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It was a bright morning, and even though Columbo was on call, he had yet to be called into work. He had the day off tomorrow, for his anniversary, and so Columbo had just ventured out to San Pedro Fish market to get what was left from the daily catch. Maybe a nice perch or white fish, nothing fancy, just a little something he could cook up for the wife and leave a nice head left over for the dog. There was a shack up the bay where he’d always go, and he’d just finished discussing the tide with the lad behind the counter—he was much more into that than into what Columbo planned to do with his fish. "Dude, just don’t leave it in the car for too long," he said.
Columbo looked at him over his reading glasses, which he was glad he hadn’t put away again, just for that look.
"I know, man, but just trust me. You lite up one blunt and then you forget it and it’s ruined. Ruined, I say." He threw his hands the air theatrically—probably already having lit up his own blunt.
Columbo sighed deeply. What he couldn’t prove, he didn’t know.
"But don’t throw it away," the lad leaned closer, and Columbo tried desperately not to smell that heady, flowery aroma. "Leave it out for the cats. They love that shit." He nodded as punctuation, as if he had just imparted great wisdom.
Columbo sighed again, then thought to himself that the dog would surely enjoy having cats to play with before interrupting himself: He could just feed the entire fish to the dog! Yes, and then hear the entire sermon his wife told him about how he spoiled the dog and neglected her, as if he didn’t want her to have it in the first place!
Then, he remembered the icebox he had just brought for this exact purpose, and quite smugly, wrapped his freshly caught fish in the ice layer.
Baring circumstances, this fish was safe.
Of course, just when he loaded the fish into his ice box, his pager went off.
Squinting his eyes—the digital screen very faint in the sunlight—he deciphered the call sign, and while he wasn’t quite sure about the street address, the trusty atlas in his glove compartment quickly helped him figure out where to go. Coincidentally, the port wasn’t too far away.
Such a shame about the fish, though maybe it would survive a few hours in the car. Maybe he should feed the entire thing to the dog, and get another one for his wife on the way home.
When he could almost see his destination behind the corner, he got stuck in a construction loop and had to turn around again. LA traffic at its finest. The entire street (and the free parking spaces he had remembered on his way there) were ripped up. He had to turn around to come back around from the other side, where, of course, parking was two quarters for the hour, what a rip-off. He’d just stopped at the curb, blatantly overlooking the no parking sign. These parking signs sure kept getting longer and more convoluted every time he looked at it. Some nefarious purpose, no doubt, especially considering the construction on the free spaces. He left his car there anyway.
The walkway to the water was already being cordoned off. He slipped through the barricade with a nod to one of the guards. Columbo greeted one of the patrol officers he knew, inquired about her sick kid—getting better, finally—and then wandered over to the wet spot next to the wharf. There were multiple patrol cars already, some from harbour authority and others from the city police. Usually dead bodies didn’t warrant this much attention.
His first steps were to the officer in charge. The body had a wallet, and was first identified as Wilbert Baxter, 32, living further out but still in LA County. His girlfriend of two years had alerted the police for his disappearance yesterday evening, when he didn’t arrive at their shared apartment after work. According to her, he was always punctual and usually informed her if he’d be there later. She didn’t know anyone who had a grudge for him. He was a contractor with the port authority, and the only complaint he had about his work was that there’d been too much of it lately.
Looking around, Columbo really had to agree with her. There wasn’t much else here but sites wrapped in construction tape, obviously just begun or half-finished. A construction site in the direction Columbo came in from, a construction site further ahead. One lone car in the distance, very close to the construction site Columbo had just driven around, the rest was cordoned off behind patrol cars and the civil cars of people around. There was a wildlife & recreation vehicle he recognized. The others, a van with a surfboard attached and a peugeot a couple years younger and both more beat-up and boring than his own, were odd choices for a hard working construction worker.
"Say, do you happen to know when the city approved this construction project?" Columbo asked one of the guys idling around the patrol cars. A dead body was always exciting, especially when you could be called in for yet another domestic you wouldn’t be able to do anything about because someone higher up went to highschool with one of them, but then, when you were at the scene, there were too many legs walking.
"Uh," the officer said. Why would he be interested in the particulars beyond the dead body? Columbo sighed deeply at the state of the world in general and the attitude of police in particular, and went to inquire with the woman from wildlife & recreation.
She shrugged, and then explained that port authority had moved construction around in the past few months without apparent reasons but yesterday they started ripping up the road without proper signage. Which she complained about particularly because her own car was impounded and she’d had to call up her friend to get it back.
"Oh?" Columbo asked her. "Is that usual?"
She shrugged again, then added, "Well, it’d fit into the current procedures, alright. They’re changing the coastline again, for the new port addition. Every day we get a new map, ignoring the preservation zones in new and exiting ways. Madness, really, so I guess they aren’t better about street construction."
Columbo nodded, sagely, and pulled out his cigar case. Carefully, he took out one, put it into his mouth and chewed on it.
"Really awful though. I thought the beaches were shallow enough, didn’t think anyone who wasn’t reckless about things would drown since most of the time the surf here pulls in, not out. And then poor Andy, pulling in the corpse, right after his shift started," she pointed further ahead. "Not that it wouldn’t be awful later in the shift, ugh. I’m saying this all wrong."
"Makes perfect sense to me," Columbo said. "Only thing worse is getting a dead body 5 minutes before your shift ends. Oh, excuse my morbidity. A hazard of the job, I’m afraid."
An officer came back from a walk of the perimeter, carrying an object. Soon, a group of officers formed around him, there was intense discussions.
Columbo chewed some more on his cigar, then tipped his hat in goodbye and ambled over to join the round.
"First I thought it was a ticket," the officer explained. "I wanted to know if there might be another witness, or something, but then I opened it— it’s a suicide note."
The letter was folded into fourths, which was odd enough. Additionally, it was printed out on fax paper. The greasy stains could be explained by Wilbert Baxter having carried it around in his pocket for awhile, but the creases were too new for that. And had anyone ever heard of a suicide note being printed out on the faxing machine at work?
"Do you know how to use a faxing machine?" he asked the officer, who blinked owlishly at him.
"Well?" Columbo prompted. Because he didn’t. Gladys at the front office was his hero.
Turning into his least favourite officer at the scene, he didn’t answer but continued blinking at him.
Columbo looked back towards the car. The street had been ripped up a few days ago there. And then there was the new construction, also only there for a few days. Something about it was bothering him.
Wouldn’t a construction worker know about coming construction? Or if he didn’t, wouldn’t his colleagues tell him to move his car?
And choosing this spot. Wasn’t it his fishmonger who told him the current in Long Beach and along the coast was very mellow because of the breakwall out in the bay built by the navy in 1911. A port worker, even if he was primarily in construction, would probably know—Of course, not everyone knew these waters. And you could drown in 6 inches as well as 6 feet. But this didn’t feel like suicide. And Columbo had learned to trust his feelings.
The lifeguard, probably Andy, was wrapped in a shock blanket, being consoled by one of the paramedics. He didn’t seem like it was helping. Of course, it wasn’t everyday you pulled a corpse out of the water. Maybe he was still thinking it was his fault. Columbo chewed his cigar harder. All of his suspicions pointed towards murder. Of course, they would have to wait for the coroner to report his findings. But Columbo had been in the business a while. He had a feel for things. None of the people present where in any way helpful to finding out what had happened.
Oh, perhaps—"Andy, was it?"
The paramedics complained that their patient, the only one alive to look after, was in shock and not to be absconded with, but to Colombo, he looked a little bit relieved, especially since his expertise was needed. "You can refuse, you know. We can just get someone from the department," Columbo told him, but honestly he was a little blanking on who to call. The LAPD didn’t have unlimited experts on things like the current maps of Long Beach and surroundings even if the tv wanted to convince you they were all powerful and all knowing.
"No, this is—good," Andy said, the lat part uncertain. Then, a little more sure of himself, he added, "I like to be helpful."
Columbo followed after the young man, who was pointing out little breaks in the waves and how you could tell the current was going. Fascinating stuff, and it made him want to ask even more—
"That’s were I saw him," Andy pointed at the largest calm-looking spot. "It was weird, because yeah, the current drags you in, but usually anyone out so far is a good swimmer… but since he was more floatsam than…" he drifted off, maybe thinking too deeply about having touched a corpse. Many people were weird about their first.
"It’s a weird spot to jump into the water to die," Andy added more certain. "The other side of the breakwall is much more dangerous. And five minutes thataway gets you to a really strong riptide during all tides."
"Hmm," Columbo agreed. And then, at the next spot Andy pointed out, they saw it. Lighter specks of what looked first like kelp were floating in the water—paper, lots of it.
Columbo looked at it, tried fishing it out, then—"Do you perhaps have a net?"
Net procured, it takes them a few hours to fish out the papers. Many of them are softened into a wet-toilet-paper-like consistency, but they’re printed on hardy paper. Paper meant to survive dirt and mud of construction sites, if Columbo were allowed to bet on it. Some of the ink had washed away but enough was left to paint a very damning picture of the kind of working conditions the port construction was held under.
Andy was elated to have been of help, and Columbo for his help, and even his least favourite officer was stepping away from his suicide theory.
And now, Columbo thought: The fun part. Letting the perp incriminate himself.
When Columbo returned home and opened his trunk, a waft of fishy odour tickled his nose. The smell of stinky fish had permeated the small space, so much so that he was astonished he hadn’t been able to smell it at the front of the car. When he opened the ice box, it smelled worse than the dead body. It was so bad, he didn’t even want to think about fresh fish any more, let alone make it for his wife. He closed the box again.
"Perhaps duck," he said into the air. Anyhow, if he boiled the damn fish outside so his wife wouldn’t even be slightly tempted to murder him, the dog would still love it.