Plum Island

CHAPTER 25

Beth Penrose had her papers from the briefcase spread out on the table, and I now noticed a plateful of donuts. I gave her the stack of printouts, which she put to the side. I said, "Sorry I took so long. I had to play my phone messages. I got your message."

She replied, "I should have called from the car phone."

"That's all right. You had a standing invitation." I indicated the paper on the table and asked, "So, what do you have there?"

"Some notes. Reports. Do you want to hear this?"

"Sure." I poured us both coffee and sat.

Beth said, "Did you discover anything else in these printouts?"

"Just some increases in their phone, Visa, and Amex after their England trip."

She asked me, "Do you think the trip to England was anything other than business and vacation?"

"Could be."

"Do you think they met a foreign agent?"

"I don't think we'll ever know what they did in England." I was fairly certain, of course, they'd spent the week wading through three-hundred-year-old papers, making sure they signed in and out of the Public Records Office, and/or the British Museum, thereby establishing their bona fides as treasure seekers. However, I wasn't prepared to share that thought yet.

Beth made a short note in her book. Maybe some archivist would be interested in a late-twentieth-century homicide detective's notebook. I used to keep a notebook, but I can't read my own handwriting so it's sort of useless.

Beth said, "Okay, let me begin at the beginning. First, we still have not recovered the two bullets from the bay. It's an almost hopeless task, and they've given up on it."

"Good decision."

"All right, next. Fingerprints. Almost every print in the house is the Gordons'. We tracked down the cleaning lady, who had cleaned that very morning. We also found her prints."

"How about prints on that book of charts?"

"Only the Gordons' and yours." She added, "I examined every page of that book with a magnifying glass and an ultraviolet lamp, looking for marks, pinholes, secret writing — whatever. Nothing."

"I really thought that might yield something."

"No such luck." She glanced at her notes and said, "The autopsy shows what you'd expect. Death in both cases came as a result of massive brain trauma caused by an apparent gunshot wound to the decedents' respective heads, the bullets both entering from the frontal lobes, and so forth… Burned powder or propellant found, indicating close range, so we can probably discount a rifle from a distance. The ME won't commit, but he's saying the murder weapon was probably fired from five to ten feet away and that the caliber of the bullets was in the larger range — maybe a forty-four or forty-five."

I nodded. "That's what we figured."

"Right. The rest of the autopsy…" She glanced at the report. "… Toxicology — no drugs, legal or illegal, found. Stomach contents, almost none, maybe an early and light breakfast. No marks on either body, no infections, no discernible disease…" She went on for a minute or so, then looked up from the report and said, "The deceased female was about a month pregnant."

I nodded. What a nice way to celebrate sudden fame and wealth.

Neither of us spoke for a minute or so. There's something about an autopsy protocol that sort of ruins your mood. One of the more disagreeable tasks that a homicide detective has to perform is to be present at the autopsy. This has to do with the chain-of-evidence requirement and makes sense legally, but I don't like seeing bodies cut open, organs removed and weighed, and all that. I knew that Beth had been present when the Gordons were autopsied, and I wondered if I could have handled seeing people I knew having their guts and brains plucked out.

Beth shuffled some papers and said, "The red earth found in their running shoes is mostly clay, iron, and sand. There's so much of it around here, it's not even worth trying to match it to a specific site."

I nodded and asked, "Did their hands show any signs that they'd been doing something manual?"

"Actually, yes. Tom had a blister on the heel of his right hand. Both of them had been handling soil, which was embedded in their hands and under their nails, despite attempts to wash with saltwater. Their clothes, too, showed smudges of the same soil."

I nodded again.

Beth asked me, "What do you think they were doing?"

"Digging."

"For what?"

"Buried treasure."

She took this as another example of my smart-ass attitude and ignored me, which I knew she'd do. She went through some other points in the forensic report, but I didn't hear anything significant.

Beth continued, "The search of their house, top to bottom, didn't turn up too much of interest. They didn't save much on the computer, except financial and tax records."

I asked her, "What's the difference between a woman and a computer?"

"Tell me."

"A computer will accept a three-and-a-half-inch floppy." She closed her eyes for a second, rubbed her temples, took a deep breath, then continued, "They had a file cabinet, and there is some correspondence, legal stuff, personal, and so forth. We're reading and analyzing it all. This may be interesting, but so far, nothing."

"Whatever was relevant or incriminating was probably stolen." She nodded and continued, "The Gordons owned expensive clothing, even the casual clothes, no pornography, no sexual aids, a wine cellar with seventeen bottles, four photo albums — you're in a few pictures — no audiotapes, a Rolodex which we're comparing to the one in their office, nothing unusual in the medicine cabinet, nothing in any of the pockets of their summer clothes or their stored winter clothes, no keys that don't belong, and one that seemed to be missing — the Murphys' key, if you believe what Mr. Murphy said about giving the house key to the Gordons…". She turned a page and kept reading. This is the kind of stuff that gets my undivided attention, though so far, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

She went on, "We found the deed to the Wiley land, by the way. All in order. Also, we can't find any evidence of a safe deposit box. Or other bank accounts. We found two life insurance policies in the amount of $250,000, one on each of them naming the other as beneficiary with secondary beneficiaries of parents and siblings. Same with their government life insurance. There is also a will, very simple, again naming each other, parents and siblings and so forth."

I nodded. "Good detail work."

"Right. Okay… nothing interesting on the walls… family photos, reproduction art, diplomas."

"How about an attorney?"

"On the wall?"

"No, Beth — an attorney… who is their attorney?"

She smiled at me and said, "You don't like it when people are smart-ass with you, do you? But you — "

"Please continue. Attorney."

She shrugged and said, "Yes, we found the name of an attorney in Bloomington, Indiana, so we'll contact him." She added, "I spoke to both sets of parents on the phone… This is the part of the job I don't like."

"Me neither."

"I talked them out of coming here. I explained that as soon as the medical examiner finished, we'd send the remains to whatever funeral home they wanted. I'll let Max tell them we may need to keep a lot of personal stuff until we, hopefully, wrap it up, go to trial, and all that." She added, "It's all so rough, you know, when you have a murder… death is bad enough. Murder is… well, hard on everyone."

"I know."

She pulled another sheet of paper toward her and said, "I made inquiries about the Spirochete with the DEA, Coast Guard, and even Customs. Interesting that they all knew this boat — they pay attention to these Formulas. Anyway, as far as everyone was concerned, the Gordons were clean. The Spirochete was never spotted in the open Atlantic as far as anyone recalls, and there was never any suspicion that the boat was engaged in smuggling; drug running, or any other illegal activity."

I nodded. "Okay." Not quite true, but not worth mentioning right now.

Beth continued, "For your information, the Formula 303 SR-1 has a draft of thirty-three inches, which will get it into reasonably shallow water. It carries eighty-eight gallons of fuel and has twin 454 cubic inch MerCruiser engines putting out 350 horsepower. It can reach speeds of seventy-five miles per hour. Cost, new, is about ninety-five thousand dollars, but this was a used one and the Gordons bought it for seventy-five thousand." She looked up from the report and said, "This is a top-of-the-line craft, much more than the Gordons could afford to buy and maintain, and more than they needed to commute — sort of like buying a Ferrari for a station car."

I said, "You've been busy."

"Yes, I have. What did you think I was doing?"

I ignored the question and said, "I think we can rule out drug running and all that. As for the Gordons buying a performance boat, it may be that they didn't need the performance on a daily basis, but they wanted the capability, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case they were chased."

"Who would chase them? And why?"

"I don't know." I took a cinnamon donut and bit into it. "Good. Did you make this?"

"Yes. I also made the creme-filled donuts, the eclairs, and the jelly donuts."

"I'm impressed, but the bag says Nicole's Bakery."

"You're some detective."

"Yes, ma'am. What else do you have?"

She moved some papers around and said, "I got the DA to subpoena the Gordons' phone records for the last two years."

I sat up. "Yes?"

"Well, as you'd expect, a lot of calls back home — parents, friends, relatives, and so forth — Indiana for Tom, Illinois for Judy. Lots of calls to Plum Island, service people, restaurants, and on and on. A few calls to the Peconic Historical Society, calls to Margaret Wiley, two to the Maxwell residence, one to Paul Stevens at his Connecticut home, and ten calls to you over the last twelve weeks."

"That would be about right."

"It is right. Also, about two or three calls a month to Tobin Vintners in Peconic as well as Fredric Tobin in Southold and Fredric Tobin in Peconic."

I said, "The gentleman has a house on the water in Southold and keeps an apartment at the winery, which is in Peconic."

She looked at me. "How do you know all that?"

"Because Emma — the president of the Peconic Historical Society, who just left — is a close friend of Mr. Tobin. Also, I was invited to a party at His Lordship's waterfront home tomorrow night. I think you should be there."

"Why?"

"It's a good opportunity to chat with some locals. Max will probably be there."

She nodded. "Okay."

"You should get the details from Max. I don't actually have a formal invite."

"Okay."

"Phone calls."

She looked down at her sheets of computer printouts and said, "In May of last year, there were four phone calls from London, England, charged to their phone credit card… one each to Indiana and Illinois, one to the general number on Plum Island, and a forty-two-minute call to Fredric Tobin in Southold."

"Interesting."

"What's with Mr. Fredric Tobin?"

"I'm not sure."

"Tell me the part you're sure of."

"I think you were giving a report, and I don't want to interrupt."

"No, it's your turn, John."

"I'm not playing that game, Beth. You finish, just as if you're briefing a roomful of bosses. Then I'll tell you what I.'ve discovered."

She thought a moment, clearly not wanting to be bamboozled by John Corey. She asked me, "Do you have anything?"

"I do. I truly do. Proceed."

"Okay… where was I?"

"Phone records."

"Yes. There are twenty-five months' worth here, which is about a thousand calls, and I'm having them computer-analyzed. I did turn up an interesting fact — when the Gordons got here in August two years ago, they first rented a house in Orient, near the ferry, then moved to the Nassau Point house only four months later."

I asked, "Was the Orient house on the water?"

"No."

"There's the answer. Within four months of coming here, they decided they needed a house on the water and a dock and a boat. Why?"

"That," said Beth, "is what we're trying to figure out."

"Right." I'd already figured it out. It had to do with the Gordons somehow discovering that something on Plum Island needed to be found and dug up. So, way back in the autumn of two years ago, the first part of the plot — getting a house on the water, then a boat — was already in place. I said to Beth, "Proceed."

"All right… Plum Island. They're being cute there, and I had to get rough with them."

"Good for you."

"I had the entire contents of the Gordons' office transported by ferry to Orient Point, then loaded on a police truck, and transported to the Suffolk County lab."

"The taxpayers of the county will be happy to hear that."

"Also, I had their office fingerprinted and vacuumed and had a padlock put on it."

"My goodness. You're thorough."

"This is a double homicide, John. How do you handle a double homicide in the city?"

"We call the Department of Sanitation. Please proceed."

She took a deep breath. She said, "Okay… I also obtained the directory of everyone who works on Plum Island, and we have five detectives assigned to do interviews."

I nodded. "Good. I want to interview Donna Alba myself."

"I'm sure you do. If you find her, let us know."

"Gone?"

"Vacation." Beth added, "That's what I mean about them being cute."

"Right. They're still covering up. They can't help it. It's in their bureaucratic bones." I said, "Where are your buddies, Nash and Foster?"

"They're not my buddies, and I don't know. Around, but not visible. They left the Soundview."

"I know. Okay, next."

"I got a court order to take into evidence all the government weapons on Plum Island, including the.45 automatics, a few revolvers, and a dozen M-16s, and two World War Two carbines."

"My goodness. Were they going to invade us?"

She shrugged. "It's a lot of Army stuff, left over, I guess. Anyway, they howled about giving up the armory. I'm having each weapon test-fired by ballistics, and we'll have a report on each one in case we ever find a slug."

"Good thinking." I asked, "When will you re-arm Plum Island?"

"Probably Monday or Tuesday."

I said, "I saw some Marine Corps activity at the ferry. I guess after you disarmed poor Mr. Stevens' security force, they felt they needed protection."

"Not my problem."

I said, "By the way, I'm sure they didn't give you the whole arsenal."

"If they didn't, I'll get an arrest warrant for Stevens."

No judge was going to issue that warrant, but it didn't matter so I said, "Please proceed."

"Okay, more Plum Island. I paid a surprise call on Dr. Chen, who lives in Stony Brook. I got the distinct impression she had been coached before we met her in the lab, because she could not extemporize when I spoke to her in her house." Beth added, "I got Dr. Chen to say that yes, maybe, perhaps, possibly, the Gordons stole a dangerous virus or bacteria."

I nodded. This was very good police work, top-notch procedural. Some of it was relevant, some of it was not. As far as I knew, there were only three people who would use the words "pirate treasure" in regard to this case — me, Emma, and the murderer.

Beth said, "I re-interviewed Kenneth Gibbs, also at his house. He lives in Yaphank, not far from my office. He's a bit of a snot, but aside from that, I don't think he knows any more than he's told us." She added, "Paul Stevens is another story…"

"Indeed he is. Did you speak to him?"

"I tried to… he's been giving me the slip." She added, "I think he knows something, John. As security chief of Plum Island, there's not too much that gets past that guy."

"Probably not."

She looked at me and asked, "Do you think he's a suspect?"

"He makes me suspicious, so he's a suspect."

She thought a moment, then said, "This is not very scientific, but he looks like a killer."

"He sure does. I have a whole class called 'People Who Look and Act Like Killers.'"

She didn't know if I was pulling her leg or not, which, actually, I wasn't. She said, "Anyway, I'm trying to run a background check on him, but the people who would have the most information — the FBI — are dragging their feet."

"Actually, they've already done what you're asking them to do, but they're not going to share any of it with you."

She nodded and said unexpectedly, "Fucked-up case."

"That's what I've been telling you." I asked her, "Where does Stevens live?"

"Connecticut. New London. There's a government ferry from New London to Plum."

"Give me his address and phone number."

She found it in her notes and started to write it out, but I said, "I have a photographic memory. Just tell me."

She looked at me, again with an expression of slight disbelief. Why doesn't anyone take me seriously? In any case, she told me Paul Stevens' address and phone number, which I tucked away in a crevice of my brain. I stood and said, "Let's take a walk."