Officer Jones (30 page)

I scanned through the reports. The folder was littered with pictures of Harris’ corpse that made my stomach queasy. It also contained sworn statements from the many witnesses. I searched until I found the statement given by Grady Benson and skimmed it.

“I notice you weren’t present at the crime scene?” I said, trying to buy time while I looked through the records.

“Mr. Warner, it’s late, so I’ll make this fast. It was the Fourth of July and there was only one of me. I usually traveled to an incident with the dive team, but it was impossible that night. The only thing out of the ordinary in this case was that one of the persons who died was a famous athlete. Besides that, it was a textbook carbon monoxide poisoning case. And if you read further into the reports, you’ll see that the coroner backed up the finding at the scene.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “A UNLV student died on a houseboat in the same manner last year and nobody shows up here to discuss it.”

“How can you be so sure no foul play was involved?”

“First of all, the way Mr. Harris and Ms. McCarron died—she was also a victim, but people seem to forget that—the bodies were in the semi-fetal position with legs loosely drawn up. Their arms were pulled close to the chest with hands limp and palms down. Do you know what that means?”

I felt like I was in eighth grade math class and forgot to do my homework. “Um … no.”

“It means it was a textbook accidental drowning. And when the toxicology tests came back, we found that Harris had a gas content in his body of fifty-nine percent, while Candi McCarron’s was fifty-two.”

“Is that high?”

“It’s a hundred percent fatal.”

“So he and Candi would have died regardless, even if they were on dry land?”

“The gas likely made them woozy, or pass out, which led to their drowning. The water was the final nail in their coffins.”

“But how did they know this at the scene? My guess is this thing is rare.”

Kelly shook her head. “I wish you were right, but over the last two decades there has been an epidemic of carbon monoxide poisonings on houseboats. Nine people have died here and six up at Lake Powell in the last seven years. That doesn’t include the many who had to be hospitalized.”

I never heard of anything like this. But I had a feeling that Grady Benson was well aware of it.

Kelly held up the photographs of Leonard Harris and Candi McCarron’s naked bodies. “Notice the blood around their mouths and dripping from their noses. And how their skin is splotched a cherry red color—it’s textbook carbon monoxide poisoning. Our divers knew the minute they found them.”

I picked up the photos and was drawn to the before-and-after pictures of Candi McCarron, whom I’d never seen before. The “before” showed stunning beauty, looking like a stereotypical California blonde. The one taken after her trip to the bottom of the lake was equally stunning, but not very beautiful. I made a mental note to research any connection she might have to a drunk driving fatality.

I found a copy of the rental agreement in the file folder, and as expected, Grady Benson’s signature was on it. His spiritual adviser had rented the boat for the party.

“Would it be possible for me to talk to the lead diver in this case? The one who was first on the scene,” I asked.

The vibrating sound of Kelly Dumas’ phone stole her attention. She looked at it and cringed.

“Looks like you’ll get your chance, Mr. Warner.”

Chapter 70

The situation centered on a houseboat in Copper Canyon, a secluded cove that was a favorite spot of houseboaters. A father and two young children took a ski boat out over two hours ago and hadn’t been seen since.

Either they had some sort of mechanical trouble and were floating around the lake, or this exercise would be about body recovery. There was no time to waste, and in what seemed like microseconds, I was standing in front of a dive locker in the marina, putting on a black wet suit.

Jerry Sidwell headed the dive team. A tall, fit man who looked like he lived in a gym, despite being in his late fifties. The pace was hurried, but I didn’t notice any panic. I helped with what I could, loading their dive tanks, buoyancy compensators, and vests. Once the entire crew was on board, the boat sprinted from the dock, hopping over the dark, choppy water.

I was surprised that Sidwell took time out of his duties to approach me. “Kelly told me that you had questions about the Leonard Harris drowning.”

“I do, but are you sure you don’t want to discuss it later?”

“I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years. I know every inch of this lake and what we’re up against. So I need something to take my mind off what we might find tonight. So what do you want to know?”

“Anything you remember might be helpful.”

“I recall that it was a worst-case scenario that night from our standpoint. We couldn’t use the helicopter because of the lightning. Plus, it was Fourth of July, so we were short on manpower.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“Nope. The minute I heard the call I knew it was the generators. They were already gone.”

“So you arrived at the scene with a pre-conceived notion of the outcome? Is it possible that you didn’t investigate all angles of the death because in your mind you already knew what happened?”

“No,” the self-assured Sidwell replied. He peered out into the black water, maybe seeing the ghosts of rescues past.

“Kelly was telling me about this carbon monoxide problem on these houseboats. Is that what you mean by generators?”

The body language of the divers turned tense—I realized they were nearing their target. Sidwell and I were the only ones still talking.

“There’s a place beneath the swimming deck on many of the old houseboats where swimmers often like to play. It’s also the place where many of these boats vent their exhaust. We call it the death zone.”

“So that’s where you think Leonard Harris and the girl were?”

Sidwell nodded grimly. “Witnesses said Harris came up for air and attempted to yell for help, but then he was sucked down like an anchor. The witnesses on the boat thought he was joking around. But it was no joke. It was very typical of these tragedies.

“The girl never made it out. Makes sense, since he was much bigger and stronger. He could absorb more fumes. That area with the fumes is usually a private area where couples like to go to be alone. My guess is that they were likely in the heat of passion and didn’t even know they were dying.”

“So if someone knew about this ‘death zone,’ they could theoretically lead a victim there if they wanted to kill them, and make it seem like an accident.”

“It’s possible, I guess.”

“So how come nobody has done anything about this problem?”

“I thought a high-profile death such as Leonard Harris would bring some attention to it. But nothing has changed. The owners complained about the cost to upgrade. And even when I offered to test the CM levels in houseboats at no charge, most declined because it was an inconvenience. Everything happens to somebody else.”

“I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember a man named Grady Benson? He was one of the people on the boat the night Harris drowned.”

The name grabbed his attention, which surprised me. I had thought it was a major long-shot. He looked directly at me for the first time in moments. “Yeah, I know him—he was friends with Harris. After the accident he wanted to become an advocate to make houseboats safer. We worked together in many cases.”

“You worked with Grady Benson?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure did, even went to Lake Cumberland with him to put on a safety clinic. The kid could really put emotion into a speech. Never a dry eye in the house when he talked about Leonard. There was no doubt there was a connection there.”

“What’s the deal with Lake Cumberland?”

“It’s in Kentucky—known as the houseboat capital of the world. They have a convention each year. Benson and I put on a safety demonstration.” He thought for a quick moment. “What’s your interest in Benson?”

“He killed my brother,” I didn’t mince words.

Sidwell flashed me a curious look, filled with many questions he didn’t have time to ask.

“Over there,” he suddenly shouted, his attention diverted. We sped toward a docked houseboat. A woman, presumably the mother, stood on the deck waving her hands frantically.

The dive team boarded the vessel like pirates, and obtained all the information they could out of the hysterical mother. Then like precision, we were off again. Sidwell was in full control as we jetted into the dark night, using radar and global-positioning satellite signals to plot the course. I sat alone, no longer thinking of Officer Jones, Noah, Leonard Harris, or even Gwen. The moment was compelling. I hoped for the best, but I’d seen too many bad endings to be overly optimistic.

A half-hour passed and radio calls were made requesting reinforcements. The mood was tense and the water was silent. The eerie quiet of death.

But just when the search appeared hopeless, Sidwell pointed at a silhouette on the water that would have surely been missed by the untrained eye. A floodlight flashed on the area and I could make out a small ski boat that containing a man, who like his wife, was waving frantically. Next to him were two young boys. They were trapped on a sandbar.

The knot in my stomach slowly untied. I saw relief plastered on Sidwell’s face. There would be one less nightmare for him.

I left the jubilant divers around midnight and checked into a local motel. I was still on an adrenaline rush that made sleep impossible. So I checked my email and found the files that Christina sent about the settlement in the death of Kyle Jones’ parents.

His parents died in a boating accident. The boating manufacture that was potentially liable for the accident, quietly settled out of court with the Jones’ only heir, Kyle Jones.

The cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning on a houseboat in Lake Cumberland, Kentucky.

Chapter 71

Ocracoke Island

October 5

The rain pelted down in sheets. If it was raining cats and dogs, then they were mountain lions and Saint Bernards. To Gwen, it appeared to be shooting horizontally, as she did her best to follow Grady Benson in her rented minivan.

She’d tracked Benson for the past few days. Her sources at the Rockfield PD told her that Officer Jones had been acting jumpy and agitated. He’d taken personal days for Wednesday through Friday, using the excuse of needing to secure his North Carolina home, facing the expectation that Hurricane Ava would hit the Outer Banks by the weekend. Benson booked a flight for Wednesday morning, but heavy rains in the Carolinas canceled all air traffic. So he scrambled to rent a car. Even though his response was logical, Gwen was suspicious of the urgency. She believed it had everything to do with Jeff Carter.

The rain began lightly when she hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time she passed by the nation’s capital it was a downpour of biblical proportions. And the constant struggle for visibility, while keeping a safe distance from Benson’s vehicle, gave her a splitting headache. He drove straight through, only stopping for gas and bathroom breaks at rest-stops outside of Scranton and Fredericksburg.

After twenty hours on the road, Gwen arrived at a deserted Cape Hatteras. Huge signs featuring skull and crossbones warned that Wednesday would be the final day of ferry transportation. The locals were evacuating in large numbers, but the atmosphere didn’t appear to be fraught with fear or panic. Hurricanes were not uncommon in these parts.

Gwen let Benson take the first ferry, choosing to wait the half-hour to catch the next one. Once arriving on the island, she made the journey to the north shore. The heavy wind created a sandstorm effect and the waves crashed ashore like they were angry. The noon skies were as black as midnight. She jumped with every crash of thunder.

She parked the minivan at a deserted home down the street, and entered the elements. A cold wind whipped and she felt like a hose was spraying precipitation into her face at point blank range. Trees swayed, to the point that they appeared on the verge of being ripped out of the ground.

She found a hiding spot behind a sand dune that provided a direct view of Benson’s house. His vehicle was parked in the driveway.

The only thing keeping her warm was thoughts of her night with JP. And then as if he were reading her thoughts, her phone rang.

“I miss you,” she shouted over the relentless whipping of wind.

“Not as much as I miss you,” he said back, always competitive. He seemed to be having equal trouble hearing her over the roar of voices.

“Where are you, JP … the airport?” Gwen asked, never taking her eyes off Benson’s house.

“Actually, I’m in a bar called Cransky’s.”

“Very nice. I’m squatting in a sand dune in the middle of a hurricane and you are out enjoying yourself!”

“Hurricane? Where are you, Gwen?”

“I followed Kyle, or Grady, or whatever his name is, to Ocracoke.”

“Gwen, this is no time to be a hero. You should hear some of the stuff I’ve learned about this guy. Please get out of there.”

Loving JP and letting JP get the last word were two separate issues. “You should have seen how desperate he was to get here. I know he has Carter trapped somewhere down here. I can’t leave now.”

“Are you crazy? Did you alert anyone that you’re even there?”

“I just told you. Now tell me what you learned on your trip, I know you’re dying to impress me.”

He let out a frustrated sigh. “According to police reports, Cransky’s is the last place that Phillip Tompkins was seen. I’ve talked to a couple of regulars who were here that day. Timothy Kent, one of the guys Tompkins hit with the car, was the one who had killed Benson’s parents. The records might be sealed, but the local gossip wasn’t. They remembered Tompkins leaving with a mystery man that nobody had seen in the bar, before or since. They couldn’t give a really good description after twenty-some years, other than he was rather nondescript, but one guy did remember that he wore a US Air Force shirt.”