The Bike Cop

Excerpts from The Bike Cop Chapter 1 In the good old days in this small Maine seaport, it was safe for a kid of eleven years of age to leave a note to his parents saying that he had gone fishing at five in the morning; and the parents, three hours later, would only smile upon his industriousness, and perhaps look at the tide chart to see if their boy was wise as well. In the good old days being a kid alone and riding bikes, fishing, or skipping stones across the water at the beach was normal. No one could know that this day was one of the last of the good old days in Port Talbot. `The Port', as most fondly referred to it, had lobsters, fish; and in the summer, tourists who were attracted to its coastal village charm. Striped bass, the size of bed-pillows, also came to visit. They came in from the depths of the ocean to feed up the creeks and estuaries on the falling tide in the warmer months; creating almost unnatural possibilities of landing huge fish out of small creeks. The stripers, like the young fisherman after them on this early morning, were also wise and industrious. The morsels that these monsters fed on could not withstand the pull of the outgoing tide that occurs over a six hour period in this part of the Northern hemisphere. By proper timing and swimming against the current, the bass were richly fattened. ******* He mounted his twelve foot fiberglass skiff, which had the name `The Seahorse' emblazoned on its transom. Observing the starting protocols: gas valve on, air valve open; lever to start, and yanking the pull rope with the black rubber handle, he was off. ******* The line got fouled. Dang! Thought Digger... that was his best Rebel lure. He looked at his position in this estuary: Twenty feet off the rocks, up a river tributary. Hidden from the port's activity; a perfect spot for his hunt. At this crook in the creek, he could see the cupola of the Brigantine Hotel and not much else of civilization. It was amazing really that the grand hotels over flow parking lot bordered this part of the tidal creek. In another decade it would be taxed as prime waterfront and ogled. For now it was simply a gravel parking lot with a great view at high tide. He pulled again on the rod. ***** His boat now directly over the fishing line's point of entry; it was time to put down the rod and revert to the ancient fishing technique of pulling in the line hand over hand. Digger's tender fingers were being creased and burned as the line seemed to slowly coming back to him. Even at 11years of age Digger knew when a 30 pound test line would snap. He wisely played the line. Just under its breaking point… “Yes!” it was coming up. It was dead weight. Hauling slowly he realized this was not a clump of seaweed. Digger knew instinctively now he was not dealing with that headache. Was it a trap? A lobster trap... couldn't be, he thought, No, not up a tidal creek...and that would not be slowly rising as this load seemed to be… His first glimpse revealed a white mass of cloth with schools of fish darting hither and yon as the mass slowly surfaced. He thought he had hooked a sail or a tarp ... “What the heck?” he thought aloud. As the hook tugged at this mass of white cloth near the surface, Digger first recognized buttons. As if on a white coat…double breasted no less; and then the mass rolled; as if through some act of inexplicable sea-physics. The mass had tattered flesh caused by the feeding of the multitude of swirling fish; like what Digger remembered of seeing a partially decomposed seal. The scene wasn't particularly new to Digger as a young fisherman. But in an instant the sight of flesh bound tightly by a shimmering silver wrist-watch threw Digger off the bench seat of the boat on to the deck. Digger's mind flooded immediately with the realization that this was not a seal, or a fish. This was a body of a half-eaten human. He had to think clearly about on how to handle his haul. He did not realize it then, but his discovery was something that would forever rock the safety and naiveté of his youth in the good old days of the Port. It would follow him for his entire life, as time would tell. ****** Chapter 5 In fact, Digger's life from all accounts was a charmed existence. Bouncing between his family's winter residence on Lake Placid in upstate New York and the summer home in Port Talbot in Maine, it may have not been quite jet-setting, but certainly fortunate. **** As Digger grew older, his skiff, The Seahorse, and the knock-about-sail boats were traded in for bigger and faster boats and the need for cash to finance the higher level of fun. The Davenport motto was: “Get a trade... always get paid!” Thus, Digger was encouraged to get summer jobs early-on, even though many of his summer friends did not. The whole thing about getting a good summer job was applying early and, of course, getting out of school or college earlier than any other competing students. This is what the tee-shirt shops, restaurants, hotels, and marinas looked for in a tourist town. Chief Nickerson of the Port Talbot Police Department was no different in trying to staff his summer police force. The fact that Digger could start earlier than anybody was a key factor indicated on his typed job application, but so too was his listing of the curriculum at college, which was clearly devoted to criminal justice, a key factor. The Chief had also received a call from the Town Supervisor, Tom Bradford, reminding the Chief of how important the summer folk were to their livelihoods and that hiring one of their kids might be a nice gesture since they had just re-assessed the waterfront properties to fund the police department's cruisers and new boat, among other projects. In the Chief's mind Davenport was the best candidate, especially in view of the young man's performance as a witness at the trial for the murder of the Chef from the Brigantine a decade ago.