Saving an Innocent Man

by Robert E B Wright

  "Good thinking."

  The two men walked to the right side of the plane, the side where Malcolm had cowered under the wing. It was the only open entry to the cabin. The wing on the left side had broken and blocked the door. A four-inch space was all that allowed Mike Galvo's arm to hang to the ground.

  The stench of a grossly decomposed human body was unbelievable. Enough to make anybody retch. And they did. After approaching the opening, the two men reversed direction and snorted their way back from the wreck.

  Looking nauseous, the policeman said, "I've got a couple of gas masks in the chopper, thank God!"

  After taking a few deep breaths, on went the masks and on went the mission. At the doorway, the policeman swung one end of the wing strut out of the way. In the crash it had been broken away from the bottom of the plane but was still loosely connected at the top. They threw out the broken seats that Malcolm had landed upon. Then they climbed into the sharply angled death chamber. The medic stood, as best as he could, behind Mike Galvo who was hanging like an old sock on a clothes-hanging peg.

  Wearing rubber gloves, the medic put his hands on Galvo's shoulders and began to extract him from the shaft. The body was stiff. The policeman helped by grabbing Galvo's right arm, which was hanging between the dead man's legs. They felt hard flesh and bone beneath the fabric of a sleeve. Galvo's stiff body resisted, as if he didn't want to leave this resting place. Or perhaps something was holding him there.

  This was a gruesome task for the two men sweating and breathing hard behind their gas masks. Their eyes showed the disgust they were feeling.

  The body gradually gave way to the two men yanking and twisting. It inched up the steel shaft. And with one great tug from the medic, the body of Michael Galvo seemed to leap backwards off the shaft into the arms of both the paramedic and the police officer. All three toppled backward. The corpse remained in the same exact position, an unmovable death-mannequin. In an instant, Galvo's sunken face was thrust between the faces of the paramedic and the police officer. Maggots had infested the decaying flesh of the cheeks and forehead. They squirmed en masse, making the face seem alive. Large black flies were digging in at random. Ants were racing across nose cartilage, half eaten lips and eyeballs. They were everywhere, carrying bits of tissue and gristle in their mandibles.

  The shock was electrifying.

  The eyes of both men bulged under the glass eye-pieces of their gas masks. They screamed as loud as they could, in horror. They jerked away, pressing themselves against the sides of the fuselage. They were shaking, as if 220 volts of current had just passed through their bodies. The intake of their breath was in quick spasms as Galvo's rigor mortised body fell between them. They moved themselves away from it and shivered.

  Suddenly! The door of the plane clanged shut! Malcolm forced the loose end of the wing strut against it to keep it shut and pushed a broken wheel against it to hold it.

  The two men bolted for the door! They flailed and pounded and thrashed wildly! But to no avail. The strong aluminum strut that had kept the wing up for so many years would now keep the door closed for at least a few hours, until the men inside could force their way out past the wing on the other side or through the crumpled tail section. For the time being, at least, they were locked inside an aluminum tomb. With a dead man.

  As they pounded insanely on the inside of their sepulchral vault, Malcolm grabbed up the red and white first-aid box, the eye drops and the can of mosquito repellant and lumbered into the thick mangroves. He looked like some mythical ‘Sasquatch’ or ‘Big Foot’. Like a legendary phenomenon of nature. A monster of imagination. Like a huge wounded animal running for its life.

  And he was.

  Nine

  "Chicago Police Department Narcotics may I help you?” All the words were strung together.

  Phones were ringing on half of the desks in the large room. The other half were being used. Tony DiSantis made his way through the maze of desks and pieces of conversations.

  "No ma'm. We have no record of a peeping Tom in your neighborhood."

  "...across the tracks? Oh, tracks up his arm. In the shape of a cross, right...."

  "...Caucasian, male, hitch-hiker, pulled out his what?"

  "...got it. Low fat milk, not skim, diet Coke, whole wheat..."

  Tony DiSantis stood at the closed half-glass door to his office with his left hand on the knob. He was neatly dressed in a gray suit. He always wore a gold tie bar. He turned and scanned the room. He spotted a middle-aged woman walking a handful of papers down an aisle. She looked like she wasn't quite sure where she was going. She wore a yellowed white blouse, a black and white plaid skirt and had dried out red hair.

  "Mildred." She looked over. He summoned her with his index finger and walked into his office.

  "Mildred, call Klempner. See if he's got anything more on that drug plane that went down in Florida. Do it now, I want to know something right away."

  "No problem." Mildred always said, "No problem."

  She turned and bumped into a neatly dressed man wearing glasses and a dated suit who was standing right behind her.

  "Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did," he said.

  "You're disgusting." She disappeared.

  "Hey, Tony, you on the warpath again? Chasing bad guys in cities where we don't own a franchise?"

  "What do you mean, again? You know me, Stan. I'm always on the warpath."

  "No, not always, Tony. Most of the time you're just doing your job, like the rest of us." Tony glanced at Stan. "Well, let me rephrase that,” Stan said. “Better than the rest of us. But there are times, and this sounds like one, where it goes beyond the norm. When you take matters into your own hands, won't let anybody else near it. I can see it written all over your face. The warpath."

  Mildred was back in the doorway. "Nothing more than what he already told you."

  "Well, call down there yourself."

  "Where down there?"

  "Miami P.D." She disappeared again.

  Stan made a sound like Indian war drums. "THUM, thum, thum, thum! THUM, thum, thum, thum!"

  "Up yours, Stan."

  "Hey, listen, I'm not criticizing. It's just a professional observation, that's all." Stan was wearing wing tips and a bow tie. Stan always wore wing tips and a bow tie.

  “I didn’t hear myself ask for a professional opinion from the city’s roving clinical psychologist."

  "We're in a people business. You're a people, I'm a people, all the world's a people. That's why I'm in this business."

  "Why are you here today? To harass me? What are you doing here on a Saturday anyway? Why don't you go home and come back Monday? Take some 'ludes before you get here. Just go down to the evidence room and get some. Tell 'em I said it was OK." Tony picked up a sheaf of papers on his desk and tried to ignore Stan. Stan sat down.

  "I mean, people talk about fantasy and perceptions and drug highs and out-of-body experiences, this is reality. Every day I come to work and I get a full, hundred-percent-maximum-recommended-daily-dose of reality. Know what I mean, Tony? This is it. Don't cha love it?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I love it. Sure. That's why I can hardly wait to get the hell out of here and retire. Fat, dumb and happy."

  A female, but not very feminine, voice cut in. "Miami P.D. says a small plane went down way out in the swamps, closer to Naples than to Miami." Mildred was reading from a piece of yellow paper, "One dead, tentatively I.D.'d as a Michael Galvo, one escaped, name not yet known. The trooper who flew the chopper in and a paramedic were trapped inside the wreckage by the one who escaped. Understand they had apparently lost their minds, incoherent, by the time another chopper got in there to rescue them. Something about being trapped in the crashed plane with the deceased overnight."

  Tony DiSantis was leaning forward in his seat, totally engrossed. "Any drugs or cash found at the scene?"

  "None found at this time."

  "Who did you speak to down there?"

  "A Lieutenant Tom McGuire
."

  "You got the phone number on that piece of paper?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Let me have it, please. Thanks, Mildred."

  "THUM, thum, thum, thum! THUM, thum, thum, thum!" Stan, legs crossed, was picking lint off his sock.

  "I always knew that anybody named Stanley had to be a little warped."

  "Hey, watch it. My father was named Stanley."

  "My God, why did your father have to do that to you?"

  "Stanley's a good name. It means stone. Didn't you ever hear of the Stanley Steamer? Now, speaking of names, who's this, ah...Galvo?"

  "What do you care?"

  "I don't care. I'm just trying to figure out why you care. With all respect, Tony, haven't we got enough to do right here in Chicago without worrying about some two-bit drug hustlers way out of our jurisdiction? Let's catch the guys who are selling to our children first. Then we'll worry about guys on the other side of the country. That's my opinion."

  "I can't believe that after all these years on the force, I still have to tell you the facts of life, Stanley. When it comes to drug enforcement, nothin' in the world is out of our jurisdiction. Not if you care about winning. The problem goes way beyond our own kids, our own neighborhoods and our own state. Way beyond our own country."

  "Tony, it just doesn't pay for us to be spending a lot of time worrying about drug trafficking outside our sphere of influence."

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where the hell did you come from, M.I.T.?"

  "No. H.S. double E. High School Equivalency Exams."

  "These guys could be some of the jerks we've been looking for for years. They could be informants. What happens in a different city or state or country could mean something to us here. This business is all connected. The Bahamas, Europe, Chicago, Miami, Columbia..."

  "OK, OK. If you keep up the sermon you'll have me helping you with this thing."

  "No chance, Stan. If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself." DiSantis picked up the phone and dialed the phone number on the yellow piece of paper.

  Stan started out of the room. "THUM, thum, thum, thum! THUM, thum, thum, thum! THUM, thum, thum, thum......"

  • • •

  The lettering at the top of the large easel said PROPERTY OF MIAMI POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  The easel held a large map of South Florida. Lieutenant Tom McGuire was standing in front of it. "OK, that takes care of old business. Are there any questions?" There was a slight pause. "Now, Detectives Mulholland and Diaz have a report."

  Detective Craig Mulholland walked in front of the map. "Most of you know about the drug plane that went down out in the Glades about five days ago." He was speaking to about fifteen seated men, some in police uniform, some in casual Florida style clothes. "Most of you know that one man died in that crash and one man escaped. But some of you don't know that we've been on the heels of one of them for more than eight months. And for more than two years we've been working on getting closer to the mob they work for. Up until now, it's been mostly me and Diaz here. But we need some help."

  Diaz chimed in, "And we'll have it, thanks to Lt. McGuire. He’s kindly agreed to give us a chopper to search the Glades for the escapee. We'll have the chopper for two entire days."

  A voice from the audience interjected: "I thought Naples had a chopper out there already?"

  Mulholland answered. "The guy who escaped locked a Naples cop and a paramedic in the wreckage with a stinking dead body. After spending a night in there, I understand they weren't thinking straight. We have a description, but I don't think it will do us much good. The two guys who went a little cuckoo said this guy was seven feet tall and looked like a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Like a zombie with red eyes. Naples is so embarrassed, they don't want anything to do with the case. They told those guys to shut up. It's all ours."

  Diaz spoke. "We believe the escaped man to be the money runner for a Chicago organization. We're not sure of his name, but he's obviously someone who's been with the mob a long time, maybe grew up in a mob family and has shown his loyalty over the years. He's trusted with millions in cash. He's got to get it to where it's going. Or else. We tracked the N number, the registration of the plane, to a plane rental company, AVNation at MIA. The agent there says he rented a small plane to a Mike Galvo, real name Michael Galvanessi. He and his partner may have been carrying three to six million in boxes, a suitcase or duffel bag of some kind. He may be carrying it now or it could be hidden somewhere. A guy that carries that kind of money for the mob is dangerous. Usually a ruthless killer who doesn't bother to ask questions first. If we can find him, it may unlock a lot of information and lead to a break-up of a major drug distribution network. We know this mob is there, we just haven't been able to tap into it yet."

  Mulholland pointed at a spot on the map. "This is where the plane crashed five days ago. According to people who know these things, it's the worst possible place to survive a plane crash because even if you survive the crash, you probably won't survive the wilderness. It's in the most inaccessible spot in the Everglades. The most hostile environment imaginable. Impossible to get out of. And if the chopper spots him, we'll have to go in and get him. He may not even be alive in a few days. The temperature can reach well over a hundred degrees in some places. The humidity can be suffocating." Mulholland paused for a moment and pointed again at the map.

  "If he walks this way, toward the Gulf of Mexico, he could find coconuts to eat. But all the water for about ten miles inland will be salty. There's no fresh water 'til about here. If he walks to the north or northeast, he'll have to walk through impossible tangles of mangrove trees and roots, vines and thorn bushes. If, by some miracle, he makes it through the mangroves, he'll be in water from his knees to his waist for miles this time of year. During rainy season, which starts any day now, there will be eight to twelve feet of water over most of this whole area." Mulholland moved his open palm over a large area of the map. "If he makes dry land, he'll have to walk over something called Pinnacle Rock, sharp points of limestone that stick out of the ground and could cut his feet and twist his ankles. He'll have to drag himself through deep mud and quicksand. Over here are the sawgrass prairies, grass up to twelve feet tall, with razor sharp serrated edges that can cut a man to ribbons if he runs through it. And a few men have been known to run through it to get away from the mosquitoes that can actually drive a man crazy. They'll be with him every minute of every day and night. Some people say that if you were to swing a glass jar through the air out there, you'll get a quart full of them. He'll probably inhale as many as bite him.” Mulholland paused to catch his breath.

  “Then he's got to get past all the alligators, snakes, fire ants…and the place is infested with poisonous plants, spiders, scorpions...things scientists don't even know about yet. And if he makes it past all that, and gets up anywhere near the Tamiami Trail, the rednecks on airboats, ATVs and swamp buggies will nail him for sure once the word gets out.”

  Another voice from the group. “So what are we knocking ourselves out for?”

  “Don’t think of it as police work, Drury, think of it as sport.”

  Ten

  The mangrove forest was so thick you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction. Most of the tree trunks were only about two to four inches in diameter, but there was an assortment of sizes from cigar-sized seedlings to trunks eight inches thick and fifty feet tall. About half the way up each tree trunk, strong prop roots arched out and downward. There were, perhaps, twenty prop roots for each trunk. Even the roots had roots, all of them meeting and intertwining like a wicker works gone berserk, all descending into the black glossy water below. All of them, millions upon millions of them, penetrated into the soft black ooze beneath the water as if they were hands and fingers interlocking in a hold on primordial life. Each root was determined to dig deep into the decaying organic matter below, to bring nourishment to the canopy of thick green rubbery leaves blocking out the sun high above.

  The m
angrove tree is the link between millions of years of rotting natural death and fresh new life in the Everglades. Mangroves flourish in the saltwater tides that wash in from the Gulf of Mexico. In fact, they grow very successfully where other trees would perish. Detritus builds up around their roots, and new land is formed. The mangrove forest is an aviary for birds of almost every color and description. It is the habitat of insect eating bats. It is the home of raccoons and 'possums, turtles and snakes, snails and spiders, caterpillars and butterflies and zillions of salt marsh mosquitoes. On this day, below the surface of the brackish water, in the incomprehensible tangle of mangrove roots, clumps of black ‘coon oysters clung to the stilt-like roots. The antenna of spiny lobsters struck out from their refuge within the protective fingers. In the protective nursery were the newborns of the Glades. Here the fish would spawn and an endless list of other creatures would begin life, swimming, slithering, inching, darting, jumping and hopping their way to adulthood, inheritors of life itself and beneficiaries of those that came before. This was one of the richest, most productive natural environments on earth, a remarkably rich bio-system, teeming with life. Today, the mangroves were still, insects skated on the surface of the water, birds chirped here and there, mosquitoes and locusts buzzed. It was peaceful and quiet, except for a sound in the near distance, just on the other side of the limit of vision. The green leafy tops of the trees were the first to move. Then the tree trunks swayed. Then a very non-rhythmical sloshing sound was heard. And a heavy breathing and grunting.

  With the effort of an elephant in labor, Malcolm made his way through the mangroves, with first-aid kit in one hand and a can of mosquito repellent in the other. Malcolm used his forearms to push aside the trees. Even pushing hard, his body could hardly fit through. His bare belly and arms were red and prickly from contact against the trees. His entire upper torso was slick from mosquito repellent and sweat.