Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

Justine swiped her card again and the thick glass door slid open. The lab was pretty empty. “Where is everyone?”

  “Must be a briefing. The project engineers have been here all day.”

  Justine walked past a row of machines that I had no idea what they were used for. The days of the standard microscope were apparently over. Light shone through the door of what I guessed was a conference room ahead. I followed her to the room and we entered, sliding against the back wall so as not to interrupt the speaker.

  Standing at the podium was a woman who could have been Justine’s twin if not for her dark hair and complexion. Their bodies both had hard athletic lines and the speaker did little to soften the look, wearing a straight cut business suit that contrasted with the trendy oversized glasses perched on her nose. Behind her a screen showed an image of the rubble after the bridge had failed.

  “She’s the engineer overseeing the project,” Justine whispered.

  We stood against the back wall listening. The woman split the screen, one side highlighting sections of the bridge while it was still standing and the other showing close-up pictures after it had failed. She spoke as straight as she looked.

  “The tension rods were what failed. It’s pretty clear the contractor didn’t follow procedure and tightened them too quickly.” She changed slides and put up a graph that was above the pay grade of everyone in the room including me. “Questions?”

  It was clear that the assembled group was lost in the engineering. Crime scene techs were trained to find and classify evidence, not analyze failed building components.

  “It’s always the contractor’s fault,” I whispered to Justine.

  “Well, here’s your chance. Prove it’s not.”

  Contractors were far from infallible; in fact they were quite the opposite. This case was probably no different, but it bugged me that the blame was automatically placed there. I could still hear my dad going on about shit rolling downhill, and the incompetence of architects and engineers. But the room was emptying quickly and we soon found ourselves alone with the engineer.

  “Did you have a question?” she asked as we approached.

  I stuck out my hand. “Kurt Hunter.”

  “Roslyn Maya,” she said, taking my hand in a hard firm grip. “What can I help you with?”

  “Was your company responsible for both the design and testing?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’ve done several of these accelerated bridge construction projects, but mostly in Boston.”

  Right after the failure, with little real information available, the cable channels had filled their airtime with animated presentations of the ABC techniques. Experts were also brought in to explain the process. I thought I had a handle on the construction process so I focused on the controls.

  “Is there testing on the concrete?”

  “We have core and slump test samples for every pour, but I can assure you that is not what caused the bridge to fail.”

  I’d been reading people for years, from the meth heads, illegal dredgers, and poachers out west to the wayward tourists and smugglers here. They all had their own tells and I saw hers right away. Her eyes narrowed, pushing her glasses down her nose when she stared straight at me as if defying me to question her further.

  “The samples and results are available at our offices.” She pushed her glasses back in place.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Justine answered for me. “As long as you have them. We were just worried that the debris was going to be dumped prematurely.”

  “It’s really quite simple. The contractor went too far, too fast. They would have had to pay liquidated damages if they went past the weekend deadline.”

  I watched the interaction of the two women. Roslyn’s look became even more severe, if that was possible. Justine missed none of this. It was time to get her out of here before the claws came out. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Any time,” she said, with a vague semblance of a smile. Reaching into her portfolio, she pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

  I took the card, pocketed it, and pressed Justine toward the door. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, wanting to put some distance between the engineer and us. When we reached the hallway she turned to me.

  “They’re really pushing to place this at the feet of the contractor.”

  “I get that feeling, too. It’s going to take heavy equipment to make her budge. Ditch the evidence and there’s not much anyone can say,” I said, smelling a cover-up.

  “I’d like to look into this accelerated bridge construction thing. See if there were any problems elsewhere.”

  “FIU had a presentation earlier for the media. It was playing on the closed circuit TV. They’re trying to reinforce how safe it is.”

  “The university and engineers are washing their hands of any wrongdoing, leaving only the contractor. My dad was right.”

  “Got your attention now?”

  I thought for a minute. “Six people died in the accident, and they’re just shuttling blame. This is a murder investigation. If it really was an error then it’s manslaughter; if it was intentional it’s murder.” As I said it I had a moment of lucidity. “And once the crime scene crosses into the park, it’s mine.”

  “See if you can get that one past your boss.”

  “I’ll deal with that later. Martinez is just concerned that he gets enough TV time. As long as he’s got the spotlight on him, I can wander.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  I didn’t have a plan, but now I had an investigation of my own to pursue. Dumping the collapsed bridge in sixty-five feet of water was hiding evidence, and that was a crime being committed in the park.

  We both turned toward the glass door leading to the lobby at the same time. Someone was pounding on the safety glass. It was after hours and the reception desk was empty so I went to the door, thinking it might be a tech that had lost or forgotten their badge. On the other side of the glass stood a man hunched over as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. The bags under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Can I help you?”

  He looked up when he saw me and extended his open palms.

  “I got this, special agent,” Justine said, and pressed the button on the intercom mounted next to the door. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the contractor. Where is that bitch of an engineer?”

  6

  Fighting off the repulsive feeling of his greasy skin, I grabbed the man’s arm and led him back out the security door. I wanted him alone.

  “Why don’t we take a walk,” I suggested, continuing to lead him through the small lobby and onto the sidewalk. He started to resist, but I was probably twenty years his junior and easily controlled him. Finally, I had him sitting on the low concrete wall in front of the building. I would have preferred him farther away, but sensed his heart might be as weak as his body.

  “Can you keep an eye out for our friend?” I asked Justine.

  “Gladly,” she said, and turned back toward the entrance.

  She went back inside, leaving me alone with the contractor. I waited for a minute while he caught his breath and wasn’t surprised when he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He inhaled deeply.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Special Agent Kurt Hunter with the National Park Service,” I said. My hand was still greasy from grabbing his arm; there was no way I was going to shake his hand.

  “Ranger boy, eh.” He inhaled again.

  I let the comment go. After being here for a year, I was comfortable in my skin. I had been involved in several high-profile cases that were visible enough to get Martinez plenty of podium time and give me a little breathing room as well as the grudging respect of some of Miami-Dade’s finest. “Not exactly.” I wasn’t going to take his sarcasm, nor was I going to justify my position.

  “That bitch is trying to frame me,” he said, pulling hard on the cigarette and holding the s
moke. Finally he released it and the nicotine seemed to relax him slightly.

  Even though Roslyn could walk out the door at any second, I wanted him to talk and stayed silent while he finished the smoke. Finally he ground it out with the heel of his shoe. I studied him while I waited, knowing he would fill the void without me having to ask any questions.

  He looked to be in his late sixties, with a blotchy complexion usually caused by drinking, sun, or a combination of both. Dressed in a wrinkled fishing shirt and cargo shorts, he looked like he was ready to step onto a boat or into a golf cart—not a construction site.

  “I gotta get to that evidence she’s rigging and prove I did everything by the specs.”

  I had him talking now. “How are you going to prove that? I sat in on her briefing. She’s blaming you for accelerating the tensioning of the rods.”

  “She might be a bitch, but she’s smart. Picked the one thing that can’t be proven.”

  “What are you going to get from the debris? She says there are core samples and tests of the concrete.”

  “You sound like you know a little about construction.”

  “My dad was a contractor.”

  He seemed to look at me in a different light now and relax even more, knowing I was at least part of the same tribe. I knew from growing up around my father and his friends that contractors were different. You had to be part reptile and part lawyer to deal with the customers, subcontractors, and contracts necessary to succeed in a very tough business.

  “John Burkett,” he said, extending his hand.

  I took it reluctantly. “Why don’t we take a walk, John?” I asked.

  “Rather have a beer,” he said.

  “We can do that, too. ” I got up and looked down at him. He rocked back and forth several times as if building enough momentum to rise. John was not in good shape. “You know a place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I catch a ride with you? I’ll get Justine to bring me back.”

  I didn’t think he would mind if she joined us and from the look on his face when I mentioned her name, I was correct. I also wanted her away from Roslyn.

  John climbed onto the running board and hauled his heavy frame into the long-bed crew cab pickup. He might not look like a contractor, but his truck did. Complete with chrome running boards, tool boxes, and ladder racks, including the company name and license number on the door, anyone would see him coming a mile away. I climbed into the passenger seat.

  John drove conservatively, a habit I suspected he had acquired from experience; being behind the wheel when less than sober. I knew better than to make assumptions, but if it looks like a duck … I had learned it probably is. After about a mile, he turned into a strip center and parked in front of a bar. Before entering I saw a menu posted in a Plexiglas frame to the side. Justine was still on the clock and I realized that I hadn’t asked about food earlier and sent her a text so she would know where to find us.

  He went for the bar, but thinking about Justine, I steered him to a table. A waitress came over and we ordered beers. I asked for a few menus as well. The half dozen large screen TVs distracted us while we waited for the drinks and just as they were set on the table, Justine walked through the door. She saw us and headed toward the table. John’s mood lightened immediately when she sat down. I introduced her and we ordered burgers all around and an iced tea for her. John was already three-quarters through his beer and asked for another.

  It was easier to keep him focused with Justine there. Between her looks and his curiosity about her position with the crime lab, John started ignoring me and talking to her. He’d finished the first beer and started into the second when I brought the conversation back to the bridge.

  “What do you think you’ll learn from the debris?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but dumping it before it’s even looked at is not going to clear me or my company. The families of two of the people that died have already filed lawsuits. More are sure to follow.”

  I had learned two things from his last statement and I liked them both. He wanted the truth, and calling the victims “people” showed an empathy that someone deliberately jeopardizing lives by cutting corners would not have. I had to be cautious, though. I’d been fooled by first impressions before, most notably by an FBI agent named Ron Pierce, who’d been running a drug trafficking business on the side. I had liked him initially, too.

  “Can’t you file an injunction or something?”

  “This job has bled me dry. I’ve been building bridges for years, but mostly for the Department of Transportation. I know the playing field regarding schedules and change orders. But the FIU bridge was overseen by the university, and they fought me tooth and nail for every delay and change, trying to get this done on time and look good for their program.”

  “Sounds like a conflict of interest,” I said, leaving out the fact that a broke contractor was a desperate contractor for further examination.

  He tipped his beer mug to me and drained the contents. The waitress arrived with our food and he ordered another. We sat eating while he drank. There was not much more to be said about the bridge until I could do some homework and we let the TVs remove the need for further conversation. After finishing, I picked up the check. Martinez would never reimburse me, but two-thirds of it was for Justine and me.

  “I’ll see what I can do. You have a number I can reach you at?” I asked as we were leaving the bar. Instead of handing me a card, he punched my number into his phone and sent me a text that revealed his as the sender. I saved it to my contacts and we said good-bye.

  Justine and I stood by her car and watched him leave the parking lot. After three beers and possibly more that I didn’t know about, I was worried, but he confirmed my theory and slowly pulled into traffic and drove carefully down the street.

  “Well, that was quite the date,” Justine said.

  “Sorry about that. I wanted to get him at ease with us. I have a feeling there is more to this than a greedy contractor.”

  “Yeah,” Justine said. “But how do we stop them from dumping the evidence?”

  “Martinez,” I replied. I had been thinking about this and determined there might be some value in his addiction to the podium.

  “Really?”

  I told her about seeing the chart on the conference room table earlier. “I have to figure out how involved he is besides selecting the site.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.” She pulled out her phone and Googled the FIU Bridge Memorial. “Says there’s already a ceremony planned for the day after tomorrow. You have thirty-six hours to figure it out.”

  “Thanks for that. I saw the debris being towed out on my way over. Want to take a midnight run and have a look?” I had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “Deal. Let me go wrap up some things. Should only take an hour.”

  “Okay if I come back with you?” A few months ago I wouldn’t have had to ask. Working the swing shift, Justine had once had total run of the lab after five. But now, between sharing the new lab and the overtime approved by the Ivory Tower we might not be alone.

  “The lab is still probably crawling with people. You’ll blend in, especially if that engineer is still there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw her looking at you,” Justine said.

  “Like she wanted to eat me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe we could double date with Roslyn and John.” That got a smile from her and I took advantage of the moment and kissed her.

  We rode back from the restaurant together. Justine parked. She’d been correct about the amount of people around; there were even a handful of journalists sitting in the waiting area outside the security doors. We fought through the press and I almost had to physically restrain them while she swiped her card. I went back to the lab with her. She had just opened the door to the crime lab when I heard my name called. Turning back, I saw Roslyn standing at the end of th
e hall.

  “Agent Hunter. Got a minute?”

  Justine shot bullets at her with her eyes and gave me a weak smile that said to go ahead. She entered the lab and I turned to the engineer. “Sure.”

  The fake smile was back. “Coffee? There’s a lounge here.”

  I nodded and followed her past the reception area and into a large open space. “Lounge” was a pretty good description for what had been a simple lunchroom in another life. Tired-looking techs and reporters who had made it past the first level of security occupied several of the dozen tables. One wall was filled with state-of-the-art vending machines. We walked up to a futuristic model that made coffee twenty-seven different ways. Roslyn fed a five into the slot and started pushing buttons to customize her blend. When she was finished, I stuck a single in and got six ounces of black coffee. Under normal circumstances my caffeine intake ended early in the morning, but with my planned run out to the bay later, I figured it might not be a bad idea. Roslyn looked like she lived on the stuff.

  We sat at one of the vacant tables and I sipped slowly, waiting to see what she wanted. It didn’t take long for her to come out with it.

  “I saw you talking to John Burkett earlier. Can I ask what your interest in all this is? I wouldn’t think a park ranger would have anything to do with a bridge collapse.”

  In most cases titles were meaningless, but I felt she was being dismissive. “That would be special agent.” She was fishing and I fed her the bait. “The bridge is a murder weapon. Six people were killed by someone’s negligence—Burkett’s, according to you. The evidence is going to be dumped in my jurisdiction. That makes me an interested party.”

  “Let me tell you about John Burkett.”

  7

  Over the next few minutes I got every detail of John Burkett’s life except for the answer to the question I really wanted to know: Was he a good contractor? It was alarming how much personal detail Roslyn dragged out and the way she presented it. Her spin was good enough that she could’ve convinced me that the pope had intentionally killed six people. According to her, Burkett’s financial position had caused him to rush the construction, which had resulted in the bridge failure. This was the only fact we could agree on: Burkett had admitted he was having trouble getting change orders approved through the university.