Mermaid

by Tom Lowe

  Grant drove on, past Matanzas Inlet, heading south, his thoughts racing, trying to narrow down a list of suspects. Nothing standing out any more than it did three weeks earlier. He thought about the last water chemistry report of the samples taken from the lungs of all three victims. In addition to the matching diatoms, they all had the high concentrations of nitrogen and ammonium N-H-4. Grant slowed his car as a family with Michigan license plates on their minivan hit their brakes to turn into the parking lot of Marineland.

  As Grant waited for the oncoming traffic to subside, and for the minivan to turn into the parking lot, he read the attraction’s signs, remembering his visit to Marineland decades ago. The Whitney Laboratory of Marine Sciences, Marineland’s Dolphin Adventure – Swim with the Dolphins. As the family in the minivan turned into the lot, Grant accelerated. After less than one hundred feet on A1A, he braked, pulling off the highway and into one of the entrances to Marineland.

  Grant felt his heart beat faster. He pulled out his phone and called Ron Hamilton. When Hamilton answered, Grant said, “Ron, there’s no way in hell for us to dispatch CSI techs to take water samples from every commercial and backyard koi pond in the state, but we might not have to go in that direction.”

  Hamilton was walking toward the back entrance to the homicide bureau, two deputies in a car leaving. “What’s going on, what do you have?”

  “Nothing but an idea. What if the high concentrations of ammonium N-H-4 didn’t come from some fishpond? What if they came from a fish tank?”

  “You mean an aquarium?”

  “Bigger. I’m in the parking lot of Marineland. Just pulled off the damn road when I thought of it. What if the killer has access to some of the largest aquariums in the state of Florida?”

  “Are you suggesting something like Marineland or SeaWorld?”

  “Not necessarily. Rather than the big commercial aquariums, the tourist’s attractions, what if it was more private? Maybe a large lab where they do research on freshwater and saltwater marine life. He could have taken the girls there, for some bizarre reason. Maybe that’s where he raped and killed them. He might have exited under the cover of night with the dead girls and taken them to the beaches where he left the bodies posed.”

  Hamilton paused at the back door to his division, looking across the parking lot, a wink of sunlight reflecting off one of the sheriff’s cruisers, a mockingbird chortling in the branches of a royal poinciana tree. “Remember that guy on the movie lot … he was in the meeting when we were questioning the director and the others? I forget his name. But I do remember that he was one of the three or four consultants on the movie. And his specialty is dolphin research.”

  Grant put his car in gear. “I remember him. I’ll call my office. Get an address and go have a little chat with this scientist who’s been freelancing with Hollywood.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  The feeling never went away. As Wynona, Max and I prepared to cast off and sail Dragonfly 1,600 miles southeast over the Atlantic Ocean to St. Lucia, I felt a heightened awareness of my own smallness in the world. It wasn’t so much the classic sense of man versus nature. It was more of man respecting the power of the elements, the multiple personalities of the sea, and working with all of that to survive.

  I remember the feeling at sea a few months after Sherri died. It was the last time I’d take out our sailboat, Eternity, before selling it and then moving from Miami up to Central Florida, finding a remote cabin on the river and converting from sailing to owning my powerboat, Jupiter. But it was always sailing that I loved. Solo—alone on the open sea that I felt a gut check. A sobering reality of time, space, and my place in the cosmos. It was one of the best ways to appreciate the vastness of the universe and my own small presence and possible insignificance on the planet.

  After Sherri’s death, for reasons I chose not to articulate at the time, I left Max with a friend and decided to sail solo during the hurricane season from South Florida across the Atlantic to Cape Verde. It was three weeks of being completely alone. Not loneliness—the hole from losing Sherri was too raw, but total isolation from my fellow man and any concept of human civilization. The only sounds were from the rain, the wind in the sails, and once, under a brilliant star-filled sky at midnight, the rasping sounds of humpback whales exhaling through their blowholes off the boat’s portside. They were moving silhouettes, my friends, on the surface of a moonlit ocean, staying with me for an hour before a final chorus of exhalations and then vanishing. Through calm seas and storms, it was more than 3,800 miles of self-reliance and self-discovery. After I sold Eternity and flew back to the states, I was forever changed.

  And, now, with Wynona and Max as my sailing companions, we were just a few hours away from casting off, motoring out of the marina, exiting the routine and support system of our known world through Ponce Inlet, raising the sails and joining nature for a journey into the undiscovered.

  We made the final preparations before our departure. Dragonfly was ready, its American flag barely fluttering in the warm breeze, a briny scent in the air similar to the smell of seashells on the beach after a storm. Dave and Nick joined us for drinks at the cockpit table on Dragonfly. Max in Wynona’s lap. Dave looked at me and asked, “How long do you think it’ll take you to reach St. Lucia?”

  “That depends on how many stops we make island hopping along the way, and how long we decide to stay in each place.”

  Nick nodded, grinning. “That’s the only way to do it. I never understood the thrill that some folks get out of racing sailboats. Seems to me like they oughta just kick back and go with the flow. What’s the damn hurry, you know? No hurry … no worry.”

  Wynona said, “That shall be our new mantra, Nick … no hurries … no worries.”

  Dave inhaled deeply, his eyes scanning L dock and across the marina. “Not to put a damper on this day as you get ready to cast off, but how do you not worry about a wealthy guy like Timothy Spencer, apparently hellbent on vengeance, dispatching a hired gun?”

  I said, “One of the things I managed to learn in sailing alone across the Atlantic, was a kind of survival that can’t be taught in military training or any team environment. Out there, on the open ocean, as a storm brews, thousands of miles from anyone, from police backup, from emergency services … there’s no 9-1-1. It’s only you and whatever it is inside your beating heart that rises to the challenges. That’s because you have no choice if you want to live. If Spencer somehow manages to recruit a hired gun, there’s nothing we can do about that. What we can do is deal with the situation should it arise. Wynona and I can’t live our lives mumbling ‘what if’ and exist behind deadbolted doors.”

  “Amen,” Nick said, lifting his beer in a toast.

  Dave grunted, shifting his weight in his seat. “Indeed. I know that you, Sean, and maybe you, too, Wynona, since you work in law enforcement, are not strangers to death threats. The ones you hear about are usually only that … threats. It’s the ones you don’t hear about, depending on the impetus of the covert threat and the person making it, that can become deadly. Unlike the movies, when we see that someone, like a mafia goon, for example, has taken out a hit on someone, it’s never public. And, for obvious reasons. I think you were fortunate in learning about Timothy Spencer’s nefarious moves beforehand.”

  Wynona sipped her iced tea and said, “True. The unfortunate reality, though, is that the asset—the mole, was killed before detectives could get a wire on him. So, we’re in a weird limbo of sorts.”

  Dave nodded. “And, maybe, with the informant’s death, Spencer is backing off for fear of investigators probing, looking for a direct line to him. Perhaps it’s all a moot point. Go on your sailing adventure and never look back.”

  I started to respond when something caught my eye to the left, down L dock. I saw Rex Nelson approaching, hands buried in his jean’s pockets, shoulders slouched, his thoughts just as hidden. I stood and motioned for Rex to join us. He waved, approaching. From his walk and posture, I could t
ell he was troubled, something weighing heavy on his mind. As he got closer to Dragonfly, I could see his blue eyes, somewhat vacant and unmoving, like the surface of a frozen pond in the dead of winter.

  Nick smiled, “T Rex, what’s up? Wanna beer?”

  “No thanks, Nick. I don’t mean to interrupt or bother y’all.”

  “No bother, Rex,” I said, “Come aboard.”

  He stood close to Dragonfly’s stern, his face pinched. “I don’t have time. It’s Savannah.”

  Dave leaned back and asked, “What about Savannah? Is she okay?”

  “I hope to God she is. I’ve been trying to call her for hours. It isn’t like my daughter not to call or text me if I’m trying to reach her. Especially considering all the bad stuff that’s happened recently.”

  I stood and asked, “When was the last time you heard from her?”

  “Not long after her first performance as the Little Mermaid over at Weeki Wachee. She was so happy, not so much about her performance, but rather about how much the audience and management liked her work. She’s got a new boyfriend, some guy she met on the set of Atlantis, and that concerns me, too.”

  Wynona asked, “Do your calls go to her voicemail or do they ring a couple of times and do nothing?”

  “The first calls went to her voicemail. The last few seemed to go nowhere … like you said, a couple of rings and then nothing.”

  Wynona looked across the table at me, concern rising in her eyes. I glanced over at Rex. “Do you know this new boyfriend’s name?”

  “She told me … Eric something. Can’t recall his last name.”

  “Was Savannah going anywhere … some place where she couldn’t get a cell signal or someplace where the battery in her phone may have died. Like out on a boat trip, maybe?”

  “No, not that I know of.” He licked his dry lips. “She did say some scientist, a well-respected marine scientist, invited her to tour a marine lab and aquarium. Name’s Doctor Howard Ward. He is or was working for a while as a consultant on the movie.”

  “What’s the name of the facility?” I asked.

  “Canaveral Marine Lab.”

  Dave said, “That’s the oceanographic institute near Titusville. It’s a private research facility, right on the shore of the Indian River Lagoon, not far from the Canaveral National Seashore. They do some excellent work in oceanographic research. Highly respected institute.”

  Rex nodded. “Savannah said he’s the real deal. Knows more about dolphins than anyone in the world. She said he was injured years ago when filming a bull shark in the sea. Shark bit into his thigh and then chopped off one of his fingers.”

  I said nothing, looking back at Wynona, her face registering the enormity of what Rex just told us.

  “What is it?” Rex asked.

  I looked directly at him. “I don’t know another way to say this, Rex, except to say it. If Savannah is with this guy, I believe she’s with the killer.”

  “You mean the man who killed those three girls, leaving their bodies posed in the mermaid costumes? Oh, dear God in heaven,” he said, holding onto a dock post for support, the color in his face draining. “Sean, you gotta help me. Help Savannah. Please!”

  “I will. First, I’ll try to reach Detective Grant. Let him know.”

  Wynona said, “Time is of the essence. From the reported timelines between the other three abductions and the murders, it’s a matter of hours. Maybe a day, tops. He doesn’t catch and release … he catches and quickly kills.”

  Nick made the sign of the cross. “I’m gonna say a prayer for sweet Savannah.”

  Dave said, “Sean, you might want to call Dan Grant from your Jeep. Wynona’s correct. According to the news and police reports, this perp kidnaps and kills fast.”

  I stood, looked at Wynona. “We’ll sail Dragonfly some other time.”

  “I know. Please be very careful, Sean. This man is not a dumb criminal. He’s cunning.”

  “Text me the address of the Canaveral Marine Lab.” I jumped from Dragonfly, running down L dock, trying not to think of what already may have happened to Savannah Nelson.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Savannah was like a little girl visiting her favorite theme park in the world. Because Doctor Ward was taking the time to give her a personalized tour, she felt more special than she had in a long while. Ward, dressed in jeans and wearing a black polo shirt, a small gold hoop earring in his right ear, led Savannah through the vast facility. They stopped in one of the largest of the labs, looking at smaller, isolated marine and freshwater aquariums. He pointed to one saltwater tank, the light above it was on, bubbles aerating the water, a crimson octopus at the bottom of the aquarium on white sand near a piece on imitation coral.

  Ward said, “That’s my friend, Houdini. He’s been here for about three years. The octopus is one of the most amazing animals in the ocean. They are masters of disguises, able to change colors at the blink of an eye. The have rather large brains, are problem solvers and excellent escape artists. Houdini can get in and out of some of the smallest places.”

  Savannah stepped closer to the tank. “I’ve always been fascinated by octopuses. The videos I’ve watched of them, it appears they have a curious trait, almost playful. Like they want to play hide and seek.”

  “Indeed. Houdini likes to stack Legos and then knock them down again. Perhaps playing his own version of vertical dominos. In one of our large marine aquariums, we have two blue-ringed octopuses, native to the Pacific, not far from Tahiti. Although they are smaller than an average-sized orange, one of these species of octopuses has enough poison in a bite to kill twenty adult-sized humans, making the blue-ring the most venomous creature on Earth.” Ward’s eyes reflected the light from the aquarium. Unblinking.

  Savannah said nothing, averting her gaze from Ward to the octopus, its black eyes like that of a small dog, watching Savannah. Seconds later, the octopus started crawling across the bottom of the tank, a yellow Lego piece clutched at the end of one tentacle.

  Ward said, “In here, we’ve been studying samples of ocean water from all over the world. One of the conclusions we’ve reached is that microplastics are at least a thousand times more prevalent in much of the seas than had been previously believed. Rather scary, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, I would. That needs to change.”

  “That’s why, for young people like you, the next generation of scientists, it’s so important to find the data that will help establish sources of pollution, to make positive changes to those sources, and maintain and restore the health to the world’s seas, truly our final frontier. Let’s go into the aquarium areas. We have some of the most sophisticated research in the world going on in there.”

  Ward led Savannah down a hall, bright white walls, well lit, the look and feel of a long corridor in a hospital. He made small talk along the way. When he unlocked the doors, and they stepped through to the aquariums, the sight almost took Savannah’s breath away.

  • • •

  I pulled my Jeep out of the Ponce Marina parking lot, quickly gaining speed, calling Dan Grant as I drove. After a few seconds, I heard his message: “You’ve reached Detective Dan Grant. Your call is very important. Please leave a message. I’ll get back with you as soon as possible.”

  At the beep I said, “Dan, it’s Sean O’Brien. I was just speaking with Rex Nelson, Savannah’s father. He told me that Savannah is meeting with a guy, Doctor Howard Ward, who was or is a consultant on the movie, Atlantis. He’s a marine scientist. He’s missing one of his fingers. I believe he’s the perp. Ward is director of the Canaveral Marine Lab and Aquarium. It’s located at 1062 Sea Harbor Drive, near Titusville. If she’s in there … if this guy has her, there is very little time. I’m driving there. Call me.”

  • • •

  Savannah stood in front of five massive aquariums, each seemed larger and much deeper than an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The walls were made of thick glass, the water softly lit, giving clear views from one side
to the other, thousands of fish swimming in different directions.

  Ward pointed to the aquarium in the center. “If there ever was a real shark tank, that’s it. There are at least 440 known species of sharks in the sea. We have more than ninety sharks in there. Everything from bull sharks, tiger sharks, lemon sharks and whale sharks to even hammerheads. We had a juvenile great white we kept and studied for a week before releasing it back into the wild. No one, not even here, can keep a great white in captivity for any length of time.”

  “I’ve only seen them on film and video.”

  “Perhaps that’s as it should be. They oxygenate their gills by constantly swimming forward. For a twenty-foot great white, the largest saltwater aquarium on Earth can’t accommodate that constant need. Speaking of oxygen, our research ship, Argos, has been taking water samples from many different seas and various sections of the world. We’re seeing a general deoxygenation of all the oceans. And that, my dear, is a severe problem. Climate change, the warming of the seas, it’s all contributing to some of the issue. Much, though, is the heavy use of fertilizers that wash into our rivers and eventually … the ocean.”

  “I’m hoping that one day I might help change some of that.”

  Ward nodded, leading her closer to an aquarium on the far left. He pointed. “That’s one of the largest freshwater research aquariums in America. It’s filled with fish you’d find in the rivers and lakes around the world. I’ve always felt marine research can’t be confined just to our oceans. We need to know what’s happening to the water from when the snow melts to the time it rejoins the ocean.”

  “My mom used to talk about that. She called the sea, Mother Ocean, and said all water eventually comes back home … back to Mother Ocean.”

  “Your mother was correct.” Ward gestured to an aquarium on the far right. “That’s where we do a lot of our dolphin research. We have twenty-four dolphins in there, a dozen breeding pairs. As intelligent as an octopus is, the creature is no match for the brain of a dolphin. Their brains are larger than ours. The neocortex, the part of the brain responsible for problem solving, and self-awareness, among other things, is how we can correlate it with human intelligence. In my research, size certainly matters in the dolphin brain, but something else comes into play as well. Do you know what that might be, Savannah?”