Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (21 page)

“I wish I had a better idea,” Gus said, “but I don’t.”

The door opened again. A lab assistant waved to us to come back into the building. “The autopsy is complete,” he said. “I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Oh yes, another coroner’s report and more lab results—what could be more stimulating.

I had been in the conference room so often that I knew which chair had a broken caster—I walked past it to a free roller. Gus began to sit down in the clunker, but I waved him off. We were the first two in the room, but it filled up quickly: Forzo and his executive team, the ME, the chief forensic scientist, and others I had not yet met. It was an ultra high-level case, and Forzo had everyone on it. He looked very unhappy as he awaited the report.

Peter Dambro was the chief medical examiner. He sat down at the conference table and glanced over at Forzo before he spoke. “I’ll make this quick. I know that Assistant Chief Forzo and his staff are short on time.” Forzo smiled at Dambro and gave him a quick thumbs-up. “A full and detailed report will be available for each of you following the meeting. I have ruled this death a homicide. As you all know, the body of Jane Doe was recovered from the narrows this morning. She was wearing a scuba tank, buoyancy vest, and weight belt. In addition to the obvious mutilation of Jane Doe’s jaw and gums, the crime lab has determined that the buoyancy control device was rigged to inflate at a depth of sixty-six feet, when the scuba tank dropped below fifty percent capacity.”

Sixty-six feet.
That number is significant.
It took me a moment to recall why that particular depth stood out in my mind. It was the second thing I was taught in scuba class, right after
never leave your buddy
.

Dambro flipped a page in his report, reviewed it, and then began to confer with the chief forensic scientist.

I was sitting next to Detective Sergeant Stanhope, one of Forzo’s people. He leaned over and covered his mouth. “Isn’t that a lot of trouble to go to just to drown someone?”

“Who said anything about a drowning?”

“What?”

“Just listen.” Dambro and the chief forensic scientist had finished conferring. “The other shoe is about to drop.”

Dambro cleared his throat. “The victim died as a result of pulmonary barotrauma.”

I looked around the table. Forzo understood what Dambro had just said. The others seemed to be confused. Fortunately Gus and I had scuba experience—Gus gave me a knowing glance.

“What does that mean?” Stanhope asked. “How did she die?”

“She surfaced too quickly. Her lungs exploded.”

Ambler
showed up just as the medical examiner’s meeting broke up. He grabbed us and sat us down for a quick briefing. “I’m crazed,” Ambler said. “I was sitting on the goddamn Gowanus Expressway forever—two hours for a one-hour ride.”

Ambler was solo. “You should have asked Agent Banks along for company—the ride wouldn’t have seemed so long.”

Ambler raised his pointer finger. “Not now, Chalice. Jesus, I hate Staten Island.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Staten Island?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he said in a huff. “It’s not Manhattan! Now tell me what I missed.” Ambler poured himself a glass of water and sat down. His face was flush, and he was sweating through his suit jacket.

“A woman’s body was found this morning, floating in the narrows,” Gus said.

“I’ve heard the basics, Gus. Just give me the forensic details,” Ambler said.

“The victim’s incisors were cut out, just as in the three previous cases,” Gus added.

“I got that too.” Ambler was not in the best mood.

“The victim was outfitted with scuba gear,” I said. “a tank and regulator, weight belt, and a buoyancy control device, which had been tampered with to inflate at a depth of sixty-six feet when the tank was half empty.”

Ambler was no slouch. He knew where this was going already. “Triggering rapid-ascent decompression trauma.”

“Correct. The water in the narrows is between seventy and ninety feet deep. Tillerman knew the depth of the water and set the BCD to inflate at a pressure of two atmospheres.” I pictured this poor woman in the icy water at the bottom of the Staten Island Narrows with her eyes closed, waiting for her air to run out. I didn’t know why Tillerman had selected this victim, but he had chosen a particularly heinous way to kill her. Scuba divers breathe in pressurized air from an air tank. Atmospheric pressure doubles with every thirty-three feet of depth. Everything works out okay as long as the diver surfaces slowly, taking sufficient time to depressurize on the way up. Jane Doe would have rocketed to the surface when her buoyancy control device inflated. Water pressure against her body dropped suddenly, and the gases in her lungs expanded explosively. Her lungs popped like a balloon.

“What’s the water temperature down there?” Ambler asked.

“Cold as hell.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Ambler said, “She had to be hypothermic by the time the BCD inflated.”

“I don’t know how long it would have taken for her heart to stop. Until we hear differently, we’ll have to stick with the ME’s conclusion and that she was still alive when she surfaced.”

“There was no way for this woman to make a controlled ascent to the surface before the BCD inflated?” Ambler asked.

“The ME noted severe swelling in the area of the second cervical vertebrae, which he felt was the result of a compression injury. She was also bound around the wrists and ankles.”

“So Tillerman whacked her over the head before he threw her into the narrows. Temporary paralysis?”

“That’s what the ME suspects,” Gus said. “The big Russian’s neck was snapped as well—it goes to his MO.”

“So we have another murder, and I suppose another medallion will be delivered to FBI headquarters shortly,” Ambler said.

“The victim’s incisors were removed postmortem,” Gus added. “The SOB waited for the body to surface to cut her teeth out. He put the regulator back in her mouth and reapplied tape.”

“Why?” Ambler snapped. “Why go to the trouble?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, Chalice, it’s not,” Ambler retorted. “Explain.”

“He was afraid that she’d choke on blood if he cut out her teeth while she was still alive and that’s not how he wanted her to die. His method is so specific. He thought it through well in advance.”

“Then he replaces the regulator and tapes it again?” Ambler asked. “Why?”

“Because he was being a good little psycho—he didn’t want the body to fill with sea water. He preserved the evidence. He’s helping us with our case.”

Fallujah, Iraq, November 24, 2004: Eight hours before Thanksgiving.

PFC
Tom Babocci dove for cover. He buried his face in the sand when he heard the whistle he knew preceded a mortar explosion. He was thirty meters from the blast, barely beyond the effective blast radius of the 60mm Iraqi mortar round. Despite being out of range, he could feel the pressure waves from the explosion pummel his body. Sand sprayed his face with such intensity that grains became embedded in his skin. He remained motionless for a moment, despite knowing that he was a sitting duck should another mortar round drop nearby. He could feel his heart pound forcefully within his chest. He thanked God for sparing his life. It took another moment before he could will his body to move.

An M35 cargo truck had fallen to enemy fire. The remains of the overturned transport seemed to him like a good spot to take shelter from the sun and the wind. Babocci scrambled over to the metal skeleton and drank from his canteen. The water was warm and unappealing. He had filled his canteen from a PVC storage tank that was left out in the sun—it had imparted a miserable taste to the unfiltered water. The troops were warned about the perils of dehydration on a daily basis. He drank as much as he could stand.

Another mortar round exploded much farther away than the last. A third round landed still further west. The Iraqi attack was moving away from him, providing a momentary opportunity for him to catch his breath. He sat for several minutes looking out at the vast and unremarkable desert. Before him, shades of tan and sienna played in the wind, exchanging colors and mixing to become one.
Oh, how I’d love to see something green, a bush, a weed . . . anything.
He found the monotony of the desert depressing. It was almost as bad as the solitude. His troop would be along soon to pick him up, but until then . . .

He kept her picture with him always. Looking at Luisa’s picture, he could not remember a time when he did not love her. He had fallen for her before they had ever exchanged a word. He had admired her in school and in the neighborhood and had noted every detail of her appearance: her silky, long, black hair and her slender waist, the profile of her nose, and her long eyelashes . . . the reserved exchanges they shared.
Thank God she noticed me.
He was fatally bashful, and they would have never spoken had Luisa not made the first move. It was easy after that, easy and natural. They were meant for each other.

He ached when he saw her picture, knowing she would not be in his arms for another year. “I can’t wait for you to come back to me,” she said the last time they spoke. The wait was torturous. She was on his mind every conscious second of the day.

A gust of wind kicked up unexpectedly. The rusted truck creaked. Sand blew into his mouth. He spit out as much as he could and then rinsed his mouth with more foul water. He wiped his mouth and took a deep breath of the arid Iraqi air. All was quiet for a moment. He allowed the silence to calm him. His mind was just beginning to settle down when he heard a cry for help. It was coming from somewhere nearby. Babocci got to his feet and cautiously took a look around. He walked around the truck and saw the remains of a few ramshackle homes in the distance. “Help.” He heard the voice again, a soft plea that disappeared behind the rushing wind. “Is someone there?” It was not an American’s voice. He paused for a moment while he considered the possibility of stumbling into an enemy trap. He scanned the landscape and then his focus returned to the bombed-out homes in front of him. “Please. Someone help us, please.”

The troop will be along soon. Better to wait.

He heard a woman’s voice crying out in anguish. “Dear God, save us.” He ventured closer. The cries for help had stopped for a moment. As he got closer, he could hear the muted sound of Hebrew prayers.

All that was left of the decimated home were shattered walls and a few cooking pots. The house had a sand floor. The wind whipped up again. The sand near his feet swirled, and he saw that it covered wooden boards. He heard the wood boards creaking beneath his boots. “Help us!” Voices came to life beneath him, crying for help. “Our prayers have been answered. Dear God thank you. Are you American?”

Babocci was silent for a moment while he considered his next move. He brushed the sand on the floor with his boot until he found the outline of the cellar door. The hasp that held the door closed was secured with a rusted metal bolt. He kicked the bolt free, stepped back, and aimed his rifle at the door. “Come on out,” he said. He waited for someone to emerge. The door lifted slowly. A small child was visible in the opening. Babocci looked into the cellar and saw that the little girl was standing on a man’s shoulders. The man was dressed in civilian clothing. Babocci lowered his rifle and then slung it over his shoulder. He reached down and lifted the child up out of the cellar. As he did, he could see that the man was crying. “It’s all right,” Babocci said. “I’m American.”

“God bless you,” the man said. He bent down and lifted a second small girl toward the opening.

The family that Babocci rescued was standing around him and crying with relief. “I am Rabbi Asa Borach. I don’t know how to thank you—you saved my family.” He stepped forward and hugged Babocci. His wife did the same. “What is your name, soldier? I want to say a prayer in your honor.”

“PFC Tom Babocci. How long have you been down there?”

“Almost three days. Do you have any water? The children . . . please if you can spare a sip.”

Babocci handed him the canteen. “It’s not very good.”

Borach unscrewed the cap and held the canteen while the smallest girl drank. “Not too much,” he said. “Just take what you need.”

“Finish it,” Babocci said. “My troop will be along soon.”

Borach waited for his second daughter and wife to drink before he took any water for himself. “Thank you,” he said. “This is the best water I have ever tasted.”

“You’re working with Israeli intelligence?” Babocci asked.

Borach nodded. “We are on the same team.”

“Until the Iraqis discovered your true identity. I’m surprised you weren’t shot immediately.”

“The Iraqis left us down there with no food and water. They wanted me to watch my children wither and die. A bullet would have been more humane.”

~~~

Babocci lifted Borach’s youngest daughter and placed her in the U.S. Army transport vehicle. The transport was full—there was barely room for the small child to squeeze in between her parents. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered in her small voice.

The transport driver slapped Babocci on the shoulder. “You okay here until the rest of the troop comes by? Shouldn’t be too long.”