Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

  As badly as I wanted to see if the pictures revealed anything, I continued to idle to the last marker where I pushed down on the throttle and sped across the flat water toward Adams Key. Usually these rides energized me, but my head was full of “what ifs” and conspiracies and I barely noticed the pristine beauty of the water. I reached the dock twenty minutes later and had to pay my respects to Zero before he would allow me to pass. Finally, I sat at the bar in my kitchen and pulled out my phone. I opened up the pictures and zoomed in on the marks.

  They were all along the reef line between Elliot and Sands Key. Whatever those two were hiding was not readily apparent, until I scrolled to the last picture and saw a printed email sitting off to the side.

  4

  Using my fingers, I worked the image of the email into the center of the screen. I didn’t recognize the name in the sender field, but I found what I was looking for by studying the email address itself and was surprised to see it was from Florida International University, the site of the bridge collapse. At maximum zoom, the writing became a little fuzzy and I cursed my near forty-year-old eyes as I squinted to read. Justine had been nagging and now with Allie in her corner, I had caved in and bought a pair of drug store readers. They did help, though I kept forgetting where I had left them. I did my best without them and found that part of the page was cut off, but by piecing together what I could see, I discovered it was a request for a memorial for the victims.

  My first reaction was that this was a little fast. The accident had only happened yesterday. Then I remembered the equipment already on its way to the site. The faster the debris could be cleaned up, the sooner life would get back to normal for the school. I did a quick Google search for the name on the email, which confirmed that the sender was the president of the university. I had little faith in bureaucrats, but his accomplishments were notable: increasing enrollment and faculty while at the same time improving the graduation rate by double digits. Impressive accomplishments, especially for a state school. He clearly had a plan; unfortunately it appeared to involve Martinez and the park.

  I looked back at the chart and the marks along the reef line. Running around four miles off the barrier islands, the reef was actually the northernmost extension of the Florida Keys ecosystem. Famous both for its beauty and danger, the coral heads that reached up to within inches of the surface in some places had been tearing the guts out of unsuspecting ships for centuries. Whether through navigation error or due to the hurricanes that blew through every few decades, captains from the famed Spanish Galleons to pleasure boaters of today had lost their ships and treasures to the reef.

  The marks were also in the area I had decided to patrol today. Martinez knew I would be there, although I would be farther offshore than he expected. If the park was involved in providing a memorial of some kind, there was sure to be media coverage; I figured he would be too busy ironing his podium outfit to be analyzing my movements. I didn’t think he would take notice. Before leaving my house I got out my paper chart and transferred the marks, then using a ruler transcribed the GPS coordinates from the edge of the page to my notepad. Finally, with a small packed cooler in hand, I headed out the door.

  At the bottom of the stairs I paused, looking at the spinning rods leaning against the house. I left them there, deciding it was too close to the snapper incident to tempt fate—especially since Susan McLeash was involved. Zero must have known that I was heading out and barely lifted his head from his spot on the grass under a shade tree. I nodded to him and hopped down to the deck of the center console.

  This time of year it was foolish to head out without first getting a handle on the weather. Out here you didn’t need an app or weather station: with an almost uninterrupted three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the horizon, the frequent thunderstorms were easy to identify. You could sit and watch as the anvil-shaped clouds formed. The higher they climbed the more ominous they appeared, and the more dangerous they were.

  Like California in the summer, it didn’t take a meteorologist to predict the weather. Out west, you had a ninety-five-percent chance of being right if you just called it sunny; here the same odds applied if you predicted a chance of thunderstorms. The challenge was figuring out where they would strike. They were not to be trifled with. Aside from the deadly lightning, the squalls brought blinding rain and winds that quickly kicked up the seas. Today, however, looked fairly benign, with only some small cumulonimbus clouds off in the distance.

  Before releasing the lines, I started the engine and entered the lowest number of the marked coordinates into the GPS. I had used the positioning system for years, and longitude and latitude had become second nature. General navigation was easy in the forest, where there were landmarks such as rivers and mountains to mark the direction; here there were the barrier islands, offshore waters, and ever-present skyline of Miami. When all else failed there was the compass mounted on the console right in front of me.

  But, in order to find a needle in a haystack you sometimes needed help from the satellites in orbit above us. Looking at the numbers I could extrapolate their position relative to Adams Key and to each other. The first number indicated latitude. With the equator being zero, the higher the number, the farther north the position was. Longitude was expressed by the second number and increased as you moved to the west from its starting point in Greenwich, England.

  With the first number entered, I hit the GOTO button. The screen showed a solid line running through Adams and Elliot Keys before heading offshore to the waypoint. But rule number one of navigation was to not rely solely on the GPS. More boaters than I could count had followed the line like it was the gospel and run aground where if they’d used their eyes they would never have gone. I disregarded it for now, released the lines, spun the bow toward Caesar Creek, and headed toward open water.

  It was an easy run to the first spot. Though the GPS could get me within thirty feet, the marks on the chart, especially with the resolution of the picture on my phone, only gave me a general area. Once I arrived I switched the display to the depth finder and started studying the bottom, wondering what I was looking for. The display showed a jagged red line telling me it was live bottom. The coral and sponges below showed as small marks above the bottom and I regretted not taking the fishing gear when I saw the clouds of yellow and green in the water column—those marks were fish. Even if the bottom finder hadn’t told me so, I could see from looking over the side by the changes in color that I was over a reef.

  The word “memorial” from the email came back to me, and I changed the screen back to the GPS and entered the next coordinates. The wreck Allie, Justine, and I had dove on the other day had occurred naturally, with the ship being taken down by the reef. It still lay where it had been gutted by the coral.

  Artificial reefs were placed differently, generally away from established reefs, as their purpose was to create an ecosystem in a new area. Comprised of gutted wrecks and rubble, the man-made reefs had a purpose. Within days they would accumulate a slime coat and in weeks they would become covered with the first layer of growth that eventually would become thick enough for coral and other marine life to grow. Often set into a sandy bottom far from other structures, the reefs attracted resident fish often of the larger variety. It wasn’t unusual for some of the resident Goliath grouper and eels to have names. In a year or so, the original structure would be alive. In too many ways, we eradicate vital habitat. This was one safe way to replace some.

  The next two areas proved to be more of the same and I was again regretting not bringing fishing gear when I saw a large flock of birds diving on bait right outside of the park’s boundary. I only knew it as a line on the chart plotter. Otherwise it was a random division running approximately along the forty-five-foot contour. Several similar lines were displayed farther offshore. The first marked the boundary of the Florida Keys Marine Sanctuary, then the limits of State waters, and finally Federal. Each had their own rules and regulations that confused most boaters,
who just ignored them.

  The fourth area looked more promising. The park boundary meandered into deeper water here and the depth finder showed sandy bottom running in sixty-five feet—perfect to my eye for an artificial reef. Now that I knew where, the larger question was why was this so top secret. As little as twenty years ago, it had been common practice to dump rubble and call it a reef. The environmentalists had started to regulate, but it was still done. Surely the media would be notified if a memorial ceremony would be held. The only reason I could think of was that this was going to happen quickly and they wanted it in place before the lawsuits and questions started pouring in

  I spent the next hour pondering that question while working closer to the shoreline of Elliot Key. After following the mile-long coast I passed Sands Key; finding nothing of note I rounded Boca Chita, the last island in the chain, and turned into the harbor to check my phone. Looking at the boats tied off around the half-filled concrete seawall I pulled up at the end, quickly secured a bow and stern line, and pulled out my phone.

  Even on the vibrate mode, it was hard to tell when a call or text was coming in when the boat was running and I saw the screen was full. There was a smiley emoji from Allie. I looked at the time and saw it had been sent during school hours—something I would have to address with her. Having a driver’s license hanging over her head made discipline easy. I texted back a quick hello and told her to pay attention, subtly trying to tell her that her dad was no neophyte and I knew when the message had been sent. Another message had come from Martinez. I was surprised that he wanted to know what had brought me offshore, but I ignored that—it would be in my report.

  Justine had sent two messages: one when she got back from her paddle and another—I checked the time and saw it was after two—less than a half hour ago. Our communications had been strained since she had been forced to give up the old crime lab where she had tried to stay after the newer lab was completed. Now, surrounded by the day crew until five, she was careful with her personal communication.

  The message said to call, which was even more unusual. Hoping everything was okay, I pressed the phone icon and waited for the call to connect. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey,” I said. “Everything okay?”

  “Hey back. Yeah, it’s all good. Just need to get a little perspective from my concrete ninja.”

  “Happy to help.” I wasn’t sure what she needed me for with a high-tech forensics lab at her fingertips.

  “They assigned me to the bridge failure and I’ve got a room full of engineers here. Blood and gore I can handle, but they’re talking over my head. I have questions.”

  I had found a clue from a previous case in the concrete walkway at Boca Chita and given her a brief lesson on spalling at the time. That was a whole lot different from bridge building, but any excuse to see her was a good one and I was done with my patrol. “Sure, if there’s dinner involved.”

  “That would be good.”

  “You want to pick me up at Dodge?”

  “I can be there in thirty minutes. That work?”

  My day had taken a turn for the better and I released the lines. I was excited to see Justine, but also curious about the investigation. After passing the last marker, I turned to the north and pressed the throttle down. I had blinders on and almost missed the barge being towed by a tug as I passed under the Rickenbacker Causeway.

  I swerved and turned to avoid the barge, then glanced back and saw the deck was full of debris. My first guess had been correct. The powers-that-be wanted the concrete evidence under the water and out of sight as soon as possible. I thought about following the barge, but I was sure Martinez would see the path of the boat on one of his screens and call me off. I was expecting a call from him, at least wondering why I was taking off early. I rehearsed my excuse again, ready to remind him about the overtime he had asked me to work this weekend. Hopefully he was preoccupied with the memorial. There would likely be national coverage and he would be there front and center when the debris was dumped.

  With a nagging feeling that this was moving too fast, I pushed down the throttle and sped toward Dodge Island. Justine was already there and helped me secure the boat.

  “They’re towing the demolition debris out to make a reef,” I said.

  “I heard. They said they have all the samples they need, but this is fast. It’s scheduled to be placed with a memorial the day after tomorrow.”

  I cut the engine, tied off the boat, and hopped up onto the seawall using one of the large tires placed as fenders for the commercial boats that docked here as a foothold. I was anxious now to see what she had found.

  5

  On the way to the crime lab, Justine filled me in on the progress of the investigation. I was surprised that since there was no apparent actual crime the lab would be involved, but there were sure to be lawsuits. Someone had made a deadly and expensive error and the crime lab was well drilled in chain of evidence and conducting impartial investigations. They would probably need outside help, but it made sense that they would be involved.

  “You said you had experts in today. What do you need me for?” I asked.

  “Did you ever hear an engineer talk about their specialty? It’s like they’re giving a dissertation to kindergartners. I need some practical knowledge. They can tell me why it failed, but they can’t tell me the reason someone would potentially put the project at risk.”

  “You’re assuming this was human error.”

  “I know the first letters in ‘assuming’ are a-s-s…”

  I let it go, because she was probably right. “The construction industry is a strange beast.” It was my turn to give a lecture now. My dad had been a contractor and I had grown up working with him, seeing and hearing a different side of the business. “Construction’s a hard deal. It is one of the only businesses where the company has to put a price on something, sign a contract, and produce it before they know what the finished cost is going to be, and won’t until after the project is complete.”

  “What do you mean? Can’t you add up the materials and labor?”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” I said, trying not to sound like a know-it-all. “My dad would bid a house from a set of plans then go to the site after being awarded the contract and see that the elevations were wrong and the foundation walls needed to be larger. “

  “Can’t you get a change order for that?”

  “In theory you can, but building a house is often a year-long commitment. Starting a job asking for more money is not going to pay off down the line. If things go badly, you can get the architect involved and they might justify it, but that just starts a slippery slope. It’s also not uncommon for the architect to throw the contractor under the bus to cover for their own shortcomings. Once your customers start questioning you, it gets ugly and with the Internet…” I let that thought drift, not wanting to get off course. “Add in unforeseen conditions like rain, snow, heat, and cold, let alone a natural disaster, and you have a Pandora’s box. Materials are commodities that go up and down like the stock market, and mistakes are going to be made. A good contractor is more than a builder; the successful ones know how to fix mistakes before they turn into problems.”

  “Sounds like a hard business.”

  “It is. Ford knows how much every car is going to cost before they start the production line. The guys building that bridge have no idea until it’s complete.”

  “So, all kinds of stuff can happen between the start and finish of a job.”

  “Why are they in such a rush to get rid of the debris?” I asked, wanting to end my rant and change the subject.

  “I don’t know. FIU is on the upswing. I think the fastest way to make this go away is to make it go away,” Justine said.

  I had been so engrossed in the conversation that I hadn’t noticed we had reached the lab. She pulled into the partially full parking lot. Checking my watch, I estimated there were about twice as many cars as there usually were at this t
ime of day. “I guess the Ivory Tower is paying overtime for this one.”

  “Yup, “ she said, and pulled into a parking space.

  “Is it cool for me to come in?” I asked. Without infrastructure of their own, the park service was forced to rely on outside agencies for help. The FDLE was the preferred option, but their closest lab was in Tampa. Most of the time we were forced to use the services of a reluctant Miami-Dade. Justine had helped with several of my earlier cases without kicking it upstairs first, figuring if there was a crime, that was her job, but lately the word had come down that any work for an outside agency needed to be authorized. I had a feeling the policy had come as a direct result of me. This was different, but I had my enemies here and as soon as they saw me coming they would call it in.

  “All kinds of people coming and going.” Justine seemed to read my mind. “No worries. Just stick with me.”

  I followed her into the building and waited while she swiped her card in the reader. There were always a few seconds of anxiety before the electronic lock buzzed and we entered through the security door. I looked longingly at the stairs leading down to the old lab and thought of some of the moments we had shared there. Whenever I would come see her I would wait outside the glass window and watch her work to the beat of the music in her headphones. The new lab didn’t have a window; the entire wall was solid glass. It wasn’t the same, though; the smoked finish revealed little of the interior besides the glow of LED indicator lights from the equipment hitting the shiny stainless steel tables they sat on.