When he was about fifteen feet from the breakwater, Fischer turned toward the sea. The rocks were too high to see over, especially piled high with gulls, so he would have to go around them. He removed his shoes and socks. The tide was out and he wouldn't have to go in very deep to get around the rocks, maybe waist-high. He walked toward the water, alternately looking toward the cove and watching out for sharp-edged seashells.
The rocks were lower the closer to the sea Fischer came. He could see now that the birds were piled on something. They were clustered together so thickly that they looked like a single wriggling mass. There had to be a whale under all that. He couldn't think of anything else that would attract so many birds. The birds were quiet and ignored the glow of the headlight.
Carl Fischer waded into the surf; the water was stinging cold and the sand felt like slush. He continued to look to the left as he made his way toward the cove. When he finally rounded the breakwater, he stopped. What was in the cove was not a whale.
There was a truck beneath the birds. It was lying on its side, the cab facing the sea; the top and one side of the vehicle were both caved in. The gulls were not only on top of the truck but inside as well, feeding on whatever was there. They were also spread out on the beach, picking at bones and bits of flesh from what looked like fish.
Fischer didn't want to get much closer and risk making the birds angry. But he felt he should have a look at the cab, see if someone was alive in there. The front of the truck was facing away from him, so he went back to the water's edge and walked to the south. Birds were clustered in the cab as well, which wasn't a good sign. Fischer stopped slightly past the truck. The top of the cab and part of the windshield were facing him. The exterior itself was free of birds but the interior was packed. Stepping back into the water, Fischer picked up a rock and threw it at the cab. The stone hit the driver's-side door with a loud clang and sent birds flying out the broken window. They settled lightly on the sand, the started walking back again. But in that brief moment, Fischer got to see what the birds had been poking through.
It wasn't a fish.
Chapter twenty-One
There was no rain or wind. The sun was well over the hills by the time the highway patrol had finished constructing the tent over the fish truck. The blue, four-sided valance-a so-called "banquet" tent-was thirty-by-thirty feet long and covered on all sides. Gunfire had been used to frighten and scatter the birds before the sides of the tent were laced up. Volunteers were piling sandbags on the ocean-side of the truck. It was 8:00 A.M., just past low tide, and the sea was still twenty yards out. The waves wouldn't reach here until after 2:00 P.M., but Chief Traffic Investigator Idestrom wanted to protect the site and any potential evidence for as long as possible. Three highway patrol investigators were outside the tent taking measurements and photographs, trying to figure out how fast the truck was going when it went off the road. Four more officers were examining the outside of the truck for signs of vehicular failure such as a blown tire, broken axle, or worn brake.
Sheriff Gearhart was standing inside the tent watching, which was all he could do for now. The accident had occurred in Montecito. Though the town was part of Santa Barbara County, Montecito had a contract with the highway patrol to investigate vehicular accidents. Until the highway patrol investigation was finished, Gearhart couldn't take charge of the site or the investigation. However, Idestrom had allowed four criminalistics technicians from Gearhart's office to work on the cab of the truck. The CTI was territorial, but he wasn't blind.
The cab of the truck was bright with blood. The blood was still damp where it was darkest and looked as though it had been poured on the driver's-side seat cushion and the back of the seat, splashed on the passenger's seat, on the floor and under the mats, and on the dashboard, and dribbled on the large and small slivers of glass that were strewn about the cabin. But there was no body. Not in the cab, not on the beach, not in the surf, and not on the road. Sheriff Gearhart knew the gulls hadn't done that, though he had no idea what did.
While he waited, he talked by radio with his field commander in the Santa Ynez Mountains. Though the search for the two missing engineers had continued through the night, expanding into the surrounding mountains and including twenty local volunteers, nothing had been found. Dr. Thorpe had spent until midnight in the fissure along with two deputies and a pair of bloodhounds who had been given the scent of both backpacks. They'd gone for over a quarter mile in both directions and found nothing. Thorpe was fascinated by the tunnels but the dogs were so unimpressed that one of them actually lay down and wanted to go to sleep toward the end of the trek.
Gearhart had finally gone home at 3:00 A.M., napped until 6:00, and was about to return to the site when he'd gotten the call from his communications officer about what Carl Fischer had found. Gearhart came right over, arriving just minutes after Idestrom. He was there when the driver's boss, Caroline Bennett, arrived to ID the truck. At least, that was the official reason she'd been called to the site. The name was painted on the side; the highway patrol knew who owned the truck. Having the owner come there gave the investigating officers a chance to talk to her while she was emotionally open and her lawyer wasn't present. According to Idestrom, the talk wasn't particularly useful. The CTI turned that part of the investigation over to the sheriff's office.
Andrea Danza arrived a few minutes past eight She made her way through a small crowd of reporters, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and entered the tent. Hannah Hughes shouted after her that they should be allowed to take pictures inside; Danza said she'd ask the sheriff, which was the first thing she did.
"I think that's a bad idea," Gearhart told her.
"Why? she asked."
Gearhart took her closer to the truck. The sheriff knew that Danza was a former emergency medical technician who had been to the sites of car accidents, gas tank explosions, and fires. The sight of blood was not new to her. But after seeing the site close-up she agreed with the sheriff. In addition to the shattered truck, there was a thick coat of bird droppings, blood, dead fish, and a few gulls that had been crushed or pecked to death. The big waterfront fire that nearly destroyed Stearns Wharf in 1998 had spawned a gruesome cottage industry of postcards, mugs, and placemats. She told Gearhart that this was not the image she wanted her administration to be remembered for.
They stood looking at the cab.
"My God, Malcolm," she said. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"
"Not in this country," Gearhart replied. "Even in 'Nam, I never saw this much blood without a body somewhere."
"There wasn't one?" Danza asked.
Gearhart shook his head.
"I assumed it was taken away-"
"Not by us," Gearhart said. "And the man who found this swears he saw nothing in the cab except gulls poking through the blood. If there was flesh here, they got it."
Danza looked unwell. "What can you-I mean, where do you-"
"Start to look?" Gearheart asked. "I'd probably have some of the birds shot and dissected. But then I'd have Joseph Tumamait and his shorehuggers up my butt and probably no real evidence to show for it."
"Then where did the body go?" Danza turned her face toward the sea. She breathed slowly, deeply. "Could the driver have still been alive after this? Could he have walked away, maybe fallen into the water and been washed out to sea?"
"I've got two boats out there looking," Gearhart said. "But I'm not optimistic. According to my forensics chief, most of the driver's blood is in that cab. I don't think he could have gone anywhere without it."
"What about a big explosion?" she asked. "The back of the truck looks like it was hit."