Biggs was on the phone, Chris rummaged carefully through the man’s pockets, finding nothing other than a sodden paper with some illegible printing scrawled on it. He knew the search went against protocol, but he doubted much forensic evidence would be left on the body after its watery travels. He stuffed the paper back and busied himself taking close-up shots of the body, particularly elements that might help with identification — the garish jacket, the dirty shoes, and, most importantly, the man’s face.
He suspected they were in for a long night. Amanda had already texted him multiple times to ask whether the body was Phil. He was finally able to reassure her.
“Whew!” she replied. “Then who is it?”
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
He was just finishing up the photos when Biggs reappeared. The man seemed calmer now that he had sent the problem higher up. “They’re sending the helicopter over from Moncton to evacuate the DOA to St. John’s, and forensics and major crimes teams will drive up from Corner Brook in the morning to head up the investigation. Meanwhile, they instructed us to bring the body onto the pier so the medical examiner can do a preliminary examination, and to take witness statements from the crew and harbour staff so folks can go home. We’re to keep the scene secured.”
Chris stepped forward. “I can take statements, sir.”
“Let’s get the poor bugger off the boat first.”
It was almost midnight by the time the officers managed to hoist the body, wrapped in the tarp, off the boat deck and onto the pier, where they laid it out under the bright RCMP spotlights. Chris took more photos while the medical examiner, who had been keeping warm in his car, re-emerged for a closer look. He lifted the clothing, moved the body carefully from side to side, and probed it for broken bones and lacerations. Then he took a temperature reading and used a powerful flashlight to look into the man’s eyes, ears, and mouth. Finally he pressed hard on the victim’s chest. Only a faint gurgle and a trickle of foam escaped his lips.
As he worked, he dictated into his iPhone and Chris bent close to catch every word. “Victim is an adult white male estimated age twenty-five to forty years, approximately six feet, thin build. There are no obvious broken bones or signs of trauma, only superficial lacerations on his exposed flesh that appear consistent with marine feeding. He appears malnourished and has had several teeth pulled. Health and dental care seem to have been poor.”
“That goes along with the shoes and clothes,” Chris said to Biggs, who was observing beside him. “This is not a rich guy.”
“Not a tourist, either,” said the skipper. “Look at his hands. Calloused, nails broken off. This feller did hard, dirty labour.” He held out his own hands. “Just like my hands. You never get the dirt and slime out of them.”
“A fisherman, then?” Chris asked.
“Not in them clothes.”
The doctor cast them an annoyed glance before resuming his dictation in a louder voice. “Body temp is five degrees, probably about the same as the ambient water temperature where he was. Where was that?”
“We was 250 kilometres northeast. I gave Biggs here the coordinates.”
“There’s no visible mud or ocean silt in his mouth or ears, and rigor is minimal. At those temps, that’s not unexpected, but those two facts taken together, I’d say he wasn’t in the water too long.”
“Can you tell how he died?” Biggs said.
The doctor sat back on his heels. “No water in his lungs. Now, cardiac arrest or laryngeal spasm could have killed him when he entered the cold water …”
“But he could have been dead before he hit the water?”
“That’s one possibility of several.” He straightened with a creak and a groan. “Well, I’ve done what I can. The autopsy in St. John’s should tell us more, but meanwhile you can treat the death as suspicious.”
Chris looked over at the ring of townspeople still pressed against the tape. A few had departed but most waited for news, worried about family and loved ones up and down the coast.
“How about I show the photos to the boat crew and the locals, sir. See if anyone recognizes him or has any relevant information. Then they can go home.”
“Good idea.” Biggs gestured to the constable on guard. “Send the photos to Leger too and we’ll split up the interviews. It’s going to be a long night.”
People crowded around as Chris approached. Relief showed on their faces as one by one they shook their heads. They didn’t know who the dead man was, but a few echoed Norm Parsons’s belief that he was not a fisherman, indeed not likely even a native Newfoundlander.
“He don’t look like one of us,” said one elderly woman swathed in scarves and shawls. Chris knew that of all Canada, Newfoundland had the most homogeneous population. It was 95 percent white and Christian, comprised mostly of immigrants from southwestern England and southeastern Ireland. Many Newfoundlanders had the sturdy, compact frames, round faces, and blunt features of that gene pool, and Chris suspected the homogeneity, indeed, the shared bloodlines, was even greater in the remote fishing villages, some of which had been founded by a single family or two.
Like these Newfoundlanders, he had grown up in a fairly homogeneous community in rural Saskatchewan, settled by immigrants who had fled Europe at the same time and been granted land in the newly developing Prairies. In his case, however, they had been from the Ukraine. His mother could spot a kinsman at a single glance.
He studied the photo carefully, trying to see what the woman saw. The subtle differences that would set him apart from the locals. The dead man’s features were sharper, his nose finer, and his skin, although grey and mottled from the sea water, looked darker. Not at all the British and Irish stock on which Newfoundland had been built. Italian, perhaps? Or Middle Eastern?
Either way, he was a long way from home.
Amanda woke the next morning revelling in the soft mattress and the warm duvet. Outside, the surf ebbed and flowed against the rocks and sunlight slanted in through the motel window. Her languid stretch woke Kaylee, who crawled up to snuggle, her exuberant tail thumping the bed.
Amanda felt a warm thrill. She had slept without interruptions or dreams, without an all too familiar backdrop of formless dread. She sat up, wishing the feeling would never end, and headed into the shower. Only when she was sitting in the breakfast room with her first cup of coffee did she pull out her cellphone. To her surprise, she had a signal. One bar, but she would take it.
Chris had texted three more times during the night, first to tell her the man was likely not a local, second to say the death looked suspicious, and third to say a major crimes team would be arriving in the morning. “Sh-h!” he’d added. “Don’t repeat that!” The last text had been at 3:00 a.m.
She smiled. How she wished he were here, with his teasing banter and crinkly grin, helping her figure out their next steps together. Poor Chris. It appeared as if he hadn’t slept all night. In the hope he might finally be resting, she decided not to reply until later. She had nothing urgent to report yet anyway. Phil had had a drunken argument with a stranger, Tyler had explored a fishing stage, and they may or may not have gone off with the stranger at the end of the night.
The motel owner approached
