The Sitka Situation

The foghorn sounded before dawn, one long note that rolled through Sitka and trembled in the windows of the patrol cruiser. Franci Calderon tightened both hands on the wheel and watched the lighthouse emerge ahead of her, its white tower fading in and out of the gray.

A porch light blinked above the B&B entrance. Beside it, someone had taped a handwritten sign to the door.

POLICE CALLED. DO NOT ENTER.

Franci parked crookedly, grabbed her flashlight, and stepped into the wet cold. Her first week with Sitka Police had been a parade of traffic stops, barking dogs, and directions to streets that seemed to change names whenever the fog came in. She had wanted one quiet shift to prove she belonged here.

Instead, the dispatcher’s voice crackled in her radio.

“Unit Four, confirm arrival at the Sitka Lighthouse B&B. Caller reports an unconscious guest. Possible death.”

Franci looked up at the tower. “Unit Four arrived. I’m going in.”

The door resisted, swollen by damp. She shoved her shoulder against it and entered a narrow lobby crowded with luggage, raincoats, and frightened guests. A woman in wool socks clutched a mug near the staircase. An older man stood beside an overturned umbrella, staring at Franci as if she had brought the fog with her.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Franci said. “Who called?”

The woman raised her mug. It rattled against its saucer. “I did. The caretaker - he told me to wait here.”

“Where is he?”

“He went upstairs.”

“Which room?”

The woman pointed toward the spiral staircase. “The lighthouse room. Top floor.”

A man in a red parka stepped forward. “There’s no need to send everyone out. Some of us have reservations.”

Franci turned to him. “Sir, move away from the stairs.”

His mouth tightened. “I paid for that room.”

“And right now, I’m asking you to stand over there.”

The room fell quiet except for water ticking against the windows. Franci touched the radio at her shoulder.

“Dispatch, I need another unit and medical response. Possible deceased person. I’m entering the second floor.”

“Copy.”

She climbed. The staircase curved tightly around a central post, and every step groaned beneath her boots. Fog pressed against the tall windows, turning the outside world into a blank wall. Halfway up, a door opened.

A thin man in a flannel shirt appeared, his face pale beneath a gray beard.

“Officer,” he whispered. “I found him.”

“Stay there. Don’t touch anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“Your name?”

“Elias. I keep the place.”

“Step back from the door, Elias.”

He obeyed, but his eyes stayed fixed on the room behind him. Franci moved closer, flashlight raised. The door stood open six inches. A dark smear marked the brass knob.

“Who is inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you found him.”

“I found the body. I didn’t know the man.”

Franci pushed the door open with the edge of her flashlight.

The room was round, tucked beneath the lighthouse lantern. A bed faced the curved windows. A man lay on the floor beside it, one arm bent beneath his chest. Blood had dried darkly at the back of his head. A chair had fallen near the writing desk, and a drawer hung open.

Franci stopped at the threshold.

The room smelled of wet wool, old wood, and something metallic. Her flashlight caught a small brass key near the body’s hand. She did not step over it.

“Elias, stay exactly where you are.”

“I will.”

“Did you move anything?”

“No.”

“Did you touch the victim?”

“I checked for a pulse.”

“With what hand?”

Elias stared at her. “My right.”

“Show me.”

He lifted it. His fingers shook.

Franci backed away from the doorway and spoke into her radio. “Dispatch, send detectives and crime-scene personnel. Possible blunt-force trauma. I have a contained room, but guests are downstairs and the building is occupied. Advise responding units to bring barrier tape.”

“Copy.”

She descended two steps and faced the lobby. “Everyone listen to me. This building is now a crime scene. No one leaves, no one goes upstairs, and no one touches a bag, coat, door, or piece of furniture.”

The man in the red parka scoffed. “You can’t keep paying guests trapped here.”

“I can until I know who was in that room and whether anyone is in danger.”

A young woman near the fireplace began to cry. Another guest lifted a phone.

Franci pointed at it. “Put that away.”

“I’m only calling my husband.”

“Call him from there. Do not photograph anything.”

The woman lowered the phone.

Franci moved through the lobby, checking the front door, the back hall, and the narrow kitchen beyond it. The B&B seemed built from too many passages stitched together: a service stair, a pantry door, a corridor leading toward the tower’s base. Every space held wet footprints. Some were fresh. Some had blurred into dark smudges beneath the fog-dampened boots of the guests.

“Where’s your guest register?” Franci asked Elias.

“Desk drawer. No - the office. I keep it in the office.”

“Show me.”

Elias led her through the kitchen. The office door was locked....