The Matter of the Swiped Spectacles
The Matter of the Swiped Spectacles
Steven Levi
Captain Noonan, the “Bearded Holmes” of the Sandersonville Police Department, was having a difficult time seeing. His eyes were betraying him. His vision was distorted and not getting any better. The letters on the paper before his were blurred and he could not tell one from the others.
“Now,” said a voice, “is this better?”
Suddenly the letters snapped into focus.
“This one,” said the “Bearded Holmes.”
“Fine,” said the oculist as she flipped a lens. “Now, how about this one?”
“Nope,” said the detective. “Go back to the other one, the previous one.”
After a few more choices, the woman behind the machine which switches and rotates lenses said Noonan’s vision was “fine. Just a slight change from last year. Your retinas are good,” she stalled for a moment and then said, “for your age.”
Then Noonan asked the magic question: “Will my insurance pay for the new lenses?”
“Absolutely,” said the woman with the retinoscopy expertise. “And the frames as long as you choose the ones on the far left of the waiting room.” The optometrist, a born saleswoman, then stated. “But if you find other frames you like, well, we’ll see what we can do with the insurance.”
“Big pharma wins again,” Noonan said snidely.
The mistress of the eye mechanism pulled the sight machine away from Noonan’s face and then said, “You’re the detective who solves all those wild crimes, right?”
“I wouldn’t call them ‘wild crimes,’” Noonan said carefully. “I like to think I stop crime before it starts.”
“Yes, I can see how that works.” The eye woman kind of hemmed and hawed for a few seconds and Noonan — who could read a reluctant witness like a LARGE PRINT BOOK — finally said “What’s on your mind, doc?”
“Well, I’m not an MD,” the optometrist finally said. “It’s just that, well, in this business, the word gets around.”
“And the word getting around is, . . .” Noonan asked.
“A strange thing with eyeglasses happened in Washington. State, not D. C. No one seems to know why.”
“And the strange thing is . . .”
“Someone broke into an eyeglass recycling nonprofit and stole more than 400 pairs of used glasses.”
“I can see how that would be a problem for the local police,” Noonan said and almost chuckled at his pun. “I’m assuming you mean the glasses were being collected to be given to indigents, people with no eyeglass insurance.”
“Correct. The nonprofit collects old eyeglasses and then donates them to charity. Oculists like me donate a day every few months to match people with no insurance with eyeglasses that are their prescription. Or close to it.”
“But the glasses are given for free, right?” Noonan asked.
“That’s right. Someone stole more than 400 pairs of used eyeglasses that have no street value, to use on of your law and order terms. Why would anyone do something like that?”
It was such a good question Noonan did not have an answer.
* * *
Captain Archibald Lancaster of the Washington State Troopers in Port Hadlock-Irondale, Washington, didn’t have an answer either. “You’re calling from where?”
“Sandersonville. On the Outer Banks of North Carolina.”
“And you are calling me about the stolen eyeglasses? Why?”
“Professional interest.”
“North Carolina. That’s a long way from here.”
“Correct. A better question is why is there a Washington State Trooper office in Port Hadlock-Irondale? According to Wikipedia, it’s got a booming population of about 4,000 people.”
Lancaster laughed. “Wikipedia is great with facts, not so much with reality. The office is in Port Hadlock-Irondale but it is only eight miles from Port Townsend. The Trooper office is here because we are close to the intersection of Washington State Route 19 and Chimacum Road. That probably means nothing to you but, in terms of traffic problems, it means a lot to us.” He chuckled. “North Carolina. You probably have more people in Sandersonville than we have in all of Jefferson County.”
“Maybe. Tell me about the glasses?”
“Why? You’re in North Carolina.”
“Professional interest.”
Lancaster laughed again. “OK. Not much to tell. Someone went into the back room of the Irondale Community Foundation and made off with 437 pairs of glasses.”
“Did they break in?”
Lancaster laughed. “Break in? That’s a big city term. Nobody locks their door in Irondale. No, whoever it was just walked in, opened the garage door and loaded the crates of eyeglasses into the back of a whatever. Probable a pickup. Then off they went.”
“Any idea why anyone would steal used eyeglasses?”
“Not a clue. All I have is a report. Not a police report, just a report. The only clue, if you want to call it that, was a pickup with a lot bumper stickers was seen in the area.”
“On surveillance tapes?”
“Yes. But not at the nonprofit. It doesn’t have any security. From the area. Just a beaten pickup with a lot of bumper stickers. Greenie types, You know, “Eat Wild Seafood,” “Save the Whales” and “Buy Local, Buy Vancouver.”
“Vancouver?”
“Yeah.” He spelled it out. “It’s a Jefferson County genetic improved salmon hatchery in some creek on the north side of the Olympics. Olympic National Park to you. It’s a startup operation.”
“Did you check them out? I mean, to see if one of their trucks was involved.”
“Didn’t have to. You can’t get there from here. The hatchery is not on the road. Or a road. You can only get there by boat. Those bumper stickers are quite common. No, the truck did not come from the hatchery.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Nothing to investigate. Someone stole garbage which has no value.”
“So you don’t mind if I nose around a bit?”
“Not at all. If you see a crime, let me know.” Lancaster chortled at his own pun.
* * *
When it came to sleuthing, Noonan’s two tried-and-true sources of information were history and the local newspapers. Historically there was not a lot on either Irondale. Or Port Hadlock for that matter. Irondale was named for the first blast furnace in the state. In 1881, eight years before Washington statehood. But the plant was only profitable for those eight years. Then it closed leaving only its name. Over the years it became nothing more than a bedroom community.
Port Hadlock was not much luckier. It had been founded by Samuel Hadlock — and thus the name — in 1870. He built a sawmill on the south end of Port Townsend Bay and sold lumber around the world. Later, in 1910, a methanol plant was constructed. Being the recycler of its day, the plant turned sawdust into a wood alcohol which was used for fuel and solvents and, eventually, antifreeze. Noonan knew wood alcohol was poisonous to humans which was probably one of the reason the plant went out of business within a few years. Then, over the years, Port Hadlock, too, became a bedroom community.
Both Irondale and Port Hadlock were located in Jefferson County, a long, narrow geographic entity named for Thomas Jefferson. In the center of the county were the Olympic Mountains which rose to 8,000 feet. The county stretched 100 miles from the Washington interior to the Pacific Ocean. It had a population of just under 30,000 with an area of 2,183 square miles which made it a shade less large than Delaware. The largest city was Port Townsend which had one-third of the population of the county.
Though the county was long and narrow, it was dominated by the Olympic National Forest which was an effective buffer between the eastern and western portions of the county. President Grover Cleveland created the Olympic Forest Reserve in 1897 and President Roosevelt made it a National Park in 1938, all 898,000 acres. And added another 300 square miles in 1940. There was at least one large inholder, a lodge owner, and he was bought out by the Park Service in 1981. Courtesy of the prevailing winds from the Pacific Ocean, the Park is drenched, water in the spring, summer and fall and snow in winter. In a usual winter, the mountain peaks will accumulate more than 17 inches of snow a month. Because the National Park is situated in the center of Jefferson County, there is no roadway across the county that stays with the borders of the county. The mountains not only block roadways, they block the moisture bearing winds leaving eastern Jefferson County in a rain shadow, the reason resident refer to their climate as the “banana belt.”
There was a dearth of local information on the area. There were several newspapers, one of them a daily, but, for the most part, the news was lackluster and local. Not of much interest and offered no clues for Noonan to follow. The only real lead he had was Vancouver Salmon. The documentation turned out to be extensive, educational and troubling, all at the same time. The salmon species was, biologically speaking, a variety. Species, Noonan discovered, was the basic unit of classification while a variety is a division of that classification. Dogs, for instance, are all the same species, but Airedales, Bichons, bulldogs and chihuahuas are varieties.
The Vancouver Salmon was a variety of salmon, maybe, and here the story became murky. Supposedly the Vancouver Salmon was an “enhanced variety” which had been developed in a private laboratory in Salem, Oregon. It was hinted, but never stated in writing, this laboratory was associated with Willamette University. But it was stated — printed extensively up and down the Pacific Coast and supported with a substantial advertising campaign — the Vancouver Salmon were a distinct variety of the species which substantially reduced cholesterol, was high energy and lacked any pollutants because of where the fry were raised. These claims Noonan found laughable because all fish are low in cholesterol, are high energy and the reason “wild caught” fish of any species are healthier than farmed fish is because the “wild caught” are pollution free. This is the reason they are called “wild caught.”
In the case of the Vancouver Salmon, the difference was advertising. To the tune of millions of dollars. Digging beneath the surface, Noonan discovered the Vancouver Salmon was the creation of a rather disreputable entrepreneur. A Wall Street Wolf futures billionaire, Jerome Vancouver — formerly Jerome Smith but that name had been too colorless — had purchased several hundred acres on both sides of an unnamed river about 25 miles west of Port Angeles on the coast between the Olympic National Park and Strait of Juan de Fuca. He built a hatchery on the river, fought the State of Washington and the feds for the unique designation of Vancouver Salmon, and proceeded to flood the market with advertising.
His hatchery was unique because the river location was close to a massive estuary. This ws a blessing to the Vancouver Salmon fry because it meant there were lots of places the young fish could hide and grow to adulthood without being devoured by predators, those of fin as well as wing. But because the distance between the hatchery and the estuary was short — about three miles — the river was annually clogged with predators when the salmon fry made their way oceanward. Vancouver — the entrepreneur, neither the salmon nor the explorer — reduced the loss to predators by installing screen mesh along the bottom of the stream in critical locations.
It took Noonan a while to discover the use of these screens. Standard in the salmon industry, the screens allow a space below the nets for the salmon fry to be safe from the predators above. After a difficult hatch, salmon fry are not true swimmers. They are actually floaters in the sense they drift downriver. Those that make it to the estuaries hide among the grass island and develop protective camouflage.
But they have to make it to the estuaries. 90% of the them do not. But by installing the screens, more fry will survive the float to the estuarian environment.
The sale of Vancouver Salmon was brisk but it was generally agreed the variety did not taste any different than other salmon on the market. The difference was the advertising. As a result of the print, television and FAM writeups, Vancouver Salmon had not only established a niche in the market but it dominated that niche. Sales increased steadily to the point people asked for the salmon by name.
Fresh and fresh frozen salmon were the bulk of the seasonal market and the remaining fish were canned or enclosed in retort pouches. The hatchery was careful to make sure supply did not supersede demand. Vancouver Salmon, like all other salmon, was increasing its reach in the market because of the demand for quality, pollution-free foods by millennials while older consumers preferred beef and white meat. After six years in the business, Vancouver Salmon went public and its stock was rising. (Noonan was humored at the double pun.)
A distant gong in the convolutions of Noonan’s cerebral cortex chimed. Something was amiss here.
When you don’t know what you don’t know, ask an expert.
So Noonan did.
He placed a call to the State of Washington Department of Fish and Game. When he got Harriet Twana on the line, he had a feeling he should be familiar with the name.
“Twana? That’s a local tribe, right?”
“For someone from North Carolina, that’s impressive.”
“I love history. What can you tell me about Vancouver Salmon.”
“What do you know about salmon?”
“They taste good with butter and lemon.”
“Good start. The Vancouver Salmon is a brand name as opposed to a variety. That is, it’s not a unique salmon variety even if Jerome Vancouver advertises it is.”
“So he’s lying?”
There was a long pause on the line. Finally Twana came back live, “Are you really a cop?”
“That’s what my ID says I am.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “You FAX me a copy of your ID badge and then call me back.”
“Email won’t do?”
“Not for the State of Washington. A FAX goes to one machine: mine. An email can come from anywhere and go anywhere.”
“Give me the magic number.’
* * *
As soon as Twana received the FAX of Noonan’s identification badge and after she called the Sandersonville Police Department for confirmation, she was on the phone to Noonan.
“Harriet says you owe her a day off for lying. She admitted she was telling a lie when she said you worked there. She said you actually just draw paycheck there.”
“My loyal staff.”
“Yeah, ain’ life tough. Now, in answer to the questions you have not asked, Jerome Vancouver is a disreputable fellow and anything he does is crooked.”
“How can a salmon hatchery being crooked?”
“We don’t know. That is, we don’t know yet. It’s a well-known fact he would rather steal a dime than earn an honest dollar. Therefore, by extension, anything he does is disreputable.”
“It that’s true, why hasn’t he been stopped before?”
“Friends in high places. And he skirts the edge of the law.”
“I can’t help you getting him to justice. That’s your job, the State of Washington. If his hatchery is part of a scam, any idea what it is?”
“All I can do is tell you what we do know.”
“Fair enough.”
“The Vancouver Salmon is a marketing ploy. Its fish are no different than other varieties of salmon. What makes the difference is the marketing. Jerome Vancouver has pumped millions into convincing consumers the Vancouver Salmon is a superior, high quality food. His market share is unusually large because of the advertising.”
“Is he successful or just lucky?”
“A little bit of biology is necessary here. When the salmon hatch they are vulnerable to being eaten by predators. The predators know nature’s cycle and clog the streams where and when the fry are hatching. Over the years hatcheries have been able to increase the escapement of the fry by putting screens along the bottom of the streams. This way, as the fry as being swept downstream to estuaries, they progress under the screens which protect them from predators.”
“The Vancouver Salmon hatchery is about three miles from the ocean. So there are screens along the bottom of the river the whole way?”
“Not every foot of the way. Just in the critical stretches of the stream where the water is slow.”
“How does he make money?
“Every three to five years the salmon return. That’s how hatcheries make money. The salmon fry who escape today will be the salmon fillets sold in three to five years.”
“OK, what makes you think Jerome is pulling a fast one?”
“For some reason he is overharvesting. That is, he is holding back a lot of salmon that should be on the market. Why?”
“How much salmon are we talking about?”
“Maybe half a year’s sales. We just don’t know what he is planning. A guy like that plans.”
“If he has a large market share, or, at least, an identifiable market share, won’t holding back salmon allow him to increase his price?”
“Yes, but only for those buyers who specifically favor his salmon brand. There’s a lot of salmon from his geographical area on the market, Those who have a preference for the salmon from the shores of Juan de Fuca salmon will buy those rather than say Puget Sound salmon or Alaska Salmon.”
“But he’s not doing anything illegal.”
“True. But whatever he is going to do, it will be sleazy.”
The bell in Noonan’s brain clanged a chime. “A couple of more questions,” Noonan said as he looked at his notebook. “
Noonan thought for a moment and then asked. “It’s hard to tell distance on a map but the Vancouver hatchery seems to be pretty close to the Olympic Mountains. Every spring there’s got to be one hellacious runoff. Doesn’t that massive increase in water rip out the screens?”
“The hatchery is too far downstream. All the hatcheries in the area get a lot of water coming down river in the spring. The screens are anchored solid enough there’s no damage. Most of the stuff that could rip out a screen, like broken tree limbs are on the surface so they float well above the screens. There’s nothing bouncing along the bottom of the stream that will rip out or cover the screen.”
Noonan, again, heard that gong.
He thought for a moment. Then he asked, “What would happen if the screens suddenly washed away. Wouldn’t that put a hatchery out of business?”
“If the screens and nets got washed away, no fry would make it to the estuaries. It would be an immediate expense to put the screens back in place. And in three to five years, depending on the salmon run, there would be no full-grown salmon returning . . .”
The gong in Noonan’s brain was clear as a bell.
“So, if, at the right moment, if something happened to the screens at a hatchery, it would lose an entire season of harvest and three years later it would go out of business?”
“That’s an extreme way of looking at it, but yes.”
“Does Vancouver Salmon have any close competitors along Juan de Fuca?”
“About a dozen of them. All small and all along the coast.”
The clang in Noonan’s mind was, metaphorically speaking, brain shaking.
* * *
Noonan was sitting in his office contemplating the joy of the week ahead. There had been a robbery of four tons of hummus from a chickpea factory in Florida and that was exactly the kind of a mind puzzle he savored.
Assuming — and ever hopeful — it was not joke, Noonan was tossing wild robbery-related concepts back and forth in his mind when Harriet set a large box on his desk. Noonan looked over as Harriet deftly flipped back the four cardboard lids. She did not say a word as she pulled out a glass container, opened it and dug out a dollop of a brown substance with a spoon she had in her free hand.
“Smoked salmon spread.” She gave a heavenly smile, her eyes half-closed. “ I just love smoked salmon spread.”
Noonan reached for the box. Harriet slapped the back of the reaching hand. “Not a chance. This is booty and law enforcement officials — that’s you — cannot accept a reward or payment for services rendered.”
“I didn’t render any service to that salmon,” Noonan said angrily as he pointed at the salmon spread. Harriet ignored him as she produced a letter from inside the box as if she were a magician and the letter a rabbit out of a hat.
“I can tell you what it says. It’s from a muckety muck in the State of Washington Department of Fish and Whatever. Seems they caught a number of employees of the Vancouver Salmon hatchery attempting to dump boxes of used eyeglasses into the streams above six other hatcheries along the shoreline of Juan de Fuca. Is that really a place, Juan de Fuca? I used to go out with a man with a name like that.”
Noonan looked at the note. “Yes, it is a place, a shoreline actually. Clever plot,” Noonan looked up at Harriet. “If they had been dumped into the rivers, the used eyeglasses would have sunk to the bottom of the waterways and slowly bounced their way downstream. With the current. When they got to places where there were salmon screens on the bottom . . .”
“Salmon screens. What are they?”
“When salmon hatch they are vulnerable to being eaten. They are incredibly small. To increase the number of survivors, hatcheries put screens just a bit above the bottom of the river. The young salmon, called fry, are swept under the screen. That way the hungry, salmon fry eating predators can’t get to them.”
“Aaaahaa, I get it. The used eyeglasses bounced along the bottom and got stuck on the screens. That would keep the young salmon from getting under screens. So more got eaten.”
“Correct. And in three years, those salmon hatcheries would have gone belly-up. That’s how long it takes a salmon to mature.”
“Let me think like a criminal,” Harriet took another dollop of salmon spread. “Since the glasses were on the bottom of the river, the hatchery would not have even known the eyeglasses had clogged the screens.”
“My bet too. Eventually the eyeglasses would have washed downstream. Probably with the next spring flood. Three years later the hatchery would wonder why it was going broke because no salmon were returning.”
“But old whatever his name is, his hatchery would be going great guns.”
“You got it,” said Noonan. “And he’s been holding back salmon from the market. Probably replacing the older salmon fillets each year. In three years, he could have been the only Juan de Fuca hatchery in business.”
“He’d a made a killing. How’d you stop him?”
“Oh, I didn’t.” Noonan gave a mischievous smile. “There is no police report for the eyeglasses because having them is no crime. Dumping the eyeglasses into a river would only be a fine for environmental degradation. Even that’s not a felony.”
“Well, he’s a crook! What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I suggested the State of Washington file a complaint with the United States Attorney in Seattle.”
“Well, if there’s no crime, what good will that do?”
“I suggested they claim he was taking advantage of information not known to the industry or the public. That’s called ‘insider trading.’ That’s jail time. And if there’s other matters on hold with the feds, he might go away for a long time.”
“I love it when you use that term ‘long time.’ Probably couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“I agree. And, you know, speaking of the salmon fry, those little critters, did I tell you about the guy who came into a bar with a lizard on his shoulder?”
“I can feel a joke coming on.”
“Maybe. The bartender asked what the lizard’s name was.”
“Let me guess. Its name was little or small or tiny.”
“Right. Tiny. Then the man said to the bartender, ‘because he’s my newt.’”
[Follow the exploits of Detective Heinz Noonan at www.authormasterminds.com/steve-levi. See if you can solve the impossible crimes faster than the detective — matters such as a greyhound bus disappearing off the Golden Gate Bridge, how a plane can fly and land with no pilot, crew or passengers and why would anyone want to steal an empty armored car?]
