Chapter 5: Blood Evidence

On August 12, Ocean Star 2682 was towed back to its home port—the dock of Great Lakes Fisheries. A crowd had gathered—families, company reps, a few local TV cameras. The ship’s battered hull cut a forlorn figure against the Cleveland skyline, its story not yet over.

But as the 11 rescued men disembarked, they saw several police cars waiting at the dock. A little girl dropped her welcome sign, her dad’s name written in glitter. The sound of handcuffs closing was louder than the news choppers overhead. Blue lights flashed in the morning sun. The dock, usually full of laughter and shouting, was silent but for the click of officers’ radios and the heavy footsteps on steel.

All 11 were immediately taken away by the police. Officers led the men away in handcuffs, reading their rights. Reporters jostled for position, microphones thrust forward, questions shouted but unanswered. The families stood frozen in disbelief.

Why would the police detain the survivors of a disaster? Whispers started up—everything from mutiny to piracy. Nobody wanted to say the word “murder,” but everyone was thinking it.

It turned out that Caleb’s report had been submitted to the U.S. Maritime Safety Administration and then forwarded to the police. After reviewing the report, police investigators found numerous inconsistencies. The report was spread out on a conference table in a gray-walled station. Detectives pointed out contradictions, their voices low and skeptical. The story was unraveling by the minute.

According to Caleb, after Ben and his group left, he had switched on the radio and called for help. One detective circled the lifeboat schematic with a red marker, frowning. "Doesn’t add up," he muttered.

At that time, the ship was equipped with an unpowered lifeboat, which relied on manual rowing and could only travel 3–5 nautical miles per hour. When the plane searched, the lifeboat couldn’t have gotten far. The math was clear: they should’ve spotted the missing men if they’d really escaped that way. The officers exchanged knowing glances.

But according to information from the Japanese side, on the afternoon of July 25, they had sent a plane to search the area, but found no sign of a lifeboat. A report from the Japanese Coast Guard, stamped and official, was passed around. "No lifeboat, no debris," the summary read. The American investigators frowned deeper.

On July 27, Japanese Coast Guard personnel also fished some clothes and blankets out of the sea. They later sent these items to Ocean Star 2682, telling the crew they could dry them to keep warm. That detail made the officers’ skin crawl. It sounded like someone was trying to stage a story, not survive a shipwreck.

Investigators analyzed that the clothes and blankets appeared near the vessel only because the remaining 11 people had thrown them into the sea. This action aroused police suspicion. The officers wrote “evidence disposal” on the whiteboard in thick black marker. Someone shook his head, muttering, “Amateurs.”

Thus, the 11 survivors were taken to the police station for questioning. Interrogation rooms filled with harsh fluorescent lights and hard chairs—each survivor sat alone with detectives, the walls closing in. In the first round of questioning, everyone’s stories were consistent and closely matched the captain’s report. It was too neat—everyone reciting from the same script. The detectives exchanged knowing looks; they’d seen this before.

But when the police questioned them individually, each person’s account differed. It didn’t take long for cracks to show. Little details—a time, a name, an order of events—began to contradict each other. The truth started leaking through like water through a cracked hull. On certain details, their stories even contradicted one another.

Police immediately dispatched investigators and forensic experts to the ship for a detailed inspection. A forensics team in white coveralls combed every inch of the ship, swabbing, photographing, and cataloging. They worked under the harsh harbor sun, watched by seagulls and the curious eyes of company men.

The forensic team sprayed luminol throughout the ship, and the results were shocking. Blue glows lit up in patches all over the ship—deck, cabins, even the mess. The pattern was unmistakable: not one, but many violent acts had taken place here. On the deck and in the cabins, there were large areas of bloodstains everywhere. The stains, invisible to the naked eye, bloomed under the chemical spray—ghostly reminders of what had happened in the dark heart of the Pacific.

After collecting blood samples and conducting DNA tests, they found that the blood of Ben and several others—who were supposedly among those who escaped—was also present. The results arrived in sealed envelopes. The lead detective ripped one open, eyes narrowing. “No way they made it off the ship,” he said quietly. The claim that they had escaped in the lifeboat collapsed immediately. With the evidence staring them in the face, the story the survivors had told crumbled. The detectives began preparing for a second round of questioning.

The police interrogated the 11 men again. This time, the detectives pressed harder, voices low and relentless. The men, exhausted and frayed, began to falter. This time, they put up only mild resistance before confessing everything. One by one, their resolve broke. A few asked for lawyers; most just lowered their heads, voices barely above a whisper as they recounted what really happened.

The truth was that these 11 people were the masterminds of the incident. The cold fact hit the investigators like a slap: the survivors were the killers. The ones who had come home, looking so battered and lost, were the ones who had turned on their own. Among them, 27-year-old Jason Goodwin from Minnesota was the chief planner and instigator. Jason, who’d seemed like a leader and friend, was the one who’d set it all in motion. His mug shot now stared up from a police folder, eyes cold and hollow.

Captain Caleb, originally a victim, was eventually "recruited" and became an executioner. The betrayal ran deep. Caleb, once their boss and protector, had crossed a line and joined the killers. The crew’s world had turned upside down, loyalty twisting into horror.

Together, they killed 20 other crew members aboard, while two crewmen, Matt Young and Wayne Long, mysteriously disappeared during the voyage. The final tally was almost too much to process: twenty dead, two vanished, eleven left to face the consequences. The nation’s headlines blazed with the tragedy—"MASSACRE AT SEA: PACIFIC NIGHTMARE." Families grieved, and the fishing company’s name became a byword for scandal.

This truth shocked everyone. Across the country, from truck stop diners in Montana to the break rooms of Great Lakes Fisheries, the story played on every screen. The shock was total. People who thought they knew these men could only stare in disbelief.