Dead in the Water

by Annelise Ryan

  “Mattie? What’s going on?” says a female voice behind me.

  I turn and see Alison Miller, the Sorenson newspaper’s ace photographer and reporter. “I heard something on my police scanner about a drowning.”

  “I don’t know yet,” I tell Alison. “We just got here and all I know so far is that there’s a body in the water by the dam.”

  Alison nods and looks around. “I’ll go talk to some of the rubberneckers and see what I can find out.” She heads off for the largest group of spectators, a dozen or so people gathered along the shore on the north end of the dam, about fifty feet from the body. I can see several of them holding up cell phones, no doubt snapping pictures of the floating, bobbing corpse.

  Alison Miller used to be a huge nemesis to Hurley and me, and to the police in general. She was always so eager to get a scoop on whatever was going on that she often published stories containing information we didn’t want released. At one point, right after I first started my job with Izzy, she was also a competitor for Hurley’s attentions, which put her at the top of my fecal roster. But things have changed a lot in the past two years. A case we had involving a famous, wealthy family bickering over who would inherit the estate’s millions put Sorenson on the map of every news agency across the country and Alison at stage center. It got her a bigger, better job offer out of town, but just as she was about to take it, her mother was diagnosed with ALS. Alison was forced to give up her dream job so she could stay home and care for her mother. This humbling life event changed her, and an agreeable détente was achieved. Now Alison works with us rather than against us in exchange for any scoops we can provide her. Her mother passed away several months ago, and because I helped Alison care for the woman in her final days, we forged a solid friendship.

  With Alison off to query the lookie-loos, Hurley and I follow Junior down a path toward the dam, ducking under the police tape and climbing up onto one of two matching embankments bordering the structure. There, facedown in the water, is a body—a man, I think, judging from the build and the bald spot on the back of his head—one side of his body bobbing up against the wall of the dam. He is wearing knee-length shorts, and a Hawaiian-patterned shirt is billowing out around his torso. One of his feet is bare; the other is outfitted in what looks like a deck type of shoe.

  “How deep is the water here?” I ask.

  Hurley shrugs. Junior says, “The guys at the fire department said they think it’s around eight feet deep at the wall.”

  I set down my scene kit, take out my camera, and start snapping pictures of everything I can see: the body, the dam, the park, the people in the park, the ground at our feet.

  I hear footsteps behind us and turn to see Otto trudging toward us.

  “Bummer,” he says, with a bleak expression, staring at the floating corpse. “Do we know yet if he went in here?”

  “He didn’t,” Junior says, shaking his head. “Some of the folks here in the park said they saw his body drifting downriver toward the dam. And a couple of kids who were fishing on the Main Street Bridge saw him go floating by about twenty minutes ago. So he went in somewhere upriver.”

  The fire department has arrived with their water rescue boat. They are hauling their equipment through the park when Otto turns to me and says, “One of us should be in the boat. Ideally, I’d prefer to have a diver in the water to take a look at the body before it’s hauled out, but I don’t suppose that’s possible.”

  I chew on my lip, thinking. “I could do it,” I tell him. “I received my PADI certification nine years ago when my ex and I were on a vacation in the Florida Keys. And I’ve done a half-dozen scuba dives in other places since then. If someone has the tanks and other equipment for me to borrow, I can go in and take a look.”

  Hurley looks at me like I’m crazy. “There’s no way you’re going in there.”

  “Why not? I know what I’m doing and if we want to maintain the best evidentiary chain, it should be someone from our office who goes in.”

  Otto looks at Hurley and shrugs. “She’s right.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Hurley insists.

  “I can go in with a safety line, and another diver if need be.”

  Hurley rakes a hand through his hair, frowning at me. I know he can tell I’ve got my mind made up, and I also know he knows me well enough to know he won’t be changing it. “We can get a police diver down here,” he says, making one last attempt to dissuade me.

  “I suppose you can, but how long will it take?” I say. “We don’t have anyone local and it will take an hour or more to get someone here from Madison. I’m here, ready to go. And I have the necessary experience.”

  Hurley throws his head back and stares up at the sky, as if he’s appealing to the gods. He lets out a weighty sigh and I know he’s caving.

  I look over at Junior. “Can you send someone over to the drugstore on Main to buy a couple of waterproof cameras? That way, I can take some pictures once I’m down there.”

  He nods, takes out his cell phone, and makes a call. The fire department folks are standing on the shoreline, eyeing the water and the body, calculating their best approach. I push past Hurley, who grumbles something unintelligible, and walk over to them. They all know me and there are some nods of acknowledgment, along with a couple of “Hey, Mattie” mumbles.

  “Who’s in charge?” I ask.

  A guy named Dennis Andruss raises his hand.

  “Do you guys have diving equipment? Tanks, masks, BCDs?”

  Dennis nods. “We do, but at the moment I’m the only one here who’s certified to use it. Our other local diver is out of town.” He looks over at the body. “I don’t think we need divers, though. We can take the Zodiac out there to the body and haul it in on an attached sled.”

  “I’d like to get a look at the site and the body before you move it,” I tell him. “There’s another site up at the lake that might be related. Any chance you can loan me the necessary equipment and go in with me?”

  Dennis considers this and eventually nods. “Don’t see why not.”

  “I don’t have a bathing suit with me. Do you have a wet suit I can borrow?”

  Dennis nods and waves for me to follow him. We head back to a locked trailer hitched onto the back of a pickup truck and Dennis unlocks the padlock. Inside is a ton of diving and water rescue equipment. Dennis climbs in and after a few minutes he has rounded up all the necessary equipment to get suited up.

  “We’ll have to rig both of us with a safety line,” he says. “We’ll be on the upriver side so we won’t have the hydraulics to worry about, but the water at the base of the dam can still churn pretty hard.”

  The trailer has a light in it, so Dennis kindly allows me to undress inside with the doors closed. Taking my clothes off is easy, but getting into the wet suit, which is a smidge on the small side for me, is a bit of a challenge and every lump, bump, and extra bit of padding on my body is on full display. My scarfed-down sandwich is sitting in my stomach like a lead balloon and I swear I look like I’m pregnant again. I try to suck it in, but it’s a futile effort. By the time I finish, I’m sweating like a pig. Stepping out into the warm summer air doesn’t help the situation much, and I’m desperate to get into the water.

  We haul the rest of our equipment back over toward the dam, but instead of climbing the bordering embankment, we head for a nearby shore area. I put on a weight belt that I suspect wouldn’t be heavy enough if I wanted to descend any deeper than I need to today—fat is very buoyant. An officer hands me one of the waterproof cameras that were purchased, and I attach it to my wrist with its strap. Then Dennis and Hurley help me don my buoyancy vest and tanks, and I test the vest and the respirator. Finally I put on my snorkel and mask, and with some help from Hurley, my flippers. As I stand there bearing some ninety pounds of weight, and feeling my knees and back complain, the firefighters attach my safety line.

  Feeling like a beached seal, I turn my back to the water and wade in backward. It’s awkw
ard going—the wet suit is so tight on me that my knees won’t bend all the way—and Hurley takes off his shoes, rolls his pants legs up, and walks with me partway in. When he gets knee deep, I tell him I have it and part his company. After a few more steps, I’m in waist-deep water and the weight of the tanks eases some. I pause and look over at Dennis, who is shorter than I am, so the water is midway up his chest.

  “Ready?” he asks me.

  “Ready,” I tell him, and then we both put our regulators in our mouths. We turn and aim ourselves toward the dam and the body, and then dive under the water. In an instant, I feel buoyant and wonderfully free of gravity and the weight I’m carrying. I kick my way over toward the dam, following Dennis, who has an underwater light. It’s a good thing because the water is murky and green and our visibility is only about six to eight feet.

  With frightening suddenness, the wall of the dam becomes visible and the body looms above us. I reel backward, afraid I’m going to bump into it. There is a lot of debris up against the dam wall, and I snap several pictures of it before doing anything else, knowing that some of that debris might be evidence. With those shots done, I turn my attention to the floater. I ease my way up closer to him, camera at the ready, and then stop in shock. My heart begins to race and I instinctively backpedal in the water. My eyes are fixed on that face, and Dennis, sensing something is wrong, swims up to me and tugs on my arm.

  I look over at him, my eyes filled with fear, sadness, and disbelief. I want to tell him what the problem is, but, of course, I can’t talk. Instead, I take a moment to collect myself and then give Dennis an okay sign with my hand.

  But I’m not okay, far from it, in fact. The man in the river, the man whose body is floating above me, is my coworker Hal Dawson.

  CHAPTER 12

  After giving myself a few more seconds to calm my pounding heart and slow my breathing, I start snapping pictures of Hal. His eyes are colorless and opaque; his skin is so white it looks like alabaster. I can see a gaping wound on one side of his neck, and as I force myself closer, I see that it’s deep—deep enough that both his jugular and carotid were likely severed. Hal probably bled out in a matter of a minute or two, which explains his coloring, but the bigger question is what caused the wound. I wonder if it might have been made postmortem—bodies in the water are sometimes hit by boat propellers, and fish and turtles tend to feed on the flesh—but the lines of the wound are clean and straight, not jagged like a propeller tear, not ragged or gnawed on as it would be if animals had fed on it. Someone cut Hal’s neck intentionally.

  I examine the rest of his body with my eyes, noting a gash on the palm of his right hand. It has the same clean edges as the neck wound and looks like a defensive wound. I snap pictures of it, and after I scan the rest of Hal’s body, I motion to Dennis. I point upward and we break the surface a moment later.

  “What happened down there?” Dennis asks me after he spits out his regulator.

  I swim closer to him and talk right up next to his ear. I know sound carries well over water and I don’t want the rubberneckers to hear what I have to say. “I know him,” I tell Dennis. “It’s my coworker Hal Dawson.”

  “Oh, geez,” Dennis says, grimacing. “Sorry.”

  Hurley and Junior are standing on the embankment, straining to hear what we’re saying. I tell Dennis, “We can go ahead and get the sled in the water.” Dennis nods and swims over to where the rest of the water rescue group is on the shore. I swim up to the embankment and beckon Hurley down to my level with a finger.

  “It’s Hal Dawson,” I tell him when he’s on his knees.

  “You’re kidding,” Hurley says, louder than I like, and I put a finger to my lips to shush him. “Are you sure?” he asks me just above a whisper, his face grim.

  “I’m sure. And I’m also sure he didn’t drown. He has a huge gash in his throat and his body is exsanguinated.”

  Hurley’s brows draw down in confusion. “Ex-what?”

  “Exsanguinated,” I repeat. “His body is drained of blood. I also saw a gash on his hand that looks like a defensive wound. I don’t know how he ended up in the water, but his death is anything but accidental.”

  I flash on my last conversation with Hal and remember something. “When I saw Hal this morning, he told me he had plans to go out in his boat today. Have the sheriffs traced the owner of the boat they found in the lake?”

  “Good question,” Hurley says, and he takes out his cell phone. I wait, watching Dennis swim the water sled—basically a rectangular surfboard with raised edges on three sides—over to where we are. By the time he reaches us, Hurley has finished his call. “Looks like we’re going to be heading for the lake after this,” he says. “The boat they found is registered to Hal.”

  “He said he was taking his girlfriend, Tina, with him. Was she on the boat?”

  Hurley shrugs. “Don’t know. Let me call them back and see what details I can find out.”

  As Hurley gets back on his phone, I swim back toward Hal. Over the next hour, Dennis and I retrieve Hal’s body from the water, rolling it onto the sled so that he ends up facing the sky, and then pushing it over to the shore, where Otto takes charge with the help of Hurley and the rest of the fire department.

  Once the body is secure, I go back down to snap pictures of and search among the debris on the river bottom and up against the dam. There are plenty of sticks, some soda and beer cans, a couple of beer bottles, a half-buried tire, and part of an old rubber boot. Then, about three feet back from the dam, I see something shiny on the bottom, nearly buried in silt. After snapping a picture, I carefully dig around and pull out a cell phone. It’s dead, of course, so there is no way to know if it’s Hal’s or not, but I bring it to the surface and hand it off to Junior for bagging. After I feel I’ve searched the area thoroughly, I resurface and head for shore.

  “Any news about Tina?” I ask after I’ve removed my flippers. Hurley helps me wade the last few feet out of the water and I toss the flippers aside. Then I turn around to let him help me out of my vest and tanks.

  “Nope,” he says in a low voice over my shoulder. “She wasn’t on the boat. I’ve got some guys trying to track her down. The sheriff’s office is sitting on the boat, watching it until we can get there.”

  I walk over to Hal’s body, which is still on the sled covered with a sheet. Hurley shows me a set of keys, a wallet, and a small cloth-covered box—the kind that would hold a ring—items removed from Hal’s shorts pockets. “It’s Hal’s wallet,” he says unnecessarily. I have no doubt about the identity of our victim. As I head for the trailer to change back into my clothes, I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is drips from my hair or tears for Hal.

  It takes me half an hour to get out of my gear and dress, once again making use of the fire department’s trailer. Otto has already called for a transport of Hal’s body and, accompanied by Otto, it is on its way to the morgue by the time I emerge. I call Otto to check in.

  “Hurley and I were planning to head up to the lake and take a look at the boat,” I tell him. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Absolutely. Keep an eye out for any evidence. From what I hear, there was a lot of blood on the boat, so I’m guessing that’s our crime scene.”

  “There’s something else,” I say, giving Hurley a bleak, worried look. “I don’t know if Hurley told you or not, but when Hal said he was going out on his boat today, he said he was planning on taking his girlfriend, Tina, with him.”

  Otto is silent for a few seconds. “Do you think she might have done this?”

  “I’ve only met her a couple of times and they were both brief. She isn’t the chatty type, and neither is Hal, so I don’t know her or the nature of their relationship well enough to say. All I know is they’ve been dating for about a year. Hurley has some guys working on trying to find her now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  “Please do. In the meantime, I’ll call around to see if I can get someone to come and assist w
ith the autopsy. I imagine it will be difficult for you to do it.”

  “I’m on board with that,” I say, feeling relieved. Autopsying anyone can be a grim process. Doing one on someone you know well is beyond the pale—though I’m not sure any of us could truly say we knew Hal well, because he was a quiet, keep-to-himself kind of guy.

  I disconnect the call and look at Hurley. “This sucks.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you sure you’re okay with coming along to look at Hal’s boat?”

  I nod. I can do it, but it will be hard.

  The drive to the lake area takes us twenty minutes, and when we arrive, there is a taped-off area on the shore and an inflatable Zodiac at the water’s edge. There are several sheriff’s deputies milling about. As soon as we get out of the car, one of them, a woman named Greta Zorski, approaches us.

  “Hey, Steve, Mattie,” she says. “Hell of a day, eh?”

  We know Greta because our police force and my office have worked closely with the sheriff’s office in the past. Both forces are small enough and the county area covered is large enough that help is often needed from neighboring cops for cases. Hurley and I worked with Greta just a few months ago.

  “Is that the boat?” Hurley says, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing out over the water. About two hundred feet from shore, we can see another Zodiac and a smaller, motorized jon boat moored up next to a larger, sleek-looking cruiser.

  “It is,” Greta says. “My guys are going over it now. I’ll take you out to it if you want.”

  “We want,” Hurley says.

  The sound of a car approaching diverts our attention and I see Alison Miller drive up. She hops out of the vehicle and comes at us at a half-run, ducking beneath the police tape Greta’s men have strung up around the area.