Moose Pass Mystery

“I know who you are.” The man glanced at the badge clipped to Big Al’s belt. “Everybody knows who you are. Name’s Ed Rusk. I take care of the place.”

“Then you can tell me how many fish are affected.”

Ed’s jaw tightened. “If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t have called it in.”

Big Al stepped onto the dock. The boards were damp beneath his boots, and a fine spray from the nearest raceway cooled his hands. The smell came next: wet cedar, algae, diesel, and the sharp, muddy odor of fish packed too closely together. It clung to the back of his throat.

He had investigated boat thefts, cabin break-ins, and one unfortunate dispute involving a bear and a freezer full of salmon. This was different. The hatchery seemed to be moving in every direction at once. Water rushed through the channels. Pumps shuddered. Fish flashed beneath the surface, then vanished into the green-brown churn.

“Show me where it started,” Big Al said.

Ed pointed toward the upper raceways. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

They moved along the narrow walkway. Ed kept close to the edge, watching the water as if it might answer him. Several fish floated near the sides. Others drifted sluggishly below the surface, their fins barely moving.

Big Al crouched beside the nearest channel. He could hear the faint ticking of a pump housing and the steady hiss of water spilling over a gate. A young salmon twitched near the concrete wall. Its gills worked too fast.

“Any injuries?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Disease?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Water temperature?”

Ed gave him a look. “You think I haven’t checked?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

Ed sighed and pulled a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. “Temperature is normal. Oxygen was normal yesterday morning. Flow rate was normal at the last check.”

“Yesterday morning?”

“I checked again today.”

“And?”

Ed hesitated.

Big Al glanced at him. “And?”

“The gauge says it’s normal.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Ed looked down the length of the raceway. “The fish don’t seem to agree.”

A dead salmon bumped against the far screen. Big Al took out a notebook and wrote down the time, the location, and the number of visible fish. He counted eleven dead or dying in the first channel. Three more floated near the outflow.

“Did anything change overnight?” he asked.

“Not that I saw.”

“Who was here?”

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Visitors?”

“This is a hatchery, not a gift shop.”

“People still come by.”

“People come by and ask if the fish are happy.” Ed rubbed his forehead. “Then they ask where the bathroom is.”

Big Al looked over the railing. A pale film clung to the edge of the water, thin as oil and broken by the current. He leaned closer.

“Has that been there all morning?”

Ed followed his gaze. “What?”

“The film.”

“That’s probably pollen.”

“Probably?”

Ed crouched beside him. The film gathered in a corner where the water moved slowly. He touched it with the end of a stick, then pulled the stick back. The sheen broke apart into tiny iridescent patches.

“Could be pollen,” Ed said.

“Could be.”

Big Al took a small evidence vial from his case. Ed watched while he scraped a little from the stick into the container.

“You brought those for fish slime?”

“I bring them for whatever doesn’t belong.”

“That’s a broad category around here.”

“Most places, it is.”

They continued down the walkway. The farther they went, the worse the water became. Fish crowded along the shady side of the raceway, pressing their noses toward the current. One broke the surface and flopped onto the concrete.

Ed reached for it.

“Wait,” Big Al said.

The fish slapped its tail twice. Big Al took a photograph, then nodded. Ed lifted it gently and returned it to the water. It sank out of sight.

“Why photograph one that’s still alive?” Ed asked.

“Because it may not be by the time I’m done looking.”

A metal cabinet stood beside the pump shed. Its door hung open. Inside were switches, gauges, and a row of handwritten inspection sheets clipped beneath a plastic cover.

Big Al stepped toward it.

Ed moved in front of him. “Equipment’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’ve already checked it.”

“Then it won’t mind being checked again.”

Ed’s mouth flattened. He stepped aside.

The cabinet smelled of hot metal and dust. Big Al studied the gauges. The oxygen pump hummed steadily, though the sound wavered every few seconds, as if something inside it had caught and released.

“Does that pump usually do that?” he asked.

“It’s old.”

“Old things make noise. This one is changing pitch.”

“It’s still running.”

Big Al placed two fingers against the housing. The vibration traveled through the metal and into his knuckles. He opened the lower panel. A thin smear of gray grease marked the edge of the latch.

“Who serviced this?”

“Me.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Big Al looked at the inspection sheet. The latest entry said the oxygen pump had been checked at six fifteen that morning.

He turned to Ed. “You said yesterday afternoon.”

“I checked it yesterday afternoon.”

“Then why does the log say this morning?”

Ed snatched the sheet from the clip. His eyes moved across the page.

“That isn’t my writing,” he said.

Big Al held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Ed gave it back.

The entry was neat, cramped, and written in blue ink. The date was correct. The time was not. Beside the pump number, someone had written, Checked and operating normally.

Big Al compared it with the entries above. Ed’s handwriting leaned hard to the right, with long-tailed y’s and blunt, square t’s. The new entry stood straight and tidy.

“Who has access to the logbook?” Big Al asked.

“Anyone who works here.”

“Who works here?”

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not regularly.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Ed’s eyes narrowed. “Seasonal help comes through now and then. State people. Inspectors. Folks who think a clipboard makes them important.”

“Could any of them get into the pump cabinet?”

“If they had a key.”

“Who has a key?”

“Me.”

Big Al glanced at the cabinet latch. The metal around it was scratched. Not badly. Just enough to show a fresh silver line beneath the green paint.

He ran his thumb beside it without touching the mark.

“Was that there yesterday?”

Ed stared at the scratch. “No.”

The pump shuddered.

A loud clank rang through the shed, followed by a sudden drop in the water flow. Fish surged toward the intake, flashing and colliding. One struck the concrete wall with a wet slap.

Ed swore and lunged for the switches.

Big Al caught his arm. “Don’t.”

“If the pump stalls - ”

“Then we photograph it before you reset it.”

“It’s killing the fish!”

“Something is.”

The pump rattled again. Water thinned to a trickle through the upper channel. The fish crowded tighter, bodies sliding over bodies.

Ed jerked free. “You want pictures? Take them fast.”

Big Al took three photographs of the control panel, the pump housing, and the gauge as its needle dipped. Then he pulled open the emergency bypass. Water roared into the raceway, cold and clear from the lake line. The fish scattered from the intake.

The pump caught with a grinding cough.

Ed leaned against the cabinet, breathing hard. “There. Happy?”

“No.”

“Troopers never are.”

Big Al closed his notebook. “You’ve had trouble with them before?”

“Everybody has trouble with them. They sit on the highway waiting for somebody to drive three miles over the limit, then act surprised when the town doesn’t invite them to supper.”

“I’m not here about speeding.”

“You’re here because fish are dying, and now you’ve found a scratch on a cabinet and a wrong line in a logbook. That’s hardly a murder case.”

“I didn’t call it murder.”

“Fish don’t care what you call it.”

The words hung between them while the raceway filled. Water slapped against the concrete. Somewhere beyond the shed, a raven gave one harsh croak and flew toward the trees.

Big Al looked again at the logbook. The false entry was small, almost harmless. Someone had wanted the morning check to appear complete. Someone had wanted the pump to look normal on paper.

That did not prove sabotage.

It did prove that the hatchery’s records had been touched.

“Where do you keep the chemicals?” he asked.

Ed’s face changed. Only slightly, but enough. His shoulders rose, and his eyes shifted toward the lake.

“What chemicals?”

“Anything used to clean the channels. Treat the water. Maintain the equipment.”

“Locked storage shed.”

“Take me there.”

Ed did not move.

Big Al waited.

Finally, Ed reached for a ring of keys. “If this turns out to be nothing, I’m charging you for the time.”

“Put it on the state’s tab.”

The storage shed stood behind the pump house, half-hidden by fireweed and tall grass. Its padlock was closed, but the hasp showed a bright scrape where metal had met metal. Big Al bent close. A small thread of blue cloth clung to the rough edge.

He lifted it with his forceps.

Ed stared. “That wasn’t mine.”

“Could be from a jacket.”

“Could be from anything.”

“Yes.”

Big Al slipped the thread into another evidence vial. Through the gap beneath the door came the stale smell of bleach and something bitter, something that did not belong among buckets and hoses.

He looked back at the raceways. The fish moved weakly through the churning water, and the dead ones had gathered along the screens.

He had come to confirm what was happening. The fish were dying. The water flow had faltered. The inspection log had been altered. The pump cabinet showed fresh damage. A thread of blue cloth rested in his evidence case.

It was a beginning, not an answer.

“Open the shed,” he said.

Ed gripped the keys. “You think somebody poisoned the fish?”

“I think somebody wanted us to believe the equipment was working.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Big Al said, watching the dark line beneath the door. “But it’s close enough to make me careful.”

The key turned. Inside, something shifted against the far wall with a soft metallic knock.

Ed froze.

Big Al reached for his flashlight, though it was broad daylight.

Then he opened the door.

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters in the full book.