Swamp Bones (3 page)

Our boat was a flat-bottomed aluminum six-seater with an elevated driver’s chair at the back. Behind the driver’s platform was a large propeller engine enclosed in a protective metal cage. The thing looked like an oversize desk fan.

“You have to use an airboat in the Everglades because a submerged propeller won’t work in shallow marshes,” Lundberg shouted, close to my ear.

I nodded, unwilling to bellow. Even with mufflers, the propeller was incredibly loud. The upside: no one could hear the protests coming from my belly.

“This is called the Shark River Slough.” Lundberg’s arm arced to take in the scenery. “It’s the primary source of water to Everglades National Park, and lies both inside and outside the park boundaries. You’ve probably heard it called the river of grass.”

Though I hadn’t, the description was apt. A sea of brown and green saw grass stretched as far as the eye could see, here and there carved by the occasional meandering waterway. The sky was an immaculate Carolina blue, dotted low above the horizon with fluffs of cumulus cloud.

Having no need to stick to the cuts, our boat whizzed unimpeded across the top of the vegetation. Despite the grim task that lay ahead, I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of flying.

“We’re headed to Hardwood Hammock.” Lundberg seemed compelled to continually
explain. “It’s just beyond the park to the north. Where the hunt is taking place.”

“The hunt?” That got my attention.

“The Python Challenge. It’s a contest run by state Fish and Wildlife. Prizes for the most killed, for the longest, that sort of thing.”

Yellen, to my right, overheard and shook his head. “Idea right outa the mind of a hormone-addled fourteen-year-old gamer.”

On that point, Lundberg appeared to agree with Yellen. “The hunt goes for thirty days and draws participants from all over the country—this year there are sixteen hundred. Two categories, professional hunters in one, and anyone that can pay twenty-five bucks and sit through a thirty-minute video in the other. In 2013, the amateurs and pros together caught sixty-eight snakes. Majority by the hunters.”

That surprised me. I thought the total would be in the hundreds. “How many snakes are out there?” I yelled.

“Twenty-five hundred Burmese pythons have been removed from south Florida in the last ten years. Our best guesstimate is a current population numbering in the thousands, maybe the tens of thousands. And breeding rapidly.”

Holy shit, I thought.

“The funny thing is these guys are endangered in their natural habitats of Southeast Asia, because of illegal poaching.”

“No shortage here.” Yellen’s clipped comment was almost blown away by the rushing air.

“Definitely not. The federal government is desperately scrambling to control the population explosion in south Florida. In 2012, the Burmese python was added to the species list covered by the Lacey Act.”

At my questioning look, Lundberg said, “It’s the federal act used by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to prevent and manage invasive species. It bans importation and interstate commerce of listed species, like the pythons.”

The boat slowed a bit. I took advantage to ask at almost normal volume, “How’d they multiply so fast?”

“Burmese are generalists, able to adapt to a variety of habitats,” Lundberg prattled on, unimpeded by the need to shout. “So they can be more invasive. Their offspring output is
prodigious, and, uncharacteristically for snakes, mothers stay with their nests and brood their eggs.”

I thought that was what I’d heard. Much of what Lundberg said was lost to the wind as the airboat picked up speed again.

“And the ladies are about as picky as one-legged whores,” Yellen added. “One decides a boy python is hot, bam, you’ve got a brood.”

“How big do Burmese pythons get?” Not sure I wanted to know.

“The Burmese is one of the largest snake species. In the wild, females can grow up to eighteen feet, males up to fourteen. In captivity some reach twenty.”

Regular meals, I assumed. Didn’t ask what unfortunate creatures that entailed.

“A south Florida water-quality maintenance crew just bagged their second eighteen-footer this year,” Yellen said. “Dragged out of a canal in the hammocks, north of Tamiami.”

“Hammocks?” I’d been wondering about the term since first hearing it.

“Hardwood hammocks.” Of course Lundberg demanded more precision. “Little islands in the swamp. The hammocks provide dry broadleaf habitat a few inches above the elevation of the water.”

“That’s where we’re headed,” Pierce threw in.

“How long’s the boat?” I cracked.

“Sixteen feet.” Either Lundberg was deadpan or he didn’t get the joke.

“You say pythons never attack humans?” Just making conversation. No reason I asked.

“One can never say never,” Lundberg backpedaled. “But most prefer to avoid trouble, will withdraw if allowed.”

“Yeah? What about the guy got turned into Flat Stanley last month?”

Lundberg leaned forward to shout past me at Yellen. “Precisely the stupidity I was talking about! That was a domestic. The result of improper handling. Burmese are one of the most docile of all pet snakes. Which they should
never
be.”

“You blaming the vic?” Yellen yelled back.

“Pythons have an acute sense of smell, and the mere presence of food can trigger a feeding frenzy. You don’t uncage a twenty-foot constrictor with a live chicken nearby!”

“What’s their preferred prey in the wild?” I jumped in to defuse tension.

“Pythons are voracious and indiscriminate eaters, I will admit.” Lundberg pointedly
addressed his answer to only me. “The species is consuming indigenous mammals at an alarming rate, especially those that forage near water. Ninety-nine percent of the raccoon and opossum populations have disappeared from the park, especially the southernmost regions, where pythons have been established the longest. Rabbits and fox have vanished completely.”

Bunnies? I was beginning to agree with Yellen.

Lundberg failed to notice my reaction. “Lisa has identified twenty-five different bird species in python guts, including the endangered wood stork. The mammals and birds are unaccustomed to being hunted by pythons, so they lack the appropriate instinctual defenses.”

“Because the damn pythons aren’t supposed to be here,” Yellen snapped.

“Neither are New Yorkers, but we can’t keep them out,” Lundberg spat back. To me, “Some populations may actually be benefiting, like turtles. Without raccoons to eat their eggs, we’ll be knee-deep in turtles in twenty years.”

“Do pythons have no predators?”

“Alligators do some damage, but once the snakes get large, the gators are no match. In fact, the two species compete for the same resources.”

“I’ve seen a python split itself open from eating a six-foot gator,” Pierce offered from across the boat.

“The Burmese’s only real threat walks on two legs,” Yellen agreed.

“Yet you’re not a fan of the hunt,” I said.

Yellen shook his head. “Rednecks wading into the swamp shooting at anything that moves?”

“We get an annual circus of boozed-out idiocy.” Pierce agreed with the sheriff.

“If the yahoos aren’t allowed to hunt in the park proper, which is python central, of course the snake count’s gonna be skimpy.” Yellen barked the criticism to Lundberg. His tone said the argument predated my arrival by a very long time.

Lundberg responded with vehemence. “What certain people fail to understand is how well camouflaged these creatures are. You release an enormous tagged snake and it vanishes in seconds. I’m an expert and I’ve stood one meter from a fifteen-foot male, tracking his radio transmitters, and failed to spot him.”

I definitely did not want this man’s job.

Lundberg steamed ahead, face now the color of uncooked beef. “Burmese pythons are
ambush hunters. They can lie in wait underwater, hide under bushes, drop from trees. They strike suddenly, ingest their catch quickly, then conceal themselves to digest for a month. Even herpetologists have a hard time locating them. Forget the inexperienced.” At last, Lundberg made eye contact with Yellen. “Most captures are made because a snake is crossing a road. And there are far more roads
outside
than inside the park. And less protected wildlife to shoot by mistake.”

Mental note. Don’t wade. Don’t linger under trees. Don’t walk through tall brush. Don’t leave the boat sounded good, but I doubted that was an option.

“Almost there.”

I turned. The driver was pointing to a stand of trees about a mile away. One of several similar stands marching the horizon.

“Are we still in the Everglades?” I asked.

“This stretch isn’t part of the national park,” Lundberg said. “It’s one of four state-run wildlife management areas where the hunt is allowed.”

Our airboat drew up and stopped beside a more battered model with indeterminate wording painted on the stern in faded script. We all scrambled over the bow and jumped to dry ground.

The transition from marsh to shrub to forest was abrupt. Within feet of the water’s edge, we crossed a thick ring of scrub vegetation and single-filed down a narrow path through a canopy forest.

“Watch for sinkholes.” Lundberg pointed out a steep-sided conical depression containing an emerald pool. “They’re everywhere.”

The temperature dropped in proportion to the rise in humidity. Looking up, I could see only slivers of sky through the intertwined foliage overhead. So much for avoiding trees. But snakes were now the lesser of my problems. Swarms of mosquitoes were draining me of copious quantities of blood. The bloodsuckers loved me.

Five or six minutes in, we reached a small clearing. At its center was a bearded giant in Australian bush gear standing over a dead gator. Together, we crossed to him.

The gator wasn’t huge, but it was big enough, maybe eight feet from snout to tail tip. Its mouth was half open. The reptile’s teeth grasped what appeared to be a portion of human pelvis encased in flesh that had rotted to the color and consistency of congealed oatmeal. The only
indication the flesh had once been human was an obvious, if mottled and dented, belly button.

Yellen addressed the giant. “Howdy, Jordan.”

Jordan nodded. Looked each of us over. Then said, “Didn’t touch nothin’ once I brought her down and saw what she had.”

“You did right calling us.” Yellen didn’t move closer. “This lady’s a doctor specializes in bones.”

“Tempe Brennan.” I stepped forward and held out a hand.

Jordan wiped a giant paw on his khakis and thrust it toward me. “My name’s Dusty Jordan.” My hand disappeared in a leathery grip.

“What happened here?” I asked.

Jordan looked at me like I’d asked the meaning of “soup.” “I was huntin’ python. Saw this gal dragging somethin’ didn’t look right.”

“She’s quite dead?”

“She won’t hurt you,” he answered, obviously missing my Monty Python reference.

I squatted and leaned close to the gator. A full minute passed with only the buzz of flies and the whine of mosquitoes.

When Yellen could take it no longer, he burst out, “Is it the same vic?”

“The pelvic features I’m able to see are consistent with what I observed on the foot,” I said. But something else troubled me. “Would an alligator eat something that’s already dead?”

“Yep.” Jordan answered quickly, to Lundberg’s annoyance.

“It’s true.” Lundberg felt the need to assert scientific superiority. “And alligators will drag prey around for a long time, days even. To protect the food from other gators. And to help break it up.”

Yellen sighed. “Mother Mary in a handcart. We’re going to need CSI. Could be body parts all over this hammock.” He walked off to make the call.

I shifted to view the pelvis from another angle. “I’d field-estimate PMI at roughly nine days. That tracks with the remains recovered from the vulture.” Python. Whatever.

A snuffle from the gator made me spring back and land on my ass.

“You said it was dead.” More shrill than I’d intended.

Jordan gave me another look that said he questioned my basic intelligence. “I said she wouldn’t hurt you. Can’t kill a gator without the Hunting and Game folks classifying it as a
nuisance. And this ole gal’s just out here working her turf.”

I scooted back slowly and carefully.

“Relax. She’s tranqed.” Jordan bounced a conspiratorial glance off Pierce.
Women
. “Dive right on in. She won’t wake for hours.”

“You’re telling me to reach into a live gator’s mouth?” I wasn’t believing this guy.

“Duh-uh.”

Lundberg addressed Jordan. “Anesthesia is an imprecise science. One must know weight to calculate proper dosage.”

Jordan regarded the biologist with an insolent stare. “If I say the dude’s out, she’s out.”

No one moved.

“Man.” Jordan dug into a ratty canvas pack and withdrew a Coke-can-size capsule. “Ketamine-midazolam. Eight thousand milligrams.”

Lundberg nodded slowly. “That should do it.”

“Should?” I looked from Jordan to Lundberg. “Should as in lost digits and phantom limbs?”

Wordlessly, Jordan pulled on heavy leather gloves, reached down, and pried open the gator’s mouth. The pelvis rose with the upper jaw. Unperturbed, Jordan stuck a finger between the tooth row and the human flesh, and shoved downward. The pelvis dropped to the ground with a soft
thunk
.

All eyes swung to me. The gator lay motionless, mouth held agape.

My gaze roved the pelvis. Like the foot, it was on the small end of the range for human adults. And I could see the disturbing feature more clearly now. The unsubtle gouging and splintering left by the action of a chain saw.

“Get me the scene bag,” I barked, emotions churning inside me.

Lundberg jumped to respond. I withdrew gloves and a body bag, pulled on the former, then unrolled and unzipped the latter. Ready, I edged closer to the gator.

I was right. The body part was a segment of lower torso, including a partial pelvis and portions of soft tissue from the waist and upper groin region. Dotted lines of puncture wounding crisscrossed the decomposing flesh. Bite marks left by reptilian teeth.