The tide was going out so the sea waves barely made it as far as to touch the lifeless body that lay on the Colombian shore. It was an old man’s body, between 68 and 72 years of age. A Foreigner. A dozen onlookers stood near the body and the policeman who was making out the report.
“Just take it east, folks,” the 30-ish, Coastal policeman urged. “The morgue people will be here shortly, same for the investigating detectives.”
He turned again to the woman who said she’d called the police.
“Now, ma’am, tell me again. Did you see anything suspicious?” he asked.
“Basically, Just the usual,” she answered the cop. “You know, kids playing round, teenagers shouting, some swimming, some just passing through briefly to see if there is any action.”
The cop noticed the woman was a vendor. “Now, what do you sell, Ma’am?” he continued.
She straightened her posture. “I sell what you see in that bucket, sir. Crabs.”
He continued scribbling. White male, foreign, tall, carrying no i.d., wearing swim trunks, Seemingly between the ages of 68 and 72. Now came the hard part. A middle-age to elderly woman sat over on the edge of the pier, crying with resignation. She was being comforted by several swimmers who’d come out of the water to see what had happened. The policeman walked over to the small group.
“Ma’am, are you related to the victim?” he asked.
“I’m his wife,” she answered tearfully. “I... i mean i was.”
“Were you here when the crime occurred?” he asked.
“No, I wasn’t. I was at home. We live just over the dune in the blue and white condominiums.”
“Is this the towel your husband brought to the beach, Ma’am?” the cop asked gently.
“yes, it is.”
“Did he have any other items with him—a radio, keys, a wallet?”
“He carried his wallet. He would have left it with the towel wrapped around it. He always did.”
“At the moment, Ma’am, there is no wallet to be found. Would it have contained much money?”
The woman sighed. She was not a foreigner. “Yes, he always carried quite a bit of cash. Maybe 4 or 5 hundred thousand pesos. But he liked big bills so they would not be bulky in the wallet.”
“What was his nationality, Ma’am?” the cop asked.
The woman cleared her throat. “He was British. His passport’s in the house.”
“Last name, ma’am?”
“Smithtower,” she answered. “Reginald smithtower.”
She continued to sob softly in disbelief.
“Ma’am,” the Policeman continued with his questioning. “What did he do if i may ask?”
The woman looked up at the questioning officer. Her face was tiring rapidly.
“What did he do?” she echoed. “He worked hard. He worked hard all his life so that we could retire here. Live a life free of worry. That’s what he did, Sir. Only that.”
End of “Free of Worry”
