Stiven Vasilik - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 6, June, 1994

We are glad to announce that the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of 1993 was won by D. A. McGuire for Wicked Twist, the cover story in our October issue. We thought it was an excellent story, too, and were so pleased that the Mystery Writers of Americas short story committee agreed.

In this issue, as it happens, we lead off with Virtual Fog, a second story by Ms. McGuire. Like its predecessor, this one stars Herbie Sawyer and detective sergeant Jake Valari.

The Fish award will be presented on April 27th at the MWAs annual awards banquet in New York.

Various activities will be going on in New York that week as part of the Edgar Week program. Those of you who will be in town will find author signings taking place on Monday, April 25th, at Barnes & Noble, 2289 Broadway (at West 82nd Street), from eight p.m. on, and on Thursday, April 28th, the Mysterious Bookshop at 129 West 56th Street will have an open house from eleven a m. till six p.m. There will also be an all-day symposium on Tuesday, April 26th, at Vanderbilt Hall, New York University School of Law, 40 Washington Square South, with registration at nine fifteen A.M. Panelists will include such writers as Elmore Leonard, Gregory Mcdonald, Margaret Maron, and Sue Grafton.

The fee for nonmembers of MWA is $40.

Herbert Sawyer, Jr., what in hell are you doing here? Those were his first words to me, spoken in surprise and anger. I was alone, waiting as Id been told to wait, just at the end of the little pier, sitting on a wooden bench, knapsack at my feet. I hadnt expected him, and then again maybe I had. All the same, I dont think my answer was quite good enough for Jake.

I was doing somebody a favor. I looked up at him. The tide was rolling out, leaving behind a thick, damp smell of marsh and marine debris, as well as here along the river (actually part of a marine estuary but all the locals called it the river), the rank odors of diesel fuel, gasoline, and dead fish. I wasnt allowed to swim in the river; too many diseases you could catch, according to Mr. Hornton, the man responsible for my being there. My mother liked Mr. Hornton. She respected his judgment, and since she wasnt a native Cape Codder, she took his word on a good many subjects. Like playing in the river: not very smart; you might come home with a funny rash or smell like oil for a few days.

Too bad shed accepted Mr. Horntons judgment regarding my doing a favor for an old war-buddy friend of his, that being Mr. Neddie Hacker, the local lobster fisherman. If shed had any idea where it would land me, sitting near the pier at eight on a Sunday morning confronting Sergeant Jacob Valari, shed have had a stroke.

Funny how doing favors gets you in so much trouble sometimes.

Someone shouted to Jake from the dock at the end of the pier. A small crowd was forming out there, and one of the two Coast Guard patrol boats had just started its engines. Some of the Coast Guard people were leaving as well as the medical examiner. He came up the rickety wooden pier, tipping his baseball cap to Jake as he did. He barely noticed me.

A favor? barked Jake. For Neddie Hacker? Damn, Herbie, you werent out there with Neddie when he found... He scratched his head, looked at me, then looked out at the dock where about a dozen people, men and women, several in uniform state police, local police, Coast Guard seemed to be waiting for me. Then he looked back at me. You were, werent you? You were out with Neddie pulling pots. Damn. Then he said it again, with more emphasis: Damn, Herbie, I dont want you mixed up in this. Damn. He turned and spit in the sand.

Id never seen Jake do that before.

Sorry was all I could think to say. I kicked my knapsack and tried to look apologetic.

Im not kidding, boy, he told me. Youre staying out of this. Then he went to join the others at the end of the pier. Another Coast Guard boat had just pulled up; people were moving equipment from Neddies boat, tied to the dock, onto the Coast Guard boat. They were moving pots, hooks, rope, back and forth, from one boat to the other, and then theyd move some of it back again, from the Coast Guard boat onto Neddies. It didnt look like a very coordinated operation, but then what did I know? I was just a kid. It also locked as if the dock might tip at any moment; it was listing pretty badly to the right. I bet most of them out there didnt know that this particular pier had been on a state list for repairs for over a year now, and with more than twenty people suddenly jammed onto it, well, you just never knew...

Still, it was pretty strange knowing they were all out there because Neddie Hacker, local lobster fisherman, and me, local thirteen-year-old kid, had pulled up a lobster pot without any lobsters in it. No lobster bait, either. No, thered been just one thing in that old lobster pot a human arm.

See what I mean about doing people favors?

My name is Herbie Sawyer. I live on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in the small coastal town of Manamesset. It sits right on Manamesset Bay and is a cosy little community with a permanent population of about six thousand. Id met Sergeant Jacob Valari about four months ago when Id had the strange experience of helping him sort out what had looked like a case of accidental drowning. But thats a whole other story. The best thing that came out of all that was that I got to meet Jake. And actually theres more to it than that: Jake got to meet my mother, and to make a long story short, the two of them had been dating each other for about six weeks. Maybe thats why Jake was none too thrilled to see me sitting at the end of the dock. I suppose its not an easy thing to tell your new girlfriend that her son is in the habit of uncovering dead bodies... or parts of them.

Anyhow, I wasnt going anywhere, even when Jake came back and told me to. Go on, get out of here. Go home and dont tell your mother a thing. This isnt your concern, Herbie. Its got nothing to do with you; is that clear?

That officer over there told me to stay was my response. I wasnt about to disobey Jake. But I also wanted him to know that someone in authority had told me to stay put.

What officer? Damn, hes just a statie, what the hell... Jake scratched his head again, then went back out to the dock. There was a lot of arguing going on out there especially between Jake and this huge state cop so I just sat tight and waited. People were still going back and forth from Neddie Hackers fishing boat to the dock, then onto one of the smaller patrol boats. One of the state cops was holding a small wooden box. Another man, in a Coast Guard uniform, was holding onto a trap, or lobster pot. The lobster pot.

Id been through a similar situation before, so I thought at some point someone would come to take my statement. Boy, was I surprised when that didnt happen. Because after about three minutes of arguing I could see by Jakes expression he wasnt very happy he came back. This time he bent over so he could stare me right in the eye.

Herbert Sawyer, Jr., I have it on official word that you can go home. Now. If you have anything to tell me you can do so later. This has got nothing to do with you. Theres a sicko out there cutting up people, and I do not want you involved, got it?

The Coast Guard I nodded in the direction one of the boats was headed, up the river and out into the bay. Theyre going to start pulling everyones pots, arent they? To see if they can find the rest of the body?