Duffy had nabbed a harbor-view table in the busy restaurant. Through the window as she approached, Alexa could see the sidewalk crowded with cruise passengers lined up like schoolchildren. At the head of each line, a guide held a sign: Kiwi Journey, Ulva Island Birding, Guided Tramp.
Duffy noticed her gaze. “The cage diving group are on the piss in the bar.”
What was on the piss? Despite the shower and fresh clothes, fatigue squeezed Alexa’s brain. Calories would rev her up to face the hunter’s remains. Her findings could launch a homicide investigation.
“Pulling your leg.”
“What?”
“The cagers. They aren’t drowning their sorrows. They’re doing a scenic boat tour instead, if the local sergeant gives permission.”
“His name is Sergeant Kipper Wallace.” She imagined Wallace was tired too. “Would a boat tour be safe?”
“The boat is large enough. They’ll be fine. I’ve already ordered, eh. I’m in a hurry.”
Alexa flagged a waitress and ordered beer-battered blue cod and chips. “And an L&P. With ice.” She had become fond of the lemon soda but not fond of the no-ice custom.
“Yours will be right up,” the waitress told Duffy.
“Ta.” He looked at Alexa. “There’s a press briefing at the ferry terminal. My pronouncement is required.”
The scene in Jaws, in which half of Amity launched small boats loaded with harpoons and dynamite, flashed in her mind. “What’s your pronouncement?”
“Stay out of the water.” Duffy’s green eyes regarded her. “They also want my opinion on culling.”
The opened top buttons of his oxford shirt revealed a tawny pelt. Three women at the next table stared. “What is culling?”
“Capturing and killing sharks. There were two white shark incidents off Queensland in September,” he said. “Bite and flight. Probably different sharks each time. It’s counterproductive for a white to feed on a human. They’re energy maximizers and hunt prey with high blubber content. People are too low-fat.”
Alexa thought of the massive sea lion charging her on the beach. “Do they eat sea lions?”
His eyes gleamed. “Ah, yeah. High in fat. And seals, squid, tuna.”
“What did the authorities in Australia do about the attacks?”
“Incidents, not attacks. Watch your terminology.”
“What does it matter?” Her nerves were frazzled.
“Shark language is biased,” he explained. “Stalking, attacking, lurking, shark-infested. The media feed people’s fears to sell advertising. ”
“Mmm. Never thought of it that way.”
“The Australian government knee-jerked and hired fishermen to bait drum rolls to catch sharks, yeah?” His eyes narrowed. “Snared over one hundred. Shot and killed eight big sharks, loads of small ones. When they shoot them, they throw them overboard to attract more sharks. There’s no evidence they killed the right sharks or that it made swimmers safer, although whites are smart enough to leave the area for weeks. It’s barbaric.” He fiddled with his phone and handed it to Alexa. She studied the photo of a listless shark impaled on a big hook.
“Cage diving lures sharks to certain areas too, right?” She handed him back his phone.
“That’s debatable.”
“Really?”
“Cage operators claim different sharks come each time. And operators are meant to change locations regularly. And there are strict rules about attracting them.”
“Such as?”
“The New Zealand Code of Practices says no mammalian-based products can be used as bait, and like I told you earlier, chum has to be finely minced so that it doesn’t actually feed the sharks. Bait can’t be pulled or dangled in front of the cage when divers are in it. Things like that.”
It was a lot to digest. She had been lured to this restaurant by scent and would be pissed if no one fed her. “So sharks aren’t actually being fed?”
“No. Just attracted by the scent.”
“That hardly seems fair to the shark. Are you against cage diving?”
Duffy frowned. “I prefer free-diving with sharks, not hiding in a cage, but the answer is not simple. Ecotourism has lined local coffers, eh. People rely on that money, especially since the oyster blight closed the area aquafarms.”
Alexa felt lightheaded as she watched a nearby teen masticate French fries. “What does that have to do with cage diving?”
“The closure hit islanders hard. People lost their jobs. Some jumped ship to work for the caging industry. And when tourists see whites in their natural habitat, it casts a spell on them. They end up high on adrenaline, and they turn that energy into wanting to protect sharks, protect the oceans, ban finning.”
“Finning?”
“The most barbaric offense of all, for a bowl of soup. Millions of sharks are slaughtered every year. Slice the fin off and toss the still-living fish into the sea, where the shark either suffocates or is eaten by other predators.”
“Millions?” Alexa couldn’t believe it. “Does the United States allow finning?”
“The States banned it in 2000, good on ya.”
“Is finning allowed in New Zealand?” She frowned at a woman taking Duffy’s picture.
“We banned it a couple years ago. Sharks are key to healthy oceans. If we exterminate them, the marine ecosystem collapses. Other species will die off.” Duffy sounded reasonable, Alexa thought, but there was a mutilated body at the health center.
“When you spend time with sharks,” he continued, “study them, you fear them less and are amazed more. Did you know they can see in the dark?”
“I thought they used vibrations, like thrashing, and smell—like blood, to locate their prey.” The smell in the restaurant was driving Alexa crazy. Where was her food?
“True, but their eyesight is really sophisticated, even in the dark. They have tapetum lucidum tissue—you know, same things cats use to see at night.”
“So, don’t bleed, move, or swim at night, right?”
A waitress delivered Duffy’s meal. He took a bite, looked out the window, chewed slowly. “Ahh, lovely. Cold water produces the best cod.” He put down his fork and fiddled with his phone again, handing it to her. “There’s a photo on Instagram. Did you know?”
Alexa studied the picture. The body on Ringaringa Beach. The waves. The top of her head. The orange jumpsuit. “A helicopter flew low over us while I was examining the body,” she murmured and tapped the link:
Great White Rips Man to Pieces
The shark-shredded remains of an unidentified man washed ashore on Stewart Island’s Ringaringa Beach this morning. The victim succumbed to massive bites and severed limbs. Great whites congregate around the island, and locals have warned authorities that an attack was imminent due to the cage diving industry’s use of chum and bait.
“It was just a matter of time,” local bach owner Julie Stokely said. “The cage operators have changed the sharks’ behavior. Baiting sharks, teasing them—how is that not asking for trouble? And no one put a stop to it. The sharks were out for revenge, and here’s your bloody evidence.”
Sergeant Kipper Wallace of the Stewart Island Police Department halted all water activities and closed bathing beaches. “Contact the department if you have any information about the victim’s identity,” he said.
Department of Conservation authorities flew in shark expert Kana Duffy to assess the situation and determine a plan of action. Duffy, who holds a PhD in marine biology from the University of Melbourne, is host of Shark Shadow and runs the Oceans Research Great White Shark Program.
“Our island of tranquility is no longer tranquil,” local fisherman Rex Cooper said. “The cagers have turned whites into man-hunters. It’s Jaws down under.”
The language—revenge, man-hunters, Jaws—was inflammatory. Alexa watched Duffy scrape his plate.
“I don’t like this incident one bit,” he said, his emerald eyes glowing. He looked around the crowded room and leaned forward. “Sharks have been set up. This man was killed due to human interference. Meet me in the pub tonight. We can discuss it, eh? Come up with a plan.”
Alexa, jolted by “meet me in the pub,” didn’t answer and watched Duffy pay at the counter and leave the restaurant. No denying he was a lovely specimen. He reappeared on the street and pushed through the Ulva Island Birding group. They parted like a school of fish around a reef.
* * *
Energized by scarfing the best-ever fish and chips, Alexa arrived back at the medical center. A silver-haired man paced impatiently on the porch. “Do you work here?” he asked.
“Temporarily.” Alex tried the door.
“It’s locked. I’m Dr. Edward. Geoffrey Edward. From Perth.”
“The pathologist?”
He nodded.
“I’m Alexa Glock, forensic examiner.” She extended her hand.
“Do you have a permit for that name?”
Oh, brother. She dropped her hand.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Joan, a coat over her pink scrubs, scurried across the lot and up the stairs.
Alexa introduced the Kiwi to the Aussie.
“Oh, good,” Joan said to the doctor. “I thought you were another reporter. I sent one on his jolly way. I was afraid he would follow me to the Four Square.” She held up a grocery bag. “Had to get lunch.”
“Have the rangers delivered the remains?” Alexa asked.
“Yes. The ranger with floppy hair and Dan hauled him in. The ranger asked for you.”
The whale ranger. Stephen.
Dr. Edward interrupted. “The shark victim. He’s here too, right?”
“Oh, yes. In there.” Joan pointed. “We don’t know who he is.”
“Everyone on the ship is spotting fins,” Dr. Edward said. “Even the ones who can’t see worth a joey. I’ll take a look at him, if you’d like, to confirm your findings.”
“Let’s get to the hunter first,” Alexa said. “A wife and kids have been waiting a long time.” They entered the room, washed up, and gloved up. “There won’t be much cutting since the soft tissue has decayed. Cause of death is obvious.”
She unzipped the body bag, releasing earthy scents, and continued. “The remains match the ten-month time frame since Robert King disappeared. Clothing slowed disarticulation of the major joints.”
She parted the top section of the bag and jerked. The skull, wedged like a pet owlet on the skeletal shoulder, stared at her.
“The head has detached.” It reminded her of the skull sold on the black market in her last case. According to the Māori, the separation of body and soul unleashed demonic destruction.
“Was a weapon recovered with the body?” the doctor asked.
“A rusting Browning A-Bolt. Sergeant Wallace has it.”
“I’m a Browning man too. Use the T-Bolt.”
“What’s the difference between A and T?” Did Browning go through the alphabet like Sue Grafton, Alexa wondered.
“Both are bang-up rifles.” The doctor wore chinos and a garish Hawaiian shirt. He had accepted the disposable apron Joan handed him and was securing it with a bow. “A-Bolts hold a higher resale value. The T is more accurate.”
King’s remains, once they removed the bulky jacket, tattered pants, and large boots, had shrunk. The doctor brushed debris off the bones. Alexa lifted the skull, surprised by its lightness, and reminded herself that evolution designed as lightweight a container as possible for supporting and protecting the brain. Our thoughts are heavy enough. “I’ll take dental X-rays and then get out of your way.”
“Teeth are like fingerprints,” Dr. Edward said. “No two are alike.”
Alexa smiled. “Every tooth has unique characteristics.”
“A molar masher, are you?”
“A forensic odontologist.” Alexa placed the skull on a paper-covered tray and deftly manipulated the jaw. An upper incisor and premolar were gone, resulting in a meth mouth appearance. The remaining—she counted—twenty-six teeth (the wisdom teeth had been removed) were intact. Alexa spotted a lower left tooth restoration. She had studied King’s antemortem records while waiting for the ferry; this looked like a match.
She positioned the arm of the portable X-ray machine.
“Take left and right lateral, as well,” Dr. Edward said, stepping behind the screen.
Alexa bristled. She had planned to take laterals. Posterior, too. After taking the images, she left to find Joan. They studied the right lateral—a full view of the entire skull—on the computer screen. A chill ran through Alexa as she noted the dead end where the skull should have attached to the cervical vertebra. How could people go about their business if they knew how tenuous this connection was? Joan held the antemortem films. Their heads went tennis-match mode: both films showed lower jaw teeth crowding, one restoration, similar interspacing, four fillings, and wisdom teeth extraction.
“It’s him,” Alexa said.
“Came here for a hunting holiday and never left, out there all this time, rotting in the bush,” Joan said in a husky voice.
Alexa left a voicemail for Wallace—he would need to notify next of kin—and then returned to the exam room to watch the doc. Well, to check on him. Make sure he wasn’t a quack. Dr. Edward was bending over King’s skull with a magnifying glass. “Do you carry a Glock?” he asked. “Most Yanks pack, right?”
Her list of comebacks was at the ready, aim, fire. She sighed. “No. I don’t own a weapon. Let’s finish up.”
The pathologist straightened. “We have a mature male with Caucasoid traits and age indicators compatible with your missing hunter.”
Alexa watched his wrinkled face. This probably wasn’t how he anticipated spending his holiday.
“With the biological tissue gone, we can’t be one hundred percent certain. There could have been lesions involving soft tissue. However, I conclude COD is bullet trauma to skull. If you locate the spent bullet, it can provide clues to the model and make of weapon.”
Alexa nodded.
“The size and shape of the entrance wound indicate the shot was fired from five to seven meters away,” he said. “This man did not take his own life.”
This confirmation caused goosebumps to pop up on her arms. Someone had deliberately or accidentally killed King. Either way, the body was left to rot.
Dr. Edward threw his apron and gloves in the trash. “Now, about that shark victim.” He washed his hands.
“I’ll meet you in the other room. I need to call the sergeant again.” She washed up too and stepped out of the room into the waiting area.
Wallace didn’t answer, so Alexa left another voicemail. “The pathologist confirmed my findings. King didn’t take his own life.” She hesitated and then added, “Kana Duffy has concerns about the shark victim. Since the pathologist is here, I am asking him to autopsy for cause of death.” Autopsies were performed for various reasons: to check for the presence of and extent of disease, to evaluate medical care, to advance medicine, to reassure family members. And—like now—if the circumstances were suspicious.
Decision made. But was the medical center equipped? She found Joan. “Does the clinic have a bone saw?”
Joan blinked rapidly. “Dr. Bennett, he’s retired, had one for emergencies—amputations or if you had to massage the heart.”
“Find it. And do you have a baby scale?”
“Oh, sure. A digital.” She collected the equipment, and they joined the doctor.
He pulled back the blanket, exposing the mauled remains. “Oi.”
“If you don’t mind,” Alexa said, trying for charm, “I am requesting an autopsy.”
“Pardon me?” the pathologist said. “I just want a look-see.”
“I have the authority to request an autopsy on this John Doe.”
Dr. Edward’s white eyebrows rose. “Well, if you deem it necessary. COD appears obvious. I can be more specific with time of death when we check the contents of his stomach. There’s indication of lividity on the chest and face. He floated facedown while in the water. Before washing ashore.” He scanned the decedent, his eyes resting on the raw thigh stump. “My ship leaves in an hour. That gives me time to do a partial. You’ve completed the external examination?”
“Yes.”
He noticed Joan holding the scale and saw. “I’ll need a sterilized scalpel, forceps, and sample containers.”
Joan fulfilled his requests as he tied on a fresh apron.
Most of the one and a half gallons of blood circulating in the victim’s body had disgorged into the ocean. That was fortunate because the exam bed did not have an attached sink and spray hose to wash away body fluids like a standard morgue table does. It wasn’t stainless steel, either.
Joan helped them position a plastic sheet under the body. “Blimey. We’ve never had an autopsy here.”
The doctor ignored her and asked, “What’s your estimate of height and weight?”
Alexa checked her notes. She had measured the decedent from head to the one remaining foot and based weight on the amount of body fat visible for that height. “He’s about 180 centimeters and weighs approximately 85 kilos.”
“Brain or chest?” he asked.
A partial autopsy was neck-up or neck-down. Cause of death was her objective. Could it be anything other than massive bleeding? The organs would reveal more. “Chest, please.”
“A no-brainer, then.”
Joan laughed, and Alexa forced a smile for the doctor’s benefit as she carefully removed the tape securing the seeping intestines. Joking was a coping mechanism. This was only the fifth autopsy she had attended in her life, and she had fainted during the first one. Examination of skeletal remains, like the hunter, was different. Easier.
“The decedent has shallow lacerations and punctures in the upper chest,” Dr. Edward said, getting right to business. He used the largest scalpel to make a Y-incision from armpits to the pubic bone, and then pulled the chest skin back in a sickening squelch. “Hand me the saw.”
Joan solemnly put it in his outstretched hand.
Dr. Edward studied it and pressed the On button. “This will do nicely.” With the motor making a low, steady thrum, he cut through the breast plate and ribs, exposing the neck, heart, and lungs. He switched from saw to scalpel and proficiently cut and removed the four-inch trachea. “I need more light.”
Joan fetched a flashlight and held the beam so the doctor could see more clearly.
“Hold it just there,” the doctor directed, examining the gray-pink tracheal tube. “Hmmm. Do you see?”
A sickly sweet stench emanated from the windpipe as Alexa peered into it, trying not to gag. The body was ripening, and there was no air filter in the room. “What is it you’re seeing?”
“Fluid and foam,” the doc replied.
Foam was a symptom of drowning. Alexa was confused.
The doctor set the windpipe in a sample container and studied the heart and lungs. “They’re in good shape. It will save time if I remove them en masse.” He sliced through connective blood vessels, reached in, and removed the major organs together.
Alexa watched as he separated the heart from the lungs and examined the arteries. “Clear. No sign of heart attack.” He placed the mass on the scale. “Three hundred forty-two grams. Slightly heavy for his body weight.”
Next he examined the left lung. Then he weighed it. “Strange,” Dr. Edward said, frowning. “Do you see?”
“What?”
“Eh? It’s enlarged, distended. Weighs more than normal.”
Alexa studied the waterlogged organ on the baby scale. “There’s hemorrhaging, too.” She pointed to a red cluster on the grayish lung.
The doctor nodded. “Cause of death could be drowning. Not blood loss.”
“I don’t understand,” Joan said. “He was eaten by sharks.”
Could John Doe have drowned before he bled to death, Alexa wondered? Her phone barked, making her jump.
The doctor looked up in alarm.
“It’s my cell phone. I need to change that ringtone.” She let it go to voicemail.
“My wife’s phone quacks,” Dr. Edward said, shaking his head. “I recommend a diatom test in the lab. And full toxicology screening.”
“Diatom. That’s microscopic algae, right?”
“Yes. It’s found in open bodies of water. Now I’ll check the lower organs. Never overlook the liver, eh?”
Alexa watched as he probed the meaty organ and explored the tattered abdominal cavity. “I see partially digested food in the stomach and upper intestine,” he offered.
“So…you know how long since he ate?”
“Digestion ceases with death. I’d say three to six hours between his last meal and time of death.” He leaned closer toward the stomach, scowled, and adjusted the light. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know.” His rhetorical questions were becoming tiresome.
Dr. Edward pried loose and lifted the abdominal aorta. “Look how the vessel has been cut.”
“By shark teeth?”
“There are no bite wounds in mid-abdomen. This was severed by a bullet.”
Alexa froze. “What?”
“I’m seeing bullet damage.”
Drowning. Bleeding. Bullet. What the hell?
The doctor fingered the small intestine still attached to the stomach and leading—like a bluish snake—out the crescent bite at the man’s side, piling in a coiled blob on the exam bed.
He probed, inch by inch, then stopped. “Here.” He lifted a nearly severed section. “Bullet damage. See?”
Alexa nodded, amazed.
Dr. Edward finished examining the viscera. “The entrance wound is missing.” He pointed to the crescent bite on the man’s side. “Let’s see if there’s an exit wound.”
Joan helped the doctor turn the body on its side, and all three of them scrutinized the marred skin. “There,” Dr. Edward said, pointing.
Above the left buttock was a red-rimmed hole.
“Easy to miss among the puncture wounds,” he said kindly.
“Blimey,” Joan whispered.
Alexa stared with disbelief. “So, the bullet didn’t lodge in the body?”
“No.”
“Can you tell what type of weapon or the caliber of the bullet?”
“Doubtful. There’s a lot of damage from the shark bite wounds. I do know that the bullet to the abdomen wouldn’t have killed him instantly, but it would have caused him agony.” He paused. Maybe the ramifications were solidifying. “This is a case for law enforcement.”
“I’ll call Sergeant Wallace and let him know.”
“I need to sew him back up and be on my way. The wife might have issued a man-overboard.”
“I have to take photos and video first. Sergeant Wallace will want to speak with you.” She pictured Dr. Edward back on the cruise ship, decompressing with an umbrella drink at the tiki bar. “Don’t tell anyone what we’ve discovered.”
“Doctor’s oath,” he replied.
Joan promised to get the two bodies airlifted to the morgue in Invercargill. Alexa’s mind was a whirling dervish as she called Sergeant Wallace. When he didn’t answer, she hung up. This news was better delivered in person.