The dead came knocking i.., p.1
The Dead Came Knocking: Island Mysteries - Book One, page 1
Book Cover
Painting by Susan Mains – Grenada (used with permission)
Cover Design by Lindsay Heider Diamond - USA
The Dead Came Knocking © Copyright <<2023>> Ib Meyer
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In Memory of Per Høvik Meyer
Beloved Father,
Traveler,
Merchant Mariner
“Accept the things to which fate binds you,
and love the people with whom fate brings you together,
but do so with all your heart.”
Marcus Aurelius
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 4
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocking on the portside hull of my yacht had finally gotten on my last nerve.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock..
I op ened my eyes. The slight and dispersed first orange rays of pre-dawn sunlight were coming through my open bow hatch.
Knock.
Knock.
I slipped off the bunk, padded naked on my bare feet through the cabin, up the companionway to the cockpit and reached out to unclip my swim shorts from the lifelines. While I was doing this, I wished I had stopped in the galley first to make coffee, as was my habit.
Too late now, Sten. Just check it out first.
I slipped the swim shorts on, hopped out onto the side deck, and grappled my way forward to see what had woken me up.
I approached the bow and saw my lines, still taut and securely attached to the mooring. Nothing had moved. Everything looked okay.
I worked my way forward and then over the edge of the deck to peer down below.
Naked feet and legs were gently swaying in the water.
I leaned over further, and I saw it. A body. A woman’s body. Her head, still rhythmically knocking against the hull of my boat with the current.
The body was mostly unclothed; red undergarments still intact and a red dress gathered around her waist. A long piece of it was snagged on the mooring ball line. She was face down, her red and black hair extensions splayed out in the water like a veil. Her head was rhythmically knocking on the hull.
I slowly brought myself up to a sitting position leaning up against the stanchion and I sighed. The gentle lapping of the waves on my hull, punctuated with the dampened knock was almost musical.
There was a gentle hum as the cool morning breeze blew through my lines and a soft whirring sound in the wind vane on a neighboring yacht. The pounding of my heart was my only company as I decided what to do.
As a child growing up in Africa and former sergeant of a Sheriff's Office in Colorado, still serving in the reserves, I was no stranger to death and not shocked by it. I am, however, saddened by death, especially unexpected and violent deaths. My many encounters with death over the years taught me to think, not emote, when presented with life’s finality. Emotions simply get in the way.
Standing up, I stepped over the lifelines and jumped into the water. In my mind, I knew she was dead. She had been knocking on the hull for at least thirty minutes, but I needed to be sure. I took a couple of strokes toward her and cupped her neck with my left hand as I treaded water and checked for a pulse. She was cold to the touch and had no pulse. I gently rolled her head to face me and lightly pushed back her eyelid. Her eye was opaque. There was no doubt now; she was dead. I let her head gently roll back into the water.
The dress came away from the mooring ball line as I pulled on it. Suddenly she was floating free. I grasped her arm and slowly guided her to the stern of the yacht while she bobbed up and down with the waves.
Leaving her to float was not an option, but there was no way I could get her into my yacht by myself. I decided to tie the piece of dress that had been attached to the bridle to the stern ladder and quickly climbed on board. The horseshoe life-preserver was within reach. I removed it from its holder, attached the end of the line to a rear port cleat and let out the line. I went back down the ladder into the water and carefully placed it around her chest, just under her arms. After ensuring she was secure, I climbed back up the ladder and took in the slack on the line to keep her close to the back of the vessel.
How messed up is this? The first time I use my life-preserver is for the dead.
CHAPTER 2
I had been on this mooring ball in Prickly Bay, Grenada, for two weeks, and did not know the surroundings very well yet.
Think, Sten, think. You used to do this for a living.
The Grenada Coast Guard was an easy VHF radio call away; but a radio call at 0600 hours would probably result in waking my neighbors up and I didn’t care to have a number of eyes, nor phone cameras on me. Neither was I fond of the thought of having a well-intentioned neighbor coming over in a dinghy to help. No. The lady in the water deserved dignity. Everyone does. No radio call today. It would have to be a phone call to the police station.
Hurrying down the steps to the cabin, I went to the chart table and unplugged my phone from the charger to search online for the number of The Royal Grenada Police Force. It was a quick search; I dialed the number. Moments later I heard, “Good day. This is Constable Benoit speaking.”
“Good morning. My name is Sten Dahl and I’m calling from the sailing vessel NÅDE (“Noe-deh”). I am anchored in Prickly Bay and I’m calling to report the dead body of a young lady floating in the water beside my boat.”
“Hello… Excuse… Did you say a dead body?”
“Yes, the dead body of a young woman. I’m a police officer from the United States. I don’t have much equipment on hand but I checked her pulse, and she is dead. I tried to pull her out of the water but she’s too heavy for me to bring her aboard my boat. If you could, please send assistance right away.”
“Okay. Please repeat your name and spell it for me.”
“My name is Sten. S-T-E-N. Last name is Dahl. D-A-H-L. My yacht is in the middle of the bay so the Constables will need water transport. The name of my yacht is N..A..D..E. I’m flying an American flag at the back of my white thirty-foot yacht. I have a blue sail bag and a blue cover over my cockpit. I’ll hoist a white flag with a red X on it. Since the Marina is still closed, I’ll take my dinghy to the dock and pick the constables up. I’ll be standing next to a gray dinghy. I am a Caucasian male, 5” 11” tall, bald, approximately 175 pounds, blue eyes, full beard, and I’ll be wearing blue shorts and a gray shirt.”
“OK. Thank you very much sir. Please give me your telephone number.”
I had to repeat the phone number a couple times, but the constable knew her job and took down the rest of the information, which she double checked by repeating it back. She hung up with the promise that she would call me back directly and she did. While all this calling was going on, and all the information was being exchanged, I was looking down at the body of a young woman, the beads of water glistening on her dark brown body in the new morning light, on a day that she would never live. Her time of grace – her nåde – brutally cut short.
CHAPTER 3
I slipped on a gray t-shirt, dinghied over to the dock and tied up and waited for the police to arrive. I brought my binoculars to keep an eye on the body. I don’t know why I needed to. She was secured to the boat by the life-preserver, so she wasn’t going to float away. She didn’t need me keeping an eye on her, but even though her time for help had come and gone, the least I could do was afford her the dignity that her killer had not. I made sure she was not alone.
About twenty minutes later a white police sedan drove up to the dock with lights flashing. Three uniformed constables got out of the vehicle: two males and one female. They each retrieved a bag from the trunk of the vehicle and started walking down the dock towards me. I saw their gestures and heard faint voices as they pointed in my direction. I could imagine the conversation they were having as I’d been in their position before.
“Good morning. Are you Mr. Sten Dahl?” as
“Yes, I’m Sten. I’m the one that called this in. Thank you for coming.”
“My name is Detective Sergeant Nelson, this is PC Jones and Corporal Francis.”
We all shook hands. “This is my dinghy,” I said, turning and holding my hand out toward the small boat. “It’s only meant for three people, so we’ll need to place two people on each side and balance carefully. I’ll get in first then please hand me your bags. Come aboard, one at a time and hold her steady.”
I took my sandals off, threw them in first then stepped into the dinghy and sat down by the engine, which I promptly started. They passed their bags which I stowed away and Sergeant Nelson released the line from the dock cleat and maintained control. She knelt down holding the dinghy steady against the dock and instructed Constable Jones to board first and take a seat next to me on the starboard side. Corporal Francis boarded next and sat directly opposite Constable Jones then, with what looked like practiced ease, Sergeant Nelson pushed us from the dock while sliding on board and positioned herself opposite me.
My boat and dinghy were new, so our slow motoring back to the yacht was not too noisy. I was thankful for the engine being quiet. I looked around as we motored. People were beginning to come up out of their cabins in the yachts and catamarans moored and anchored in the bay, but no one took particular notice of us. Shadows glided up and down, in and out – silent – disturbed only by the lone dinghy, the arrowhead with its wake making a line directly toward NÅDE and the dead woman at my stern.
I tried to move as slowly as possible to avoid “rocking the boats” so early in the morning. As I was steering my brain reminded me how upset it was over not getting its morning coffee. I concurred with that sentiment as we approached the body of the young woman that had come knocking. Coffee would come soon enough. I hoped so anyway.
As we approached NÅDE, Sergeant Nelson took her bag and strapped it around her right shoulder. She had the painter (dinghy line) in her left hand and was already indicating, without saying a word, that she would hop on board NÅDE and secure the dinghy to one of the stern cleats. I nodded my head, letting her know I understood.
Everyone was looking at the dead body as we approached. Sergeant Nelson hopped on board, and while taking up the slack on the line, the two others clambered onboard. They moved over to where the body was floating in the life-preserver, bobbing up and down in the wake of the dinghy. I made sure the dinghy was secure on the cleat and then stepped aboard. We all stood, quietly, respectfully, looking down at the almost naked body of the young woman who was the focus of our attention.
I broke the silence. “Would it help if I described for you what occurred this morning?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Sten,” said the Sergeant quietly, “but before you do I need to check the body.”
I nodded in agreement.
Sergeant Nelson put on a pair of gloves and knelt down as I released the line and slowly dragged the body towards her. She checked her pulse, opened one of her eye-lids, and then stated in a slow and quiet voice, “Yes, she is dead. The time is 0713 hours.”
She stood up and approached her colleagues while I kept the line taut to keep the body close to the stern. After a few muttered words of instruction between them she turned to me.
“Mr. Sten, please tell us everything from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out. PC Jones here will be taking notes as you do and recording you using his cellphone. Corporal Francis will take over securing the body, taking photographs and making preparations for its transport.”
I recounted the facts in the order I was accustomed to doing: location, date, time, light, weather, temperature, description, what actions I had taken, and so on. While I was doing that Corporal Francis was on his radio; squelches and loud voices shattering the otherwise calm and quiet morning, organizing the pickup of the body with the Coast Guard. He then busied himself with his phone and began taking pictures of the body.
By this time, more and more occupants in the bay were appearing on their decks to try and see what was going on. Eyes were on us from all around. After I completed my explanation Corporal Francis took pictures of the boat, the pendant and lines, and of me. I willingly allowed them to take pictures of my hands and the inside of my yacht. I had nothing to hide and I knew what needed to be done.
While Corporal Francis was taking pictures inside, his radio ripped through the silence like an explosion. It startled all of us. The Coast Guard was minutes away. I had suggested to Sergeant Nelson that it might be best if we take the victim out of the water and place her on my transom. It would be much easier to lift her from there, onto my side deck, and then into the Coast Guard cruiser. She nodded okay. By the time the Coast Guard cruiser came alongside we had the body of the victim on the transom and inside a body bag.
She was young. Even in death her relaxed face revealed her beauty. She had silver chain earrings an inch long and a simple silver cross, also about an inch, on a chain that hung low between her full breasts. The silver accentuated her smooth dark skin. She wore a simple silver band on her left middle finger and a plain silver bangle on each wrist. There was no bruising that could be seen in the early morning light, even assisted by a LED flashlight. No lacerations. No contusions. Her undergarments were still intact, but her dress was torn at the top right-hand shoulder of the thin polyester, sleeveless fitted garment that went to just above her knees. The dress had been pulled down from her shoulders to around her slender waist.
Sergeant Nelson had taken all of this in and spoken it out loud as Constable Jones recorded and made notes. Corporal Francis continued taking pictures. Using an evidence ruler he quickly photographed all of her jewelry while she was still wearing it and then removed and bagged it. All of this was done in a hushed, thoughtful and respectful manner as the world of Prickly Bay looked on.
Once the coast guard arrived, the decision was made to move the body and chaos ensued. I took a few steps back and watched. There were lengthy discussions between the coast guard officers and those on board my boat on how best to make the transfer, who was going to do it and so much more. Voices were raised. Hands were flying up and down like Frigate birds. Sergeant Nelson suddenly moved forward, squatted down and began to lift the lifeless body.
Suddenly there was frenetic activity as everyone surged forward to help. Moments later, the body of the victim was in the stern of the Coast Guard cruiser. She looked as though she was going out to sea for burial.
“Thanks be to God,” I said aloud while turning away from looking at the shrouded body to Sergeant Nelson.
“I have done this before you know: Investigated deaths. I won’t tell you how to do your job but I will say that I am here to offer any help I can. I know that you’ll have to leave with the body now and there'll be a ton of paperwork to do, but if you need help in the future – I’m at your service and so is my dinghy.” I handed her a piece of paper with my contact details.
She looked at me, and I at her, as though we were looking at each other for the first time. She was about 5’ 7” and had a feminine figure, oval face, generous lips and smooth creamy dark brown skin. Her uniform was neat and pressed. Her cap was covering the top portion of her face so her eyes looked piercing and intense in the shade of the glowing sun. Her cheeks were high and when she smiled, her face transformed. She was smiling now.
“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Sten. Lord willing, I hope we won’t, but if we need assistance, I’ll be sure to get in touch. As you said, there is much to do. I’ll be going now. I appreciate your time and all that you’ve done. If I have any questions, I’ll give you a call.”
She held up the piece of paper, her lips formed in a pleasant, curved smile. “Have a blessed day.” With that, she placed the paper in her left breast pocket and turned and hoisted herself, with the support of a couple Coast Guard personnel, over into the waiting boat which promptly sped off, once again, rocking the boats in the bay.
