Swimming With the Dead (7 page)

He’d probably known that he would die in the steel structure seventy feet under the ocean.  I could imagine his terror. I’d been trapped underwater once.  It had started as a routine training dive under two feet of ice.  We’d cut a hole through the frozen surface with chain saws and axes and I’d dropped in, the goal to find my way to another hole some fifty feet away using a compass.  I’d been doing fine until my regulator froze.  I panicked and headed straight to the surface, hitting hard, blue ice.  Just on the other side was sunlight, blue sky, and life-giving oxygen, completely out of my grasp.  I scraped at the undersurface, and pushed against the thick mass.  It was like trying to push past a concrete wall. 

In my panic, I’d forgotten I was tethered to the safety line.  All I needed to do was follow it back to the hole in the ice where my fellow divers waited.  Within seconds I was out, lying on the ice, sputtering, gulping frigid air into starved lungs, and cursing the useless regulator.  I won’t ever forget seeing that open water rippling above my head or those hands reaching out to me.  Michael had not been so fortunate.

The divers brought his body to the surface shortly after they found it.  I wondered whether they had followed procedure during the recovery.  Probably not.  They would not have even thought about the area being a crime scene.  Even if they had, few rescue divers anywhere have been trained in underwater investigation.  In the past, the focus has been on getting the victim out of the water and collecting evidence from the body on the surface.  Only recently have law-enforcement agencies in the States recognized the importance of rigorous underwater crime-scene investigation. 

The operating procedures for the Denver dive team called for underwater photos, scene sketches, measurements, compass readings, and a thorough examination of the area before the body was taken to the surface.  It also involved careful handling of the body.  While still underwater, the hands, feet, and head would be enclosed in plastic bags and the entire body placed in a body bag with mesh panels for water drainage. 

My team had been trained in postmortem physiology and the techniques of meticulous observation and documentation of the underwater crime scene.  They knew how to examine the victim as well as the area on the bottom for any signs of vomit, and understood the need to check the mouth for any inhaled debris, such as vegetation or silt—all indications that the victim was probably alive and breathing, at least for a while, under the water.  They would record body position, injuries, and the degree of rigor mortis.  They realized that once the scene was disturbed and the body brought to the surface, significant forensic evidence would be lost, washing away in the water or the body affected by exposure to the air.

I would dive the site of Michael’s death, but I didn’t expect to find much, given what I assumed to be a haphazard recovery process and the fact that it had been almost a month since the body had been recovered.  Any evidence that had existed would probably have been contaminated by the divers, washed away in the current, or eaten.

The autopsy report indicated that there was bruising on Michael’s right arm and torso.  His leg had a deep gash, but little else could be determined because the area around the wound had been nibbled away by fish, crabs, and other tiny marine creatures attracted to the open flesh.  They had also begun to feed on his lips and ears.  Though it didn’t say, I assumed that his eyes had been protected by his face mask.  Next would have been most of the exposed flesh on the face and neck, which had not yet occurred. 

In the warmer water of the Caribbean, decomposition occurs more rapidly.  The body showed signs of what pathologists call “washerwoman’s skin,” extreme wrinkling on the palms and soles.  The skin was white and soft, taking on a greenish cast in the lower quadrant of the body.  In some areas, it had begun to loosen and darken, the blood pooling.  Rigor mortis had set in.  The coroner estimated that Michael had been dead and in the water about twenty-four hours.  Blood tests showed no alcohol or drugs in Michael’s system at the time of his death.

The coroner had ruled the cause of death as drowning.  He’d found no indication of poison, disease, wound, blow, or other trauma, except for the bruises and the gash on Michael’s leg.  There was no record that the coroner had examined the lungs beyond the simple observation that salt water had been present.  Apparently he had not autopsied the lungs, in which case he might have found signs of drowning, such as tears in the alveoli or small hemorrhages on the surface of the lungs from over-distention.

It seemed clear to me that immediate assumptions had been made about how Michael had died.  The coroner’s procedures had been perfunctory, simply confirming those assumptions—Michael had pulled down the compressor, gotten trapped in the wreck, and drowned.  Without a thorough autopsy it was impossible to know whether that had in fact been the case.  The coroner’s findings could just as well mean that Michael was dead before he entered the water and that the water in his lungs had seeped in after death. 

It was possible that someone had killed him and left his body in the wreck to make it look accidental.  If the compressor had been dropped on his leg after death, there would have been a gash but no bleeding or bruising.  The damage by sea animals made that impossible to determine.  The bruising on the rest of his body may have been caused as the unit had fallen on him or in his struggle to free himself.  Then again, maybe they were inflicted by his killer or killers. 

I wondered if anyone had checked Michael’s diving equipment or his boat.  There was no record of it.  I made a note to examine both.

Dunn had questioned Lydia, a couple of the dive shop operators, anyone who might have relevant information.  I wrote down the names of the two divers, Acuff and Carr.  They may have noticed something that they thought unimportant or that never made it into the file.  You just never knew.  Sometimes the most mundane comment or unlikely piece of information turned out to be the key to an entire case.  Sometimes people didn’t tell the same story twice.

Chapter 6

I waved to Lorna on my way out the front door of the police department.  She was busy talking on the phone while simultaneously inhaling the last of the donuts.  I’d arranged to meet Lydia, Michael’s fiancée, later in the afternoon.  With some time to kill, I decided on a brisk walk along the waterfront and into town.  I’d quit running several years ago.  The constant pounding had taken its toll on knee and ankle joints, and I just wasn’t as compulsive as I once was.  Somewhere along the line, I’d backed off.  Didn’t have so much to prove to myself.  Didn’t need to run fifty miles a week.  Turns out I enjoyed walking a whole lot more.  I’d actually started to look at the world around me.  These days my workouts included three or four days a week at the gym and long walks with Sadie.

Now, though, I could feel the tightness.  My joints felt stiff, and my shoulder ached.  I needed to get out and walk fast, swing my arms, get some circulation going.  I headed down to the water, hoping to find a walkway that would take me along the edge of the ocean.  Not to be.  Much of the waterfront was fenced off and unreachable.  Sporadic stretches of sidewalk were interrupted by restaurants jutting out into the water or by mom-and-pop stores.  I found myself taking a zig zag path, diverting down narrow streets, past offices, through the outdoor market.  A blue Honda Civic, with a broken headlight, seemed to be following the same aimless route.  Every time I zigged, it did too.  Some wayward tourist trying to find his way through the same maze. 

Finally, I grew tired of walking the labyrinth and started back to the hotel.  So much for brisk walks, taking in the fresh sea air.  Mostly, I’d been breathing exhaust.  Making my way toward the hotel, I found myself crossing the main street at least a half dozen times in order to avoid deep ditches that cut through my intended path.  Every crossing was like a game of chicken.  Could I make it to the center then over to the other side faster than the speeding vehicles bearing down upon me, horns blaring? 

I stood poised to make the final dash across the street to the quiet of my hotel.  About the time I stepped off the curb, I saw it—a blue blur out of the corner of my eye.  It was coming right at me, bearing down at about fifty miles per hour.  Christ, I didn’t know whether to dash back to the curb or try to make a run for the center median.  I felt like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.  I froze, trying to decide which way the car was going to go. 

As it turned out, it was going whichever way I was going.  As I ran back to the curb, the damned thing swerved right at me, jumping the curb inches behind me.  I took a flying leap over a row of trash cans lining the sidewalk, caught my toe in one and ended up on my ass on the cement, covered in pieces of rotting lettuce and carrot.  Behind me, the car plowed into tin, throwing the rest of the trash all over the street, and sped off.  The blue Honda.  I watched it disappear around the corner as I stumbled to my feet, picking brown slimy stuff out of my hair.

Rasta Robert had been sitting in his cab in front of the hotel and raced across the street to help.  “Crazy drivers,” he’d said, pulling me to my feet.  “Jus’ never watchin’, thinkin’ anything on da road jus’ better be gettin’ out a da way.”

The driver of the Honda had certainly wanted me out of the way—for good. 

By the time I arrived at Lydia’s, it was late in the afternoon.  Robert had insisted on taking me to her small bungalow in the hills above Roadtown.  He’d known exactly where she lived.  In fact, he knew Lydia.      

“Oh, she be one beautiful woman,” he’d exclaimed.  “Family be livin’ on Tortola for many generations.  Her father owns half the island I think!  He be very traditional.  Not likin’ his chilin takin’ to outside ways.  Especially Lydia gettin’ engaged to that American.  He be real angry.  Wantin’ her marrying one of da rich local fellas.  Dat Lydia, though, not many around a match for her.  She be headstrong, independent.  And smart!  That girl can do math, I’ll tell you.”

“How do you know her so well?” I’d asked.

“Oh, folks on da island, we know.  Most of us grew up together.  Goin’ to the same market, same churches, same schools, grandparents, great-grandparents, parents, den dere kids and dere kids’ kids.”

Given Robert’s description of Lydia, I was surprised to find myself standing at the door of a traditional Caribbean structure, a peach stucco with white trim typical of the pastels that dotted the hills of Tortola.

The woman who answered was gorgeous.  She was small-boned but tall, with finely crafted features and mahogany skin.  Her hair was pulled back into a sleek bun.  She was dressed in a gray business suit, no shoes.

“Hi. Hannah Sampson here to see Lydia Stewart.  I called this morning?”

“Yes, hello, I’m Lydia,” she said, extending her hand. “Please, come in.”

It had been less than a month since Michael’s death.  I could see the pain still etched in her face.  I wondered how long it would take for the signs to fade.

Her home was a wonderful mix of old and new.  The pastels of the exterior were repeated in the artwork inside—Caribbean scenes painted by local artists—the furniture an eclectic mix of comfortable overstuffed chairs, wicker, wood, and steel. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I began.  “I know it must be difficult to talk about Michael.”

“Actually, it’s not,” she said.  “It’s harder not to talk about him, which is the way a lot of my friends and family have reacted.  Trying to pretend it never happened, that he never was.  That hurts more.  Let’s talk out on the veranda.  There is a cool breeze and a fantastic view of the channel.” 

Fantastic
hardly described it.  Falling away from the balcony and off down the hill was a splash of colors, the vividness matched only by the fragrance.  Barely visible through the trees were red splotches of the tile roofs below and farther out the boats in Road Harbor.  In the distance I could see several islands, small green mounds surrounded by deep blue.  Sailboats tipped in the wind in the open channel, while others were anchored in glassy harbors.

“That stretch of water is called the Sir Francis Drake Channel,” Lydia said.  “Drake navigated these waters in the late fifteen hundreds, along with Christopher Columbus.  The island directly across is Peter, and the one to the right is Norman.  You can make out the Indians just there off Norman, a very popular snorkeling spot, so many fish there, and sometimes a nurse shark happens by.  Off to the distant right is Saint John, one of the U.S. Virgin Islands.     

“They found Michael’s boat out that way,” she said, pointing to the far left.

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

“That’s hard,” she said.  “Michael’s parents probably told you that he didn’t dive alone.  Usually that was true.  He was very safety-conscious when it came to diving.  But he was a fanatic about his research.  He also lived fully and was fearless.  It was one of the things I loved about him.  He had a ‘go for it’ mentality that kept things interesting and challenging.  I knew life would never be dull with Michael.  He talked about going to the Galapagos, trekking around Ecuador, spending a summer volunteering for Habitat for Humanity.  I was game for it all.”

I could see the regret.  She pulled her legs up under her in the patio chair, hugging them to her, trying to find comfort.

“How did you meet Michael?” I asked.

“Actually, I met him because of his research.  He needed help crunching numbers.  That’s my field—statistics.  I received my B.S. in math from the University of California and stayed there for graduate work in statistics.  I liked being in the States but always intended to return home.  Offshore finance is big business here, bigger than tourism.  I came back to the islands a couple of years ago and took a job with one of the international companies here in Tortola.

“I’d heard that Michael was looking for a statistician through a mutual friend,” she continued.  “It sounded like fun, and I missed doing the statistics, so I agreed to help him.  I was to be listed as a contributing author on the final publication.  No money but lots of glory,” she said, smiling.