“Thank you.”
Chief Perelman had also gowned up and was watching as well. She was glad of it. She liked working with the chief and hoped he might be of use in keeping back the plague of other investigators, not to mention press.
She continued her gross examination, going down the list of requisite observations. When that was completed, it was time to remove the shoe, dissect the foot, and take samples for the toxicology and histology labs.
“Another question?” came the honeyed voice.
“What?”
“Is there a way to tell if the flesh has previously been frozen?”
Crossley was startled by the question. That test would never have occurred to her, but on reflection, she thought it could and probably should be done.
“Yes, it’s possible to test for that, and I’ll add it to the histology lab request.” She turned to Paul. “Shears.”
Paul handed her a pair of shears, and she began cutting off the shoe.
“I beg your pardon,” the voice intruded again, “but may I have the footwear as evidence when you are finished?”
“No.” She continued cutting. The flesh strained from below the ankle like an overinflated balloon.
Snip, snip. Gray and pink flesh bulged alarmingly. The skin seemed to be moving, as if alive.
Snip, snip—
And then, like the bursting of something rotten, a creature came whipping out. It was a hagfish, the most hellish of nightmares. Because of the sudden release in pressure, a spray of hagfish slime splattered across her chest and struck Paul full in the face and beard. With a piercing yell the technician jumped backward, pawing at his face, while the hagfish landed on the floor, wriggling and spewing more mucus from its slime glands as it slithered into the center of the room.
“Oh God, no—!” she cried as Paul, blinded, slammed into the long gurney on which the feet had been arranged, knocking it to the floor with a massive crash of stainless steel. The feet tumbled through the air and hit the ground, bouncing every which way, dislodging more hagfish, crabs, and eels, which scuttled and writhed, snapped and slithered across the tiled floor along with a rush of seawater, chewed-up flesh, and a stench revolting beyond belief. There was a huge uproar as people surged back, trying to get away from that slimy tide, slipping and falling everywhere.
Crossley looked on in dismay as the brisk and professional operation she had organized collapsed into the slapstick chaos of a Three Stooges two-reeler.
She turned to see Agent Pendergast standing well back from the imbroglio, surveying the scene with an amused expression. He turned and observed her scrubs, dripping with hagfish slime. “In all things of nature,” he drawled, “there is something of the marvelous.”
“You call this marvelous?” Crossley asked.
Chief Perelman suppressed a laugh. “Aristotle would be amused.”
“Well,” said Crossley, mightily annoyed, “I’ve got a god-awful mess to clean up in here. Since the dissection is effectively over, would you two please clear out of my lab?”
As they turned to go, she said: “And, Agent Pendergast? You may have the damned shoe.”
7
TO CHIEF PERELMAN’S infinite relief, the task force was set up inside the capacious Fort Myers Police Department on Widman Way instead of his own cramped offices behind the Sanibel public library. He pulled his Explorer into a space. He and his two lieutenants, Towne and Morris, got out. Perelman liked to drive himself as much as possible, abhorring a dedicated driver, even insisting on chauffeuring his subordinates around when he could.
The first meeting of the task force had been scheduled for eleven, but he arrived thirty minutes early, partly in case of traffic, but mostly because he wanted to get a feeling for the task force commander, Baugh, and how this whole thing would work. He’d never been part of a task force before, and his impression of Baugh hadn’t been favorable, but Perelman believed in giving everyone a second chance. After that, they were irredeemable in his book.
“Honor, Ethics, Accountability, Respect, Teamwork,” said Towne, staring up at the façade of the building, where those words had been inscribed in giant letters. “I hope to God that’s more than just hot air.”
“We’re going in assuming the best,” said Perelman.
He entered with his lieutenants and was directed by a dour secretary to the task force staging area, a large conference room in the back of the building, with an adjacent office of open-plan cubicles, swarming with technicians and workers setting up desks, computers, big screens, and whiteboards. It looked, at first glance, like a reasonably efficient and organized operation. Hope sprang up in Perelman’s breast: more evidence this was a good start. In the hall outside, a coffee, tea, and ice water station had been set up.
Perelman made a beeline for it. He poured himself a cup, then dumped in three half-and-halfs and the same number of sugar packets. He sipped the coffee. Decent. Quite decent. Towne and Morris helped themselves as well, and they carried their steaming cups into the conference room, claiming seats in the front. Pretty soon others began to arrive—a captain and two lieutenants from Fort Myers PD, who greeted Perelman, along with a small cluster of uniformed cops. Caspar, the Fort Myers chief, wasn’t with them. That was typical of Caspar; even though he had nominal charge of the police aspect of the investigation, he was counting the months to retirement, currently laid up with a bad case of gout, and would be happy to let his most senior staff—and the Sanibel police force—get their hands dirty. If the investigation was ultimately successful, he’d inevitably get involved in its final stages, limping in to claim more than his share of credit.
Next in the informal parade was Kyra Markson, mayor of Sanibel, wearing her trademark tennis whites despite—or more likely because of—the tragic events. Her grim expression eased a little when she caught sight of him. Perelman nodded back. In earlier years, Markson had been a top executive in a public relations firm, and this—along with her family’s history at Sanibel, dating back to the days of the ferry—had been an unexpected but ideal qualification for mayor. She had evidently seen unusual qualifications in him as well, because she’d been instrumental in his becoming chief. They functioned well together by respecting each other’s territory: she kept the people happy, while he kept them safe. He knew Markson, at least, could be relied on to stay out of his way on this unless he needed her administrative firepower.
A moment later, Chief M.E. Crossley arrived with two assistants. Her face was rather drawn, and Perelman wondered what else might have happened besides the hagfish incident after he left her lab the evening before.
He looked around, curious where that fellow Pendergast was but not seeing him.
And then, arriving in tight formation, came the Coast Guard contingent, led by Commander Baugh in service dress blue, followed by other personnel in dress blues or operational uniforms. It was an impressive-looking crowd. Baugh went up to the front while the rest seated themselves. A tech wired him with a lavalier. The room fell silent as Baugh walked to the podium and withdrew some notes from his jacket. Exactly at the stroke of eleven, Agent Pendergast slipped in and, instead of taking a seat, stood leaning against the back wall of the room, arms crossed. He was wearing another white suit, this one apparently silk rather than linen. It seemed to have the faintest shade of coral to it, but in the lighting Perelman couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was that he’d never known an FBI agent to dress in such a way.