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Based on clothing, two of the other four victims appeared to be male. Like the teen, each wore shorts and a tee. Though the fabric was badly degraded, the messages on their chests were still legible. One said:I Love My Wife, I Worship My Car; the other said:Real Men Don’t Need Instructions. The irony of the latter was lost on no one.
The pair lay supine, one between the helm and the captain’s chair, the other parallel to the cockpit seating bordering the stern. The flesh was largely gone from their faces, the exposed teeth and facial bones bleached white as the sand at our backs.
Both men had been tall and, I suspected, fully adult. Both wereemaciated, their limbs ropey and thin, making their clothing appear too large for their frames.
An off-kilter visor held some of the helm corpse’s hair tight to his skull. The strands were long and gray. A faded elastic binder suggested they’d once formed a scraggly ponytail.
The remaining two victims lay facedown, the legs of one overlapping the shoulders of the other. Abundant body hair suggested they, too, were adult males.
The upper member of the pair had on Champion shorts and a UV sun protection shirt. The lower member had chosen to go bare chested his last day on earth. His board shorts were lavender and blue, his head bandanna striped yellow and black.
I turned to Musgrove. Her expression was a mix of surprise and dismay. I guessed she’d been anticipating skeletons, not fleshed corpses. Another dashed expectation.
“Think we can collect the remains undamaged?” Musgrove asked Bernadin.
“I surely try my best, ma’am. I unzip the bags and, wit’ some help, together we tease one underneat’ each body.” His words rode melodious but melancholic on the soft sea air. “And we pray dese poor souls keeps demselves in one piece.”
That’s what we did.
The poor souls did their part.
The Zodiac made three round trips. Two hours later, the five corpses were strapped into the coroner’s van and Musgrove and I were back on shore. Hungry, tired, and desperate to shower.
As its ill-fated passengers took their final journey, Kemp and Stubbs began processing theCod Bless Us. Despite the boat’s apparently long time adrift, they would attempt to collect biologicals—blood, body fluids, hair, and tissue. As well, they’d search for traceevidence—fibers, soil, vegetation, glass fragments—especially at logical entry points. They’d dust for latent prints from fingers, palms, or feet. They’d record footwear patterns or tool mark impressions. They’d confiscate any drugs, firearms, or cell phones found on board. Using every trick in their CSU arsenal, they’d do their best to help answer the myriad questions on everyone’s mind.
Constable Rigby drove us back to civilization in the same Jeep Wrangler that had brought us to the scene. Constable Gardiner stayed behind to guard the beach while Stubbs and Kemp were out tossing theCod Bless Us.
I asked Musgrove about the need for such tight security. She said that Northwest Point was a high crime area. Taking in the uninhabited landscape and the endless, empty sea, I wondered how that could possibly be, but I didn’t question her statement.
During the early part of the ride, Musgrove and I compiled a list of troubling issues. A long one. That done, we considered the logical next steps in the investigation.
Once her signal kicked in, Musgrove’s phone exploded with a series of pings. She abandoned the conversation to focus on reading and sending texts. I went back to my tried and true. Window gazing.
We were rolling along the Leeward Highway, passing the Graceway IGA, when Musgrove spoke again.
“Brilliant news. Unless someone throws a spanner in the works, I have the boat inspection and autopsy sorted.”
I said nothing, awaiting further explanation.
“When Kemp and Stubbs finish with theCod Bless Us—” She broke off to shake her head, turn to me, and ask, “Really. What is it with these boaters and their silly names?”
I had no answer for her.
“Anyway, when the CSU team finishes and releases the scene, amarine agent will board the vessel, refuel her, and attempt to crank up the Mercs.”
“The inboard motors.”
“Yes. If her engines work, theCodwill be piloted to one of our docks. If they don’t, she’ll be towed.”
Musgrove glanced down at the sound of yet another incoming text. Scanned the message. Resumed speaking.
“Either way, in the next few days, a forensic engineer will fly here from Miami. He’ll dissect every bloody inch of her. Stem to stern, as they say.”
“To determine why she ended up dead in the water.”
Tight nod. “A forensic patho will accompany the engineer.”
That I understood. The pathologist would analyze the five DOAs now rolling toward the TCI mortuary with the same diligence the engineer would apply to the boat. Stem to stern. Head to toe.
