Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

  “The University has decided to ditch the evidence from a murder under sixty feet of water.”

  “That’s a stretch,” she said.

  “Hardly. Dumping the evidence in the Atlantic tomorrow is a rush job in any book. If the NTSB had any authority over this tragedy they would never allow it.”

  “Plodding bunch of fools. We know what caused the failure. It’s clear the contractor used too much force too quickly on the tension rods.”

  “Wouldn’t that be relative to the strength of the concrete at the time he did it? Post twenty-eight days, that concrete should have cured out to about ninety-eight percent of its compressive strength. Maybe the amount of fly ash introduced to the mix had something to do with it.” I watched her face and saw the slightest trace of a smile around her eyes.

  “You are an interesting one for a park ranger.”

  “Special Agent.” I don’t often correct people, but I needed every ounce of authority I could cling to.

  “Why don’t you be the good guy here and delay the ceremony? Take some time and find out what the real cause of the failure was.”

  “Overtightened tension rods.”

  “And not even the possibility of any other mitigating circumstances?”

  “Special Agent. I have been an engineer for twenty years. I am not a graduate student on a football scholarship.”

  We appeared to be at a standoff and there was nothing more to be gained by this discussion. “I have no doubt about your qualifications as an engineer, but what happens to Burkett? He’s going to get strung up for this.”

  “If that’s what he deserves.” She got up and left.

  I sat there for a minute breathing deeply, hoping that it would bring my blood pressure down. Roslyn also had twenty years’ experience in pushing people around and she was good at it. I had stood my ground, but it had been like taking several body blows in a boxing match. I walked to the counter, refilled my water cup, and sat back down with my phone. It was getting to be mid-afternoon and I felt like I was spinning my wheels.

  I often use a virtual jigsaw puzzle to figure out crimes. You had to find the four corners: motive, means, opportunity; and the trigger incident that pushed the perpetrator to commit the crime needed to be identified and put in place before you could start working on the border and interior. As the puzzle became filled in the possibilities decreased. But I was frustrated, still struggling with the corners.

  Glancing down at my watch, I saw it was after two. Justine would be at work. If there was anyone that could make lemonade out of lemons it was Justine. I just needed an excuse to get into the lab. I reached for the phone, thinking of a pretext, and jumped when it vibrated. A glance at the screen showed that I had not fallen off Martinez’s radar; I appeared to be in the bullseye. Knowing I would only be digging a deeper hole for myself if l didn’t answer, I rose and left the restaurant before answering.

  “What the hell, Hunter?”

  It was his standard greeting these days. “Just running down some leads.”

  “I got a call from the engineer that you’re trying to get the ceremony pushed back. Let me tell you loud and clear—that is not going to happen.”

  If that was all he was concerned with I would take it as a win. They might dump the evidence, but I still had a case.

  “And Hunter. You’ve just spent your day off up there. Go see your girlfriend and get back to work.”

  12

  Even though I knew he meant it differently, Martinez had instructed me to see my girlfriend, so I intended to take him up on it. I loosely interpreted his suggestion to mean I had reason to visit the crime lab.

  I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Justine that I had some questions and that Martinez had authorized me to come by.

  I headed over to the lab and parked in the crowded lot. From the line of news vans parked along the driveway I guessed nothing else had come up in the news to supplant the bridge collapse. Martinez would be happy if the trend continued overnight, with the media giving the ceremony its full attention. But that also made my goal of getting the ceremony delayed that much harder. Reporters were milling around the front of the building, clogging the small entrance. I wasn’t sure what the attraction was, unless Roslyn was giving another reveal nothing press conference. Forensics work, despite recent glamorous portrayals in the CSI Wherever shows, was detailed work; paint drying was often more exciting.

  One of the reporters must have noticed my uniform. After calling his camera man away from chatting up a colleague, he approached me.

  “How does the National Park Service feel about the new artificial reef?”

  I dodged the camera and made it to the door, where I entered the visitor’s code that Justine had given me. After a long pause, the electronic lock released with a buzz and I pushed the door open before the reporter, and more importantly the camera man, could reach me. If I wanted things to go badly for me, showing up representing the park service on TV was a surefire way to incur Martinez’s ire.

  I took several wary looks behind me to see if I was being followed as I walked down the hall to the crime lab. The corridor was clear. My imagination was working overtime. After several deep breaths I called Justine, who came to the smoked glass doors and let me in.

  “Hey,” she said, turning and leading me back to her workstation.

  I missed the days when I could watch her jamming to the too-loud music in her headphones from behind the glass partition in the old lab. I’d often watched her body swaying under the loose-fitting lab coat for minutes before entering. Now, the headphones were gone and so was the intimacy we’d shared.

  “What’cha got?” she asked.

  “Martinez told me to see my girlfriend, so I am taking him literally and here I am.” She looked around. I wasn’t here to get her in trouble, but I had no real agenda. “Maybe, if you don’t mind, we could examine the samples we took from the barge. I’ve gotten several lessons in concrete mixes and engineering today.”

  “Oh, do tell.” She moved to a table where the concrete chips lay.

  “Did you have a chance to look at them?”

  “Believe it or not, we had a few crime scenes to process today.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m probably the only one that cares about Burkett being railroaded.”

  “Truth, justice, and the American way. Pretty cool I have my own Clark Kent.” She looked around the room like she had a secret. “And his super powers.” She reached over and smacked my arm. “You still think Burkett is innocent after his visit to the barge? He’s certainly acting like he has something to hide.”

  “I have to agree with you there, but they all do. FIU has a bunch of rent-a-cops running around the engineering department and Roslyn seems to know where I am every minute of the day.” I gave her a quick rundown of meeting Willis and my conversation with Roslyn in the restaurant.

  “One of my professors told us that science is as much an art as a problem you can work out on a slide rule. I guess engineering is the same.”

  “And the pursuit of the truth gets put on the back burner as they all try and cover their butts.” The bridge failure was turning into as much a study on the shortcomings of the human race as the failure of a concrete mix. “Can we have a look at the material?”

  “Sure.” She handed me a pair of gloves and put on her own. “What are you looking for?”

  “I guess it’s one of those things that I won’t know until I see it.” I started moving around the pieces of concrete, rubbing a few between my fingers. Some crumbled to my touch; others resisted and held firm. As I moved the pieces around I thought back to the irrigation pipe I had found in the stream out west, the one that had changed my life. It had defied nature; its small current had taken my fly in the wrong direction through an eddy that alerted me that something was wrong. Straight lines, even well-camouflaged ones, were not found in nature, and the pipe caught my eye and led me to work my way uphill to the pot grow.

  The
concrete I held was manmade, but still a mix of natural materials. The loose mix would conform to the surfaces that contained it until it cured, and the only smooth and perfect features of it would be left from the forms. As I moved one of the bigger chunks around in my hand, I saw a smooth straight hole that looked like it had been bored through it.

  “Hey, look at this.“ I held it up for Justine.

  “That could be from a tie or nail or anything. I think you’re grasping for something that’s not there.”

  “If it were a nail, there would be rust stains. The ties are metal, too; you would see some kind of evidence. ” I brought the piece to an adjacent table that had a lighted magnifying lens mounted to it and studied the hole. There were grooves on the side walls, as if a drill bit had made them. I hesitated to submit my findings to Justine’s cynical review. There could be any number of reasons for a hole to be bored into the concrete. Burkett’s earlier search of the barge told me he’d been looking for something. Not knowing exactly where the sample had come from made it difficult to dismiss it.

  “Whatcha got there?” Justine came over to look.

  “Looks like something bored this,” I said, enjoying the closeness as we pressed our faces together to look.

  “Interesting.” She walked away.

  I wasn’t sure if she had spoken sarcastically, but when she returned with a tool that looked like a scalpel and a collection tray, I started to think I might have found something significant. She took the piece from me and carefully scraped a sample of the concrete from the area surrounding the hole.

  “You see the discoloration? That doesn’t match any of the other colors.”

  I’d been so focused on the hole that I hadn’t looked around it. Concrete might appear grey when it is finished because the water, or cream as it is known in the trade, forced to the outside by either vibration or a finishing tool, is mostly Portland cement. In this case there’d be a combination of cement and fly ash. Inside, however, the aggregate or small rocks have unique and natural color. Looking at the area of the sample I realized that the discoloration wasn’t natural. Just as I realized what it was, Justine confirmed it.

  “This is some kind of residue from a blast. I’m going to run some tests.”

  I wasn’t sure which way I wanted this to go. If she was correct, it would be the difference between faulty construction and sabotage which, since six people were killed, would be the difference between manslaughter and murder. I walked over to the table where Justine was working and watched her as she placed the sample under a microscope. While she focused the lenses using the binocular viewfinder, I watched on the computer monitor. My untrained eyes detected nothing, but when Justine looked up, I could tell from her smile that we had found something.

  “These spherical pieces shouldn’t be here,” she said, pointing to a spot on the monitor.

  The image on the screen looked like a meteor shower from a science fiction movie. “Can you tell what they are?”

  “Not without running further tests. Maybe this should wait until later when I have the place to myself.”

  I agreed. “I’ve had no luck delaying the ceremony.”

  “They want this to go away.”

  That gave me an idea. If I could figure out who the they were, I could backtrack to find out who did this. Now that there was evidence of foul play there was only a short list of people who had access. Martinez wanted the ceremony to move forward for his own aggrandizement; though selfish, I knew his motives were just that. The powers that be in Miami-Dade and FIU wanted it off the news and neither had the kind of access required to sabotage the structure. That left the engineer and contractor. With Roslyn pointing her finger at Burkett without a solid case against him, it looked as if she and the engineering firm had the most dubious reason for the bridge to become a reef.

  “I think I need to call Grace.” It was more thinking out loud and I should have known better. There was some kind of friction between Justine and the detective, but she was one of my only allies here.

  “The tampering and failure happened in Miami-Dade’s jurisdiction; you probably ought to.”

  Her reaction surprised me and confirmed that it was the right thing to do. If I could get Grace to buy into my theory it would legitimize the case. “You don’t mind, then?” It was a stupid question. Justine was a pro and she rolled her eyes as a response.

  “Go ahead. I heard she’s got a new partner, too. Your buddy Dick Tracy got a promotion after helping take down the crooked FBI agent.”

  That was good news for me, but not the department. Tracy was an ex-FBI agent with a grudge. Along with the majority of the police here, he had been wary whenever I was involved. I knew it wasn’t personal—but it felt that way. I put my ego aside and found Grace Herrera’s contact info on my phone. Composing my argument in my head while it rang, I waited for her to answer.

  “Agent Hunter. Long time.”

  With Justine standing next to me I was glad Grace wasn’t one for small talk. “Have you been following the bridge collapse?”

  “Not really on our radar. Looks like the contractor screwed up, but it’s not criminal.”

  “Not yet anyway. Are you anywhere near the crime lab?”

  “You going to ruin my night?”

  “Maybe.”

  13

  While I waited for Grace, Justine went to her workstation to check her messages. I took a minute to text Allie and catch up on my emails. I was worried about my daughter and wanted to see her. If Jane would allow it, having her join me at the ceremony might be both cool and give Allie some closure by watching the bridge debris become a reef.

  “I’m going to ask Allie if she can come down to see the ceremony. You interested?” I asked Justine.

  “That’s a good idea. Might as well join them if we can’t stop them. Might be good for her.”

  I got an enthusiastic emoji from Allie and waited while she asked her mother. A few minutes later, she answered that her mom had said yes. It was no surprise when the phone rang a minute later and Jane’s name showed on the screen.

  “Hi,” I answered tentatively. “I can run up there and pick her up.” If she was going to allow an unscheduled visit I wanted to make it as easy as I could.

  “I know you’re trying to do the right thing, but once again you set me up to be the bad guy.”

  Honestly I hadn’t thought about putting her in a position that made her the bad parent if she said no. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask you first.”

  “I’m only borderline okay with this. She’s been obsessed with the collapse since she got home. Maybe this will give her some closure.”

  It always stung when she called her house home, but I knew that Allie needed a stable place to live while she went to school. “Is she okay?”

  “I think she’s got your curiosity gene. I just wish she’d use it for school.”

  “I can be there in a half hour,” I said, hoping that would end the conversation.

  “Let me make this clear.”

  I heard the sound of a door closing in the background and braced myself.

  “Do not put her in harm’s way. I know this was an accident, but you have a knack for finding trouble.”

  I understood her threat and mentally checked my bank account balance in case I needed the services of my attorney, Daniel J. Viscount. Though it had cost in the five figures, he had done what no other lawyer could and gotten me visitation with Allie. I did not want to have to employ his services again and promised Jane I would do my best.

  She sighed. “I know you mean well, but… “

  The lab was generally like a library. The only sounds were muted conversations and machine noises from the equipment. A loud voice broke the silence and caught my attention. I told Jane I had to go and turned to the entrance, where I saw a man coming toward us. Grace was behind him, saying something that I couldn’t make out and when he tried to hug Justine, my first reaction was that I would have preferred Dick Tracy. This did
n’t look like the start of a good relationship.

  “You must be Hunter,” the man said, extending his hand. “John Traynor, but everyone calls me JT.”

  I wondered if he had given himself the nickname. JT stood a full six inches below me. His combover was ineffective at hiding his bald spot and his greasy hair only accentuated the rumpled look, complete with a three-day beard that was patchy at best. Without even knowing him, I felt sorry for Grace.

  Detective Herrera was a knockout. Carefully groomed and standing just two inches shy of my six feet, she was fit and trim. Side by side these two looked like the Odd Couple.

  “What do you have for us, Hunter? I’ve heard you’re not scared to waste our resources.” He spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t place.

  I turned to Grace. “Justine can show you what we found, then I’ll brief you.”

  Justine smiled. She always enjoyed a bit of what my grandfather called shadenfreuder, guilty pleasure at another’s misfortune. She was clearly enjoying Grace’s bad luck. I was more in the “enemy of my enemy is my friend” camp. If it took her rumpled partner to give the women a common antagonist that put them on better terms, he was my friend.

  “Where’re you from? I can’t place the accent,” I asked JT while Justine explained to Grace the evidence revealed by the microscope. He ignored my attempt to befriend him.

  “Some detective you are,” he said.

  Grace saved me from any further conversation. “So, you think this is a murder now?”

  I started to explain what I had learned about concrete, until I noticed both their eyes had begun to wander. Justine’s look told me to get on with it. “The engineer’s done a pretty good job at throwing the contractor under the bus.”

  “And your point is?” JT asked, waving his hands as if to dismiss my argument.

  I needed to get them to buy in so I tried a different tack. “Why would he blow up his own bridge? Don’t think he’s going to get paid now.”