The Truth Will Drop: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 5 Read online

  The Truth Will Drop

  Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 5

  by

  Al Boudreau

  Copyright 2017

  Query Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved

  The Truth Will Drop is a work of fiction.

  Names, places, and events are either products of the author’s

  imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

  events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 1

  The evening’s fading light reflected off rolling waves as we made our way across Donald and Carol Taylor’s front yard. I was about to comment on the beauty of the Piscataqua River when I noticed my partner Sarah Woods was no longer by my side. I turned to find her staring at the busy waterway as a bulk freighter, escorted by three tugboats, lumbered past the property.

  “That’s Don out there, on the deck of the starboard tug,” a voice called out from behind us. “Came out of retirement to work Frenchie’s shifts till Moray Towing can find a decent replacement.”

  I looked over my shoulder to find Carol Taylor walking toward us, arms folded tight across her chest, her breath visible in the frigid January air.

  “Mrs. Taylor, we’re sorry for your loss,” I said as I put my hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “I’d like you to meet my partner, Sarah Woods.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m Carol,” said the retired teacher and mother of three as she pointed toward her modest Cape Cod-style home. “We might just as well head inside. It ain’t gonna get any warmer out here now that the sun’s dropped.”

  The tooting communication signals of the passing tugs echoed through the rumbling air as we followed our new client up the cobblestone walk toward her home. “Don’t mind the mess,” she said as she held the front door open. “After losing Frenchie back in August, we haven’t found the strength or desire to do much around this place.”

  “In your situation, I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Sarah said as we entered.

  Mrs. Taylor motioned for us to sit. “Can I get you folks anything?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, eyeing the stack of official looking paperwork on the coffee table before us.

  She noticed my focus. “That’s all the correspondence from the Malaysian company that owns the ship Frenchie was towing to dock when the accident---sorry, Don says I’ve got to stop calling it that---when the incident took place. Then, of course, there’s also the darned useless police reports, letters from the union, offers from lawyers, et cetera, et cetera. It never ends.”

  Sarah put her hand on my knee and shook her head as our client disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Here’s a copy of the video we got in the mail, along with the note,” she said as she returned to the room, the frown lines on her face deep set. “I hope you’ll take it with you and watch it somewhere else. I just can’t look at it anymore.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Mrs. Taylor, we’ve thoroughly reviewed the file you sent regarding your son’s tragedy, but we’d like to ask a few quick questions, if that’s all right.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I apologize for having to get into specifics, here, but all the information I’ve reviewed talks about your son having been killed by blunt force trauma, yet I can’t seem to find any documentation telling me exactly what hit him.”

  She took a seat across from us and stared at the floor for a long moment. “Well, that’s just it. No one knew … until now. Take that fancy computer stick home. Watch the video. It’ll make things all too clear.”

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t know what to make of this note,” Sarah said as she buckled her seatbelt.

  I started my car then read the message out loud. “I should have acted and put a stop to this months ago. Time you knew the truth.” I glanced over at Sarah and handed the note back. “Too bad the note’s computer generated. Handwriting analysis is out, but the message itself might make more sense once we’ve seen what’s on that video.”

  “I’m not looking forward to watching it. Did you see Carol Taylor’s face when she handed this information to us?”

  “Yep. Seemed pretty close to breaking down.” I looked toward the house as we drove off and spotted Carol standing behind the picture window, staring out at the river. “I wish her husband could have been here for our meeting. He’s got to have some sort of theory about what happened to their son, don’t you think? Don Taylor’s been working the tugs most of his life.”

  Sarah stowed the envelope containing the note and thumb drive in the console between us. “When you spoke with Carol this morning, did she mention how long she’s had this information?”

  “She said it came in the mail yesterday afternoon. Local postmark. No return address.”

  “Huh.”

  I took my eyes off the road for a second to look over at Sarah. “What was that for?”

  “Well, when we agreed to take their case earlier this week, Carol said her husband worked Sunday to Saturday, alternating one week on and one week off.”

  “Yep. That’s right,” I said. “He lives on the Euginia Moray day and night for the whole week. The tug’s crew is on call around the clock.”

  “OK. So, we took their case on Monday. Today’s only Wednesday. Think her husband’s even seen this video yet?”

  I spent a few seconds thinking about Sarah’s question while traveling the familiar streets of Bridgeport back toward our home. “Not sure. Why do you ask?”

  “The comment you made---Mr. Taylor maybe having a theory about what happened to their son---reminded me of something Carol told us while we were there. She said he’s been telling her to stop calling what happened an accident and call it an incident, yet this information was delivered to their house a little over twenty-four hours ago. Short amount of time to make that kind of shift in his thinking, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe his problem with the word accident vs. incident has nothing to do with this new information. Could be their lawyer advised them not to call it an accident for legal reasons.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “So, you’re thinking what? That Carol’s husband has information he’s not sharing with any of us?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily. Maybe it’s nothing. Just seems a little curious to me, that’s all.” Sarah paused for a beat, then added, “If my son were killed---incident, accident, or otherwise---I’d sure make time to be involved in figuring out what the heck happened, and why. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said as we pulled into our driveway. “Let’s find out if and when her husband watched the video. All we need to do is ask. I’ll call Carol after we take a look at the footage, ourselves.”

  I follow
ed Sarah into the house. She headed straight for the living room, not even pausing to take off her coat.

  “Can you turn on the lamp for me, please?” she asked as she fumbled to insert the thumb drive into her laptop computer.

  I obliged. “For someone who wasn’t looking forward to watching this video, you’re sure not wasting any time.”

  “It’s like ripping a Band-Aid straight off instead of trying to peel it back slowly. I just want to get it over with, you know?”

  “I do. Fire it up,” I said and sat down on the couch beside her.

  Sarah’s fingers clicked away on the keys and the screen came to life. She leaned back after a few seconds and slid the laptop over toward me. “Whew … I never knew you could get sea-sick just from watching a video.”

  The recording must have been shot from the deck of a small craft, the view across the water rising, falling, and tipping as the unidentified videographer captured the activities of the tugboat Euginia Moray, as well as those of the Malaysian bulk freighter Sandakan Sun. Engine noise, wind gusts, and the slap-slap-slap of passing boat’s hulls could be heard in the background.

  The footage looked to have been recorded about an hour after sunset, making it difficult to see much detail. The boat traffic on the Piscataqua River was particularly heavy that evening---August being the area’s busiest month---the turbulent waters and onset of darkness giving the video an eerie feel.

  I stopped the playback to adjust the brightness of the computer screen then started the recording from the beginning.

  The video’s main focus fell on two individuals: the deckhand---who we knew to be Frenchie Taylor---standing on the pitching bow of the Euginia Moray, and an unidentified man, positioned roughly 60 feet above Taylor, topside the bulk freighter Sandakan Sun, his gut pressed against the side rail of the bow.

  Taylor seemed to be paying very close attention to the man above, who appeared to be holding a crate---slightly smaller than a case of beer---over the ship’s rail, acting as if he were planning to pitch it overboard. As the bow of the Euginia Moray inched ever closer to the massive steel hull of the Sandakan Sun, the man bent further and further over the edge.

  Just as the man appeared to be ready to release the crate, he looked out across the water---directly at the camera---and seemed to become spooked. He stood up abruptly and attempted to hoist the crate back up over the rail and onto the ship’s deck.

  The following turn of events was difficult to watch, causing Sarah to gasp. I winced as I reached forward to pause playback, both of us needing a moment to process what we’d seen.

  Sarah took a few deep breaths. “Well, that was nothing short of brutal. Now I understand why Carol couldn’t bear to watch it again.”

  I dragged the computer’s scroll ball back to where the man began lifting the crate up then started the video again. Just when it looked like the crate would clear the top rail, the man on the ship looked over his shoulder then simply released his burden, turned heel, and disappeared from view.

  Simultaneously, the Euginia Moray, pitching and bobbing on a confused pattern of rolling waves, lurched back away from the Sandakan Sun---causing Frenchie Taylor to look down for a split second, possibly in order to adjust his footing.

  That fateful instant would cost him his life, the impact of the crate upon this luckless deckhand no easier to watch the second time around.

  Frenchie had looked back up just as the plummeting mass’s trajectory took aim at his forehead, striking him with such force that the resulting movement of his body didn’t look real. His head reacted to the impact much like a swiftly kicked soccer ball would upon meeting a brick wall.

  In fact, both Frenchie and the crate disappeared so quickly below the tug’s gunwale and down to the deck, it was as if they’d evaporated into thin air.

  Roughly seven seconds after the horrific event had taken place the video came to an abrupt halt---a single slap heard as the video blurred then turned to static.

  “Play it over,” Sarah said.

  “The whole thing?”

  She nodded. We both leaned in closer as action filled the screen, hoping to catch some sort of detail we may have missed.

  “Wait. What’s that?” Sarah asked, pointing to an area next to the man with the crate.

  I scrolled the video back a bit and started it again.

  “Right there,” she said. “In the background. Just over the guy’s right shoulder.”

  “Hard to tell for sure, but it looks like someone’s head.”

  “Think the guy with the crate saw someone coming toward him and let go of it so he wouldn’t get in trouble?”

  “No idea. Definitely a possibility,” I said as we watched the final seconds after the impact. “But here’s something I find a little strange. The Sandakan Sun must have been tied up already, because that tug wasted no time getting out of there. Which it couldn’t have done if Moray’s crew still had lines out.”

  “Let’s watch that end part one more time,” Sarah said.

  “Whoa. I didn’t see that before,” I said as the incident unfolded again.

  “What? I didn’t notice anything different.”

  I scrolled back and hit play. “Right here. Look. Someone on the Euginia Moray is crouched down, heading out toward the bow.”

  “Uh-huh. I see them now. Looks like they took a quick look in the area of Frenchie’s collapse then crawled back toward the wheelhouse.”

  “I don’t think they’re crawling,” I said. “Looks to me like they’re pushing that crate.”

  “Oh, my goodness. I think you’re right. Can you believe that?”

  I shook my head. “Must be holding some serious contents if they’re more worried about that stupid box than they are their own crewmate.”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but … it had to have been obvious that Carol’s son was beyond saving after taking a blow like that.”

  “Couldn’t have been pretty, that’s for sure.” We were both quiet for a few beats, affected by the gravity of what we’d seen.

  Sarah broke the silence. “What about the boat this video was recorded from? I caught glimpses of detail here and there. Any possibility of figuring out what kind of boat it was?”

  We watched the video again, paying attention only to the foreground. “Can’t say I recognize any of what we’re seeing, but it’s not my area of expertise, either.”

  “Someone will know,” Sarah said. “That information is an important stepping stone.”

  “Yep. Pretty difficult to figure out who shot this video without it.”

  Chapter 3

  “Hello,” Carol Taylor answered.

  “Mrs. Taylor, Carter Peterson. I’ve got you on speakerphone. Sarah’s sitting here with me.”

  “That’s fine. Guess you two saw the video.”

  “We did,” I said as I set the phone down on the coffee table and pulled out my notebook. “It was difficult to watch.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was,” she replied. “I can tell you I’ll never look at it again.”

  I glanced over at Sarah as I continued. “No one could blame you for that. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what was your husband’s reaction when he watched the video?”

  Dead silence for a beat. “Guess I should have said something before now, but … Don refuses to consider the loss of our son as anything more than the price folks sometimes pay for working dangerous jobs. Honestly, his allegiance to that damn Moray Towing outfit is maddening.”

  “Not sure I understand,” I said.

  “I know my husband, Mr. Peterson. When he gets home from work in a few days, I could show him the video … and read him the note.” There was a pause, then she continued. “He’d watch it, all right, and he’d listen. But I can hear him now. He’d come up with some ridiculous explanation, telling me why the video and the note mean nothing. Just a tragic incident, that’s what he’d say. That’s what he always tells me.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Sarah, who nodded and pointed at
the phone. “Uh, yes, you mentioned that before. What, exactly, is his reasoning behind the whole incident vs. accident discussion?”

  “In a nutshell? He doesn’t want our family to pursue damages. Thinks apologies and cards of condolences are all Moray and that murderous shipping company owe us. Says Moray’s been good to this family over the years. And that he’s not about to make trouble for either of them.”

  I began jotting down notes as she spoke. “Is it safe to say you disagree?”

  “I don’t agree with him at all. In fact, I think our lawyer would like to ring my husband’s neck. The two of us keep trying to convince Don that we have a solid case. Don’t get me wrong. As far as I’m concerned, this isn’t about the money. Fact of the matter is I won’t start breathing again till I understand what happened to my Frenchie, and why. That’s how I’ve felt since the day he passed. And more so since this awful video showed up.”

  Sarah reached over and touched my hand before speaking. “Mrs. Taylor, does your husband know you’ve hired us to look into the death of your son?”

  “No, he doesn’t. And he doesn’t have to. This is for me. For my peace of mind. I need this … for closure,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “I understand,” Sarah said. “Believe me, I’d do the same if I were in your shoes.”

  “Mrs. Taylor, when we spoke last Monday, you mentioned you were a mother of three,” I said.

  “That’s right. We have a daughter, and another son. Kris lives out on the west coast. She runs a fishing boat with her husband. And my other son, Jason, used to work for Moray until two or so years ago. He’s with Homeland Security now. Works a Coast Guard patrol boat here on the Piscataqua.”

  “Mind if I ask how Kris and Jason feel about all of this?”

  “Jason is one hundred percent on Don’s side. In fact, a few weeks ago he came right out and told me I needed to let it go. It hurts me to say this, but he broke my heart when he refused to see my point of view. Thank goodness for my Kris. She’s been an angel, helping me through this nightmare. My daughter is just like me. She wants to know how this could’ve happened to her brother. See, Kris and Frenchie were very tight-knit. And Jason, well … he wasn’t really close to either one of them. Always been a loner, but close to Don, you know?”