by Josh Lanyon
Greg said, “Unless you know another way to convince it to abandon its lunch.”
“Oh, God…” Tom turned and ran.
Airman Fleshman watched him go. “I thought you guys were cops. Sir.”
“Most of us aren’t that kind of cop. Do you know how to kill a gator, Airman? ’Cause that thing is armored like an M1.”
Airman Fleshman spread his hands in a shrug. “I’m from Montana, sir. This is not exactly in my skill set.”
Greg considered his options. “So the question is, do we kill it ourselves, or do we call a trapper?”
“Won’t a trapper take a while to get here, sir? That thing could start eating…”
Greg clapped Fleshman on the shoulder. “This sort of decision, Airman, is why God invented colonels. And here comes mine now.”
Ward Vernon strode up to them, scowling. “Where the hell is Santos?”
Greg said, “Throwing up, sir.” He pointed to the gator.
Vernon’s jaw dropped. “Jeeezus Hallelujah Christ!”
Airman Fleshman was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Greg said, “Should we call a trapper or kill it ourselves, sir?”
“A trapper could take a couple of hours to get here. The gator could drag the body into the river, and we’d be shit outta luck. Where is Agent Leonard? She used to work as a National Park cop in the Everglades. She should know how to handle this.”
“I’ll call her, sir.” Greg tapped his phone. When Mindy answered, he said, “Hey, we need you in Tom’s sector. We think we found the missing man, but a gator has him.”
“What do you mean, a gator has him?”
“In its mouth. Carrying him around. This is a BFG. You know how to kill ’em, right?”
Mindy grunted. “Yeah, except it’s illegal to kill a gator in Florida unless you have a license. Send me your coordinates.”
Greg sent them. “She’s on her way.” He’d let her explain to Vernon that they weren’t legally allowed to kill the gator.
Vernon said, “BFG?”
“Big fucking gator, sir.”
Airman Fleshman was nearly biting through his lip. Tom reappeared, and grew even paler when he saw Vernon. “Sorry, sir.”
Vernon brushed it off. “It’s a unique situation, Agent Santos. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“No, sir.” But Tom didn’t look sure at all.
Mindy arrived a few minutes later and surveyed the situation, shaking her head. “Damn.”
Vernon said, “Indeed. What kind of gun do we need to kill this gator, Agent Leonard?”
“Our service weapons would work, sir. But it’s illegal to kill a gator without a permit.”
Vernon scowled. “We’re the United States Air Force, dammit. We’ll shoot whatever we like. I’ll deal with the Department of Fish and Wildlife later. How do we do this?”
“Shoot it in the eye, sir.” Mindy smirked. “If someone was to use a sniper rifle, for example, it would kill the gator but not damage the remains any further.”
Vernon and Tom both turned expectantly to Greg, who sighed. “I’ll fetch the rifle, sir.”
Chapter Three
The group of reporters responded to the explosion in unison. “Oh, shit!” Someone yelled, “Run!”
Justin snatched his phone and tripod and ran for his car. But he knew they didn’t have time…
The roar of the explosion and the accompanying concussion blast reached them in fifteen seconds. Justin dropped to the ground, gasping. It felt like his brain, muscles, and other internal organs were all vibrating in sync.
It took him several seconds to regain his senses. He scrambled to his car, dumped his stuff in the back seat, and fumbled for the keys in his pocket.
They weren’t in any danger, unless the wind shifted and blew the fumes from the explosion in their direction. But he’d noted earlier that the breeze was from the west. All the toxins should be carried out to sea.
He was easing out of his parking spot when two white Jeeps appeared at the west end of the causeway. A man in uniform climbed out of one Jeep and started waving the cars in his direction. The other Jeep waited until the cars were lining up behind it, then began leading them off the property. Once the reporters’ cars were all moving, Justin glanced into his rearview mirror to see the first Jeep pull in behind them. Ensuring they all left ASAP.
The Jeeps guided them through Kennedy Space Center property until they were through the gate, then turned around and left them. Justin called Roy Shaw’s number, not really expecting an answer. Shaw would be in the thick of corporate damage-control efforts.
Shaw didn’t pick up. Justin gripped his steering wheel, still rattled.
Nothing a beer couldn’t fix.
It was unspoken custom. After every launch, members of the press corps headed for the quirky Preacher Bar, just outside the Port Canaveral cruise ship terminals, at the northern tip of the small town of Cape Canaveral.
Inside the bar, Justin stood still for a second, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. He grabbed a table with Tim Farmer and his other fellow Hughes-Simmons reporter, still photographer Enrique Castro.
Tim and Enrique pounced on him as soon as he sat down. “Have you heard anything?”
“Nope.” Justin poured himself a glass of Heineken from the pitcher on the table and checked his Twitter feed. “You know the drill. The military will maintain total silence until they get a handle on what happened.”
Tim pulled out his phone and clicked on the video he’d shot of the launch. “Holy shit. What the hell happened here?”
Enrique had his phone out too. “Twelve seconds after T minus zero. Twelve seconds.”
Justin shook his head, thinking about Roy Shaw and wondering if there was a connection. What had Roy wanted to show him? Had Roy discovered a design flaw? Or a shortcut taken somewhere in the rocket’s construction?
Christie Osborne stopped at their table. “Can I sit with you guys?”
Tim shrugged, and Enrique said, “Sure.”
She plopped down. “What happened?”
“Beats me.” Tim ran the video again, in slow motion this time, and squinted at the screen. “Shit. I don’t see anything.”
Christie asked, “Why’d we have to leave through KSC?”
Justin and Enrique exchanged an amused glance. This new kid had a few things to learn. Tim explained patiently, “The road back through Canaveral is probably covered with flaming debris.”
Christie’s eyes widened. “Oh. Wow. When will we get our cameras back?”
Tim and Enrique both burst out laughing. Justin said, “We’re not getting them back. Either they were destroyed, or they’ll confiscate them for evidence.”
“What? Can they do that? That’s my property!”
Tim said, “Did you read those agreements you signed? Your camera, or what’s left of it, belongs to the US Air Force now.”
Christie tugged at her hair. “I can’t afford another one.”
Enrique said, “Five months till Christmas.” He’d lost a camera too, but had another one with him. It was probably his photo that would grace the front page of the newspaper tomorrow.
Justin lost track of the conversation at that point. He was watching the two men who’d just entered—Sam Boone and Glenn Pietras, the Ideodax executives who’d been at the pre-launch press conference. Both men were slender and pale, with scruffy beards, and wore jeans and polo shirts. They didn’t seem familiar with the bar; they scanned the room, then chose a pair of seats as far away from everyone else as possible.
Hmm. Justin waited until the pair had ordered, then said to his friends, “Be right back,” and sidled up to the two men.
They fixed him with a morose stare. Pietras said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Justin Harris, Orlando Tribune.” He sat down uninvited. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
Boone said, “That’s because we haven’t been here before. And we’re not talking to a reporter.”
&nb
sp; Justin said, “That’s the beauty of the Preacher. Nothing said in here ever makes it into a news story.”
Boone was skeptical. “That’s hard to believe.”
“But it’s true. You’re with Ideodax, right? I recognize you from the press conference yesterday.”
“Right.”
“Shit. Sorry about your loss.”
Pietras snorted, which made Justin wonder why. Boone eyed Justin with interest. “Thanks.”
“Once the investigation is underway, will you be able to release any information about the payload?”
“Doubtful.”
“I’m sure you understand my curiosity. It’s unusual for a corporate payload to be classified, and even more unusual that nothing leaked about it.”
Boone asked, “What did you say your name was?”
“Justin Harris.”
The guy offered his hand. “Sam Boone. My taciturn friend here is Glenn Pietras. Do you have a card?”
Justin dug in his pocket. “Here you go.”
Boone smiled as he slipped Justin’s card into his pocket. “It’s reassuring to hear that no information leaked about the payload.”
Justin shook his head. “If it had, I’d have heard. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
When Justin returned to his seat, Tim asked, “Aren’t those guys from Ideodax?”
“Yup.”
Tim, Enrique, and Christie said in unison, “Sheeee-it.”
Justin had to laugh.
Chapter Four
In his previous life, Greg had been a cop—that kind of cop, as Airman Fleshman would see it—with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. In addition to his duties as a homicide detective, he’d served as a SWAT team sniper. After joining AFOSI, he’d qualified through the Air Force’s Close Precision Engagement Course to maintain his sniper status.
Once a sniper, always a sniper. You never knew when it might come in handy.
Like today.
Greg kept his Remington 700 behind the seat of his truck. He scooped up a handful of rounds of ammo, hoping he’d only need one, and jogged back to the location.
The gator hadn’t moved, fortunately. Vernon said, “We’ve established that the area behind the gator is clear.”
“Yes, sir.” Greg loaded the rifle, stretched out on the ground, and sighted, lining up the gator’s right eye. Easy-peasy, he thought, and squeezed the trigger.
The gator bucked on impact, then collapsed onto the ground as its tiny gator soul ascended to gator heaven. Its jaws relaxed, and the dead man’s body shifted forward. Greg stood and unloaded the remaining rounds from the rifle, then brushed himself off.
Mindy said, “Nice shot.”
“Thanks.”
Vernon took out his phone. “I’ll contact OAFME.” The Office of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner, who would be performing the autopsy. “Call Agent Wells over here, then secure the scene and start gathering evidence.”
Greg, Mindy, and Tom said in unison, “Yes, sir.”
***
The four agents gathered at a spot about ten yards from the gator and studied the scene. Tom asked, his voice quavering slightly, “Are you sure he’s dead?”
Mindy smirked. “Oh yeah, he’s dead. How shall we approach this, Detective Marcotte?”
Once again, the others turned to Greg expectantly. He sighed inwardly; he’d known this was coming. The others were outstanding investigators—they’d have never made it through training if they weren’t—but they didn’t have his experience.
Greg passed out clean latex gloves. “Let’s work our way toward the body.”
They approached gingerly, despite Mindy’s confidence in the gator’s demise. When they reached the scene, they relaxed. The back of the gator’s skull was obliterated where Greg’s round had exited. Zach aimed the camera and started snapping photos. Greg squatted a couple of feet from the body and studied it.
The dead man fit the description of the missing Skyose employee. It wasn’t entirely clear—half of the torso was still in the gator’s mouth—but it appeared to Greg as if the guy had been shot or stabbed in the chest. The front of his shirt was drenched in blood. The only other finding of note was that the guy’s face and shirt were coated in sand.
Tom was still hesitant, standing back about a foot behind Greg. “Did the gator kill him?”
“I doubt it.” Greg pointed to a set of punctures on the left arm. “The gator grabbed him there, but the bites didn’t bleed. He was already dead.”
Zach said, “I predict that when we pull him out of there, he’ll have a big ol’ hole in his chest.”
“Sounds right to me.” Greg stood. “Zach, why don’t you let Tom handle the documentation?” If Tom was observing the scene from behind a camera, maybe it would provide enough distance for him to overcome his squeamishness.
Zach caught on immediately. “Sure.” He handed the camera to Tom, who gladly accepted.
Mindy said, “He’s wet.”
“Yeah.” Greg reached down and touched the guy’s shirt. It was saturated. So were his pants and shoes. “He’s been in the river at some point.”
The Banana River wasn’t really a river, but a lagoon, separating Cape Canaveral and KSC from Merritt Island. It was a refuge for manatees, but also provided a home for a healthy population of alligators.
Greg asked, “So did this fella find the dead guy in the water and decide to move him? Or did he drag the body into the water, then changed his mind?”
Mindy said, “My guess? He found the body in the water and was moving him to his den. Gators will store big prey underwater for a while before…” She noted the green tinge on Tom’s face and stopped. “Sorry.”
Greg said, “Mindy, wanna see if you can find drag marks? Follow them to their origin?”
“You bet.” She readied her phone to record video and circled the gator. “Oh yeah. I’ve got a trail.” She headed off to the south. Tom followed her, snapping photos.
Zach said, “Not much else we can do until the ME gets here, right? We can’t move the body.”
“No, but we can search the pockets we can reach.”
Greg found the dead man’s wallet in his left rear pants pocket. He handed it to Zach and reached into the left front pants pocket. “Bingo.”
“What?”
“Phone.” Greg extracted the phone and examined it. “It might be ruined.”
“I’ve got SoChlor in the car. The granules will soak up the blood.”
Greg took back the wallet and handed Zach the phone. “Good. Stick it in an evidence bag with some of that.”
“You bet. I’ll be back.”
Greg opened the wallet just as his own phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out and found a text from Ryan. Boat’s cleaner than the day you bought her. How’s it going?
Greg smiled despite himself. Good man. It’s complicated here. Found a body in the debris field.
WTF??
Exactly. You going home?
Nah. I’ll wait.
It’ll be late.
’S cool. :-P
Greg grinned. All righty, then. See ya.
Ryan replied with a thumbs-up.
Greg returned to his examination of the wallet. The interior had been mostly protected from the water and was only damp around the edges. Maybe the body hadn’t been in the river that long. The driver’s license identified the dead man as Roy Shaw, of Las Cruces, New Mexico. The slots were all filled with credit cards and photos, several of a couple of kids at various ages.
Shit.
He counted the cash; $157 in bills. Robbery wasn’t part of the motive. Greg hadn’t thought it would be.
He’d partially pulled the cash from its slot, so he tried to tuck it back in, only to realize there was something else in there. He peered into the opening and spotted a slip of paper.
It was a phone number with a 321 area code. Brevard County. A local.
Greg considered calling the number, then decided a
gainst it. He’d wait until he was back at the office.
He was bagging and tagging the wallet when Tom jogged up. “We think we found the crime scene. There’s blood on the riverbank.”
“Excellent.” Greg showed Tom the wallet and phone number. “Our first lead.”
“Good.” Tom squinted at the bright blue sky. “Shouldn’t we get a canopy over the body?”
“Yeah. Then we’ll check out the river.”
Tom went to the cars and returned with Zach and a canopy, which the three of them spread over the palmettos, then tied each corner to a nearby frond. Zach stayed to guard the body while Greg followed Tom to the river, where Mindy was looping crime-scene tape around a scrubby tree near the bank.
She pointed. “Blood’s over there.”
Greg studied the scene. Mindy finished taping and came to stand beside him. “Scenario?”
“Let’s say he was shot from the front.” Greg pointed to two shallow, scooped-out indentations in the sand, behind the blood pool. “The shooter has his right side to the river, the victim is opposite. Victim falls to his knees, then falls onto his face. The distance is about right. Then…these look like drag marks to you?”
“Yep. Straight from the blood to the water.”
“It would explain the sand on his face and chest. The killer either thinks that the water will conceal the body longer, or that a gator will come along and dispose of the remains before they’re found.”
Mindy nodded. “Which said gator was in the process of doing when we came along and ruined his day. The gator drag marks start over here.” She pointed a few feet to the north of the human-created drag marks.
Greg’s phone rang; it was Vernon. “Greg, the medical examiner is en route, ETA about an hour. Zach told me what you’ve found. Collect samples for the ME. We’ll meet you at the body when he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greg, Mindy, and Tom spent the next thirty minutes collecting soil and blood samples. After a discussion of angles and distances, they also found five 9mm casings in the spot they’d predicted. Mindy held one of them between her thumb and forefinger, frowning at it. “Five shots? Overkill?”