The Relentless Tide

By Ted Komenda

About the Book
The Relentless Tide is a dark and gritty page-turner that follows a Cape Cod cop pursuing a vicious serial killer with a particularly sadistic style of torturing his victims. Part police procedural and part psychological thriller, the tension mounts as the local and state police join forces and race against time to save victims and bring the killer to justice.
About the Author
Ted Komenda is a lifelong resident of the town of Barnstable on Cape Cod and has been a successful, restaurateur, residential builder and salesman. He is an avid boater who incorporates his local knowledge of Cape seaside villages and decades of experiences both on and off the water into his writing to create authentic and exciting storylines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886838237

Book preview

Prologue

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November 2006

The full moon was brilliant in the night sky. The luminescence easily gave off enough light for the detective. He went about his work efficiently, without the need for a flashlight. The concrete masonry blocks were tied together with three strands of hemp line. He attached them to his quarry’s legs with another line and then secured it to the man’s shoulders with a bowline.

The building chop of the waves was dangerous. The detective carefully drove the Boston Whaler near shore, taking extra care not to capsize his boat. When he reached his destination, he rolled the unconscious man off the side of the boat into his watery grave, without any fanfare. His captive was immediately returned to consciousness by the chilly fifty-one degree water and began to struggle. His captor knew it was a useless fight.

The detective beached the boat and then stepped off onto the tidal sand. He turned to watch with a sense of achievement and had no regret or remorse. The water depth where his prisoner was situated was only about four feet deep at low water. The hogtied man was just under six feet tall, and his head and shoulders were still completely clear of the water, but the relentless tide slowly crept in.

Part 1

(Four months earlier)

Chapter 1

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July 2006

Keith Mayo sat in his old, dilapidated Jeep sipping coffee and enjoying the pristine early morning. His car was parked facing toward the water, the rag top was off, and his sail board and sail were tied to the roll bar. He pumped his fist when WEEI sports commentator John Dennis announced Tim Wakefield got the BoSox victory the night before behind a dominant pitching performance. His knuckle ball must have really been dancing last night, thought Mayo. Though Keith was a world traveler, he considered himself a proud member of Red Sox nation and constantly followed the team’s yearly summer mercurial highs and lows.

He was parked at the world renowned Kalmus Beach in Hyannis on Cape Cod. Board and kite surfers from across the globe knew the strong prevailing southwesterly breeze from May to September made Kalmus one of the top ten places to sail in the world. At about 9:30 am, the winds finally began to build.

The prior evening Keith had done some serious drinking and he was looking forward to the cool water clearing away his cobwebs. He turned himself sideways in his seat and with a slight jump, he was out of the Jeep. In one continuous motion, he undid the bungee cables that secured the board and mast and lifted them off the roll bars. He carried the forty pounds of weight down to the water’s edge and expertly placed it in the water. Keith went back to his jeep and donned his wet suit and life jacket, attached his waterproof satellite radio, and cranked up music that would inspire him for the day.

Keith attached the mast to the board, pulled out the sail, and dropped in the centerboard. He lay back in the water to fit his foot in one of the stirrups and then pulled himself onto the board and lifted the sail. In seconds, he was off. The cool water had done its chore, clearing his head, and now his excitement was soaring as he realized the perfect conditions would last all day! About 100 feet from shore, he looked back to see his miniscule wake as the beach slowly drift away.

Suddenly, his windsurfer board stopped dead in its tracks and Keith cart-wheeled clear over the triangular sail, crashing into the ocean at a high speed. The water slammed into his rib cage like the punch of a prize fighter; stunned, he slowly tried to catch his breath. Thank God for the life jacket.

Gingerly, he pulled himself onto his board and rolled onto his back. Keith knew the mast and sail in the water would act as an anchor, so he allowed himself a few moments to get his bearings. He must have hit a sandbar with his centerboard, he thought. Slowly, he rolled over onto his side to check out the water’s depth and came face to face with a woman. When he realized her head was completely submerged and one of her eyes was being eaten by a fiddler crab, he threw up his coffee. Though he couldn’t hear them over the roar of Guns ‘N Roses music playing through his waterproof headphones, his screams alerted everyone within a mile of the trouble he’d found.

Chapter 2

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Detective George Bacon ran a hand through his thick dark brown hair, adjusted his RayBans, and straightened his trim six-foot-one frame as he shut the door to his car. As the warm July sun beat down on his broad shoulders, he scanned the Kalmus Beach parking lot before focusing in on his supervisor who was approaching him.

Captain James Sturbridge was a rude whale of a man trapped in a five-foot eight-inch frame He made a rasping noise when breathing, he sweat through every shirt no matter the season, and he didn’t bathe often so there was a lingering stench about him.

 It was 11:30 am and the captain already needed a change of clothes as a result of the summer heat. His unkempt appearance, with his hair swirling in the breeze and his pants pulled up only enough to cover his frass (front ass), as well as the sweat on his face spoke volumes as to what his mood would be. He snarled Bacon as he strode toward the detective.

Cap, Bacon responded to his boss.

Captain Sturbridge barked, Get out on the beach and tell me what you think!

Slowly, Bacon walked out onto the sand. He wondered why Sturbridge was at Kalmus; normally he would have left a floater to beach patrol and the M.E. forensic doctors.

Bacon speculated about what was so special about this body. Every year, one or two fateful souls drown in the waters off the Cape, sometimes as a result of cold water, high surf, and wicked undertows and sometimes as a result of too much alcohol in the hot sun.

The smell was the first thing that hit Bacon as he approached the taped off area. Even from 100 feet, it was a nasty nasal intrusion. The pungent reek of decomposing flesh is never forgotten. It invades the olfactory senses and is so strong it can be tasted. First timers who find a decaying body usually vomit as an inevitable release. Bacon could tell the body had been in the water at least twenty-four hours; the cool July water would have preserved it for a period of time. There was no way this smell came from a body in the water less than a full day, Bacon was sure of it.

There was an entourage on the beach staring at the victim. Jack Kelly, Bacon’s partner, forensic photographer Rich Genadines, and the M.E. Dr. Bill Murphy all stood erect in a half circle staring down at the body.

Jack, what’ve we got? said Bacon above the wind.

Jack shook his head and stepped aside, his eyes vacantly focused on the incoming ferry. As Bacon’s line of sight became unobstructed, he then understood why Jack was there, why the captain was there, and why he was there. The first thing that caught his eye were the four large concrete cinderblocks tied together with a length of chain and the second thing was the rope tied from the blocks to the ankles of the body.

This was no floater, Bacon whispered to himself as he crouched to get a better view of the cinderblocks. He was glad no one heard his piercing glimpse into the brutally obvious. They wouldn’t have made a crack now, but later he would be the butt of some joke.

Bacon continued to look over the scene as he put on a pair of rubber gloves; his analytical mind compartmentalized the details. The victim was a woman who appeared to be in her early to mid-twenties. She would have been extremely attractive in life; her blonde hair was long and her body shapely with a thin waist and large breasts. In its present shape, the only way to describe her face was an absolute train wreck. The creatures of the sea had dined extensively on it and her head, leaving Bacon to only guess at what her face had looked like. However, regardless of her face, she would have turned heads with her figure.

 There were no scars or identifying marks. Her breasts had not been enhanced, so there would be no serial numbers on implants to assist with identification. The skin on her ankles had been ripped away, revealing ligaments and bone. She had struggled. Bacon was surprised that the blood hadn’t attracted bigger predators that would have loved this snack. The victim’s hands were bound with plastic cuffs that she had clearly tried to free, but to no avail. Her efforts had left her with lacerations and deep bruising on her arms. Also, when the M.E. rolled her over, there was a long shallow laceration across her back. The rest would have to be analyzed by the M.E. at autopsy. Any conclusions as to cause of death would have to be made on Murphy’s table as well, he thought. The sea was unforgiving to the dead.

He didn’t know how long he had been looking at the victim but realized most of the officers were now yards away.

He was still crouching when he looked up at Jack and asked, Who found her?

The delay in Jack’s response reminded him that Jack was very new to a crime scene as unforgiving as this one. Bacon was thankful for his years in Metro P.D. In the city, gruesome was commonplace. Jack had no such police upbringing; he came up with the summer cops on the Cape.

JACK! Bacon shouted, hoping a little tough love might help his obviously beleaguered partner.

Over there, Jack responded with his voice trembling. The windsurfer, leaning against the black Jeep. He found the body when his board ran her over.

After that, Jack stumbled away, hoping to find strength from distance. He wasn’t successful. A minute later, the fried clams he’d had for an early lunch returned to the sea.

Turning toward the M.E., Bacon asked, Any damage to the victim from the board?

Bacon was curious if the laceration on her back was postmortem or delivered by the killer. Plus he was hoping to call some attention away from his partner, who was still retching in the ocean.

The M.E., Dr. Murphy, said, It’s tough to tell at this point, but it looks like we have some transfer of tissue on the board’s keel. I’m betting it belongs to our Jane Doe here; the tearing pattern of the tissue on her back is consistent with a blunt cutting instrument.

Dr. Murphy was a tall, lean man who always had a smile and a caring way about him. He had spent some time studying abroad, so his accent didn’t have the hard New England bite to it. He also had also been a big city M.E. somewhere in the south; Bacon couldn’t remember where he worked, but he thought it might have been in Atlanta. Dr. Murphy’s kind eyes and quick laugh were at complete odds with his profession; underneath his warm exterior, though, Bacon knew Dr. Murphy was extremely bright and didn’t miss a trick. Neither he nor Bacon would lose any professionalism at this crime scene and both would try to forget it later with the help of a bottle.

When will you get started? asked Bacon.

You might want to worry about your team, not mine, said Dr. Murphy gently as he angled his head toward Jack, who was now sitting on the sand.

 Bacon watched as a member of Murphy’s team brought in the stretcher, loaded up the body with the help the M.E., and headed out.

Changing his sight line, he counted eleven squad cars and three ambulances on the scene. Bacon thought sardonically, What a great time to rob a bank in town, considering every patrol car on duty is here! They probably thought they were needed for crowd control.

The cops on shift this morning didn’t want to miss a thing; at least they turned off their sirens, Bacon said to himself.

He moved his gaze to the man against the Jeep and approached him.

My name is Detective George Bacon, he said while straightening his tie, which the wind kept blowing over his shoulder. He didn’t extend his hand to shake, but did reach inside his jacket for a notebook and pen.

Keith Mayo.

Thanks for sticking around, mumbled Bacon, then more authoritatively, Just a couple of questions. What time did you get here this morning?

I try to get here by 8:30 so I can beat the beach traffic, Mayo said, but today I got here at 9:00 because I had one too many brewskis last night, you know what I mean?

Yeah, Bacon knew exactly what he meant, and suspected Mayo had smoked too much grass over the years as well. He probably had wealthy parents who underwrote his lifestyle, which meant no work and one continuous party for Mr. Mayo, Bacon thought.

See anything suspicious?

No, man, I just parked, listened to EEI, and drank my coffee. Only people I saw were a couple of fishermen headed out to the jetty, said Mayo. He added, A couple of cars pulled in, but no one stopped.

We’re going to need your centerboard for our investigation, so please give it to this officer and he’ll give you a receipt for it, Bacon said while gesturing at the patrolman standing next to him. Thanks for the time.

Bacon made a mental note to ask the patrol man to check if the fishermen had seen anything. However, he knew both they and Mayo had arrived about forty-eight hours too late. Bacon decided it was time to walk the scene, grab Jack, and head back to the office. Amazingly, Mayo grabbed another centerboard out of the back of his Jeep and headed with his gear back into the water!

Chapter 3

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 The drive from Kalmus Beach to the station was only about ten minutes normally but summer traffic made it closer to twenty. Sitting at a dead stop on Main Street while waiting for the Duck Mobile to collect more passengers, his thoughts drifted to his first visit to the Cape, a weekend that shaped his future.

It was the summer of 1994 and he and two other cadets from the Massachusetts State Police Academy had decided to use their weekend leave for a chance at girls, sun, and fun. The motel dive they booked into was on Route 28 in Yarmouth; each cadet hoped to spend the night with a random college girl summering on the Cape at her place.

The three men weren’t exactly ugly ducklings. George Bacon, Tom Richards, and Barry Kranz were all over six feet tall and in great shape courtesy of the academy. Bacon had light hair, light skin, deep blue eyes, full lips, and a wide smile. His body was built like a swimmer, thin with long thick muscles. Tom was a light-skinned black man, six five, and built like a brick shithouse. His cheery disposition and boisterous laugh quickly overcame the initial fear large men usually encounter. Barry’s Germanic roots left him with blonde hair, blue eyes and a thick athletic build.

Bacon was the only one who had graduated college. He had spent four years at the University of Massachusetts, scraping by with a 2.3 GPA and a degree in History and no intention of studying law or teaching school; he had always wanted to be a cop. The degree, he hoped, would fast track him to his detective shield.

Friday night ended with all three cadets back in the motel room, drunk and hazy. Saturday was spent lazily at Seagull Beach, the time offset by naps and cool swims.

For happy hour, the three decided on the Dockside, a popular summer spot located right on the Hyannis inner harbor known for their big outdoor parties with live entertainment on the weekends. Anywhere from three to five hundred party goers in après beach attire could typically be found drinking and dancing into the warm summer nights.

Tom quickly struck up a conversation with two women who appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One a brunette, the other strawberry blonde, they were quickly seduced by his charm. Barry and Bacon looked at each other and silently came to the decision that Barry would be Tom’s wingman.

Of course, women were always more important and good friends understood this law of the jungle. After snagging a seat at the outside raw bar next to the boat slips, Bacon pondered his next move. As the sun began to set, he spun around in his seat to watch the effect of the dying light on the harbor and marina. Dramatic shadows and contrasting beams of light danced on the water, leaving him spellbound.

Most men come here to drink beer and chase women; you seem out of place, said a woman behind him.

Bacon lifted his bottle of Budweiser to show her he, too, was interested in at least the drinking part of her statement but didn’t turn around. He had no interest in flirting with the unattractive girl sitting behind him and hoped she would get the hint.

It just looks by your expression that you’re either about to pass out or you’re absolutely riveted by the sunset, she persisted.

Her timing was poor, a few hours later and many more beers would certainly have increased her chances. Around midnight, when the pickings got slim, any girl would keep him out of the motel hell that had been last night, unattractive or not. The smell of coconut suggested she had spent the day at the beach. Maybe she had a friend, he thought, as he spun around.

Well things were looking up; the ugly girl had left, replaced by a striking woman of mixed ethnicity. She had long, straight jet-black hair that fell uncontrolled down to the middle of her back, dark skin, oval eyes, long deeply tanned legs, firm breasts, and full mahogany lips. Stunned, Bacon was pleased with how easily and quickly he composed himself.

Where I live people would pay lots of money to enjoy this sunset, he said.

And where would that be?

Bacon thought about this for a moment, wishing he had a better answer than the state police academy barracks, but, true to his nature, simply said, New Braintree

Where the hell is New Braintree? she giggled.

Slightly blushing, he wanted to say anything but the truth.

Out near the Quabbin Reservoir, just north of the Pike, referring to the highway that ran from Stockbridge to Boston, The cheese capital of the state. He flashed his best smile.

No wonder you love the view, she stated with a sympathetic smile. You don’t look like a dairy farmer. She took a step back for an appraising view, tilted her head to the side and took her time as she looked from his feet to his head.

I’m a cadet at the state police academy, he said, then quickly added, One month to graduation.

Her face froze and she said matter of factly, Oh, I was hoping you were a professor, and turned and walked away.

Bacon was stunned. A professor? he thought and could feel his face start to heat up as the embarrassment quickly started to sink in. Was this some sort of set up by his friends?

After a few steps, she bent over at the waist and let out a deep, throaty laugh, then turned and walked back over to him.

She reached with her right hand and patted his face, saying, If the buzz cut didn’t give you away, the state police tank top does. Strange, though, to see a ‘no-brain’ cop viewing the harbor with such wonderment, she quipped as she sat on the adjacent bar stool.

This woman is crazy, Bacon decided. First, she embarrasses me, then insults me, and now she sits next to me. I wonder what she’ll do next, spit her beer in my face? He turned to the bartender and ordered another Bud while trying to regain his composure.

What, she said, You’re not going to buy a lady a drink?

I’m afraid of what you’ll do with it, he muttered, clearly trying to buy time.

Johnny, the woman said to the bartender, Put his beer on my tab and get me another, will ya? She turned to him and said, The least I can do after having laughed at you.

She certainly had Bacon’s attention now.

I’m Christina.

George Bacon.

The blare of a car horn behind him jarred Bacon back to the present. He wondered what ever happened to Barry; the last he saw of him was three years after the academy at a convention somewhere. Tom, he knew, was dead.

Chapter 4

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Cap’s looking for you, stated the desk sergeant as Bacon walked in.

No shit, he thought.

Bacon walked down the hall to the captain’s office and knocked loudly on the door, hoping to startle his boss. Just the idea of his boss banging his head or a knee as a result of Bacon’s obviously too loud of a knock sometimes was enough. The one thing about Captain Sturbridge was he didn’t like his routine broken. Bacon knew this crime was going to throw a wrench in Sturbridge’s daily doings and it pleased him.

Bacon didn’t believe in the cop promotion guarantee, which basically meant if you put in a certain number of years, you received a new position. He had made detective, remarkably, in less than three years because of hard work and a little luck. Sturbridge had made captain after fifteen years as a detective because he had been a detective for fifteen years. It was true that Sturbridge had a spotless record as an investigator, but anyone who looked even a little below the surface would have realized his record was spotless because Sturbridge had steered clear of all cases that might have cast the spotlight on him. He ran his department with that goal in mind, steer clear of everything.

WHAT! barked the captain.

Bacon opened the door a crack and stifled a laugh, knowing he had indeed startled Sturbridge. You wanted to see me, Boss?

Come in and shut the door, the captain grunted and then continued, Get over to the medical examiner’s office and confirm that suicide from down at the beach today.

Suicide? an incredulous Bacon snapped.

The chief slowly swiveled in his chair and lifted his reading glasses so he could look Bacon straight in the eyes.

Do you have any reason to believe this was anything but a suicide? challenged Sturbridge, clearly looking for a fight.

Bacon opened his mouth to respond but was cut off before he could get a word out.

Don’t make this something more than it is, Bacon. The sooner we put this behind us, the quicker we can move on. Get over to autopsy and have Dr. Murphy verify our suicide.

With all due respect, boss, we don’t even know who this woman is, let alone if we can conclude suicide. As a matter of fact, who cares who she is, argued Bacon. There is no way a person could have done this by themselves. First, where is the boat the victim used to get out to the spot where that idiot windsurfer found her? Secondly, the victim clearly struggled. And lastly, who makes their own cement shoes and binds their own hands!

Maybe the boat drifted away in the currents, maybe the woman had second thoughts and how the hell should I know how a deranged suicidal woman decides to check out, yelled Captain Sturbridge. Now get over to the M.E.’s and clear this case.

He just wants it to go away, Bacon thought, unbelievable. There was no way the M.E. was going to sign off on a suicide.

Captain Sturbridge craned his neck up at him, challenging him. Bacon decided not to give him the satisfaction, turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

Chapter 5

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The morgue was in the basement of the Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. The hospital served most of the Cape’s medical needs. The only other medical facility in the area was the Falmouth Hospital, which was good but didn’t have as many capabilities. Anyone who was beyond the scope of either was medevaced to Boston.

Upon arrival, he showed his I.D. and walked the concrete hallway to the elevators and stepped into one. When the doors reopened, Bacon headed down the hallway that ran through the bowels of the hospital. It had no windows and only a few doors and the unnatural florescent lighting gave it a bleak feel. At the end of the long corridor, he entered the morgue quietly. Most morgue visitors entered it quietly; he surmised it was the subconscious not wanting to disturb the dead.

He’s just getting started on your Jane Doe, Detective Bacon, go right in.

Thanks, Juan, Bacon said to the orderly, Juan Rodriquez.

Bacon pushed his way through the sealed swinging doors that separated the morgue office from the actual room where autopsies were performed and bodies stored. Most referred to this area as the Crypt. In the center of the room were two identical surgeons’ tables. Dr. Murphy was at the far table from the door, positioning the powerful overhead light on the body of the woman from the beach.

He raised the protective shield in front of his face and said, I just had an interesting call from your captain. He said to let you observe, but I should be sure not to let you sway my conclusions. When I pressed him, he said he felt this was most likely a suicide and didn’t want you trying to make it more than it is. Bacon was about to respond when the doctor continued, Don’t worry, I laughed at him and told him a five-year-old could tell this was a homicide and for him not to try to sway my conclusions! What a moron, he said as he dismissively waved his hand.

Good, thought Bacon, the captain couldn’t argue with an M.E. reporting