Free Corkscrew by Ted Wood Page B

both lines closely. The one at the bow had been sealed with heat, the way most nylon lines are sealed after being cut, either with an electric heater at the store or with a match if the owner cuts and reseals it. The stern line was cut, unsealed, and was beginning to unravel slightly. There was about a yard of slack, and I cut the end of the line off, making a knot in the original cut end. If we did find the object the boy had been tied to, the crime laboratory in Toronto would compare the ends of it with this cut. Often plastic material shows the marks of the machine that formed it. Perhaps we would have further evidence to tie this boat to the dead boy.
    My next observation was that the boat had been hot-wired. A bird's nest of wiring was hanging down under the dash, and when I checked further, I found that the wires to the ignition lock had been torn away.
    I stood up again and thought through it all. My next move was fingerprinting. The best way was to impound the boat and take it down to the police station, where I kept my kit. But that meant getting a trailer, and if I did, I might smudge the prints, if any. I decided to spare the ten minutes necessary to fetch my gear. This place was private enough to do my printing, and if I found anything, I could cover it with clear tape before moving the boat. I brought Sam to heel and fussed him, thanking him for his work. He wagged his tail and lolled his tongue out happily. Then I went back up the dock, taking out my notebook, where I keep a couple of found property tags. I wrote on one, "Do not touch the cruiser at the dock. Will be back in a few minutes, Chief Bennett," and went to the door, where I tied it on the handle.
    The knob was loose in my hand, so I took out my handkerchief and turned the handle gently. The door swung open, and I walked in.
    I called, "Police here. Anybody home?" but nobody answered. It was dark behind the closed drapes over the window, but after a moment I got enough night vision to look around. And what I saw stopped me from moving further. The place had been vandalized. Flour was dusted everywhere. Plates and cups were broken underfoot, and ketchup and mustard and jam had been hurled against the walls. Instinctively I glanced down at the flour all over the floor. I was right. There was a footprint in the flour, and I stooped to look at it more closely. It was the mark of a boot, with a horseshoe-shaped steel cleat around the heel. A biker's boot.
     

     

     
    Chapter Seven
     
    I felt like a cat in a basement full of mice. No murder I'd ever investigated had thrown so many clues at me so fast. I didn't know what to do first. Obviously, I had to print the cruiser. The boy had been in it at some time over the last couple of days, and he hadn't sat down on the seat. He had been on the deck, which probably meant he had been in it today, already dead. That meant his killer's fingerprints might be on it, too, along with those of the Corbetts and whoever else had used it.
    But the debris in the cottage was another lead. Somebody had vandalized the place. It looked like bikers, judging from that heelprint. And if it had been, the chances were excellent that the kid had been here with them and that one of them had killed him. I had no proof, but when facts pile up this high around you, any policeman has to believe they're connected.
    I stood for a moment, thinking hard. There was nothing else for it. I had to call in the OPP Criminal Investigation branch. They come to the aid of places like Murphy's Harbour when the load of investigation gets too heavy for the staff of the local department to handle. A couple of years ago I would have resisted calling them. But the people in town knew I was doing a good job. I had nothing to fear anymore from some councilor arguing that the OPP should take over the town's police coverage completely.
    I went outside, backing up carefully so that I stepped in my own bootprints going out, not disturbing anything more. Sam was