One well-placed throw landed the dummy between a set of large boulders close to shore. A small rip current had formed at the center of this configuration. As was his duty, Pisces eagerly leapt into the water and swam toward his toy. He grabbed the dummy and turned to complete the retrieve. As the big poodle swam back toward the beach, Mimi heard Pisces let out with a terrifying yelp. She saw three huge forms with enormous forked tails emerge from the water and slash viciously at the poodle. Mimi panicked. She screamed! “Come, Pisces! Come!” But her faithful companion was incapable of responding. The dog’s legs had been bitten off. Mimi jumped into the surf and started to swim toward her dog, but as she did, Pisces let out one final death yelp and disappeared. The rubber retrieving dummy was all that remained on the surface of the water, ringed by blood. Mimi returned to the safety of shore to call police.
Not more than twenty minutes later and farther down the same beach, Mickey Rosen’s Chihuahua named Killer, succumbed to a fate similar to that of Pisces, but with much less drama. The little hound enjoyed water as much as his larger poodle cousin but he wasn’t inclined to venture too far from the safety of land. The tiny pooch preferred to relax in a little ring-tube raft its owner had made so his little dog could float effortlessly on the small waves. Mickey would often tie a long length of light rope to the raft and walk along in the water, Killer in tow. That was the day’s drill, but at one point while Mickey waded along, he heard a humongous splash behind him and felt a strong tug on the line. When he turned back around to investigate the source of the disruption, he felt instant terror. Much to his astonishment, Killer was gone. When asked later by police about the incident, Mickey thought he remembered seeing a very large forked tail where his beloved Killer had been moments before. County police were at a loss to explain the disappearance of either dog. The official incident reports chalked the episodes up to unusual and coincidental drowning.
CHAPTER 4
Jimmy McVee clocked out from his job as a line repairman for Island Power and Light as usual at 3 p.m. This had been a good day—his primary work order had him close to home, repairing power lines in downtown Port Roosevelt. A turbulent summer storm the day before had knocked out electricity to the Town Hall and adjoining businesses. This had become a priority repair. Jimmy lived in Port and this day’s commute was a snap: out of the house, into his car, and down the hill straight to Dunkin Donuts for some hot coffee and a bagel. While in town, he could also check out the fishing activity at the local boat launch ramp. Jimmy always had fishing on his mind and he liked keeping tabs on the action. When he worked locally, he’d usually make pit stops at the ramp to drink coffee before work and then again during his lunch break. At this time of year, there’d always be someone either dropping a boat in the water or taking one out. He spotted a captain he knew well and watched as the twenty-foot, center console Aquasport rolled off the trailer. Jimmy waited until the boat was tied off to a dock cleat before approaching.
“Hey Billy, how’s the fishing?”
“Not bad. Got a bunch of bass and blues and a few little tunny and bonito yesterday. Released them all. Lots of fish out there. Tons of baitfish too. More than has been around in years. Hoping for the same luck again today.”
“All four?” Billy nodded, smiling.
“That’s a nice Long Island Grand Slam. What did you catch ‘em on?”
“Flies and artificial lures,” Billy said.
Jimmy especially liked fishing with classic old wooden plugs, carved forms that replicated fleeing baitfish when retrieved.
“That’s great. Any big fish?” Jimmy asked.
“I saw some very large fish bust the surface out near the Middle Grounds yesterday, over toward Stratford Shoal. I mean really big. Couldn’t make out what they were. They were so fast I thought they might be some wayward tuna, but they were behaving very odd.”
“Haven’t seen tuna around here in a long time. That would have made for some nice sashimi.”
“Yeah, it would.” Billy said. “Last year, some guys fishing with chunks of menhaden saw small bluefin out near the Stratford Shoal Light house. Been some bottlenose dolphin in the Sound too. Great to see them coming back. Lots of sea life out there.”
“Thanks for the update and good luck out there today. I think I’ll be out on the beach tonight.”
Jimmy knew about those small bluefin tuna. One of his friends was fishing menhaden chunks as bait for bass out in the middle when he spotted what he thought to be bluefin. Jimmy’s friend then made a few call-outs on his VHF to other captains to see if they had spotted similar activity. Only one other captain, Jack Connors, had seen them. He too was out in the center of the Sound on a charter, chunking bait for bass and big bluefish, and he too thought they were tuna. Jimmy didn’t doubt his buddy for a moment. When he was into boat fishing, he would often encounter unusual species in the less traveled reaches of the Sound, species like oceanic sunfish and bottlenose dolphins, an occasional shark and other non-indigenous fish. The dolphins used to be commonplace, but only recently returned after a decades-long hiatus. Rising ocean temperatures resulting from global warming and a Gulf Stream that moved ever so close to Long Island enabled many varieties of southern species of fish to move northward and near shore. There were even thriving populations of tropical fish inhabiting inshore areas during summer months such as jack and tarpon, so tuna would be no surprise.
What interested Jimmy most was the fact that so many species of fish were in the area simultaneously. With so much bait around, he’d have great fishing later that night.
Many of Jimmy’s closest fishing friends preferred night beach fishing during periods of the new moon, but Jimmy preferred the full moon. He knew the current lunar phase would make for some exceptional nighttime striped bass fishing. Stripers preferred feeding during the darkest of hours and, even though the illumination of the full moon would prevent pitch-black darkness, some of his best fishing happened on full moon phases. That predilection had a lot to do with the fact that baitfish frequented the shallows along beaches. The full moon brought with it stronger tides and heavier currents.
Big bass love turbulent water, and the combination of moon-enhanced tidal flows and tons of local bait was a formula that couldn’t fail. That was precisely what Jimmy had counted on. After eating dinner and getting a few hours shut-eye, he’d go fishing. His girlfriend knew not to call him when the moon was full, especially during the fishing season, so Jimmy felt no pressure to do anything other than eat, sleep, and hit the beach. He especially loved the August moon, known as the Sturgeon Moon. Early Native American fishing tribes believed the August full moon was the optimal time to catch the largest fish. He checked the tides in his favorite weekly fishing magazine, The Island Angler, a publication that kept local fishermen in touch with the most recent on the water happenings. He knew the editor, Ferdie G, very well. They belonged to the same surf-fishing club. Ferdie was plugged in better than anyone around Long Island and was the source for the most reliable fishing information. He was also one of the best surf anglers to ever set foot in the wash. When Jimmy wanted the straight scoop on what was happening in the world of fish, Ferdie was his man. Jimmy would often say that if a fish farted at fifteen fathoms off Montauk Point, Ferdie knew about it.
Jimmy flipped the magazine to the tide page and took the reading for Bridgeport, Connecticut. From that, he deducted five minutes for his location and calculated high tide at 2:07 a.m. It was perfect. He would get down to the beach at midnight, make the walk to his favorite spot, and be in the action as the tide started its outward flow. Jimmy had a plan he liked and he expected to catch fish.
CHAPTER 5
In the world of sport fishing, a surf rat is a unique breed of angler who prowls the beaches and the near surf for striped bass. Some might label them eccentric since nothing is out of bounds in their quest for a trophy fish. They enjoy solitude and freedom and prefer the light of a new or full moon to the rays of the sun. Like all hardcore surf rats, Jimmy lov
ed pursuing fish at night. Jimmy would often say the only hours of the day worth fishing were those of the vampire shift. When operating under the cover of darkness, his senses heightened to a point of acute awareness. It was as if he became one with the predators he pursued.
Lack of light has a way of raising the most primordial instincts to an intense level, even in someone fishing along the congested North Shore of Long Island. But on this full-moon night, Jimmy was especially attuned to his surroundings. He was fishing alone on an isolated stretch of beach enjoying the simple pleasures of silence and seclusion. Jimmy checked his watch—2:45 a.m. He would have a small window of opportunity once the fish started to feed. The tide was coming off full flood stage as he waded out a few yards from the shoreline and positioned himself on his favorite casting rock. He loved being there in the dark, as the ebbing flow and tidal currents brought renewed life to the shallows along the beach.
Jimmy was casting a large swimming plug when he heard the first familiar and welcomed slap interrupt the stillness to his left: Big bass. He readied his plug for a quick cast but he didn’t pull the trigger. Something else caught his attention. Many more big fish were directly out in front of the rock, tearing into a school of hapless menhaden, a preferred source of sustenance for big bass. Heavy cloud cover didn’t allow for much of the moon’s light to illuminate the water. Jimmy relied mostly on his sense of hearing to identify the location of the splashes and slaps. Other fish revealed themselves as ghostly ephemeral forms racing along in thin water. Jimmy’s eyes had adjusted earlier in the night, allowing him to faintly see the pods of immature bunker leaping onto the beach to evade their pursuers. Death came to those fish either way they turned. Stay in the water and meet with certain demise or jump onto the temporary safety of the sand and commit preordained mass suicide.
Jimmy heard a set of titanic splashes ten or twenty yards out. He lobbed the artificial swimming lure toward the loud disruption. The instant strike was swift, solid, and heavy. “Thank you, Lord.” The fish’s substantial bulk and its first sustained run had Jimmy thinking a nice “forty” or maybe even his first ever fifty-pounder. But bass that big were more the exception than the rule on this beach. He knew that all too well—he’d be content with a respectable thirty-pound striper. The big fish took considerable line despite the heavy drag setting on his spinning reel. The striper moved east among the boulders as if it understood how to evade capture. Jimmy was tempted to tighten down on the drag but he knew from past experiences that would be a big mistake. He also knew he had to follow the fish or risk losing it as it would quickly gain an advantage and break free. Jumping from the rock and wading back onto the sand, Jimmy applied pressure with his rod. While holding the rod at a forty-five-degree angle, he pulled hard, attempting to turn the big bass back in his direction, but the fish would have none of that. Jimmy’s pace quickened as he attempted to cut the distance between himself and the fish. It had now taken more than half the line from his reel spool. He thought that quite peculiar. While big bass are true brutes and prefer down-and-dirty, dogged battles, long runs like this were not at all typical.
Maybe I foul-hooked this sucker? Jimmy thought. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the bass of a lifetime. He was pumped; a rush of adrenaline prepared him for the balance of this heavyweight bout. After what seemed like an endless ordeal of give and take, Jimmy felt that first subtle sign of submission. He pulled back yet again on the rod and this time the fish inched slowly toward him. It appeared to be well hooked, and Jimmy knew if he took his time the prize would be his. Slow and deliberate pulls gained line and brought the fish closer. The beast came to the surface and shook its massive head fiercely, trying to separate itself from the grasp of hooks. Even in low light, Jimmy could make out the shape and form of an extraordinary adversary. It was bigger than anything he had ever hooked. One more long pull on the surf rod, several turns of the reel handle, and the big fish would be but two rod lengths away. Jimmy re-entered the water in an effort to grasp the fish by its lower jaw. He was unsure if he could beach it so he took the end game of the fight directly to the enormous fish.
Jimmy was in water up to the top of his thighs when he felt the odd sensation of other fish swimming around him—fish that appeared as large as the one attached to his swimming plug. They moved at frenzied pace, bumping his legs as they swam, apparently not at all fearful of his presence. Jimmy tried backing out of the water, but it was too late. The behemoth at the end of his line stopped fighting and rushed in to attack. The first bite to Jimmy’s leg sent an electric jolt through his entire body. He screamed in pain as he instinctively grabbed his left calf. No one heard his cry. The second bite was as ferocious and tore through his waders, ripping his entire calf muscle from the bone. Another fish hit his right thigh, severing the femoral artery. Jimmy stumbled forward, not yet realizing he was a dead man. He felt excruciating pain in his thighs and torso as they slashed and bit mercilessly. He cried out in agony, but still no one heard him. As Jimmy tried to regain footing, he felt the most vicious of all bites and trembled: his left hand had been bitten off above the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump that only seconds ago had been a hand tightly gripping a surf rod. The blood in the water only fueled the fish’s feeding pheromones at peak levels, stimulating them to collectively work to destroy their oversized prey. The last thing Jimmy remembered was the vicious bite to his groin. Jimmy McVee’s life ebbed five yards from the beach he so loved to fish.
CHAPTER 6
The remains of Jimmy’s body washed up on a beach in Smith’s Bay several days later. Authorities hadn’t a clue what had happened to him. An elderly gent walking his dog was startled when fido fetched a fibula. He immediately called police. When County PD arrived on scene, they secured the area from curious onlookers. The arriving officers had never seen remains as mangled as the ones they were attempting to preserve as forensic evidence. Most of the flesh had been torn or ripped from what was once Jimmy McVee’s strong body. The waders were completely shredded. Visible bone revealed deep and penetrating bites. What flesh remained clung to a skeleton that showed signs of large but odd tooth marks. The County Crime Scene Unit was as much at a loss as anyone for attributing cause of death. The lead investigator thought it might be the result of a rare shark attack. Another member of the team suggested the body had been dead for days and the mutilation was the work of crabs or some other wildlife. When the coroner arrived, he took one look at the uniformity and number of bites that were still recognizable and suggested they get the remains back to the morgue. Jimmy’s remains were bagged, tagged, and placed on the gurney for transit.
Jimmy McVee’s mutilated body parts were laid onto a cold stainless steel table at the county morgue. Although a specific cause of death would have to wait until all standard forensic testing was completed, the M.E. was eager to understand the origins of the bites. In all the years of practicing his art, he had never seen a bite pattern this unique. His curiosity peaked and he called for a biologist from the State University’s Division of Marine Sciences to come have a look. Katie DiNardo was assigned the task. She’d also bring along her sidekick, Nick Tanner, an ichthyologist.
Katie DiNardo and Nick Tanner were two of the best minds in the New York State Marine Sciences Bureau, a division of the Department of Fish and Game. Between them, they had more collective research and field experience than the rest of the fisheries crew combined. When they joined forces to solve a problem, it was a tag-team that couldn’t be beat. Their superiors at division knew that and it was one of the reasons they were paired on this unusual death. If this incident had anything to do with marine life, these two were best equipped to solve the case. They had worked together on several other tough cases in the past and put the marine bureau in a very favorable light with the high mucky-mucks in Albany. Their division had imposed a hiring freeze and good staff like Katie and Nick were doing double, sometimes triple duty, working like switch engines.
While the medical examiner scrutinized every piec
e of what was once a vibrant and strapping young man, Katie and Nick looked on. Their attention was riveted on one very prominent bite mark. “What do you think did that? A shark?” the M.E. said.
“I doubt it. That’s not at all typical of a shark bite. It’s the wrong alignment of teeth and the bite radius is inconsistent with the shape and size of a shark’s jaws.” Katie DiNardo hadn’t a clue what caused these wounds but she was confident it wasn’t a shark.
“Whatever it was applied a remarkable amount of bite pressure per square inch. We have indications of multiple shattered bones, and both hands and a foot have been bitten off. The foot was severed cleanly, right through the wading boot. Other than a shark, what indigenous fish could possible do something like that?” the M.E. asked.
Katie just shrugged her shoulders and eyed a number of the other bites. The sequence of the marks and the manner and pattern of torn flesh reminded her of the attack effects of Amazonian piranha, only much larger.
Nick Tanner remained quiet, intently focused on the shape of one specific bite. It was strangely familiar to him. He asked the M.E. if he could take some measurements and photos of the uniquely intact bite mark. While the competent M.E. had already done so, Nick wanted to take his own set of images so he could examine them in more detail back at his lab.
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