Tropic of Stupid Read online

  Coleman took a seat next to him and looked around. “Everyone else seems to be putting it on and not looking all white. They’re staring at you.”

  “The key to life is always to risk social awkwardness for the good of the planet.”

  The Kokomo Cat pushed off and idled down the canal. Near the end, the captain: “Everyone, hold on. We’re about to pick up speed.”

  The craft turned the corner toward open water and aligned the bow with a narrow cut marked by orange and green channel markers. The throttle went up, and the boat took off at surprising velocity for pontoons.

  Coleman gazed over the side. “It’s only a few inches deep. And it looks like solid stone.”

  “Because you’re looking outside the channel,” said Serge. “We’re in the cut that was hewn through the ancient rock. Some tourist clowns come down here and rent boats, then ignore the channel markers and snap propellers so fast they have to duck.”

  The boat cleared the channel and planed across Newfound Harbor. In the middle, they passed the tiny sandbar called Picnic Island, with sparse brush, a couple of lawn chairs, and an anchored houseboat flying a pirate flag. Passengers got out cameras as a pair of dolphins leaped playfully in the vessel’s wake. The Kokomo skirted west around the Little Palm Island resort, still torn up from the last storm.

  Then ocean.

  The bow slammed across the swells for another five miles, sliding stuff around the deck and spraying salt water.

  The captain leaned over the console to Serge. “Revised forecast: It’s going to get even rougher than I thought today.”

  “Damn the torpedoes!”

  Miami

  Harsh sunlight streamed through the blinds, creating a striped pattern on the commercial-grade tile floor.

  A thin man with a thin black tie entered the room carrying a box with a cellophane window on the lid.

  “Doughnuts!”

  A stampede.

  Someone named Archibald brought up the rear. “Dammit, you all take the jellies first.”

  Someone named Dudley spoke with his mouth full. “It’s Darwinian. If you can’t get here fast enough, you don’t need jellies . . . Hey, Heather! Want one?”

  “When have I ever?” She resumed sipping a protein shake at her desk.

  On the wall sat an institutional white clock with black hands that were always five minutes late. Above it hung a circular seal depicting the shape of Florida over a golden starburst with some letters.

  FDLE.

  The Florida Department of Law Enforcement is like the state’s FBI. Exactly like. Headquartered in Tallahassee, with seven regional operation centers and thirteen field offices. The doughnuts were being swarmed in the satellite location in Miami, sandwiched between Florida International University and the Dolphin Mall, which now had a Bass Pro Shop.

  Someone named Drago held up a glazed cruller. “Heather? One left?”

  No response.

  In the last thirty-six hours, a bank robbery had been solved, a hostage rescued, and a shipment of counterfeit basketball shoes intercepted at the port. Now, nothing. That was the pattern. Periods of franticness followed by dead time. But they were still expected to keep working.

  “Heather, what are you working on?” asked another agent, named Snooki.

  “If you were working, too, you’d know.” She opened an evidence box. “Cold case.”

  “Which one?” asked Archibald.

  “That serial killer who started twenty years ago.” She removed a sealed plastic bag containing a medical vial. “May have gone dormant a decade back.”

  “May have?”

  “The more recent cases haven’t been definitely linked yet because of a profile shift.”

  “What kind of shift?”

  “They’re getting weirder.”

  “What’s in the test tube?” asked Dudley.

  “Medical examiner said there was enough DNA from the Hialeah case that he could spare some. He prepared a sample.”

  “What are you going to do with it that he can’t?”

  Heather logged on to a website. “You know that genealogy company, Ancestors R Us?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sending it to them.”

  “I don’t think they track serial killers,” said Drago. “Just great-great-grandparents from Albania.”

  “I’m not telling them it’s a serial killer.” Heather swabbed the inside of the test tube with a Q-tip. “I’m pretending it’s me researching my family tree. See what hits.”

  “I doubt the serial killer has sent his DNA to the company.”

  Heather sighed. “Familial hits.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If we’re lucky, you’ll find out.”

  “But you can’t use your own name.”

  “Duh.”

  “I got it,” said Snooki. “How about Lykes Redrum?”

  “Very clever,” said Heather. “Backwards for ‘Murder’ from The Shining.”

  “So you really like it?”

  She resumed typing on her keyboard. “I’m busy.”

  Two weeks later.

  Another box with a cellophane window, and another pastry scrum.

  “Heather?” said Dudley. “They’re good.”

  “Shhhhhh!” She leaned toward her screen.

  “What is it?”

  “Just got the results back from Ancestors R Us.”

  “And?”

  “We caught a break.” She leaned back in her chair and pointed at the digital spreadsheet. “A second cousin, a third cousin, and a fourth cousin once removed.”

  “I thought you said it was a break.” Archibald continued chewing. “What can we possibly do with that?”

  She gave him a momentary blank stare. “How long have you been doing this?”

  A napkin wiped crumbs. “A while.”

  She gestured at an empty corkboard on the wall. “We build a family tree.”

  “I’m still not following.”

  “I’ll explain it as simply as I can,” said Heather. “There’s no way in the present that we can find all the living relatives with this wide range in relationships. So we need to go back”—she stopped to analyze the spreadsheet again—“about five generations to find the one common ancestor of these three hits. Once we identify that person, we reverse the process, and flow back down until we have a list of all his current descendants. Then we check ’em out.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Probably hundreds.”

  “Is what you’re doing even legal?” asked Snooki.

  Heather got up and headed for the corkboard. “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  The corkboard soon overflowed.

  There were photos, notecards, colored pushpins and strands of crisscrossing yarn.

  Doughnuts notwithstanding, the rest of the team pitched in like eager beavers, scouring birth certificates, newspaper obituaries, passports and driver’s licenses.

  Dudley tacked up another notecard on the cluttered board and stood back, pleased, with hands on hips. “This plan of yours is really coming together.”

  “Don’t get too excited yet,” said Heather, snipping a piece of yarn. “Computerized records are only good for a couple of generations. And I miscalculated. It’s now looking like we need six or seven generations. From here on out, it’s going to slow down exponentially.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “We’ll need to put in for travel expenses,” said Heather. “Visit a lot of old courthouses and cemeteries, small-town libraries, even knock on some doors to see family albums.”

  “Ewww, family albums . . .”

  Heather ran her whole plan up the chain of command, and they took a liking to the project. Agents from other field offices were reassigned to pick up the slack while the cold case team was out of town.

  A fleet of Crown Vics with blackwall tires dispersed in various directions across the state.

  Heather was partnered w
ith Archibald. “Call me Archie.” After a barren drive along the west coast, they trotted up some steps in the town of Mayo, Florida.

  “Look at the size of this big honking building in the middle of all this emptiness,” said Archie.

  “The Lafayette County Courthouse, built 1908, one of the oldest in the state,” said Heather. “Neoclassical from Indiana limestone, with a clock tower and everything.”

  “Must have cost a fortune.”

  “Forty-seven thousand back then.”

  “Where’d you get all these facts?”

  “I’m a fan of historic Florida architecture. You should see my library at home.”

  “I didn’t know that about you.”

  “Why would you?”

  Chapter 2

  Looe Key

  Pontoons crashed across ocean swells.

  The Kokomo Cat II cut a straight bearing toward something in the distance: a single triangular orange marker amid whitecaps over the shallows. A handful of other boats were already scattered above the reef, attached to mooring buoys installed by the preservation authorities to prevent anchor damage.

  Conversation among the divers quieted, a counterpoint to the boat’s hull loudly smashing up and down on the waves, shooting water over the railings. Many of the passengers—especially first-time visitors—watched over the side as the sea went by, getting naturally stoned on the Keys phenomenon of the rapidly changing palette of vibrant colors, from emerald green to turquoise, aqua and ultramarine blue.

  The orange triangle grew larger as the Kokomo began to slow. Starboard passengers pointed at a giant shell of a loggerhead turtle bobbing remotely atop the depths. Others leaned over the port side to view silhouettes of stingrays a couple of feet under the surface.

  “Coleman, listen up and learn something.” Serge turned around toward the captain’s console. “Katie, you’ll dig this. You know how Looe Key got its name?”

  “Of course. The British ship.”

  “Yeah, but I dug deeper because history is the shit! The name all started when some dude got his ear chopped off!”

  “What?”

  “I swear it’s all true!” said Serge. “In 1731, the Spanish boarded the Rebecca, a big-rigged English sailing ship, right off the coast of Florida. Then they cut off the captain’s ear because I guess that was supposed to be funny back then. But the British weren’t laughing, and the drums of war began beating, and there’s even a story that the severed ear was actually held up in Parliament to rally the base. I think that’s the natural progression of where Washington is heading today, so don’t be surprised when C-SPAN gets bloody. Anyhow, it started a conflict that raged around the coasts of Florida and Georgia, and one of the dispatched ships was the HMS Looe, commanded by Captain Ashby Utting. In 1744, it captured a Spanish ship and was towing it along the Keys, but both vessels ran aground because who would expect it to be so shallow this far from shore? Then it really does get funny . . .” Serge’s eyelids began fluttering like he was possessed.

  “Are you okay?” asked the captain.

  “Just throwing my imagination’s engine room into warp speed.” He began slapping his cheeks with both hands. “I’m overlaying eighteenth-century images on today’s vista up ahead. See all those dive boats moored at the buoys? Now imagine a wacky scene where they’re all chasing each other around like Keystone Cops.”

  “Are you making this up?” said Katie.

  “If I’m lying I’m dying,” said Serge. “After the boats grounded, there were other Spanish ships in the area, and the British were sitting ducks. So they dropped the frigate’s three smaller patrol boats in the water, but they didn’t have nearly the capacity for the whole crew. And of course the Spanish are freaking out in the towed vessel, and one of the patrol boats spots a sloop called Betty—no insight there—and starts chasing it around, and other Spanish boats are coming in to join the swirling bumper-car madness. The sloop is captured, and the British offload onto it and set their ship on fire, and everyone scatters like roaches when the lights come on, with the various vessels ending up in South Carolina, the Bahamas and Cuba. Can you dig it? Can you see it?”

  Katie just smiled in amusement as she throttled all the way down, and the first mate grabbed a long pole with a hook to snag one of the buoys.

  “Hey, I got an idea!” said Serge. “Let’s chase the other dive boats! It’ll be fun!”

  “Serge . . .”

  “No, seriously! Look at them out there all relaxed, not expecting military conflict. We’ll come barreling down on them screaming about an ear! Imagine their delight at the extra-value entertainment from their trip as we disperse them in panic-circles!”

  “Serge . . .”

  “I’ll bet nobody’s thought of it before. It’ll become your signature feature, distinguishing you from the boring dive services that just dive. Next time we can even drag a shitty old boat to set on fire! You’ll make the news!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You’re probably right about fire,” said Serge. “But please consider scheduling a reenactment.”

  “On another subject,” said Katie, “I know you’re good to go in the water, but do you think your friend needs a safety vest? He can always inflate it by blowing in that little tube if he gets in trouble.”

  “In that case we’d better inflate it now.”

  Serge fitted the yellow vest over Coleman’s head and blew it up. “Okay, buddy, this is it. They’re about to unhook the chain and the captain will say ‘The pool’s open,’ and you just follow me in.”

  Serge zipped up his booties and strapped on the fins and mask. Then he sat coiled like he was about to parachute out the back of a troop transport plane.

  The chain unsnapped.

  “The pool’s—”

  Serge plunged over the side.

  “—open.” A laugh. “Mr. First-In-Last-Out lives up to his name.”

  Serge popped back to the surface. “Coleman, what are you waiting for? The water’s great!”

  “How do I get in?”

  “Just step off the side and let gravity do the rest.”

  “Here goes.” Coleman meant to drop straight in, but instead managed to pinwheel off the boat and belly flop. “Ow.”

  Serge helped his buddy turn his mask back around. “You know what a grouper is?”

  “A fish sandwich?”

  “There are a couple of famous goliath groupers out here,” said Serge. “Huge suckers, five hundred pounds. They like the shade under the boat.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m telling you this to prepare you,” said Serge. “I want you to enjoy the experience and not have a heart attack. There’s one under the Kokomo right now.”

  Coleman turned around. “Shit!”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, shit, like, for real.” Coleman reached behind to feel the seat of his swim trunks. “Whew, false alarm.”

  “Don’t be embarrassing me. I’ve got to see these people again.” And then Serge took off, flattening out on the surface and furiously pumping the giant fins, making a series of impressively fleet laps around the boat.

  Coleman bobbed like a puffy yellow cork, keeping an eye on the grouper. He felt something on his shoulder and screamed.

  “Pipe down. It’s just me,” said Serge, aiming his GoPro camera below. “Want to see something really cool?”

  “Sure.”

  Serge pointed into the sea. “Stick your mask in the water and look that way.”

  Coleman did. And immediately came halfway out of the ocean. “Ahhhh! Shark! Shark!”

  “Just a reef shark,” said Serge. “Won’t bother nobody.”

  Coleman splashed wildly toward the swim ladder. He started up the steps, but Serge grabbed the safety vest’s straps from behind and pulled him back into the sea.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “You’re not going back on the boat.”

  “But I really want to.”

  “This
time you do have a load in your britches,” said Serge. “I’m taking a wild stab, but I think they appreciate that on the deck less than spit-up.”

  Coleman began whimpering. “But I don’t like it in here.”

  Serge dragged Coleman by the vest around the bow. “Deal with it.”

  “Then can I get back on the boat?”

  “Then I want you back on the boat.”

  Coleman eventually climbed up the ladder and headed straight for the cooler where the crew sold beer.

  “Excuse me,” said Captain Katie. “We’re only at the beginning of the first stop. You can’t drink until you’re done diving for the day.”

  “Oh, I’m done all right.” He popped the tab on a cold one and chugged.

  At the end of the initial hour, Serge waited in the water behind the final scuba diver and climbed aboard.

  “Last out,” said Katie.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Your friend sure can drink.”

  Serge covered his eyes. “Where is he?”

  “Resting.”

  Serge walked toward the stern and kicked Coleman’s legs.

  “Ow!”

  “You can’t lie on the deck.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t. I asked you not to embarrass me.”

  The Kokomo motored over to the second dive site, where Serge again squeezed every second from the hour. The boat headed back to port with the buddies sitting in front of the captain.

  “How was it out there today?” asked Katie.

  “Ultra-outrageous!” Serge flapped a laminated marine identification card. “I saw three sharks, a whole school of barracuda, that monster grouper of course, a queen angel, a French angel, a buttload of yellowtail, rainbow parrotfish, two spotted rays and a turtle . . .”

  Coleman was slumped over when they arrived back at the dock. Serge shook him. “Wake up.”

  Still out.

  Another shake. “Come on! It’s time for the tiki bar.”

  That was like smelling salts. Coleman charged through the group departing the boat, ran around the corner of the dock toward the freshwater cleaning tanks and disappeared.