stumped up and down the separate docks, asking questions, talking to folks.
That first pass wasn't particularly productive. No one had seen anyone acting strangely the night before. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. When you're working a homicide investigation, those kinds of answers are to be expected, either because the various witnesses really haven't seen anything or because they don't want to become involved. It's also the reason why detectives seem to go back over the same ground, asking the same questions again and again.
Gradually, however, through the eyes of Gunter Gebhardt's peers, a complex picture began to emerge. "That damn hardheaded Kraut," as Gunter was referred to more than once, wasn't what you could have called Mr. Personality.
Despite thirty years spent working there, he hadn't been especially well liked in Ballard's fishing community. Grudgingly respected, yes, but not necessarily liked. A few people made wryly derogatory comments about Gunter's fishing capability. I wasn't able to sort out if they were just making fun of him--which in Norwegian fishing circles pretty much goes with the program--or if Gunter Gebhardt really hadn't been all the good a fisherman. Still, not even his most outspoken critics faulted Gunter's general business acumen and sense of duty.
We spent almost half an hour with Dag Rasmussen, a grizzled and opinionated old salt whose boat,The Longliner , was berthed two boats away from the charred remains of Gunter Gebhardt'sIsolde . Clad in greasy coveralls, Dag was elbow-deep in overhauling the main engine on his boat when we interrupted him.
"Gunter Gebhardt was one tough son of a bitch and hell to work for, too," Dag told us. Leaning on the rail ofThe Longliner , he seemed unperturbed by our dragging him away from his work.
"You have to remember that Kraut was still making money when lots of the other guys were falling by the wayside. And don't forget, either," Dag added, shaking a gnarled finger in my face, "after Henrik Didriksen's heart attack, Gunter was the one who held things together for Inge, and him only a son-in-law. I give him plenty of credit for that."
"What do you mean he was hard to work for, Mr. Rasmussen?" Sue asked.
Dag laughed and sent a brown wad of spittle arcing into the water between his boat and the one alongside. Several of his teeth were missing. The ones that remained were stained brown with tobacco juice. It reminded me why the Ballard area is sometimes referred to as Snoose Junction.
"He was big on busywork; always wanted the guys on his boat to work like dogs. Behind his back, they used to call him ‘Gunter the Nazi.'"
Sue and I exchanged veiled glances. Those words might have been truer than anyone speaking them could possibly have suspected. Dag continued with his garrulous recitation.
"He didn't want to pay them nothing, either. He made up his own rules and docked his guys' pay for every infraction. Years ago, he opted out of the Vessel Owners Association. Said he was sick of settling up according to the set-line agreement when he wasn't getting nothing for it. That's about the time he stopped taking union crews and started negotiating his own deals."
"Why was that?"
Dag looked at Sue as if she must have just crawled out from under a rock. "So he wouldn't have to pay union scale," he answered simply.
"But people still worked for him anyway?"
"Ja, sure," Dag said. "You know how it is. The ones who need money bad enough don't give a damn about union wages, and the newcomers don't know the difference. They're just happy to have a job."
The possibility of union/nonunion difficulties was something to think about--a new wrinkle in our inquiry. If it turned out that labor relations had something to do with the case at hand, it wouldn't be the first time union wrangling had ended up as part of a Seattle P.D. homicide investigation.
"Would you happen to know the names of any of these nonunion crew members?" I asked.
"Hell,
That first pass wasn't particularly productive. No one had seen anyone acting strangely the night before. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. When you're working a homicide investigation, those kinds of answers are to be expected, either because the various witnesses really haven't seen anything or because they don't want to become involved. It's also the reason why detectives seem to go back over the same ground, asking the same questions again and again.
Gradually, however, through the eyes of Gunter Gebhardt's peers, a complex picture began to emerge. "That damn hardheaded Kraut," as Gunter was referred to more than once, wasn't what you could have called Mr. Personality.
Despite thirty years spent working there, he hadn't been especially well liked in Ballard's fishing community. Grudgingly respected, yes, but not necessarily liked. A few people made wryly derogatory comments about Gunter's fishing capability. I wasn't able to sort out if they were just making fun of him--which in Norwegian fishing circles pretty much goes with the program--or if Gunter Gebhardt really hadn't been all the good a fisherman. Still, not even his most outspoken critics faulted Gunter's general business acumen and sense of duty.
We spent almost half an hour with Dag Rasmussen, a grizzled and opinionated old salt whose boat,The Longliner , was berthed two boats away from the charred remains of Gunter Gebhardt'sIsolde . Clad in greasy coveralls, Dag was elbow-deep in overhauling the main engine on his boat when we interrupted him.
"Gunter Gebhardt was one tough son of a bitch and hell to work for, too," Dag told us. Leaning on the rail ofThe Longliner , he seemed unperturbed by our dragging him away from his work.
"You have to remember that Kraut was still making money when lots of the other guys were falling by the wayside. And don't forget, either," Dag added, shaking a gnarled finger in my face, "after Henrik Didriksen's heart attack, Gunter was the one who held things together for Inge, and him only a son-in-law. I give him plenty of credit for that."
"What do you mean he was hard to work for, Mr. Rasmussen?" Sue asked.
Dag laughed and sent a brown wad of spittle arcing into the water between his boat and the one alongside. Several of his teeth were missing. The ones that remained were stained brown with tobacco juice. It reminded me why the Ballard area is sometimes referred to as Snoose Junction.
"He was big on busywork; always wanted the guys on his boat to work like dogs. Behind his back, they used to call him ‘Gunter the Nazi.'"
Sue and I exchanged veiled glances. Those words might have been truer than anyone speaking them could possibly have suspected. Dag continued with his garrulous recitation.
"He didn't want to pay them nothing, either. He made up his own rules and docked his guys' pay for every infraction. Years ago, he opted out of the Vessel Owners Association. Said he was sick of settling up according to the set-line agreement when he wasn't getting nothing for it. That's about the time he stopped taking union crews and started negotiating his own deals."
"Why was that?"
Dag looked at Sue as if she must have just crawled out from under a rock. "So he wouldn't have to pay union scale," he answered simply.
"But people still worked for him anyway?"
"Ja, sure," Dag said. "You know how it is. The ones who need money bad enough don't give a damn about union wages, and the newcomers don't know the difference. They're just happy to have a job."
The possibility of union/nonunion difficulties was something to think about--a new wrinkle in our inquiry. If it turned out that labor relations had something to do with the case at hand, it wouldn't be the first time union wrangling had ended up as part of a Seattle P.D. homicide investigation.
"Would you happen to know the names of any of these nonunion crew members?" I asked.
"Hell,
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