Supreme Justice

Chapter Two

Tom Oswald got out of the police car just as a gust of raw wind whipped off the river. He ducked his head and bulled his 210 pounds through it toward the warehouse with his partner, Jerry Swanson, close behind. Below the warehouse, the current pushed the China Sea into and away from the dock.

The two Shelby cops found Dave Fletcher, the night watchman, inside the warehouse. He was wearing a rent-a-cop uniform and clutching a mug of hot coffee.

“You’re Mike Kessler’s uncle, right?” Oswald asked to put the jittery witness at ease.

“Bob’s my brother.”

“Me and Mike played ball together at Shelby High.”

“I seen you,” Fletcher said, but he didn’t seem any more at ease. There was a tic near his right eye, and the broken capillaries in his nose told Oswald that Fletcher was a man who likely gave frequent testimonials at AA meetings.

“So, why are we out here, Dave?” Swanson asked. They’d been thirty-five minutes from the end of their shift when dispatch had sent them to the warehouse.

“Something terrible happened on the ship,” Fletcher answered, his voice trembling.

“What do you mean, ‘terrible’?” Oswald prodded. He was beat and had been thinking of crashing for the past hour and a half.

“I finished my rounds a little before four A.M. I go once around the perimeter every hour.” Fletcher stopped to collect himself. Something had shaken him badly.

“I was getting ready to go in when I heard something. I did a hitch in the army. It sounded like shots. There was wind and the ship’s hull is thick, so I wasn’t sure.”

Oswald nodded encouragement.

“Then a guy comes ru

Fletcher paused. His grip on the coffee mug was so tight that Oswald was afraid it would shatter.

“Right after the man from the ship drove off, an SUV passed by, but it could just have been driving down the highway.”

“Do you know the make of either vehicle?” Swanson asked.

“I seen the one parked around back every day. It’s a blue Honda. I don’t know the plate. The SUV was black. It could have been a Ford. It was going fast and I didn’t see the license.”

“Dispatch said you reported a body,” Oswald said.

Fletcher lost color. “There was one I seen in the companionway and one in a cabin. The one in the companionway, his face was shot off. I didn’t stay long enough to get a good look at the guy in the cabin, but there was a lot of blood.” Fletcher’s voice was little more than a whisper. “That was enough for me. That’s when I got out and made the call.”

“How many victims are on the ship?” Swanson asked.

“All I saw was two, but there were a lot of shots.”

“Do you think there’s anyone alive on board?” Oswald asked.

“I didn’t hear anything when I was inside.”

“OK, Dave. Thanks. Now you stay here. Jerry and I are going to look around. You did great.”

Oswald went to the police car and got the forensic kit out of the trunk. He ran up the gangplank and found Swanson waiting on the deck stamping his feet, blowing into his hands and trying to stay warm.

“What do you think, Tom? Have we got ourselves an OJ?” Swanson asked excitedly. They didn’t get a lot of big league crime in Shelby, Oregon. Judging by Swanson’s tone, the young cop thought he was going to find the Yankees playing the Red Sox inside the China Sea.

“We’ll soon find out,” Oswald answered as he stepped through the hatch.

The policemen moved through the silent ship, guns drawn, and stopped when they found the bullet-riddled body in the companionway. A quick search of the staterooms turned up two more bodies.

“Let’s split up,” Oswald said. “I’ll take the next deck and you check the one under that. As soon as we’re done, I’ll call the state police and the crime lab.”

Oswald was halfway through his deck, when Swanson called up the stairwell.

“Get down here, Tom. I found two more bodies and something weird.”

As he descended to the lower deck, Oswald wondered what could be weirder than what they’d already seen. Swanson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“There’s a body in the engine room and another over here,” he said as he led Oswald to a short corridor behind the crew’s head. “He was lying on his stomach. I rolled him over to check for a pulse and found this.”

Swanson pointed to an almost invisible seam in a section of industrial carpet that covered the narrow hallway.

“Did you pry it up?” Oswald asked.

“Yeah, but I put it right back when I saw what was under it. I wanted to wait for you. You’ve got the kit.”

Oswald squatted, dug his fingers under the seam, and lifted up a three-foot-square piece of carpet. Under it was a metal hatch.

“Shine your light on this while I dust for prints,” Oswald said. Swanson’s flashlight illuminated the steel surface. Oswald lifted three latents and put them in cellophane envelopes, which he slipped into his jacket pocket.

“OK, get it up,” he said.

Swanson grabbed a metal handle that was affixed to the hatch and used his bulging muscles to wrench it open. Oswald shone his light into the pitch black interior of the hold. The space looked like a water tank, and he guessed it went down two decks. Someone had drained it. The beam of Oswald’s light fell on several stacks of burlap-wrapped packages. He stared at them for a moment, then worked his way down the rungs of an iron ladder that was secured to the wall. When his head was even with the top of the nearest stack, he took out a knife and cut into one of the burlap packages. He stared at the substance and swore.

“I can’t be certain until it’s tested,” Oswald said, “but I think this is hashish.”

Oswald climbed out of the tank and shook his head. “What a clusterfuck. We have enough hashish to keep the city of Shelby happy until the next century and our own version of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

Oswald closed the hatch, and the policemen headed topside, discussing their possible courses of action. Just as they stepped onto the deck, three cars raced past the warehouse and screeched to a halt next to the dock. Car doors flew open before the engines were at rest, and men carrying automatic weapons poured out. Several men stationed themselves on the dock. The rest followed a tall blond man in a windbreaker up the gangplank. Oswald moved to the top of the gangplank to intercept them. The blond man displayed identification and kept walking.

“Arn Belson, Homeland Security,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Thomas Oswald, Shelby PD, and you’re trespassing on a crime scene.”

Belson flashed a patronizing smile. “Actually, Officer Oswald, it is you who are trespassing.” Oswald detected a faint Scandinavian accent. “You have stumbled into a federal investigation that has been ongoing for some time. I must ask you and your partner to leave the China Sea.”

Oswald’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I assure you I am not. There are national security implications in this operation, so I’m afraid I can’t be more forthcoming, but your cooperation will be appreciated at the highest levels. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

Oswald fought to keep his temper in check. “I don’t know what kind of yokel you think I am, but you’re mistaken if you think you can waltz in here and take over the investigation of a mass murder by showing me a plastic ID that I can duplicate in a hobby shop.”

Belson pointed to the men who were arrayed behind him. Their guns were aimed menacingly at the two officers.