Randy White - Night Vision

The man looked at a clipboard, before reading, “‘The alligator was subdued by four shots at point-blank range from a nine-millimeter Kahr handgun.’

“Subdued,” the man continued, sarcasm creeping into his voice. “I guess that’s police jargon for slaughtered.”

He looked up from the clipboard and spoke to the graduate student. “I’ve never understood why some men feel inadequate unless they’re carrying a gun. I’m not talking about you, of course, Dr. Ford,” he added, his sarcasm undisguised. “It’s the rednecks and hicks I’m referring to. The right-wing bumper-sticker types. I’m unfamiliar with handguns. Is a Kahr one of those famous pistols that heroes use in the movies? Maybe you’re carrying it now concealed somewhere in your pants. I bet Emily would love to see it.”

I had been watching the woman’s face color, but the guy had finally crossed the line. She snapped, “Paul! Enough! Stop what you’re doing right now! Dr. Ford’s my guest, and I won’t allow you to-”

The man cut her off, saying, “Your days of telling me what I can and can’t do are over, Milly dear. The courts took care of that, remember? It was your decision, not mine. And, frankly, I couldn’t be happier. Didn’t we come here to work? I have other things to do.”

Which, from Marston, earned the man a chilly “Don’t we all have better things to do, Paul? You’re the one who insisted on coming along.”

“I volunteered to help. And, of course”-for the first time the man looked directly at me-“I wanted to see why you were so determined to meet the famous Dr. Marion Ford. I thought maybe I’d understand once I saw him. But, sorry, I just don’t get what the fuss is all about.”

I had taken a step back to remove myself from the conversation. Long ago, I learned not to participate in quarrels between lovers-particularly if I happened to be one of the lovers. So I stood there, feeling embarrassed for both people, as they argued, Drs. Paul and Emily, two intelligent people who had once been in love.

It went on for a while. The barbs they exchanged exhibited a practiced familiarity that proved these two people had become expert at hurting each other. But it ended abruptly when the woman finally called a truce, saying, “Paul… Paul, I’m sorry, Paul! I was wrong to let you come. It was mean of me. It was thoughtless, and I’m sorry. I truly am.”

The man, Paul Marston, Ph. D., I would learn later, responded by throwing his apron and clipboard on the ground as he said, “Yes, your behavior has been very mean and thoughtless. For once we agree. And how refreshing to have you finally admit it, for a change.”

Then the man turned, strode to his Subaru and drove away.

“Damn it,” Emily said when he was gone. “I’m so sorry you two had to witness that. Paul isn’t like that. Not really. And neither am I. But we signed our divorce papers less than two weeks ago, so it’s an emotional time. I’d hoped we could continue our professional relationship, but clearly…”

The woman allowed silence to trail off.

The grad student, who had pretended to be busy organizing her camera gear, spoke for the first time, saying, “I think they both behaved like jerks, Dr. Marston. What is it about men?”

It took me a moment to realize that the girl had included me. What the hell had I done besides allow myself to be used as a foil? Even so, I decided it was time to try to reverse the dark momentum on this pretty spring morning.

“There’s a lesson for ladies everywhere,” I said to them both. “The male of the species is equipped with a prick for reasons that exceed the demands of basic human reproduction.” I looked at Marston. “If you come up with an explanation, I’d like to be among the first to hear it.”

I was hoping to see a pair of smiles. It took the grad student a moment-maybe we both shared the same physical awareness of Emily Marston.

Finally, though, the girl gave in.

Fifteen minutes later, I was saying to Emily, “I’m particularly interested in seeing what’s in the animal’s stomach.”

She was wearing a digital headset. She nodded and said, “An animal this age, you never know what you’re going to find.” She nodded again to the grad student as a cue, touched the POWER button on the mini-recorder, selected a knife and then began dictating as she started the necropsy.

“The specimen is an adult male alligator. Length and weight have already been noted. Scutes at”-she was looking at the ridges on the animal’s back-“scutes seven and ten show distinctive scarring, but I judge it to earlier injuries. There is no evidence the animal has ever been tagged or documented. We’ll begin by making a standard Y-cut from the animal’s sternum to its cloaca.”

The woman looked at me, adding as an aside, “There’s no scalpel big enough for something like this. So I use a Gerber Gator Serrator. Really. That’s the name of the knife. I found it at some outdoors store and couldn’t resist.”

The tool in her hand looked like an oversized pocketknife, and it was sharp. I watched her saw through the dense scale work of the gator’s belly as the grad student moved to a better angle with her video camera.

Marston was good. She worked with speed and a minimum of wasted effort. I watched her remove and weigh, in precise order, the animal’s heart, its liver and other vital organs, before she said, “Next we open the stomach. As I told Dr. Ford, you never know what you’re going to find, particularly with an animal this age.”

She looked at the grad student with concern before adding, “How are you doing? I know, the smell can be tough to deal with. Are you okay?”

The student had gone a little pale. “Maybe if I get a bottle of water,” she said, “that might help. Mind if we take a short break?”

With Marston’s permission, the girl hurried off to the shade, where there was an Igloo filled with ice and drinks.

The smell of the alligator didn’t bother me. I found it heavy and distinctive. There was a musky sweetness that reminded me of the way a fresh tarpon smells-a delicate, vital odor that was mixed with an acidity that I presumed to be cavity fluids and blood.

I said, “Do you mind if I use that extra pair of gloves and help you with the stomach when you get it open?”

“Sure,” the woman replied. “You sound more than casually interested. Are you looking for something in particular? Last night. .. the person the gator attacked, he didn’t lose any-”

“No,” I said. “The man still has all his parts. Just puncture wounds.”

She was nodding. “That’s what I thought or the police would have insisted on being here. Or EMTs would’ve opened the belly last night.”

I said, “What I’d expect to find is the stomach empty. Or almost empty. We’re only, what, a month or so away from their dormant season?”

“The last real cold front was in January,” Marston corrected me. “This animal has certainly eaten since then.”

“Even so,” I said, snapping on a surgical glove, “he had to be pretty hungry to attack a full-grown man. Not only that, he came back and tried to attack a second man, even though I had already wounded the thing. What I’m interested in finding is those rocks I’ve read about. The ones you find in a gator’s belly. Gastroliths? I’ve never seen one.”

“How’s the man doing?” the woman asked, meaning Carlson. “I haven’t heard anything since last night. In fact, I’d love for you to tell me the whole story sometime-if you ever have time. I’ve been studying alligators for seven years and I can’t imagine anyone jumping into the water at night and wrestling around with something this size. I certainly wouldn’t have tried it. That takes a very unusual man, in my opinion.”