Predators and Drones

by Richard Herron

  Patrolman Rivera provided details. Unidentified dead body, male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Cause of death likely from single, fatal GSW to the back of the head. Santa Barbara Yacht Club Marina, slip space A-6-15. The d.b. laying in/around dried blood that appeared to be from another victim, in the galley of motorboat Mantis. Registered to retired Senator John Conrad Turner, whereabouts unknown.

  Patrolman Rivera waited on the line with more to say, while the detective finished scribbling notes.

  “Go ahead, Miguel.” Simmons invited.

  “Alex, this one's already complicated and it's gonna get worse. I've got the scene secured but think you'd better get down here pronto.”

  Alex knew Rivera as a hard-working, by the book officer for the six years since he'd joined the force. He respected him in his work, and in his sense of things, so he took this comment to heart.

  “Alright, Miguel. Hold the fort. I’ll be there in about twenty. As your help arrives, have a few guys run some preliminaries; harbor master, cafe, anybody situated nearby. Maybe somebody saw something. Oh, and give my cell number to the head Coastie, okay?"

  "Yes, Sir. I'm on it!"

  "Let’s find out," he continued, "if we can locate the boat's owner. A standard 'no comment' to the press for now. Thanks, Miguel. I'll see you in a bit.”

  He severed the connection, dropped the phone into his shirt pocket. An arm's reach away, a low stack of ready file folders was waiting for him on the corner. Another fuckin' log on the fire. He removed the Sig-Sauer from a side drawer, cracked the slide to visualize the top round, eased it back into place. He checked the safety, snugged the pistol into the pancake holster on his right hip. Next to his pistol in the drawer, a box of nitrile gloves waited. He pinched a small handful, stood up, retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair. The gloves tucked into a pocket, then he slipped into the jacket. As he walked by, he informed the clerk that he was heading to the marina.

  Arriving onsite, he brought the unmarked cruiser to a stop, parking as close as he could get to the primary dock, leaving the blueberry/cherry flickers on. That might slow things down a little, but it would take more to be effective. He walked down the main pier, found Miguel standing at a slip, the bow of the boat pointing in toward the dock.

  Alex's eyes rolled. Wow, nice boat! Police “Do Not Cross” yellow tape decorated the otherwise smooth white bow, stretching from boat rails on either side of this one. Those boats were taped off to prevent entry on the far sides as well.

  “Thanks, Miguel." He extended his right and as they shook hands, he added, "Whatcha got?”

  “I’ve got a scene like I described, but there’s way more goin' on here.” They stooped under the ribbon and walked to the stern, stopping at the end of the float.

  “Over on that table,” Miguel pointed his pen, “we've got a thumb drive sitting on a pad of paper with a note on the top.” That elicited a hitch to the eyebrows on the detective's face.

  “There's a small amount of what looks like blood spatter as well." He continued to use his pointer. "There’s also some blood on the bench, and a little bit on the boat’s console and window. More on the large arched window above the steps that drop down below.”

  “Where’s the body?” inquired Alex.

  “Bottom of the steps, into the galley," Miguel responded, "but I don’t think all this splatter came from the d.b."

  Alex turn his head from peering toward the steps, full attention now to the patrolman.

  Miguel continued, "He's prone, at the bottom of those steps and it looks like he was facing that way when he was shot. It’s possible that some of the blood might have spattered backward up here and could have been his, but not all. Some of the spatter on the bench and dash area would've turned ninety degrees to hit those surfaces.”

  Alex looked at Miguel, brain clicking along at speed. "Huh! Reminds me of the magic bullet theory in the Kennedy assassination. Okay, Miguel. Good job.”

  “There’s more," he added, nodding, "As I told you on the phone, it looks like single gunshot to the back of the head. Minimal bleeding, right?” It was rhetorical. “There's a whole shit storm of blood, in splatters and pools around the galley down there. Somebody or something did a whole lot of bleeding before our John Doe hit the floor.”

  Alex chewed on this for a couple moments. “So, you're talking a double kill? One done earlier, and then this one?”

  “That's my first impression. Let's go look."

  Alex put on a pair of gloves, then followed, keeping his steps on track behind the beat cop. He avoided markers on the deck, until he was standing behind Miguel, under the lip of the overhead canopy.

  “After clearing the boat for active shooters, I came back up, didn’t see any other obvious blood on the deck itself." Alex stepped around Miguel, down two steps so that he could see more of the galley. After that, he turned back to join Miguel on the cockpit deck. On the table in front of them, the note pad, and the thumb drive.

  “Your camera in the car?” Alex asked, and Miguel nodded. Alex asked that he get it. When Miguel left, Alex stepped back to the aft deck, turned. He looked at the big picture, mentally mapping out what and how the scene presented. After a couple minutes looking at the scene from the stern, he returned to the deck table. He picked up the thumb drive for a quick inspection, set it to the side. He picked up the post-it note pad and read the note on the top, short and to the point: "This thumb drive has evidence of what appears to be the dumping of human body parts from this boat." After assuring there was nothing more written, he bagged both the pad and drive, slipped them into his jacket pocket.

  Miguel returned and Alex asked him to get several photos from the float, then different angles of the entire deck area. Alex turned his attention to the captain's seat, the front dash area, and the passenger bench. By the looks of things, Miguel was right. The few spatters spread around different areas told him that there was a complex mystery to solve.

  Alex returned to the threshold, then down the steps toward the galley space. At the entrance, he spread his own feet to avoid feet and legs below him. He stopped to take a panoramic view. The d.b. sprawled forward, with feet still on the steps so that Alex could see the soles of his shoes. His head might have impacted the galley’s counter, where a blood smear grew to a dried ridge along the leading edge. From there, his head and torso bent hard right, twisting him in an awkward and broken looking posture. Alex guessed that the victim was dead before he hit the floor.

  When he scanned the scene, the fan-like pattern of dried blood spray was evident. The view confirmed what he'd already surmised. This was going to involve several hours of analysis and special treatment. It would be impossible to conduct while the boat remained tied up here. Too much foot traffic by the public would get in the way. Alex called his boss to authorize the transfer of the boat to their secured yard. After a quick pat of the d.b.’s pockets, Alex would bet he wasn’t carrying identification.

  He stepped over to the galley’s bench and table, taking a circuitous route to avoid the bloodied floor and carpet. Under the table, laying on the floor at the base of the bench were a machete and a small hatchet. Both were painted brick red and vying for identification as probable murder weapons of a missing body.

  Above them on the bench, a large duffel bag was peeking out from under a folded tarp. He used his pen to shift the tarp aside and spread open the bag. He found a take-down, semi-auto twenty-two caliber rifle with a mounted laser sight nested there. He pulled it out, hands still gloved, pressed the rifle’s button to release the cartridge magazine. Setting it down, he retracted the bolt, allowed a round to pop out of the breech. The magazine and loose round went into an evidence bag he pulled from another pocket of his jacket. Probing further into the duffel produced a Colt Mustang pistol, sandwiched between the folds of a light-weight jacket. He pulled it out, repeated the process of extracting the magazine, drawing back the slide, ejecting a round. Below the jacket, the bag contained some other tools and m
iscellaneous supplies.

  Alex completed this preliminary search when Miguel stepped down to the galley's doorway.

  "Stevens is interviewing someone at the restaurant. The guy saw somebody with a wound. Maybe related. They taped off a restroom with blood evidence."

  "Okay, sounds good. I've got two firearms here. I pulled the magazines, have them bagged, and I've asked for the lab to come for him." He tipped his head toward the body.

  "As soon as they get him, they can get the boat trailered. All we need is to keep it secure 'til they come. I'm hoping within an hour or two."

  Alex asked Miguel to snap a few more photos, some overview pictures of the galley, along with the ones already taken. He expected he wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.

  73. S.B.P.D.

  Video evidence is often appealing. Alex returned to the office after leaving the crime scene for one main reason. The notepad from the Mantis indicated that the thumb drive contained significant evidence. He harbored no reason to believe otherwise.

  If true, it most likely connected to the chaos on the Mantis. Another d.b. somewhere? It seemed clear that someone, operating as a friend to the police, made the initial 9-1-1 call. Likely the same friend who left the note and a thumb drive. Was it possible that there was more than one friend here? Possible, but likely?

  His recollection from what dispatch had said was that the caller mentioned both the d.b. and spilled fuel. That was exactly what they found plus bonus goodies by the bucket load. Unless this was someone toying with the P.D. in a sick cat and mouse game, this was coming from a valuable source.

  He placed the thumb drive into a workroom computer and opened the file that popped up. He watched the whole thing. It started out a bit shaky and pretty mild, showing some beach and offshore water. Might be able to ID that shore location with some time, some extra eyes... and then it became very interesting. This was a drone’s view. It showed the Mantis and two men onboard, one wearing clothes like the d.b. on the boat. They were dumping a body, or at least, the remnants of a body and miscellaneous parts and blood. The tarp seen in the video looked like the tarp that he saw folded up inside the galley. A rifle's appearance looked similar as well.

  ◆◆◆

  Alex needed to pay a visit to Senator Turner’s home. He acquired the address and phone number from the police department’s resources. Leaving the office, he drove out to the residence, located in a high-end subdivision on the northern fringe of the city.

  When he arrived, he was unable to get any response through the intercom system at the gate to the home’s driveway. He got out of his sedan and walked around to the side of the property, tried a small gate's latch, opened the gate. He walked back through the yard to the front door, knocked on it. There was still no response.

  He pulled one of his cards and tucked it under the edge of the door so that it should be seen dropping when the door opened.

  74. LIMPING HOME

  Lyle didn’t have a spare shirt or jacket in the car. As he drove back to the apartment, he slouched in the driver’s seat. Mother fucker killed Mike! He kept his eyes to the front and drove without stopping, except for the traffic lights. He reached the apartment in twenty minutes, went inside with only one gawking stare from someone on the sidewalk. Fuck you!

  As soon as he got inside, he went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Lyle kept a small supply of pharmaceuticals for emergency needs. He pulled two oxycontin from his stash, swallowed them dry. He did the same with two amoxicillin, then washed it all down with water he slurped from the faucet. Gathering dressing supplies, he walked out to the kitchen table, dropped onto a chair.

  Exhaustion was a fast, dark shroud. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain meds to get busy. Sitting there, eyes closed, head and neck tilted against the chair back, he sank, drifting into a shadowy other place. His heart’s backbeat half of a duo with his throbbing shoulder. Slow, even breathing eased him back, deeper into a calm, meditative fog. In a few moments, the fog ghosted, thinning into slender, horizontal ribbons. They split into threads that stretched away like gossamer, saltwater taffy.

  ◆◆◆

  Rocking slowly, quietly in a wooden chair. Soft syllables tumble around the living room. Afternoon’s golden sunlight edging pink. It penetrates the dirty front window’s film, fighting its way into the air. Dust motes star in weakened spotlights, drifting, in no direction what so ever.

  Maria's there, staring. Eyes welling, holding precious drops. Suddenly free, they run in rivulets down cheeks, become meaningless bits of moisture, soaked into obscurity, lost in the dusty, worn carpet. More sounds, small children laughing, innocent voices, unaware of bitterness to come.

  A screen door's creaky spring announces a visitor. The front door pushes inward, a vortex swirl of dust. Tom’s boot across the threshold, but leg fades to nothing. Now boots sit idle by the door, awaiting feet to enter their hollow.

  Mike is standing by the door, peering out. He turns, a large book in his hand. His arm extends, reaching toward Maria. The book leaves his hand, a slow pancake-flat fall through thick air, motes scurry away. Closer to the floor in slow motion, dust roiling. A feather dropping to the floor... ~BANG!~

  ◆◆◆

  Lyle's body startled in a jerk, his eyes popping open. Where'd that noise come from?

  He sat frozen in place, listening a moment. Nothing going on... Still in the kitchen chair, foggy about how long he'd been there. Shoulder pain not as bad, still throbbing. The First Aid kit sat there waiting, and seeing it brought focus. He sat up, scooted closer to the table, spread out supplies. As he did it, his brain raked the dream, pulling at imagery, trying to stop it from melting, without success.

  "Mike's gone!" racked into his thoughts again, then shifted to Maria and promises he'd made so long ago, now broken. As far as he knew, Mike had severed himself emotionally from his family. Lyle had never known Mike to call his mother or siblings after they'd joined up. When Maria passed, her sister took over care of the kids, but they were now grown adults. Lyle had stopped sending cash, no return address, a few years back. Was Mike still sending money? Shit! Not now!

  The ragged shirt he'd tied around his arm was still there, but no longer had a hold on his impromptu dressing. The lump of cotton he'd wadded into the wound looked about ready to tumble out. He pinched hold of it, pulled it away, and fresh, bright red blood oozed to the surface. Dried blood had been the dressing's glue.

  Lyle had history dealing with wounds. He knew this one wasn't ready to stop bleeding. He tore four long strips of tape, stuck them to the table's edge, then opened three packets of four by four gauze pads at once, tearing across the tops. He pulled them out as one, folded them in half, then half again, and plugged the hole with the thick wad. Bending his lower arm up tight, he held the plug in place with his thumb, then reached for strips of tape to strap it in position with pressure. That'll hold for now. He'd need to keep the antibiotics going for a week or so, watch for signs of infection.

  With his arm squared away, he had to eat, and needed to make a call. As he threw something together from the kitchen’s meager supply, he thought about that call. He hated more than anything else, that this had to happen. I'll have to admit I fucked up. The primary goal was successful, of course. The fuck up would require resolution. If he didn't take care of it, someone else would, and he'd be on the list.

  Lyle ate the p.b. & j., went to the living room for his cell phone. He entered a number and pressed the call button. It was almost five in the evening. As far as he knew, there was never a time of day or night when he couldn't call. The voice he expected picked up.

  ◆◆◆

  “Yes?”

  “Hello Frieda, this is Mr. Bandahl. I need to update you on a delivery.”

  “Alright, Mr. Bandahl, will you please hold for a moment?” She didn't wait for a reply. She muted the mic on her phone, went over to her desk where a computer awaited her instructions. She selected a ‘recor
d’ option for the phone she was using, re-activated the microphone.

  “Okay, Mr.Bandahl, Your access code, please.” He responded.

  "Thank you. Please continue."

  “The delivery of your package is complete, with anticipated results. There have been some complications."

  "Oh?... I'm disappointed to hear that. Would you care to elaborate?"

  "Well, let me say this. I've received unanticipated attention, and uh, I need to know if you've received anything... any new concerns on this assignment."

  “Such as?” She replied elusively.

  “I need to know if there've been any new developments. If so, I'd appreciate learning whatever I can about them. I'd propose follow-up work, and of course, this would roll into the original work order, no extra fees.” He waited, hoping she'd have something for him.

  ◆◆◆

  Frieda had been expecting his call for the last hour or so. Regular news coming out of Santa Barbara would've been enough for her tuned-in ears. The Colonel had filled her ears as well, and that'd been much worse. He'd shared with her that he'd already heard from Steve, knew that 'Eye Pluck' was compromised. His voice took on a glacial chill when he'd informed her of a name, an address.

  "Yes, Mr. Bandahl, there have been complications." Frieda voice was ice-cold. "I have a name and address for you. It will be critical to your success." She gave Lyle the information.

  "For your sake, I hope everything works out. I expect we’ll hear results from you very soon."

  With dripping poison, she finished, "Have a nice day." The call was disconnected.

  As Lyle closed his phone app, he was acutely aware that one way or another, this situation would get simplified by at least one number.

  75. PERSONAL TIME