Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“Well,” said Crossley, mightily annoyed, “I’ve got a god-awful mess to clean up in here. Since the dissection is effectively over, would you two please clear out of my lab?”

As they turned to go, she said: “And, Agent Pendergast? You may have the damned shoe.”

To Chief Perelman’s infinite relief, the task force was set up inside the capacious Fort Myers Police Department on Widman Way instead of his own cramped offices behind the Sanibel public library. He pulled his Explorer into a space. He and his two lieutenants, Towne and Morris, got out. Perelman liked to drive himself as much as possible, abhorring a dedicated driver, even insisting on chauffeuring his subordinates around when he could.

The first meeting of the task force had been scheduled for eleven, but he arrived thirty minutes early, partly in case of traffic, but mostly because he wanted to get a feeling for the task force commander, Baugh, and how this whole thing would work. He’d never been part of a task force before, and his impression of Baugh hadn’t been favorable, but Perelman believed in giving everyone a second chance. After that, they were irredeemable in his book.

“ Honor, Ethics, Accountability, Respect, Teamwork ,” said Towne, staring up at the façade of the building, where those words had been inscribed in giant letters. “I hope to God that’s more than just hot air.”

“We’re going in assuming the best,” said Perelman.

He entered with his lieutenants and was directed by a dour secretary to the task force staging area, a large conference room in the back of the building, with an adjacent office of open-plan cubicles, swarming with technicians and workers setting up desks, computers, big screens, and whiteboards. It looked, at first glance, like a reasonably efficient and organized operation. Hope sprang up in Perelman’s breast: more evidence this was a good start. In the hall outside, a coffee, tea, and ice water station had been set up.

Perelman made a beeline for it. He poured himself a cup, then dumped in three half-and-halfs and the same number of sugar packets. He sipped the coffee. Decent. Quite decent. Towne and Morris helped themselves as well, and they carried their steaming cups into the conference room, claiming seats in the front. Pretty soon others began to arrive — a captain and two lieutenants from Fort Myers PD, who greeted Perelman, along with a small cluster of uniformed cops. Caspar, the Fort Myers chief, wasn’t with them. That was typical of Caspar; even though he had nominal charge of the police aspect of the investigation, he was counting the months to retirement, currently laid up with a bad case of gout, and would be happy to let his most senior staff — and the Sanibel police force — get their hands dirty. If the investigation was ultimately successful, he’d inevitably get involved in its final stages, limping in to claim more than his share of credit.

Next in the informal parade was Kyra Markson, mayor of Sanibel, wearing her trademark tennis whites despite — or more likely because of — the tragic events. Her grim expression eased a little when she caught sight of him. Perelman nodded back. In earlier years, Markson had been a top executive in a public relations firm, and this — along with her family’s history at Sanibel, dating back to the days of the ferry — had been an unexpected but ideal qualification for mayor. She had evidently seen unusual qualifications in him as well, because she’d been instrumental in his becoming chief. They functioned well together by respecting each other’s territory: she kept the people happy, while he kept them safe. He knew Markson, at least, could be relied on to stay out of his way on this unless he needed her administrative firepower.

A moment later, Chief M.E. Crossley arrived with two assistants. Her face was rather drawn, and Perelman wondered what else might have happened besides the hagfish incident after he left her lab the evening before.

He looked around, curious where that fellow Pendergast was but not seeing him.

And then, arriving in tight formation, came the Coast Guard contingent, led by Commander Baugh in service dress blue, followed by other personnel in dress blues or operational uniforms. It was an impressive-looking crowd. Baugh went up to the front while the rest seated themselves. A tech wired him with a lavalier. The room fell silent as Baugh walked to the podium and withdrew some notes from his jacket. Exactly at the stroke of eleven, Agent Pendergast slipped in and, instead of taking a seat, stood leaning against the back wall of the room, arms crossed. He was wearing another white suit, this one apparently silk rather than linen. It seemed to have the faintest shade of coral to it, but in the lighting Perelman couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was that he’d never known an FBI agent to dress in such a way.

“Welcome,” said Baugh, looking around. “I am Deputy Sector Commander Stephen Baugh, Sector Seven of the United States Coast Guard, and I will be heading Task Force Captiva. The task force consists of the Coast Guard, the Fort Myers Police Department, the Sanibel Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the District Twenty-One Medical Examiner’s Office...”

Perelman tuned out the detailed description of command structure and responsibilities. When it was over, Baugh paused dramatically, looked fiercely around the room, and, gripping the podium, began to talk about the crime itself.

“So far,” he said, “ninety-nine green shoes have washed up on a one-mile stretch of Captiva Island, each one with a human foot inside, crudely severed above the ankle. You’re familiar with the details — which, pending further analysis and tests, are few — so I won’t go over them again here. The key fact is that the feet have been in the water about twenty-five days, give or take. We know this from the development of associated marine organisms. What I’d like to do now is go around the room and ask each chief a simple question: do any theories suggest themselves to you? I’ll give you all a moment to confer with your people.”

Perelman glanced at his lieutenants. “Any ideas?”

“Well,” said Towne, “I was thinking maybe this is some crazy cult. You know, like the Kool-Aid guy, Jim Jones, or those Heaven’s Gate people who thought they were going to join an alien spacecraft.”

“Hmm. Interesting. And you, Morris?”

“Totally baffled, but the idea of a cult seems as good as any.”

Perelman nodded.

“What about you, Chief?”

“I’ve no idea, so let’s go with the cult.”

Now the commander raised his head. “Are we ready? Assistant Chief Dunleavy, Fort Myers PD?”

Chief Caspar’s stand-in rose, a black woman in her fifties. “We were wondering if these feet may have come from some medical experimentation, maybe drifted up from Central America. I say that because those shoes look similar to the kind nurses wear in hospitals. But that’s sheer speculation.”

“Thank you. Chief Perelman?”

“With the same caveat — that this is speculation — we wondered if it might be from a doomsday cult. One whose initiation required the removal of a limb, by a priest or whatever.”

“Thank you. Special Agent Pendergast?”

A long silence. All eyes were turned to the figure standing at the rear of the room. He slowly uncrossed his arms and said, simply, “I would rather not speculate.”

“No one’s going to hold it against you. That’s what I want — speculation.”

“And that, Commander, is what I do not want.”

This fell into a leaden silence and the commander rolled his eyes. “You’re entitled to your opinion. And now, I’ll direct the question to myself.”