THAT NIGHT WE OPTED FOR AN EVENING AT HOME. AT LEAST Ryan and I did. Lily and Katy added little but tension to the decision-making process.
Ryan purchased New York strips and tuna fillets, which he grilled to perfection. Amazingly, all dietary obstacles vanished. Both daughters downed bounty of land and sea, along with fingerling potatoes and spinach salad.
To describe the conversation as stiff would be like calling Ahmadinejad’s reelection in Iran a tad contentious. Lily’s favorite group was Cake. Katy found their music sophomoric. Katy loved classic blues, Etta James, Billie Holiday, T-Bone Walker. Lily said that crap put her to sleep. Lily wore Sung by Alfred Sung. Katy found the perfume overly sweet. Katy favored L’eau d’Issey by Issey Miyake. It made Lily sneeze. iPhone. BlackBerry. PC. Mac.
You get the picture.
Ryan and I insisted on courtesy. But one thing was apparent. Not only did our offspring have differing tastes and opinions, they were becoming masters at refining their expressions of contempt for each other.
After dinner I served fresh pineapple wedges. Ryan proposed another outing for the following afternoon. The Punchbowl or, perhaps inspired by my dessert, the Dole Plantation.
Katy said she preferred a day at Waikiki Beach. Lily wanted to go to Ala Moana. Katy said it was stupid to cross the whole frickin’ Pacific just to go shopping. Lily said it was dumb to lie around getting sand up your butt. At that point open battle erupted.
Fortunately, I’d paid the extra insurance and listed Katy as a driver on my rental Cobalt. After much discussion, a compromise was reached. Katy would drop Lily at the mall, spend the afternoon at Waikiki, then collect Lily at a mutually agreed time and location.
When the dishes were cleared, the combatants retreated to their rooms. Ryan and I went for a walk on the beach. I updated him on my two cases at the CIL, and on the one I was doing for the Honolulu ME.
“Hadley Perry?” he asked.
“You know her?”
“I do.”
That surprised me. I didn’t pursue it.
“Perry’s got a shark expert lined up for tomorrow morning,” I said.
“That should be different.”
“From what?”
“Bones. Bugs.”
“Quantum physics.”
“That, too.” Ryan paused. “Heard from Sheriff Beasley today.”
“And?”
“Sometimes you impress me.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Some times more than others.”
“What did Beasley say?”
“You slipped in under the wire.”
I waited for Ryan to elaborate. He didn’t.
“Do you get perverse pleasure from messing with my mind?” I asked.
“I definitely get pleasure from messing with your—”
“Beasley?”
“Southeastern Regional Medical Center. Normally patient slides are kept five years.”
“The hospital had something?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Oui, madame. From Harriet Lowery’s last admission. The material is winging its way to AFDIL as we speak.” The Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory. “Or maybe it’s already there. And I think a sample may have also gone to our DNA boys in Montreal.”
“Hot damn.”
“Hot damn.”
The sand was cool underfoot. Waves pounded the shore. It felt glorious to be outside. To taste salt on my lips and feel wind in my hair.
To be with Ryan?
Yeah. OK. To be with Ryan.
He didn’t reach for my hand. I didn’t take his. Still. We both felt it. An enormous elephant plodding beside us up the beach.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to say.”
Lost in pachyderm reflection, I missed Ryan’s meaning.
“What who has to say?”
“The shark guy.”
“Why?”
“Who knows what may one day prove professionally useful?”
“You work in Quebec.”
“Sharks are devilishly sly creatures.”
Was Ryan’s interest really in sharks? Or in the quirky but fetching Dr. Hadley Perry?
Whatever.
“Sure,” I said. “Come along.”
Dorcas Gearhart was in the lobby when we arrived at the ME’s office. Ryan had erred. The shark guy turned out to be of my gender.
Gearhart had frizzy gray hair swept from her face by pink plastic barrettes, and wire-rimmed specs resting low on her nose. I guessed her height at five feet, her age at somewhere just south of sixty.
We exchanged alohas, names, shook hands. I wondered what comments Katy and Lily would have made on the good doctor’s muumuu, sneakers, and cardigan sweater. I wondered what comments Katy and Lily had exchanged on their drive into the city.
While waiting for Perry, Ryan asked Gearhart how she’d gotten into the fish business.
Based on the woman’s looks, I’d expected grandmotherly speech and deportment. Not even close.
“Fucking bad luck.” Gearhart’s laugh came from deep within her substantial girth. “Or good. Who knows? I applied for med school, got bonged. A prof I was sleeping with recommended the marine bio grad program. Seemed a better option than marrying and popping out kids.”
“Why sharks?” Ryan didn’t miss a beat.
“Some yank-off beat me out for the dolphin fellowship.”
I was about to ask a question when Perry appeared. Today the hair spikes were emerald, the lids chartreuse.
More greetings, intros. I watched Ryan’s face. Discreetly. Perry’s. Neither gave a hint of past history.
Perry said she’d had the remains pulled from the cooler.
We trooped single file to the same autopsy room I’d visited on Tuesday.
A black plastic bag lay on a stainless steel cart. A small one.
Perry, Gearhart, and I gloved. Ryan watched.
Perry opened the bag, slid a glob of bone and tissue onto the cart.
The smell of salt and decaying flesh filled the room.
I lifted and inspected the soggy mass.
One glance told me I was holding a portion of human calf. I could see a fragment of fibula, the slender outer bone of the lower leg. The tibia, or shinbone, was in better shape. Its ankle end was recognizable within a mass of tangled tendons and rotting muscle.
Both bones were covered with shallow cuts, deep gouges, and long grooves. Both terminated in jagged spikes.
I looked up. To six expectant eyes.
“It’s part of a human lower leg. Decomp is consistent with the remains we examined on Tuesday.”
“So’s the shark damage, right?” Perry.
Stepping to the cart, Gearhart nudged me not so gently aside. I moved back.
“Oh, yeah. This was shark.”
“Can you tell what kind?” Perry asked.
“Got a magnifier?”
Perry produced a hand lens.
We all clustered around Gearhart. Her short stature worked in our favor.
“Look here, inside this groove.” Gearhart positioned the glass. “See how fine and regularly spaced the striations are? That means the teeth were ridged, like a serrated knife. I’d say we’re talking Galeocerdo cuvier or Carcharodon carcharias.”
The collective lack of response was question enough.
“Tiger or white,” Gearhart said.
I couldn’t help it. A few beats of the Jaws theme thrummed in my head.
“White sharks are pretty rare in Hawaiian waters, so I’d put my money on tiger. Based on distance between the striations, I’d say this baby’s probably twelve to fourteen feet long.”
“Jesus.” Ryan.
“Hell, that’s nothing. I once met a twenty-two footer, up close and personal. That mother had to weigh nine hundred kilos.”
Quick math. Nineteen hundred pounds. I hoped Gearhart was exaggerating.
“Do tiger sharks really deserve the nasty Hollywood image?” Ryan asked.
“Ooooh,
yeah. Tigers are second only to whites in the number of recorded attacks on humans. And they’re not what you’d call discriminating diners. These buggers’ll eat anything, people, birds, sea turtles, plumbing parts. Generally tigers are sluggish, but tweak the old taste buds, they can really move. You see one, it’s best to haul ass.”
“Where might I see one?” I asked.
“They’re mostly active at night.”
Yep. The opening scene from Jaws.
“—reason tigers encounter humans so often is that they like to enter shallow reefs, lagoons, harbors, places like that. To feed. Mostly after dusk.”
Perry interrupted the nature lesson.
“Can you tell if the vic was alive when the shark bellied up?”
Gearhart played her lens over the remains.
“The random nature of the tooth marks suggests the leg was fleshed at the time of feeding. The tiger’s pattern is to bite down then shake, allowing the serrated teeth to rip through the flesh. The jaw muscles are astounding. Strong enough to slice right through bone, or the shell of a tortoise.”
I was really wishing Katy had gone to the mall with Lily.
“So you can’t determine if the shark killed the kid or just scavenged on his body?” Perry pressed.
“Nope.”
As Perry and Gearhart spoke I studied the leg.
“Can you tell if the kid was killed at Halona Cove, or elsewhere, then regurgitated there?”
“Nope.”
I rotated the sad little hunk of flesh.
“Look, Doc.” Perry’s voice had an edge. “I have to consider whether this presents an issue of public safety. Do I need to close that beach?”
“In my opinion, no. Not based on a single isolated incident.”
Using one finger, I retracted the flesh overlying the distal tibia.
My heart kicked to a tempo that matched the refrain in my head.
“Meaning?” Perry asked.
“You get more than one death, then maybe you’ve got a rogue.”
“A rogue?”
“An opportunist. A shark who’s developed a taste for people.”
I looked up and met Ryan’s eyes. His brows dipped on seeing my expression.
“Bad news,” I said.
“THIS IS NOT THE SAME KID.”
“What do you mean?” Perry strode to the cart.
“Look.” I pointed to a triangular projection on the lower end of the tibia. “That’s the medial malleolus, the bony lump you feel on the inside of your ankle. The malleolus articulates with the talus in the foot, and provides joint stability.”
“So?”
I oriented the limb. “That’s correct anatomical position.”
Perry studied the short segment of calf. Then, “Sonofabitch.”
“What?” Ryan and Gearhart asked as one.
“This is from a left leg,” I said. “Parts of a left leg were also recovered on Tuesday, including a portion of medial malleolus.”
“A freakin’ duplication.” Perry shook her head in disbelief.
Gearhart got it. “A human being does not have two left feet. This has to be from a different person.”
I waited for Ryan to make a bad dancer joke. Mercifully, he didn’t.
“Two shark vics from the same bay.” Perry’s voice sounded higher than normal.
“That could change the picture.”
“You think?” Perry rounded on Gearhart. “So. Do I close that beach?”
“That’s your call, Doc.”
“Will this fucking fish strike again?”
Gearhart raised both brows and palms.
“Come on. Best guess.”
Gearhart shifted a hip. Bit her lip. Sighed. “If the shark is feeding, not just scavenging, the bastard bloody well might.”
Perry arm-wrapped her waist. Found the maneuver unsatisfactory. Dropped both hands. Turned to me.
“What can you tell me about this second vic?” Chin-cocking the cart.
“This individual is smaller than the first. Beyond that, zilch. There’s not enough to work with.”
Crossing to a wall phone, Perry punched buttons.
Seconds passed.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt the poker game.” Sharp.
I heard the buzz of a muffled response. Perry cut it off.
“Get me the Halona Cove bones. ASAP.”
The handset hit the cradle with a loud crack.
Less than one minute later a bald young man rolled a cart through the door.
“Anything else, Dr. Perry?” Baldy avoided eye contact with his boss.
“Stay in touch.”
Baldy bolted.
On the cart lay the following: proximal and distal portions of a left femur; a fragment of proximal left fibula; two fragments of left tibia, one proximal, the other distal, including the mangled malleolus; a portion of left pelvis extending from the pubic bone out into the blade; the talus, navicular, and third and second cuneiforms from a left foot.
Two large brown envelopes occupied the cart’s lower shelf.
“Double-check,” Perry ordered. “Be sure they’re both lefts.”
I did.
They were.
Despite the raucous hair and makeup, the ME’s face looked pallid.
I could imagine the battle playing out in Perry’s mind. The recession had slammed the Hawaiian economy. Air travel was down, and tourism was in the toilet. Close a beach due to shark attack, hotel bookings would vanish like early morning mist. Go the other way, lose a swimmer, mainlanders would opt for the Shenandoah or Disney World. The consequences would be worse than closing a beach.
Guess right, lose dollars. Guess wrong, lose lives as well as dollars.
And Perry had to act quickly.
My hunch? Honolulu’s flamboyant ME would once again piss people off.
I was rotating the new hunk of leg when I noticed an irregularity centered in the shaft approximately five centimeters above the troublesome malleolus. By scraping back tissue, I was able to see that the defect was a hole with a raised outer rim, too perfectly round to be natural.
“This could be helpful,” I said.
Perry snatched the magnifier and held it where I indicated.
“I’ll be damned. You thinking surgical pin?”
I nodded.
“The placement makes sense. Too bad we don’t have the calcaneous.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Someone going to educate us nonmedical mopes?” Ryan asked.
I kept my finger in place while Perry handed him the lens.
“That tiny hole?” he asked.
“That tiny hole.”
Ryan passed the lens to Gearhart.
“Everyone familiar with traction?” I asked.
Gearhart nodded.
Ryan shrugged. Not really.
“In orthopedics, traction is used for the treatment of fractured bones and for the correction of orthopedic abnormalities,” I explained for Ryan’s benefit. “Traction aligns the broken ends by pulling a limb into a straight position. It also lessens pressure on the bone ends by relaxing the muscles.”
Ryan snapped his fingers. “The old leg-in-the-air trick. Remember the scene in Catch-22? The guy’s in traction, covered with plaster, never moves, never speaks—”
I shot a narrow-eyed warning.
Ryan’s face went all innocent. What?
“My nephew got put in traction when he busted his leg.” Gearhart was again peering through the lens. “They drilled a pin right into his femur.”
“Once the hardware is inserted, pulleys and weights are attached to wires to provide the proper pull. Skeletal traction uses anywhere from twenty-five to forty pounds.”
“How long does the pin remain in place?” Ryan now sounded overly proper.
“Weeks, maybe months. This one was removed years ago.”
Gearhart jabbed at her glasses, which had slipped low on her nose. “What’s your take, Doc?”
“I’d guess an u
nstable tibial shaft fracture. The distal tibia would have been pinned to the calcaneous.”
“Which we don’t have.” Perry.
“Fractured how?” Gearhart asked.
“Skiing? Cycling? Car crash? Without more of the leg it’s impossible to say.”
“Space shuttle wipeout.” Perry began pacing.
“Look,” I said. “We still have potentially valuable information. The vic underwent treatment, was probably admitted as an in-patient somewhere. The cops or one of your investigators can check hospital records for distal tibia surgical implants.”
Perry stopped. “Time frame?”
“What we’re seeing is merely a scar, the result of bony remodeling at the pin site. The injury wasn’t recent. I’d start at least five years back, work farther into the past from there. A more effective shortcut, if you get lucky, would be to run the names from your MP list through local hospitals for matches, or to contact family members for histories of leg fractures.”
Perry gave a tight nod.
“You get any new leads on the first vic?” I asked.
“No, but we got some new MPs. Last January a college kid washed overboard from one of those Tall Ship things. We’re checking that out. A soap salesman disappeared from a Waikiki Beach hotel last summer. Left all his belongings in the room. Could be a suicide, a drowning, a cut-and-run.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I shook my head. “Not likely.”
Perry waggled frustrated hands. “It’s hard to keep the cops interested with thousands of tourists flowing through the islands each year. The medical angle might goose their effort. Or I could just pray for a benevolent god to save us the trouble with a DNA hit.”
Collecting a scalpel from the counter, Perry oriented the leg so that the flesh covering the outer ankle was positioned faceup. We all watched her blade kiss muscle.
Stop abruptly.
Laying the implement aside, Perry shot out a hand.
“Gimme the lens.”
Gearhart offered the magnifier. Perry grabbed it.
A few seconds of observation, then Perry strode to the sink and wet a sponge. Returning to the cart, she gently swabbed the tissue, wiping off any remaining epidermis.
“We may have us a tat.”
Gearhart and I exchanged glances.
A tattoo, I mouthed.
Gearhart’s mouth formed an O.
A bit more cleaning, then Perry gestured us forward with a back-flung arm.