Fatalis (14 page)

He loved the run, too. Rain or sun, the air was always invigorating and it gave him the lung-cleaning he needed to work indoors from six to three. After thirty years be could literally
smell
the difference between oil- and water-based ink on third-class newsprint, knew when magazines arrived with perfume and cologne sewn into the bindings, and had been compelled by employee sensitivity training to be mute about mail carriers and clerks who needed showers or deodorant. He'd suffocate without this daily purging.

The air had a misty chill but at least it wasn't raining. There were a few breaks in the dark, blotchy clouds where crisp stars could be seen against the blacker sky. Occasionally a car zipped by on 101 and then, save for the breakers, it was quiet again.

Fischer knew the beach and he knew the air. And he knew when something was different. This morning, when he neared the cove that marked the half-mile point, he knew that things weren't right. There was a strong, foul smell in the wind. It grew stronger as he ran so he started breathing only through his mouth. He heard dozens of birds from somewhere in the cove just ahead. Since the occasional early-rising gull usually picked its meal from the sea, Fischer's initial thought was that a whale had beached here. The cove was lower than the highway and the tides reached their peak around nine P.M., so it was possible that motorists might not have seen whatever was here. Fischer continued toward the line of rocks that formed a small, natural breakwater on the near side of the cove.

The white beam of Fischer's headlight bounced as he ran. He saw the sea slam against the rocks on the inside and crest in low, white plumes. Gulls sitting on the breakwater hopped up with each new wave. Fischer counted at least twenty birds on the outskirts of the cove. There were more birds beyond; he could see them as he neared. He slowed. The rocks were coated with droppings, which meant the birds had been here a while.

When he was about fifteen feet from the breakwater, Fischer turned toward the sea. The rocks were too high to see over, especially piled high with gulls, so he would have to go around them. He removed his shoes and socks. The tide was out and he wouldn't have to go in very deep to get around the rocks, maybe waist-high. He walked toward the water, alternately looking toward the cove and watching out for sharp-edged seashells.

The rocks were lower the closer to the sea Fischer came. He could see now that the birds were piled on something. They were clustered together so thickly that they looked like a single wriggling mass. There had to be a whale under all that. He couldn't think of anything else that would attract so many birds. The birds were quiet and ignored the glow of the headlight.

Carl Fischer waded into the surf; the water was stinging cold and the sand felt like slush. He continued to look to the left as he made his way toward the cove. When he finally rounded the breakwater, he stopped. What was in the cove was not a whale.

There was a truck beneath the birds. It was lying on its side, the cab facing the sea; the top and one side of the vehicle were both caved in. The gulls were not only on top of the truck but inside as well, feeding on whatever was there. They were also spread out on the beach, picking at bones and bits of flesh from what looked like fish.

Fischer didn't want to get much closer and risk making the birds angry. But he felt he should have a look at the cab, see if someone was alive in there. The front of the truck was facing away from him, so he went back to the water's edge and walked to the south. Birds were clustered in the cab as well, which wasn't a good sign. Fischer stopped slightly past the truck. The top of the cab and part of the windshield were facing him. The exterior itself was free of birds but the interior was packed. Stepping back into the water, Fischer picked up a rock and threw it at the cab. The stone hit the driver's-side door with a loud clang and sent birds flying out the broken window. They settled lightly on the sand, the started walking back again. But in that brief moment, Fischer got to see what the birds had been poking through.

It wasn't a fish.

There was no rain or wind. The sun was well over the hills by the time the highway patrol had finished constructing the tent over the fish truck. The blue, four-sided valance-a so-called "banquet" tent-was thirty-by-thirty feet long and covered on all sides. Gunfire had been used to frighten and scatter the birds before the sides of the tent were laced up. Volunteers were piling sandbags on the ocean-side of the truck. It was 8:00 A.M., just past low tide, and the sea was still twenty yards out. The waves wouldn't reach here until after 2:00 P.M., but Chief Traffic Investigator Idestrom wanted to protect the site and any potential evidence for as long as possible. Three highway patrol investigators were outside the tent taking measurements and photographs, trying to figure out how fast the truck was going when it went off the road. Four more officers were examining the outside of the truck for signs of vehicular failure such as a blown tire, broken axle, or worn brake.

Sheriff Gearhart was standing inside the tent watching, which was all he could do for now. The accident had occurred in Montecito. Though the town was part of Santa Barbara County, Montecito had a contract with the highway patrol to investigate vehicular accidents. Until the highway patrol investigation was finished, Gearhart couldn't take charge of the site or the investigation. However, Idestrom had allowed four criminalistics technicians from Gearhart's office to work on the cab of the truck. The CTI was territorial, but he wasn't blind.

The cab of the truck was bright with blood. The blood was still damp where it was darkest and looked as though it had been poured on the driver's-side seat cushion and the back of the seat, splashed on the passenger's seat, on the floor and under the mats, and on the dashboard, and dribbled on the large and small slivers of glass that were strewn about the cabin. But there was no body. Not in the cab, not on the beach, not in the surf, and not on the road. Sheriff Gearhart knew the gulls hadn't done that, though he had no idea what did.

While he waited, he talked by radio with his field commander in the Santa Ynez Mountains. Though the search for the two missing engineers had continued through the night, expanding into the surrounding mountains and including twenty local volunteers, nothing had been found. Dr. Thorpe had spent until midnight in the fissure along with two deputies and a pair of bloodhounds who had been given the scent of both backpacks. They'd gone for over a quarter mile in both directions and found nothing. Thorpe was fascinated by the tunnels but the dogs were so unimpressed that one of them actually lay down and wanted to go to sleep toward the end of the trek.

Gearhart had finally gone home at 3:00 A.M., napped until 6:00, and was about to return to the site when he'd gotten the call from his communications officer about what Carl Fischer had found. Gearhart came right over, arriving just minutes after Idestrom. He was there when the driver's boss, Caroline Bennett, arrived to ID the truck. At least, that was the official reason she'd been called to the site. The name was painted on the side; the highway patrol knew who owned the truck. Having the owner come there gave the investigating officers a chance to talk to her while she was emotionally open and her lawyer wasn't present. According to Idestrom, the talk wasn't particularly useful. The CTI turned that part of the investigation over to the sheriff's office.

Andrea Danza arrived a few minutes past eight She made her way through a small crowd of reporters, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and entered the tent. Hannah Hughes shouted after her that they should be allowed to take pictures inside; Danza said she'd ask the sheriff, which was the first thing she did.

"I think that's a bad idea," Gearhart told her.

"Why? she asked."

Gearhart took her closer to the truck. The sheriff knew that Danza was a former emergency medical technician who had been to the sites of car accidents, gas tank explosions, and fires. The sight of blood was not new to her. But after seeing the site close-up she agreed with the sheriff. In addition to the shattered truck, there was a thick coat of bird droppings, blood, dead fish, and a few gulls that had been crushed or pecked to death. The big waterfront fire that nearly destroyed Stearns Wharf in 1998 had spawned a gruesome cottage industry of postcards, mugs, and placemats. She told Gearhart that this was not the image she wanted her administration to be remembered for.

They stood looking at the cab.

"My God, Malcolm," she said. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"Not in this country," Gearhart replied. "Even in 'Nam, I never saw this much blood without a body somewhere."

"There wasn't one?" Danza asked.

Gearhart shook his head.

"I assumed it was taken away-"

"Not by us," Gearhart said. "And the man who found this swears he saw nothing in the cab except gulls poking through the blood. If there was flesh here, they got it."

Danza looked unwell. "What can you-I mean, where do you-"

"Start to look?" Gearheart asked. "I'd probably have some of the birds shot and dissected. But then I'd have Joseph Tumamait and his shorehuggers up my butt and probably no real evidence to show for it."

"Then where did the body go?" Danza turned her face toward the sea. She breathed slowly, deeply. "Could the driver have still been alive after this? Could he have walked away, maybe fallen into the water and been washed out to sea?"

"I've got two boats out there looking," Gearhart said. "But I'm not optimistic. According to my forensics chief, most of the driver's blood is in that cab. I don't think he could have gone anywhere without it."

"What about a big explosion?" she asked. "The back of the truck looks like it was hit."

"The top of the truck was imploded," Gearhart said, "and the back of the cab itself is intact. That isn't what got the driver."

"What if the truck hit the breakwater when it left the road?" Danza said. "The driver could have been thrown."

"There are no signs of scraping on top of the truck or on the rocks," Gearhart said. "That was the first thing we checked. And he wasn't thrown. The seatbelt is still buckled."

"Still buckled?"

"Yes. He was pulled out. Or torn out."

"Unbelievable."

"Yes," Gearhart said. "But what's most unbelievable is that we haven't even got a shoe or a piece of bone or any trace of the driver anywhere. Not even footprints, though the tide was probably a lot closer to the truck when this happened. The killer could have walked in the surf or even on the cab itself. The truck is also near enough to the road so that someone might have parked on the shoulder, hopped onto the truck, and stayed off the sand altogether."

"And then just drove away with the body," Danza said. "Or what about
flew
away in a helicopter?"

"That would have shown up on the airport radar," Gearhart said. "One of my deputies checked. There was nothing in the log."

"Did you get anything else from the man who found the wreck?"

"Highway patrol talked to him for over an hour. Unless he's a hell of an actor, he didn't make off with the body."

"What about the owner of the seafood company?" Danza asked.

"She said that everyone loved the driver," Gearhart said. "But according to Caltrans, Roche and Greene didn't have enemies either-"

"Hold on," Danza said. "Do you think these incidents are related?"

"It's possible," Gearhart said. "The emergency crew reported finding a lot of blood up at Painted Cave Road. Now we have this. Maybe some whacko's moving south, sniping at people from the foothills at relatively close range and then taking the bodies."

"Like a serial killer or cultist."

"Something like that," Gearhart said.

What he didn't tell Danza-he knew she had cooperated with Hannah Hughes in the past and didn't want this getting around-was that he wasn't ruling out Greene as the killer. The first patch of blood was found where Roche reportedly had been waiting for him, and there was no damage to Greene's backpack, only to Roche's. The men might have struggled and Roche could have had the backpack on while they fought. Since the search team started moving out from that site, Greene might be panicked or flipped-out and was doing the same. According to Chief Deputy Valentine, the senior engineer's psych profile indicated that he had been treated for severe depression and was taking medication to treat it. Gearhart didn't know what the hell could depress a guy with a secure, good-paying job and a couple of healthy kids. But he had never understood people who "broke" anyway.

"So how do we handle this?" Danza asked.

"With who?"

"The reporters waiting outside, for one."

"Assuming that Greene and Roche continue to be missing," Gearhart said, "we tell the press that both situations are still under investigation and we don't see any evidence that the disappearances are connected and that there is no evidence of criminal activity."

"That's probably best for now," Danza agreed. "Okay. That's what we
tell
them. Meanwhile, what do we do? We can't say there's no criminal activity and then put out a general advisory-"

"No, but we can take strong, reasonable precautions."

Gearhart said. "I've ordered Chief Deputy Valentine to increase our vehicular patrols in the hills from Goleta to Montecito. He's also stationing lookouts along San Marcos Pass and at high spots overlooking other roads, which is another reason we need to keep this quiet I don't want people spotting our guys up there with spyglasses and high-powered rifles and thinking they've found a killer. I'll be talking with Captain March at the highway patrol later this morning. We'll work out shifts to cover the highways and main roads throughout the county."

Danza nodded. "Do you want me to handle the-"

"Sheriff!"