The Forgotten

Cocoa disappeared under the water. Everyone fell silent. Not even the police divers, who had broken off to chat, spoke.

Nor did any of the other staff—trainers, educators, even the café crew—who had crowded around to watch the proceedings. Lara noted that coworkers seemed to be clustering together. Dr. Nelson Amory, head of research, stood with Cathy Barkley, his assistant, and Myles Dawson, their U of Miami intern. Frank Pilaf and the café staff stood together, while the other trainers, Sue Crane and Justin Villiers, were watching from beneath the bountiful leaves of a sea grape tree.

Cocoa returned, bringing Lara a long stalk of sea grass.

Lara thanked her and stroked her back.

“Tell her that’s not it,” Agent Cody said.

Lara ignored him; she wasn’t about to tell the dolphin that she’d failed or disappointed in any way.

“Cocoa, thank you. And now, please, fetch again, will you?” she asked.

Cocoa went down again. This time, she returned with a pair of sunglasses that had obviously been entangled in sea grass for a very long time.

“These are great,” she told Cocoa. “Thank you.”

Cocoa chattered and went back down. She was obviously enjoying the game.

Agent Cody was just staring at Lara, waiting. Uncomfortable under that probing gaze, she turned around to face Grady and Rick.

“I’m not sure what you thought I could do,” she said by way of apology.

“You never know,” Grady said.

But then Lara felt a bump as Cocoa pushed her from behind. She heard a massive, collective gasp—almost as if all those gathered around the lagoon were actors creating a scene on cue—as she turned around.

Cocoa had something for Lara. It was balanced precariously on her nose.

And Lara had to choke back a scream, had to steel herself to remain still...

This time it was a human foot.

3 (#ulink_cf4d6a1b-5dbb-5946-815e-95d0d248c221)

“It’s kind of like Mike, the headless chicken,” Diego said gravely.

They’d showered at the Sea Life Center and were now on their way to the medical examiner’s office to see Dr. Phil Kinny, the ME, who had possession of the foot.

Brett glanced questioningly at Diego, then went back to driving as he waited for his partner and friend to elaborate.

Diego nodded at him somberly. “I swear this is no lie, Brett. You can look it up. There was a chicken by the name of Mike. Had his head chopped off, but they missed something at the brain stem. He lived for eighteen months.”

“That’s some kind of hoax,” Brett said.

“No, it happened in 1945. I know because I thought it was a hoax, too, so I checked it out. The guy who owned Mike made money touring him around. They also brought him to the University of Utah so that researchers there could document what had happened.”

“His head was chopped off and he lived?” Brett asked skeptically.

“The ax missed the carotid artery or something like that, and a blood clot kept him from bleeding out. The head was gone except for one ear. Mike even tried to peck and eat grain. It’s a bizarre story. Supposedly he made the farmer like forty-five hundred dollars a month, which would be close to fifty thousand now. They fed him with an eyedropper, gave him milk and stuff. I don’t remember exactly. I think he finally choked to death, but the point is, he lived for eighteen months without a head.”

“So you’re telling me that Miguel Gomez might have had his head chopped off and then been programmed to kill his wife?” Brett asked.

“No. I’m just saying there’s something weird going on.”

“I agree. But Miguel couldn’t have killed Maria. I don’t think that I ever saw a man and woman married so long who were still so deeply in love,” Brett said. He paused for thought. Actually, he saw the same love and respect in his own parents. They’d married practically as children and were still married—and bugging him for grandchildren. Luckily his sister had provided them with a boy and a girl, and they lived in Jacksonville, near his folks in St. Augustine.

“Miguel loved Maria. So what? Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have become a zombie, until someone did him in for real, then chopped him up and threw him in Biscayne Bay. All we need is another zombie story around here,” Diego said.

Brett agreed. In 2012, a young man had gone crazy, stripped naked and attacked a stranger on MacArthur Causeway, claiming the older man had stolen his Bible. He’d chewed off half the face of the victim, who had miraculously survived, before being shot by police. Brett knew a few of the officers who had been among the first responders. They’d told him that the attacker had been so revved that he hadn’t fallen immediately, actually growling at the officer who had demanded he cease and desist. The first bullet had done nothing; four more had been needed to bring down the attacker. The media, naturally, had seized on the event, which quickly became known as the Miami Zombie Attack or the Causeway Cannibal Attack.

They didn’t need the media seizing hold of this situation—especially when years of work by a half dozen law enforcement agencies might well be at stake.

And especially when Miguel and Maria had left behind a loving family who didn’t need that kind of story marring the memory of their loved ones.

“With any luck, we’ll avoid the zombie stories,” Brett told him.

Diego snorted.

He was right, actually. A zombie story was inevitable, unless they managed to gag the press and anyone who might have seen Miguel before Maria’s death.

And now, of course, they had body parts that proved Miguel hadn’t died in that fire. They were going to take some major-league credibility blows from the local, county and state police, not to mention every federal agency out there.

They arrived at the medical examiner’s office on Northwest 10th Avenue. Brett sighed. He’d been there far too many times—but none quite like this. The gurneys were sized to hold bodies, but the one today held nothing but the severed foot.

The ME was waiting for them and started right in after a quick hello.

“Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, the foot goes with the finger goes with the DNA of Miguel Gomez. We’re dealing with body parts that have been compromised by seawater, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a certain amount I can tell you. First, this foot wasn’t in the water more than twenty-four hours—I’d say more likely around twelve to sixteen. Gomez was already dead when his foot was removed. It was anything but a precision operation. You’re not looking for a surgeon. You are looking for someone capable of swinging a blade. That foot was removed by something like a large hatchet or an ax.”

“How did Miguel die?” Brett asked.

Phil Kinny stared at him. “Brett, I’m looking at a foot and a finger. I’ve sent out tissue samples for analysis, in case that can tell us anything, but all I know so far is that a seemingly healthy man was dismembered after death. If he had drugs or alcohol in his system, the tox screen will tell us that. When I have anything more, I’ll call you.”

“How long?” Brett asked.

“I marked this as top priority,” Kinny told him. “But this is Miami,” he added drily. “So no guarantees.”

“Thank you, Phil,” Diego said.

Brett quickly echoed his words.

“If I only had a head,” Kinny said.

Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a bizarre version of The Wizard of Oz. He understood what Kinny meant, though. Unraveling the mystery of death was Kinny’s passion; his determination to know the truth had helped them many times.

“Unfortunately, it’s probably in Biscayne Bay—somewhere,” Diego said.

“But maybe near Sea Life,” Brett speculated.