Page 35 of Unnatural Death

“Could be a Chernobyl effect too,” Marino goes on, and I wish he wouldn’t. “Because of all the contamination, animals mutating after centuries of mercury, lead and shit like that. For sure, that would change the DNA of things, right?”

“Heavy metals can cause birth defects, among other serious problems,” I reply.

“Meaning we might see a two-headed snake or some other freak of nature.”

“You’re not making this any easier, Marino.”

As I back-paddle, my head supported by the neck pillow, I’m staring up at blue sky and bright sunlight. I’ve sweated off much of the sunblock I put on earlier and can feel my skin beginning to burn. I’m mindful of what’s below that might be attracted to our bright movement. I keep up my scan for anything swimming along the surface.

“I’m seeing cash ahead, Doc.” Marino speeds up, lunging for several hundred-dollar bills.

We begin grabbing what we can reach without going too much out of our way. I tuck the soggy money into the flotation bag attached to my suit, and within minutes we’ve collected thousands of dollars.

“There must be another twenty grand floating around out here at least,” Marino marvels. “No telling how much cash they had and what might have sunk to the bottom or washed downriver.”

The female victim is barely drifting with the current just ahead, a hundred-dollar bill caught in her long brown hair fanned out on the lake’s surface. I gently grip the rubber handle of a hiking pole impaling her torso from back to front. There are two of them, the tips sharp like arrows. As I move her closer, she bobs in the water, the shadows of fish darting.

Placing the lifeguard tube under her, we clip the strap in place, turning the body onto its back. She stares up with empty eye sockets and bared teeth, her lips, earlobes and other delicate body parts nibbled off.

“Jesus.” Marino blows out a big breath. “Some things I never get used to, and being fish food is one of them.”

“She’s been facedown in the water since death or soon after it,” I reply.

Rigor mortis is fully set, her limbs stiffly fixed in the position they’re in, bent as if she’s crawling. Her face and posterior trunk are suffused dusky red from noncirculating blood settling with gravity, a postmortem change called livor mortis.

“By all indications,” I explain, “she and the male victim were killed at least eight hours ago.”

“I’m betting within minutes of each other,” Marino says as we swim backwards, towing her to shore.

Both of us are holding the rope when something starts tugging it, pulling the body under the surface. Then it bobs back up.

“What the fuck!” Marino cranes his neck as we feel it again, like a large animal striking bait. “I don’t know what that is but it’s not good … !”

I look back at the shore getting closer, thank God. More tugging, and Marino curses loudly.

“You guys doing okay?” Tron calls out.

“Something huge is following us and trying to eat the body!” he shouts, and a prehistoric-looking reptilian head the size of a football breaks the surface close enough to touch. “HOLY FUCK!” Marino paddles frantically, splashing loudly.

Just as quickly the creature slips under again, the large shadow of it vanishing into the deeper darker water. Another tug, and we keep backstroking while towing the body like a grotesque float.

“A snapping turtle, the biggest I’ve ever seen!” Marino lets me know in a near panic, wide-eyed, his face scarlet. “Even bigger than the one I saw earlier.”

“Well, don’t go rooting around for your gun,” I reply as he fumbles with his zipper. “Let’s just get to shore.”

“That thing could bite off your hand! Maybe your whole leg!” he exclaims, and we’re paddling as fast as we can. “You imagine how old it is? Probably been living in here since the damn Civil War!” He’s breathless and won’t shut up.

CHAPTER 14

AT LAST, I FEEL the rocky lake bottom beneath us again, and we wade the rest of the way in. As we reach the shore, I grab the body under the back of the knees while Marino lifts it from the armpits. The palms and the soles of the feet are shriveled, a phenomenon calledwasherwoman’s skin. I smell the foul odor of decomposition, the flesh slippery and cold as we carry her.

It’s not possible to know at a glance if she’s Brittany Manson, thirty-eight years old with brown hair and eyes according to the Department of Motor Vehicles and her passport. The dead woman is slender and of average height, with well-defined musculature, her hair brown. Without knowing anything, I would estimate she’s in her thirties or forties.

Her wounds remind me of those sustained by the male, and I’m increasingly suspicious the two were shot while hiding in the woods. Afterward their bodies were mutilated and discarded angrily, contemptuously like garbage, and I wonder if they had any idea who was after them. Possibly what Marino suggested is true, and the victims shot each other accidentally.

But that wouldn’t explain the rest of what was done to them, the damage far beyond ensuring someone is dead or difficult to identify. Vinyl pouches are spread open inside the rescue basket and we set down the body. Tron and Lucy also thought to bring the bolt cutters, and I’m not touching anything until I’m decontaminated. I close my eyes and hold my breath as I’m fogged from head to toe with what smells a lot like Lysol.

Unzipping my immersion suit far enough that I can take off the hood, I work my hands out of the attached gloves. I free my arms from the sleeves, leaving them to dangle and drip as I unclip the bag of soggy cash, handing it over to Lucy. I pull on exam gloves and a face mask, picking up the bolt cutters, spraying them with disinfectant.

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