Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [11]
Maddox’s vehicle had been found in the river two miles north of the city limits. The Sacramento River flowed steadily, but today’s current didn’t look too bad.
A crowd had gathered alongside the river: local cops and their FBI team. Steve pulled up next to the emergency vehicles and said, “Ready?”
“Always,” Mitch replied.
They got out and a deputy sheriff—Clarkston on the badge—approached with the sheriff’s diver. The local diver was older than Mitch and a foot shorter, graying, with a craggy face and unusually large hands. “Harry Young. Thanks for coming out.”
They shook hands, exchanged credentials, and Young said, “I didn’t disturb the car. It’s a white 1998 Ford Explorer, registered to Oliver Maddox. A missing person report was filed by Tammy Amunson on January 23 of this year. One victim in the driver’s seat, been under for a time—eyes gone, fingers missing. A lot of critter damage, but the trunk and limbs are intact. No visible wounds, seat belt intact and engaged, windows down or broken on impact.”
“Was there any evidence along the riverbank of a car going into the water?”
“If there was, it’s long gone. Four months, rain, weather, growth.”
“Who found it?”
“Fisherman. Early this morning, at dawn. His line got caught and when he freed it, he got a chunk of clothing with it.”
“Where’s the evidence now?”
“Bagged,” the deputy said. “It’ll go to our lab.”
The deputy was more antagonistic than the older, easygoing diver. Mitch smiled at him. Play nice with the locals, he could hear Meg’s stern lecture. The FBI had better relations with local law enforcement in recent years, but some cops were old school.
“How deep?” he asked.
The diver responded. “Thirty feet. We got someone from the EPA on the way since this is an environmentally protected area.”
“It’s now a crime scene.”
Young grinned, patted Mitch on the back. “I’m gonna like you. I got the crew waiting to haul the car up, but your office said don’t touch the vehicle. Don’t much see what you can do down there.”
“We want as much evidence as possible intact before we haul up the vehicle. We may bag the body underwater and bring it up separately to minimize damage.” But if it was too difficult to remove the body from the vehicle, they’d bag what they could and haul up the body with the SUV. “What kind of fish activity do we have here?”
“Sturgeon, stripers, crawfish. Hell, this is a terrific fishing spot.”
“It was an accident,” the deputy interrupted.
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “You have a witness who saw it?”
“No, but—”
“Don’t assume anything.”
The deputy bristled at Mitch’s tone. Mitch kept his expression calm: Diplomacy wasn’t his strength. Action was.
Steve smoothed the tension, saying to Young, “Why don’t you dive with us? You can see what we do, maybe it’ll help in future investigations.”
“Doesn’t look like you need us,” Clarkston said.
Young interjected, “I’d like to go back under. Good practice.”
Mitch took Steve’s lead. “Great. I need an experienced partner.”
Steve pulled Young and Clarkston away from Mitch and showed them the sophisticated underwater camera the ERT unit had purchased last year with their limited discretionary budget.
Mitch walked over to Special Agents Duncan and Morales. Though both were young—about thirty, coming into the Bureau under the age of twenty-five, a rarity these days—he didn’t have to tell them what to look for.
“Split up and take a Sheriff’s deputy with you.” He pointed north and south of their location. “We’re looking for where the Explorer went in, but based on the remains it was months ago. Anything you find, mark it and inform Donovan. I’ll be underwater.”
When Mitch first joined the FBI more than a decade ago, the Violent Crimes Squad had been one of the best-staffed and funded units in the Bureau. They’d have