Mount Misery

by Angelo Peluso

  “Sure, go ahead,” the M.E. replied. “I can use all the help I can get on this one. Never seen anything like this before.”

  Once Nick Tanner completed his task, and Katie fulfilled her official duties with the medical examiner, she and Nick rushed back to their lab at the Marine Sciences Building on the campus of the State University. Nick was especially eager to further study the images and measurements. One digital photograph intrigued Nick above all others. He viewed an enlarged version of the image on his computer monitor. It was a complete bite impression from a large piece of the waders Jimmy McVee wore the night he was killed. It was from a section of his torso.

  “These bites may have been the work of a fish pack. No way one fish caused all this damage,” Katie said.

  Nick was absorbed by the bite. “Maybe it wasn’t a fish. Lots of creatures swimming around in the sea.”

  “Like what?” Katie said.

  “I just can’t seem to put my finger on where I’ve seen this bite pattern before: a single row of teeth in each jaw, uniform in size, that appear knife-like and razor sharp.”

  Katie moved closer for a better look. “From what I can tell, the teeth also appear conical, somewhat stubby. My guess is that, considering the bite force, the teeth are also well-rooted in a very hard and powerful set of jaws, but definitely not sharks.”

  Nick closely examined the image on the screen. He alternated between the raw photography and the enlarged version, using a magnifying glass to further analyze the bite impressions. He counted each and every mark, first the dentary teeth on the lower jaw—thirty-one impressions. Then he counted the premaxillary upper teeth—thirty-nine impressions. These were fully developed adult teeth that had increased in size with each replacement cycle. Nick looked closely at the exact curvature of the bite and visualized the full jaws and teeth. And then he remembered.

  The previous fall, while reeling in a legal-sized striped bass off Sandhill Point, something followed and attacked the hooked bass. Nick never got to see the culprit but he did get to see the result of its savage bite. When Nick reeled in his prize, it was only half a bass. Considering the size of the bite radius, Nick estimated that whatever ate his fish weighed about fifteen or twenty pounds. By comparison, the bite impression on Jimmy McVee’s waders indicated fish of between seventy-five and one hundred pounds.

  “Any idea at all, Nick?”

  “Other than it being exceptionally big, no. Similar bite impressions on the victim but all are not exact. The way these bites align, this does appear to be the work of more than one fish,” Nick said.

  “Maybe it’s just a school of some exotic tropical species like barracuda?”

  “Possible, not probable,” Nick said. “This is not a friendly environment for fish like that.”

  “Foreign fish—or whatever—of the size you suggest could wreak havoc on an ecosystem; the entire Long Island Sound for that matter. Like snakeheads,” Katie said.

  “Let’s not jump the gun. I’m not certain. It’s just a hunch and there has to be a rational explanation for this. I might be looking at these bite marks all wrong. Although there are some significant differences between these bite patterns and sharks, we can’t rule out any large predatory marine species at the moment. It could also be some form of jaw abnormality. And who knows what creatures might have slid up north with the Gulf Stream? We are going to need really solid physical evidence to substantiate that opinion.”

  “Could it be a mammal?”

  “I really don’t think we are dealing with psychotic seals or sociopathic sea lions, Katie. My bet would be some kind of fish. And my first opinion is that whatever did this fed on the body postmortem.”

  Katie had a very logical mind and believed completely in the scientific process. But she had a tendency to worry and sometimes over-think a problem. Although lacking in any scientific basis, Katie pondered the alternative—the remote possibility of large, nonindigenous fish in the Sound. Fish that might attack humans if provoked in some way, or fish that might actually feed on human flesh. She was an expert on predatory fish behavior. She studied all the major northeast species in graduate school and defended her thesis on the predation patterns of bluefish, one of the most common and prolific local species. Katie owed her career to those fish, including her PhD. Plus, she had caught plenty, both for research and for pleasure with her sometimes significant other, Captain Rick McCord, a local fishing guide.

  There was much that science didn’t know about the oceans and its fish. But Katie knew the potential downside of a pack-aggressive fish roaming the congested water of Long Island. Aside from the environmental effects that could result from an invasive species, even local schools of small bluefish could be trouble if they came too close to bathers.

  Katie also knew that if the bite marks were not the result of postmortem feeding that could mean trouble worse than any possible shark-attack scenario, including that of the great white or a bull shark. While sharks in general are somewhat social and communal animals, big rogue sharks often tend to be solitary creatures. But other fish travel in large predatory schools. Katie also knew this was a transition point in the season when both predators and prey would stage for the fall migration south. Great numbers of bait and fish would be on the move and would concentrate at key locations around Long Island. Predatory species especially would congregate around the bait. If the culprits to this killing were indeed a species of schooling fish, they would surely have a ready-made buffet at their disposal, and they would have a compelling reason for remaining in the area. And if Katie’s and Nick’s hunch was right, these fish could redefine the meaning of big. With Labor Day just a week away, the last thing Katie wanted on her plate was an unsolved death that somehow involved marine life. She was hoping this death had nothing to do with marine life.

  Katie couldn’t help but think about the scene from the movie Jaws where every yahoo with a boat figured they could catch the killer shark. It would be no different once the local fishing crowd got wind of some over-sized, exotic fish swimming in the Long Island Sound. It mattered not what kind of fish they were as long as they were trophies. If these were big fish, they would all want to catch them. And to add to that dilemma, the largest bluefish tournament in the country came at the end of the month. All elements combined could prove a perfect recipe for chaos. But until they knew all the facts, Katie hoped her research would ultimately provide a logical explanation.

  “Katie, what are you thinking about? You look puzzled.”

  “I think I’ll give Rick a call and see if he’s seen or heard about anything out of the ordinary. He’s out on the water every day and if these fish are roaming locally, there may be some VHF chatter about them or he may have bumped into them.”

  Katie had already begun dialing Rick’s cell phone number. Nick pressed further. “I don’t think you want to let the cat out of the bag just yet. We don’t know for certain what species made these bites. Can you still trust Rick to keep his mouth shut?”

  Katie let the call connect.

  “We need to gather more facts about all this before going public. With the holiday coming up, I’ll be hung by my nuts if the wrong shit gets out before we prove it.”

  “Hey Katie, what a pleasant surprise. I just love hearing your voice. Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for a long while. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Cut the sarcasm, Rick. You bailed on me the other night because the bass were running strong. You just couldn’t miss another moon bite, now could you?”

  “I meant to call. I was with clients. It’s just that we got into some nice fish and you know how it is.”

  “Yes I do know how it is, more than I care to admit. Maybe if I had gills instead of tits things might be different. But I’m not calling about that. Where are you right now?”

  “Out with a charter, fishing bunker chunks at the Middle Grounds for bass. Why?”

  “Have you seen or heard about anything odd happening in the Sound lately?”
r />   “Like what, an alien encounter? What do you mean, odd?”

  “Anything strange . . . oddball fish or something out of place in local waters. Anything that doesn’t fit or seem right?”

  “Oh, you mean like a coelacanth or some other previously thought extinct prehistoric species? Hey, I did see a large green fluorescent blob come up from the depths the other night. May be a new species of algae. What think?”

  “You know, you gotta always be the funny man. Why don’t you go do some stand-up at the Port Rosey Comedy Club? You’d be a big hit.”

  “Katie, where are you going with these questions? Why in God’s name are you asking me this? How about a hint?”

  “Look Rick, I’m investigating an unusual death and I’m exploring all leads, even a few that are really far out there. I really could use your help without having to divulge all the details just yet.”

  “You mean that mutilated body they found in Smith’s Bay? Since when does a marine biologist investigate a homicide?”

  “Who said anything about a homicide? And how the hell do you know about it?”

  “I know one of the cops who was on scene. He and his buddies charter me once in a while. I met him in town at Bailey’s Pub and he told me some of the sordid details. Said they couldn’t yet determine cause of death but murder hasn’t been ruled out.”

  “So, have you encountered anything odd out there in the past few days?” Katie knew she needed to refocus the discussion. Rick could be tenacious and he wouldn’t let go if he got a hook into this matter. He would press her to no end.

  “Not me but Jack Connors called me on the VHF two days ago and said he thought he saw some small bluefin tuna flying out of the water off of Navigation Buoy 9 down by Boulder Point.”

  Katie knew Jack, a friend of her mother’s, and usually a very reliable source of fishing information. He took her out on a few of her research expeditions and fished with Rick for big striped bass off Montauk.

  Small bluefin tuna in the Sound was a very rare occurrence. They’d be in the Sound more by chance and serendipity than by standard migratory wanderings. Usually, they just made a wrong turn out east at Orient Point, the terminal promontory of the north shore, and moved west until they found bait, never staying for very long.

  “Was that it? Just the tuna? Is that all Jack saw?”

  “Are you suggesting there is something more at issue here? Actually there was more. But maybe you should show me more of your cards first, Katie dearest.”

  “Cut the bullshit. What else is there?”

  “You owe me for this one. Jack said that the tuna didn’t appear to be feeding but were being chased. He saw one attacked and eaten by something large and fast with a huge forked tail. Jack was certain it wasn’t a shark but he had no idea what the hell was chasing the tuna. Those damn things are so fast only mako sharks stand a chance at nailing them. Only God knows the last time makos were in the Sound. But Jack said he was going to try to catch one if he saw them again.”

  “Did he get a good look at the fish? Could he describe them? Trying to catch them may be a bad idea.”

  “I told you, he said he didn’t know what they were, just that they were big and fast. What does all this have to do with that dead guy?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I can. Gotta get going now.”

  “That’s it? No little lovebird small talk? How about you meet me later at Grumpies for a beer and burger?” Rick said.

  “Sorry. Can’t today. Do me a favor. Be careful on the water. Gotta go. By the way, maybe one of these days you might treat me like a client? Get my drift, buddy boy? Bye.”

  Kate turned back to Nick. “One of Rick’s buddies saw some small tuna being chased by something big and fast the other day off Boulder Point. “They could be our mystery fish.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Katie knew she could depend on Rick in a pinch but their tumultuous relationship was hard on her. She needed his help now but she didn’t want to open old wounds. Katie also needed to protect her emotions. That was easier said than done.

  Katie first met Rick when she was studying for her masters degree at the State University of New York. Rick would sometimes substitute as captain of the school’s marine research vessel when the regular captain was out sick or on vacation. At first she thought him to be an arrogant smart ass but that was just sexual attraction at work. Katie rebuffed Rick’s initial attempts to go out together but she eventually wore down and conceded to a first date. Rick would tell her that he had chased her until she caught him. They dated on an off for a few months and then the relationship turned serious. The one night spent in front of Rick’s fireplace fanned the flames of passion and for a period of time they were inseparable.

  They were an attractive couple, but mismatched by height. Rick was athletically built, about six-two and in terrific shape. Katie was short and petite, well-toned with curves in all the right places and a face that turned heads. Long light brown hair, tied in a ponytail and run through the back of a baseball cap was just the way Rick liked seeing her. There was nothing fancy about Katie. She personified the meaning of down-to-earth and dressed to fit the part of a field biologist. She had that classic LL Bean look. But her looks were often deceiving to those who took her attractive features for granted. Her intellect was her greatest attribute. Unknowing suitors would often be trimmed down to size in short order by her fast wit and biting tongue, especially if they were overzealous in their attempts to hit on her. Beauty, brains, and a personality that didn’t take fools lightly made for a real bundle of dynamite.

  Rick was a college baseball jock with a pretty good fastball and slider. For a while he had aspirations of a major league pitching career, having been drafted into the Yankees farm team system. But he also had a hot head and somehow managed to piss off the entire franchise until he was branded persona non grata. Following his release from Triple A, he bounced around with a couple of minor league clubs in the Atlantic League. After hitting one too many opposing batters in the head with a ninety-file mile an hour rocket Rick found himself in a Brazilian jiu-jitsu school. The school was owned by a friend who had convinced him that martial arts would be a great outlet to release his pent up aggression and a good way to stay in shape. It was here that Rick ad been taught restraint. He had also been taught how to maim and kill. Rick took to martial arts as easily as he had taken to baseball. He quickly gained respectability and proficiency in jiu-jitsu, judo, karate, and kickboxing. Eventually, Rick decided to compete in matches sanctioned by the Federation of Mixed Martial Arts. He had a 4–1 record when an opponent connected with a powerful leg kick that fractured his eye socket and almost took away his sight in that eye. Rick continued to fight valiantly but his coach stopped the bout. Doctors subsequently advised Rick against continuing competitive fighting or risk blindness. Katie wasn’t silent either. She threatened to leave him if he continued with the insanity. She hated violence, even if it was conducted in the name of sport. Katie made Rick promise to end his fighting career. Grudgingly, Rick obliged and shortly thereafter he was on a plane headed for Alaska. He landed a job at the remote Peninsula Creek Lodge guiding wealthy hedge fund managers and other well-to-do sports.

  The lodge owner was originally from Long Island and a big-time baseball fan. He remembered Rick’s one-time call up to the Big Show at The Stadium. Rick put on quite a display of pitching skill, striking out six Red Sox batters in a row. That left an impression. He knew Rick had been drummed out of baseball and that he liked to fly fish. It took but one phone call to seal the job offer. Rick accepted without an iota of hesitation. Katie was not at all initially fond of the idea but her love for Rick convinced her that this was the right thing for him to do at this stage of his life. He had one too many conflicting demons floating around in his head and needed to get his life squared away. At one point, Katie thought she might join Rick for the summer if she could sway her superiors to allow her a sabbatical to study the spawning habits of Alaska’s migratory Pacific salmon
. One of her graduate school friends took a job with the Alaska Department of Natural Resources and was up in the Unalakleet area by Nome, counting silver salmon on the North River. She told Katie she could arrange a summer deal for her to work part time as a consultant. The opportunity never materialized and Rick headed north without her.

  Rick loved the job. He started work that May, helping to get the lodge in order for the coming season, and ended his assignment in October when the last of the silver salmon had spawned. Rick was into his second summer. He was good at the guiding game—a natural. The guests liked him and the tips were substantial, especially if the salmon were running hard and his sports had a good week, which was often the case in this remote part of Alaska. He could typically earn five or ten times his weekly salary in tips and that was motivation enough to do a good job even if some of the clients were obnoxious. Rick always preferred guiding women clients since they were easier to instruct than the classic Type A characters they accompanied. And Rick felt his charm might just land him a score. It can get awfully lonely in the Alaskan bush after three or four months of nothing but fishing. Some of these ladies were real lookers. Rick had had a little fling with the lodge chef, but when the relationship became a problem the owner told Rick to knock it off and stick strictly to business.

  Rick was always amazed that the hotshots would arrive at the lodge with thousands of dollars worth of the newest fly-fishing gear. Most of them couldn’t cast worth a crap if their lives depended on it. Most had no skills whatsoever. Many were lucky not to hook themselves with their wild flailing. But every once in a while, a good caster would show up. Often it would either be a guy from the East Coast who did a lot of saltwater fly fishing and who really understood the dynamics of casting, or a steelhead angler from the West Coast who had mastered the art of the cast and the drift. But most of the yo-yos were totally clueless. Half the time they wouldn’t even know if a salmon or trout was on the end of their lines unless Rick told them to set the hook.