Swimming With the Dead (8 page)

“You must know a lot about Michael’s research.”

“Yes.  You know I’ve lived with the ocean outside my door my whole life.  I guess I kind of took it for granted.  But Michael saw the miracle of it all.  I learned so much from him.  Like him, I am worried about exploitation and overuse.  It’s such a delicate and fragile environment.  Did you know that two-thirds of the Caribbean reef is in jeopardy due to over-fishing and the high levels of nutrients that smother the coral?  The nutrients come from sewage.”

“What exactly was Michael studying?” I asked. 

“He was focused on the effects of boating.  As you’ve probably seen, the BVI is world-renowned for sailing—beautiful anchorages and wonderful snorkeling and diving.  As a result, there is a lot of boat traffic in the islands.  Unfortunately there are few regulations.”

“So, what’s the problem?”  I was having a hard time seeing how any of this would lead to murder.  Maybe it wouldn’t.

“Well, one is the pollution.  Can you imagine the impact of having fifty boats crammed into an anchorage the space of a football field all flushing their sewage into the calm water?  By definition, good anchorages are sheltered from the wind, wave action, and currents.  That means quiet water that doesn’t circulate quickly and sewage that is slow to wash out to deep water.  One solution would be to outfit the boats with holding tanks and at least require boaters to empty their tanks out in deep water.  That’s what occurs in California.  In fact, the tanks there contain dye, so if a boater dumps in restricted areas, the coast guard will fine him.”

“You said one of the problems Michael studied was pollution.  What were the others?”

“He was looking at the effects of boating in general.  It had to do with sheer volume.  People drop their anchors in coral beds, damaging and eventually killing the coral.  Imagine the devastation from the cruise ships and big freighters.  In a matter of seconds, their anchors and chains can crush a coral reef that took thousands of years to grow.  Add to that the anti-fouling paint that is used on all of these boats.  It is highly toxic.  Has to be to keep organisms from growing on the hull.”

Gazing out at a vast ocean that spread to the horizon, I was having trouble believing that a little paint on a boat would have much effect. 

“Snorkelers and divers add to the damage,” she continued.  “Many are novices and have trouble keeping their feet off the bottom or controlling their fins.  They end up kicking against the coral and breaking it.  Then there are those who feel compelled to touch and to bring underwater creatures home as souvenirs.  They see a beautiful conch, take it out of the water, and leave it up on the boat, never considering that an animal might live inside.  The conch dries out and dies, produces a horrible smell, and over the side it goes.  Many will insist that it’s just one little conch or one small piece of damaged coral, but the popular dive and snorkeling sites can see a couple of hundred people a week, maybe more depending on the season.  Michael followed the reports.  Just last year the Global Reef Monitoring Network reported that thirty percent of the coral reef worldwide had already been destroyed.  They predict that if trends continue, sixty percent will be decimated by 2030.”

“I’m convinced.”  I had to admit I was about as interested in hearing about shit in the water as I was about dead conch.  I’d seen conch on someone’s plate in the hotel restaurant.  It looked like a curled-up piece of old tire.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid Michael’s passion was contagious.  His research revealed the true extent of the problem in terms of boating and tourism, problems that locals talked about only anecdotally.  Like the owner of Underwater Adventures talking about the dead turtle he found off Cistern Point with plastic wrapped around its beak.”

“How did Michael gather his data?” I asked.

“He spent most of his day taking water samples, measuring visibility and water temperature, examining and taking photos of coral colonies.  He’d record bleaching.  That’s when the coral gets stressed and expels the algae that give the coral its color.  He would compare the data to the data about boat traffic and the use of the land nearby, looking for correlations.  Then he would move on to the next area and do the same.”

“Do you know why he was diving out at the
Chikuzen
?”

“Michael took water samples and dived at all the dive sites.  He had been consumed by the
Chikuzen
site lately because he had discovered some dead fish there.  It had been a one-time occurrence and he was trying to figure out what had killed them.”

“Why would he have gone out alone?”

“If Michael had wanted to dive the wreck and no one was available to go with him, he wouldn’t have waited around.  I think it’s easier for me to accept Michael’s death because it was always a possibility, given the fact that he lived so fully.”

“He took risks then?”  I asked.  Maybe his death was just what the coroner reported—accidental drowning—and my trip down here was a wild-goose chase.

“Yes, in certain situations, he did.”

“What do you mean, certain situations?”

“He was completely confident about his diving skills, a fanatic when it came to the environment, and determined when it came to an unanswered question.  He’d dive without hesitation if he thought he’d find an answer in the water.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?”

“I can’t imagine who,” she said.  I thought I saw a flash of doubt cross her face, but she said nothing else.

“Could his research have been a threat?” I asked.

“It could have an impact on the charter industry down here,” she said.  “Michael would have eventually made a case to the local government and to the tourism board.  He thought he could convince them that the damage to the reef and the water pollution would eventually impact tourism.  They could force charter companies to address the problem by installing holding tanks on boats and providing pump out stations.  This would be quite costly.

“More costly yet, they could start putting quotas on the number of boats chartered each year, which would have huge financial implications on the larger charter fleets.  They can’t afford to have boats sitting idle in port.”

“When you talk about the charter companies, how many do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, there are three or four large ones, over one hundred boats in each of their fleets, and there are scores of smaller operations scattered around the island.  Then there are the companies who run day charters.  Approximately four hundred thousand people visit the islands every year to sail, snorkel, and dive.” 

“Chief Dunn talked about Michael’s marijuana and alcohol use.”  I didn’t mention the skinny-dipping.  I had been known to engage in that activity myself whenever the opportunity arose, which unfortunately wasn’t often.  “Could there be some drug connection?  Someone he owed money or an unsavory local dealer?”

“No,” she said.  “Michael’s drinking and drug use was minimal, a weekend party, a quiet night sipping wine and smoking on the beach.  We both enjoyed it once in a while, always moderate though.  Maybe we spent a hundred dollars a year on pot, bought it from a friend who grows it in her garden.”

“You’re right.  It doesn’t sound like any motive for violence,” I said.  But I wouldn’t rule it out.  People were seldom honest about their use of illicit drugs, especially when talking to a cop.  Lydia would be no exception.

“Where were you the morning Michael died?”

“Me?” she asked, incredulous and hurt.  “You can’t possibly think that I was involved in Michael’s death.”

I didn’t really think so.  Her devastation seemed real.  And even though she was an experienced diver, she didn’t look strong enough to overpower Michael under the water, unless of course she had help.

“Have to ask,” I said.

“I was at work all day.  I start at eight and leave at five.  You can check with anyone at the office.  I went straight home afterward to wait for Michael.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I talked to him the night he returned.  He’d gone down to speak with the port authority about the
Chikuzen
.  He was kind of abrupt on the phone.  Didn’t want to talk at all.  Said he couldn’t come by.  He seemed distracted, not really listening to me.  Said he was going to dive in the morning and we made a date for dinner.  He never showed up.  When he didn’t answer his phone the next morning, I called Chief Dunn.  He went out to the
Chikuzen
with a couple of divers and they found Michael.”

“Who else should I be talking to?” I asked.

“You’ll want to talk with Peter O’Brien,” she said.  “He owns SeaSail Charters.  He and Michael were very friendly in spite of their differences.  They spent hours sailing and arguing.  Also Ralph Maynard.  He works for the Department of Environment and Fisheries.  Michael and he had worked closely on several projects, sometimes dove together.  The list from Dunn is pretty complete otherwise.”

Lydia insisted on taking me back to my hotel, and damned if her driving didn’t mirror Robert’s.  I began to wonder if the driver of the Honda had simply been another typical island maniac behind the wheel.  To take my mind off the possibility of death at every turn, I silently composed what seemed the local rules of the road: drive as fast as you possibly can, especially around curves.  Don’t slow for pedestrians, goats, or chickens that stand by the side of the road.  Be sure to honk and wave at your friends; stop in the middle of the road if they need a ride.  Pass other slow-moving vehicles even if you can’t see what’s coming from the other direction, and do not for any reason consider wearing a seat belt.

Lydia found humor in my obvious discomfort.  “It takes getting used to,” she said, “but this is the island way.  I guess you’d call it carefree, a ‘no worry’ attitude.  The people of the Caribbean are a wonderful and unique breed, so much a product of their environment.  It’s hard to put it in words.  They drive fast but are never in a hurry.  They are dependable people that you can count on.  If they have an obligation at eight o’clock, they do not arrive at eight-oh-one or at seven-fifty-nine.  It’s eight o’clock.  Yet they are a relaxed and happy folk.  Americans call it ‘laid back.’”

“One more thing,” I said as we pulled up to my hotel.  “Do you know what happened to Michael’s diving gear or where I might find his boat?”

“I don’t know what happened to his gear,” she said.  “I never even asked.  The
Lucky Lady
is in a slip down at the marina at Wickhams Two.  I haven’t been on her since Michael died.  His parents wanted me to keep her, but I can’t.  We spent a lot of time together on that boat.  Without him . . . well, you know.  I need to sell her.”

“I’d like to take a look at her,” I said.

“Sure.  She’s in slip twelve.  Anyone at the marina can show you.”

“Thanks,” I said, opening the door.

“Thank you—for getting involved.” She gently touched my arm. “And thanks for letting me go on about Michael.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.  As I watched her pull away, I couldn’t help feeling that in all the talk, there was something Lydia hadn’t said.

I walked through the lobby and out to the end of the dock.  It was too beautiful to go back to my room and I needed to think.  Brooding came easier without the restriction of walls.

It was possible that Michael’s research had resulted in his murder.  From what Lydia said, he could have pushed someone’s buttons with his vehemence about the destruction of the reef.  Or threatened a thriving charter business by forcing restrictions on boating activity.  But she’d said that Michael was not as careful as the Duvalls wanted to believe.  Maybe his recklessness when it came to the environment and diving had gotten him into trouble.  He could have pulled that compressor down looking for some environmental hazard.  This entire trip could be a waste of my time and the Duvalls’ money.  But Lydia was hiding something.  I was sure of it.  I’d seen that expression before during an interrogation.

 I sat at the end of the dock for a while, feet hanging off the end, arms propped behind me.  I had forgotten how vast and star-studded the night skies could be.  As a kid growing up in Illinois, I’d spent hours lying in the grass waiting to wish on the first star.  But the brightly lit Denver skies didn’t afford such a view, and these days I never took the time to look anyway.

Chapter 7

Only nine thirty and damn, it was hot.  About five minutes after I walked out of my room, my tank top was already sticking to my back.  I wore tan hiking shorts, an old pair of Birkenstocks, and the tank, a sherbet deepening to orange where the sweat soaked through.  I was headed around to the other side of the harbor to talk with one of Michael’s dive buddies, who owned Underwater Adventure.

The shop was hard to miss.  The building, deep pink with a green awning, looked like a watermelon perched on the water’s edge.  Rows of dive tanks lined the side of the building.  Dozens of wet suits, buoyancy vests, and regulators hung from a metal bar, drying. 

Stepping inside was like stepping into an aquarium.  There were fish everywhere—fish T-shirts, bikinis, mobiles, magnets, paperweights, jewelry, pink, yellow, and turquoise fish.

“Good morning,” a huge black woman greeted from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“Hello, I’m looking for James Constantine,” I said.

“He be here somewhere.  James?  James!” she hollered toward the back room. 

“No need to shout, woman; I’m right here,” came a voice from around the corner.  A tall black man, tattoos gracing each bicep, gave the woman a surreptitious pat on the ass as he moved past her.

“I’m James, help you?”

“I’m Hannah Sampson,” I said. “Denver police officer.  Michael Duvall’s parents asked me to come down to check out a few things.  I know you and Michael were friends.  Can we talk a minute?”

“Sure, let’s go out back.  I’m repairing equipment.  We can talk while I work,” he said, leading the way.  A small outdoor shop was littered with dive gear.  The long hoses of dive regulators in various stages of devastation were tangled on the workbench like a nest of snakes.