“Where’s Pescador?” Linda asked as we idled down the canal toward open water.
“He’s been acting kinda down lately,” I replied. Pescador’s my big Portuguese water dog. I’d found him over two years ago, stranded on an island after a hurricane. “Seems like just playing with Carl and Charlie’s kids for a short while wears him out and all he wants to do is sleep.”
“Well, in dog years, he’s probably close to forty,” Kim said. “Everyone slows down a little at that age.”
Passing the end of the canal, I said, “Ha! Speak for yourself, kiddo.” I pushed the foot throttle halfway and the big motorcycle engines roared, lifting the boat up on plane almost instantly.
Knot L-8 is a great little boat. She has strong oak ribs, overlaid with western red cedar on the hull and mahogany and teak on the fore and aft decks, then a thin skin of fiberglass and epoxy. It’s the aft section that’s most notable. Carl and I built her with a barrel-back design, the rear deck and engine compartment hatch sloping down from the rear cockpit and the gunwales flaring inboard. The aft section is about all that other boaters see of her, as she’s quite capable of reaching seventy knots or more on calm water.
I kept the speed down in the small swells of the Atlantic, while Linda made a phone call. She ended the call just as we reached the Seven Mile Bridge and the calmer waters to the north of it. Turning left and paralleling traffic moving across the bridge, I opened the big motorcycle engines up and we were soon skimming across the glassy sheltered water, passing the cars on the bridge like they were standing still.
Looking over at Kim and Linda, I saw that both were smiling, their hair flying back wildly in the slipstream. Linda lifted her face to the warm sun, now halfway to the horizon, and said loud enough to be heard over the engines, “It’s always good to come back down here. Sometimes I wonder why I stay on with the department.”
“Why do you do it, then?” Kim asked, glancing over.
Linda thought on it a moment. “Someone has to, and I’m pretty good at what I do.”
“Then just teach someone to do it and quit,” Kim said. “When I finish college, I’m coming down here to stay.”
That was a revelation to me. I knew Kim loved the water and enjoyed coming down here. “Really?”
Facing me, Kim got that serious look on her face, like she did when she tried to straighten me out on how to run the charter business. “I changed my major, Dad.”
Kim had started college at the beginning of the summer, intent on getting a head start and graduating with a degree in business in just three and a half years. Changing her mind on something wasn’t like her. “You’re not planning on a business degree?”
“No,” she replied. “Nearly a third of the students at UF are majoring in business, and the job market’s not all that great.”
My first thought was that she was planning on something to do with the water. Maybe oceanography or marine biology. “What are you majoring in, then?”
“Criminal justice,” Kim replied flatly. I nearly missed the turn into Spanish Harbor Channel.
Just six miles up US-1 from the Rusty Anchor, Marty’s phone rang as he pulled off the highway, tires crunching on the crushed-shell driveway to the medical examiner’s office. When he answered, an English woman’s voice on the other end asked if he was Deputy Phillips.
When he said that he was, she continued, “A friend called me just a moment ago, Deputy. Linda Rosales, with FDLE? This is Meg Stewart calling. I’m with Forensic Outreach of London.”
“London? Linda said you were local.”
“Well, I am, actually. I live in Orlando. Our company is branching out here in the United States. Linda told me you have a fresh limb from an unknown victim. Any chance it was a simple boating accident?”
“I’m on my way in to meet the chief medical examiner now, Mizz Stewart. But his initial finding on the scene this morning pointed toward homicide.”
“Linda said a chain saw was used. Is that correct? Oh, and please, do call me Meg.”
Pulling through the gate at the end of the shell road, Marty maneuvered his pickup into a parking spot and climbed out. “Then you’ll have to call me Marty. Yeah, from Doc Fredric’s early examination, he’s pretty sure that it was a chain saw.”
“May I please come have a look, Marty? My specialty is forensic anthropology, mutilation, and dismemberment. Our kerf analysis database is quite extensive. I can be there tonight and meet you and Doctor Fredric first thing in the morning, if that’s convenient.”
“We’re a pretty small department, Meg. I’m not sure we can afford to hire an outside consultant.”
“There’ll be no cost at all, Marty. We’re a privately funded organization. I’d really love to see your arm.”
Reaching the door to the metal building, Marty stopped just outside, knowing that he’d lose his signal as soon as he walked in. “In that case, I’m sure Doc won’t mind. Say eight o’clock?”
“That would be wonderful, Marty.”
“I’m just about to walk into the morgue now. If Doc can’t see you at eight, I’ll call you right back with a time that he can. Otherwise, I’ll see you at eight.”
Meg said goodbye and Marty ended the call, walking through the heavy metal door. The woman had a pleasant voice, but Marty couldn’t help but wonder how a woman had become involved in this particular kind of research. Or a man, for that matter.
Making his way quickly through the building, Marty soon arrived at the morgue. He’d only been here a half dozen times, but only twice since graduating from the academy. He pushed the call button next to the door and waited.
“Right on time, Marty,” Doc Fredric’s voice came over a speaker next to the button. The door buzzed and Marty pulled it open and walked inside.
“Hey, Doc. Busy day?”
“No, thankfully not,” the old doctor replied. Rising from his desk, he walked between two gurneys, one empty and the other occupied by a corpse, with a sheet pulled over it. “Come over here. I’ll show you what I found out.”
Pulling open one of the six small rectangular doors on the back wall, Doc pulled out a full-sized cadaver tray. The arm looked as out of place there as it had on the casting deck of Jesse’s boat.
“Do you know a lady by the name of Meg Stewart, Doc? She’s with a company out of London, called Forensic Outreach.”
“Only by reputation, son. She’s one of the leading specialists in kerf identification in the world. Why?”
Marty was already uncomfortable being in the morgue, and now he was even more so, thinking he might have overstepped his bounds.
“She’d like to examine the arm,” Marty blurted out. “If it’s okay with you, that is. She’ll be here in the morning.”
“Wonderful!” Doc said, poking him in the chest. “I like a young man with initiative, and I know the sheriff does as well. Unfortunately, I’ll be in Key West. I was planning to transport the arm there, but since this is your investigation, I’ll leave it here so you can let Miss Stewart examine it. Now have a look.”
Handing Marty a large magnifying glass, he pointed to the end of the bone. “Remember my telling Jesse about the spur?”
Marty bent over the tray and held the glass close to the severed bone. Noting the position of the arm, he said, “Looks to be on the underside, where the triceps muscle is.”
“Very good. Yes, it is. Remember my explaining to Jesse how a spur is usually on the end of the two-by-four that’s resting on the sawhorses, as pressure is applied to the free end?”
“I’ve done my share of framing, Doc,” Marty replied. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“If you were to dismember someone with a chain saw, how would you do it?”
Marty straightened up and visibly shuddered. “Gives me the jitters just thinking about it. I guess that, using a chain saw, I’d just lay the body spread-eagle on the ground and saw away.”
“That would be the easiest way, certainly. However, since the body is heavier than
the arm, as the saw cuts through to the other side of the bone, that spur would be on the bone still attached to the body, would it not?”
Looking down at the floor, Marty considered what the doctor had said. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. And the spur would probably be on the side of the bone, either the front side or the back side, depending on whether you were standing over the body or the head.”
Grinning broadly, the doctor stretched his arms out to either side. “What if the person weren’t lying on the ground?”
“But, wouldn’t the spur still be on the body side?”
“Allow me to demonstrate,” Doc said, walking around the cadaver tray. “May I hold your arm?”
Marty nodded and the doctor lifted his arm, holding it by the wrist with one hand, Marty’s hand resting on his shoulder. Doc pushed up on the underside of his elbow to straighten it. “The person was held up, like this. Probably by two people, one on either side, so that the arms were what was supported, not the man.”
“Kinda dangerous, Doc. I mean, trying to hold up a grown man’s body, that’s a lotta dead weight.”
Lowering Marty’s arm, the doctor looked up at the young deputy and smiled, letting him come to the only conclusion that made sense in his own time.
It became suddenly clear to Marty. “This guy was alive when they chopped his arm off?”
“I believe he was, yes. You have a pretty sharp mind, son. I do believe you’re going to crack this case.”
After collecting the doctor’s report, Marty waited while Doc made arrangements for him and Meg Stewart to be allowed access to the morgue in the morning.
Leaving the building, he got in his pickup and headed south on US-1 toward the sheriff’s department substation. Parking behind the building, he went inside and made his way to his captain’s office. He knocked on the open door frame, anxious to tell Captain Brian Hammonds what he’d learned.
“Come in, Marty. What was the ME’s finding?”
Marty entered the small office and handed the captain the official coroner’s report. “Doc says it was definitely a homicide, sir.”
Hammonds’ brow furrowed as he took the report and quickly flipped the pages. “Homicide? How can he tell that just from a severed limb?”
“From the location of the bone spur at the end of the cut. Doc says the dismemberment was likely the cause of death.” Marty stretched his arms out wide. “The victim was being supported in a standing position when the arm was hacked off with a chain saw.”
“Good Lord,” Hammonds muttered, quickly crossing himself. He handed the report back to Marty. “It’s your assignment, son. I bet a few of the homicide dicks will want to take it from you when this gets out, but it’s yours until the sheriff says otherwise. Need any help?”
Marty couldn’t suppress his grin. “Not right now, sir. I’m meeting a forensic anthropologist in the morning. She specializes in dismemberment and kerf identification.”
“Kerf?”
“The cuts made from tools on bone,” Marty replied, puffing up just a little.
Standing up, Hammonds came around the desk and stood looking up at the tall young deputy. “You do know you’re not authorized to outlay funds for consults without approval, right? But, in this case, I’ll let it slide if this woman can come up with a lead. If not, the cost will come outta your salary.”
Grinning, Marty said, “No problem, Captain. She does pro bono research. I’m meeting her at the morgue in the morning.”
Hammonds placed a hand on Marty’s shoulder, turning him to the door. “Good. You keep me posted on what’s happening. And I want a copy of her report, alright?”
Turning and walking toward the door, Marty told the captain he would and then started to leave the office. He stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Captain, this forensic anthropologist woman is supposed to be the top in her field. Okay if I put her up at the Sombrero Resort?”
“Sure, son,” Captain Hammonds replied. “But it’s on your dime if she doesn’t have anything to contribute. The department can’t afford to pay the way for specialists, just so they can add to their database.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marty replied and turned down the hall toward the parking lot.
It was a short drive to the hotel, where he put a standard room on his expense card. Outside, he pulled up the woman’s number on his phone’s memory and called her back.
When Meg answered, Marty said, “I made arrangements at Sombrero Resort for a room. It’s just a few miles from the morgue. I can pick you up, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, Marty,” Meg replied. “A resort, though?”
“The department has it covered,” he lied. “And it’s just called a resort because it’s on the water and has a marina. There are more expensive places in town, but Sombrero’s pretty nice, and it’s where we usually house consultants. Mostly, it’s convenient. They have their own marina, and I work mostly on the water.”
“Alright, then,” she replied. “I’m not very good at finding my way around strange places.”
“Right next door to the resort is a place called Dockside. They serve breakfast and I can meet you there at eight, if that works for you.”
“That would be lovely,” she replied. “How do I find this resort?”
“Simple,” Marty said. “Get on US-1 up in Homestead, and about eighty miles later you’ll come into Marathon. Stay on US-1 past the airport and turn left just after the Kmart. Go just a few hundred feet and turn right on Sombrero Boulevard. It’s about half a mile on the right. You can’t miss it.”
She thanked him again and Marty ended the call, climbing into his pickup. Driving the short distance to City Marina, just on the other side of the hospital, he thought over what Doc Fredric had said. He couldn’t think of a more terrifying way to die than being hacked up with a chain saw.
“What’s this?” Agent Dave Parsons asked when his office manager, Sergeant First Class Mike Cooper, placed a file in his empty inbox.
“A civilian missing person’s report, sir. File says ‘eyes only,’ so I figured I’d let you open it.”
“Dammit! I’m only a couple months from mandatory retirement,” the CID special agent in charge grumbled. “And what the hell is Criminal Intelligence investigating a missing civilian for?”
Sergeant Cooper merely shrugged and started to leave. “Wait, Mike,” Parsons said. The younger soldier stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I just about have this fraud case wrapped up and it’s got me a bit on edge. I should be starting to check out, not digging into another investigation.”
“The Army machine is kinda blind as well as ponderous, sir. Want me to have the courier wait?”
“Won’t matter, will it?”
Cooper had been posted here just before Parsons, in charge of the daily managing of the office, controlling the handling and movement of both evidence and paperwork.
“Probably not,” Cooper replied. “Between us we have almost half a century in the Army, and even coming here from two different fields, some things are pretty much the same.”
“That’ll be all,” Parsons said, dismissing the sergeant and picking up the file.
Dave Parsons had joined the Army nearly thirty years ago, fresh out of high school and a summer filled with partying in Montgomery, Alabama. He’d enjoyed the early years of Army life and reenlisted in 1981 for a chance to make a lateral move to Military Police. As an MP, he’d excelled in his job and moved up in rank.
Almost seven years after enlisting, he’d finished the associate’s degree program in criminal justice as a twenty-five-year-old sergeant. On the short list for staff sergeant, Parsons was instead transferred to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to attend the Army’s Warrant Officer School.
Graduating from there, the newly appointed WO1 was shipped to Germany, where he worked in foreign intelligence and traveled all over the world. That had ended with this last posting. But for the four previous years, CWO4 Parsons had been a fede
ral agent with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, primarily investigating stateside murder cases involving active-duty Army personnel.
However, nearing mandatory retirement after twenty-nine years of service, he’d been transferred to the fraud division and assigned as special agent in charge of this small office in Melbourne, Florida. He never saw it as a demotion, as others who had handled high-profile cases might. It was the Army’s way of winding a man down toward the end of a career. A few general-grade officers and sergeants major stay beyond thirty years, but that wasn’t usually an option in the warrant officer and lower enlisted ranks. He’d done what the Army had asked of him, knew his track record was good, and he was enjoying the slower-paced job of assigning cases to the other agents that worked under him.
Aside from an occasional case or problem that came up when the other agents were fully engaged with their own assignments, Parsons handled very few himself. With his retirement looming at the end of the year, his case load became even lighter. Taking on a case that might take months was out of the question. He’d only have to bring someone else up to speed to take it over. Although it put more work on the other agents, it really was the only way, and he felt guilty for the free time he had.
He’d decided he liked the Melbourne area and wanted to make it his retirement hometown. He’d bought a townhouse overlooking a man-made lake in the North Melbourne suburb of Suntree. It was so close, he could look across Wickham Road from his office window and see the rooftops of the townhouses at the end of his street, peeking above the ten-foot-high wall that blocked the traffic noise.
Parsons thumbed through the missing person file. A man a few years older than himself by the name of Darius Minnich had gone missing. Also missing were his much younger and very attractive wife, Celia Minnich, and their crew. They had been reported overdue just yesterday, when the CFO of his company had contacted Dade County Police. The couple hadn’t returned from a cruise on his luxury yacht, Obsession, and repeated phone calls went unanswered.
Fallen Tide: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 8) Page 3