For the past year I have had this concept for a nice little mystery based here on San Juan Island.  A simple story that uses the things I know about; running, life here in the islands, the islands and boating.  One Sunday, in April 06, I started the writing process, which, due to time commitments, comes and goes.  Currently I have down close to 11,000 words down and five chapters of material.  I do not have a projected finish time.

Here, still in the rough, is Chapter One.

Chapter 1

 From my front porch I can watch most of the world go by in some way or another.  And from my very comfortable Adirondack deck chair I am a witness for clouds drifting across the blue sky, or the flight of a humming bird in search of nectar.  I can also watch the local state owned ferry bringing people to the island where I live, witness and pass the time of day.

 My house, which is actually a small family three bed-room cabin that my parents gave me when I took a medical retirement from the FBI after 25 years of service, is nestled above a quiet beach overlooking Friday Harbor and the town named after it on San Juan Island, in the state of Washington.  The Pacific Northwest.  We are actually closer to Canada, which is seven miles across Haro Straight which borders the west side of the Island; than we are to America or the “main land” as we islanders call it.  The cabin was built by my father in the early sixties and our family vacationed there during the summer months where long days and shore lines provided a wonderful playground for a boy, me. I spent my summers living here with my Mom and sister. My Dad joined us on the weekends from his job in Seattle.  I have very fond memories of those summers.  My parents, both in their 80’s will come up and spend some time with me and we talk about our lives past.  My sister, Beth, passed away a few years back from breast cancer.  I miss her.

 As my sister and I grew older and left home my parents still came up on weekends, but their interest in the cabin and the up-keep was waning.  Local real estate agents kept calling encouraging them to sell but, thankfully, my folks kept the cabin and the 3 acres it sits on.  When I took a medical retirement, due to four 9 mm slugs passing through my chest five years ago, my folks presented me with the cabin and land to keep as my own.  Kind of like a “we’re glad you are still alive” gift.  I moved up here and now spend my days watching the boats come and go and think about all those things in my life that I could have done better and, after surviving four slugs, living each day with gratitude.  Sometimes I don’t shave for two or three days in a row.  And I wear flip-flops year round.  Why the flip-flops in a place that is noted for its rainfall? Because they match my feelings for life - laid back and casual.  And I live alone.  Except for Skipper.

 Down from my cabin I have a small dock where I keep my 17 foot Boston Whaler.  This boat is perfect for my lifestyle.  I can zip around the harbor or visit the other islands.  When I want to eat some really good food I will boat over to Victoria, about an hour a way, and dine at some of my favorite restaurants and then back home again.  It is a simple boat, good and thorough.

 Skipper is my dog, whose breed escapes me, but she is a good companion and likes to be on the boat, especially when we happen upon a pod of Orcas.  Not a big dog, but brave.  She will bark at the whales until they get too close to the boat for her comfort and then she quiets down.  Did I mention she was smart?  When I go for my daily run she comes along and always takes the lead – like she knows where we are going.  When I take my Vespa into town, I don’t own a car – see reasons for flip-flops, she stays at home and pouts.  She’s a good dog and is great at keeping the raccoons off the porch and deck.  Presently she is sleeping next to my deck chair.

 I love the summers here in the Islands – a term for all of the San Juan Islands.  Using Island, singular, means the island one is currently standing on.  Off-island means you were some where else.  But the summers, oh my God, they are just beautiful.  The sun rises very early, around 5 or so and sets very late, around 9 or later.  The resulting sunsets are as beautiful as the sun drops down below the Canadian Gulf Islands.  Breathtaking.  Sometimes I take Ruger, my boat - which was named for the gun that I carried while in the Bureau, over to Parks Bay on Shaw, eat a picnic dinner and watch the sunset.  I tell you, that is pretty awesome, but don’t tell anyone – I don’t want to clutter up the bay.

 I was sitting in my Adirondack deck chair watching the 1:00pm boat arrive, bringing tourists to the island for summer time fun.  A boat is what we call the ferry.  Newbies to the island will call a ferry a ferry and not a boat and will say something like “we are catching the 6:00 a.m. ferry” where as a local will say “I’m taking the red eye”.  You can always tell how long someone has been on island by how they refer to things.

 Anyway, I was sitting in my deck chair; Skipper was asleep counting raccoons and making whimpering sounds when I heard a car pull up the drive.  Having visitors is no big deal and I often have buddies or “dudes” drop by to bum a beer and chat awhile.  Sometimes they need a fishing buddy or whatever.  Skipper jumped off to investigate and, depending on who arrived, receive her share of lovings.  That dog does love to be petted.  She gave a few barks, meaning that someone was here that she wasn’t all that comfortable with and that I should do something about it, but I stayed put knowing whoever was here would make their way around to the waterside of the house.

 Soon, to my tad of surprise, the local Sheriff, Tom McNichols, walked around the corner of the house and up the stairs.  I stood and greeted him and offered him a beer, which he refused.  As he sat down he looked at me and said, “I didn’t think you drank?”

 “I don’t, but many who sit where you sit do.   So I keep some cheap stuff in the fridge for such occasions.”

 “Well, if it’s cheap then I will have one.”

 “No problem” and I got up and retrieved a cool one for him.

 We just sat there looking out over the harbor with the Sheriff taking some sips.  Tom and I go back to the time when I was a kid.  He is a few years older than me and grew-up here on Island and our paths would pass some.  After I retired from the Bureau Tom would stop by now and then to talk about an investigation that he was working on and wondered what I thought.  He respected my opinion and I respected him.  He was a good cop and cared for these islands.

 After a few minutes of silence Tom spoke.  “What are you doing?”

 “You mean besides sitting here watching you drink my beer?”

 He looked at me and shook his head, “no, you got anything going on the rest of today and maybe tomorrow”?  

 “Nothing but holding down this chair and going for my daily run to ensure that my heart and lungs continue to work in my best interest.  Maybe a boat ride.”

 “You mind going for a ride with me?  I have a situation that I could use your help on.”

 Now, that said, if I went with him my life was going to get complicated some.  More so than I think I wanted, but I was flattered.

 “What’s up?”

 “About an hour ago some hikers up in the Roche Harbor Watershed found the body of a young woman.”

 “Was she run over by a deer?”

 “No, beaten.”

 Now that didn’t sound very good.  The Islands have crime like any other place; usually meth operations, some pot growers, domestic stuff, but murder is rare.  Murder wasn’t good for the tourist trade, my afternoon or for the young woman.

 “Where?”

 “Up in the upper loop of Roche Harbor Watershed towards the Park.  You know that area?”

 “Yeah, I try to run the trials up there once or twice a week, but I don’t because Skipper can’t run with me and she likes to, you know.”

 “Why can’t she run with you up there?”

 “How am I going to get a dog around this island on a Vespa?  I’d have to buy her a helmet or something.  Maybe goggles too.”

 Tom just looked at me and I could tell that maybe he was having second thoughts about asking me.  Before he spoke I quickly agreed.  Having been a criminal investigator for the F.B.I for twenty five years made me a good candidate to have along.  When I was in the Bureau I was good.  I mean I was really good.  I could usually figure out what had happened and what had gone down; though I didn’t do a very good job in figuring out that a nine year old boy who I encountered on a drug raid in Kentucky would shoot me in the chest with a couple of  quick rounds.  I didn’t see that one coming, but should have.  I nearly paid that price with my life.  Apparently he was good at video games. 

 “Yeah, I’ll go along, let me grab a sweater”.  I went into the house, picked up my sweater and my wallet, but no gun.  This wasn’t like old times.  I do still have my gun, but it sits in a box on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.  I don’t have need for a gun because Skipper does such a good job in keeping the raccoons away from the house.  Though I am tempted to take out a couple of deer who eat the tops of the few flowers around my cabin – but I promised my mother I wouldn’t.  She likes the deer.

 I also picked-up my current Moleskinne notebook and a pen – in case I needed to take notes of some sorts.  Placing the wallet, Moleskinne and pen into my running pack, which is a fanny pack designed with a small carrying pouch and a water bottle holder with water bottle half filled with water, I headed out the door.

 As I closed the front door the Sheriff looked down at my flip-flops and asked if I was going to put on any shoes and I told him that these flip-flops could take me any where I needed to go and as long as we were not going to sneak up on any one I would be find.

 Approaching the police car I asked Tom if I could take Skipper along.

 “You want to take your dog to a crime scene?”

 “Yeah, she likes to ride in cars, especially police cars.  Besides, she is a retired drug dog.  If there where any drugs at the crime scene she might be of help.”  Now Skipper knew she wasn’t ever a drug dog and I knew she was never a drug dog, but the Sheriff didn’t know she was never a drug dog.  I just wanted her to have a ride in a police car.

 Tom sighed.  “Yeah, she can go, but she has to sit in the back.”

 “No problemo” and as I open the back door and Skipper jumped up in the back seat I said “Skipper, you have the right to remain silent and any thing you may bark can be used against you in a court of law” and slammed the door.

 After putting on my seat belt Tom looked at me, “You are a little odd aren’t you?”

 “Sheriff, my man” I said cheerfully, “any one who survives a couple of slugs in the chest becomes a tad odd.  It’s our right”.

 “I suppose it is.”

 Once out of the drive way and on the main road heading towards town I asked Tom if he could turn on the flashing lights and siren because Skipper would like that.  He said “No”. 

 Poor deprived Skipper.