The Forgotten

by Heather Graham

  “These are great,” she told Cocoa. “Thank you.”

  Cocoa chattered and went back down. She was obviously enjoying the game.

  Agent Cody was just staring at Lara, waiting. Uncomfortable under that probing gaze, she turned around to face Grady and Rick.

  “I’m not sure what you thought I could do,” she said by way of apology.

  “You never know,” Grady said.

  But then Lara felt a bump as Cocoa pushed her from behind. She heard a massive, collective gasp—almost as if all those gathered around the lagoon were actors creating a scene on cue—as she turned around.

  Cocoa had something for Lara. It was balanced precariously on her nose.

  And Lara had to choke back a scream, had to steel herself to remain still...

  This time it was a human foot.

  3

  “It’s kind of like Mike, the headless chicken,” Diego said gravely.

  They’d showered at the Sea Life Center and were now on their way to the medical examiner’s office to see Dr. Phil Kinny, the ME, who had possession of the foot.

  Brett glanced questioningly at Diego, then went back to driving as he waited for his partner and friend to elaborate.

  Diego nodded at him somberly. “I swear this is no lie, Brett. You can look it up. There was a chicken by the name of Mike. Had his head chopped off, but they missed something at the brain stem. He lived for eighteen months.”

  “That’s some kind of hoax,” Brett said.

  “No, it happened in 1945. I know because I thought it was a hoax, too, so I checked it out. The guy who owned Mike made money touring him around. They also brought him to the University of Utah so that researchers there could document what had happened.”

  “His head was chopped off and he lived?” Brett asked skeptically.

  “The ax missed the carotid artery or something like that, and a blood clot kept him from bleeding out. The head was gone except for one ear. Mike even tried to peck and eat grain. It’s a bizarre story. Supposedly he made the farmer like forty-five hundred dollars a month, which would be close to fifty thousand now. They fed him with an eyedropper, gave him milk and stuff. I don’t remember exactly. I think he finally choked to death, but the point is, he lived for eighteen months without a head.”

  “So you’re telling me that Miguel Gomez might have had his head chopped off and then been programmed to kill his wife?” Brett asked.

  “No. I’m just saying there’s something weird going on.”

  “I agree. But Miguel couldn’t have killed Maria. I don’t think that I ever saw a man and woman married so long who were still so deeply in love,” Brett said. He paused for thought. Actually, he saw the same love and respect in his own parents. They’d married practically as children and were still married—and bugging him for grandchildren. Luckily his sister had provided them with a boy and a girl, and they lived in Jacksonville, near his folks in St. Augustine.

  “Miguel loved Maria. So what? Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have become a zombie, until someone did him in for real, then chopped him up and threw him in Biscayne Bay. All we need is another zombie story around here,” Diego said.

  Brett agreed. In 2012, a young man had gone crazy, stripped naked and attacked a stranger on MacArthur Causeway, claiming the older man had stolen his Bible. He’d chewed off half the face of the victim, who had miraculously survived, before being shot by police. Brett knew a few of the officers who had been among the first responders. They’d told him that the attacker had been so revved that he hadn’t fallen immediately, actually growling at the officer who had demanded he cease and desist. The first bullet had done nothing; four more had been needed to bring down the attacker. The media, naturally, had seized on the event, which quickly became known as the Miami Zombie Attack or the Causeway Cannibal Attack.

  They didn’t need the media seizing hold of this situation—especially when years of work by a half dozen law enforcement agencies might well be at stake.

  And especially when Miguel and Maria had left behind a loving family who didn’t need that kind of story marring the memory of their loved ones.

  “With any luck, we’ll avoid the zombie stories,” Brett told him.

  Diego snorted.

  He was right, actually. A zombie story was inevitable, unless they managed to gag the press and anyone who might have seen Miguel before Maria’s death.

  And now, of course, they had body parts that proved Miguel hadn’t died in that fire. They were going to take some major-league credibility blows from the local, county and state police, not to mention every federal agency out there.

  They arrived at the medical examiner’s office on Northwest 10th Avenue. Brett sighed. He’d been there far too many times—but none quite like this. The gurneys were sized to hold bodies, but the one today held nothing but the severed foot.

  The ME was waiting for them and started right in after a quick hello.

  “Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, the foot goes with the finger goes with the DNA of Miguel Gomez. We’re dealing with body parts that have been compromised by seawater, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a certain amount I can tell you. First, this foot wasn’t in the water more than twenty-four hours—I’d say more likely around twelve to sixteen. Gomez was already dead when his foot was removed. It was anything but a precision operation. You’re not looking for a surgeon. You are looking for someone capable of swinging a blade. That foot was removed by something like a large hatchet or an ax.”

  “How did Miguel die?” Brett asked.

  Phil Kinny stared at him. “Brett, I’m looking at a foot and a finger. I’ve sent out tissue samples for analysis, in case that can tell us anything, but all I know so far is that a seemingly healthy man was dismembered after death. If he had drugs or alcohol in his system, the tox screen will tell us that. When I have anything more, I’ll call you.”

  “How long?” Brett asked.

  “I marked this as top priority,” Kinny told him. “But this is Miami,” he added drily. “So no guarantees.”

  “Thank you, Phil,” Diego said.

  Brett quickly echoed his words.

  “If I only had a head,” Kinny said.

  Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a bizarre version of The Wizard of Oz. He understood what Kinny meant, though. Unraveling the mystery of death was Kinny’s passion; his determination to know the truth had helped them many times.

  “Unfortunately, it’s probably in Biscayne Bay—somewhere,” Diego said.

  “But maybe near Sea Life,” Brett speculated.

  “We searched Sea Life. More than a half dozen divers and as many dolphins searched Sea Life,” Diego reminded him.

  “But if you had the head, you could tell us more?” Brett asked Kinny.

  “The brain is complex,” Kinny said. He looked at the two of them. “True story—and bizarre. Police were called to a home where the husband and wife had been attacked, shot several times. The husband was found at the foot of the stairs. He’d brought in the paper, set up his cereal bowl and then died at the foot of the stairs. The wife was in bed—alive, but just barely. She came to enough to say the name of one of their sons. When she came out of the coma, she denied she’d ever said her son’s name, but consequent investigations proved that he had come down the tollway, his car had been seen—and he had ditched the gun.”

  “I’m lost. What are you getting at?” Diego said.

  “The son finally confessed. He was mad at his father and wanted his parents’ money. But here’s the thing—he got to the house and shot them both in bed around 2:00 a.m. Apparently, he wasn’t much of a shot, though. His mother survived, and his father... The kid shot him in the head. The father was doomed, but despite that, a portion of his brain was untouched—the portion that dealt with mechanical memory. He rose
, got the paper and set up his cereal before dying, and without any idea at all that he’d been shot and was dying and needed medical attention.”

  “Mike the headless chicken,” Diego breathed.

  “Is that possible? Are you making this up?” Brett demanded.

  Kinny looked almost hurt. “Have you ever seen me joke in this office?” he demanded.

  “I’ve got to find Miguel’s head,” Brett said.

  * * *

  The night was beautiful. It might be summer in Miami, but as if ordered by a celestial being, the breeze coming off the bay was exquisite, Lara thought. Like many attractions in the South—and even the North in summer—Sea Life was equipped with a number of spray stations where fans were set with water pumps to send a cooling mist into the air. Now she walked out from beneath the massive roofed-but-open dining area at Sea Life to cool off in the fine spray.

  As decked out as many of the guests were that evening—mostly the women, because most of the men had opted for lightweight tailored shirts and trousers—they weren’t about to get their clothing or their hair wet. Lara didn’t care. Her hair was down, and her white halter dress, sandals and a shawl could handle a little moisture.

  Lara had discovered that Miami was most beautiful by night. Darkness hid the seedy faults of certain areas, while the lights highlighted the shimmer of the water and the many fantastic skyscrapers downtown. Lights on the many causeways and bridges created a stunning combination of dazzling colors.

  So much here was so beautiful—until a body part showed up.

  She gave herself a shake, trying not to think about what had happened earlier. They’d kept Sea Life closed throughout the day while the authorities had done a thorough search of the facility, but the police had assured them that they could go on with tonight’s gala and open the following day.

  Which was good, since they were fully booked for every swim and encounter, many of those reservations made after word had leaked of Cocoa’s discoveries.

  Apparently the public was slightly ghoulish.

  And since the news was out, they’d decided to bite the bullet and answer any questions honestly, giving what information they could, which wasn’t much. A finger and a foot had been found in the lagoon. The police and other agencies had conducted a thorough search for additional body parts but had found nothing else. More information would be forthcoming pending the investigation.

  It was easy for Lara to say that she didn’t know anything, because she really didn’t.

  Now she looked around and took time to really appreciate everything that had been put together to make the evening special. The interns had done a fabulous job of arranging colorful plants around the open square, decorating the tables—each one held a vase filled with shells and a candle—and creating an elegant ambiance by the sea. Rain might have ruined everything, but they’d lucked out. No rain that night. Just the perfect breeze, the moonlight and the occasional sound of a dolphin calling from the nearby lagoon. Lara had worked on the menu to make sure there were delicacies for everyone. Sonia Larson was a vegetarian, Mason Martinez lived a gluten-free lifestyle and Ely Taggerly was in his early seventies and on salt restrictions, while Grant Blackwood was a forty-year-old Texan who had made his millions in the oil industry and still liked a good steak.

  Rick and Adrianna Laramie were pescatarians, eating fish but nothing warm-blooded. As they said, fish ate fish, and so did their dolphins, so they had no problem eating fish, too. Everyone else—both guests and staff—ate just about anything.

  Lara was proud that she’d managed to create a gourmet menu that accommodated everyone there—and cheaply. She had enlisted an up-and-coming Key West chef who had just won a cable-series cooking challenge. He and his family would enjoy a special day with the trainers and Grady Miller, and the meal would be compliments of the chef, who, as an added bonus, was featured in all their PR material.

  She looked over to see what was going on in the dining area. A local jazz trio was providing free entertainment. Sonia Larson—petite, dark haired and gorgeous in a teensy-tiny black dress that probably only she could wear—was holding a wineglass in her delicate fingers as she laughed at something Ely Taggerly had said. Grant Blackwood, standing next to Sonia, let out a deep bellow of laughter. Dr. Amory was with them, being his suave and charming self. Grady Miller and the rest of the staff were circulating, making sure every guest felt special, valued. Rick and Adrianna were chatting with Kevin and Diana Valentine, locals who owned a chain of drug and convenience stores, and sponsored their special events for veterans and their families. The café staff were supposed to be guests, but she’d noticed that they were still picking up empty plates and cups when they found them. That made her smile. Everyone here loved the place.

  Everything appeared to be going exceptionally well. Both Ely Taggerly and Mason Martinez had shown themselves to be interested not only in the center’s general research but in what research into dolphin physiology and health could carry over into the field of human health, where both men made their living. EEG research had shown that half of the dolphin brain slept while the other half remained awake, seeing to it that they continued to surface as necessary to breathe.

  She decided to take a moment longer and enjoy the caress of the mist blower. Closing her eyes, she let the fine droplets and the gentle breeze wrap her in cool comfort.

  She loved her new world, despite the trauma of the day.

  There had been so many law enforcement personnel on site that she hadn’t even met them all, but everyone had been nice, except for Agent Cody. And it wasn’t that he’d been rude or anything. He’d just been so...intense. As if what had happened was a personal affront to him. Brusque. That might be a way to describe the man. Curt, or maybe tightly wound. Kind of a shame. Both he and his partner were certainly striking looking, the kind who made you look when they walked in. One had asked that she call him by his given name and not Special Agent McCullough. He’d grinned when he’d told her that his name was Diego and explained that his mom had been a Cuban immigrant at the tender age of two. She’d grown up in Miami and married the Anglo doctor she’d met when she broke her foot playing soccer her senior year of college. “That’s Miami for you,” he’d told her with another smile.

  She’d liked that. And she liked him.

  As to his partner...

  The man hadn’t had two words to say to her that weren’t directly concerned with the case. His features seemed to be composed of granite, totally immobile and incapable of expression. His eyes were almost black, they were so dark a brown, and while he ticked her off to no end, she couldn’t help but feel something like a warm charge suffuse her when he gave her his intense stare.

  “Stick up his butt,” she muttered softly to herself.

  Time to get back to work. The day was almost over. Cocoa’s discovery would be the talk of the town for several days, and then something else would capture the public’s imagination. And as far as she was concerned, that was a very good thing.

  She opened her eyes. And started.

  He was there. The agent. Not Diego, but stick-up-the-butt Agent Cody.

  She wondered how long he had been standing there right in front of her.

  And she wondered just how loudly she had spoken.

  She flat-out stared at him for several seconds, stunned to see him.

  “Agent Cody,” she said finally. “Well. How nice. You’re back. Just in time for the fund-raiser.”

  “I’m not here for the fund-raiser,” he told her.

  “That’s a pity. The food is excellent,” she said, and then shook her head. “Look, Agent Cody, this place readily turned itself inside out for you today, and we’re willing to do anything to help. But tonight’s event is very important for us.”

  “I’m not here to bother you or break up your party,” he assured her.

 
She just stared back at him. He definitely had a blind side. It was tonight, and he was here.

  And he was definitely a bother.

  “I need you and your dolphin tomorrow,” he told her.

  “First, I’m working tomorrow. Second, I don’t have a dolphin. I don’t own any of the dolphins, and I’m not a trainer. I’m pretty new to the facility, as a matter of fact,” she told him.

  “I’ve already spoken with Mr. Miller, and he says that he’s willing for you, Rick and Cocoa to participate in what I propose, as long as we record the process for research purposes.”

  “In what you propose?” Lara echoed slowly. She turned to look toward the dining area. Grady Miller was still standing by Sonia and Ely, but he was looking at her and Agent Cody. And when he caught her looking at him, he nodded gravely.

  When had all this happened? How long had she been standing there in the mist?

  “I’m leaving,” Agent Cody assured her. “I really just interrupted you in your—your moment of whatever—to let you know about tomorrow and to thank you. You were a tremendous help today, and I’m hoping that we fare better tomorrow.”

  She hoped she wasn’t staring at him quite as blankly and stupidly as she had a feeling she was.

  “You’re welcome,” she told him. “As Grady told you, we’re more than willing to help. Whoever did...that needs to be brought to justice. I have absolutely no idea what you’re proposing. I’m sure I will tomorrow, though.” There. Hopefully she sounded semi-intelligent.

  “We’re going to search the bay,” he told her.

  “For?”

  “More of the victim.”

  She was no cop, but she knew enough to know that what he was proposing was like seeking the proverbial needle in a haystack. He was crazy.

  “In all of Biscayne Bay?” she asked.

  “We’re researching online tonight,” he told her. “We’re going to track the tides and the wind patterns, try to pinpoint where more body parts might have ended up, where someone might have dumped them so that the foot and finger ended up here.”