Murder by the Dozen: A Jan Kokk Mystery

By R.F. Sullivan

Jan Kokk, Curacaos brawny answer to Belgiums impeccable Hercule Poirot, is kidnapped by the scheming security officer--attractive female, of course--of an oil tanker plying the Caribbean. Kathlee hopes Kokk will discover who is murdering the ships twelve-man crew, one by one.
Which of the crew is the murderer and why is he killing all his mates?
The motive remains a mystery until the ship--minus crew--reaches Nicaraguas isolated Little Corn Island in the Caribbean.
Kokks sleuthing fails to deter his interest in the lovely security officer, who just happens to be the daughter of the shipping companys president.
Come aboard for another test of Jan Kokks skills, both detecting and doting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496913821

R.F. Sullivan

Living in the Hill Country of Texas, author Roy Sullivan, late of the US Army and US State Department, follows the antics of famous Curacao PI, Jan Kokk. The chase is tricky since Kokk flits from crimes in the Caribbean to Las Vegas, now back to the Caribbean. If you see the big Curacao investigator, tell Kokk his invitation to visit Texas is still open.

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© 2014 R.F. Sullivan . All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 06/09/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1383-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1382-1 (e)

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Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

TWELVE ANXIOUS SAILORS

Twelve anxious sailors, looking to heaven,

One fell over the rail

Then there were eleven.

Eleven anxious sailors, all avoiding sin,

One objected, Why not try some?

Then there were ten.

Ten anxious sailors went to the mess to dine,

One got his head cracked,

Then there were nine.

Nine anxious sailors worked until late,

One couldn’t awaken,

Then there were eight.

Eight anxious sailors, groggin’ ’til the elevens,

One tried to swim ashore,

Then there were seven.

Seven anxious sailors decided to have a fix,

Later one hanged him self,

Then there were six.

Six anxious sailors happy to be alive,

One slipped, grabbing a live wire,

Then there were five.

Five anxious sailors supposed to install a door,

A hammer to the head killed one,

Then there were four.

Four anxious sailors climbed the main mast tree,

One lost his footing,

Then there were three.

Three anxious sailors too scared to say Boo!

One became frightened and jumped ship,

Then there were two.

Two anxious sailors found the captain’s gun,

They shot and stabbed each other,

And then there were none.

OTHER WORKS BY AUTHOR:

Roy F. Sullivan

Scattered Graves: The Civil War Campaigns of Confederate Brigadier General and Cherokee Chief Stand Watie.

The Civil War in Texas and the Southwest

The Texas Navies

The Texas Revolution: Tejano Heroes

Escape from Phnom Penh: Americans in the Cambodian War

Escape from the Pentagon

R.F. Sullivan

A Jan Kokk Mystery: The Curacao Connection

A Jan Kokk Mystery: Murder Cruises the Antilles

A Jan Kokk Mystery: Gambol in Vegas

How easily murder is discovered . . .

Titus Andronious, William Shakespeare

ONE

It seemed to Kokk the light—luminescent, unblinking light—burned, trying to consume him. So bright, so strong the brightness, his corneas felt seared. Further sleep, if that was what erased his memory, was impossible.

If the lights weren’t enough, a voice kept nagging, denying the unconscious lapse his big body craved.

What was the voice repeating? Why wouldn’t it stop?

"Jan. Jan. Stay awake!

Open your eyes, Jan!

Surrendering to the light and voice, he willed his eyelids open and stared at a ceiling obscured by shiny circles of fluorescence.

You’re awake!

The voice startled him and he attempted to sit up despite the heavy sheets holding him down.

Not so fast, Jan. Take it easy. How do you feel?

The voice was female. A soft, soothing voice, both familiar and intimate, called him. His foggy mind grappled for her name—her identity.

He wheezed frustration. I can’t sit up. He strained to rise.

Lie still. The soft tone of her voice changed. Why were hands—her hands—holding him down in the bed?

You may have a concussion, her voice resonated. Be still, please. You must stay awake.

The softness returned. Know where you are, Jan?

Hospital, he guessed. What happened? Why am I here?

Don’t you remember?

Moist lips pressed his forehead. "The doctor wants to examine you again. You must stay awake.

Then we’ll talk.

TWO

Early mornings in the harbor of Willemstad, capital of Curacao, are usually tranquil. Except for a few tourists ogling the pyramid-fronted, contrasting pastel shops lining the waterfront, there was no hurry, no bustle.

Overhead, terns and gulls circled, avidly searching the harbor waters for breakfast. Ashore, human counterparts began competing for bargains in Willemstad’s fine stores. Later they would lug their prizes to cruise ships in the harbor.

On this late May morning the tranquility didn’t last past eight o’clock.

The klaxon on a distant oil tanker’s bridge began squawking. Obeying the signal, a passenger lighter reluctantly maneuvered from Willemstad’s dock. There its crew had enjoyed coffee and smokes after discharging a party of tourists on the waterfront.

The tourists’ excursion of Willemstad’s Schottegat harbor made it a profitable morning for the lighter’s crew. Tips in American or Canadian dollars were shared while brags noisily compared about how each man would spend his extra earnings.

The klaxon again disrupted the crew’s happy reverie. They hurried to cast off lines while the engine was noisily cranked, then began a monotonous chugging.

Once alongside an old, rusted oil tanker—whose stern plate read Julietta, and beneath that, Bridgetown—its starboard accommodation ladder was lowered. Two of the Julietta crew clambered down into lighter seats still warm from the tourists.

The first was a young woman dressed sailor-style in dark sweater and practical work pants. Her auburn hair glinted under a woolen watch cap as she selected the forward seat. If the sailor garb’s purpose was to disguise her petite feminine form, it failed. Sailors, even elderly observers, gaped.

Azure eyes glanced at the man behind her. She set a large canvas bag in the seat beside her as a bulwark.

Good morning, Second Mate, she nodded.

Knowing why he was going ashore, she asked anyway.

Out to hire us replacements, second mate Tejada snuffled.

His nickname on the Julietta (all the crew had them) was Conejo (Rabbit) due to two prominent front teeth.

Recalling his nickname, the young woman withheld a grin.

Wiping his nose, Tejada settled himself beside the big handbag.

Sounds easy—but it’s not, he shook his head. "I couldn’t sign up a single hand at the last port. The Julietta’s spooked."

He offered her a cigarette from a crumpled pack.

No thanks, she shook her head and turned toward the approaching shore, unwilling to concede his opinion.

Their silence was accented by the screaming of the gulls, whirling overhead and diving into the waters for tiddlers. The discordant rattle of the boat’s outboard motor added to the din as the lighter made a rolling passage toward the downtown pier.

As soon as the lighter touched pier bolsters, she was out of the boat, ignoring the offered hand of a red-haired uniformed man obviously awaiting her on the pier.

Flipping his cigarette into the water, Tejada sighed, watching her rhythmic departure.

Constable Rauch, Miss. The policeman introduced himself, catching up with her long strides.

The police chief sent me, he stammered, expecting a sweaty, muscled male instead of a lithe, flower-scented female.

I know. She smiled and shook his hand. Security Officer Kathlee Sigmund.

She resumed her long strides. Thanks for meeting me. What can you tell me about your chief?

Rauch puckered his lips. Talking about the boss ain’t within my pay grade, Miss.

No complaints? she persisted.

He’s tough but fair. But please don’t…

She grinned. Don’t worry. I won’t.

In minutes they covered the several hundred yards to a red brick, one-story building whose sign proclaimed it police headquarters.

Once inside, security officer Sigmund was acknowledged and the police chief’s office door opened wide.

Police chief Felix van Hooser stood behind a long mahogany desk, assessing his attractive visitor. Even his opaque left eye noted the auburn hair, azure eyes and slim form almost hidden by the sailor sweater and work trousers. He exhaled quietly.

In turn, she measured his six-foot frame, topped by a graying crew cut. His starched khaki uniform bore shiny pieces of brass and stars. Formidable, she reckoned.

"Chief van Hooser, I’m Kathlee Sigmund, security officer of the oil tanker Julietta." She offered a small but firm hand.

We just dropped anchor.

Aplomb recovering, van Hooser nodded and indicated a chair. Coffee?

Delighted, Chief, if you’re having one.

After coffee was poured, van Hooser leaned back in his executive chair. Now, how may I help you?

Without a word, she extracted a manila file from her handbag and slapped it in the middle of van Hooser’s big glass-topped desk.

Murder, Chief! Murder!

THREE

Murder? he repeated, fumbling the cigarettes he was about to offer.

Forgive me, Chief. I should be more accurate, she corrected.

"Murders. Two of them!"

She dropped the heavy bag on the floor. As she did her composure faded. I desperately need your help, Chief!

She leaned forward. "Someone aboard my ship, the Julietta, is killing our crew, one by one. As the security officer, I’m responsible! I don’t know what to do!

They never covered a situation like I’m facing at the security school!

What happened? Van Hooser opened the file she had plunked on the desk, not taking eyes off his distraught guest.

Two nights ago, off St. Vincent, she grasped her forehead. A crewman named Roberts was attacked by an unknown person. He was thrown overboard. We never recovered his body.

Van Hooser raised bushy eyebrows. Could it have been an accident?

"No, sir. Murder.

I found blood on the deck and railing where he had been attacked and pushed overboard.

She paused to catch her breath. The night before that, she panted, "we lost another hand! An able bodied seaman named Sinclair.

Similar circumstances. Both men had been pulling deck watch.

You searched the ship thoroughly?

"Many, many times, sir. Nothing.

"Can