Crooked River(12)
“How many feet? For the love of God, Pendergast, just give me a number!”
No answer.
They reached the crime scene tape and Pendergast held it up while Smithback was shoved under it. He turned and Pendergast handed him back his phone.
“If you trespass again,” Red Hair said, jabbing his finger hard into Smithback’s chest, “we’ll arrest you. You got that?”
All three turned and walked away. Smithback watched them go, sweating and cursing under his breath. Then he examined his phone, morosely flipping through his photo gallery. The pictures were indeed gone. But wait: a freshly typed message was sitting on his notepad. It said simply: Check trash. This once.
And there, waiting in the trash, was a small but extremely well-chosen selection of his photographs.
6
IT’S LIKE A damn fish market in here,” Moira Crossley heard one of the autopsy technicians mutter as he unpacked a refrigerated crate full of feet, which had just arrived via ambulance. He arranged them on a gurney, where other technicians were logging and photographing them, assembly-line fashion. Crossley was the chief medical examiner for the District 21 office, and she thought she had seen everything in her many years on the job. All kinds of full or partial remains had washed up on beaches in her time, some with pretty bizarre characteristics. But this…this was beyond the beyond. More than sixty feet—on a preliminary inspection, at least. Did this represent sixty-plus homicides? If that were the case, they might be dealing with one of the worst mass killings in Florida history. If the individuals were still alive, however…then where were they? And what had happened? It defied all explanation.
Crossley’s normally quiet and orderly laboratory was a beehive of activity, and it did indeed smell like a fish market—its wares gone bad in the sun. Rivulets of seawater ran down the floor to the central drains, mingled with wriggling shrimp and other sea creatures that had been feeding on the feet, now dislodged by handling.
Another ambulance had just pulled in with two more crates, bringing the total to—sweet Lord in heaven—more than ninety feet, all encased in the same green coverings. She had called in her entire staff, four technicians and two assistant forensic pathologists, to handle the influx. Chief Perelman of the Sanibel Island PD was also there, having arrived with the last batch, along with two of his detectives. Fort Myers homicide was also involved, not to mention several Coast Guard staff in operational dress who appeared to have no clue about what they were supposed to be doing, standing around with furrowed brows, trying to look occupied.
But among the group milling around, one figure stood out like a sore thumb: a tall, pale man in a white linen suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie. He had a chiseled face and a pair of eyes that glittered like polished dimes. While the man himself was as immobile as a Greek statue, those eyes roamed restlessly about, taking in everything.
Crossley turned to her assistant, Paul Rameau. “No time like the present,” she said.
“For what?” he asked. Paul was a great big teddy bear of a technician, practically bursting from his scrubs, with a beard like a Viking’s. He was a hard worker, eager to please, but not, she had to admit, the brightest bulb in the room.
“Grab one of those and bring it to Bay One. We’re going to do a dissection.”
“Now?”
“I was actually thinking the Thursday after next.”
“Right, okay, sorry.” Using forceps, Paul gingerly picked up a foot, put it in a container, and carried it into one of the small exam stations set along one wall. As she removed it and placed it on a dissection table, Rameau set up the video recorder and tested it.
“Implements.”
Rameau filled a rolling trolley with dissecting tools and wheeled it over. Crossley slipped her mask up and selected a small pair of tweezers.
“I beg your pardon,” came a voice from behind her, smooth as satin.
She turned to see the pale man. “Yes?”
“I should like to observe, if that is possible.”
She had no idea what he was doing there. He looked like nobody she had ever seen before in law enforcement—or medicine. “And who might you be?” she asked.
A hand slipped into the suit and out came a leather wallet, which dropped open, exposing a gold-and-blue shield below and an ID above.
“Ah, FBI,” Crossley said. Whatever else he was, he was probably—almost surely—a rung above the others on the ladder. He certainly radiated authority.
“Special Agent Pendergast,” said the man, with a slight nod. The accent was unmistakable and unlike any other Southern intonation, and she quickly recognized it from her childhood as that rarefied upper-class New Orleans accent possessed by only the oldest of families. Pendergast…the name was vaguely familiar, too, and not in a pleasant way.
“Chief Medical Examiner Moira Crossley,” she said briskly. “You’re welcome to watch. But gown up and stay well out of the way.”
“Certainly.”
She turned her attention to the foot on the table and, with the video now rolling, began the gross examination, starting with a description. She examined the end of the bone, noting that the amputation was crude in the extreme, effected by a dull, heavy-bladed instrument that left cut marks and splintering. It appeared that a series of such blows—at least six, judging from the marks on the tibia and fibula—had separated the foot from the body about two inches above the ankle joint. Sea life had stripped the area above the joint of flesh, leaving only bone. But below that the flesh, protected by the covering, was still present. It had swollen badly and was squeezing out of the opening. Clusters of tiny sea animals were still clinging to the raw flesh—worms, amphipods, cyprids, and sea lice. The flesh was all chewed up and she could see oozing holes where larger creatures had burrowed.