fish from the netting–”

“A dolphin’s not a fish!” Sam insisted.

“Whatever, miss,” the inspector smiled lamely. “Mr. Cummings was vitally involved in dolphin projects at the Aquarium and was known to go out often on his own in search of them.

“He was a card-carrying member of Greenpeace,” the inspector added, with a hint of a sneer as he mentioned the well-known environmental protection group, “and had been involved in disputes with drift-net fishermen in the past. He was a key leader in the fight to have them banned.”

“What happened?” asked Fahd.

“We don’t know exactly what happened, son, but what we believe happened is that Mr. Cummings came upon a fishing boat illegally using drift nets. Perhaps he tried to challenge them in some way. Some of these Greenpeace guys can be quite aggressive, you know.”

It was clear that the inspector had no use for Greenpeace. He spoke as if everyone in the room shared his opinion, though Travis doubted any did–with the possible exception of the two policemen standing by the doorway.

“We imagine there was a confrontation. We think it was settled with a gun.”

“But why shoot the dolphin, too?” asked Sam.

The inspector turned, blinking with surprise. He shrugged. “Perhaps to put him out of his misery. We don’t know exactly, of course. All we do know, and all we are investigating, miss, is that someone shot Mr. Cummings and killed him. Through the Coast Guard, we are now conducting a thorough search of the waters around the area in question. All fishing vessels will be searched.”

“You expect to find the weapon?” Muck asked.

“If we do, we’ll find the killer,” the inspector said smugly.

“Wouldn’t the gun be at the bottom of the ocean by now?” said Fahd.

“Not necessarily, son,” the inspector said, glad to have sensible questions from a sensible young man like Fahd. “Some fishermen believe in the law of the high seas. They might feel perfectly entitled to defend their property with firearms.”

“It’s hardly like Brad was out to torpedo them!” Sam shot back.

The inspector turned, staring hard, his colour rising again. He clearly did not like to be interrupted, especially with sarcasm.

“Where is his boat?” Sarah asked.

“Whose boat?” the inspector snapped.

“Brad’s.”

“We have found no vessel,” he said.

“Isn’t that a bit odd?” Sarah asked.

There was spittle again on the inspector’s lips, dancing as he blew out impatiently.

“It’s a very big ocean, my dear,” he said, as if speaking to a little child. “Things can get lost at sea. They can even sink. Perhaps they sank his boat after they shot him.”

“But why shoot the dolphin!” Sam demanded, all but stomping her feet.