“I’ll drop you at the health center,” Wallace said as they followed the ambulance past the golf course. “King will be dropped off later.”
The hunter. He has a family, people who are in agony not knowing if he’s alive. “So I’ll be pulling double duty. Do you have a doctor on the island?”
“Yeah nah. Doc retired five years ago. We have telemedicine and a couple of nurse practitioners, Joan and Matt.”
“We’ll need an autopsy on King because his death is suspicious. Who will perform it?”
“Bloke at Southland Hospital in Invercargill.”
Alexa looked down, shocked to see she was still wearing disposable gloves. She slipped them off inside out and laid them across her orange thigh, limp and unprofessional. They were driving through the village now, tailing the ambulance. The cruise ship—a floating Gulliver—had made its way to the Lilliputian harbor.
Wallace noticed it too. “I’ve got to contact the activities director. A lot of island excursions involve the water, including cage diving. Gonna have to cancel the lot of them.”
Alexa had never been on a cruise; she imagined a swarm of fat locusts disembarking and devouring a path through Oban. How did the island infrastructure handle the influx?
“Eh. I’ll leave you here,” Wallace said, pulling in front of Stewart Island Medical Centre.
“Thanks. I’ll check in with you later.” She stuffed the gloves in the pocket of the SAR suit—she felt like she had been wearing orange forever—and gathered the backpack and crime kit.
The center was locked. Alexa checked the sign: Open Mon–Sat, 10:00 a.m.–12:30 p.m. For real? Today was Sunday. Closed.
The volunteer firefighter, Dan, who had driven the ambulance, joined her on the porch. “I called Joan. She’ll be right over.” He rubbed his buzzed head and lowered his substantial self onto the steps with a grunt.
Alexa left her stuff by the door and sat as well, unzipped the SAR suit, and scratched her bug bites. Her night of tossing and turning under Scratch seemed a month ago. A burst of gray-green bird swooped from a tree and landed proprietorially on the porch railing. Large, with scaly claws and red breast, it studied Alexa as it scrabbled closer and squawked like Wallace’s radio.
“Jeez. Is that a parrot?”
“A kaka. Watch it or he’ll try to get in your kit.”
“I thought a kaka was a canoe.”
Dan laughed. “That’s waka.”
“I thought that was a war dance.”
“That’s haka.”
“What the faka?”
They laughed together. The laughter felt good, a release, and then bad, a disrespect. She startled as a car door slammed, causing the kaka to fly off. A middle-aged woman, scraggly brown hair brushing her shoulders, rushed over. “Hello, Dan. Was that Wallace driving off?”
The ambulance driver nodded. “Known Kip since kindie.” Joan unlocked the clinic door with shaking hands and introduced herself. “Joan Soucie, nurse practitioner.”
“I’m Alexa Glock, from Forensic Service Center in Auckland.”
Joan turned to Dan, her brown eyes wide through her wire frames. “Do you know who he is?”
“No. Can you help me haul him in?”
Joan nodded gravely. Her skin was pale. Alexa didn’t know if this was normal or because of the grave task. The islanders carried the body bag by the corner handholds while Alexa held the door. “Put him in exam room one,” Joan directed.
The clinic had a waiting area, two exam rooms, and an office. When Alexa spotted the restroom, she excused herself. After stepping out of the jumpsuit and leaving it in an orange puddle, she used the toilet, scrubbed her face and hands, and dug dirt and sand—remnants of jungle and beach—from her nails. As she studied her appearance in the mirror—windburned cheeks and disheveled hair—she considered the opportunity this first “away case” presented: A mere handful of people in the world have the opportunity to examine shark maul victims. Analyze the bite marks. Draw conclusions. Could she write an article about it? The Journal of Oral Pathology might be interested. The prestige of publication would help her secure a job when she returned to the States.
Later, of course.
She abandoned her reflection and bent, stretching, touching her toes and scratching the welts on her ankle—nasty and inflamed. Stretching eased the tightness of her back scars. Upside down in an upside down antipodean world. The blood rushed to her head. Joan was in pale pink scrubs and pulling the exam door shut when Alexa reappeared. “Dan’s left. I…I’ve never seen…” Her words stumbled, ceased, and her shoulders sagged.
“I know. The body is in terrible condition.”
“We…we placed it—him—on the exam table. Should I…” The nurse covered her mouth with a gloved hand as if she was going to be sick, or cough, or wanted to restrain the words behind her lips. Then she straightened. “Should I wash the body?”
Alexa remembered that clenched fist. “No. Not yet. I need to examine him more closely first.”
They heard a rap, and then the door flung open. “Got here as fast as I could,” a bearded man announced, setting down a leather duffel. Gold hair tumbled from his ball cap.
“Oi.” Joan brought her hand back to her mouth. “Shack Man.”
“Shack Man?” Alexa asked.
“Kana Duffy.” The man smiled like sunshine. “I prefer shark biologist.”
“I’m the island nurse.” Facial pigment flooded back into Joan’s wan cheeks. “I watched you on Nightmares of the Deep.”
“I resuscitated a three-meter tiger shark on that show,” he bragged.
“Why would you do that?” Alexa snapped. She did not know squat about any Shack Man, but she knew mouth-to-mouthing a shark was crazy.
“Why would you not?” Duffy’s eyes were sea-glass green. “Ratbag fishermen left it for dead. Who are you?”
“Forensic investigator from Auckland.” She figured he must be the guy the helicopter pilot had mentioned. “Why are you here?”
“He’s famous,” Joan gushed, stashing her glasses into her smock pocket. “He’s been all over the world studying sharks and has his own telly program, Shark Shadow.”
“Yes, terrific, but why are you here now?”
“I’ve been called in to assess the situation. To figure out what happened. And to direct a plan of action. This incident is going to set shark conservation back twenty years.”
“Who requested your services?” Lack of sleep. Excitement. Exertion. They honed her tongue.
Duffy took the ball cap off and swiped his gilded bangs to the side. “Southland DOC.” He pointed to the ORSC logo on his cap. “I’m with Oceans Research Shark Conservation. If we have to cull the shark, I can identify which one it is so innocent great whites aren’t slaughtered.”
Alexa thought “innocent” and “great white” did not belong in the same sentence.
“Would you mind if I got a selfie? For my son?” Joan interrupted.
“Joan—does the clinic have an X-ray machine?” Alexa snapped.
“Yes. A portable.”
“I’ll check in with Sergeant Wallace while you fetch it.” Alexa left Joan tittering and entered the spare exam room. She guessed this was where they’d put the hunter’s body when he arrived. One more victim, and there would be no room in the inn.
Her phone had bars for the first time in twenty-four hours, and Wallace answered promptly.
“I was about to call,” he said. “A retired pathologist from Sequin of the Seas has offered to conduct the hunter’s autopsy.”
“From what?”
“The cruise ship in the harbor. Sequin of the Seas. He’s a passenger. He’ll arrive at 1:00.”
Alexa frowned and looked around at the exam bed, stool, chair, wall cabinets, built-in desk with computer station, and sink. She was tempted to open the cabinets. “Is the health center equipped to handle an autopsy? Does it have the right instruments?”
“I don’t know. What instruments?”
She thought fast. “Head block, bone saw, skull chisels.” She opened a cabinet and inventoried paper gowns, paper covers, disposable gloves, cotton balls, and tongue depressors. At least they wouldn’t need an organ scale since King’s had decayed.
“Maybe this bloke carries his own.”
She explained the reason for her call. “Is this Duffy man legit?”
“Department of Conservation have requested his services. He’s got a PhD in sharks or some such and hosts a TV program. My wife loves the show. Or maybe she loves him.” Wallace laughed, and then his voice went serious again. “They need an expert to figure out if we have an imminent threat to water users. As if we don’t know, eh? What?” Wallace spoke to someone else. “Sorry about that. Press are calling, photographers, passengers. It’s a bloody ’mare.”
“No sign of King yet,” Alexa said.
“We only have one ambulance. Dan is en route to meet body number two at the airport. Gotta go,” Wallace said and cut the line.
A shrill voice made her jump as she left the room. The mother. Hal’s mother was standing in the waiting area. Alexa took a deep breath and barreled forward. “Hello. I’ll be examining the victim. My first step will…”
“I want to see if it’s my son,” Ann screeched, looking toward the closed door of the second exam room.
Alexa tried to catch the woman’s eye. “We have not been able to identify the remains, the victim. It might not be Hal.” She stopped, worried giving the woman hope might backfire. “I’ll take dental X-rays. Did your son receive dental care?”
“Let me see him. Please.” Her eyes were crazed with fear.
“Ann,” Joan said, gently tugging her arm. “Come with me. Let’s call Dr. Keen’s office. He’s the one who made the oral care school visits. I’ll make you a cuppa. Come, luv.”
“He promised me he’d stop diving. Too many sharks coming close to shore. The cagers…”
Joan led her away. “I’ll wheel in the X-ray machine,” she said over her shoulder.
The situation was veering out of control. Perhaps already was. She entered the exam room and pulled on gloves as Duffy followed and closed the door. “Who is that woman?” he asked.
“A local. Her son is a pāua diver who’s missing. She thinks,” Alexa gestured toward the body, “it might be him.”
“White sharks have always been here, feeding on the fur seals,” Duffy said quietly, pulling gloves on. “Stewart Island is a hotbed. There’s always been risk for divers.”
She wasn’t going to debate with Pretty Boy, didn’t know whether he was for or against cage diving. She didn’t know where she stood either. She was here to do a job but decided to give the dog a bone and removed a clear evidence bag from the crime kit, dangling it like a fish lure. “Is this tooth from a great white?”
Duffy lunged for the bait. “Carcharodon carcharias.” He removed the tooth without asking and turned it this way, that way. “Broadly triangular.” He ran a finger over the edges. “Serrated for tearing off chunks of flesh.” He whistled. “This was from a massive shark. Probably male. The population of whites here is predominately male.”
Joan and Dan, the ambulance driver, had done a professional job. They had removed the decedent from the bag, placed him on an exam bed, and covered him with a paper blanket. A briny and fruity odor had breached the paper barrier. Alexa lifted the cover, exposing the head, and recoiled, even though she had already witnessed the damage.
Duffy came close. “Mother of God.” Against the white sheet, the plundered eye socket gaped like violent art. “The shark clamped the head in his jaws,” Duffy said, his voice so close Alexa could feel warm puffs. “It’s called the killing bite. Then comes the lateral head-shake, which ruptures the neck. It’s broken, yeah?”
She reached her hands under the paper cover and gently manipulated the spinal cord. Rag doll snapped, the image of a shark with a man’s head clamped in its jaws, body whipping back and forth, flashed in her mind. The floor undulated. She grabbed the exam bed to keep from crumpling.
“Take deep breaths,” Duffy commanded.
The memory of fainting during her first autopsy flooded back. “I know what to do,” she snapped. Head down. Deep breath in, hold, slow exhale. Repeat. She did this until the floor stabilized.
Joan wheeled in the adjustable-arm X-ray machine. “Ann is speaking with Hal Bennett’s dentist in Invercargill. We’ll have him fax the records.”
“Good. Thank you.” Alexa had regained her equilibrium and positioned the arm of the machine for a frontal. They’d have postmortem dental X-rays within seconds. Teeth wear and tear, size, shape, and dental work glowing in ghostly black, gray, and white. Point, aim—“Step behind the screen,” she told Duffy—shoot. She took a side view, a close-up, and one that would include the neck, and then left Duffy and the body to find Joan. A friend of Ann’s had arrived and was sitting with her in the waiting area, both with cups of tea, untouched, on the side table. Ann began to rise, but Alexa shook her head.
She and Joan studied the X-rays together. Nothing like a chipped tooth or gold inlay stood out. Couple cavities, one impacted wisdom tooth, the other three established.
“I’m still waiting on the fax,” Joan said. “I’ll let you know when it comes in.”
Alexa hoped the decedent wouldn’t be Hal and wheeled around. Time to find out what the clenched fist might reveal. When she returned to the exam room, she found the victim uncovered and Duffy leaning over it, his gloved hand probing the amputated elbow. “What are you doing? Step back,” Alexa commanded.
Duffy turned toward her, his face pale and his golden eyebrows scrunched together. Another shark tooth gleamed between his fingers.
“What’s wrong?”
“This man was ripped apart by multiple whites.”
“A pack of sharks attacked him?” The thought was horrifying.
Duffy nodded. “This tooth was embedded in the elbow area. It’s smaller than the tooth you found, so it’s from a different shark.” Duffy shook the tooth. “And look here.” He pointed to the large chunk missing from the left calf. “This bite mark is even smaller. See how the… ”
“But I thought great white sharks hunted alone.”
His authority reasserted itself. “Not always. We’ve spotted up to eight whites in one area. Something, like a seal colony, attracts them.”
Alexa tried to connect the nightmarish remains on the table with caging. “When people go cage diving, do they ever see more than one great white at a time?”
“Sure. Whether they were already in the same area, or brought together by the fish guts the cagers ladle or pump into the water. They’re triggering a response from any shark in the vicinity. But the chum, by DOC code, must be finely minced so that the sharks can’t feed on it. It attracts them and doesn’t provide payoff.”
“Jeez. Would that get them all riled up to attack?”
“Sure. Sharks bite for six main reasons: predation, aggression, defense, mating, hierarchy, and curiosity. This looks like predation or aggression. The press will run with this. Blame it on the sharks.”
“Shouldn’t they?”
“Not if the sharks were set up.”
Alexa began measuring bite marks. After talking to Wallace, she had located a scientific article titled “Determining shark size from forensic analysis of bite damage.” It had to do with bite circumference and interdental distance, or IDD.
“I’ll be able to give you type and size shark that inflicted this bite,” she told Duffy, pointing to the man’s side.
“No worries. I can tell it was a large white.”
She hid her disappointment. “Why don’t you document how many different sharks you suspect were involved?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Duffy’s movements were lithe and underwater-fluid as he glided around the body. Alexa watched while a grim movie flickered in her head: multiple sharks attacking a man from different angles. A horror movie. She took a deep breath and returned to her measurements. She’d feed the data into the computer later. Come up with a Wanted poster of the shark.
Finished with bite marks, she removed the bag covering the decedent’s remaining hand and strained to break the rigor stiffness of the clenched fist. Let me read your fortune. She unfurled the palm, wincing as contracted muscles—the result of the coagulation of proteins—fought back and then relinquished with a sickening pop.
“Your lifeline is short,” she whispered.
Duffy froze. “What?”
“Talking to myself.” She bent forward, her attention lured by a bright strand. A blue fiber was embedded in the fingernail of his remaining index finger. Before she removed it, she fetched her camera.
“What is it?” Duffy asked.
“I don’t know.” She took a couple photos and then extracted the fiber with tweezers, held it up to the light, a small braid, frayed at the tips, and then bagged it. Fiber analysis was almost as exciting as teeth. Cloth? Rope? Netting? The color indicated it was man-made. A stereomicroscope would help her examine it. She thought excitedly of the fully equipped lab at the Auckland Forensic Science Center as she set it in an evidence envelope and scraped a trace from beneath the nails. Had he scratched a shark? Fought back? His ring finger was missing the nail. She winced. A nail ripped off hurt like hell.
Idiot, she scolded herself.
His whole body was ripped apart. He didn’t notice one fingernail. A smaller strand of the fiber was under the pinkie nail. Her curiosity was roused. Where had the fiber come from? She combed the tattered remnants of black material left on the torso for more blue fiber. A partial logo—half a circle, the tip of an arrow—stopped her. “Do you know this brand?” she asked Duffy.
He put his camera down and leaned in. “Sure, yeah, Swazi. Skux.”
“Swazi Skux? That’s a brand?”
The shark expert grinned. “American, eh? Swazi is the brand. Made here in New Zed. Skux means, well, flash. Swazi makes top-of-the-line rain gear. Maybe he’s a fisherman, fell overboard.”
“Why hasn’t someone reported a missing person?” Alexa began removing pieces of the jacket with scissors when Joan ran in, her face flushed. Scissors midair, Alexa frowned. “What?”
“The fax came in.” Joan looked at the body. “He’s not Hal.”