But that would have to wait.
I set the empty on the railing and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms. Couldn’t avoid my next obligation any longer.
Time to identify Tiffany’s body.
CHAPTER 30
THE BONAIRE MORGUE was located on Kaya Soeur Bartola, across the street from one of the island’s large grocery stores. A small, unimposing building attached to the main hospital, with only two main rooms. Most island tourists were probably unaware of its purpose. A morgue situated across the street from the entrance to a major grocery store. Only in the islands.
I parked on the street and made my way to the entrance. James stepped out of the front foyer, holding the door open. I went inside and let out a deep sigh.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said.
James was quiet.
The configuration of the main room lent itself to modest memorial services, where many of the island funerals began. After the ceremony, the body is slowly driven to the large church in the center of Kralendijk with the mourners walking behind or alongside in procession. I’d never attended one of these services but had witnessed several.
A podium stood in one corner, adorned with beer-barrel-sized pots overflowing with flowers and greenery. Several semicircular rows of chairs faced the front. As would be expected, scattered amidst the seating were several boxes of tissue. At least they’d be easy to find later when I needed them.
James led me to a man standing at the back of the room dressed in a white lab coat. He was Antillean, either native Bonairian or from Curacao, and no more than five and a half feet tall. His lab coat hung loosely on his gaunt frame and black eyeglasses dangled around his skinny, overly long neck. A name tag clipped to the pocket of his lab coat read Ruud Thode. James didn’t introduce us and Thode remained quiet, keeping his head bowed, eyes averted. He opened a large metal door and motioned for James and me to follow him through into the second room.
It had been a long time since I’d been in the cold storage room of a morgue, and my attire of shorts and a T-shirt didn’t insulate me against the near-freezing air. The shock of the first few seconds eventually wore off, and the thirty-seven-degree temperature began to feel refreshing.
The putrid scent of decaying flesh, like that of a working butcher shop, clung to the air. Death has a particular smell, and a new detective discovers it early. One trip to the morgue is all it takes, and once learned, it’s never forgotten. This one stung my olfactory glands worse than usual. It’d been a long time.
The lighting was bright and reflected off pale white floor tile. Gurneys lined all four walls, each with a beige blanket covering a motionless corpse. Only the feet of the bodies were exposed, and from a single toe of each hung a yellow tag.
Same view as in other morgues.
We walked toward a solitary gurney on the far side of the room, set along the back wall. The echo of Thode’s hard-soled shoes was eerily out of sequence with the muted strikes of my sandals. James and Thode pulled the gurney away from the wall and stood along one side, me on the other. A blanket covered Tiffany’s body; a yellow tag hung from her toe. I ignored the stares of the other two men as they waited for my signal. A signal I wasn’t sure I’d be able to give.
Finally, I gave James the okay. He hesitated a second before pulling back the blanket, exposing the upper half of Tiffany’s chalk-white, naked body. I grabbed the sheet, so he couldn’t pull it down past her shoulders. Modesty had always been important to Tiffany, and even in death, I wanted to preserve some level of dignity for her.
Seeing her lifeless body a second time was harder than the first. Harder than I could’ve imagined. Her eyes open but empty, staring past me, head tilted my way. Chills ran down my spine. My face flushed; my heart palpitated. I took a deep breath, composing myself, and looked at the ceiling. A mixture of grief and guilt consumed me.
Once again, the anger rose.
“R?” James said, his tone soft.
I nodded at James. Thode began pulling the blanket over her head.
“Wait,” I said.
Thode hesitated.
“What is it?” James asked.
Using a finger, I rolled her head the other way, exposing the part of her neck closest to me. I leaned in and examined it.
“What are these bruises on her neck?” I asked James. He shrugged. “I can see there hasn’t been an autopsy yet. How much investigation has there been?”
“We are waiting for the medical examiner to fly over from Curacao. He is expected sometime this afternoon.” James assisted Thode in pulling the blanket back over Tiffany’s face. “It is a drowning. How much investigation would you expect us to do?”
I glared at James but didn’t respond.
Thode gave me a mild body check as he moved to the center of the gurney on my side and shoved it back into place. He exerted more force than needed and it bounced off the wall.
“Hey! … Gentle.” I slid the gurney against the wall and laid my hand on the section of the blanket covering Tiffany’s arm. I closed my eyes and remained silent for a moment.
James put one arm on my shoulder, I opened my eyes, and he extended his other arm toward the large metal door, signaling that it was time for me to leave. “We have dealt with many drownings. I am sure we can handle this one as well.”
We walked through the metal door, back into the first room. I had acclimated to the cooler temperatures of the storage room, and the heat of the memorial room hit me like a blast furnace. We continued toward the exit.
I stopped at the door. “What do you think about those bruises?” I had suspicions but was curious what James thought. Or might say.
He shrugged and shook his head. “I do not know, but I am sure the medical examiner will be able to find the cause.” He opened the door and gestured for me to walk out.
“Can I get a look at the autopsy report, assuming it happens?” I asked.
James rested his right hand on the handle of his service weapon and shifted his weight to one side, the leather gun belt pulling tight across his waist, groaning from the movement. “If it will make you happy, I will talk to Inspector Schleper.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t walk out. “What if this wasn’t a drowning?”
James scrunched his eyebrows at me. “R, it was a drowning. Do not make more of this than it is. I know you had feelings for this young lady, but scuba has risks. Especially solo diving. Sometimes people drown.”
“Let me know when the autopsy is done.” I didn’t need a lecture from James on diving and turned to leave.
James placed a hand on my shoulder. “R, we still need your official statement.”
I didn’t say anything, just giving him the once-over from the corner of my eye. He removed his hand, exhaled, and shifted his weight to the other leg, one hand still on the handle of his weapon.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll stop by the station on my way home.”
“Ask for Inspector Schleper.”
CHAPTER 31
JAMES DEFINITELY HAD a different take on this than me. Or maybe he was instructed to parrot the department’s standard line. I didn’t know but needed to find out.
The police station was a mere four blocks down the street, but I headed in the other direction. Something still rattled in my head about Tiffany having drowned. Unable to pinpoint what nagged me, I hoped to talk to someone more adept with the subject matter. Schleper wanted a statement immediately, but I didn’t care. Not right now, anyway.
Arabella had told me the cops sent Tiffany’s gear to Island Divers, one of the larger dive establishments on the island. If Schleper’s team suspected drowning, they’d need to investigate and document the proper operation of Tiffany’s scuba equipment. Island Divers had received top rankings in multiple customer surveys and five-star ratings by industry and certification agencies. The repair staff at Island Divers was the most qualified on the island.
Tiffany had dived with Erika’s nephew, Rulio, who worked as a di
ve master for Island Divers. I called him and, reluctantly, he agreed to meet and discuss what they discovered. Not only was Rulio a certified dive master, but he also worked on the island’s EMT squad. Trained in advanced underwater search and rescue, he had recovered the bodies of several drowning victims.
Island Divers was on the property of Captain John’s Cove, the most upscale resort on the island, considered by many as the “Ritz-Carlton” of Bonaire. Rulio had suggested we meet at one of the resort’s bars, The Green Iguana.
I pulled into the parking lot and heard the band, a local steel drum quartet, pinging out a familiar melody. Signs, carved from driftwood and painted in fluorescent colors, hung on poles along the sidewalks, helping guide would-be customers toward the bar. I ignored them. I’d been there before and knew where to go.
The maze of picturesque, palm-tree-lined sidewalks snaking through the property all culminated at The Green Iguana. It was an extensive, open-air joint offering a superb view of the Bonaire sunset. The place was spotless and smelled of coconut. Live music played every day, starting in the afternoon and continuing until the last tourist opted for bed and staggered back to their room. The bartenders were attractive youngsters, most of them native Bonairian, capable of concocting any of the foo-foo island drinks. They dressed in matching, brightly colored shirts and the women wore flower petals in their hair. Small bamboo umbrellas decorated the daily drink specials, most of which cost the same amount as an entire lunch at the Coral Reef Cafe. Of all the establishments on Bonaire, The Green Iguana was the epitome of a quintessential Caribbean Cantina.
Maybe that’s why I despised the place so much.
Rulio sat at the end of the bar, nursing what appeared to be an iced tea, and gave me a friendly pat on the back as I sat on the stool next to him. He wore knee-length, loose-fitting, red swim trunks and a blue polo with his first name embroidered on the upper left breast. Flip-flops and sunglasses rounded out the basic “uniform” for dive masters working at Island Divers. Erika had mentioned previously that he was twenty-six years old. I’d spoken with him several times in the office of the YellowRock, and he came across very experienced and mature for his age.
The bartender, Nancy, according to the tag on her shirt, politely asked what she could get me. I ordered a Bright, and she served it with a lime wedge sticking out the top of the bottle. I smiled and pushed the lime down the neck into the beer.
Rulio spun himself on the stool to face me, and as he did, I caught a glimpse of the artwork just below the hem of his shorts. Rulio had a tattoo of Bonaire on his right thigh, a representation of the island any cartographer would be proud to claim. It had garnered significant attention, almost to the point of folklore. Even the island newspaper did a story about it. Rulio showed off the tattoo regularly and seemed to design his entire wardrobe around it.
“Before we talk,” Rulio said, “you have to promise again that you will not tell anyone about this conversation.”
“As I said on the phone, I need to know. I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“I can’t afford to throw my friends under the bus.” I chuckled. “Recently, I was told I don’t have many friends.”
“I don’t understand.”
I waved it off. “It’s nothing. Please go on.”
“Okay, but understand, we have sent this report to the police. They called and talked to my manager about it this morning. What I am telling you, the police already know.”
“Understood. What do you have?”
He sipped his tea. “Not much. The gear was in excellent working condition and may have been brand new. The regulator still had replaceable factory parts in it. If it had ever been serviced, those would have been replaced.”
I took a swig of beer, remembering my thought of price tags on Tiffany’s gear. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“The outside of the regulator was a little scratched, but that may have been caused by how the police handled it. They threw everything in a plastic tote and sent it to us.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through some pictures. “I took pictures if you want to look.” He handed me his phone.
I studied each one as I sipped my beer. There were pictures of the tank and valve, the dive computer and its displays, and a few of her wetsuit, the one with the pink accents. He had numerous shots of the disassembled regulator, with its parts and some miscellaneous tools scattered on a workbench. For all I knew, it could’ve been random parts to a rocket ship or an electric toaster. To me, anything mechanical, be it cars or regulators, was far beyond my comprehension.
“What about the air?”
“We tested it before taking off the tank valve. It read as good air, no CO2, moisture, or contaminants.”
“Bad air would’ve been too easy.”
“One thing, though,” he said. “Water was slipping around the regulator diaphragm a little, causing a slight mist in the air she breathed. Maybe not a big issue, but in the right—or wrong—person it could cause a larynx spasm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a reflex. The larynx spasms as water enters the throat and closes. Then, any water in the lungs is blocked from getting out.”
“I assume air would be blocked from going in as well.”
“Yes, that is the real problem.”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“It is called dry drowning. If I understand correctly, it is a hereditary or genetics thing. Does not happen to everyone.”
“Can this be seen on an autopsy?”
He shrugged.
I leaned back in the stool. “Not sure what I’m looking for, but you’re saying her gear was working well.”
“The larynx spasm would need to be identified by a doctor, but other than that, yes, the gear was good. I do not believe it to be the source of her drowning.”
“So, what would cause her to drown?”
“You realize that, in a classic case of drowning, or dive injury, there’s a triggering event, something that causes panic in the diver.”
“Something unexpected happens.”
“Exactly, like a flooded mask. The diver panics, and does something wrong, like heading for the surface.”
An image of Tiffany’s partially flooded mask and how calmly she had cleared it during our dive at Tori’s Reef came to mind. Then I pictured Lester’s bloody nose and his attempted jet toward the surface. The same type of event handled differently by two different divers. It would’ve taken a massive triggering event to panic Tiffany to the point of drowning.
I didn’t buy it.
Neither of us spoke for a bit. The steel band played on, and a few tourists splashed in the nearby pool. It bewildered me why people came to a tropical island, with the Caribbean Sea at their doorstep, and spent time in a chlorine-filled pool.
“I don’t understand how this happened,” Rulio said. “When I took her diving, she seemed confident, especially for a vacation diver. Very comfortable in the water.”
Rulio would know. Being a working dive master, he saw all levels of experience and diver capabilities. “Yes, she was. I thought so, too.”
“Where was her dive buddy? What’s their story?”
I hesitated but decided he should know. It might help with his analysis and how he answered further questions. “She was solo diving.”
“What? How was that allowed?” he asked. “She was good, but I could tell she was not experienced enough for solo diving.”
“No one knew about it.” This would haunt me forever. “She went off on her own.”
“That is sad. So preventable.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Can I ask who found her?”
“I did.”
“How deep?”
I paused a moment. “What do you mean?”
“What depth did you find her at?”
“I found her on the shore.”
“What?”
“Yeah, lying
on her side along the coral rubble, north of the Karpata entry point.”
He stared back, ran his tongue across the inside of his cheek.
I leaned closer to him. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m trying to understand. You found her soon after she drowned, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Then how did she end up on shore?”
The gears in my head were clicking. Something was forming, but I didn’t yet know what.
Rulio continued. “I’m sorry. You see, drowning victims always sink. The water fills their lungs, and they sink to the bottom—”
“Yes, now I remember,” I said. The gears quit clicking and had stopped on the body. That was it. Drowning victims don’t float, at least not initially.
“They come to the surface after the gases from the decomposition process bloats their cells,” he said.
“Right and that takes … how long?”
He shrugged. “Usually from twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Depends on several things.”
I took a swig of beer and sat for a moment. “She could’ve drowned near shore.”
He shook his head and half smiled. “It has been my experience that not many people drown when the water is shallow enough to stand up.” His smile disappeared. “Besides, the waves would have to be very strong to push her up on the rubble and keep her there. I don’t believe they were that day.”
“You said the regulator was scratched. That could’ve happened from dragging it along the coral and rocks.”
“Maybe, but we think the police accidentally did that.”
I took Rulio’s phone and scrolled through the pictures, quickly finding the one I wanted.
“There.” I pointed at the photo showing the side of Tiffany’s wetsuit. I enlarged the photo and centered it on her right thigh. The pink accent running along the leg portion was scuffed and possibly torn. It was difficult to tell. “Does that look like a scuff and tear to you?”
Rulio studied the picture, enlarging and shrinking it several times. “Yes, maybe so.”
Diver's Paradise Page 16
