The Tourist Trap

 Detective Lieutenant Philip McNulty, talking to himself but talking out loud, said, "At a certain point, this has got to be bad for business."

"Three dead tourists has got to be a record for June," noted Police Sergeant Zane Truman.

"Missing," McNulty corrected. "Not dead. Missing. The investigation is ongoing and we cannot comment further."

"Officially speaking," Truman said.

"Officially speaking," McNulty confirmed.

The two men stood at the front counter of Queequeg's Coffin, a tourist trap on the main drag in Ogunquit, one of many places selling Chinese-made tchotchkes of an overly romanticized and largely fictional American past. It was early on a Wednesday morning and there were only a few customers browsing the shelves and display cases filled with overpriced memories of the family vacation.

They waited uncomfortably with the clerk, or rather, McNulty enjoyed his partner's discomfort as they waited. As they had approached the counter, McNulty had noticed Truman notice the clerk, who had their back turned to them. Truman had obviously and unselfconsciously checked out the luxurious blonde hair that fell to the shoulders and the snugly fitted pink shorts. Good thing we can't be arrested for our thoughts, McNulty had thought, as Truman had said, "Excuse me, miss." A greeting that was met with some very obvious disgust as the young boy turned to meet them, his face animated with the tilted grin of teenage disappointment in adults. His tanned face was soft, unblemished and almost featureless. His striking blue eyes seemed to emanate light. 

It was all McNulty could do to stifle a laugh at Truman's embarrassment.

"Oh, I'm sorry, um, sir, I mean, young man" the flustered Truman said. "It's just, you know, the pink shorts and, um, if I may say, you have beautiful hair."

"Wait!" the clerk said. "You're Officer Van Winkle, am I right? Fell asleep in 1950? Just woke up yesterday?"

Catching Truman's eye, McNulty said, "Seems fair."

"How do you know we're cops?" Truman asked.

The young man nodded. "You're right. Those cheap, off the rack, poorly tailored suits. The $5.00 haircuts. You could be just about anyone. So, how can I help you?"

"This seems a bit anticlimactic," McNulty said, pulling his badge from his jacket pocket. "I'm Detective Lieutenant Phil McNulty and this is Police Sergeant Zane Truman. We'd like to speak to the owner."

The young man grinned and picked up the phone next to the cash register. "Ahoy, grandpa. No. Nothing's wrong. I think. Five-O is here to see you. The police. I don't know. Why don't you ask them?" After a short pause, he hung up the phone and said, "He'll be out in just a minute."

And so they waited uncomfortably. 

McNulty noted the tattoo on the young man's right arm. It was a vibrant, iridescent green and blue tail of a fish. "Interesting ink," he said.

"This?" the young man said, pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal what appeared to be a mermaid, sitting on a rock surrounded by ocean spray, playing a harp; the figure's hair was a brilliant red and the eyes were yellow and glowing.

"Impressive," McNulty said.

"Grandpa makes me wear sleeves long enough to cover up her boobs," the young man said with a smirk.

"If that's supposed to be the Littlest Mermaid, you should ask for your money back," Truman said.

"It's one of the Sirens," the clerk said. His face was suddenly serious. His voice dropped from a teenage tenor to a buzzy baritone. "According to myth and legend, they lured sailors to their deaths with their hypnotic, seductive ASMR-inducing songs." 

"ASMR?" Truman asked.

"Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response," McNulty said. "It refers to sounds or images that produce a kind of euphoria."

The young man nodded. "I guess that's why you're the Lieutenant," he said to McNulty, and then to Truman offered, "And you're not."

The owner, a weather-worn man in his late 60s, appeared from behind a curtained doorway. He moved with a quick and unexpected grace for a man of his age. He smiled the practiced smile of a salesman and announced himself. "Good morning, officers. Milo Waters, at your service. How may I help you today?"

"Good morning, Mr. Waters," Lieutenant McNulty said, extending his right hand. "I'm Detective Lieutenant Philip McNulty and this is Police Sergeant Zane Truman." Milo Waters shook hands with McNulty and then with Truman. Waters shared the nearly featureless face and electric blue eyes with his grandson. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and his nose seemed barely big enough to support his thick, tortoiseshell framed glasses. His skin seemed more weathered than tanned and his hair might've been full and blonde like his grandson's when he was younger, but it was sparse and gray now. "I wonder if we might speak in private?" McNulty asked.

"Sounds ominous," Waters said with a grin. "Come on back to my office." He turned and led them back through the curtained doorway to a large storage space. 

"Your grandson seems nice," Truman said. 

Waters seemed to pick up on the subtext. "Silas?" He nodded. "The only son of my only son," he said. He shrugged. "Hard to say no, when it comes to family. It's his first job. I'm not sure he really gets it."

"Gets it?" McNulty asked.

"Capitalism," Waters said. "The boy seems to have a rather fantastical idea of how the world works. Or rather, should work."

In the back corner there was a space that had been cleared for a small desk with a computer and a small printer. There were two chairs; one behind the desk and one in front for a single guest.

"Let me see if I can find another chair," Waters said.

"That's all right," McNulty said. "This won't take long."

"Suit yourself," Waters said, sitting in the chair behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

McNulty paused before beginning. "I'd like to ask you to keep our conversation here confidential, if you don't mind."

"Okay," Waters said. "I was kidding before about this sounding ominous but I can honestly say now that you're scaring me, officer. What's this all about?"

He hadn't made any presumptions about whether Milo Waters was involved, or knew anything about the missing tourists, or if there was anything at all to the tenuous nexus of Queequeg's Coffin, but McNulty thought the shop owner was doing a terrible job of acting innocent.

"I noticed on your front window there's a sign that reads 'Authentic Scrimshaw'," Truman said.

"Yes," Waters said. "We have some truly remarkable works of -"

Truman cut him off. "I thought trading in scrimshaw was illegal."

"Yes and no," Waters answered with his bright salesman's smile. "Let me assure you I have the provenance for all the scrimshaw for sale in my place. I say provenance because these are, indeed, works of art. And everything I sell predates 1927, obviously well before 1973, when it did become illegal to trade in whale bone, a development which in my opinion, was long overdue. I understand its importance to the economics of 19th century America, the reliance on oil for heat and light before the lightbulb, but whaling was a cruel business, killing creatures we now know to be intelligent and sentient." 

McNulty nodded. "Given your feelings on the subject, why sell scrimshaw? Aren't you contributing to a romantic view of what you called a cruel business?"

"An accessory after the fact, as it were," Truman added.

Waters smiled. "I suppose you're right. Then again, I also understand the economics of 21st century America. And specifically the tourism market segment." He paused. "I'm completely legit, I assure you. Is that what this is all about?"

"This is about three tourists, who have all gone missing in the last month," McNulty said.

"Really?" Waters said.

"Really," Truman answered.

"All three tourists happened to make a purchase at your shop on the day they went missing," McNulty said.

"I see," Waters said. "We are a popular stop for the out-of-staters." He shrugged. "Probably just a coincidence, don't you think?"

McNulty did not. In his life experience, there was no such thing as coincidence.

Waters continued. "I mean, they probably stopped in a half dozen other places on Beachmere Street."

"Maybe they did," Truman said. "But this is the only place where we have a record of a purchase."

"Ah!" Waters said, his face brightening. "And you want to know what they bought! Yes?"

"We know what they bought," McNulty said.

"Authentic scrimshaw," Truman said.

Waters shrugged. "It's a popular item."

"Is it?" McNulty asked.

"Not as popular as the lobster claw bottle opener," Waters said with a smile.

"Not as expensive, either," Truman said.

Waters sighed. "As I said, officer, these are works of art; unique, one of a kind, as rare as any Picasso. I believe the price is more than fair."

"I don't suppose you could give us a list of scrimshaw purchases over the last, say, three months?" McNulty asked.

"We can get a court order, if necessary," Truman said.

"Not at all!" Waters said. He began typing on the computer's keyboard. "I can give you a full list of every piece I've ever sold. Shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes."

"Thank you," McNulty said. "It may be nothing but we need to follow up on each and every lead, no matter how coincidental it may seem to be."

"Mind if I look around your shop?" Truman said. "While we wait?" 

"Of course not. Be my guest," Waters said. He looked up from the computer screen and smiled. "The first lobster claw bottle opener is on me, officer. Always happy to support our first responders."

"Thanks," Truman said. He exchanged a look and a nod with McNulty and headed out to the store.

McNulty looked around the storage space. It was clean and everything - as far as McNulty could judge - was in its place, the boxed items stacked neatly on the shelves. "Family business?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Why yes," Waters said. "Of course, it wasn't a gift shop when my grandfather bought this place. It was a kind of general store, I guess you'd say. Dry goods, clothing, that kind of thing."

The printer hummed and spit out two pages, which Waters took from the tray and quickly looked over before handing them to McNulty. "There you go, detective. Hope it helps."

"Thank you," McNulty said, taking the pages, folding them up and putting them in his jacket pocket. 

"Anything else I can do for you today?" Waters asked, his salesman's smile beaming.

"I think I'm good for now," McNulty said. "I'll just collect Sergeant Truman and we'll be on our way."

Waters stood and followed McNulty out to the shop. "Hope you solve the mystery of the missing tourists, detective."

"As I said, please keep our conversation to yourself, Mr. Waters," McNulty said.

"Oh, yes!" Waters said. "Confidential. Of course."

As they entered the shop, McNulty could see business had picked up. There must've been a dozen people browsing the shelves and display cases. It took a moment to find Truman, standing by the front door. McNulty stopped and turned to Waters, sticking out his right hand. "Thanks again, Mr. Waters."

"You're very welcome, detective," Waters said, shaking McNulty's hand, and then called over to Sergeant Truman as McNulty turned to go. "Did you get your lobster claw bottle opener?"

Truman smiled, nodded and raised his right hand the the universal gesture of no, thanks. "That's okay. I'm good."

As McNulty joined Truman at the door, Truman lowered his voice and said, "I've got something to show you." McNulty nodded, opened the door, and the two policemen stepped out into the seasonably warm July morning sun.

*****

In the car, on the way back to the station, Sergeant Truman described the old photograph he had noticed hanging with several others between shelves of New England-themed t-shirts and hoodies, a picture of a whaling ship named the Woronoco, with its captain, Milosz Voda, and crew.

"So, the picture is framed in black with a small metal plaque that reads 'Woronoco, Lost at Sea, 1858, Captain Milosz Voda & All Souls' and beneath the picture there's a display case of scrimshaw with a sign reading 'For Display Only, Not for Sale'," Truman said.

"Okay," McNulty said.

"Thing is, there were clearly three spots in the display case where it was obvious there had been a piece but it wasn't there any more," Truman said. 

"Three pieces of scrimshaw," McNulty said.

"Three tourists," Truman said.

"I see. Congratulations Sergeant Truman! You've cracked the Case of the Killer Scrimshaw," McNulty said.

Undeterred by McNulty's sarcasm, Truman continued. "The captain of the Woronoco was named Milosz Voda," he said. "Voda is a Slavic word for water," he said, looking at the snapshot of the picture on his phone as McNulty drove. And then, as if to explain himself: "I Googled it."

"So, Milosz Voda, Milo Waters," McNulty said. "The grandfather he mentioned?"

"Or great-grandfather," Truman said. "But that's not the best part."

"Okay," McNulty said.

"I recognized three members of the Woronoco's crew," Truman said. 

McNulty waited for the other shoe. 

"Are you ready for this?" Truman said. "They're our missing tourists."

McNulty sighed. "Really? Our missing tourists are trapped in a 19th century photograph of a whaling ship?"

"Okay," Truman said. "It sounds crazy when you say it like that."

"There's a non-crazy way to say it?" McNulty asked.

"Just try to keep an open mind until we get back to the station and you can compare the photos we have of the missing men yourself with the picture of the whaling ship's crew," Truman said.

"How could that even happen? Why? And who's behind this foul act of felony photoshopping?" McNulty asked, immediately regretting the exasperated tone of his sarcastic response.

"This is you keeping an open mind?" Truman asked.

The question hung in the air. McNulty finally broke the silence, saying, "I'm swinging through Dunks for a coffee and an apple fritter. You want anything?"

"I'll have a mint green tea, and the avocado toast" Truman said, accepting McNulty's peace offering. "You know those apple fritters are going to kill you."

"Death by apple fritter," McNulty said. "There are worse ways to go."

"Like what?" Truman said.

McNulty smiled. "Avocado toast for one."

*****

They sat at Truman's desk, eating their impromptu brunch, looking at the photographs Truman uploaded from his phone to display on his 20" computer monitor. Truman used the Paint 3D software to magnify the picture and draw circles around three of the crew's faces.

McNulty opened the case folder and pulled out the photographs they'd gotten from the families of the three missing men and considered their likenesses compared to the image on Truman's computer screen.

"Is that as big as you can make it?" McNulty asked.

Truman shrugged. "This is the best I can do without it getting blurry."

"It's already a little blurry," McNulty said.

"Okay, then, this is the best resolution I can get without it getting really blurry," Truman said.

McNulty nodded, then held up a photo of one of the tourists next to the image on the monitor. "I don't know. I suppose it could be the same guy but it could just as easily be not the same guy." McNulty finished his coffee. "It's a blurry picture of a blurry picture; I think you're seeing what you want to see."

Truman smiled. "I saved the best for last." He moved the mouse in a small circle on his desktop and slid the image up to reveal the names of the Woronoco's crew. "Check out the names."

McNulty scanned the list of names. There they were. John Bazemore. Lucas Hinton. Eric Williams. There were slight discrepancies in how their names were listed on the ship's roster - Jon Basemore, Lukas Hinton, Erik Williams - but that was merely a quibble. It was all three of the missing tourists. Until this moment, the only connection the missing men shared was that all three worked for petrochemical companies. Bazemore was an executive at Exxon, Williams worked in R&D for BP, and Hinton was CFO for Vitoleq, an oil and gas equipment broker. That was a curiosity, to be sure, but this? Maybe crazier things had happened but what were the odds that three unrelated men would find their way to a shop run by the descendant of the ship captain who was the master of a whaling ship that all three men's great-grandfathers had crewed in the 1850s? And then all three disappear without a trace? What was going on here? 

McNulty's head hurt. He wished he had more coffee. 

"When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Truman said.

"Thanks, Sherlock," McNulty said. 

"Well?" Truman asked.

McNulty leaned back in his chair. "Well?

"Well?" Truman asked with a hint of confusion in his voice.

"Well, what's your theory of the case?" McNulty asked.

"My theory?" Truman asked.

"Ghosts?" McNulty asked. "Cursed scrimshaw? What's your theory?"

"Well, okay," Truman said and paused. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak but said nothing until he finally admitted, "I got nothing. But that doesn't explain away the photograph. And the names."

McNulty nodded. "Here's my thinking. I like Milo Waters for the crime. Sociopathic serial killer. Likely had a psychotic break just before he abducted - and yes, undoubtedly killed - his first victim." He shuffled through the photographs. "Lucas Hinton, reported missing June 4th. I don't need motive because Milo Waters is a psycho. I've got opportunity, because they all came into his shop. As for means, I'm still working on that. Can't say for sure the scrimshaw isn't involved somehow and I'm not sure why he chose these three men but the names can't be a coincidence…" McNulty trailed off, his thoughts gone down a rabbit hole, lost in the gloom of not knowing. At that moment, he wasn't sure if he even believed himself. The similarities in the names was too much to ignore. "Even with the coincidental similarities between the names of our missing tourists and the crew of the Woronoco. I still like Waters as my doer. Perhaps he recognized Lucas Hinton's name. Perhaps that was the trigger."

"And the other two? Bazemore and Williams? He just happened to recognize their names, too?"

"Look, I know it looks like a pattern but…" McNulty paused. "It's like the Big Dipper. They're just points of light in the sky until you create the pattern." McNulty paused again. "We need to be evidence-based here."

"Mr. Waters, with the whale tooth, in the back room?" Truman said.

"Well, it wasn't Colonel Mustard, was it?" McNulty said, a bit defensively. "What can I say? I'm an Occam's Razor kind of guy," McNulty paused. "So, what have you got, Sherlock?"

Before Truman could answer, his desk phone rang.

"Sergeant Truman," he answered. "Okay. Hang on." He held the phone against his chest and said to McNulty, "Another missing tourist." He took a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and put the phone to his ear. "Go." Truman began writing. "Okay. Right. Wait. Did they say what he does for a living, where he works? Insurance? AIG."

"Breaks the pattern," McNulty muttered.

"Okay. Okay. Just let me read the name back to you. Thomas Stenstrud." Truman then spelled out the name. "Got it. And you'll send the picture to my email. And the credit card transactions when you get them? Right."

"Wait!" McNulty said. "Put it on speaker."

"Putting you on speaker," Truman said and punched the button on the desk set.

"This is McNulty," he said.

"Hey, Lieutenant," the voice on the phone said.

"What kind of insurance?" McNulty asked. 

They could hear voices in the background. "Specialty insurance," the voice on the phone said.

"Specialty insurance? What does that mean?" Truman asked.

More background noise. "His wife says he wrote insurance for oil tankers, rigs, pipelines. That kind of thing."

"Thanks," McNulty said and nodded to Truman. 

"Thanks," Truman said and hung up.

"So, our pattern is still good. Our suspect is targeting victims based on some association with the oil industry," McNulty said.

Truman put the snapshot of the picture of the Woronoco back up on the screen. They searched through the names of the crew but couldn't find a Thomas Stenstrud. 

"No match," Truman said, obviously disappointed.

"As much as I hate to say it - and you know I hate to say it," McNulty said. "It appears the names were simply a coincidence. We know what the victims have in common. Their profession and - I believe we'll confirm this when we get those credit card records - authentic scrimshaw from Queequeg's Coffin." He paused. "Get a search warrant," he said to McNulty. "And let Collins know we're going to need her forensics team."

*****

Milo Waters didn't need a call from his grandson this time; the raised voices of the police and the general hubbub from the shop floor were enough to call him from his desk in the back room. He spotted the cops he had spoken to earlier; Truman was checking the photograph of the Woronoco and the display case beneath it as McNulty was giving directions to three other cops.

"They closed up the shop," his grandson Silas called to him as he crossed the room. "I'm out of here." 

The policeman who had been posted at the door blocked his path and looked to Lieutenant McNulty. 

"Do you want to pat him down?" McNulty asked Truman.

"Shut up," Truman muttered.

McNulty nodded to the policeman at the door. "Let him go."

Pausing in the open doorway, Silas turned to McNulty. "Aren't you going to say, don't leave town?"

As McNulty opened his mouth to speak, Silas laughed and left. As Milo came within earshot, he heard Truman say, "You're not going to believe this, Mac." They both were studying the photograph of the Woronoco when he reached them.

"I assume all the paperwork is in order?" Milo asked.

Truman retrieved the warrant from his jacket pocket and held it out to Milo. 

"Thanks," Milo said, but he didn't take the warrant. "I'm not sure I'd understand it even if I read it. I trust you gentlemen are following the letter of the law." He paused. "You seem very interested in the Woronoco, officer," he said to Truman. "You're familiar with the legend of Neptune's Curse?"

"The scrimshaw in this case is marked as not for sale," Truman said. 

"Yes," Waters said.

"When we were in here yesterday, there were three empty spaces. Today there are four," Truman said.

"You are quite the detective, detective," Waters said. He smiled, "Yes, I sold another piece yesterday. You'd be surprised what people are willing to pay for something that isn't for sale."

"Yesterday we had three missing tourists. Today there are four," Truman said.

"Are you still - wait, a fourth tourist is missing?" Waters said. "A man in his early forties, thin, runner's build, long black hair, tallish?"

"That's a pretty fair description of our missing tourist,' McNulty said. 

"Oh, no," Waters said. "Look, whatever you need, whatever I can do. This is terrible. Just terrible."

"Tell us about the Woronoco," Truman said. "And what did you call it? Neptune's Curse?"

"Neptune's Curse," Waters said. "Until today, I, well… As the story goes, the Woronoco had been at sea for a little over eight months and was practically full to the gunwales when it encountered a pod of sperm whales and launched its boats as the captain sought to maximize his profits. One of those boats was rammed by a whale and sunk. The men were rescued by one of the other boats, all save for the ship's second mate, a young cousin to the captain, who was lost, taken to the depths in the jaws of a whale and drowned. The captain, my great-grandfather, Milosz Voda, was so stricken with grief and rage that he ordered his men to continue to kill whales even though he didn't have the capacity to process them all, leaving the sea awash in blood and death. So egregious was this offense against nature that the Woronoco, its captain and its crew, was said to have been cursed by Neptune himself, doomed forever to sail the seven seas, never to return to port, its crew never again to step on dry land."

"Then, the scrimshaw in this case didn't come from the Woronoco?" Truman said, a touch of confusion in his voice.

Waters smiled. "Neptune's Curse on the Woronoco, like so many myths and legends, lies on a foundation of poor bookkeeping. The Woronoco did, in fact, return to port but was rechristened after a refit as the Shrike. Based on my own - may I say - diligent research, I'm satisfied that the scrimshaw in that case was indeed carved by crew members of the Woronoco."

"And the curse on the Woronoco," Truman said. "It would extend to the scrimshaw?"

Waters smiled. "Well, officer, if Neptune was the actual living god of the seas, and curses were real, then I suppose yes, the scrimshaw - any artifact from the ship or its crew, really - would also be cursed."

McNulty and Truman exchanged a look and Waters noticed it. "There's something else, isn't there?"

"Our fourth missing tourist is named Thomas Stenstrud," McNulty said. He pointed to the photograph of the Woronoco. "Tomas Stenstrood."

There he was in the photograph; a thin, tallish man with his black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail.

"That is strange," Waters said.

"It gets stranger," McNulty said.

Truman read off the names of the missing tourists - Bazemore, Hinton, Williams - as Waters looked at the photograph, nodding each time he found the matching name.

"That is definitely stranger," Waters said.

"He hasn't gotten to the stranger part yet," Truman said. "When we were in your shop yesterday, I took a snapshot of this photograph. Yesterday, there was no member of the Woronoco's crew named Tomas Stenstrud. And yet, today, there he is. What do you make of that, Mr. Waters?"

"I, uh, I don't know what to tell you," Waters said.

McNulty began to feel that Waters' confusion was sincere but decided to push him. "How about the truth?" he said.

"The truth?" Waters said. 

McNulty studied him. The anguish in his voice was impossible to miss. A guilty conscience?  

"The truth? If I understand what you're saying," Waters continued. "No. It's not possible. It's, well, it's insane! You aren't seriously accusing me of, I mean, I don't even know what you're accusing me of!"

"Murder," McNulty said.

"Four counts," Truman said.

A voice calling "Lieutenant!" interrupted them. The lead tech was standing in the curtained doorway to the back room.

"Excuse us for a moment, Mr. Waters," McNulty said.

Milo Waters watched them join the third policeman and disappear behind the curtain. He looked back at the old photograph of the Woronoco. Neptune's Curse. He laughed out loud in a way that sounded crazy, even to himself. Yet somehow, he couldn't shake the thought. The son of the son of the son.

McNulty and Truman walked back through the curtained doorway, followed by three police officers carrying their equipment. McNulty and Truman joined Waters as the others left the shop.

"Am I under arrest?" Waters asked.

"No, Mr. Waters," McNulty said.

"Thank God!" Waters said. "Can I open my shop?"

"Yes," McNulty said. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience but I hope you understand, given the circumstances."

"No. Yes. I mean, of course," Waters said, seeming to be somewhat distracted. "I can't imagine what it's like for the families. Husbands, fathers, men who will never come home again." 

Truman pulled a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Milo. "If you think of anything else, and I mean anything, no matter how small, regardless of how unimportant it may seem, please give us a call."

"Of course," Waters said, as he took the card.

"Thanks again," McNulty said. He nodded to Truman and said, "Let's go."

*****

Milo Waters stood at Philip McNulty's desk with a small case in his arms and said, "I've come to turn myself in."

They sat in the small conference room that doubled as a place for meetings and an interview room for witnesses and suspects. McNulty and Truman sat on one side of the table that stood in the center of the room; Waters sat opposite them. Waters placed the case on the table in front of him.

Truman took out his phone. "I'd like to record this, if that's okay with you."

Waters shrugged. "Sure."

Truman put the phone on the table top. "To begin, I want to confirm that you are here voluntarily, and that you have been offered the opportunity to have legal representation, and that you have agreed to speak with us without a lawyer present."

"Yes," Waters said. 

"You've come to turn yourself in," McNulty said.

"Yes," Waters said.

"For the murders of John Bazemore, Lucas Hinton, Eric Williams, and Thomas Stenstrud," Truman said.

"No," Waters said.

"No?" Truman said.

"You said you came to turn yourself in," McNulty said.

Waters opened the small case he'd brought with him and took out the framed photograph of the Woronoco. He set it in front of McNulty and Truman."I've come here today to confess to the murder of my grandson, Silas Waters," he said.

It only took a moment. "There," Truman said. "Silas Voda, Cabin Boy."

"That, uh, he wasn't there before," McNulty said. "Was he?"

"As an historical matter," Waters said, "the Woronoco did not have a cabin boy on its crew's manifest."

"Poor bookkeeping?" McNulty asked.

Waters smiled. "Not in this case."

"I see," McNulty said, not seeing at all. "Why don't you tell us what happened."

Waters nodded. "I… I had what I guess you'd call a moment of clarity while you were searching my place yesterday. Well, that or a moment of brilliant insanity. After you left, I called my grandson to let him know the shop was open and that I needed him to mind the register. While I waited for him to arrive I couldn't shake the thought that Silas had something to do with the missing tourists. He was the son of the son of the son. I mean, I knew Neptune's Curse wasn't real. It couldn't be real. We opened the shop when Silas arrived. I could tell he knew something was bothering me but, well, I told him I was upset by having the police search the shop, that anyone would think I could have anything to do with these missing tourists. Silas tried to reassure me, told me he knew I didn't have anything to do with it but that only confirmed my suspicions. I waited till we closed to confront him. I was a little surprised by the fact that he didn't deny it. He happily admitted he had killed those four men but rather casually justified it by saying that they were killing the planet. Well, he didn't kill them so much as send them to their deaths." Waters reached out and touched the frame of the picture. "Doomed forever to sail the seven seas, never to return to port, never again to step on dry land." He smiled sadly. "Sometimes it doesn't matter what you believe; sometimes what you believe is all that matters." He shrugged. "I told Silas I would have to go to the police and he laughed in my face. He said you'd never believe me and I can tell by the looks on your faces that he was right about that. I told him it had to stop and if the police wouldn't help me I would have to - " Waters' voice broke. He sniffed and blinked back tears. "Silas opened the display case and grabbed a piece of scrimshaw in his left hand and held it against his chest and touched the photograph with his right hand. He closed his eyes and said something. I couldn't understand it. It didn't sound like English. And then. He was gone." Waters touched the frame of the picture again. "And now he's there."

"Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Waters?" McNulty said.

McNulty and Truman watched Milo Waters through the large glass window as he sat, softly crying, at the table in the small conference room.

"You still like him for the crime, don't you?" Truman said.

"More than ever," McNulty said. "I'm thinking the kid was the one who was going to the cops after finding out what gramps was up to."

"I don't know," Truman said. "He seems pretty broke up about it."

"Crocodile tears," McNulty said. "He's a sociopath. Charismatic. Manipulative. He's been fooling people his entire life." McNulty sighed. "Whatever. We got nothing."

"You're not going to let him go, are you?" Truman asked.

"What do you suggest we charge him with?" McNulty said. "What evidence do we have? And by evidence, I mean things like dead bodies, murder weapons, DNA on cigarette butts. You know. The kind of thing you might see presented to a jury in an episode of 'Law & Order'. Of which we have nada. Nothing. Bupkis." He paused. "I'm more concerned with what we'll tell the families of the four victims."

After a moment, Truman answered. "Eco-terrorists."

"Eco-terrorists?" McNulty asked.

"It's consistent with Mr. Waters' story." Truman said. "Silas was trapping those tourists in the photograph because they were killing the planet."

"Officially speaking?" McNulty said.

"Officially speaking," Truman said.

"I don't know," McNulty said. "It begs more questions than it answers. I think we're better off with the classic, we can't comment on an ongoing investigation statement." McNulty paused. "I'm cutting him loose."

*****

The police had let him go as he had known they would have to. Habeas Corpus, after all. It was almost too easy, Milo thought, outsmarting the cops. He had returned to and opened his shop, and when he closed at 6:00pm and took the tray back to his desk in the storage room to count up the day's profits, he was feeling pretty good. He'd gotten away with it. All of it. Sure, the cop named McNulty suspected him; he'd told him as much when he released him. But he thought he'd convinced the other cop - Truman? - that it was Silas and Neptune's Curse that were to blame for the missing tourists. Milo smiled as he counted the cash in the till. He was quite pleased with the tale he had spun, with those little touches like Silas' unintelligible incantation. He had considered looking up something suitable in Latin but was glad he had decided against it. A lie that's an echo of the truth is easy to believe but he had decided it was best to keep it simple. No need to give away any secrets.

He heard a noise, out in the shop. Breaking glass? He got up and walked to the curtained doorway as quietly as he could. He stood still, trying not to breathe, listening. There! Was that a footfall? A creaking floorboard? "Is someone there?" he called out, his voice breaking. He took a breath. "We're closed," he called out. "We'll be open again tomorrow at 8:00am. Happy to help you then." Silence. Milo convinced himself he was being silly, hearing things, and was about to return to his counting when he heard what he felt certain was the sound of broken glass grinding between a boot heel and wooden floorboards. He took a deep breath and stepped through the curtained doorway into the shop.

"You!" Milo said. "You can't be here!"

"Ahoy, grandpa," Silas said. He was standing by the photograph of the Woronoco, his eyes blazing with emotion, his hands balled into fists, his knuckles bloody. Milo could see the glass top to the display case holding the scrimshaw was broken. 

"How did you - " Milo said.

"Return to the scene of the crime? Escape the cursed Woronoco? Come back from the dead? Don't you know?" Silas asked with a grin. "Magic! That's what you call it, don't you?"

"Why are you here? What do you want?" Milo asked.

"Well," Silas said. "Revenge for one thing. You did try to kill me, so, you know, it's kind of personal. But thinking big picture for just a minute; I'm here for justice. You're a very bad man, grandpa. A murderer. A serial killer. A sociopath."

"They were the bad men, not me! They're killing the planet. They got what they deserved," Milo said.

"You know who says things like that? A sociopath," Silas said. "And what about me? Did I get what I deserved? Am I a bad person?"

"You were going to stop me," Milo said. "I couldn't let that happen."

"But I am going to stop you," Silas said. He tossed the object he'd held clasped in right hand to Milo who reflexively caught it.

"Welcome aboard," Silas said as Milo opened his hands and saw it was a piece of scrimshaw.

The photograph had changed again. The ship's captain looked different; he was taller, grayer, with a neatly trimmed mustache, wearing metal framed glasses. His name was no longer Milosz Voda. It now read Milo Waters.