FINAL with cover.pdf

The Dead Came Knocking
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Book Cover
Painting by Susan Mains – Grenada (used with permission)
Cover Design by Lindsay Heider Diamond - USA
The Dead Came Knocking © Copyright <<2023>> Ib Meyer
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are
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In Memory of Per Høvik Meyer
Beloved Father,
Traveler,
Merchant Mariner

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“Accept the things to which fate binds you,
and love the people with whom fate brings
you together,
but do so with all your heart.”
Marcus Aurelius

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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 6
CHAPTER 2 10
CHAPTER 4 21
CHAPTER 6 32
CHAPTER 7 39
CHAPTER 8 49
CHAPTER 9 59
CHAPTER 10 66

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CHAPTER 11 72
CHAPTER 12 85
CHAPTER 13 107
CHAPTER 14 116
CHAPTER 15 131
CHAPTER 16 145
CHAPTER 17 159
CHAPTER 18 165
CHAPTER 19 179
CHAPTER 20 195
CHAPTER 21 199
CHAPTER 22 204
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 209

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CHAPTER 1
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocking on the portside hull of my yacht
had finally gotten on my last nerve.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock..
I op ened my eyes. The slight and dispersed first
orange rays of pre-dawn sunlight were coming
through my open bow hatch.
Knock.
Knock.
I slipped off the bunk, padded naked on my bare
feet through the cabin, up the companionway to the
cockpit and reached out to unclip my swim shorts
from the lifelines. While I was doing this, I wished I
had stopped in the galley first to make coffee, as was
my habit.

7
Too late now, Sten. Just check it out first.
I slipped the swim shorts on, hopped out onto
the side deck, and grappled my way forward to see
what had woken me up.
I approached the bow and saw my lines, still taut
and securely attached to the mooring. Nothing had
moved. Everything looked okay.
I worked my way forward and then over the
edge of the deck to peer down below.
Naked feet and legs were gently swaying in the
water.
I leaned over further, and I saw it. A body. A
woman’s body. Her head, still rhythmically knocking
against the hull of my boat with the current.
The body was mostly unclothed; red
undergarments still intact and a red dress gathered
around her waist. A long piece of it was snagged on
the mooring ball line. She was face down, her red and
black hair extensions splayed out in the water like a
veil. Her head was rhythmically knocking on the hull.
I slowly brought myself up to a sitting position
leaning up against the stanchion and I sighed. The
gentle lapping of the waves on my hull, punctuated
with the dampened knock was almost musical.

8
There was a gentle hum as the cool morning
breeze blew through my lines and a soft whirring
sound in the wind vane on a neighboring yacht. The
pounding of my heart was my only company as I
decided what to do.
As a child growing up in Africa and former
sergeant of a Sheriff's Office in Colorado, still serving
in the reserves, I was no stranger to death and not
shocked by it. I am, however, saddened by death,
especially unexpected and violent deaths. My many
encounters with death over the years taught me to
think, not emote, when presented with life’s finality.
Emotions simply get in the way.
Standing up, I stepped over the lifelines and
jumped into the water. In my mind, I knew she was
dead. She had been knocking on the hull for at least
thirty minutes, but I needed to be sure. I took a couple
of strokes toward her and cupped her neck with my
left hand as I treaded water and checked for a pulse.
She was cold to the touch and had no pulse. I gently
rolled her head to face me and lightly pushed back her
eyelid. Her eye was opaque. There was no doubt now;
she was dead. I let her head gently roll back into the
water.
The dress came away from the mooring ball line
as I pulled on it. Suddenly she was floating free. I
grasped her arm and slowly guided her to the stern of

9
the yacht while she bobbed up and down with the
waves.
Leaving her to float was not an option, but there
was no way I could get her into my yacht by myself. I
decided to tie the piece of dress that had been
attached to the bridle to the stern ladder and quickly
climbed on board. The horseshoe life-preserver was
within reach. I removed it from its holder, attached
the end of the line to a rear port cleat and let out the
line. I went back down the ladder into the water and
carefully placed it around her chest, just under her
arms. After ensuring she was secure, I climbed back
up the ladder and took in the slack on the line to keep
her close to the back of the vessel.
How messed up is this? The first time I use my life-
preserver is for the dead.

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CHAPTER 2
I had been on this mooring ball in Prickly Bay,
Grenada, for two weeks, and did not know the
surroundings very well yet.
Think, Sten, think. You used to do this for a living.
The Grenada Coast Guard was an easy VHF
radio call away; but a radio call at 0600 hours would
probably result in waking my neighbors up and I
didn’t care to have a number of eyes, nor phone
cameras on me. Neither was I fond of the thought of
having a well-intentioned neighbor coming over in a
dinghy to help. No. The lady in the water deserved
dignity. Everyone does. No radio call today. It would
have to be a phone call to the police station.
Hurrying down the steps to the cabin, I went to
the chart table and unplugged my phone from the
charger to search online for the number of The Royal

11
Grenada Police Force. It was a quick search; I dialed
the number. Moments later I heard, “Good day. This
is Constable Benoit speaking.”
“Good morning. My name is Sten Dahl and I’m
calling from the sailing vessel NÅDE (“Noe-deh”). I
am anchored in Prickly Bay and I’m calling to report
the dead body of a young lady floating in the water
beside my boat.”
“Hello… Excuse… Did you say a dead body?”
“Yes, the dead body of a young woman. I’m a
police officer from the United States. I don’t have
much equipment on hand but I checked her pulse,
and she is dead. I tried to pull her out of the water but
she’s too heavy for me to bring her aboard my boat.
If you could, please send assistance right away.”
“Okay. Please repeat your name and spell it for
me.”
“My name is Sten. S-T-E-N. Last name is Dahl.
D-A-H-L. My yacht is in the middle of the bay so the
Constables will need water transport. The name of my
yacht is N..A..D..E. I’m flying an American flag at the
back of my white thirty-foot yacht. I have a blue sail
bag and a blue cover over my cockpit. I’ll hoist a white
flag with a red X on it. Since the Marina is still closed,
I’ll take my dinghy to the dock and pick the constables
up. I’ll be standing next to a gray dinghy. I am a
Caucasian male, 5” 11” tall, bald, approximately 175

12
pounds, blue eyes, full beard, and I’ll be wearing blue
shorts and a gray shirt.”
“OK. Thank you very much sir. Please give me
your telephone number.”
I had to repeat the phone number a couple
times, but the constable knew her job and took down
the rest of the information, which she double checked
by repeating it back. She hung up with the promise
that she would call me back directly and she did.
While all this calling was going on, and all the
information was being exchanged, I was looking
down at the body of a young woman, the beads of
water glistening on her dark brown body in the new
morning light, on a day that she would never live. Her
time of grace – her nåde – brutally cut short.

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CHAPTER 3
I slipped on a gray t-shirt, dinghied over to the
dock and tied up and waited for the police to arrive. I
brought my binoculars to keep an eye on the body. I
don’t know why I needed to. She was secured to the
boat by the life-preserver, so she wasn’t going to float
away. She didn’t need me keeping an eye on her, but
even though her time for help had come and gone,
the least I could do was afford her the dignity that her
killer had not. I made sure she was not alone.
About twenty minutes later a white police sedan
drove up to the dock with lights flashing. Three
uniformed constables got out of the vehicle: two
males and one female. They each retrieved a bag from
the trunk of the vehicle and started walking down the
dock towards me. I saw their gestures and heard faint
voices as they pointed in my direction. I could imagine
the conversation they were having as I’d been in their
position before.

14
“Good morning. Are you Mr. Sten Dahl?” asked
the female. I noticed she wore sergeant stripes.
“Yes, I’m Sten. I’m the one that called this in.
Thank you for coming.”
“My name is Detective Sergeant Nelson, this is
PC Jones and Corporal Francis.”
We all shook hands. “This is my dinghy,” I said,
turning and holding my hand out toward the small
boat. “It’s only meant for three people, so we’ll need
to place two people on each side and balance
carefully. I’ll get in first then please hand me your
bags. Come aboard, one at a time and hold her
steady.”
I took my sandals off, threw them in first then
stepped into the dinghy and sat down by the engine,
which I promptly started. They passed their bags
which I stowed away and Sergeant Nelson released
the line from the dock cleat and maintained control.
She knelt down holding the dinghy steady against the
dock and instructed Constable Jones to board first
and take a seat next to me on the starboard side.
Corporal Francis boarded next and sat directly
opposite Constable Jones then, with what looked like
practiced ease, Sergeant Nelson pushed us from the
dock while sliding on board and positioned herself
opposite me.

15
My boat and dinghy were new, so our slow
motoring back to the yacht was not too noisy. I was
thankful for the engine being quiet. I looked around
as we motored. People were beginning to come up
out of their cabins in the yachts and catamarans
moored and anchored in the bay, but no one took
particular notice of us. Shadows glided up and down,
in and out – silent – disturbed only by the lone dinghy,
the arrowhead with its wake making a line directly
toward NÅDE and the dead woman at my stern.
I tried to move as slowly as possible to avoid
“rocking the boats” so early in the morning. As I was
steering my brain reminded me how upset it was over
not getting its morning coffee. I concurred with that
sentiment as we approached the body of the young
woman that had come knocking. Coffee would come
soon enough. I hoped so anyway.
As we approached NÅDE, Sergeant Nelson
took her bag and strapped it around her right
shoulder. She had the painter (dinghy line) in her left
hand and was already indicating, without saying a
word, that she would hop on board NÅDE and
secure the dinghy to one of the stern cleats. I nodded
my head, letting her know I understood.
Everyone was looking at the dead body as we
approached. Sergeant Nelson hopped on board, and
while taking up the slack on the line, the two others

16
clambered onboard. They moved over to where the
body was floating in the life-preserver, bobbing up
and down in the wake of the dinghy. I made sure the
dinghy was secure on the cleat and then stepped
aboard. We all stood, quietly, respectfully, looking
down at the almost naked body of the young woman
who was the focus of our attention.
I broke the silence. “Would it help if I described
for you what occurred this morning?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Sten,” said the Sergeant quietly,
“but before you do I need to check the body.”
I nodded in agreement.
Sergeant Nelson put on a pair of gloves and
knelt down as I released the line and slowly dragged
the body towards her. She checked her pulse, opened
one of her eye-lids, and then stated in a slow and quiet
voice, “Yes, she is dead. The time is 0713 hours.”
She stood up and approached her colleagues
while I kept the line taut to keep the body close to the
stern. After a few muttered words of instruction
between them she turned to me.
“Mr. Sten, please tell us everything from the
beginning. Don’t leave anything out. PC Jones here
will be taking notes as you do and recording you using
his cellphone. Corporal Francis will take over securing
the body, taking photographs and making
preparations for its transport.”

17
I recounted the facts in the order I was
accustomed to doing: location, date, time, light,
weather, temperature, description, what actions I had
taken, and so on. While I was doing that Corporal
Francis was on his radio; squelches and loud voices
shattering the otherwise calm and quiet morning,
organizing the pickup of the body with the Coast
Guard. He then busied himself with his phone and
began taking pictures of the body.
By this time, more and more occupants in the
bay were appearing on their decks to try and see what
was going on. Eyes were on us from all around. After
I completed my explanation Corporal Francis took
pictures of the boat, the pendant and lines, and of me.
I willingly allowed them to take pictures of my hands
and the inside of my yacht. I had nothing to hide and
I knew what needed to be done.
While Corporal Francis was taking pictures
inside, his radio ripped through the silence like an
explosion. It startled all of us. The Coast Guard was
minutes away. I had suggested to Sergeant Nelson
that it might be best if we take the victim out of the
water and place her on my transom. It would be much
easier to lift her from there, onto my side deck, and
then into the Coast Guard cruiser. She nodded okay.
By the time the Coast Guard cruiser came alongside

18
we had the body of the victim on the transom and
inside a body bag.
She was young. Even in death her relaxed face
revealed her beauty. She had silver chain earrings an
inch long and a simple silver cross, also about an inch,
on a chain that hung low between her full breasts. The
silver accentuated her smooth dark skin. She wore a
simple silver band on her left middle finger and a plain
silver bangle on each wrist. There was no bruising that
could be seen in the early morning light, even assisted
by a LED flashlight. No lacerations. No contusions.
Her undergarments were still intact, but her dress was
torn at the top right-hand shoulder of the thin
polyester, sleeveless fitted garment that went to just
above her knees. The dress had been pulled down
from her shoulders to around her slender waist.
Sergeant Nelson had taken all of this in and
spoken it out loud as Constable Jones recorded and
made notes. Corporal Francis continued taking
pictures. Using an evidence ruler he quickly
photographed all of her jewelry while she was still
wearing it and then removed and bagged it. All of this
was done in a hushed, thoughtful and respectful
manner as the world of Prickly Bay looked on.
Once the coast guard arrived, the decision was
made to move the body and chaos ensued. I took a
few steps back and watched. There were lengthy

19
discussions between the coast guard officers and
those on board my boat on how best to make the
transfer, who was going to do it and so much more.
Voices were raised. Hands were flying up and down
like Frigate birds. Sergeant Nelson suddenly moved
forward, squatted down and began to lift the lifeless
body.
Suddenly there was frenetic activity as everyone
surged forward to help. Moments later, the body of
the victim was in the stern of the Coast Guard cruiser.
She looked as though she was going out to sea for
burial.
“Thanks be to God,” I said aloud while turning
away from looking at the shrouded body to Sergeant
Nelson.
“I have done this before you know: Investigated
deaths. I won’t tell you how to do your job but I will
say that I am here to offer any help I can. I know that
you’ll have to leave with the body now and there'll be
a ton of paperwork to do, but if you need help in the
future – I’m at your service and so is my dinghy.” I
handed her a piece of paper with my contact details.
She looked at me, and I at her, as though we
were looking at each other for the first time. She was
about 5’ 7” and had a feminine figure, oval face,
generous lips and smooth creamy dark brown skin.
Her uniform was neat and pressed. Her cap was

20
covering the top portion of her face so her eyes
looked piercing and intense in the shade of the
glowing sun. Her cheeks were high and when she
smiled, her face transformed. She was smiling now.
“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Sten. Lord
willing, I hope we won’t, but if we need assistance, I’ll
be sure to get in touch. As you said, there is much to
do. I’ll be going now. I appreciate your time and all
that you’ve done. If I have any questions, I’ll give you
a call.”
She held up the piece of paper, her lips formed
in a pleasant, curved smile. “Have a blessed day.”
With that, she placed the paper in her left breast
pocket and turned and hoisted herself, with the
support of a couple Coast Guard personnel, over into
the waiting boat which promptly sped off, once again,
rocking the boats in the bay.

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CHAPTER 4
I stood looking at the Coast Guard cruiser as it
dropped off Constable Jones at the dock with all the
bags then disappeared off back to base. He hurriedly
placed them back into the trunk of the police sedan
and sped off – lights flashing. I sat down in the
cockpit, tired. I had a sheen of sweat on me already
from being out in the sun and my mind was taking in
the silence as the breeze continued to gently blow,
cooling me off as I sat in the shade of my cockpit.
Coffee – my morning drink of choice. I needed
some. I went down to the cabin and got my stainless-
steel percolator out. Water – Fire – Coffee. In a short
period of time the scent of my favorite brew was
wafting through the cabin. The pour. The first close-
up smell. The first sip. I went back up top with my
heavy bottomed, stainless-steel mug of steaming
coffee.

22
Well. It’s not like I had firm plans.
The young woman’s body kept coming back to
mind, gently rocking with the waves..
I wonder who she was, what her name was and
what happened to her?
There is a proverb of the Chewa people in South
Central Africa - Mlandu suola. The translation is; A case
to answer does not rot. When an evil thing happens or an
injustice occurs, the need for justice does not rot, fall
apart and go away. It is not forgotten. No, eventually,
justice will prevail.
I needed answers and I felt my muscle memory
and brain engage like I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
I needed to seek justice.
I looked at my left hand and stared at my
wedding band, my coffee still steaming in the cup in
my right hand. These hands will never again hold the
body of the person who wore the pair to this ring.
That other ring is buried, underground, in a container
in the beautiful high plains of the Colorado Rockies.
The life that wore the pair to my ring – her time of
grace ended too soon as well.
The nameless young lady who came knocking on
my boat, did not have peace at the end of her life. Her
family will not have peace but at least I can try and

23
help them find out what happened. I’m good at that.
At least… I used to be.
The investigator in me surfaced. My thoughts
went to options, solutions, and possibilities. I was in
a foreign land with no police power. This was
definitely limiting but workable because I had no one
to report to. Also, I had time on my hands, lots of
time.
Most investigations into any unexplained death
begin with interviews. This would be no different. As
I looked around I determined a course of action. The
yachts moored and anchored closest to the dock
would know the most about the comings and goings
of dinghies. The ones closest to the shoreline would
be more aware of things that occurred on shore. In an
instant I decided how I could give myself a head start
and bring some of this information directly to me.
I picked up my cell phone and called Elisa.
Originally from Germany, Elisa and her Canadian
husband had been moored in Prickly Bay for years.
She was the de facto director of the social life that
floated in Prickly Bay. She kept the sailing community
informed and inline via her ‘Cruisers net’ daily VHF
broadcast.
“Good morning Elisa. This is Sten of SV
NÅDE. Firstly, thank you for all the information I
received from you last week. It was most helpful”

24
“Good morning Sten” came the reply “No
problem. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I imagine people have seen some activity
over here and I wanted to let you, and everyone else,
know what’s going on.”
“Yes,” said Elisa. “I have been receiving
messages and emails in the last hour asking me if I
knew what was going on.”
“Well, I was woken up this morning by a
knocking on the hull of my boat. I went to check it
out and found the body of a young woman so I called
the police.”
“Was the woman from one of the yachts?” she
asked, shock in her voice.
“That’s not clear at this stage, but my guess is
she was local.” I replied. “In any event, I wanted to
share my contact details in case anyone saw or heard
anything last night that might be helpful. As you know
I was a police sergeant in the USA and I want to help
the police however I can.”
I decided, after my breakfast of coffee and water,
it would be a good idea to rinse off the transom then
take a quick shower and get ready to go visit some
yachts. I also wanted to speak to the dockmaster and
get his insight about the currents and where the body
might have come from. It wasn’t long before I heard

25
Elisa on her morning broadcast, giving everyone the
news.
By my third and final cup of coffee, my phone
was sounding off every five minutes. Sure enough,
emails were coming in from neighboring yachts. Elisa
had done her magic.

26
CHAPTER 5
I began to read through them. Of the eleven
emails I received, only three had anything of interest;
SV Gone With The Wind, SV Too Fun and SV Corona Del
Mar. Using my binoculars, I was able to locate these
vessels and see their names on their transoms. All
three were anchored or moored in front of me, close
to shore and the dock at Prickly Bay.
I decided to conduct my interviews from North
to South. SV Gone With The Wind was not only close
to shore but was also relatively close to the dock and,
since they had responded to the yacht net radio call
with an email, I felt perfectly comfortable
approaching them. The dinghy ride over was short
and I honed my thoughts on how to approach the
interview. It had been at least a year since I had done
one.
As I approached the catamaran I made a full
circle around her, waved at the two occupants

27
standing in the cockpit, and while doing so, looking
for anything out of place. Nothing struck me as off.
She was a relatively new model Fountaine Pajot Helia
44 catamaran and very well cared for. I finally came in
along-side her stern and hailed her.
“Good morning. My name is Sten. I am from the
NÅDE anchored behind you. I got your email a little
while ago. Permission to come aboard?” I looked into
the eyes of the man and woman; they were sun
weathered, gray haired, and smiling.
“Absolutely young man,” said the female of the
two in a musical Southern Belle accent. You cannot
help but smile when you hear that lilting ethereal voice
of a Southern gentlewoman. The man stepped down
to help me as I maneuvered my dinghy to their stern.
“Welcome aboard,” said the man as he expertly
tied off my line on a cleat that showed a lot of
experience and proceeded to offer his hand to help
me on board.
The woman came down to stand alongside the
man and said, “Sten, wasn’t it? Welcome to our home.
My name is Patsy Williams, and this is my husband
Donald Williams, but everyone calls him Donny.”
We were just having breakfast when Elisa’s
broadcast came over the yacht net. We couldn’t
believe it. Of all places for there to be a death like this
– Grenada is definitely not the place that I thought

28
that this would’ve happened. Anyway, Donny and I
spoke, and we think that we heard something last
night, so that’s why I wrote to you. You will be staying
for food so just take a seat.”
I smiled. On a southerner’s yacht, I knew that I
was going to eat a full breakfast, drink more coffee
and be given an overflow of information. Patsy did all
the talking. Donny smiled and nodded his head and
with their permission, I began recording the
conversation using my cellphone.
“Well Sten, Donny and I were invited for
Thanksgiving yesterday just over there. You see that
Catamaran,” said Sally, pointing to the next boat
down off the starboard side. “That is the SV Too Fun.
The owners are Sally and John Martin. Donny here
has been pestering me for a good turkey dinner and
Sally really knows how to cook a real American
Thanksgiving meal.”
“We ate a late lunch, talked and drank for pretty
much the entire afternoon and evening. Donny, bless
his heart, didn’t drink that much because he had to
dinghy us back over before dark. I will admit we were
all comatose from turkey and stuffing.”
“Do you want some more eggs? How about
some more sausages? I have extra of both,” said Patsy
as she leaned over and dished my plate full of eggs, a

29
couple sausages and then some coffee before I could
answer.
“Sure, great. I appreciate that,” I said. I was
feeling full just looking at it.
Both Patsy and Donny seemed relaxed and at
home; Patsy was doing all the talking and moving
plates around and serving while Donny sat quietly and
listened.
“Well now, you didn’t come over here just to
talk about food,” Patsy said. “We got back just before
dark, so it was about 1820ish hours. Sorry about the
military time. Donny here was in the Navy. We were
quite tired, so we just put on the AC and went straight
to bed. At about 2230 hours I woke up to use the head
and my moving around woke Donny up. He is such a
light sleeper. Another holdover from his time in the
Navy.
“After I finished, Donny used the head. I
decided that I was a little hungry and needed some
food to nibble on, so I went up to the galley. I got
some cheese, sausage, olives, and a little wine out and
put it on the table in the cockpit. It was a gorgeous
night out.
“As I said, we were sitting around the table,
enjoying the breeze, looking at the stars, and eating
some snacks when we heard it.”
My ears pricked. “What did you hear?” I asked.

30
“We heard screaming and shouting from the
shore, from the area of the Marina,” said Patsy. I
mean a woman was screaming and shouting. She
sounded mad, real mad. We also heard what sounded
like a male voice too, but it wasn’t very loud at all.
Either way, we couldn’t understand anything being
said. You know, the voices were distant and they talk
so fast here our old ears just can’t keep up. But, there
was no doubt that the woman sounded angry.”
The whole time Patsy was talking, Donny just
smiled, nodded his head and kept my coffee cup filled
and food on my plate.
Pasty continued. “Another holdover from the
Navy is that Donny is an excellent cook. I was in
banking. When it comes to a good breakfast, he’s the
expert. We’ve been sailing the Windward Islands since
he retired. We bought Gone With The Wind, and well,
we went with the wind.” She kept on smiling and
talking at an astonishing rate.
“To be honest we didn’t think much of the
yelling. We’ve heard lots of people yelling in our time,
not only when we were in the Navy, but also in the
sailing that we have done. We didn’t pay any attention
until we heard Elisa this morning. Poor girl. I hope
the police find out who did it.”
After getting a few more details down, I thanked
Patsy and Donny for their information and then

31
tapped my cell phone to stop recording. It was a good
interview. The breakfast was excellent, and they were
earnest in offering to have me back again. My
stomach definitely agreed with that.

32
CHAPTER 6
After saying my goodbyes to Patsy and Donny,
I dinghied over to Sally and John Martin on the SV
Too Fun. I made a full circle around their catamaran
too, a similar but newer model to Gone With The Wind.
I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Everything seemed
to be in its place. As I approached, an older man and
woman, both smiling, came down to the stern as
though they had been waiting for me.
“Good morning. My name is Sten and I—”
“We know who you are, young man, and why
you are here. Come aboard. Hand me that line and I’ll
tie you off and help you out,” said John who just kept
on talking.
“As soon as I heard the news on the net this
morning, I called Donny. This is the most bizarre
thing that’s happened in the 6 years we have been
cruising. Come on up. There you go. Can I call you
Sten?” I nodded in reply and was about to his hand

33
when he interrupted himself, “I’m John and this is my
wife, Sally. I’m sure Donny fed you, but can we get
you some coffee?”
John was dressed in aquamarine swim shorts and
a bright yellow tank top. I’d not seen an ensemble like
that before.
At this point I was able to sneak in a few words.
“Thanks for allowing me aboard your vessel. To
answer your question, John, yes; I’d love some coffee
and some water too please.”
“Good. Well, come on up to the cockpit, Sten,
and out of the sun. We’ll sit at the table, and you can
ask us whatever you want,” said John.
The sun was brightening as it rose, and it was
being reflected in earnest on the water and other
vessels around. The easterly winds were steady and
cooling, and the clouds were high and wispy. It was
another perfect day in the paradise called Grenada.
As I made my way up to the waiting table and
the next interview, I looked around and saw a well
decked out and homely space.
Sally was wearing a thin light yellow linen
sundress which emphasized her tan. She came to the
table and sat down next to John. John kept on talking
and I was having a hard time placing his accent.
“This situation is totally out of the ordinary. I’ve
been coming down to Grenada chartering catamarans

34
for years, and never have I heard of something like
this. Quite shocking really. We’re from Wyoming in
case you were wondering. I had a medical practice
there but I’m retired now. Coming to Grenada and
sailing was our winter therapy, and now we get to
enjoy our therapy every day. Sorry, Sally tells me I like
to talk too much and never give anyone else a chance
to say anything.”
John paused, as though offering me an
opportunity to speak but as I was about to speak, he
continued.
“As I wrote in the email, since we’ve been here,
the shoreline has been pretty consistent in terms of
lights.” He pointed towards the shore in the distance
past the bow of the boat, “Most of these houses in
front of us have been vacant, probably due to the
COVID-19 pandemic and travel restrictions. We have
really enjoyed the relative peace and quiet.”
“Last night, however, we noticed lights in the
lower part of the large home directly in-front of us. I
told Sally I was happy to see a little life was coming
back. Sally, what time was that at?”
Sally looked at me and said, “It was about 9pm.
I was messaging my sister, that's why I remember. We
always talk at the same time. We went to bed maybe a
half hour later. We put the AC on, watched some TV

35
and then went to sleep. We are early to bed, early to
rise kind of people.”
“So, you say that the lights came on at 9pm or
that you noticed them at about 9pm?” I asked.
John spoke up “I would say I noticed them at
about 9pm. We’d eaten a huge Thanksgiving meal
with Donny and Patsy and we’d dozed off up here
after they left. We woke up before dark, cleaned up
the galley and then I settled into some reading. I still
read medical journals to stay current. Sally had been
calling the kids – we have two of them and one
granddaughter – and then she called her sister. While
she was on the phone I noticed the lights on. So, short
answer – I don’t know. They could have been on
before I noticed them.”
While John was talking, Sally headed into the
saloon. I heard a grinding sound and smelled fresh
coffee brewing. A few minutes later Sally came out
with the water and coffee served in China cups. The
coffee was nutty with a hint of caramel, earthy, full
bodied and expertly brewed. Sally really knew what
she was doing. She smiled.
“Sally, this is divine.” I looked at John. “You are
a lucky man.”
Without missing a heartbeat Sally said, “Yes he
is.” She had a mischievous glint in her eye, and John
looked at her smiling.

36
“Yes, I am,” he said. “I truly am. Sally’s put up
with me for almost forty years. How about you, Sten.
How long have you been married?” He nodded
toward the ring on my left hand.
“I was married for four years.” There was
silence.
“You used the past tense Sten,” John said,
raising an eyebrow.
“She was killed by a drunk driver in a car
accident a little over a year ago.”
Since the accident, I have heard so many
responses to those words ranging from, “Sorry for
your loss,” to stunned silence. John’s response was
different. He reached out, grabbed my right hand with
his and patted the top of it gently with his left. Sally
stood behind me placing her hands on my shoulders
and slowly began to gently knead them.
There was no need for words because they had
spoken so clearly and gently in their actions. I
squeezed his hand in return.
John released my hand and Sally stopped
kneading my shoulders and came around and sat next
to John.
“Well, we need to have you over for a good meal
soon, Sten. Sally is a chef...” Sally shook her head
“…yes you are, Sally,” “She might not be certified,
Sten, but she is a chef. She does magic with food. Ask

37
anyone. She can cook, bake, you name it. Foods from
all over the world as well as her own creations. If you
are here for Christmas, you WILL be joining us, even
if I have to dinghy over and get you. I’ll ask Donny to
help me. He’s quiet, but he’s done a lot in his life,
much of it he can’t speak about. Between the two of
us, you wouldn’t have a chance!” He said, smiling.
They were both smiling.
I smiled back, grateful for everything, but
especially for another stitch in the gash of loss. There
had been a number of stitches since that horrible day.
This, though, was unexpected. A cleaning and further
healing of a wound to my soul that had left an
enduring mark on my very essence and who I am as a
person.
We talked for about an hour about all sorts of
things from boats to sailing passages, experiences, and
advice – it seemed like ten minutes. I was so relaxed
and at peace. It was like being at the dinner table with
my family. I was able to be myself, no facades, no
pretensions. I hadn’t felt this in months. I hadn’t
realized how much I missed moments like this, how
much I missed family.
I sadly had to move on to the next interview;
however, I did so knowing that I would be back, and
soon. Sally told me that while John and I were talking
she had sent me some good flavorful African and

38
Asian recipes that were easy to prepare onboard a
boat. I gave her a long hug and a whispered thank you.
I gripped John’s hand with both of mine and looked
him in the eye. He simply said, “See you soon son.”
I nodded and shook his hand.

39
CHAPTER 7
I headed further down the bay toward the Corona
Del Mar. It was late morning now, and traffic in the
bay was picking up, as was the heat, the wind, and the
intensity of the sun. I looked at my watch – 1047
hours. I had already had my fill of coffee for the day.
I needed to increase my water intake. I also had this
feeling that I was going to hear from Sergeant Nelson
soon. “Well, my cellphone is on. If she calls, she calls.
If not, I’ll give her a call soon.” I muttered. I put it out
of my mind.
The Corona Del Mar looked to be an older style
sloop design of wooden construction. Her hull’s
planking was evident, and she was looking her age.
Her gel coat had spots in it. Her white exterior paint
was weathered and flaking in some sections. Her
woodwork was bleached gray and needed sanding and
varnish. When I was up close, I saw a substantial

40
amount of marine growth on her hull under the
waterline. The sail cover for her main was off white
and spotted with stains. It almost looked like an
ancient shroud.
She looked like she had been in the sea for a
while and needed some tender loving care but she
looked well lived-in. There was laundry clipped to the
lifelines on both sides of the boat around the bow.
The clothes all looked to be for adults, mostly female.
The ladder was on the port side. The stern was
occupied by her cockpit. All the hatches were open. I
did my circumnavigation of the boat. There were
plants growing in the cockpit area, and a makeshift
privacy curtain made of colorful tropical wraps
rippling in the wind. It had a totally different vibe
from the other two. She was flying the French
tricolor. Both of the other boats flew the star-
spangled banner.
The email that I had received from Corona Del
Mar was from Marie. She had said that she had a little
information and that I should come in the late
morning. They were going into town to do some
shopping and should be back by 1000 hours.
I came alongside the port side and cut the
engine. I grabbed the ladder and called out, “Hello.
My name is Sten. Permission to come aboard?” I was
met with silence. I called out again, “Hello. My name

41
is Sten. You emailed me early this morning about
information you might have. Permission to come
aboard?”
Silence except for the wind in the lines and
rigging as well as fluttering in the make-shift privacy
curtain. Not complete silence though. I could hear
some slow beat Electronic Dance Music coming from
below. Then I saw a slender tanned woman in a multi-
colored bikini and shoulder length black hair standing
on the deck looking at me. Her green eyes were
piercing. I looked at her and raised my hand, “Good
morning. My name is Sten from SV NÅDE.” I
pointed to my sloop. “Elisa spoke about the incident
on the net this morning and I received an email from
Marie. May I have permission to come aboard?”
The woman replied in a strong French accent,
“Oui, oui, I am Marie. Come aboard.” She beckoned
me on board and said, “Come here to the cockpit. We
are finishing to put away our things from shopping
then we swim to be cooled off because the day is hot
already.” She turned away and walked back to the
cockpit behind the privacy screen. I grabbed the line
in my left hand, grabbed the ladder with my right hand
and climbed up with the dinghy painter in hand, tying
off when I reached the top.
I stood up, made my way to the stern, and
brushed aside the make-shift privacy curtains to look

42
around. It was crowded. It seemed like they had been
at anchor for a while. There were plants, lights, books
and all sorts of other items cluttering the cockpit. The
table in the center was open and had plates, cups and
other items on it. It was well used. A tablet was open
and upright on the table and the screen was active.
Marie saw me glance at it and said, “I was checking
my emails to see if you had replied.”
“Sorry I did not reply. I thought about it and
decided I would just accept the invitation and show
up. It is such a wonderful day – a good day for a
dinghy ride. Thanks for your email and invitation. Is
now a good time to talk?”
“It is good. I will call the others to come.”
As she moved to go down below I could see
bags of groceries. I saw another young female in a
bikini top with a wrap around her waist and a young
male in swimming shorts going through the grocery
bags and storing everything away. Marie spoke to
them in French as she went down below.The last time
that I had put my mind to understanding French was
in secondary school in Malawi, Africa – a long time
ago. I didn't understand a word.
I sat down in the cockpit, in the shade and
waited for them to finish their conversation.
I was raised by a Norwegian father and spent
years in Sweden and many in Africa with countless

43
European friends. I am well accustomed to the
differences between Americans and Europeans in life,
dress, cuisine, art, culture and sailing. I enjoy the
variety; from the differences in speech to the
differences in tones of skin, shapes of eyes, colors of
irises, styles of hair and dress, social customs, and the
list goes on. The yachting community is in many ways
the epitome of what the United Nations continually
fails to achieve; harmony among a diverse group of
peoples.
The yachts are different, the levels of care and
expense are different, the flags flown and the places
of registration are vastly different from each other.
Despite all of this, there is an undeclared sense of
community; a watchfulness for your neighbor, the
lending of a hand, a line, a tool, and the openness to
socialization with people that you would probably
never have associated with on land. There is a sharing,
a mutual responsibility, and an understanding of what
is acceptable and unacceptable, a closeness, and a
balanced sense of individuality and community that
the likes of the United Nations can only dream about.
The gentle breeze was blowing in my face as I
looked out at the Atlantic. The make-shift privacy
screen behind me gently rippled in the same breeze.
When I turned around to look at it, it reminded me of
the “old fashioned” tubular kaleidoscopes that we

44
played with when I was younger. Colors shifted and
changed. It was a good memory that made me smile.
“Monsieur Sten.” I came out of my reverie.
Marie’s voice came from close by, yet still down below
in the cabin. “Yes, I am here,” I replied.
“Would you like to have some lunch with us?
Jose said that the walk and the shopping has made
him hungry.”
“I would like that very much. Thank you,” I
replied.
“Do you mind that we have red wine, some
bread and cheese and some vegetables for eating?”
Marie asked.
“Not at all. That sounds delicious.” And it did.
Eating, I have found, is the universal language of
friendship. Who am I to decline friendship, especially
when it is healthy, tasty, and free?
“We will be up soon. Thank you for waiting,”
said Marie.
“Not at all. Es un placer.” I thought, since the
vessel’s name was in Spanish, and Jose was a Spanish
name, I would see if Spanish was spoken on board.
Also, since my Spanish was alive but my French was
not, I would make the effort to be friendly as well by
showing respect through effort.

45
“El habla Español,” He speaks Spanish, I heard
Jose say. “Puedes hablar mucho Español Señor
Sten?” Are you fluent in Spanish Sten?
“No. Lo siento. Aprendí Español en México
pero muchos años pasados,” No, Sorry. I learned Spanish
in Mexico but a lot of years ago, I replied.
“Don’t worry,” I heard Jose say. “I probably
speak better English than you speak Spanish or
French. I attended university in Canada.” I then saw
him as he walked up into the cockpit. He had a bowl
of cut vegetables in one hand, and an opened bottle
of red wine in the other. He was a tanned, black
haired, black bearded slim Mediterranean young man
with caramel colored eyes. He was wearing black
swimming shorts, and had tattoos on the upper halves
of his arms and on his chest.
“We have not formally met. My name is Jose.
Welcome aboard Corona Del Mar. Also, thank you
again for waiting. We just had to stow our things
away.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Jose. My name is Sten. It
was no trouble, It was nice just to sit and enjoy the
breeze and the shade. It’s been a busy morning; a lot
has happened.”
He sat down across from me and looked at me.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, the same as
Marie.

46
“We were all shocked to hear what happened
when Elisa reported it on the net. Do you know what
happened and who the person was?” asked Jose.
“At this time, I know nothing. The police left
with the body and they did not recognize her,” I said.
While I was speaking, Marie came up with a platter
with some cheese, meat and sliced bread on it
followed by the young woman I had seen below. She
was tanned with blond hair tied into a bun and a wrap
around her waist. Her hands were filled with plates,
silverware and cups. The blond woman sat next to
Jose, thigh to thigh and Marie sat next to me.
“My name is Olivia” said the woman as she
offered me her hand across the table. I took it and
shook it. It was gentle but firm. She had a stud in her
left nostril and multiple rings and studs in both ears.
Olivia set plates, silverware, and cups in front of
each person. Jose poured the wine, and Marie began
slicing cheese and meat for everyone. “Please eat,
Sten,” Marie said.
I took some bread, cheese, meat, and a few cut
vegetables and began to eat. It was delicious, and the
cool crisp red Pinot was refreshing.
We ate and we talked. We are born on land. We
live on land. We work on land. We build on land.
There usually is some compelling reason why we who
are of the land go to sea. Those reasons make for

47
good stories, and they had some good stories. They
told me how their individual lives intertwined and
how they all decided to go to sea and came to be here.
I then turned the conversation around to the reason I
was there.
“So tell me about last night,” I said.
Marie seemed to be the social leader of the group
and responded for them all.
“We were all in the cockpit last night enjoying a
late dinner. We had candles with covers so that we
could enjoy the stars and not have too much light. It
was different from other nights because there were
some lights on the shore that had not been there
before right over there by that jetty. We saw a light on
it just before midnight and heard shouting as well, but
we could not understand anything. It sounded like a
man and a woman, lasted maybe three to four minutes
and then stopped.”
I asked Jose and Olivia if they agreed with what
Marie said and they concurred. I asked if they had
seen or heard anything else. Nothing.
All three boats basically had corroborating
accounts of lights on in some of the rooms of the
lower level in the home across from Too Fun. This was
the first time these lights had been seen. An unknown
man and woman had argued on the jetty below the
house or close to the marina. The argument was short

48
and occurred between 2330 and 0000 hours. The
argument stopped suddenly with no more talking or
noise heard.
My phone rang suddenly, as though my thoughts
had been heard. I looked at my watch: 1317 hours. It
was a local number I didn’t recognize. I answered it,
saying, “Hello. This is Sten speaking.”
“Mr. Dahl, this is Sergeant Nelson. I require you
to come down to the South St. George police station
please. I have some follow up questions. When this
afternoon will you be able to make it down to the
station?”
“I will be there at 1500 hours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dahl. Inform the desk officer
that you are there to see me and that you have an
appointment. I’ll see you at 1500 hours.” The call
ended.
I saved the number to my contacts and then
looked at my hosts, pointed to my phone and said one
word – “Police.”

49
CHAPTER 8
I dinghied back to NÅDE, took a cooling swim
and then quickly showered, shaved and changed my
clothes. I had decided to walk to the police station and
then possibly, after a little shopping and a meal at a
local restaurant, take a taxi back to the marina. With
my dry bag, hat and walking stick in hand, I got back
on the dinghy and motored to the marina dock.
I waved at the dockmaster, Charles, as I tied my
dinghy off. He was busy overseeing the fueling of a
yacht, but I made a mental note to try and speak with
him later and began my walk, stick in hand, to the
police station. I didn't really need it to walk, not yet
anyway, but it was useful to fend off any canines that
might be having a bad day.
“Sten, stop marching,” I told myself. I hadn’t
realized that I was marching. I was nervous, agitated,
upset and angry all at the same time. I was a suspect
in a case and I was innocent. But, the police were still
about to waste their precious time trying to eliminate

50
me from the suspect list. Mostly though, I was angry
about the senseless death of a young woman.
The police station was like most in the
Caribbean – utilitarian in design yet colorful. This one
was royal blue. There was a flagpole out front along
with a sign designating South St George’s Police
Station and a small garden, if you could call it that, of
decorative shrubs in need of a trim surrounding the
flagpole. Signs on the glass doors stated the latest and
the oldest public service announcements. They were
a mixture of high gloss and faded paper and print –
like some of the programs they represented; high
gloss to begin – faded and unrecognizable and
sometimes irrelevant as time went by.
I entered the Police station through the glass
doors. The reception area was small and rectangular
with a door to the right and another to the left. There
were bench seats to the immediate right and left
against the wall, facing the counter. To the right, was
a bulletin board with mostly worn and bleached
notices – including the faded and outdated COVID
warnings flapping in the breeze of the fan. The sun
bleached everything – even though it was inside.
As I walked in, I was presented with two
constables seated behind a high concrete block
counter facing me. At the counter, a female constable
was on the phone and a male constable was reading

51
something below the counter. There was a senior
officer, in uniform, near a door to the left leading out
of the reception area, speaking to a civilian in a quiet
voice. A young couple, dressed like tourists sat on the
bench to my right. I sat down and listened.
“Yes, madam. I understand that you are upset. I
would be too; however, I cannot criminally charge the
two goats that broke free from their tether and ate
through all your garden. I can do nothing to them. I
can speak and possibly charge the owner, but you’ve
stated that you do not wish to punish the owner, your
neighbor. Therefore, I suggest that you ask your
neighbor to beat the guilty goats or get some of the
meat when one of them is slaughtered,” I heard the
senior officer say to the citizen.
I looked up at the varnished wood slate ceiling
and smiled. The things that police officers had to deal
with and resolve around the world – it was a never-
ending fascinating list.
While looking around some more, I made eye
contact with the male constable who had been
looking and writing something. He nodded his head
at me then he turned to the tourists and beckoned
them to approach. Both of them did. He handed the
female a slip of paper and what looked like an ID and
said, “Here is your three-month driving permit. Have
a good day.” She took it from him, read it, smiled and

52
then they both turned around and exited the reception
area with a nod and smile in my direction. “Sir?,” said
the constable as he beckoned to me.
All this time the female constable was on the
phone. Her voice, tone and decibel level had changed
while I waited. She had slowly become louder, her
eyes rolled upward multiple times, her hand was
thrown out from her side at shoulder height or up
toward the ceiling as she shook her head and her tone
was becoming more angry as the conversation
continued. “Sah. I have said it many times. This is not
a police matter. There is no law against this activity
you are describing….”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I am here to speak
with Sergeant Nelson.”
“Aah, you’re the one who found the body this
morning. Yes, she informed us that you were coming.
Just wait and I’ll call her.” He took out his cellphone
and called. “Yes, Sergeant. The man you are expecting
is here…. Yes…. I will do so.”
“Please go through that door,” he said, pointing
to the door on the, past the senior officer who was
still using all his skill to address the citizens complaint
about the hungry goats. “Then take the first corridor
on the right. Find the second door on the right,
knock, and enter,” he concluded.

53
The floors and walls were concrete. The ceiling
was high with fluorescent lighting. As I looked around
it seemed like only a quarter of the bulbs were
working. The doors were wood and the second one
had a notice on it which read INTERVIEW. This was
going to be interesting. I, a former detective, being
interviewed as a witness (suspect? – hopefully not),
for a serious crime, in a foreign country.
For the first time the seriousness of the situation
hit me. I was so used to being the law, but I was not
the law here. I am possibly a suspect in a homicide in
a foreign country without many of the constitutional
protections that US citizens have that are so often
taken for granted. I began to sweat more.
I knocked, paused, and entered. There was a
wooden table in the center of the small interview
room and two wooden chairs facing each other on
opposite sides of the table. Sergeant Nelson was
standing beside the chair closest to the door and
greeted me.
“Good afternoon Mr. Dahl. Thank you for
being so timely. Please take a seat.” She pointed to the
chair farthest away from the door. As I walked by her
to the chair, I noted the thin file and a cell phone on
the table in front of her chair. I sat down. She was
good. She had done this before. She was looking at
me the whole time, assessing me. She was setting the

54
stage and chose the chair for herself closest to the
door in case she needed to exit quickly.
She waited until I was seated and then sat down.
She picked up her phone, tapped record, then placed
it back down on the table. “The time is 1507 hours on
26 November 2021. Present is Sergeant Nelson of the
RGPF and Mr. Sten Dahl in interview room A. To
begin, Mr. Dahl, this is being recorded and you do not
have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if
you do not mention, when questioned, something
which you later rely on in court. Do you understand
this and do you agree to speak with me?”
Here we go, I thought. There are some things that
are universal – interviews and interrogations are part
of this. Even if you are innocent, you still get the
pucker factor, the nervousness. I grimaced internally
and sighed externally and replied. “I understand the
warning, and I agree to speak with you.”
“The purpose of this interview,” she began, “is
to determine what you know about the cause of the
death of the victim that you say you found in the water
beside your yacht this morning. During this interview
I am most likely going to write down some notes and
the entire interview will be recorded. Also, I strongly
urge you to speak openly, freely, and honestly. Do you
have any questions for me at this time?”

55
She was surprised by my response. “Yes. By the
look of that file there,” I spoke as I pointed to the one
on the table, “You have probably already requested
information from the FBI about me. If my memory
serves me right, you most likely contacted the office
in Barbados and already know that I’m a reserve law
enforcement officer. I actually told one of the
constables that this morning. As such, you know that
I will have investigated multiple crimes and written
many reports. So, you can ask me questions, like you
would any other civilian, or I could give you a detailed
verbal report after which you could ask me clarifying
questions.”
Sergeant Nelson just stared at me for about ten
seconds. Police types all over the world are territorial.
We don’t like power plays unless we are the ones with
the power. I wasn’t sure what my assertion was going
to result in, but I was impressed. She showed no overt
emotion; no anger, frustration, disbelief, nothing.
Then she smiled. A slow and genuine smile that
showed white teeth – a smile that touched the eyes.
“Mr. Dahl,” she said, “not only have I been on the
phone with the FBI in Barbados, I have also been in
touch with a certain Sheriff’s Office in Colorado, USA
and was even granted a rather long conversation with
the Sheriff as well as a few other people in his office,”
she said.

56
“Well, Sergeant Nelson, it seems like you know
quite a lot about me then. However, back to the
question. Do you want me to report on what occurred
this morning or just go through this interview
formality with you?”
Sergeant Nelson continued to smile calmly and
confidently, but it was no longer in her eyes. “Please,
report,” she said.
I obliged. I detailed the date, time, temperature,
wind speed and direction, my actions, observations
and then mentioned that I had done some field
interviews.
Her demeanor changed instantly; the smile
disappeared, the eyebrows went up and she raised her
hand to gently smooth down her hair, front to back.
She folded her hands together on the table, leaned
forward and looked directly at me.
“You did what?” She asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I conducted some field
interviews at a few yachts this morning,” I said. “You
really did that?” she asked. Incredulity written all over
her face.
I nodded again. “Yes. I was there, I know the
yachting community, so I thought I would help. I can
give you a full report on that too if you like.”
Once again, she looked at me for ten long
seconds with a relatively deadpan face then simply

57
said, “Report!” This time, there was a loud urgency in
her voice. She was not happy. Frankly, had the roles
been reversed, I would have been upset too. I sighed.
I delivered my report as thoroughly and as
quickly as I could with a constant back and forth of
clarifying questions and repeated answers. There was
no offer of water, and definitely no smile. Sergeant
Nelson was all business. She was angry.
“So, in summary,” she said, “the only change
that anyone noticed last night was an argument
between an unseen man and woman, on a pier, below
a house that had lights on in the lower level and up
until then had been dark.”
“Yes,” I replied. The smile was wiped from my
face too. I was tired and apologetic. “I understand that
it is not usual for a possible murder suspect to
conduct field visits. In fact, it is frowned upon.
However, as you must already know or at least suspect
– I did not murder the young lady. I have a strong
aversion to injustice, and I have a strong drive to
uphold justice. That’s why I did what I did.”
While I was justifying my actions she looked at
me. We were both tired. “I can understand why you
did what you did Mr. Sten, especially after speaking
with your Sheriff, but I don’t agree with what you did.
“We have concluded here. Please remain in
Grenada until such time as I officially inform you that

58
you may leave. Also, when I say remain in Grenada, I
mean that you will not move your yacht from where
it is currently moored, not even for an afternoon’s sail.
I’d also like you to make yourself available should we
need to follow up.” She picked up her phone, touched
the screen a couple of times and then put it back
down. The interview had ended.
“Yes,” I responded. “I will follow your
directives. “I’ll write up the interviews as soon as I
return and send them to you with my own written
report. Is there an email address I can send them to?”
She stood up, opened the case of her phone,
took out a card and handed it to me. “My email and
phone number are both listed.” She pointed toward
the door. I slowly stood up, nodded my head in her
direction and extended my right hand. She swung her
right hand across her body over to mine and we gave
each other a short firm grip and a single shake. She
was not happy at all.
Sergeant Nelson escorted me all the way to just
outside the glass doors in the front entryway, wished
me a blessed day and went back inside. I was alone
again, outside, with mixed feelings. I was unsettled
because I was powerless to acquire the truth, and I
had no control over how to best exact justice for the
dead. I was frustrated. Yes, I was angry too.

59
CHAPTER 9
I put my dry bag on my back, began spinning my
walking stick and marched back down the road to the
mall where the grocery store was located. My mind
was running through questions; what did the medical
examiner’s report conclude as the cause of death?
Who was I kidding? There was no medical examiner
report yet. Who was the victim? What was she doing
there, if she had been there? What was going on with
the lights at the house that had previously been dark?
Who were the people who had been heard arguing?
Was it just an accident and all these events weren’t
connected at all?
I became aware of my surroundings and realized
that I had overshot the grocery store and was now at
the roundabout near the public park by the beach.
The road was filled with traffic. There was a football
game going on on the community field next to me and
a vendor on the side of the road selling coconut water.

60
The sidewalk was filled with people. I was not paying
any attention to any of this. I knew the questions that
needed answers, but I was powerless to seek the
answers. I was invested yet excluded.
I turned back and headed to the grocery store
which was very crowded. Families, young couples
hanging out, professionals in their business attire or
company uniforms shopping before heading home
for the weekend. The decibel level was high as though
the burden and stress of work and school was being
released and thrown from the body in sound. The taxi
stand was full and waiting for customers. The outdoor
benches were full and shopping carts were scattered
all over the parking lot.
I made my way inside. The remnants of the
COVID pandemic were still evident. The almost
totally scuffed off markers delineating six feet social
distancing. A hand sanitizer station still by the
automatic sliding door, no longer mandatory, and
only the elderly occasionally wearing masks.
These remnants of the twenty-first century
pandemic that changed the world, were visual
reminders of our response to disaster.
I strolled up and down the aisles with my grocery
basket, picking up fresh fruit, meat, and vegetables as
well as some bread and canned goods. The only item
remaining on my list was rum. I was rounding the

61
second to last aisle when I stopped. Patsy and Donny
were standing right in front of the large alcohol
section with a number of other people. I continued
down the aisle toward them and was spotted by
Donny who nodded at me with a hint of a smile on
his face. He leaned toward Patsy and she swiftly
looked my way. She smiled too.
By that time I was standing next to them and
Patsy was already talking in her Southern drawl.
“Howdy Sten. Donny and I were in need of supplies
so we thought we would come into town and stock
up for the weekend. Looks like you had the same idea
too. In fact we’ve seen yachties from at least four
different boats here.”
I had noticed a few familiar faces too.
“So, Sten, are you a rum or vodka man?” Patsy
asked.
“Rum,” I responded, “and just not any rum. I’m
particular about my rum. My favorite is El Dorado.
Nothing, in my opinion, beats the smooth, caramel of
an aged Guyanese El Dorado. The demerara sugar in
Guyana is second to none. However, I do also enjoy
the Venezuelan Diplomatico, but that tends to be
scarce and pricey.”
While I was talking I picked up an eight year old
El Dorado and placed it in my basket. “How about
you?” I asked. Instead of talking, Patsy pointed at the

62
Absolut Vodka, picked it up, and placed it in their
shopping cart. I nodded my head and smiled. “I’m off
now. I have what I need so I’ll leave the two of you
alone.”
Before I could say anything else, or even move,
Donny mentioned that they too were finished, and I
could ride with them in their taxi. I graciously
accepted and told them that I would meet them
outside. I had one more item to look for that I had
remembered. Tea. Local tea. Moringa tea.
The grocery store was full of people with
heaping carts. The yachties provisioning for their
boat, sweaty sailing clothes on full display. The
laborer straight from a hard day's work grabbing
something quick to eat and not so quick to drink. The
professionals, many with their children in tow,
catching up with each other on plans and activities.
I stood in the checkout line and studied the
business card I had received from Sergeant Nelson. I
entered her into my phone contacts. I then typed out
a short message to her, thanking her for her time and
stating that I was at her disposal should she require
any help. I pressed send.
The drive back to the marina in the taxi was
short and enjoyable. Donny and Patsy asked about the
case and if I had heard anything more from the police.
I told them that it was too early to know anything yet

63
and that these investigations take a lot of time, as well
as the fact that as a foreigner I didn’t expect to be on
the receiving end of much information. We continued
to talk about sight-seeing opportunities on the island
and boat related talk.
As we were loading up in our dinghies, I noticed
that they had a large dinghy, at least eleven to twelve
feet and what seemed to be a large electric motor. I
had not noticed that in the morning when I had
visited. I had never seen an electric motor used on a
dinghy before. From what I heard, they are eerily
silent. Instead of the expected whine of a two-stroke
engine there was nothing except for the sound of the
wake. I went over and spoke to Donny who was
loading the dinghy. “Donny. Is that really what I think
it is?”
He smiled and said, “If you think it’s an electric
engine then you’re correct. She’s amazing. She can go
at least forty miles on a single charge.”
Not only was the electric engine incredible, but
the dinghy was too. “This is one impressive dinghy,
Donny.”
He smiled again and patted the hull like he would
a pet. “She’s tough and can go just about anywhere.
She has a stepped down V-hull so she cuts through
the water and built-in storage.” Sally got in the dinghy,
and they pushed off and quietly went on their way. It

64
reminded me of the electric cars I had been surprised
by in the past, they always suddenly appeared, no
warning. Also, just as electric cars are relatively pricey
– so too was this dinghy of Donny’s. That was some
price tag for a dinghy. But, to each his own.
I loaded up and started up my engine, backed
away from the dock, and noisily went back to my boat.
The sun was quickly going down so I did not have a
lot of time to waste. When 1800 hours comes the sun
is minutes away from disappearing. I got back just in
time. I quickly tied up my dinghy, put my anchor,
cockpit, and cabin lights on, then retrieved my
groceries and put them away.
I had purchased a boneless chicken roti for my
supper, which was still warm in its wrapper. I poured
myself some rum over one rock of ice and headed up
to the cockpit to enjoy the pastel colors as the setting
sun hit the clouds. The hues of purple, blue, white,
gray, peach, pink, and salmon was a joy to behold after
such an eventful day. The gentle lapping of the water
on my hull and the breeze blowing through my
rigging, whipping up the water as cool air rushed from
shore to sea. It was music to my ears.
I took out my phone and synced to the onboard
stereo. I swiped through my music, and decided that,
all things considered, some reggae would be in order
tonight. I could not imagine more fitting music. Lucky

65
Dube was the choice. A South African reggae
musician combining the music sounds of Southern
Africa and Jamaica. His music always connected me
with my past and was now connecting me with my
present too.
As Lucky was singing in the background I ate,
drank, and contemplated the day.
The sun set. The stars were brightening. The
mast lights were gently swaying, and the cool air was
blowing. It was another perfect night in paradise. I
brought my laptop and some rum up to the cockpit
and wrote my reports for Sergeant Nelson, whom I
will admit, was impressive. I was not sure what it was
that intrigued me: the excellent uniform presentation,
the professionalism, the expressive eyes and face, the
lilting Caribbean accent, the understanding of my
situation, her intelligence, the probing questions.
Probably it was everything plus the excitement of
being on the job again. Also, she was attractive.

66
CHAPTER 10
“Sten, this is Sheriff Williams. Drop what you
are doing right now and report to my office. Sergeant
Garcia is heading your way and will take over.” The
memories of that day were sifting through my mind
as I sat alone in the cockpit. “Yes sir. May I ask what
this is concerning?” I said. I can remember my
adrenaline beginning to pump. What is going on? The
Sheriff sounds serious, but about what. I know that I am good
so what can it be? “Sten, I can’t say right now. There is
a lot going on and I just need you to report to my
office right away,” said the Sheriff. “Yes sir. I will be
right there.”
Being back on the job, even in this little way here
in Grenada was bringing back the reason I stepped
out of the job. I remembered reporting to the Sheriff’s
office. I knew something was wrong. The Sheriff’s
administrative assistant, a friend of my wife, didn’t say
anything. She looked distraught. Her eyes were puffy
and red from crying. She just looked at me as though

67
she was about to burst out crying and nodded her
head toward the Sheriff's office door signaling I
should go right in.
When I walked in I noticed the Sheriff, the
Under Sheriff, my Captain and the Chaplain. My heart
broke right there and then. I knew why they were
there. There is only one reason why they would all be
together at the same time. I looked at the Sheriff, my
eyes already wet, my breath coming fast and furious.
“Sir, please tell me she is alive. Please sir. She is alive?”
They all gathered around me and the Sheriff hugged
me. “Sten, I am so very sorry. She was killed in a car
accident on Interstate 25 heading North, just South of
Loveland. State Patrol have determined in their
preliminary investigation that the truck in the South
bound lane, crossed over the median and struck your
wife’s vehicle head on. She died instantly. The State
Patrol have arrested the driver for vehicular
manslaughter and they are certain he was under the
influence. The blood test results will solidify that.”
The Sheriff then stepped away, hands on my
shoulders and continued. “Sten, you are going to find
this out sooner or later, but the driver that killed your
wife had three prior arrests for Driving Under the
Influence on his record.” I went numb.
In the following weeks I responded to questions,
but the conversations did not register. I went through

68
the motions of burying my dear wife and discussing
the criminal case against the defendant. I was on
autopilot. I had upheld law and order, and served the
public, yet the system seemingly allowed people to
continue their dangerous behavior with little to no
consequence. I loved my work but was disenchanted
with it. I was drained. I just shut down and shut
people out.
One month after my beloved was buried, my
Captain and the Chaplain visited me at home. I knew
that something like this was going to happen. I was
not ready to continue; they knew it and I knew it. The
end result of the conversation was that one week later
I stepped down from my full-time position as a
Sergeant at the Sheriff’s Office and was placed in the
Reserves.
I could not bear to live in my empty house with
so many memories of my love so I sold it. Using the
money from the sale and the insurance claim, I did
what I had always dreamed of doing as a child. I
became a sailor; bought a yacht in Florida, took
classes, sailed, drank, hung out with other cruisers and
drank some more, and then finally one day I decided
to sail to the Caribbean.
Sten, for a whole year you have been running away from
the work you love to do, and avoiding any kind of relationship.

69
In the last twenty-four hours though you have re-engaged with
the work you love and you have noticed a woman for the first
time in a year. Is this an accident? I thought to myself.
I looked up at the stars and galaxies not knowing
the answer.
“I am not sure what is happening and why it is
happening,” I said to the author of the stars I was
looking at, “But it has been more than a year since I
have been this purposeful, this engaged in the world
around me, this alive. So, I will follow the path right
in front of me and do what I do best – be a bringer of
peace by upholding the law.” It was time to work
again.
After the first report was typed, the others just
flowed. Like riding a bicycle. It was simply a
presentation of the facts and after having written so
many reports over the years, it was easy to pick it up
again after some trial and error.
I typed the report on my laptop in night mode
so my night vision would not be completely trashed
and I kept looking over at the building that, again
tonight, had lights on – bottom floor. Just as had been
reported that morning. It wasn’t too far away,
especially since there was an extended pier.

70
I completed all the reports and then wrote a
short email to Sergeant Nelson and attached the
reports.
I realized I did not know her first name. The
initial on her card was “A” but that could stand for
anything. By way of introduction, I thanked her for
her time and for her professionalism. I apologized for
my eagerness to help which resulted in interfering
with her investigation and offered to help however I
could. Yes, since I was experienced and new, I could
offer a different perspective, and more so, as a sailor,
a different geographic perspective, one from the
water, so that she could have a full and complete
picture to best determine where the crime scene was.
I sent the email with the attachments and then
settled in for the night under the stars. I was tired, but
my mind was racing. I only had my anchor lights on.
I wanted to see what the other boats saw, and the
moon was almost full so there was plenty of light. I
took up my binoculars, got my point of reference,
focused, then did a sweep to get a better idea of the
nighttime layout of the shoreline.
Some of the other boats at anchorage were alive
with lights – it was Friday night. There had been a few
dinghies coming and going. There were faint wisps of
chatter every now and then. I could see the three
boats I had visited that day. All of them had their

71
cabin and other exterior lights on. Through my
binoculars Iwas able to pick up silhouettes in the
cockpits and movements down below as lights
shining through portholes were eclipsed for moments
and then glowing again. Everything looked and
sounded normal.
I put some ambient music on and activated my
Kindle on my phone to do some reading. One of the
many joys of life on board a boat is the pleasure of
undisturbed reading. As I read, my mind kept
returning to the young woman floating in the water,
and my Kindle pages remained untouched. She had
probably died less than twenty-four hours ago, and
her killer or killers were free and alive. A Latin phrase
came to mind, in absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt – in the
absence of light, dark prevails. Darkness, murder, was
prevailing. There was a need for light – truth – justice.
So many people went through life unaware that there
were people whose work it was to bring light to the
words and actions of the world. They were the judges,
reporters, law enforcement officers, social workers,
mothers and fathers – they were many and I realized
how much I missed being one of them.

72
CHAPTER 11
I needed to do something. Get some answers,
follow leads – I needed to help. It was who I was. I
was not somebody who was able to just sit around.
Standing by when you can help does not compute in
my psyche so I decided to do a little more
investigating, and knowingly suffer the consequences
of doing so.
I mapped out the distance between my position
and the shoreline, determined a bearing that would
bring me to my destination while avoiding detection
and went down below to prepare. I packed a dry bag,
put on my wetsuit, checked my dive gear and quietly
slid into the water. I rechecked the reading on my
compass, my oxygen level and my watch, deflated my
BCD and slowly sank down into the total darkness. It
was invigorating.

73
I made my way slowly through the dark silky
water, avoiding mooring ball lines and anchor chains,
regularly checking my compass and watch as I had
determined the approximate time it would take me to
go from my stern to within five meters of the pier. It
seemed like only seconds later and I was quietly
surfacing, out of vision of anyone on any of the
nearby yachts, especially Donny and Patsy whose
catamaran I could see close by.
The pier only had a few lights on and there were
lights on in the bottom of the large building just up
from the beach about thirty meters or so. I swam
alongside the pier, in the shadow of the moonlight to
the beach where I stored my BCD. Because the
distance was so short, I had not used fins. I just had
my water shoes on.
I got my headlamp from my drybag. I also took
out a small retractable stainless-steel baton. I already
had a small stainless steel diver’s knife in a sheath on
my left upper arm, and my phone was in a waterproof
bag hanging from a lanyard around my neck. I quietly
and slowly moved up from the pier on a concrete path
lined with shrubs that led up toward the main house
from where the lights were shining. There was a break
in the shrubs so I veered off to the left to remain in
the shadows. I went from tree to tree, shadow to

74
shadow, stopping for thirty seconds every five meters
to look and listen.
The house was large. There was a privacy wall
about eight feet high that extended from each end of
the house, separating the front from the rear. There
were bushes and shrubs growing alongside – mostly
bougainvillea. From what I could see, it seemed like
there were doors on either side in the walls. The left
side of the house, which was in darkness, had two
levels. It looked to be where the bedrooms were.
There were two small balconies on each level, with
windows and a door leading out to each balcony. The
veranda, where I was headed, was only one level, but
was lit up.
Suddenly there was movement on the path that
led from the pier to the house. The movement was
right behind me about twenty meters away. I stopped
moving. There was a person coming up. I was up
close to the house behind some shrubs, in the
shadows, so I stayed still and waited.
A person walked up to the house to the open
veranda. As the person got closer I could see that it
was a male in shorts and a shirt. He was Caucasian,
and as he got closer to the lights, I was surprised. It
was Donny! He wasn’t smiling and looked nothing
like how I had come to recognize him. He had a
serious look about him and his head was on a swivel,

75
looking all around him. His gaze swept over where I
was hidden in the shadows. I continued to breathe;
slowly, shallowly, and quietly.
What is going on? Donny? Polite and quiet Donny!
What is he doing here? I thought.
He walked up onto the steps, as though he knew
where he was going and disappeared out of sight. My
heart rate had increased. I had not expected this at all.
In fact, truth be told, I didn’t know what I expected.
I had just come for a quick look around to scratch the
itch of my inquisitive mind.
I quietly and quickly moved along the shadowed
house toward the veranda area. Once at the corner I
slowly inched the right side of my face around it. By
that time I heard muffled voices. I couldn’t
distinguish a language, but there were at least three
voices, and one of them was definitely Donny’s.
There were windows all along the veranda and
in the middle was a set of double glass paned doors.
One of the doors was open. I hoisted myself up and
over the low wall and moved my way to the corner.
There was a door to my left leading to one of the
bedrooms, probably the master. I moved toward the
closest window and slowly peered in.

76
Through an open plan kitchen I could see
directly into the home all the way to the other side, to
the large front door and windows looking out to the
front. To the right was the dining room and the living
room occupied the entire front of the home. It was
very large and all open. There were two men standing
around a large wooden table with at least ten high-
back chairs around it. Both were in dark slacks. One
was wearing a tight-fitting black t-shirt with gold
chains around his neck, the other had a red, loose
fitting cubavera collared, short sleeved shirt on. The
man in black had a full facial beard, the other was
clean shaven. Donny was standing with them at the
table around what appeared to be large empty duffel
bags.
I crept along the veranda, under the windows,
staying in the shadows. Thankfully the floor was
concrete so there would be no creaking. I looked,
waited, and then quickly crawled past the double glass
paned doors, and kept on crawling until I was close to
where they were talking. All the windows were closed,
but with the door slightly ajar. I was barely able to
understand what they were saying.
The man in the black t-shirt was speaking fast
and getting louder. I was having a tough time
following what he was saying.

77
“What the hell happened to Tamara last night?
And what are we going to do now? I tried to call you
and tell you not to come. Everything is screwed up!
The police have a dead body. Eventually it will lead
back to me. Someone is going to talk. So what am I
going to say? And, even worse, how are we going to
do business now?”
“Peace…, peace…, We need to stay calm,” said
another voice.
“I agree,” said Donny. “We need to stay calm.
We need to have our stories straight and we need to
move the product tonight and clean up this place. No
prints – nothing.”
As Donny spoke I removed my phone and
activated my camera video. I raised the camera and
began to record.
“Do you have the stuff with you?”
“Of course I do. It’s in the dinghy like it was last
night. We need to work it like we did last time. I’ll be
in the dinghy, one of you needs to keep the line secure
and the other one will receive the bundles and put
them in the bags. We need to do it now. I am sure the
police will be coming here tomorrow.
One of the yachties found Tamara’s body this
morning and has already questioned some others.
He’s a former police officer from the USA. He spoke
with the Police this afternoon so I don’t doubt that

78
they’ll follow up.” While Donny was speaking, he
picked up the bags and handed a bag to each one of
them.”
“Yeh man, le we go,” said the man in the red
shirt.
I was trapped on the veranda. They were going
to be going out the double doors to the pier and I was
only a few meters down from the doors. They would
see me. I quickly skirted over to the edge and became
still as I hid behind the shrubs.
The three of them came out of the doors and
made their way down the path to the pier. They each
held a large empty duffel bag. I kept out of sight but
tried to get as close as possible while recording, hitting
pause and play regularly. I repeated, but with less
caution, my tactic of staying in the shadows and
listening. It was tough to remain quiet and try to stay
as close to them as possible. My thinking was that if I
did not get good video footage, at least I would get
some audio.
I was only able to catch a few phrases here and
there and I prayed that the camera would pick it up:
“Make sure that it is.” “It is not a problem, my guys
have done this before you....” “So, you’re telling me
that Tamara....” “This is not going to take….” “Are
they going to be able to trace….”

79
Not the most useful, but better than nothing.
I got to the pier and waded into the water while
they were at the end. I lay on my back, phone up and
floated, doing a slow and quiet one-handed side
stroke as I came closer to the end of the pier where
Donny’s dinghy was tied. I slowly swam up to the
corner pilon and peaked around it to see Donny in his
dinghy passing up large cellophane wrapped packages.
I had seen packages like that many times before.
Drugs.
They worked in the moonlight. The lights on the
pier were few and directed out so the people on the
pier could not be seen. They worked in silence as the
three duffel bags were being filled. The entire bow of
Donny’s dinghy must have been filled with the
packages. I stopped filming, knowing that they were
going to be returning to the house to clean it up and
to transport the drugs. I needed to get in front of
them before they finished. I quietly floated back down
to the shore, gently repeating the one-armed side
stroke while keeping the phone above water. It did
not take long.
Despite the moonlight, I was far enough away
from them, and they were intent on loading the bags,
so I quickly made my way back up to the house using
the shadows. I stayed in the shrubs around the

80
veranda. I really wanted to call for back-up. That
wasn’t going to happen. I could call Sergeant Nelson,
but there was too much to say and not enough time
to say it. It would all be too late anyway. I also couldn’t
engage any app on my phone or it would shine and
give me away. I was stuck. While they were coming
toward me from the pier, I retrieved my baton in case
I needed it.
Then I waited.
I could hear them coming. “How many kgs this
time?” one of the men asked.
I heard Donny reply, “How many times have we
done this? Don’t you guys remember anything? For
the last time – each package is one kilogram. We
loaded ten packages into each duffel bag. Do I have
to do the math for you? You asked for thirty, you got
thirty. The only thing that needs to be done before
you leave is to pay me my last payment. Do you have
the cash?”
“Yes, we have the cash. What are you worried
about? You got all the other bank payments into the
offshore accounts that your wife set up. Let’s just get
this place cleaned up and get the product stored away
in our car and leave. By the way, I am still pissed-off
about Tamara. I’m going to have to speak to the
police which I hate doing. Besides, I liked Tamara.”

81
By this time they were inside the house and were
standing next to the table.
“Hey John,” said Donny. “You should have
never brought her here. You knew better than that.
You do too Clifford. You should have told him to
leave her. That was your fault and it’s now your mess
to clean up. How many times do I remind you to not
mix business with pleasure? It never, ever works out
well. Don’t do it again John, or we’re done.”
Donny had approached John, the man in the
black and they were standing toe to toe. John had his
fists clenched and chest puffed out. Donny just stared
at him – hands by his side. Cold. Distant. Ready.
“You're threatening me, Donny? You – old,
retired Navy boys think you’re better than everyone
else. Let me tell you, Donny, it’s the other way around.
You mess up again and you’ll be done. Don’t let your
old mind and body mess with me again.” John used
the index finger of his right hand, with his thumb up
and mimicked a shooting action.
I was at the corner, recording it, but could not
get a good shot, just audio. It was tense as the two
men stood face to face, toe to toe, with the duffel bags
full of drugs at their side.
Clifford stepped in between them and with a
hand on each man’s chest, pushed them apart. “Chill,
guys. Do you remember why we’re here? To make

82
money, not to make trouble. To make a future for us
and our families, not to wind up in Richmond Hill
Prison. Relax. Now, let’s get these bags in the car,
wipe this place down, then leave.”
“I am not giving you this bag or putting it in a
car until I see my money,” said Donny. Clifford
sighed. “John, go get the money from the car. I’ll stay
here. Hurry up. We needed to be gone from here
yesterday. I’m getting more worried and
uncomfortable as each minute passes.”
After John left I heard Donny tell Clifford, “You
better do something with John to get him in line,
Clifford. How could you have let him bring that
woman with him?”
“I know,” Clifford said. “It was stupid. I was
tired of his nagging all day. He wanted to show off the
house to his new woman and have a good time with
her while we still had access to it. I know. I know. Bad
decision. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” said Donny. “I may be old and
retired, but the navy taught me a lot and so has life.
That young punk knows nothing but idle threats. He’s
just showing off and he’s all talk and no action. I, on
the other hand, know how to kill. First-hand
experience. Control him, Clifford, or I’ll have to
control him permanently. I did it last night. I’ll do it
again.” There was silence for a moment, and then the

83
sound of the front door opening and closing as John
came back in.
“What?” John asked. “Why is it so quiet in here?
I thought you guys would be talking about the next
round and doing some planning and stuff.”
“Really?” said Donny. “You expect me to be
talking about the next consignment when I have not
yet been fully paid for this one, and after you brought
that lady here and threatened the entire operation. I’m
no longer confident that we should continue in
business. You bring too much risk. I want things done
orderly, by schedule, and professionally, not the half-
assed way you do it.”
Once again, John and Donny were toe to toe,
staring each other down. Clifford intervened, almost
yelling at them, giving each of them a spray bottle and
a cloth rag. One major blessing from the COVID
pandemic – spray bottles with alcohol. Excellent
resource to destroy evidence with. Another – face
masks. As you drive away, with your mask on, in the
dark, will anyone really be able to recognize you? Not
at all.
They all got busy wiping everything down in the
dining room and kitchen. It didn’t take them long
since most of the wiping was only at the front and
back doors as well as the dining room and kitchen.
They must not have touched much.

84
When that was all done, Clifford handed Donny
the money that John had brought in, which he quickly
counted, showing that he had done this before. He
handed over the last bag to John and then they all
went out: Donny through the back door which
Clifford locked behind him, and then Clifford and
John through the front door after they turned off the
lights.
An engine started up in the front. Lights went
on, illuminating the front windows as I peered
through the back windows into the home. I heard a
crunching sound. Tires were slowly crushing rock. I
quickly turned, staying in the shadows, and attempted
to stay close to Donny. I followed him down to the
pier.
While he was easing his painter off the pier cleat,
I quickly suited back up, stowing my equipment in my
drybag and setting my course and time. I checked my
air and equipment again, then slowly I returned to the
inviting black silk of the warm bay water. Donny was
ahead, silently slithering back to Gone With The Wind.

85
CHAPTER 12
I reached NÅDE tired. Tired in body and soul.
It always unsettles me when the face of “bad” is so
friendly, kind, generous and seemingly innocent. The
sweet face of the adulterer. The innocent look of the
thief. The apologetic face of the abuser. The placid
look of the murderer. It is so much easier to dislike
the unkind, unfriendly, obnoxious and profane.
I made as little noise as possible and did
everything in the dark. I did not want to bring
attention to myself, especially since Donny was so
close by and most likely awake and alert. After
everything was cleaned, rinsed and checked, I stripped
naked and quickly washed up at the stern and then
rinsed off with clean water. It felt good. The gentle
evening breeze dried and cooled me off.
While swimming back from shore in the dark I
had already resolved in my mind to call Sergeant
Nelson. I checked my emails first. There was no reply
to the email I had sent her with my reports. Before

86
calling, though, I needed to sit down and think this
through. What do I actually know? Donny is
transporting drugs. He probably didn’t have drugs on
his catamaran right now, but he certainly should have
money and lots of it. That in and of itself is not a
crime unless they had not declared it at their customs
and immigration entry, which I was sure they had not.
Donny killed the woman whose name was
Tamara. There was no evidence right now other than
his own testimony that I overheard and had recorded.
That was enough for an arrest. My testimony and the
video. I saw two men named John and Clifford who
loaded, what looked like bundles of cellophane
wrapped drugs, from Donny’s dinghy into bags which
they then left with. From what I overheard, Donny,
John, and Clifford had already made at least one sale
prior to this and that most of the payments seemed to
have gone into offshore accounts which Donny’s
wife, Patsy, had set up. I not only had my expertise
and testimony, but I also had a video recording, so I
reviewed all the video. Everything checked out.
I looked at my watch. 2147 hours. Late. Oh well.
That’s life. Strike while the iron is hot, and it is hot, so
I called Sergeant Nelson.
On the fifth ring I heard, “Hello? Who is this?”
The voice was definitely Sergeant Nelson; it was tired,
but it was also alert. She had probably looked at the

87
number, did not recognize it, but realized it was from
the USA.
I had been pacing up and down in the cockpit
waiting for the phone to connect. I was at the helm
when it finally did. “Good evening, Sergeant Nelson.
This is Sten Dahl from the yacht NÅDE. I apologize
for the lateness of this call but I’m calling to let you
know that I just discovered some very recent and
important information on the case concerning the
deceased young lady from this morning.” I paused. I
wasn’t sure what the response would be, but I was
prepared for the worst. Now that I was connected, I
continued to pace. This time, however, I walked from
the stern toward the bow and was standing by the
anchor holding on to the jib.
“Good evening to you Mr. Sten. Not only is it
late, but if memory serves me well, I told you not to
meddle with the case after you had apologized for
doing so. I saw that you sent me your reports, and I’m
grateful for that, but please, leave this case alone.”
I already saw that this was going nowhere so I
went for the jugular. “I know that the dead woman is
named Tamara. I know who killed her and why and I
have evidence to support everything I just said.”
Silence.

88
“Who told you the girl’s name was Tamara?”
Sergeant Nelson’s voice was flat and tight with anger.
This was not going well. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised.
“The killer did,” I responded.
Sergeant Nelson’s very alert voice told me,
“Repeat what you just said!”
“I know that you are angry. I am too. I was
within earshot of the killer when he confessed and I
couldn’t do anything. I apologize again, Sergeant
Nelson, but I just couldn’t stand by and wait. It’s not
in my character. So I did what I do, I went hunting
and I found him”
There was a long pause. Finally, “Continue.”
Sergeant Nelson did not sound pleased at all.
“Tonight I investigated the house on the
shoreline with a pier. From the interviews I conducted
today, most said that the house had been dark the
entire time, but they had seen lights on at the house
last night which was unusual. They also heard two
people arguing, and one was female. I thought that
was out of the ordinary, so I swam over there tonight
and saw three people at the house. I saw drugs being
loaded and money exchanged. I heard one of the men
confess to killing Tamara.” I stopped there and let it
hang. I knew that she was processing and it was only
polite to let her do so.

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FINAL with cover.pdf