The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6)

by Steven F Freeman

  “Hungry, as always.”

  Quintana fought down the anger and frustration that normally accompanied this observation. What good would railing against his poverty do? What was needed was action. And he intended to take it.

  “I’m sorry. Monica…?” He turned to his relative.

  “Jaime, I don’t mind you all staying here for a while, but you know I don’t have enough to feed my own family, let alone yours.”

  “Just a little?”

  “I will have to take the food out of my family’s mouth to feed yours. Can you honestly say you would do that if our roles were reversed?”

  Quintana maintained an uncomfortable silence.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Monica. “I’m desperate, too, you know.”

  “At least you have a job, some way to feed your family,” replied Quintana.

  “How much do you think they pay down at the gift shop? By the time I take care of the bus fare, I’m barely earning anything. If you’re so hungry, why don’t you sell your cellphone?”

  “I’ve left my number for a dozen jobs around the island. I have to keep my phone in case one of them calls.” Quintana sighed. He knew he asked too much. Desperation would drive a man to do that. “You are kind to let us stay here. I don’t know what we’d do without your help.”

  A pair of tears tracked down Monica’s face. “I wish I could do more.”

  “It’s okay. You’re doing enough. I am working to get some money. Then I can help you.”

  “Jaime, my love,” said Quintana’s wife. “How is that coming…your job, I mean?”

  Quintana wasn’t sure how to answer. “It’s not a job, exactly. It’s more like a project.”

  “And you will be paid for this?”

  “Yes, my love.” Quintana surveyed the tiny hut’s grim surroundings and bare pantry. “I think before long, it will pay off…for all of us.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The following morning, the investigators and Tuttle convened in Summit’s research facility. Fuentes placed a bag of breakfast pastries on the lab bench and the investigators all dug in.

  As he munched on some type of local Danish, Alton’s cellphone began to ring. He glanced at the caller ID. “It’s Vega.” He answered the call and stepped away from the rest of the group to conduct the call in private. “Good morning.”

  “Mr. Blackwell, good morning. I wanted to give you the latest on Agent Delaney. She’s in ICU in a Miami hospital. The docs have her hooked up to a ventilator.”

  “What’s their prognosis?”

  “‘Guardedly optimistic’ is how they describe it. It sounds like the medics on her flight did a good job. Her blood pressure has stabilized, and her heart rate has come down a bit, although it’s still higher than it should be.”

  “What about internal injuries?” asked Alton, remembering wounded comrades in the deserts of Afghanistan who had appeared to be on the road to recovery, only to succumb unexpectedly as organ damage caused them to bleed out or die from infection.

  “The docs ran a full-body ultrasound. The stab wound in her chest is deep, but it missed the vital organs—including her heart. Their biggest fear now is infection. After lying in the mud with an open wound, there’s no telling what she was exposed to.”

  “But they do think she’s going to recover?” asked Alton.

  “Guaranteed? No. But they like her odds. They’re pumping her full of IV antibiotics and keeping her in a medically induced coma. They say it’ll help her heal. We’ll just have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.”

  Alton felt a portion of his mental anxiety dissipate. “That’s as good an update as I could have expected. I appreciate your calling.”

  “And what about you and your team?” asked Vega. “With all of yesterday’s excitement, you haven’t briefed me yet.”

  Alton described the day’s events, including the interview with Chin and search for the scarred man.

  “Let’s keep each other posted,” concluded Vega, “and good luck.”

  Alton rejoined the group just as Mallory began a call to the FBI’s forensics lab.

  “Morning, Withers,” said Mallory. “I have the rest of the team here with me, so I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  “—be fine,” the agent was saying as Mallory switched over.

  “I understand you have the forensic results of the substance Agent Delaney sent to you a few days ago,” said Mallory. “The one we collected from Summit’s door on the first day of our investigation.”

  “That’s right,” said Withers. “The samples you sent contain a specific type of xenobiotic.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “The goo you found comes from the guts of a Yellow-Fin tuna.”

  “That’s a pretty common fish in these waters,” said the Gooch. “Half the stalls in the fish market sell Yellow Fin.”

  “Agent Withers,” said Alton, “did you find any other substances? Maybe some other type of organic residue or some type of inorganic substance?”

  “Just traces of wood. Is that what Summit’s door is constructed from?”

  “Yep.”

  “The wood probably flaked off when you collected the sample,” said Withers. “Other than that, it was pure tuna.”

  Mallory ended the call and looked at Alton with a perplexed expression. “I get that tuna is common around here, but how did a fresh sample end up on Summit’s door on the day of the raid?”

  “Good question,” said Alton. “Let’s think about what the Gooch just mentioned. It’s not just that Yellow Fin is common in the surrounding waters. It’s that Yellow Fin is one of the most commonly fished. Maybe the perps who conducted the attack are local fishermen.”

  “Let’s run with that,” said Mallory, “and assume fishermen are somehow involved. The next question is why would they want to attack this place? Do we really think they’d have the capacity to steal her computer, crack her passwords, and understand the information they’ve decoded?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Alton, the wheels of his mind turning. “Captain Fuentes, the two murdered men—the ones found on Isabela Island—they were both fishermen, right?”

  Fuentes swallowed a bite of cheese empanada. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Could they have been involved in the break-in here at Summit’s lab?”

  “It’s possible, but there are hundreds of fishermen in Santa Cruz. Even if the attackers here were fishermen, it doesn’t prove much. Plus, we already discussed the connection of the dead men to the tortoise black market.”

  “The MOs don’t match up, either,” said Mallory. “Whoever killed the fishermen used an entirely different technique than the folks who attacked this building. We don’t know if the people who attacked here killed Summit or are simply holding her hostage. On the other hand, we do know that whoever went after the fishermen killed them and dumped their bodies on an entirely different island less than a day later.”

  The Gooch removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. “Captain Fuentes told me murders are pretty rare in the Galapagos. It still seems weird that the fishermen were killed just a few days after the attack here. But what would the connection be between those murders and Summit’s kidnapping?”

  “One possibility is that someone hired the fishermen to abduct Summit and then killed them to keep them quiet,” said Alton.

  “Speaking of those men,” said Fuentes, “the doctor on Isabela Island called me when I was driving here. He said based on the condition of Urbina’s body, he was killed at least twelve hours before the locals found him yesterday.”

  “So it’s more likely he was killed here in Santa Cruz and dumped there.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Alton finished a bite of cheese Danish. “That opens up a whole other angle to this scenario. Remember during the first day of our investigation we established that three men carried out the attack here?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “We’ve only found two bodies
. Unless there’s another one we haven’t yet discovered, the third attacker is out there somewhere. If my ‘killing the flunkies’ theory is true, we have to find the third man before the orchestrator of Summit’s kidnapping gets to him first—and eliminates the last witness.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “Now we have yet another reason to find the man with the crooked nose,” said Mallory. “He could be the key to the entire chain of events.”

  “Ahh, that reminds me,” said Fuentes. “Let me give the telephone company a call. They just opened for business a few minutes ago.” He initiated a call and ambled to the front of the room, deep in conversation.

  Alton leaned over to his wife. “Fuentes looks kind of excited. I wish Delaney were here. She could tell us what’s going on.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” she replied.

  Fuentes ended the call and returned. “This cellphone number belongs to a man named Jaime Quintana.”

  “Bingo!” said the Gooch.

  “Did the phone company have an address for him?” asked Alton.

  “Just a post office box,” said Fuentes. “But at least now we know who we are looking for. An Ecuadorian citizen is required to present his RUC—his identification—in order to obtain a phone number, so we know this name is real. I texted Rios and asked him to do a background check on this man.”

  “Before we divide and conquer,” said Alton, “let’s step back for a minute and think about which suspects we should focus on. Is it possible Quintana himself is the third man we’re seeking?”

  Fuentes nodded. “I don’t see why not. He is a local person, just like the two fishermen.”

  “Which implies that the orchestrator could be someone else entirely—someone who would have an incentive to make off with Summit’s research notes. The next question is who might that be?”

  Fuentes glanced at his chiming phone. “Quintana fits the profile for a hired thug. I just got a text from Lieutenant Rios. He says this man grew up on the south side of Guayaquil. I grew up in that area myself, and I can tell you it is a rough section of town. Many criminals come from there.”

  “If we find Quintana,” said Alton, “he should be able to tell us who hired him. But we can’t wait for that. The clock to retrieve Summit is still ticking, and we need to consider the possible orchestrator now. Dr. Tuttle, do you have any new insights?”

  Tuttle thought for a moment and shrugged. “I wish I did. This is all rather over my head.”

  “That’s okay. Just let us know if you think of anything.”

  “Back to the suspect list,” said Mallory. “We’ve already discussed LeFlore and Chin. Shoemaker could be involved, too. They all have plausible motives for wanting Summit and her research out of the picture. The only problem is that we don’t have hard evidence against any of them—at least not evidence that directly connects them to Summit’s disappearance.”

  “We don’t have evidence that they’re innocent, either,” said Alton. “None of them could provide a verifiable alibi for the time the first fisherman was murdered.”

  “True.”

  “What about Cesar Pavia, Summit’s facilities manager?” asked the Gooch. “Captain Fuentes said the guy had a criminal record.”

  Alton pursed his lips. “It’s possible. What would be his motive, though? He doesn’t have the background to use the research himself and frankly, he doesn’t seem smart enough to sell scientific secrets on the IP black market on his own. I suppose someone else—a Lexington competitor like LeFlore or Chin—could have asked him to coordinate Summit’s abduction. He’d be paid for that, but then he’d lose his day job once Summit disappeared. It still doesn’t add up.”

  “Pavia didn’t act like a guilty man,” said Fuentes. “When he gave his statement, he didn’t seem nervous or stop to think about his story. I don’t think he is involved. But to be safe, I will have my men check into his activities the evenings the two fishermen were murdered.” His cellphone began to ring, prompting him to answer it. “Lieutenant Torres, I was just going to call you.” He stepped away to continue the conversation.

  “There’s also Gromov,” said Alton.

  “What! Why?” said Cragmire. “If the research here comes to a stop, she loses her job and possibly her best shot at professional recognition in the scientific community.”

  “A desire for professional recognition and advancement could explain why she would do it,” said Alton. “Think about it. When Gromov was describing her work, she said, ‘we have made many breakthroughs here’, not ‘Dr. Summit has made breakthroughs.’ She also seemed frustrated over Summit keeping some information secret, even from Gromov herself. Maybe Gromov was feeling unrecognized for her contribution to the project and used an unconventional method to ensure she got her share of the credit.”

  “Could be,” said Cragmire, apparently warming to the idea, “or she could just want all the accolades for herself, regardless of her level of contribution. With Summit missing, who would contradict her claims?”

  Fuentes returned with a grim look on his face. “Gromov wasn’t involved in Summit’s abduction.”

  “How do you know?” asked Alton.

  “A couple of swimmers just found her body on Isabela Island.”

  CHAPTER 44

  “We need to head to Isabela Island—stat,” said Alton. “Care to join us, Dr. Tuttle? Maybe you can help us work out the time and manner of Gromov’s death.”

  Tuttle looked a little worried. “I’m happy to help. With my patient missing and the rest of Summit’s workers staying at home, I have more idle time than I’d prefer. But I should be honest. This is pretty far from my expertise. I’m an allergist, not a forensic pathologist.”

  “Fair enough. But none of the rest of us are doctors at all. Perhaps you’ll notice something. Would you like to come?”

  “Sure,” he replied with a determined expression. “It can’t hurt, right?”

  The investigators sped across the waters separating Santa Cruz from Isabela Island, making good time in Fuentes’ police speedboat.

  Alton sat next to Tuttle, silently pitying the seasick allergist. Hoping to take the man’s mind off the speedboat’s erratic motion, Alton struck up a conversation. “Your injury from the night of the attack still hasn’t healed, huh?”

  Tuttle gripped a nylon safety line. “It did at first, but then it got a little infected. That’s actually not unusual in Santa Cruz’s tropical climate. I started using an antibiotic ointment last night, so I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “Yeah, it looks better than it did when I first saw it.” He fell into silence for a moment. “Have you ever had to examine a body before?”

  Tuttle produced a mournful laugh and shake of the head. “Never. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to figure out, to be honest.”

  “Speaking of figuring things out, how’s the research into local plants for Summit’s asthma coming along?”

  Tuttle shook his head and sighed. “I was meaning to tell you, but I forgot in all the excitement. My Washington contact called me back. He ran a list of all the Galapagos fauna through the national botanical registry. There aren’t any plants here, native or imported, that would serve as a suitable asthma medicine.”

  “That stinks,” said Alton.

  “Indeed, and it makes me all the more concerned for Dr. Summit. Unless her kidnappers are intelligent enough to get their hands on a prescription, she could already be at a critical risk for experiencing a lethal asthmatic episode.”

  “All the more reason to hurry along our investigation,” said Alton.

  The conversation ended. Tuttle pulled out his cellphone, scrolling and occasionally typing for the remainder of the journey. Apparently, Cragmire wasn’t the only person on this trip who maintained a close relationship with his smartphone.

  Checking an electronic map of the shoreline, Torres guided the boat onto a small strip of beach. A smattering of palm trees lined the sand, while below the trees some type of
wild shrub resembling pampas grass provided a dense, natural hedge. Further in the distance, ramshackle houses sat atop a small rise.

  Two figures awaited the investigators and waved at them from the beach. Torres pulled the boat up to a dilapidated pier. The party disembarked and walked the length of the pier onto the sand.

  Fuentes spoke with the individuals, a plainly dressed older woman who looked to be in her fifties and a younger man—her son, perhaps—who wore jeans and a New York Yankees baseball cap.

  “These are the people who found Gromov,” said Fuentes. He pointed to the eastern section of the beach. “You can see the body lying over there, near the trees.”

  “Hopefully, this crime scene will yield some clues,” said Alton.

  “Si.” Fuentes turned around to look at the rest of the group. “As a member of the FBI, Agent Blackwell has training in conducting the forensic examination of a crime scene. She will help me lead this effort.”

  They nodded and set out along the beach at a brisk pace. A Galapagos hawk wheeled overhead as the investigators slogged through fine sand.

  The group slowed as it approached the body. Gromov’s figure lay face-up in the sand, her right arm twisted at an unnatural angle under her body. Lifeless eyes stared into the bright morning sun, their silver hue offering a melancholy contrast to the scientist’s colorless cheeks.

  “No footprints,” noted Mallory, casting her gaze around the body.

  “The ocean breeze is too strong here,” said Fuentes. “Footprints would be gone in minutes.”

  Fuentes reached the corpse first. He snapped a series of methodical photographs for about ten minutes, then stepped back. “Okay, we can examine the body now.”

  Alton turned to Dr. Tuttle. “You’re up. Let’s see if we can figure out how she died.”

  Tuttle took hesitant steps towards the body. He circled until he stood behind the head, then squatted down to take a closer look. “I think I see some blood on the back of her head. Is it okay to turn her over?”