Fatalis

Chapter twenty-One

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!"

The voice had come from the cab. Gearhart walked over, followed by Danza. The sheriff was surprised that be could smell the rubber of the gloves over the scent of the fish. Then again, maybe he'd just gotten used to the stench. He could also smell the tart scent of the IS vapors being used to search for fingerprints. The vapors were a combination of iodine and superglue, which could be sprayed onto any surface, including blood. They coalesced quickly on prints and revealed more details than traditional powder.

The sheriff stepped up to portly team leader Thomas Gomez, who was on his knees in the sand, right outside the broken windshield. The three other members of his group were working through the open passenger's side door and on the other side of the shattered windshield. There was a gentle hum coming from inside the cab. Gomez had hooked a small battery pack to the air system and was blowing the contents of the vents into plastic bags. The bags had pinholes that allowed the air out but kept particles in. Sometimes pieces of skin, strands of hair, or fluid samples ended up in the bags.

"What have you got?" Gearhart asked.

"A very weird case," Thomas admitted. "Sheriff, did the victim have a dog?"

"I don't know," Gearhart admitted. "Why?"

"Because we've got what looks like fur stuck in the blood and floating from the air vents," the balding man replied. "There's also what looks like spittle in the grooves of the floor mat. It's thicker than drool from any dog or bobcat I've ever seen, though I'll have to check it against samples from rabid animals. If it matches, that would lead us in a whole different direction. I'd also put in calls to all the local zoos and animal preserves."

Gearhart pulled his cell phone and notepad from his jacket He was angry at himself for not having thought to ask about the dog. A lot of drivers traveled with dogs for companionship, protection, and to keep from having to put them in kennels. He checked his notes for Caroline Bennett's number and called. The woman had gone back to her office with a deputy to talk to the packers in the small warehouse, see if Glen Grey had seemed different from usual the night before. There was always the chance that he had to meet with someone on the road, maybe a drug dealer or someone who held a chit, possibly a gambling debt If so, he might have been anxious or depressed.

Gearhart was only on the phone for a few seconds. "The driver did not have a dog."

"Well, that does complicate things," Gomez said. "There was almost certainly a long-haired animal here at some point."

"Maybe he picked up a stray," Danza said.

"I doubt that," Gomez said.

"Why?" Gearhart asked.

"Because I haven't found any nose-painting on the pieces of glass," Gomez replied.

"Excuse me?" Danza said.

"You're not a dog owner," Gomez said.

"No."

"If a car window is closed, dogs often put their paws on the dashboard and their wet noses on the windshield," Gomez said. "So I'm betting this was a predator, possibly drawn by blood after the accident and possibly it was a bobcat-though if a carnivore was here, I also don't understand how it managed to get the victim out without leaving footprints in the blood. A bobcat can't just pull someone through a broken window."

"I know," Gearhart said He looked back across the smashed walls of the truck. "And an animal didn't cause those breaks."

"I also don't understand why there isn't a trace of the victim other than blood and a few strands of hair," Thomas went on. "A large boa constrictor could do that, but they don't have fur, they don't live here, and they leave slither marks, which pretty much rules that out. Like I said, it's a weird one. I'll know more after we get the fur and spittle samples over to the lab."

Gearhart nodded, then called Chief Deputy Daniel Mahoney, head of Support Services-as the sheriff's office floaters were known. The unit backed up all the other divisions. The sheriff told Mahoney to have one of his deputies check with the Santa Barbara Zoo and to call everyone in the database who might own or train big cats, wolves, Komodo dragons, or other predators, possibly for the movies. Gearhart wanted to make sure all the animals were accounted for. If no one picked up the phone or if Mahoney thought someone was not telling the truth-private owners occasionally lied to try to get their animals back before they were shot or confiscated-Gearhart told the chief deputy to send a car out. Mahoney said he'd have the answers before noon.

Gearhart put the phone away and went back to the cab. Danza excused herself to brief the press.

Though the sheriff had gone through the drill with Mahoney, he wasn't convinced that an animal had done this. Scavenged perhaps, but not killed or taken the driver. His gut told him this was a thrill-kill, as Danza had said.

In Vietnam and in Los Angeles, Gearhart had seen people do sadistic and bizarre things. Some of them were worse than this. Now, as then, he didn't spend time trying to understand why they did it. He tried to find evidence that pointed to who was responsible and where they might be now or the next day. And then, whether it was in a humid jungle or an overcrowded city, he did one thing more.

He made sure they didn't do it again.