Cyclops

by Clive Cussler

  The Dade County coroner, Dr. Calvin Rooney, wasn't too pleased about doing the autopsy. There were enough deaths in Miami to keep his staff working around the clock, and he preferred to spend his time on the more dramatic and puzzling postmortem examinations. A garden-variety drug overdose held little interest for him. But this one was found dumped on a county commissioner's front lawn, and it wouldn't do to send in a third-string quarterback.

  Wearing a blue lab coat because he detested the standard white issue, Rooney, a home-grown Floridian, U.S. Army veteran, and Harvard Medical School graduate, slipped a new cassette in a portable tape recorder and dryly commented on the general condition of the body.

  He picked up a scalpel and bent over for the dissection, starting a few inches under the chin and slicing downward toward the pubic bone. Suddenly Rooney halted the incision over the chest cavity and leaned closer, squinting through a pair of wide-lensed, horn-rimmed glasses. In the next fifteen minutes, he removed and examined the heart while delivering a running monologue into the tape recorder.

  Rooney was in the midst of making a last-minute observation when Sheriff Tyler Sweat entered the autopsy room. He was a medium-built, brooding man, slightly round-shouldered, his face a blend of melancholy and brutish determination. Methodical and shrewdly earnest, he enjoyed great respect from the men and women under him.

  He threw an expressionless glance at the opened cadaver and then nodded a greeting to Rooney.

  "New piece of meat?"

  "The woman from the commissioner's yard," answered Rooney.

  "Another OD?"

  "No such luck. More work for homicide. She was murdered. I found three punctures in the heart."

  "Ice pick?"

  "From all indications."

  Sweat peered at the balding little chief medical examiner, whose benign appearance seemed better suited to a parish priest. "They can't fool you, Doc."

  "What brings the master scourge of evildoers to the forensic palace?" Rooney asked amiably. "You slumming?"

  "No, an identification by VIPs. I'd like you in on it."

  "The bodies from the blimp," Rooney deduced.

  Sweat nodded. "Mrs. LeBaron is here to view the remains."

  "I don't recommend it. What's left of her husband isn't a pretty sight to someone who doesn't see death every day."

  "I tried to tell her that identification of his effects would satisfy legal requirements, but she persisted.

  Even brought along an aide from the governor's office to grease the way"

  "Where are they?"

  "Waiting in the morgue office."

  "News media?"

  "An entire regiment of TV and press reporters running around like crazy people. I've ordered my deputies to keep them confined to the lobby."

  "Strange how the world works," said Rooney in one of his philosophical moods. "The renowned Raymond LeBaron gets front-page headlines while this poor baggage gets a column inch next to classified advertising." Then he sighed, removed his lab coat, and threw it over a chair. "Let's get it over with. I've got two more postmortems to conduct this afternoon."

  As he spoke a tropical storm passed over and the sound of thunder rumbled through the walls.

  Rooney slipped on a sports jacket and straightened his tie. They fell into step, Sweat staring down pensively at the design in the hallway carpet.

  "Any idea on the cause of LeBaron's death?" asked the sheriff.

  "Too soon to tell. The lab results were inconclusive. I want to run some more tests. Too many things don't add up. I don't mind admitting, this one is a puzzler."

  "No guesses?"

  "Nothing I'd put on paper. Problem is the incredibly rapid rate of decomposition. I've seldom seen tissue disintegrate so fast, except maybe once back in 1974."

  Before Sweat could prod Rooney's recollection, they reached the morgue office and entered. The governor's aide, a slippery type in a three-piece suit, jumped up. Even before he opened his mouth, Rooney classified him as a jerk.

  "Can we please get the show on the road, Sheriff. Mrs. LeBaron is most uncomfortable and would like to return to her hotel as soon as possible."

  "I sympathize with her," the sheriff drawled. "But I shouldn't have to remind a public servant that there are certain laws we must follow."

  "And I needn't remind you, the governor expects your department to extend every courtesy to ease her grief."

  Rooney marveled at Sweat's stony patience. The sheriff simply brushed by the aide as though he were walking past trash on a sidewalk.

  "This is our chief medical examiner, Dr. Rooney. He will assist with the identification."

  Jessie LeBaron didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. She sat in an orange plastic contour chair, poised, cool, head held high. And yet Rooney sensed a fragility that was held together by discipline and nerve. He was an old hand at presiding over corpse identification by relatives. He'd suffered through the ordeal hundreds of times in his career and instinctively spoke softly and in a gentle manner.

  "Mrs. LeBaron, I understand what you're going through and will make this as painless as possible. But first, I wish to make it clear that by simply identifying the effects found on the bodies you will satisfy the laws set down by the state and county. Second, any physical characteristics you can recall, such as scars, dental work, bone fractures, or surgical incisions, will be of great help in my own identification. And third, I respectfully beg you not to view the remains. Though facial features are still recognizable, decomposition has done its work. I think you'd be happier remembering Mr. LeBaron as he was in life rather than how he looks in a morgue."

  "Thank you, Dr. Rooney," said Jessie. "I'm grateful for your concern. But I must be certain my husband is truly dead."

  Rooney nodded miserably, and then gestured at a worktable containing several pieces of clothing, wallets, wristwatches, and other personal articles. "You've identified Mr. LeBaron's effects?"

  "Yes, I have sorted through them."

  "And you're satisfied they belonged to him?"

  "There can be no doubt about the wallet and its contents. The watch was a gift from me on our first anniversary."

  Rooney walked over and held it up. "A gold Cartier with matching band and roman numerals marked in. . . am I correct in saying they're diamonds?"

  "Yes, a rare form of black diamond. It was his birthstone."

  "April, I believe."

  She merely nodded.

  "Besides your husband's personal articles, Mrs. LeBaron, do you recognize anything belonging to Buck Caesar or Joseph Cavilla?"

  "I don't recall the jewelry they wore, but I'm certain the other clothing items are what Buck and Joe were wearing when I last saw them."

  "Our investigators can find no next of kin of Caesar and Cavilla," said Sweat. "It would be most helpful if you can point out which articles of clothing belonged to whom."

  For the first time Jessie LeBaron faltered. "I'm not sure. . . I think the denim shorts and flowered shirt are Buck's. The other things probably belonged to Joe Cavilla." She paused. "May we view my husband's body now?"

  "I can't change your mind?" Rooney asked in a sympathetic voice.

  "No, I must insist."

  "You'd best do what Mrs. LeBaron asks," said the governor's aide, who had yet to introduce himself.

  Rooney looked at Sweat and shrugged in resignation. "If you will please follow me. The remains are kept in the refrigeration room."

  Obediently, everyone trailed him to a thick door with a small window set at eye level and stood in silence as he yanked on a heavy latch. Cold air spilled over the threshold and Jessie involuntarily shivered as Rooney motioned them inside. A morgue attendant appeared and led the way to one of the square doors along the wall. He swung it open, pulled out a sliding stainless steel table, and stood aside.

  Rooney took one corner of the sheet covering the corpse and hesitated. This was the only part of his job he hated. The reaction to viewing the dead usually fell into four categories. Th
ose who vomited, those who passed out cold, those who broke into hysterics. But it was the last type that intrigued Rooney. The ones who stood as if turned to stone and showed no emotion at all. He would have given a month's salary to know the thoughts circulating through their minds.

  He lifted the sheet.

  The governor's aide took one look, made a pathetic groaning sound, and passed out into the arms of the sheriff. The grisly work of decay was revealed in all its horror.

  Rooney was astonished by Jessie's response. She stared long and hard at the grotesque thing that lay rotting on the table. She sucked in her breath and her whole body went taut. Then she raised her eyes, not blinking, and spoke in a calm, controlled voice.

  "That is not my husband!"

  "Are you positive?" Rooney asked softly.

  "Look for yourself," she said in a flat monotone. "The hairline is wrong. So is the bone structure.

  Raymond had an angular face. This one is more round."

  "Decomposition of the flesh distorts facial features," Rooney explained.

  "Please study the teeth."

  Rooney looked down. "What about them?"

  "They have silver fillings."

  "I don't follow."

  "My husband's fillings were gold."

  There was no arguing with her on that score, thought Rooney. A man of Raymond LeBaron's wealth wouldn't have settled for cheap dental work.

  "But the watch, the clothing, you identified them as his."

  "I don't give a damn what I said!" she cried. "This loathsome thing is not Raymond LeBaron."

  Rooney was stunned at her fury. He stood dazed and unable to speak as she stormed from the icy room. The sheriff handed the limp aide to the morgue attendant and turned to the coroner.

  "What in hell do you make of that?"

  Rooney shook his head. "I don't know."

  "My guess is, she went into shock. Probably fell over the edge and began raving. You know better than I, most people can't accept the death of a loved one. She closed her mind and refused to accept the truth."

  "She wasn't raving."

  Sweat looked at him. "What do you call it?"

  "Shrewd acting."

  "How did you pick that out of the air?"

  "The wristwatch," answered Rooney. "One of my staff worked nights as a jeweler to put himself through medical school. He spotted it right off. The expensive Cartier watch Mrs. LeBaron gave her husband on their anniversary is a fake, one of those inexpensive reproductions that are illegally manufactured in Taiwan or Mexico."

  "Why would a woman who could write a check for a million dollars give her husband a cheap imitation?"

  "Raymond LeBaron was no slouch when it came to style and taste. He must have recognized it for what it was. Better to ask the question, why did he stoop to wearing it?"

  "So you think she put on an act and lied about the body ID?"

  "My gut reaction is that she prepared herself for what to expect," Rooney replied. "And I'd go, so far as to bet my new Mercedes-Benz that genetic tracing, the dental report, and the results of the rubber casts I made from what remained of the fingerprints and sent to the FBI lab will prove she was right." He turned and peered at the corpse. "That isn't Raymond LeBaron lying there on the slab."

  <<6>>

  Detective Lieutenant Harry Victor, a lead investigator for the Metro Dade County Police Department, sat back in a swivel chair and studied several photographs taken inside the Prosperteer's control cabin.

  After several minutes, he raised a pair of rimless glasses over a forehead that slipped under a blond hairpiece and rubbed his eyes.

  Victor was a tidy man, everything in its correct pigeonhole, neatly alphabetized and consecutively numbered, the only cop in the memory of the department who actually enjoyed making out reports.

  When most men watched sports on television on weekends or relaxed around a resort swimming pool on vacations, reading Rex Burns detective novels, Victor reviewed files on unsolved cases. A diehard, he was more fanatical about tying up loose ends than obtaining a conviction.

  The Prosperteer case was unlike any he'd faced in his eighteen years on the force. Three dead men falling out of the sky in an antique blimp didn't exactly lend itself to routine police investigation. Leads were nonexistent. The three bodies in the morgue revealed no clues to where they had been hiding for a week and a half.

  He lowered his glasses and was attacking the photographs again when the desk phone buzzed. He lifted the receiver and said pensively, "Yes?"

  "You have a witness to see you about a statement," answered the receptionist.

  "Send him on back," said Victor.

  He closed the file containing the photographs and laid it on the metal desk, whose surface was antiseptic except for a small sign with his name and the telephone. He held the receiver to his ear as though receiving a call and swiveled sideways, looking across the spacious homicide office, keeping his eyes focused at an angle toward the door leading to the corridor.

  A uniformed receptionist appeared at the threshold and pointed in Victor's direction. A tall man nodded, eased past her, and approached. Victor gestured to a chair opposite the desk and began muttering in a one-way conversation with the dial tone. It was an old interrogation ploy that gave him an uninterrupted minute to inspect a witness or suspect and mentally construct a profile. Most important, it was an opportunity to observe habits and odd mannerisms that could be used for leverage later.

  The male seated across from Victor was about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, approximately six foot three, weight 185, give or take five pounds, black hair tending to be a bit wavy, with no indication of gray. Skin darkened from year-round exposure to the sun. Eyebrows dark and slightly bushy. Straight, narrow nose, lips firm with corners turned up in a slight but fixed grin. Wearing light blue sports coat and off-white slacks, pale yellow polo shirt with collar open. Good taste, casual but not ultraexpensive, probably purchased at Saks rather than a plush 'men's store. Nonsmoker, as there was no evidence of cigarette package bulge in coat or shirt. Arms were folded, suggesting calm and indifference, and the hands were narrow, long and weathered. No rings or other jewelry, only an old orange-faced diver's watch with a heavy stainless steel band.

  This one didn't follow the general pattern. The others who had sat in that chair turned fidgety after a while. Some masked nervousness with arrogance, most restlessly stared around the office, through the windows, at pictures on the walls, at the other officers working their cases, changing position, crossing and recrossing their legs. For the first time Victor could recall, he felt uncomfortable and at a disadvantage. His routine was sidetracked, his act rapidly washing out.

  The visitor wasn't the least bit ruffled. He stared at Victor with bemused interest through opaline green eyes that possessed a mesmeric quality. They seemed to pass right through the detective, and finding nothing of interest, examined the paint on the wall behind. Then they dropped to the telephone.

  "Most police departments use the Horizon Communications System," he said in an even tone. "If you wish to speak to someone on the other end, I suggest you push a button for an open line."

  Victor looked down. One of his four buttons was lit but not punched "You're very astute, Mr. . .?"

  "Pitt, Dirk Pitt. If you're Lieutenant Victor, we had an appointment." "I'm Victor." He paused to replace the receiver in its cradle. "You were the first person inside the control car of the Prosperteer blimp?"

  "That's right."

  "Thank you for coming in, especially so early on a Sunday. I'd appreciate your cooperation in clearing up a few questions."

  "Not at all. Will it take long?"

  "Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. Do you have to be somewhere?"

  "I'm booked on a plane for Washington in two hours."

  Victor nodded. "I'll get you on your way in plenty of time." He pulled open a drawer and took out a portable tape recorder. "Let's go somewhere more private."

  He led Pitt down a long hallw
ay to a small interview room. The interior was spartan, only a desk, two chairs, and an ashtray. Victor sat down and fed a new cassette into the recorder.

  "Mind if I put our conversation on tape? I'm a terrible note taker. None of the secretaries can decipher my handwriting."

  Pitt shrugged agreeably.

  Victor moved the machine to the center of the desk and pressed the red Record button.

  "Your name?"

  "Dirk Pitt."

  "Middle initial?"

  "E for Eric."

  "Address?"

  "266 Airport Place, Washington, D.C. 20001."

  "Telephone where you can be reached?"

  Pitt gave Victor the phone number of his office.

  "Occupation?"

  "Special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

  "Can you describe the event you witnessed on the afternoon of Saturday, October 20?"

  Pitt told Victor of his sighting the out-of-control blimp during the sailboard marathon race, the mad ride while clinging to the mooring line, and the last-second capture only a few feet away from potential disaster, ending with his entry into the gondola.

  "Did you touch anything?"

  "Only the ignition and battery switches. And I laid my hand on the shoulder of the corpse seated at the navigator's table."

  "Nothing else?"

  "The only other place I might have left a fingerprint was on the boarding ladder."

  "And the backrest of the copilot's seat," said Victor with a smug smile. "No doubt when you leaned over and turned off the switches."

  "Fast work. Next time I'll wear surgical gloves."

  "The FBI was most cooperative."

  "I admire competence."

  "Did you take anything?"

  Pitt shot Victor a sharp look. "No."

  "Could anyone else have entered and removed any objects?"