Disclaimer: The
characters in the following fan fiction do not belong to me. They belong to CBS and Viacom
and other powers that be. I am only using them for the purpose ofwriting this story. No
money is being made from this writing it is for entertainment purposes only. And now on
with the show...
Steve stood up to stretch his aching muscles and was walking across the squad room to pour
himself a welcome cup of coffee when the phone on his desk began to ring. Sighing, he
moved to answer it wondering if he would ever be able to finish a drink while it was still
hot. Picking up the receiver he spoke into the mouthpiece, "Sloan here."
Into his ear came the voice of his best friend and partner, "Steve? I need you to
come to Bob's straight away, I've found something."
"Unless it's two tickets to the Caribbean, I don't have time."
"Would you be interested in a body?" Jesse queried.
The explosion of sound down the phone told Jesse that he now had Steve's full attention.
"You've found a WHAT!!"
"There's a body in the dumpster outside our back door," Jesse explained.
"Okay, don't touch anything. I'm on my way." Steve put the phone down, threw on
his jacket and left the squad room at a run.
Pulling up outside Bob's a few minutes later Steve sprang out of his car and strode
quickly towards the pool of light illuminating the dumpster. Like Jesse before him, Steve
stood on the handle and peered inside to be greeted with the same sight that Jesse had
seen. Stepping down he reached into his jacket pocket, extracted his cell phone, punched
in some numbers and requested some uniform back up, the CSU and the coroner. As he
finished speaking Jesse appeared next to him saying, "I think he's been
strangled."
Steve turned, "You haven't touched anything Jess?" he queried.
"No of course not. I just happened to notice what looks like some petechial
haemorrhaging around the eyes."
Looking his friend up and down Steve grinned and said, "Thanks.....Amanda."
Making a moue with his mouth, Jesse flung his head back in a mock gesture of irritation
and disappeared back into Bob's leaving Steve grinning in the darkness. Whilst waiting for
the CSU Steve pulled out his flashlight and began inspecting the dumpster and the area
around it. Steve's flashlight beam trailed across the rust flecked metal of the bin.
Suddenly he stopped and took the beam back a few inches to rest on a long, ragged black
streak of paint. Bending down he gently scraped a fingernail along the streak as it easily
flaked off and floated to the ground. Pulling his hand away Steve stood up deciding to
wait for the CSU and the coroner to arrive. He poked his head through the door into Bob's
and called, "Jesse can I get a cup of coffee while I'm waiting?"
A few seconds later Jesse appeared with a large, steaming cup of coffee. He jerked his
head in the direction of the corpse, "Did you a get a look at the left wrist?"
"No, but I noticed that there is some new paint on the front of the dumpster. We'll
have to get that analysed," responded Steve sipping his coffee and cradling the cup
with both hands his mind already focused on the next stage of the
investigation..identifying the body.
Just then two cars entered the alleyway from either end, their powerful headlights clearly
illuminating the area. Cheryl, Steve's partner, stepped gracefully out of one vehicle
whilst from the other emerged the medical examiner, Dr. Amanda Bentley. Steve waited for
them both to reach him before saying, "Evening ladies."
"What do we have Steve?" asked Amanda.
"Male, Caucasian, between 20 -25 years old. Dr. Travis here thinks he was
strangled."
Climbing onto the handle of the dumpster, like Steve and Jesse before her, Amanda looked
down at the body. She sighed. No matter how many corpses she saw she could never rid
herself of a feeling of sadness at the lost life in front of her. Reaching in she pulled
the jumper down to reveal the neck. There was a thin, angry looking line that ran all the
way across the neck and round to the base of the skull. She jumped back down and said,
"I would have to agree with Jesse on this one Steve. However, I will be able to give
you more information when I've done the autopsy."
"How long do you figure he's been dead Amanda?" Cheryl asked.
"From the general look of the body I'd say a couple of hours but, like I said, I'll
be able to be far more specific after the autopsy," she held up a hand to forestall
the question that she knew Steve was going to ask, "I'll have a prelim for you in the
morning."
By this time two black and whites had arrived and the officers were beginning to cordon
off the area. CSU operatives had also arrived and were minutely checking the area for any
signs of physical evidence that may have a bearing on the case. Knowing that everything
was in hand Steve went into Bob's to take a preliminary statement from Jesse on what he
had heard and seen.
**************
Next morning Amanda was finalising the autopsy report on the John Doe from the dumpster.
She heard a gentle clicking sound behind her and looked round to see Lt. Steve Sloan
framed in the doorway. Putting her pen down Amanda smiled. She had known that Steve was
unable to wait too long for the results. Sitting back in her chair Amanda looked up at her
friend and waited.....and waited.... finally Steve could take no more and said,
"Well, what have you got for me Amanda?"
Smiling Amanda began, "The internal body temperature when I did the autopsy was
29.8C, so allowing for an average drop of 1.8C per hour post mortem, this would make the
approximate time of death 3pm. The condition of the body would seem to confirm this. The
facial muscles were stiff and the limb muscles were beginning to stiffen, giving us the
same 3-4 hour window. I can also confirm that he died from strangulation. The marks are
clear cut and deep, indicating that wire or thin cord was the murder weapon. I also found
skin under the fingernails and evidence of petechial haemorrhaging indicating a
struggle."
"Petechial haemorrhaging?"
"Tiny ruptured blood vessels in the whites of the eyes, outer eyelids and facial
skin. This indicates that pressure was kept up around the neck for more than a few
seconds."
"Anything else?"
"One more thing that was VERY odd. The left wrist was pulverised and there was a hole
in it."
"A hole?" Steve queried, "Do you mean a deep cut in the skin?"
"No I mean a hole cut into the wrist and by the looks of the surrounding skin I would
say it happened while the victim was still alive. I'm also going to run a routine tox
screen, you never know what might show up."
"Sounds to me like there was something there that the murderer didn't want us to
find," mused Steve, "was there anything on the skin surrounding the hole?"
"I'm going to check up on that next. I've also put in a call to a friend of mine who
is a forensic anthropologist with the FBI."
"Forensic anthropologist?"
"Bones expert," Amanda explained succinctly, "he'll be able to recreate the
wrist and tell us if there is anything missing. It may provide us with some sort of
lead."
"Well, I've go somewhere to start. We ran the prints and we got a match. Our John
Doe's name is Terence Leger, aged 20 and he had one minor conviction for theft at 16,
since then he's been clean. We think he was a student at UCLA . I'm heading over there now
with Cheryl."
"Mark will be annoyed to miss this one," Amanda laughed, "when is he due
back?"
"The conference finishes on Saturday and then he's spending a few days with Aunt
Dora."
Amanda raised her eyebrows for she had vivid memories of Mark's very forthright sister.
"He went voluntarily?"
A lazy grin crossed Steve's mouth and his blue eyes twinkled, "Not totally, but you
know Aunt Dora. She was determined that dad should visit and in her mind that was the end
of the matter."
"Mark will want another few days off when he gets back to recover," Amanda
laughed as she closed the file and placed it on the top of her 'pending' tray.
******************
Several figures were sprawled across the furniture in the room, the blinds closed against
the bright sunlight that was trying to find a way through the linen barrier. Suddenly the
door was flung open and a collective groan rose from the depths of the armchairs and
sofas. One voice made itself heard above the others, "For Pete's sake, close the
door!"
When the request wasn't immediately answered, and the bright California sunlight continued
to stream in through the open doorway, heads turned in the direction of the light eyes
squinting to see who was standing there. One by one the young men , when they realised who
it was, abandoned their reclined posture and sat up.
"That's better," came a self satisfied voice from the doorway.
The door shut with a decisive click and heavy footsteps made their way to the centre of
the room with several pairs of eyes following his every step. Satisfied that he had
everyone's complete attention Todd Packer spoke, " It is my duty to inform you that
one of our members, Terence Leger, has decided to leave this society."
"Why?" came a voice from one of the chairs underneath a window.
"I'm told that he found being a member wasn't conducive to his continued good
health." Todd responded.
By the door a tall, well built young man suppressed a grin at the unintentional humour in
Todd's words. If Todd only knew, he thought to himself.
****************
Meanwhile, Steve and Cheryl had arrived at the UCLA campus and were making their way to
the Dean's office where they were expected. Arriving at the suite of rooms that housed the
Dean and his staff, they showed their ID's to an imposing woman sitting behind an equally
imposing mahogany desk. She peered over the top of a pair of gold rimmed bi-focals and
said, "The Dean is engaged on a phone call. Please take a seat and I will let you
know when he is free."
Steve and Cheryl exchanged glances and went to sit down in two enormous leather chairs.
Leaning across Steve whispered, "I feel like I'm sitting outside the Principal's
office again."
"Again?" Cheryl asked with a grin.
Steve's eyes crinkled at the memory, "I was there so often that I had a chair with my
name on it."
"Steve Sloan at odds with authority? Hmmm," mused Cheryl, "now why does
that have a familiar ring to it?"
A low pitched buzz and a disembodied voice saying, "Please send in Detectives Sloan
and Banks please, Miss Calder," interrupted their chat.
Looking up, Miss Calder said, in the expressionless voice of a super- efficient secretary,
"Dean Holdsworth will see you now."
Flashing a smile at her, that would have had a lesser woman go weak at the knees, Steve
and Cheryl entered the inner sanctum. They walked across the enormous office, their feet
sinking into the thick, plush carpet as they went. If the desk in the outer office had
been impressive, the one they were walking towards now was simply stunning. What made the
desk seem even larger than it actually was was the diminutive stature of the man standing
there waiting to greet them. Coming out from behind the desk the Dean shook hands with
both Steve and Cheryl saying, "Richard Holdsworth, Dean of this establishment. What
can I do for you officers?" As he spoke he directed them to a large leather sofa,
taking a seat opposite them.
Reaching into the buff coloured folder that she carried Cheryl withdrew a photograph of
Terence Leger and passed it across to Richard Holdsworth. "We believe that this young
man is a student here Dean and we'd like confirmation."
Richard Holdsworth looked down at the photograph and he paled as he realised that he was
looking at a corpse. He pulled a handkerchief out of his top pocket with a slightly shaky
hand and dabbed at his mouth, "Is he.....?"
"I'm afraid that the young man was murdered," said Steve.
"We were hoping that you could confirm our information about his attendance here at
UCLA," Cheryl asked.
"I don't actually recognise him but, as I'm sure you must realise, with the number of
students we have here it would be impossible for me to know all of them by sight. Could
you tell me his name?"
"Terence Leger," Steve said.
Richard Holdsworth rose and walked, somewhat gingerly, to his desk and sat down in front
of a computer screen. Typing in the name that Steve had given to him he waited for a few
seconds. Keeping his eyes on the screen he said, "Terence Leger is, or was, a 2nd
year student here. His major was marine biology."
"Do you have an address for him,"asked Cheryl, notebook in hand ready to take
down any new information.
"He lived here on campus. Accommodation Block 27, 3rd floor, room 19."
"Can we have permission to check through his room?" Steve requested.
"Certainly. I'll alert security that you are on your way and they will let you in.
Miss. Calder will give you detailed directions."
Standing up, Steve and Cheryl thanked the Dean for all his help and left the room. On
their way out, they picked up a map of the campus on which Miss. Calder had obligingly
marked the route in red. Ten minutes later found them outside the room formerly occupied
by Terence Leger. A burly security guard unlocked the door, after first making sure that
Steve and Cheryl were indeed police officers. Opening the door, he stepped back and
allowed them to step inside. The room was in darkness so, after pulling on the obligatory
rubber gloves, Steve reached round and switched the light on. For a few seconds both
Cheryl and Steve stood in complete immobility at the sight that greeted their eyes. The
room was a complete and utter shambles. It was only their vast experience of picking their
way through deliberately trashed rooms that made them realise this mess was self
inflicted. The bed was unmade, there were clothes strewn all over the furniture and the
floor was littered with discarded soda cans, pizza boxes and empty chip packets. In stark
contrast to the mayhem of the room, the desk stood out like a beacon of tidiness. It was
immaculate as were the shelves attached to the wall above it. Although there was a lot of
paperwork on the desk and many books on the shelves, everything was set out in an orderly
manner. The books were in alphabetical order and the paperwork, Steve noted as he
carefully rifled through, had sticky notes on detailing exactly what was required and when
the work was due to be handed in.
Cheryl, meanwhile, had been checking out the chest of drawers on the far wall. The drawers
themselves threw up no surprises. It was, however, a photograph on top of the drawers that
caught Cheryl's attention. It showed a group of young men on the deck of an expensive
looking yacht obviously getting ready for a day on the water. Cheryl recognised Terence
Leger, second from the left of the group. She carried the photograph to Steve. "Look
at this Steve," she began, "if we can identify the rest of these men in the
photograph they may be able to help us."
Taking the picture from Cheryl, Steve turned it over to look at the back. Undoing the
clips he slid the back off and took out the print, hoping to find a printers mark. In the
top corner of the photo, which had been hidden by the frame, was the stamp of a small blue
sailboat with the letters N.S. underneath. "I wonder what that means?" queried
Cheryl.
"Universities are full of clubs and societies," said Steve, "in fact,
that's probably what the 'S' stands for. There will be a record of all the groups on the
records, we just need to find out which one has those initials and get a membership
list." Handing the photo and frame back to Cheryl, who bagged it, Steve returned to
his search of the desk. Opening the top drawer he rifled carefully through the contents
but found nothing. It was as he was drawing his hand out that his fingers caught the edge
of something taped to the underside of the desk top. Pulling the drawer right out and
laying it carefully down Steve reached back into the resulting gap and tugged carefully at
the object. He brought his hand back out his fingers holding tightly onto a small
rectangular object.
"Cheryl," he called over his shoulder. He turned the book over noting, with
interest, the image of a blue sailboat embossed on the front, "Check this out."
Both detectives looked at the book as Steve slowly flicked through the pages. They were
filled with columns of figures and letters. - 031401 2145 funlad ER
"What do you think they mean?" Cheryl wondered.
"The figures in the second column could be times, based on the 24 hour clock and the
last column could be a persons initials."
"True," Cheryl agreed, "and the first column could be a date."
"So we potentially have dates, times and initials. What does that suggest to
you?" Steve asked.
"Shipment dates, times and the initials of the courier." Cheryl said.
" Shipment of what though?" Steve mused.
" Drugs, alcohol, weapons. Could be any one of those really. If that first column
does relate to dates then that last one on the list is for next week."
"Hopefully, once we find out what N.S. means that will help us," looking back
down at the cover of the book Steve continued, "it wouldn't hurt to canvass some of
the local print shops to see if they have done a print run on book covers like this."
***************
The atmosphere in Amanda's lab was one of intense concentration. Dr. Jonathan Wilkes was
hunched over an examination table, the large circular light above illuminating the jigsaw
of bones in front of him. An expression of confusion flitted across hi face and he looked
up, "Amanda," he queried, "are you sure that I have everything that was
recovered from the victims wrist?"
"I'm sure Jonathan, I supervised everything myself. Is there a problem?" she
asked.
"There seems to be a bone missing." Jonathan said, looking across at his friend,
"How clued up are you on the bones of the wrist?"
"Not as well as you," Amanda said with a smile, "Why don't you fill me
in."
"There are eight carpal bones that make up each wrist. The one that is missing is
called the Navicular bone."
"Why is it called that?"
"It's so named because of its shape which resembles that of a sailboat."
"Why on earth would someone want to pulverise someone's wrist just to remove a small
bone?" Amanda wondered out loud.
"I have no idea Amanda. I'm just the bones man. I tell the police what I find and I
leave it up to them to figure out the whys and the wherefores." He paused then smiled
and continued, "Now, how about that dinner?"
**************
Steve had spent the morning wearing his shoe leather down to a micron, trailing around all
the print shops that he could find. He hoped that someone would remember printing the blue
sailboat onto a black notebook. So far, however, he had had no joy. He stopped his car
outside what he considered to be a real no-hoper. The shop-front was dirty, it looked as
though it hadn't seen water since Reagan was in office. There were bullet holes in the
windows and the blinds were hanging loose inside the glass making it really difficult to
see inside. Taking a deep breath and hoping all his shots were up to date Steve stepped
inside. The interior of the shop was as unprepossessing as the outside. There was one
counter which looked as though it would benefit greatly from an strong antiseptic wash, as
did the young man sitting on a shabby stool behind it. Hearing the door open, he looked up
from the magazine that he was reading to utter a one syllable question, "Yeah?"
Reaching into his pocket Steve drew out his police ID and waved it under the young mans
nose. "I need some information."
An insolent look came to rest on the face opposite him, "If you want information try
the Yellow Pages."
Leaning across the counter Steve grabbed, none too gently, the cleanest piece of clothing
he could see and pulled the recalcitrant employee towards him.
"I am investigating a homicide. Now we can do this the easy way or the hard
way," he began, chuckling to himself at the clichéd dialogue he was using, "we
can talk here or downtown."
Clichéd or not it worked, for the young man stuttered, "Okay, okay. What d'ya
want?"
Pulling the notebook from his pocket he held it out and said, without any expectation of a
positive response, " I need to know if you have done any printing like this for
anybody within the last six months."
To his astonishment the young man immediately said, "Yeah I remember doing that. It
was a small job, we only did 20. The boss doesn't usually do a job that small but the guy
who brought it in paid well over the odds so it was worth our while."
"Do you happen to know who the guy was?"
Standing up from his stool and walking over to a battered file cabinet, the young man
opened the top draw and pulled out a large, bright yellow job card. Walking back towards
Steve he began to read. "The customers name is Todd Packer and he gave his address as
the UCLA campus."
"You didn't get a more specific address?"
"Didn't really need to. He paid in cash."
Placing the notebook back into an inside pocket Steve walked to the door. As he reached it
he turned back and said, "Thanks, you've been a great help."
***************
Cheryl, meanwhile, was at the police lab awaiting the results of the paint analysis. She
was sitting on a long, thin and very uncomfortable bench tapping her feet in irritation
when the tedium of her wait was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. Reaching
into her pocket, pulling it out and putting it to her ear she said, "Banks. Oh hi
Steve. No, the results aren't through yet. I'm still waiting."
"I struck gold," Steve's voice came through her earpiece, " I managed to
find out who ordered those books. Someone by the name of Todd Packer who gave his address
as the UCLA campus."
"That's great!" Cheryl was pleased, "Now if they would only hurry up with
those lab results!"
Just as Cheryl was speaking a white coated lab technician emerged thorough a door further
along the corridor and made his way towards her. "Hang on Steve," she said,
"someone's coming. This could be it."
"Detective Banks?" the young lab technician queried.
"Yes, have you got the results for me?" Cheryl asked.
"Here they are," the young man replied, handing over a long computer print out
and turning on his heels to disappear into his lab again.
"Gee thanks," murmured Cheryl looking down at the paper she held in her hand.
"Cheryl? Come on," Steve urged, "what's the result?"
"Hang on, I'm just ploughing my way through all the boring stuff. Oh, okay here goes.
The paint isn't consistent with any US make of car. They think that is probably an import
and they are doing some further analysis on the paint to see if they can narrow it down a
bit."
"I suppose that is something," Steve said, "As you're free, do you want to
meet me at Bob's for dinner and we'll head on over to the campus after that."
"Fine by me," Cheryl responded, standing up and making her way along the long,
badly lit corridor to the front of the building, "I've been sitting here for so long
that I'm starving."
A little while later, at Bob's, Steve and Cheryl sat trying to make sense of the
information that they had gathered so far.
"So we have a dead UCLA student, strangled and his wrists pulverised. We have a
notebook with lists of data in it that may or may not relate to something illegal. The
notebook has a blue sailboat and the letters NS embossed on the cover and we can know that
it is one of twenty, which could mean that it is part of a university society. We also
have the presence of a, so far, unknown car, possible a foreign import," Steve listed
the seemingly, disparate, clues.
Cheryl swallowed a mouthful of rib, wiped her lips and said, "That reminds me. Amanda
contacted me earlier to say that her forensic anthropologist friend had finished his
work."
"And..?"
"Apparently there was one small bone missing."
"Pardon?" Steve was curious.
"A tiny bone in the wrist, called the navicular bone, is missing."
"Boy that name really trips off the tongue. Where do they come up with these
things?"
"Amanda told me that it is called that because its shape looks very much like a
sailboat." Cheryl explained.
When there was no immediate reply from her partner, Cheryl looked up to find Steve looking
at her with an enlightened expression on his face.
"What's up Steve?" she queried.
For an answer, Steve pulled the notebook out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the
table between them. Glancing quickly at it, Cheryl looked back at Steve with a questioning
expression on her face.
"What can you see on the front of the book?" he asked.
"A boat," replied Cheryl, privately wondering if the numerous blows her partner
had taken to the head over the years had finally taken their toll.
"What type of boat?" persisted Steve.
Sighing and looking more carefully Cheryl replied, "A sailboat."
Steve sat back with a smug grin on his face and waited for Cheryl to grasp the
significance of what she had just said. Suddenly Cheryl's eyes opened wide and her mouth
dropped open, "A sailboat!" she exclaimed.
"What if," pondered Steve, "the NS on the front of the book stands for
Navicular Society? Those kids an uni come up with some outrageous names for their groups ,
just to show how clever they are."
"It's possible, "conceded Cheryl, "but could it really be that easy?"
"Well.... it certainly gives us a place to start."
"There's only one way to find out," said Steve. He looked down at his plate and
continued, "after we've finished these ribs."
Driving across town to the campus a while later Cheryl asked, "If Terence Leger was a
member of this group why was he keeping secret notes?"
"Because either the whole group or particular members were involved in something
illegal and he wanted to get evidence. That would explain why they killed him."
responded Steve, executing a perfect right turn through the main entrance to the campus.
"But why cut out that bone? Surely whoever did it must have realised that it would
lead us to their group?"
"Think about it Cheryl. If we hadn't found that book we wouldn't have made the
connection, certainly not as quickly anyway. No, I think the person that did it is quite
arrogant and cut that bone out to actually try to confuse us. If we hadn't found that book
we'd have wasted a lot of time trying to figure out a connection."
Pulling up outside the administration building Steve and Cheryl made their way inside.
Entering the records office both showed their ID to the secretary on duty that day,
explaining that they had the full permission of the Dean.
"What can I do for you officers? "she asked politely.
"We need to know where we can find a Todd Packer." Steve began.
The young girl tapped the name into her computer and waited for a few seconds. "Todd
Packer," she said, "he is in Accommodation Block 27, 3rd floor, room 25."
"Thank you," Cheryl replied, "do you also have information here about the
various groups and societies that the students can belong to?"
"Yes we do," the young girl replied, "it's on another system, if you'd like
to follow me."
She led Steve and Cheryl across the large, open plan office and logged herself onto
another computer. She again tapped a few keys, then looked up at Steve and asked
"Which society are you after?"
"We have some initials," began Steve, "and were hoping that you could match
them to a specific society."
"Tell me what they are and I'll see if they are there."
"N.S." said Steve.
Punching in the letters N.S. the young girl sat back. Waiting for the computer to finish
it's search she looked up at Steve, smiled and said, "May I ask what it is that you
are checking up on?"
"We are on a murder investigation Miss. Theo," Steve answered.
"Tania, please," she replied.
Standing behind Steve Cheryl dug two fingers in his ribs and when he looked round at her
she rolled her eyes at him. He grinned and whispered, "I didn't do anything."
Before Cheryl could come up with a suitable reply Tania said, "Here we are officers.
There are four groups with those initials - Net Surfers ; Nahuatl Soldiers ; Nightingale
Singers and Novella Society."
"Nahuatl Soldiers?" queried Cheryl.
"We have a lot of students from Mexico here officer. They are a group that like to
keep their Aztec traditions alive. Actually, they put on some wonderful
performances." Tania replied.
"That is all you have?" Steve couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.
"They are the only current ones with those initials yes."
"Current ones?" Cheryl picked up, "Does that mean that you keep records of
defunct societies?"
"Yes we do."
"Can you check those please?" Steve requested, smiling winningly and ignoring
the sounds of mock disgust from his partner.
A few seconds silence ensued whilst Tania entered the search criteria into the computer
and waited for the results.
"Here we go," she announced, "there is only one on there. It was called the
Navicular Society."
"When did it cease to exist?" asked Steve.
"About twenty years ago."
"Oh well, it was a good hunch," Cheryl said starting to turn away.
"No, hang on," Steve's voice stopped her, "Tania, I don't suppose the
records of these old groups include membership do they?"
"As a matter of fact they do. Hold on and I'll print it out for you."
Minutes later holding onto a short computer print out Steve , followed by Cheryl, left the
administration building and headed in the car for the accommodation block 27, hoping to
find Todd Packer.
"Come on Steve," Cheryl was asking, "why did you want a print out of
members of a group that ceased to exist twenty years ago?"
"Humour me Cheryl," Steve said, "check on that list to see if there are any
familiar names."
"Okay. For you." Cheryl laughed. She began to scan the list of names. It didn't
take her long, there weren't that many. Steve heard her intake of breath and said,
"What did you find?"
" The President of the Navicular Society twenty years ago was one Marcus
Packer." Cheryl said. She looked across at Steve and continued, "How did you do
that?"
" If there had never been a Navicular Society then it would probably have meant that
we were on the wrong track. It was too much of a coincidence and it wasn't outside the
realms of possibility that the child of one of those members had started it up again. The
fact that the name Packer came up just means that we haven't got to go back and check out
the rest of the names with current students," he grinned and continued, "flashes
of inspiration don't stop when my dad leaves town."
For the second time in as many days Steve and Cheryl found themselves outside the
accommodation block where, until recently, Terence Leger had lived and studied. Climbing
the stairs to the third floor they came to a halt outside room 25. Steve knocked on the
door and stepped back to wait. They heard a barely suppressed curse and footsteps quickly
crossing the room before the door was flung wide.
"I thought I made it clear that I didn't want to be disturbed! I am TRYING to
study!"
Holding up his police badge Steve said, "I'm afraid that a murder investigation has
to take precedence over studying, however important, Mr. Packer. I am talking to Todd
Packer aren't I?"
The young man nodded before answering, "Murder investigation? Who has been
murdered?"
"One of your fellow students. A young man by the name of Terence Leger, he lived a
few doors along this floor."
Todd paled and, for a moment, Steve and Cheryl thought he was going to pass out. They
grabbed hold and guided him to a seat further in the room. Slowly the colour came back to
his face and he looked up at them and said, "Terence is dead? How did it
happen?"
"He was strangled and thrown in a dumpster across town," Steve replied.
Cheryl sat down next to the disturbed young man and asked gently, "Todd, how well did
you know Terence?"
"We took a few of the same classes," he replied.
"Did you belong to any of the same clubs or societies?" Steve prompted.
"For a while yes, but Terence recently left," Todd replied, a thought seemed to
strike him, "actually it was only two or three days ago."
"Would that be the Navicular Society?" Steve asked.
Todd's head snapped up, "Yes. How did you know about that? We hadn't registered
ourselves with the university yet. We are fairly new and wanted to see how it went before
we made ourselves official." "We found this notebook in Terence's room,
"Steve said, showing it to Todd.
"Yes, every member has one. It's to keep track of sailing hours logged and tides
etc," Todd saw the confusion on Steve's face and continued, "We are a group that
love to sail. That's why we gave ourselves that name, because of the shape of the
bone."
"Is that all you do?"
"Yes, why?"
Opening the book Steve passed it across to Todd asking, "Do those notations mean
anything to you?"
Scanning the writing Todd shook his head, "No, these have nothing to do with tides or
sailing hours. I have no idea what they are."
"We think that they may refer to pick-up or drop-off times for something illegal,
possibly drugs." Cheryl said, "Are you sure that nothing in there rings a bell?
We think that the first column is dates, the second - times and the last initials. So far
we don't have an idea about the third column. Can you take a look at the final entry? If
we are right about the first column referring to dates, then that is next week."
Todd looked down and said, "I suppose the initials ER could be referring to Eric , he
has a boat called Funny Lady which would fit in with the third column - funlad.
"Eric," prompted Steve.
"Eric Richards, he is in charge of our membership. In fact," a thoughtful
expression came across Todd's face as he continued, " he was the one who told me
about Terence. Something about continued membership being detrimental to his health."
"Death is pretty detrimental," commented Cheryl.
"One more question Todd," asked Steve, "do you happen to know what kind of
car Eric drives?"
"He drives a Ford, although not a US model. He spent some years in the UK and fell in
love with the right hand drive. So his dad had one sent over for him."
Cheryl stood up and joined Steve, "Thanks Todd. We'll leave you to your study now. By
the way, do you happen to know where we could find Eric at the moment?"
Todd looked at his watch and said, "Probably in the Science block, he's a second year
med student and he spends a lot of time there."
Leaving Todd to his thoughts Steve and Cheryl drove across the campus and pulled up
outside the science block. As they stepped out Steve quietly called, "Cheryl, behind
you." Cheryl turned and saw a black, right hand drive Ford with a long scratch mark
along its front wing. "I think we have our man."
They looked up at the building in front of them. It was an imposing red brick building and
they trod quickly up the winding steps to the front doors. Passing through them they asked
a group of students about Eric Richards whereabouts. They were directed to a second floor
lab. Climbing yet more stairs they found themselves at one end of a long corridor.
Carefully Steve and Cheryl walked along until they came to the lab that, hopefully, held
their suspect. Opening the door, Steve and Cheryl stepped through. At first, they didn't
see anyone. The room was full of octagonal benches, filled with scientific paraphernalia -
Bunsen burners, conical flasks and much, much more. After a few seconds a movement in the
far corner of the room caught their eye.
"Eric Richards?" Steve called, "I'm Detective Sloan, I'd like a word with
you."
The figure turned and looked at them. Before either Steve or Cheryl could react , Eric
Richards threw down the test tube that he held in his hand and raced for the door nearest
to him.
"Damn," muttered Steve, giving chase, "Why can't they just give up quietly
for once?"
Cheryl had disappeared out of the other door to see Steve follow Eric down the stairs
towards the main entrance. Giving chase herself Cheryl thought, "My, an original!
Most perps would have gone for the stairs to the roof."
Taking the stairs two at a time Eric sped out of the double doors, down the outside steps
and all but threw himself into his car. He fumbled a little getting the key into the
ignition allowing the chasing Steve to get a little closer. Just as he was almost within
arms reach the car roared into life and was jammed in reverse to hurtle towards him. Steve
threw himself out of the way just in time and the Ford screamed off. Picking himself up
Steve saw Cheryl exiting the building. He yelled, "Quick Cheryl!" as he jumped
in his car and gunned the engine.
Like Eric before her Cheryl almost threw herself into the car as it backed quickly out of
its space. Steve pushed the accelerator pedal as close to the floor of the car as he
dared, given the number of students he found in his way. Eric wasn't anywhere near as
careful and his path to the highway was littered with people who had to throw themselves
out of his way.
Eric's car sped along the highway, his headlights illuminating the dark road ahead of him.
He threw occasional, anxious glances in his rear view mirror noting that the chasing
police car, with it's flashing red siren, was slowly eating up the gap between them. His
mind worked feverishly, if he could reach the marina at least a couple of minutes ahead of
the cops he could make it to the Funny Lady and get out onto the ocean. For the next
fifteen minutes he kept his concentration solely on getting to the marina.
Steve concentrated all his energies on staying on the road and attempting to continue to
close the distance between the two cars. It was happening, slowly, but it was happening.
Would he have enough time though, he wondered.
After what seemed like forever, Eric saw the lights of the marina in the near distance. He
pushed the gas pedal even further to the floor and entered the marina gates a split second
before the two black and whites, that had been dispatched, could block his entrance.
However, the sight of those two cars converging on his position caused a momentary lapse
in his concentration and the front wing of his car hit a post as he attempted to execute a
turn towards his boat. The collision, minor though it was, dramatically changed the
trajectory of the front of his car. Instead of driving cleanly down the wide wooden
gangway to his boat, the front wheel on the drivers side slid off of the gangway. Although
Eric slammed on the brakes, his speed meant that he was unable to prevent the car from
toppling over the side and down into the murky wasters of the marina.
Steve brought his car to a halt at the start of the gangway. Both he and Cheryl leapt out
just in time to see the trunk of the black Ford disappear under the water. Steve ripped
his jacket off and had kicked his shoes off preparing to jump in the water after the car
when Cheryl grabbed his arm, "Steve, over there!" she called.
She pointed out into the water and Steve saw a head bobbing up and down as the owner swam,
somewhat shakily, towards them. Kneeling down, he and Cheryl grabbed hold of Eric and
yanked him unceremoniously onto the gangway, where he lay gasping for breath.
"Eric Richards?" Steve queried, a little superfluously, "I think we need to
have a talk."
****************
It was a week later and Steve exited the courthouse feeling very satisfied. Eric Richards
had pled guilty to the murder of Terence Leger and had been remanded in custody for
sentencing. There was still some investigating needed to clear up the leads found in
Terence's notebook, but that had been handed over to the DEA. Stepping lightly down the
courthouse steps Steve made his way to his car and headed home. He was looking forward to
two things, a few days off and the return of his dad.
Pulling up outside the beach house, Steve was pleased to see Marks' car in the driveway
and he bounded up the brick steps two at a time. He threw open the door calling,
"Dad? You here?"
From outside came Mark's voice, "Out here son."
Following the voice Steve made his way through the lounge to the deck. His dad was sitting
on one of the chairs, consuming a long, cool drink. On the table next to him was a large
box, covered in brightly coloured wrapping paper.
"Who's that for?" Steve asked his stomach sinking, because in his heart of
hearts he knew the answer very well. His Aunt Dora had a habit of sending him gifts that
were better suited for someone of a more tender age.
Mark simply grinned in reply and gestured for Steve to open it. Carefully, Steve undid the
wrapping, opened the box and looked in. For a few seconds he was silent, then a snort of
laughter escaped him, quickly followed by another. Steve sat down and positively howled
with laughter.
Mark, totally confused by the unexpected reaction, reached into the box and pulled out the
gift, placing it on the table in front of them.
It was a big, shiny, bright blue yacht.
Note: I have always wanted to see Steve solve a case without any help from Mark, Jesse or
Amanda. This story evolved into the perfect opportunity.
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