Crooked River

5

Roger Smithback, reporter for the Miami Herald, hadn’t waited to get his editor’s green light on the story. When his police band scanner picked up news of feet washing up on a beach on Captiva Island, he had jumped into his Subaru and driven like hell across the Florida peninsula, his radar detector and laser jammer both working overtime to avoid the cops. Smithback was familiar with Sanibel from having taken an expensive vacation there with a girlfriend (now ex — and a pox on her), and he realized it posed a serious access problem. As he drove, he pondered the logistics of reaching the crime scene and getting the scoop. First, he was going to be hours late. There were plenty of newspapers and other media outlets closer by who would be sending out reporters. The Fort Myers News-Press was going to get at least a two-hour jump on him, not to mention the Tampa Bay Times, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, and the Charlotte Sun. The other problem was physically getting onto Captiva Island. The cops would certainly have set up checkpoints. One would no doubt be at the Sanibel Causeway, which he could probably lie his way through. The bigger problem was getting from Sanibel to Captiva. There was only one connection between the two islands, the Blind Pass Bridge. If memory served, that bridge ended right at the beach where the feet were washing up. It was sure to be locked down tight.

But no way was Roger Smithback, senior reporter of the Herald, going to join a crowd of miserable journalists sweating behind some barrier, pleading for a crumb of a story. He was going to get onto Captiva Island if it was the last thing he did — and the logical way to do it was by boat. As he drove, he poked away at his smartphone, made a few calls, and soon had a plan worked out. Instead of driving onto Sanibel, he would take the nearby causeway to Pine Island, drive south to St. James City, and from there hire a boat to take him across Pine Island Sound to the Captiva Island Yacht Club. The yacht club had a courtesy car available for yachtsmen, which would drive him wherever he wished on the island. All he had to do was act like some rich yachting bastard, passing out lots of twenties as tips.

Smithback then texted Kraski, his editor, and told him he was covering the story — just so it wouldn’t get assigned to anyone else. Screw proper channels: this one was his. Feet washing up on a beach — he fairly tingled at the ghastly appeal of it.

Three and a half hours after leaving Miami, his plan executed perfectly, Smithback found himself waving goodbye to the nice gentleman from the yacht club who had dropped him off near the southern end of Captiva Drive. Captiva was a narrow island, exclusive, with a single road down the middle, driveways on either side leading to million-dollar waterfront houses. In scoping out the scene from afar, Smithback had decided the best way to get close to the action would be to sneak through someone’s yard to reach the gulf-side beach. Access from the public parking lot would surely be closed off and swarming with cops.

He picked a house that looked unoccupied and slipped down the driveway, skirted around the side, then across a backyard to a path that ran through sea grape and hopbush to the broad expanse of beach beyond. He paused in the shrubbery to take off his shoes and socks, shove them in his reporter’s bag, and roll up his pants — to create the appearance of a local beachcomber.

Where the path joined the beach, it was blocked with fluttering strings of yellow crime scene tape. As he looked up and down the shore, he could see that the entire beach had been taped off — and the law enforcement response was massive. There were several Coast Guard vessels cruising back and forth near the shore, with Coast Guard servicemembers dipping nets into the sea, fishing out feet. The beach itself was patrolled by police dune buggies and officers on foot. It looked like multiple departments had turned out — Fort Myers and Sanibel at the least — and there were also a number of Coast Guard Auxiliary regulars in blue jumpsuits. Two Coast Guard helicopters circled above, but there were no media choppers anywhere. Good.

Behind the tape strung along the back of the beach, he could see a number of people watching the action, talking excitedly, taking pictures and selfies. But as he scanned the crowd with his binocs, he couldn’t make out any obvious journalists. All those jokers were no doubt penned up like sheep at the Blind Pass Bridge. He alone had made it to the island... or so he hoped.

At the far end of the beach, near the inlet, he could see what looked like a temporary command post. A white plastic screen fenced it from view. That was where the heart of the action was — and where he needed to be.

Walking fast, he worked his way south through the onlookers. He would need to get some choice interviews from these witnesses — the more hysterical the better. But that could come later. Within ten minutes, he’d reached the point closest to the command center, where the white screen fence began. Scanning with his binocs, he could now get a general idea of what was happening. Dozens of light-green shoes were being brought in, logged, tagged, and placed in refrigerated evidence containers, which in turn were being loaded into the back of an ambulance. They all seemed to have feet still inside them. His heart quickened at the same time that his gorge rose.

He couldn’t hear what was being said over in the tight knot of brass. He needed to get closer. Scouting around, he realized one section of the barrier was visually screened by a row of parked cruisers on the beach. If he could get inside at that point, he might not be noticed, and then he’d be able to mingle with the technicians, detectives, and others who were not in uniform. Almost all had IDs on lanyards around their necks. He had a lanyard, too — which held his press credentials. He pulled it out of his bag, removed the press card, and shoved in his PADI diving certification card. It looked official from a distance, and even if someone checked they might just think he was some kind of authorized diver.

He rolled his pants back down, put on his shoes and socks, slapped the sand off, smoothed his hair, and hung the lanyard around his neck. His reporter’s case would add to the look of someone engaged in legitimate business.

The sun was hanging lower over the gulf, and the parked cars cast long shadows. He sauntered along the barrier to where the view was obscured by the cruisers; then in one quick movement, he pulled out his pocketknife, cut a flap in the barrier, then ducked through and walked quickly to where the cars were, keeping out of sight behind them. So far, so good. Then, mustering a look of purpose, he strode out from behind the cars and angled toward the command tent, walking decisively.

Nobody challenged him. And here he lucked out: at a table where various evidence-gathering items were spread out, there was a box of gloves. He quickly pulled out two and drew them on, then grabbed a face mask and hairnet and donned those as well.

His heart quickened as he realized he was actually going to succeed. Slipping out his cell phone, he pretended to be checking it, while taking dozens of photos of the action — the boxes of shoes, the comings and goings of the cops and technicians, the hastily assembled command center — he got it all.

He edged over to where the feet were being placed in refrigerated coolers. Again pretending to be checking his phone, he took another slew of photographs. He even got in a short video. God almighty, Kraski was going to love this — he was always moaning about not having enough video for the website.

He heard a yell and spun around. Strong arms seized him and his phone was manhandled away by a Coast Guard officer, blazingly angry, quickly joined by another. They looked like identical twins except one was red-haired, the other black-haired.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Red Hair yelled.

“He’s a journalist. Taking pictures,” said Black Hair, pulling off the mask and hairnet.

“Give me back my phone!” Smithback tried to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked. What had given him away?

Red Hair seized his lanyard. “What’s this bullshit? A diving ID?” He snorted. “I’m gonna delete these photos.”

“Please don’t! The public has a right to know!”

“Look, pal, you better be glad we’re not going to arrest your ass. We’ve got enough shit to deal with.”

Smithback felt himself being propelled forward by the two officers, one on each side. “Let’s go, asshole. You’re out of here.”

Suddenly the two men halted and Smithback heard a honeyed voice: “Bless me, if it isn’t my old acquaintance Roger Smithback.”

Smithback twisted around to find himself face-to-face with none other than Agent Pendergast. He was temporarily speechless.

The Coast Guard men seemed uncertain, loosening their grip.

“Hold him fast, gentlemen,” said Pendergast, flashing his badge. “He’s a slippery one. I’ve had dealings with him before.”

“We caught him photographing everything — even the feet.”

“Shameful,” said Pendergast, holding out his hand for the phone. “I’ll erase those photos, if you please.”

“Sure thing.”

Pendergast took the phone and began flicking through the photographs with an amused look. “Mr. Smithback, I see you’re truly a man of many talents. Such masterly use of depth of field. Pity you can’t keep these.”

Smithback pleaded. “Agent Pendergast, don’t do it. For old time’s sake.”

“I don’t know which ‘old time’ in particular you’re referring to. In any case, I’m afraid you are trespassing on a crime scene and will have to be escorted out. And these photographs destroyed.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“And we are doing ours.”

Even as he pleaded, he could see Pendergast deleting the pictures. The two Coast Guard officers watched with approval.

“I thought we were friends!” Smithback said, almost at a wail. “Don’t!”

“It is done,” said Pendergast, wagging his phone. “You shall have your phone returned when you’re safely behind the barriers.”

Son of a bitch, thought Smithback. But maybe he could get a statement, if nothing else. “Agent Pendergast, can you at least tell me what’s going on? Do the police have any theories?”

Pendergast turned and gestured to the Coast Guard men. “Please escort him to the perimeter.”

“Wait! Just one question!”

The two men took his arms and led him away, Pendergast following.

Smithback tried again. “Any ideas? Even a guess? One little statement is all I need!”

Pendergast didn’t reply.

“How many feet? For the love of God, Pendergast, just give me a number!”

No answer.

They reached the crime scene tape and Pendergast held it up while Smithback was shoved under it. He turned and Pendergast handed him back his phone.

“If you trespass again,” Red Hair said, jabbing his finger hard into Smithback’s chest, “we’ll arrest you. You got that?”

All three turned and walked away. Smithback watched them go, sweating and cursing under his breath. Then he examined his phone, morosely flipping through his photo gallery. The pictures were indeed gone. But wait: a freshly typed message was sitting on his notepad. It said simply: Check trash. This once.

And there, waiting in the trash, was a small but extremely well-chosen selection of his photographs.