Bunker 01 - Slipknot Read Online Free PDF Page A

I could not buy it. Something was wrong here.
    Ducking around a corner to the edge of a parking area, I placed a call to my boss, Mr. Dubois, who was quick to remind me that I was no longer a criminal investigator. I disliked having to report to a boss after so many years of being trusted with much more responsibility, and I understood that the boss was uncomfortable with me as well. It seemed that upper management had drawn straws, and Mr. Dubois had chosen the short one. He was stuck with me. Since Ginny Turner had requested the presence of an insurance representative, he had said that this was an opportunity to update the file as well as to inspect the plant operation for OSHA requirements. That a body had been discovered just as I had s l i p k n o t
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    arrived to perform a survey was not a calling or a sign, he said.
    In fact, he was adamant that the death was none of my concern. He went on to explain that Ginny, whose original intention in calling the insurance agency had been to increase the value of the plant’s policy, had called again early this morning, when the body was discovered, to cover her ass and avoid any financial outlay. I heeded his warning that Ginny would not be pleased with the resulting list of required upgrades to bring her business into compliance with new, stringent regulations. These changes, costly to the plant owners, would protect the insurance company in potential future claims. And “we” had been hired and paid by the insurance company, he scolded. According to protocol, Turners’
    would be given one month to make all necessary changes or risk being dropped from insurance coverage. This development was not news I was eager to deliver to the Ginny Turner I had come to know thus far, but I had my marching orders.
    After claiming a low cell phone battery, I almost hung up on Mr. Dubois as he continued to lecture me.
    The boss was probably right, I reasoned. I was no longer a criminal investigator. That part of my life had been left down south. Perhaps the right thing to do was to notify the state police with my doubts. They would likely send a detective to investigate, and I could be a Good Samaritan. I had all the photographs of the scene, and I was sure that Cal would co-operate by answering any questions. I quickly dialed Information and was connected to the state police. Following three automatic voice prompts, I was greeted by a human being who claimed to be the detective whose territory included

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    L i n d a G r e e n l a w
    Green Haven. I launched into what I considered a profes-sional courtesy call, but the chief detective cut me off rudely.
    “Yeah. Right. I heard all about it at six a.m. Some drunk fell off a dock and drowned. What do you want from me?”
    “I believe an autopsy will show the cause of death was not drowning. The victim’s skull was fractured to a degree that indicates something more than a fall,” I said. Following a pause I felt was required to add some credibility, I went on, “I just moved here from Miami, where I was employed as a criminal investigator for over twenty years.”
    “How long have you been in Maine?”
    “Three days.”
    “Green Haven ain’t Cabot Cove, and you’re not Angela Lansbury. Are we done?”
    “I can supply pictures of the corpse. Won’t you at least send someone here to do some preliminaries?”
    “Lady, the last time I sent a unit to Green Haven, the car ended up in the clam flats. Your new neighbors don’t take kindly to law enforcement, so unless I get a call from someone more established, a drunk fell in the water . . .” The line went dead, leaving me to believe he had hung up on me. Well, at least I had tried. I could now resume my menial tasks with a clear conscience, even as the mystery nagged.
    I looked up and into the window of the office that I imagined enjoyed a panoramic view of the wharf and thorough-fare. There sat Ginny Turner, phone pressed to her ear, just as Cal had described. I decided