The scene was horrific, a thousand times more so than any severed finger.
As we crept up on the body, the putrid stench emanating from the bloated white corpse was practically intolerable, leaving us dry-heaving, and gasping for fresh sea air.
The dead man still wore what had once been a blood-soaked t-shirt and it was clear that the most likely cause of death was strongly related to his skull having been bashed in. Utterly gross!
A good bit of the blood had been washed away from the shirt, but there was still a fair amount of discoloration where it had probably had time to dry before somebody tossed the body overboard.
The victim’s bludgeoned frame remained unnaturally wedged between two jagged rocks.
There were a thousand questions.
Somebody must have killed him. On the island or maybe on a boat? The way he was wedged into the rock formation and weighted down made it clear nobody wanted this body found. I wonder how? I wonder who? I wonder why? I wonder if I’m gonna get grounded for this discovery? (Oh, that was me!)
The poor guy’s feet had been strapped together by what appeared to be a belt then weighted down by a single cement block—which pretty much left nothing to the imagination in terms of our hypothesis. The dude was dead. He’d probably been dead for a while. Somebody bashed his head in. Man, we were stupendous detectives.
Even my overactive imagination never came close to conjuring up such gruesome details. If finding a finger made for bad dreams, this find made for an entire lifetime of full-blown nightmares and countless sleepless nights.
Interestingly, and immediately noted and joked about by none other than Rick the Stick, the heretofore dead guy, whose nickname would later be changed to Mr. Corpse, had all ten digits securely attached to his white, crinkled, water-logged, bloated hands. (Ok, confession, here’s where I threw up, the first time.) At any rate, the fact that all his fingers remained intact including his pinky, was critical information to our ongoing investigation, which suddenly included homicide.
Ever the analytical man, Stevie Bird snapped a bunch of pictures, mostly focused on the smashed-in left side of the body’s skull and the cement block. The majority of which would soon be turned over to the Homicide Investigation Division of the Bourne Police Department. However certain photos would be kept private. After all, we had an ongoing investigation too. And guess what?…
Somebody’s been murdered.
Right here.
On Mashnee Island!!
Twenty-two minutes after I phoned the police from the Greenblatt’s house just a steep staircase away from the finding (Hello, Officer? I’m calling from Mashnee Village, yeah, again…), while Mr. and Mrs. Greenblatt stood nervously by, visibly shaken, his hand trembling noticeably while his loyal wife Edith stood by his side mumbling a series of “Oh Mys” and “Good Lords” and “Heaven Help Us,” while shaking her head at the rocky beach below.
You name the type of emergency vehicle, and within a half hour it was there: police, fire, ambulance, chief medical examiner, the works, and later, a large, black, tinted-windowed sedan, “Federal Bureau of Investigation” stenciled loudly across its trunk and roof. I guess a murder’s a pretty big deal.
Needless to say, with all the frenetic commotion, within minutes the island’s inhabitants emptied out from every corner, racing across lawns and roads to see just what all the fuss was about, fuss in fact, the likes of which there had never been on the island before, although there was that finger…and man-oh-man were they ever shocked with the news once they got there.
Our nice, quiet, innocent little island was no longer her relaxed self; at least she wouldn’t be in the short term, as the calm of the summer was replaced by the anxious, turbulent staccato of trouble.
It was however, precisely the kind of lawless excitement kids our age spent a lifetime dreaming up and acting out. Spurred by television, movies, and their hormonally fueled imaginations: cops vs. robbers, good guys vs. bad guys, heroes vs. villains, and tough guys vs. anyone.
But this, this was the real McCoy, real deal, and sure-as-shenanigans, we couldn’t have loved it more! (Sorry, dead guy. You too, Mr. Pinky).
Adding to the excitement, a television truck from WGBH-TV arrived, pulling its oversized van partially onto a neighbor’s front yard, causing a bout of momentary screaming and cursing, just the added confusion nobody needed. Then three people unloaded, three guys, one a familiar face I recognized from TV. Then they started to do rounds of interviews with local residents, officials, bystanders, and such, and wouldn’t you know it, Rick the Stick made the evening news!
I also saw Rochelle, my fav next-door neighbor crime reporter, who wanted to talk to me, off the record of course. For you? Anything.
The police started to shoo people away and seal off the crime scene with the infamous yellow tape they used in all the crime shows! It took persistence, but eventually folks scattered home.
I was left with one truly frightening thought.
If they find out we moved the finger…
Are we going to jail?
For the next few days, we felt like celebrities, albeit of the macabre variety. Friends and family alike wanted every detail of our encounter (the gorier the better), and we were eager to embellish upon our dramatic discovery. Naturally, The Stick bragged the most since he was first to spot said victim and was now, by all accounts, a full-fledged television celebrity, making it from the local Cape Cod TV stations, to the big-three Boston networks and beyond.
And our lovely lady friends, whom we liked to admire but who were admittedly too old for any of us, were a bit too loud that evening. From what I could hear of the phone conversation Rochelle had with whom I can only assume was her boss, she wasn’t very happy about a working vacation. Of course eavesdropping on such a conversation was a punishable offense, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s not every day something like this happens in your backyard, plus, hey, sound travels on this island and we were now in the sleuth business.
Anyway, I heard her say something about some guy’s “ties to the Mob” and that “he” might have stolen a lot of money. It sounded sort of mysterious, but I did overhear her say she’d look into things and report back, which meant we were in fact dead-to-the-world if they found out we moved the finger! Oh great, just what we needed, more trouble!
By the next day, everyone and their mother’s sister’s brother had a theory and a corresponding suspect for the presumed murder. The vast majority of which ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous.
Turns out, the cops had some questions too, and once again paid a visit to my house. This time there were two representatives from law enforcement’s finest: Officer Arnold Edward Williams III and Detective Steven H. Gotham, one uniformed, the other plain clothed, both men big and strong and as intimidating looking as hell (Yup, I’m going to jail…).
It wasn’t long before I felt the tiny droplets of sweat beading on my forehead, a worrier is me. I was prepared to plead guilty to any and all atrocities they might accuse me of, perhaps even ones not yet committed, just to unload the heavy burden of guilt slowly breaking my back, but this being The Tough Guy summer and all…I refused to break under pressure, even intense pressure!
Instead I dazzled them with a barrage of overly respectful “yes, sirs” and “no, sirs,” mixed in with several “I don’t know, sirs,” my mouth otherwise sealed tighter than a razor clam with lockjaw. If anyone was going to solve these crimes, it would be our group, dammit, you know, this being our island and all.
But first we needed some answers.
Chapter 41
Crazy
When we weren’t consumed with our self-appointed roles as private eyes, we easily found other ways to get into fun trouble as well. For reasons that should be apparent, the majority of our riskiest summer escapades were spawned by Crazy Eddie O’Connor, who had a special knack for creating mischief and screwing around way too much. We attributed it to his not-so-unique characteristics of not thinking things through and not caring anyway, (which was extra-crazy, since if he got caught, his prize-fighter mother would happily whack him over the head a time or two!). Crazy Eddie was a trouble junkie, high as a kite from the thrill, and the more thrills, and the riskier those thrills, the better.
Most often Eddie was the victim of his own ill-conceived capers; say, the time he started a contest to see who could catch the most skunks in one night on Mashnee, managing to go first and capture three, each by hand, with all the stink and nastiness and ooze that goes with it. (Did I mention he sprayed them with a water hose first just to piss them off?) I swear, the whole island reeked of rancid skunk for the next three days.
Admittedly however, there were plenty of times when he managed to con us into his deranged world of summer mayhem, most often to our regret, and this certainly qualified as one of them. It was Tommy’s fault.
“Listen up, guys,” Tommy commanded as we sat six deep on the front steps of The Club, just shooting the breeze and telling tall tales. “We need a break from this godforsaken island for a night, wouldn’t you say? Too much stuff going down. Dead guys and chopped off fingers”
