“It wouldn’t matter. The charge is very mild,” he said as if anyone should know that.
“It’s like getting zapped with a nine-volt battery. CPs didn’t kill him. You can already mark that one off your list.”
We had stopped at the end of the pier where the rear of the partially submerged submarine was in plain view. Anchored no more than twenty feet from it was the dark green aluminum johnboat with its long black hose leading from the compressor, which was nestled in an inner tube on the passenger’s side. The floor of the boat was scattered with tools, scuba equipment and other objects that I suspected had been rather carelessly gone through by someone. My chest tightened, for I was angrier than I would show.
“He probably just drowned,” Green was saying. “Almost every diving death I’ve seen was a drowning. You die in water as shallow as this, that’s what it’s going to be.”
“I certainly find his equipment unusual.” I ignored his medical pontifications.
He stared at the johnboat barely stirred by the current.
“A hookah. Yeah, it’s unusual for around here.”
“Was it running when the boat was found?”
“Out of gas.”
“What can you tell me about it? Homemade?”
“Commercial,” he said. “A five-horsepower gasoline driven compressor that draws in surface air through a lowpressure hose connected to a second-stage regulator. He could have stayed down four, five hours. As long as his fuel lasted.” He continued to stare off.
“Four or five hours? For what?” I looked at him. “I can understand that if you’re collecting lobsters or abalone.
He was silent.
“What is down there?” I said. “And don’t tell me Civil War artifacts because we both know you’re not going to find those here.”
“In truth, not a damn thing’s down there.”
“Well,” I said, “he thought something was.”
“Unfortunately for him, he thought wrong. Look at those clouds moving in. We’re definitely going to get it.” He flipped his coat collar up around his ears. “I assume you’re a certified diver.”
“For many years.”
“I’m going to need to see your dive card.”
I looked out at the johnboat and the submarine nearby as I wondered just how uncooperative these people intended to be.
“You’ve got to have that with you if you’re going in,” he said. “I thought you would have known that.”
“And I thought the military did not run this shipyard.”
“I know the rules here. It doesn’t matter who runs it.”
He stared at me.
“I see.” I stared back. “And I suppose I’m going to need a permit if I want to park my car on this pier so I don’t have to carry my gear half a mile.”
“You do need a permit to park on the pier.”
“Well, I don’t have one of those. I don’t have my PADI advanced and rescue dive cards or my dive log. I don’t have my licenses to practice medicine in Virginia, Maryland or Florida.”
I spoke very smoothly and quietly, and because he could not rattle me, he became more determined. He blinked several times, and I could feel his hate.
“This is the last time I’m going to ask you to allow me to do my job,” I went on. “We have an unnatural death here that is in my jurisdiction. If you would rather not cooperate, I will be happy to call the state police, the U.S. Marshal, FBI. Your choice.
I can probably get somebody here in twenty minutes. I’ve got my portable phone right here in my pocket.” I patted it.
“You want to dive–he shrugged–then go right ahead. But you’ll have to sign a waiver relieving the shipyard of any responsibility, should something unfortunate happen.
And I seriously doubt there are any forms like that here.”
“I see. Now I need to sign something you don’t have.”
“That’s correct.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll just draft a waiver for you.”
“A lawyer would have to do that, and it’s a holiday.”
“I am a lawyer and I work on holidays.”
His jaw muscles knotted, and I knew he wasn’t going to bother with any forms now that it was possible to have one.