Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  But no way was Roger Smithback, senior reporter of the Herald, going to join a crowd of miserable journalists sweating behind some barrier, pleading for a crumb of a story. He was going to get onto Captiva Island if it was the last thing he did—and the logical way to do it was by boat. As he drove, he poked away at his smartphone, made a few calls, and soon had a plan worked out. Instead of driving onto Sanibel, he would take the nearby causeway to Pine Island, drive south to St. James City, and from there hire a boat to take him across Pine Island Sound to the Captiva Island Yacht Club. The yacht club had a courtesy car available for yachtsmen, which would drive him wherever he wished on the island. All he had to do was act like some rich yachting bastard, passing out lots of twenties as tips.

  Smithback then texted Kraski, his editor, and told him he was covering the story—just so it wouldn’t get assigned to anyone else. Screw proper channels: this one was his. Feet washing up on a beach—he fairly tingled at the ghastly appeal of it.

  Three and a half hours after leaving Miami, his plan executed perfectly, Smithback found himself waving goodbye to the nice gentleman from the yacht club who had dropped him off near the southern end of Captiva Drive. Captiva was a narrow island, exclusive, with a single road down the middle, driveways on either side leading to million-dollar waterfront houses. In scoping out the scene from afar, Smithback had decided the best way to get close to the action would be to sneak through someone’s yard to reach the gulf-side beach. Access from the public parking lot would surely be closed off and swarming with cops.

  He picked a house that looked unoccupied and slipped down the driveway, skirted around the side, then across a backyard to a path that ran through sea grape and hopbush to the broad expanse of beach beyond. He paused in the shrubbery to take off his shoes and socks, shove them in his reporter’s bag, and roll up his pants—to create the appearance of a local beachcomber.

  Where the path joined the beach, it was blocked with fluttering strings of yellow crime scene tape. As he looked up and down the shore, he could see that the entire beach had been taped off—and the law enforcement response was massive. There were several Coast Guard vessels cruising back and forth near the shore, with Coast Guard servicemembers dipping nets into the sea, fishing out feet. The beach itself was patrolled by police dune buggies and officers on foot. It looked like multiple departments had turned out—Fort Myers and Sanibel at the least—and there were also a number of Coast Guard Auxiliary regulars in blue jumpsuits. Two Coast Guard helicopters circled above, but there were no media choppers anywhere. Good.

  Behind the tape strung along the back of the beach, he could see a number of people watching the action, talking excitedly, taking pictures and selfies. But as he scanned the crowd with his binocs, he couldn’t make out any obvious journalists. All those jokers were no doubt penned up like sheep at the Blind Pass Bridge. He alone had made it to the island…or so he hoped.

  At the far end of the beach, near the inlet, he could see what looked like a temporary command post. A white plastic screen fenced it from view. That was where the heart of the action was—and where he needed to be.

  Walking fast, he worked his way south through the onlookers. He would need to get some choice interviews from these witnesses—the more hysterical the better. But that could come later. Within ten minutes, he’d reached the point closest to the command center, where the white screen fence began. Scanning with his binocs, he could now get a general idea of what was happening. Dozens of light-green shoes were being brought in, logged, tagged, and placed in refrigerated evidence containers, which in turn were being loaded into the back of an ambulance. They all seemed to have feet still inside them. His heart quickened at the same time that his gorge rose.

  He couldn’t hear what was being said over in the tight knot of brass. He needed to get closer. Scouting around, he realized one section of the barrier was visually screened by a row of parked cruisers on the beach. If he could get inside at that point, he might not be noticed, and then he’d be able to mingle with the technicians, detectives, and others who were not in uniform. Almost all had IDs on lanyards around their necks. He had a lanyard, too—which held his press credentials. He pulled it out of his bag, removed the press card, and shoved in his PADI diving certification card. It looked official from a distance, and even if someone checked they might just think he was some kind of authorized diver.

  He rolled his pants back down, put on his shoes and socks, slapped the sand off, smoothed his hair, and hung the lanyard around his neck. His reporter’s case would add to the look of someone engaged in legitimate business.

  The sun was hanging lower over the gulf, and the parked cars cast long shadows. He sauntered along the barrier to where the view was obscured by the cruisers; then in one quick movement, he pulled out his pocketknife, cut a flap in the barrier, then ducked through and walked quickly to where the cars were, keeping out of sight behind them. So far, so good. Then, mustering a look of purpose, he strode out from behind the cars and angled toward the command tent, walking decisively.

  Nobody challenged him. And here he lucked out: at a table where various evidence-gathering items were spread out, there was a box of gloves. He quickly pulled out two and drew them on, then grabbed a face mask and hairnet and donned those as well.

  His heart quickened as he realized he was actually going to succeed. Slipping out his cell phone, he pretended to be checking it, while taking dozens of photos of the action—the boxes of shoes, the comings and goings of the cops and technicians, the hastily assembled command center—he got it all.

  He edged over to where the feet were being placed in refrigerated coolers. Again pretending to be checking his phone, he took another slew of photographs. He even got in a short video. God almighty, Kraski was going to love this—he was always moaning about not having enough video for the website.

  He heard a yell and spun around. Strong arms seized him and his phone was manhandled away by a Coast Guard officer, blazingly angry, quickly joined by another. They looked like identical twins except one was red-haired, the other black-haired.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Red Hair yelled.

  “He’s a journalist. Taking pictures,” said Black Hair, pulling off the mask and hairnet.

  “Give me back my phone!” Smithback tried to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked. What had given him away?

  Red Hair seized his lanyard. “What’s this bullshit? A diving ID?” He snorted. “I’m gonna delete these photos.”

  “Please don’t! The public has a right to know!”

  “Look, pal, you better be glad we’re not going to arrest your ass. We’ve got enough shit to deal with.”

  Smithback felt himself being propelled forward by the two officers, one on each side. “Let’s go, asshole. You’re out of here.”

  Suddenly the two men halted and Smithback heard a honeyed voice: “Bless me, if it isn’t my old acquaintance Roger Smithback.”

  Smithback twisted around to find himself face-to-face with none other than Agent Pendergast. He was temporarily speechless.

  The Coast Guard men seemed uncertain, loosening their grip.

  “Hold him fast, gentlemen,” said Pendergast, flashing his badge. “He’s a slippery one. I’ve had dealings with him before.”

  “We caught him photographing everything—even the feet.”

  “Shameful,” said Pendergast, holding out his hand for the phone. “I’ll erase those photos, if you please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Pendergast took the phone and began flicking through the photographs with an amused look. “Mr. Smithback, I see you’re truly a man of many talents. Such masterly use of depth of field. Pity you can’t keep these.”

  Smithback pleaded. “Agent Pendergast, don’t do it. For old time’s sake.”

  “I don’t know which ‘old time’ in particular you’re referring to. In any case, I’m afraid you are trespassing on a crime scene and will have to be escorte
d out. And these photographs destroyed.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “And we are doing ours.”

  Even as he pleaded, he could see Pendergast deleting the pictures. The two Coast Guard officers watched with approval.

  “I thought we were friends!” Smithback said, almost at a wail. “Don’t!”

  “It is done,” said Pendergast, wagging his phone. “You shall have your phone returned when you’re safely behind the barriers.”

  Son of a bitch, thought Smithback. But maybe he could get a statement, if nothing else. “Agent Pendergast, can you at least tell me what’s going on? Do the police have any theories?”

  Pendergast turned and gestured to the Coast Guard men. “Please escort him to the perimeter.”

  “Wait! Just one question!”

  The two men took his arms and led him away, Pendergast following.

  Smithback tried again. “Any ideas? Even a guess? One little statement is all I need!”

  Pendergast didn’t reply.

  “How many feet? For the love of God, Pendergast, just give me a number!”

  No answer.

  They reached the crime scene tape and Pendergast held it up while Smithback was shoved under it. He turned and Pendergast handed him back his phone.

  “If you trespass again,” Red Hair said, jabbing his finger hard into Smithback’s chest, “we’ll arrest you. You got that?”

  All three turned and walked away. Smithback watched them go, sweating and cursing under his breath. Then he examined his phone, morosely flipping through his photo gallery. The pictures were indeed gone. But wait: a freshly typed message was sitting on his notepad. It said simply: Check trash. This once.

  And there, waiting in the trash, was a small but extremely well-chosen selection of his photographs.

  6

  IT’S LIKE A damn fish market in here,” Moira Crossley heard one of the autopsy technicians mutter as he unpacked a refrigerated crate full of feet, which had just arrived via ambulance. He arranged them on a gurney, where other technicians were logging and photographing them, assembly-line fashion. Crossley was the chief medical examiner for the District 21 office, and she thought she had seen everything in her many years on the job. All kinds of full or partial remains had washed up on beaches in her time, some with pretty bizarre characteristics. But this…this was beyond the beyond. More than sixty feet—on a preliminary inspection, at least. Did this represent sixty-plus homicides? If that were the case, they might be dealing with one of the worst mass killings in Florida history. If the individuals were still alive, however…then where were they? And what had happened? It defied all explanation.

  Crossley’s normally quiet and orderly laboratory was a beehive of activity, and it did indeed smell like a fish market—its wares gone bad in the sun. Rivulets of seawater ran down the floor to the central drains, mingled with wriggling shrimp and other sea creatures that had been feeding on the feet, now dislodged by handling.

  Another ambulance had just pulled in with two more crates, bringing the total to—sweet Lord in heaven—more than ninety feet, all encased in the same green coverings. She had called in her entire staff, four technicians and two assistant forensic pathologists, to handle the influx. Chief Perelman of the Sanibel Island PD was also there, having arrived with the last batch, along with two of his detectives. Fort Myers homicide was also involved, not to mention several Coast Guard staff in operational dress who appeared to have no clue about what they were supposed to be doing, standing around with furrowed brows, trying to look occupied.

  But among the group milling around, one figure stood out like a sore thumb: a tall, pale man in a white linen suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie. He had a chiseled face and a pair of eyes that glittered like polished dimes. While the man himself was as immobile as a Greek statue, those eyes roamed restlessly about, taking in everything.

  Crossley turned to her assistant, Paul Rameau. “No time like the present,” she said.

  “For what?” he asked. Paul was a great big teddy bear of a technician, practically bursting from his scrubs, with a beard like a Viking’s. He was a hard worker, eager to please, but not, she had to admit, the brightest bulb in the room.

  “Grab one of those and bring it to Bay One. We’re going to do a dissection.”

  “Now?”

  “I was actually thinking the Thursday after next.”

  “Right, okay, sorry.” Using forceps, Paul gingerly picked up a foot, put it in a container, and carried it into one of the small exam stations set along one wall. As she removed it and placed it on a dissection table, Rameau set up the video recorder and tested it.

  “Implements.”

  Rameau filled a rolling trolley with dissecting tools and wheeled it over. Crossley slipped her mask up and selected a small pair of tweezers.

  “I beg your pardon,” came a voice from behind her, smooth as satin.

  She turned to see the pale man. “Yes?”

  “I should like to observe, if that is possible.”

  She had no idea what he was doing there. He looked like nobody she had ever seen before in law enforcement—or medicine. “And who might you be?” she asked.

  A hand slipped into the suit and out came a leather wallet, which dropped open, exposing a gold-and-blue shield below and an ID above.

  “Ah, FBI,” Crossley said. Whatever else he was, he was probably—almost surely—a rung above the others on the ladder. He certainly radiated authority.

  “Special Agent Pendergast,” said the man, with a slight nod. The accent was unmistakable and unlike any other Southern intonation, and she quickly recognized it from her childhood as that rarefied upper-class New Orleans accent possessed by only the oldest of families. Pendergast…the name was vaguely familiar, too, and not in a pleasant way.

  “Chief Medical Examiner Moira Crossley,” she said briskly. “You’re welcome to watch. But gown up and stay well out of the way.”

  “Certainly.”

  She turned her attention to the foot on the table and, with the video now rolling, began the gross examination, starting with a description. She examined the end of the bone, noting that the amputation was crude in the extreme, effected by a dull, heavy-bladed instrument that left cut marks and splintering. It appeared that a series of such blows—at least six, judging from the marks on the tibia and fibula—had separated the foot from the body about two inches above the ankle joint. Sea life had stripped the area above the joint of flesh, leaving only bone. But below that the flesh, protected by the covering, was still present. It had swollen badly and was squeezing out of the opening. Clusters of tiny sea animals were still clinging to the raw flesh—worms, amphipods, cyprids, and sea lice. The flesh was all chewed up and she could see oozing holes where larger creatures had burrowed.

  “Paul, bring me an ethanol specimen jar.”

  Paul lumbered over with it and, using the tweezers, she carefully removed as many different specimens as she could find and dropped them in for later examination.

  “May I ask a question?” came the cool voice from behind.

  Crossley felt a twinge of annoyance. “Yes?”

  “From what direction did the blows originate?”

  Good question. She examined the foot again. “The blows were directed from above, to the right anterior side of the leg in a haphazard fashion, at an angle of approximately forty to seventy degrees from the horizontal.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chief Perelman had also gowned up and was watching as well. She was glad of it. She liked working with the chief and hoped he might be of use in keeping back the plague of other investigators, not to mention press.

  She continued her gross examination, going down the list of requisite observations. When that was completed, it was time to remove the shoe, dissect the foot, and take samples for the toxicology and histology labs.

  “Another question?” came the honeyed voice.

  “What?”

  “Is
there a way to tell if the flesh has previously been frozen?”

  Crossley was startled by the question. That test would never have occurred to her, but on reflection, she thought it could and probably should be done.

  “Yes, it’s possible to test for that, and I’ll add it to the histology lab request.” She turned to Paul. “Shears.”

  Paul handed her a pair of shears, and she began cutting off the shoe.

  “I beg your pardon,” the voice intruded again, “but may I have the footwear as evidence when you are finished?”

  “No.” She continued cutting. The flesh strained from below the ankle like an overinflated balloon.

  Snip, snip. Gray and pink flesh bulged alarmingly. The skin seemed to be moving, as if alive.

  Snip, snip—

  And then, like the bursting of something rotten, a creature came whipping out. It was a hagfish, the most hellish of nightmares. Because of the sudden release in pressure, a spray of hagfish slime splattered across her chest and struck Paul full in the face and beard. With a piercing yell the technician jumped backward, pawing at his face, while the hagfish landed on the floor, wriggling and spewing more mucus from its slime glands as it slithered into the center of the room.