The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6)

by Steven F Freeman

  Mallory approached and tilted Gromov’s head to the right.

  Tuttle looked like he was going to be sick. “Oh, God…”

  Alton leaned in for a closer look. A clump of dried blood matted the dead scientist’s hair. Mallory rolled the rest of the body onto its right side. Blood stains tracked down both sides of her neck.

  “It looks like she fell onto her stomach after she was hit,” said Alton. “That would account for the blood trails.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” said Tuttle, regaining his composure. “I think there’s no doubt about the cause of death: some kind of impact to her head. Now to determine how long she’s been this way.” He rolled the body onto its back and attempted to flex the left arm. “Rigor has set in. If I recall, it starts a couple of hours after death and lasts about a day, more or less. So we know she’s been dead somewhere between two and twenty-four hours.”

  “Can’t you use the body’s temperature to get a more precise estimation of how long she’s been dead?” asked Mallory.

  “That’s right,” replied Tuttle, “although to be honest, I don’t remember the exact formula.”

  “Just take the temperature,” said Fuentes. “The medical examiner in Quito can use it to pinpoint the time of death.”

  Tuttle nodded. “Excellent idea.” He withdrew a thermometer from the backpack of medical supplies he had brought on the journey. “I’ll take the ambient air temperature first. Your medical examiner might need that for comparison.” He waited for the thermometer to register. “Twenty-nine point five Celsius.”

  “About eighty-five Fahrenheit,” added Alton.

  “Now for the body’s temperature,” said Tuttle. The doctor grimaced while pulling down the corpse’s shorts in order to take a rectal temperature. Drawing forth a determined expression, he continued his task, sitting quietly until the thermometer beeped. “Hmm…also twenty-nine point five. Well, Captain Fuentes, your medical examiner can tell you exactly what that means, but for the body to have cooled off so much already, I’d imagine it’s been out here a while.”

  “That makes sense,” said Fuentes. “I will see what my examiner says.”

  “Is there anything else you notice about the body?” Alton asked Tuttle.

  The doctor circled the corpse, leaning over two or three times to examine closer. “No, not really.”

  “Let’s look for any evidence our killer may have left behind,” said Mallory. “We can start from here at the body and walk outwards. Each of us can head in a different direction away from the body.”

  Alton positioned himself towards a patch of nearby palm trees and undergrowth. He moved one step at a time, scanning the sand for any trace evidence the killer may have inadvertently dropped.

  Upon approaching the pampas-like grass, Alton noticed some type of satchel pushed into a thick clump of vegetation, nearly out of sight. “Over here!” he called to the others, who joined him within moments.

  “Let me take a picture first,” said Fuentes. He snapped the photo and stopped to gaze into the palm trees swaying in the salty breeze. He shook his head, then picked up the bag and peeled open the flap to examine its contents. “This is interesting.”

  “You’ve found something?” asked Mallory.

  Before Fuentes could answer, Alton gave a start. A pair of eyes studied him from another grove of palm trees about thirty yards distant. “Over there! Someone’s watching us!”

  The observer bolted. Alton could hear the sound of fading footsteps pounding through overgrown grass, heading away from the beach.

  “Go! Don’t let him get away!” shouted Alton.

  They all ran, Alton and Tuttle falling behind the others. Moving as fast as his damaged leg would allow, Alton followed a winding trail that ran parallel to the ocean. Soon the path declined to the base of a formation of dark volcanic cliffs.

  The Gooch and Mallory had outdistanced the others from the outset. Puffing, Alton reached the cliffs to see the two investigators creeping along the cliff face, peering into each dark chamber with drawn sidearms.

  “Over here,” called the Gooch. “See how the moss on the side of this rock is squashed? Someone just did that.” He pointed to a large cave. Sunlight reached only the first ten or twelve feet of the cavern, while the rest lay shrouded in darkness. “The fugitive, if that what he is, is somewhere inside there. The question now is who is going to get him.”

  Alton didn’t consciously deliberate the question. “I’ll go.”

  “Alton—” began Mallory.

  He leaned in close to his wife. “I’m team lead. I can’t ask someone else to walk in there.”

  Mallory struggled to give a single nod before looking at the ground.

  Alton withdrew his Glock and crept into the darkness. Somewhere inside lay potential death—and answers.

  CHAPTER 45

  On the eastern shore of Santa Cruz Island, Jaime Quintana shifted his weight from leg to leg, anxious for the meeting to begin. He had suggested this site himself. It was perfect: remote, concealed with heavy underbrush, and occupying a section of high ground that afforded a clear view of the lower, more sparsely covered surrounding slopes.

  At last his contact arrived. A short, squat man with a buzz cut and broad shoulders climbed out of a sleek black BMW 335i that seemed ill-suited for the rough terrain. The man’s barrel chest caused him to sway from side to side as he walked, and his all-black attire seemed equally ill-suited for the tropical inland climate, causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead.

  “Williams,” said Quintana in greeting. “You’re late.”

  “You in a rush, Jose?”

  “It’s ‘Jaime.’ And yes, I’m usually in a rush in situations like this. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Suits me. Where’s it at?”

  “Let’s see the money first,” said Quintana.

  Williams paused a moment before pulling a thick, rubber-banded envelop out of the rear waistband of his slacks. Quintana began to reach for the bundle, but Williams pulled it back. “I’ve shown you my part of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

  Quintana walked over to a Scalesia tree. Tropical rains had had eroded away most of the soil from around its roots. He reached down into the space but froze when the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressed up against his neck.

  “A man smart enough to arrange this transaction might be smart enough to put a weapon down there,” said Williams. “I’d have to blow that man’s brains out.”

  “So you try to rob me instead?”

  “I got no interest in robbing you. I just want to keep this transaction on the up and up.”

  “Easy,” said Quintana. Moving with deliberation, he pulled the product from beneath the tree and placed it on the ground with a thump.

  Williams lowered his pistol and smiled. “How’d you get this, anyway?”

  “Does it matter? Your clients want what I have. No questions asked, right?”

  “That’s right. So what’s it worth to you?”

  Quintana produced his own smile, one suggesting anything but mirth. “We already agreed on the price. You don’t want to pay that much, I go to someone else who does.”

  “No worries,” said Williams with a shrug. Without ceremony, he handed over the envelope of hundred-dollar bills. “Count it. I don’t want you comin’ back to my boss saying I ripped you off.”

  Keeping one eye on the sweaty gringo, Quintana flicked through the stack. “Is good. You want me to put your purchase in the car?”

  “Naw. I got it.”

  Quintana watched the man load up his prize and drive away. The Ecuadorian then turned back to the dilapidated Datsun F10 Eduardo had let him borrow for the afternoon.

  Quintana fell into thought as he bounced the ancient vehicle over rough roads on the return journey. What had the gringo said? A smart man. More like a desperate one. Quintana felt his pants pocket to ensure the envelope of money remained secure. The envelope was life: food for his young child and a roof over
his family’s heads until he could land a job with another cruise line.

  Quintana experienced a strange mix of emotions, beginning with relief in ridding himself of the burden of hiding the now-departed object and elation over the cash he had received for it. Yet the illicit nature of the transaction continued to niggle him. He wasn’t happy about the deal he had cut with Williams and his associates, but sometimes a person had to sacrifice one set of values at the altar of a greater cause. Maybe he wasn’t proud of the sale, but he’d rather take a hit to his self-esteem than watch his family starve.

  CHAPTER 46

  Twenty feet inside the seaside cave, Alton crouched down behind a clump of volcanic rock. Peering into the inky darkness proved futile. He could activate the flashlight application on his phone to look around, but then he’d be a sitting duck for whatever weapon the fugitive happened to carry.

  “Alton!” hissed the Gooch from the cave entrance.

  “What is it?”

  “We found a fresh footprint in the sand out here. It’s small and light, like it’s from a kid.”

  Based on his experience as a soldier in Afghanistan, Alton knew better than to assume a child could not perpetrate an act of violence. But the odds of this being the case here seemed remote. He opted to use his cellphone flashlight after all and played a beam of light around the cavern.

  The cave proved to be enormous, an edifice of rock with lava tubes leading out in a dozen directions. He’d never track down a person determined to hide in such a maze.

  He’d have to coax the child out of his hiding spot. Alton tucked the Glock back into the rear waistband of his Levis and placed his cellphone on a nearby table of rock with the flashlight beam still on. Stepping into the soft glow, he cupped his hands to his mouth and struggled to remember the Spanish he had studied as a college freshman years ago. “Por favór, ven acá. No te lastimos. Solo queremos hablar contigo.” He hoped the phrase meant, “Come here, please. We’re not going to hurt you. We only want to talk with you.”

  Alton sat down next to his phone, in part to present a non-threatening appearance and in part because the recent sprint had caused the pain in his damaged leg to grow almost unbearable. He grimaced as he shifted his weight off the leg and stretched it out.

  “Como se llama?” called a soft voice from deep within the cavern’s recesses. “Who are you?”

  A girl! Alton continued the conversation in Spanish as best he could, hoping his words—if not correct—would at least prove to be comprehensible. “My name is Alton Blackwell. My friends and I are policemen investigating the death of the woman on the beach. We would like to talk to you about it.”

  “Why did you chase me, if you only want to talk?”

  In the unlikely event the child was the murderer, Alton didn’t want an accusatory demeanor on his part to give her a reason to put a bullet through his brain. “That was my fault. I only saw your eyes for a second back on the beach. I didn’t know you are young. I thought maybe you are the person who killed that woman. Now I know you didn’t do it.”

  “If you are a policeman, why are you not wearing a uniform?”

  Alton knew his command of Spanish was insufficient to explain the precise nature of his role. “I’m visiting from America. We don’t wear our uniforms here in the Galapagos.”

  “How can I trust you? Maybe you are the person who killed that woman.”

  “Captain Fuentes, the police chief of the Galapagos Islands, is here with me. Would you like for me to go get him?”

  “Yes!”

  Alton retraced his steps out of the cave, blinking as he emerged into the bright sunlight. The rest of the group waited in anticipation.

  “It’s a kid all right,” said Alton. “She’s scared and doesn’t know if she can trust me since I’m not wearing a uniform. She said she’d like to see you, Captain Fuentes.”

  The officer nodded and walked with Alton into the cave. Like before, the crash of waves and seagull cries became muffled within seconds as they proceeded into its depths.

  The captain conducted a Spanish conversation too rapid for Alton to follow. Within a couple of minutes, the small figure of a girl emerged from behind a distant boulder.

  The girl used a banged-up flashlight to pick her way across a field of volcanic debris until she reached the two men. She looked to be about nine or ten. A pair of wide eyes made a pleasing contrast with a cinnamon complexion and long, ebony hair.

  Fuentes held out his hand, and the child took it. The trio traveled back outside the cave, leaving the gloomy atmosphere and reentering the world of tangy ocean breezes and bright sunlight.

  “This is Elisa,” said Fuentes. “She knows she is safe with us.”

  Mallory eyed the terrified girl. She sat on the sand and patted the spot next to her. Elisa took a seat next to Mallory and leaned a head on the American’s shoulder.

  With Fuentes providing a running translation, he and Alton gently questioned the girl. The rest of the group circled around in front of Mallory to watch the interview.

  “Did you see the body on the beach?” asked Alton.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see how the woman died?” said Fuentes.

  “No.” She looked into the faces of the investigators, fear apparently giving way to curiosity.

  “Did you see someone bring the body to the beach and leave it there?” asked Alton, thinking of the two fishermen who had met similar fates.

  Elisa’s demeanor had changed again, indicating some type of internal struggle. She hesitated, then shook her head. “My big brother dared me to go down to the beach and watch the police look at the body. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  “It wasn’t,” said Fuentes. “Let’s get you back to your mother. She must be worried by now. Why don’t you show me the way?”

  Alton watched Fuentes and Elisa turn onto a nearby trail leading inland and disappear from sight.

  “Okay, let’s return to Gromov’s body,” Alton told the rest of investigatory team.

  They headed back toward the grisly scene on the beach. Alton fell behind the rest of the group on account of his sore leg, and Mallory slowed to match his pace.

  He turned to Mallory. “Did you get the feeling Elisa knows more than she’s saying?”

  “You noticed that too?

  “Yeah,” said Alton. “Maybe she’s just scared.”

  They arrived at the beach where Gromov’s body lay undisturbed. The investigators combed the beach for any items the killer had left behind but couldn’t find any further evidence.

  Fuentes returned to the group as they wrapped up the search. “Elisa is back with her mother. Have you found anything here?”

  “No, unfortunately,” said Alton. “We went through the satchel I found before we chased Elisa. It looks to be Gromov’s day pack. Unless it has the killer’s fingerprints on it, it’s not going to help us much.”

  “Captain Fuentes,” said Mallory, “before we saw our young friend back there, you said you found something interesting. What was it?”

  “Ah, yes. Let me explain. Do you remember when we discussed the murder location of the first two victims? We said they could have been killed on Santa Cruz and their bodies brought here to Isabela Island, or they could have traveled here alive and then been killed when they arrived.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” said Alton.

  “This pattern seemed familiar,” said Fuentes, “but until now, I couldn’t remember why. All three murders resemble the death of an Argentinian tourist four years ago. The tourist was last seen at the same tortoise farm we visited on Santa Cruz and his body was found a few hundred yards from his backpack on a different beach here on Isabela Island.”

  “We were already wondering if these murders had to do with the exotic animal black market,” said Alton. “Did you find evidence of illegal animal trade in the case of the Argentinian tourist?”

  “Yes, we had a pretty strong suspicion he was a black marketer, but we couldn’t pr
ove it—not that we spent much time trying. I mean…what would be the point? We couldn’t prosecute a dead man. But the point is, the patterns of these deaths and the Argentinian are quite similar, no?”

  “For sure,” replied Mallory. “So maybe this murder is unrelated to Dr. Summit’s disappearance, too.”

  “Or we are meant to think it’s unrelated,” said Alton.

  “Maybe, but if it is related, why go through all this?” she said, sweeping his hand across the beach’s expanse. “Why meet here or move the body to an entirely separate island? Summit’s attacker didn’t bother to go to all that trouble. It’s a different MO.”

  “True,” said Alton. He rubbed his chin. “We really can’t be sure if these murders and Summit’s abduction are related or not.”

  “You didn’t find any fragments of tortoise shell nearby?” asked Fuentes.

  “Not in the sand,” said Alton, “but come to think of it, there was a piece in Gromov’s day pack. I didn’t think anything about it at the time—she does work with tortoises every day, after all. But it could have been there for an entirely different reason.”

  “But why would she try to sell tortoises?” asked the Gooch. “She needs them for her research.”

  “And it’d ruin her career if she were caught,” added Cragmire, looking up from his phone.

  “All true,” said Alton. “We can only speculate. Perhaps she was frustrated by her secondary role in the project or with her pay—or both. For whatever reason, she might have decided to supplement her income. In a way, it’d be easy for her. She was around giant tortoises every day, and her interaction with one, even taking it somewhere, wouldn’t raise any suspicions.”

  “We may not ever know,” said Fuentes. “I think we are done here. Rios, Torres, bag up Gromov’s body and load it onto the boat.”

  The two officers did as commanded and loaded the grisly cargo into the boat’s rear hatch. The sight of the body bag stirred unpleasant memories in Alton’s mind, memories of Afghanistan combat and smoking flesh and cries of agony. He was glad when the body bag disappeared from view.