by Zoe Janachek

 

 

 The area was a favorite for local kids. While the city slept, they snuck below the bridge to leave their mark, the only evidence of their presence. A houseboat resident complained of a wretched smell in the area but the sheriff assured her it was probably nothing  more than a dead bird that would be washed away by the current in a matter of hours. But it wasn’t. Passersby on the bridge began to complain. The odor wafted up and encircled the area.             “Hello, this is Mrs. Evans. I live in a houseboat near the Miller Sweeney bridge. I called earlier this week to report an unpleasant smell and, well, it hasn't gotten any better. If it is a dead animal, someone needs to come remove it...today.”            “Hey Stewart you busy?” Officer Morrison called toward the back of the station.            “Not really, you need something?” Stewart replied.            “Yeah, that woman...Mrs. Evans called again. Says the smell’s getting worse. Tag along with me will ya?”            They drove toward Fruitvale Avenue. The air was warm and smoggy. As they crossed the bridge, Officer Stewart glanced down into the water. It was unusually clear. Only a few splotches of oil glistened shades of pink and green in the sun. Down the waterway he could spot the silhouettes of nine men in a crew boat. They seemed to glide effortlessly along the water. Officer Morrison turned the car down a small alley that ran along the docks. He had barely turned off the engine when she rushed up from the dock. Contrary to her size, Mrs. Evans’ pace and urgency were intimidating             “Crazy-” Morrison whispered.            “Good afternoon. Mrs. Evans I’m assuming?” said Officer Stewart.             “Yes. It’s about time someone showed up! Do you smell that? Do you? Its horrible!”            Morrison and Stewart looked at each other and sniffed the air.            “I’ve lived on this estuary for thirty five years and never smelled anything so offensive.”            She was absolutely right. It was horrible. The acidity stung their nostrils and they found themselves resisting the urge to gag.             “Someone needs to find whatever it is and get it out of here.”             Morrison rolled his eyes. He hadn't entered law enforcement to deal with little old women squawking about bad smells. His idea of the job was not far from the way he described it to his son: I fight bad guys.            “We’ll take a look ma’am. When did you first notice the odor?” questioned Stewart patiently.            “A few days ago. Shame on you for taking so long to respond,” she barked.            Stewart opened the trunk and tossed Morrison a pair of latex gloves.            “What is the best way to get down to the shore?” Morrison asked.            “Down that path that those damn kids have made.” She stomped behind them as they headed toward it.            The smell grew more intense. I don't think this is just a dead bird, ran through Stewart's mind. They searched for a few moments and found nothing but the fact that they were growing more nauseous with every passing moment. Then Morrison noticed that the weeds near the base of the bridge were covered in blood. He walked toward them.            “Holy Sh- Stewart get over here!!” he shouted.            “What is it? What did you find?” squealed Mrs. Evans.            “Mrs. Evans please leave the area. Go back to the dock or further up the hill,” instructed  Stewart.             Tangled among weeds and litter was a young man’s body. The blood surrounding the gash on his forehead had dried and flaked off as the weeds brushed against him. His face was black and blue. “Looks like he put up quite a fight.” Morrison surveyed the area. His golden basketball shorts were saturated in blood from his fractured leg. His shirt was ripped and streaked red and black with grease.            “We need to close off the area. Everything here just became evidence,” said Morrison. *****            “We’ve got a positive ID, kid’s name is Keith Sanders.” Morrison said as he tossed a file containing autopsy photos onto Stewart's desk.            “Ah, jeez! I don’t wanna see that.”            “He's one of those crew boys. Trains with the team outta the boathouse between Park and Fruitvale.”            They grabbed their jackets and headed toward the boathouse. As they entered the building the combination of loud music and erg fans filled their ears.             “Names Greg Harvin. I’m assuming you’re the officers on Keith’s case. Good kid. He’ll be missed.” Harvin was a tall man with a weather worn and stern face. He wore slacks and a ‘USRowing’ wind breaker.             “They’re almost done with their workout. Then they’re free for questioning. Just don’t keep them too long. They gotta get some rest. The big race is in three weeks,” he smirked.             “We’ll do our best to make it short and efficient,” ensured Stewart.            “Listen Harvin, one of your boys is dead. Not just dead but brutally beaten and dumped less than 800 feet from your boathouse. Everyone is a suspect at this point. We’ll take as long as we need,” Morrison said as he inched closer to Harvin’s face.             Morrison and Stewart questioned the boys and compiled a list of notes. Back at the station they reviewed their notes and cleared seven of the nine teammates. Greg Thompson and Dan Forman were called to the station for further questioning. Thompson was escorted into the room in which Morrison and Stewart waited. He was tall and muscular. He ran his fingers through his curly blond hair as he entered the room. Morrison motioned to an empty folding chair. “Take a seat.” Thompson began to blush and perspire.             “The coroner estimates Sanders’ time of death to be six o’clock on Wednesday morning. Where were you at that time?”            “I was on my way to San Francisco to have brunch with my girlfriend and her parents,” Thompson stuttered.            “On your way from where? Your dorm? Was your girlfriend with you?”             “No...I left from the boathouse.”            Stewart rummaged through a pile of paperwork.            “Says here on the schedule that coach Harvin gave us that you didn’t have practice on Wednesday morning. Why were you at the boathouse?”            “Sanders and I took a double out for a row. You know....a two person boat. We just...well we just felt like we could use a little extra practice. And, Sanders was nervous about losing his spot in the boat to Forman so he wanted to stay on top of his game.”             “Ok, thank you. That's enough of a statement for now. We need to speak to Forman. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”            “Wait! I stopped for gas,” Thompson searched through his wallet. “Here's my receipt! I stopped for at the shell station at six ten, see?”             “Thank you,” Morrison filed the receipt into the folder that contained case evidence.               “This will help but you’re not cleared yet. We’ll be in touch.”             Dan Forman was next to enter the room. His eye were a piercing dark hazel and his fresh, sharp buzz cut matched his strong jaw. Before Morrison could motion, Forman was already slouched in the chair.             “Alright, well, since you seem quite comfortable we’ll get right into it. What was you’re relationship with Mr. Sanders?” Stewart seemed unusually assertive.            “Same as all the other guys. I’m the spare on the team. If someone gets hurt I take their spot. Doesn't surprise me that he ended up in a situation like that. Survival of the fittest in this world. He wasn't as strong as he looked.”            “I see, and where were you on Wednesday morning?”             “I’ve been out of town all week. Visiting my family in Sonoma. Just got back just in time for practice today.” Forman looked down at his hands then crossed his arms tucking his finger between his arms and rib cage. His biceps bulged. Stewart motioned to Morrison.             “Excuse us for a moment.” They exited the room.            “What?! We’re in the middle of questioning him. We can’t give him this time to brainstorm lies. We gotta get back in there!” Morrison insisted.            “No. I got it. He is already lying. The day we were crossing the bridge on our way to Mrs. Evans; I saw their crew out there on the water. They’re the only crew that practices out there this time of year. He hasn't been out of town, he's been in Sanders spot in the boat. Don’t you see? Sanders was nervous because he knew Forman wanted his spot.”            “Sure. So he doesn't have an alibi and he lied but what do we have to directly link him to the crime?”            “Did you notice how his he crossed his arms? They’re covered in scratches and bruises and he's got motor grease under his nails. We can match it to the stuff on Sanders’ clothes. And you saw Sanders, there was definitely a struggle. I bet we’ll be able to find some of his DNA under Forman’s nails. We got him!” *******            “I deserved that spot in the boat! He was a weak link. I did what I had to do!” he shouted as they cuffed and escorted him to a holding cell.