Picture taken July 1996 Port Stanley and one of the very few I have ever had turn out right. TES/rm
CHAPTER ONE
Wave after wave slammed up against the beach head; the water reaching out before reluctantly retreating back into the ocean. The air was thick with the disgusting stench that was a combination of putrid dead fish mingles with a generous shaking of salt. Hardly invigorating, this pungent aroma did nothing to quell Ned’s queasiness. Oh well, at least the only other beach occupant was spared this insidious stink.
The poor bugger. The poor bloated beached whale of a bugger.
How long had the body been here anyways? Ned tossed his cigarette butt onto the wet sand as he grabbed at a big stick. Could be at least a couple of days based on the appearance Ned surmised. He poked at the body with a tender but firm touch. Ned wanted to be sure that there was nothing strange in the baggy shorts pockets, but he was disappointed to discover that those pockets were empty. Ned used the stick to support his body as he hunkered down towards the ground for a closer look. He patted the pockets and confirmed that thee was nothing as far as a wallet or any solid identification.
The body was naked from the waist up, revealing a flabby middle complete with a man boobs chest. This guy definitely avoided any form of exercise concluded Ned.
No. shit, you pathetic Sherlock wannabe.
Ned’s head rang as the sounds of the ocean penetrated his ears. The years of drinking had finally caught up with him and the department had put him on suspension. Although sober for over four months, the boss had written off Ned as ‘another victim of the job.’ The nice way of saying that Ned was a ‘royal fuck up and drunken shit bag.’
Ned recalled the day he had to clear out his desk. A whole career tossed unceremoniously into a banker’s box. Ned Jacobs, may he rest wherever the hell he wants, so long as it’s far away from here.
“You’ve long since lost your touch. You no longer care about the job. Time to hang up the skates, old boy.” The boss shook his head as he watched Ned’s shaking hands pick up the box, holding it as if it were made of cacti.
“Too bad you ended up like this. Nobody in this town will ever give you a chance again. Why don’t you get yourself a hobby and stay out of trouble? I hear gardening is fun.”
Great advice, but trouble was Ned’s hobby. Not in the sense of causing trouble, but for being able to locate trouble a mile away. Just like today. Ned promised himself he would simply go down to the beach for a nice walk. He hated the smell of the ocean but his daughter said it would be good for him. Besides, who could live by the ocean and not enjoy going near it? Ned could, that’s who. Had it not been for his late wife and her love of the seaside, Ned – always a lake man – would have been happy as a clam staying in the Midwest.
He chuckled. Happy as a clam.
Ned found the beach completely deserted, typical for this late in the year. Maybe I’ll find some shells for the grandkids and what the hell do we have here?
Ned’s attention diverted to the beached whale bugger; a body that stubbornly clung to the wet sand no matter how much the strong ocean waves tried to drag it into the ocean. The body had become a beach barnacle that you couldn’t get rid of, like a wad of spit out gum that stuck to your shoe.
“Obviously the killer or killers didn’t think about that detail.” Ned stopped. How could he be so certain that a killer or killers were involved? The stupid bastard could have easily fallen off one of the party boats, or tried to drown on purpose. Just like so many idiots up here who tried to swim when they couldn’t even dog paddle. It was the pinpricks attacking his gut that told him differently. No, this guy was done in.
Around the neck, strands of seaweed were wrapped in several layers. No ocean wave would have been so precise in arranging that seaweed. Other strands of seaweed were stuck on the body like Spanish moss, reminding Ned of that old crappy tinsel that used to be thrown on the Christmas tree in bunches. That was, until mother raged about tinsel being carefully hung one strand at a time. Precise and exact, it should be delicately hung on each branch.
Now here was this guy; seaweed wrapped around his neck. No doubt the ligature marks would confirm strangulation.
Ned hoisted himself up. He had to decide how to proceed. He had not been warned to stop playing detective, but what else did he know? Gardening my ass. He had to get help, but what about securing the scene? Who would protect the body and the evidence? He lit a cigarette, leaning on his support stick, and then sat down with an awkward thump beside the body.
“Looks like just you and me buddy. Maybe someone will come along and I’ll get to the bottom of this. I won’t let your death be in vain or let you end up just another John Doe in the ground. Not again, not this time.”
Ned figured this would be an open and shut case. He did not have to become involved really, so there would be no harm done. He merely recited his standard pap that sprang automatically from his mouth after years of rehearsal. Taking a deep drag on the cigarette he recalled the last John Doe he came across. Ned shut his eyes and swallowed hard as he took a brain trip back to the time when-.
A voice cut through the ocean’s roar and sounded like it came from the bottom of a huge conch shell.
“Hey you up there! Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
chapter two to follow
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