The Forgotten

Studying the woman, Brett felt again the terrible pang of guilt about the entire Gomez affair. He hadn’t been assigned to the Barillo crime case; other agents and officers—both the feds and local law enforcement—had worked it for years. When Miguel Gomez had come to him, he’d made a point of going undercover to meet the family and find out what was going on, what Miguel had done and what he could give the authorities.

Basically, Miguel had been like a slave laborer, doing whatever his boss told him to do, letting them use his property, forced into the crimes he’d committed. He’d been minding his own business in a family where distant relatives had fallen prey to the lure of money and rewards. It wasn’t always easy for newcomers to trust in the United States government. Miguel’s son had been approached leaving school by a couple of Barillo’s toughs and warned about what happened when the “family”—meaning Spanish-speaking immigrants—didn’t work together.

Nothing had happened to the boy, but Miguel had known that his son being threatened meant that he was supposed to play the game. Only later had he learned that Barillo prided himself on never going after innocent family members, and by then it was too late. He was in too deep.

He had done so for years. Then he had seen a friend who had avoided running “errands” for the family wind up in a one-car fatal crash. Miguel had realized that he might be doing as he was told, but it was impossible to know when you might do the wrong thing, even by accident, and wind up in a car crash—or worse, have one of your children wind up dead, despite the fact that word on the street was that Barillo prided himself on “taking care of” only those who were guilty of betraying the family, never wives or children.

Oddly enough, rumor had it that Barillo’s own children weren’t part of the family. He had two sons and a daughter. They were all seeking advanced degrees at some of the best schools in the nation.

He wanted a different life for them.

Miguel had found Brett by accident; he’d seen him in the street when the FBI had busted a small crew who had dumped five Cuban refugees off the coast in a rubber tube. Miraculously, the refugees had made it. Diego and Brett had been watching the group, and they had talked a terrified mother into identifying the suspects who had taken their life savings and then deserted them to die at sea. Brett and Diego had found the perpetrators because of her tip and taken them down. The United States Marshals had stepped in; the Cuban mother was now living safely with her family in New Mexico, all of them under new government-supplied identities.

Brett had liked Miguel, who’d stopped to talk to him after the takedown, and he’d known that the Barillo cartel had been a thorn in the side of South Florida law enforcement for a very long time, but he wasn’t himself involved in the investigation. The case, and responsibility for Miguel’s safety, had gone to Herman Bryant, head of the task force pursuing Barillo and his “family,” a large group of Central and South American, island and American criminals whose cunning and power rivaled those of the Mafia in its heyday. Herman had a task force of two units, twelve agents, working the ongoing investigation, two of those men undercover. The Barillo family was extensive and dealt with human trafficking, illegal immigration, prostitution, firearms and drugs. Every federal, state, county and city law enforcement agency was kept alerted to their movements.

The frequent discovery of the family’s victims’ mutilated remains reminded them all that Barillo and his crew stopped at nothing to reach their goals, following up threats and intimidation with stunningly effective violence. The men who had infiltrated had reported back that loyalty to Barillo was all. Traitors were executed; the rule was immutable and simple.

But though Special Agent in Charge Herman Bryant was good at his job, and had managed to prevent murders, drug sales and more, so far they had been unable to crack the back of the giant beast. Bryant was a veteran of drug wars around the world; he’d dealt with cases from Brazil to the deepest sectors of China, interacting with local law enforcement agencies along the way. Brett had been certain that Miguel had been in good hands.

After Miguel’s murder, Bryant had urged Maria to make an excuse to leave Miami, or to move in with her children. When she’d refused, he had kept men watching her house. He had done all the right things.

Even though it didn’t really fit the Barillo methods for family to be killed—especially not with Miguel already dead.

Miguel had worn a wire the day he’d been killed.

Despite that, when he’d headed into his own warehouse before meeting with members of the Barillo family, he’d been killed. When—supposedly—he’d been early and alone. None of the officers watching had heard anything—no voices other than Miguel’s—before the warehouse had burst into flames so strong and high that the conflagration had been visible miles away. Clearly his boss had suspected he was a traitor and had taken care of things in his own violent way.

Miguel had been seen entering the building; no one else had been there.

It hadn’t seemed much of a question that the remnants of bone that had been found had belonged to Miguel Gomez. Melted fragments of the man’s watch had been found mixed in with the charred remains along with his signet ring, the initials still partially visible. There had been no reason to doubt that the man was dead.

But there must have been someone else in the warehouse who the officers hadn’t seen, who had, perhaps, been there waiting, staying when others had left for the day. Someone who was already there when Miguel first arrived and who had then set off a detonator to ignite the fire, and then had escaped unseen in the chaos.

That person had never been found, though, nor had he left any clues they could trace. The most logical conclusion had been that Miguel had been killed. After all, he certainly hadn’t come home after the fire.

It must have been that person who was killed, though how Miguel’s effects had come to be there was still a mystery. It would have been easy to misidentify the body, though, since there truly hadn’t been anything useful left for the medical examiner to work with.

And now Maria, too, was dead. Brett had liked her. She’d been a slim, fit, energetic woman in her late forties; there had been nothing plastic about her. Miguel had loved her with all his heart. He’d told Brett once that they’d met, dated about two weeks, then eloped. So quickly? Brett had asked. And Miguel had told him, “I knew—I just knew. And it didn’t matter how long we’d been together or what others thought. I knew that I would love her forever.”

Maria had been wonderful. She’d had warm brown eyes and a few wrinkles, no doubt the result of her quick smile, and a great heart. From the ladder, Brett observed her and made mental notes to help in his investigation. Her head was at an angle, and he had a feeling her neck was broken. One arm looked broken, as well.

There was nothing in her hands, as far as he could see. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup; it appeared she had been just about to go to bed when...

She looked so alive—except that she was dead, of course.

Instinct told him that she had seen her killer coming.

Her open, glazed eyes showed disbelief and pure terror, and he couldn’t help wondering just who she had seen before she died to put that look in her eyes.

“Anything?” Diego called to him.

“Looks as if she was tossed off the balcony like a rag doll. As if she died when she hit the tree,” Brett said.

“We’ll scrape beneath her nails,” Phil said. “If we’re lucky, she got a piece of her attacker.”

Brett climbed down from the ladder.

Diego set a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t take this on yourself, mi amigo,” he said. He had been born in Miami and grown up with English as his first language, but he liked to switch to Spanish when he thought the Spanish words sounded more “real” or appropriate. “Mi amigo,” he had once told Brett, was warmer than “my friend,” with more real meaning.

“I’m not,” Brett said, but he knew that he was lying. “Diego, her eyes—you should see the look in her eyes.”

“She was murdered, Brett, of course she has a look in her eyes.” Diego was quiet for a minute. “We’re lucky we got here before the birds,” he added softly.

Brett had to agree. He’d come across victims who had been hidden by nature before. Nature wasn’t gentle on a corpse.

“There’s just something disturbing about her,” Brett said.

“Yeah, she’s dead.”

Brett looked at Diego, trying not to show his aggravation at his partner’s callous comment, but then he saw that Diego was staring up at the tree, obviously upset by Maria’s death himself.

Diego looked at Brett. “So we’re going to be lead on this? Despite Bryant and his crew having been on the Barillo thing so long?”

“Bryant himself suggested to the powers that be that we take this on. I have to keep him advised, of course. He felt I deserved in on it. His team wouldn’t have had a lot of the information they used to bust a number of Barillo’s underlings if it hadn’t been for Miguel. They were all upset when he died, and not only because they lost a source, though I know that this will really affect Bryant and the team professionally, too. They were really hoping Miguel’s info could give them enough to arrest Barillo, or at least his immediate lieutenants.”

“We will find who did this,” Diego assured him.

Brett nodded. “Yes, we will. I’m going to speak with the agent who was watching the house.”

Diego nodded back. “I’m going to step out on the street, see if I can find anyone who saw anything odd, do a bit of canvassing.”

“Great. By the time we finish we can see if the forensic teams came up with anything.”

“I think we know who did this—the same people who murdered Miguel Gomez.”

Diego was probably right. But it was impossible to just go and arrest Barillo or his people. Barillo himself usually kept his hands clean. The man had been trained as a doctor in his native country, but he’d found crime far more profitable.

Brett followed Diego to the front of the beautiful old deco house. Some of the places around here were surrounded by big wood, stone or concrete walls. Not the Gomez home. The sides were fenced, as was the rear, but the front was open to the street.

Agent Bill Foley, who had been on duty in his car watching the house, was still by his car and staring up at the place. When he saw Brett coming toward him, his ruddy face grew even darker and he shook his head in self-disgust. He started speaking without even pausing to say hello.

“I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t on the phone, texting or even listening to music, Brett. I was watching that house. I don’t know how the hell anyone got inside. I tried to reach her on the phone for a prearranged check-in, but she didn’t answer. I went in and did a quick sweep and...no one. When I got upstairs and couldn’t find her I looked out, and I thought she’d jumped. She loved Miguel. She’d been depressed. Brett, I don’t know how the hell anyone got in there. If you don’t punch in the alarm code, a siren loud enough to wake the entire peninsula goes off.”

“Someone knew the password,” Brett said. “All we can do is theorize right now. Someone had the code—somehow. I don’t know. We’ll check into the alarm company, make sure they don’t have someone on the Barillo payroll. Someone could conceivably have come over the gate in the rear, lipped around through the foliage to the front door and then keyed in the entry code.”

“I don’t know how they got by me,” Bill told him.

“We’re canvassing the neighborhood,” Brett told him. “We’ll see if we can find anyone who saw anything unusual.”

Diego, he saw, was down the street, speaking with an elderly man who was walking a small mixed-breed dog. Diego motioned to him and he excused himself to Bill to join his partner.

Diego looked at Brett with a grim smile. “This is Mr. Claude Derby,” he said.

Brett nodded. “Special Agent Brett Cody, Mr. Derby. Thank you for speaking with us.”

“Of course,” the elderly man said.

Diego cleared his throat. “Mr. Derby says that he saw Miguel Gomez.”

Derby strenuously nodded. “It was right around dusk last night. I was out walking Rocko here. I saw him and said, ‘Miguel! Thank God—we all thought you were dead.’”

“Are you sure it was Miguel?” Brett asked.

“Of course I’m sure!” Derby said indignantly. “I’m old, but I’m not senile, at least not yet! And my eyesight is probably as good as yours, especially when I was standing as close to him as I am to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Brett said. “What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t,” Derby told him. “I’ve never seen anyone act so strangely in my life. He just stood there, as if he was completely unaware of me. Like...like a zombie.”

“Like a zombie,” Diego repeated.

“Did he shuffle when he walked? Was his flesh rotting off?” Brett asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Derby said indignantly. “I’m not a fool, and you’ve seen too many movies. He just wasn’t right. It was as if he didn’t even know I was there, that I was talking to him. I’d say he totally ignored me, but I don’t think he really even saw me. It was weird. I figured maybe he was heading home, except he didn’t head for the front door. I thought maybe he was going around to the side door, that he wasn’t dead and the papers had had it all wrong. I figured he could be on some kind of medication that was making him spacey. Anyway, I figured he’d get home and his wife could deal with him. Rocko and I, we just kept walking.”

“Thank you, Mr. Derby, thank you very much,” Brett said, but some of his skepticism must have been evident.

Derby wagged a finger at him. “Listen, Mr. Whatever Special Agent, I’m telling you God’s truth. I’m as sane as you are, and I’m not in the habit of seeing zombies around every corner. I saw Miguel Gomez, and he was not himself, not to mention the fact that someone who was supposedly burned to ashes would have a hard time coming back as a zombie.”

“I agree with you completely, sir,” Brett assured him. “And I thank you for your help. I would like to ask you, though, not to speak with the media.”

“Not a problem,” Derby said. “Well, not for me, but I did tell my wife when she was headed to bingo, so I’m not sure who else knows that I saw Miguel by now. If you have any more questions, I live catty-corner across the street.”

Brett thanked him again and looked at Diego.

“Miguel Gomez is alive after all,” Diego said.

“And he killed his wife?” Brett said, puzzled. “I just can’t believe that Miguel Gomez would have killed the woman he loved so much.”

“Zombies kill anyone,” Diego said lightly.

Brett looked at his partner.

“Sorry,” Diego said. “But you know it’s going to hit the news. By now everyone at bingo knows that one way or another, Miguel came back from the dead, and if they don’t know by now that his wife’s been killed, they will soon. I’ll go try a few more houses, find out if anyone else saw Miguel.”

* * *

Being in the water with Cocoa was an incredible high. Lara couldn’t remember when she’d felt quite so exhilarated. She’d done “flipper shakes,” dancing, dorsal pulls, splashing and more. Now they were playing with toys.

First she threw balls and rings. Then Rick told her that Cocoa was great at diving and finding things by sight, so they often sent her down to find anything someone had accidentally dropped.

“Guests use their phones and iPads as cameras on the docks and sometimes even on the platforms,” he told her. “But whatever they drop, Cocoa will find it. Not that your average cell phone still works after a dip in the lagoon, but Cocoa will bring them back up. Here, I’ll show you how good she is.”

“You going to sacrifice your cell phone?” she asked skeptically.

“No,” he assured her. “I have some little boxes that sink, same general size as a phone or a small camera. Cocoa has picked up lots of cameras, and a purse or two, as well. Here, I’ll show you. Take the box. Drop it, and then twirl your hand like this—” he demonstrated “—and say, ‘Cocoa, will you get that for me, please?’”

Lara did as Rick instructed. Cocoa was great, chattering her pleasure each time she made a retrieval.

“Shouldn’t I be giving her a fish?” Lara asked. “She’s done all her tricks, so doesn’t she get a reward?”

“Do you give a dog a treat every time you see it? Or do you let it know how much you care by petting it?”

“So I should just stroke her?”

“Yes, give her a nice stroke along the back, and then, when we’re finished, we’ll give her some fish.”

Lara tossed the boxes, first one, and then another. Rick told her to give specific vocal commands, asking Cocoa to get the big box or the little one.

It was amazing the way the dolphin responded.

“She’s brilliant!” Lara told him.

“I agree. She’s my girl, but she sure likes you.”

So I actually have a real friend in Miami, Lara thought wryly.

She happily tossed boxes and asked Cocoa to bring them up, and Cocoa kept complying.

Then she went down and came up with something else. It was on the tip of her nose, and she nudged it toward Lara.

“Not a box,” Lara murmured. “Cocoa, what did you find down there?”

She accepted the pale sticklike thing Cocoa gave her. She looked at it, confused for several seconds.

Then she screamed and it flew from her hand.

Back into the water.

She’d realized what it was.

A human finger.

2

Brett stood glumly listening to Dr. Phil Kinny explain that Maria had died sometime between ten and twelve the previous night. She’d died quickly, at least; her neck had been cleanly snapped on impact with the old banyan tree.

“Didn’t it take a lot of strength for someone to toss her that far?” Brett asked.

Kinny shrugged. “Yeah. But I’ve seen people do amazing things under certain circumstances. Adrenaline is something we have yet to fully explain. I’ve seen a tiny woman lift a three-hundred-pound man once. It was a kidnapping attempt. He was lying on top of her baby.”

“But did a zombie do it?” Diego asked. Brett glared at him, and Diego shrugged. “Hey, I’m friends with the cops who were first on-site the night of the latest ‘zombie’ attack. They told me the guy had bullets in his head and kept moving. That’s pretty incredible.”

“Incredible, yes—but he did go down,” Brett said. “Miguel is not a zombie. Someone died in that fire. We assumed it was Miguel, but apparently it wasn’t. Because if you try to tell me that ash can reconstitute itself into a zombie, I’ll tell you that you’re full of crap.”

“Maybe Miguel’s ghost is walking around,” Kinny said.

“Do you really believe that?” Brett asked.

“No. Besides, to the best of my knowledge, ghosts don’t kill anyone. They’re ethereal, ectoplasm or whatever.”

“You’re a scientist and a doctor—and you believe in ghosts?” Brett asked him.

Kinny brushed back his hair, watching as his assistants carefully removed Maria Gomez’s body from the banyan tree. “It’s because I’m a scientist—a doctor—that I said what I said. Energy never dies. Where it goes, we don’t know. I’m a skeptic with an open mind, how’s that? Also, I’ve been in rooms with the dead when I’ve felt something. Call me a hopeful believer. But in this case I’m with you, Brett. Miguel Gomez may well be alive. There wasn’t enough left to get DNA. That warehouse burned hotter than hell itself. Everything we have is essentially circumstantial, so who knows?”

Brett’s phone was vibrating in his jacket pocket. He quickly answered it to discover that it was his supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Marshall. “We’ve gotten a curious call. I know you’re at the Gomez house, but I thought you two might want in on this. A human finger was found at the Sea Life Center. One of the dolphins picked it up.”

“A finger?” Brett said. The population in South Florida had exploded in the past several decades, and with the higher population came a higher crime rate. That meant that far too often bodies—and body parts—were found in unexpected places.

He wasn’t sure why he and Diego were being called to investigate a finger. Not that a finger was a good thing to find.

“You want us to check out a finger?” he asked.

“Yeah, check it out. With Miguel and now Maria dead, I think the Barillo family is sending out lots of warnings. I want you to find out who that finger belonged to, and I want to know if there are more parts to go with it. You’re scuba certified, so I want you in the water. I’ll get dive equipment out to you. You and Diego are on this now, too, and I want you taking lead.”

Brett was silent.

He’d wanted in on Miguel’s case before. He’d felt he’d owed the man because he’d brought him to the Bureau, and now Maria was dead, too. Now he owed them both.

But his boss wasn’t taking him off the case, he reminded himself. He could still help find them justice. He was just taking on another case, too.

He wasn’t sure about how a finger in the water was connected with Barillo, Miguel and the dead woman in the banyan tree, but he was going to find out. He had worked with dive units before, so he supposed it was a good call.

“Dr. Kinny, we’ll see your full report later,” he told the ME. “Right now we need to go.”

Diego arched a brow at him.

“We’re going diving, my friend,” Brett said.

Diego looked surprised, but he only shrugged and said, “Where you lead, I follow. Only ’cause I’m paid to, of course.”

“Hey, when you’re lead, I follow,” Brett reminded him.

“And you make a very good follower, too,” Diego said with a grin. “Now lead on. I’ll follow.”

* * *

“It’s a big city,” Meg told Lara over the phone. “Miami is a major metropolis, and that means there are murders. It’s terrible and, I admit, pretty weird that a dolphin gave you a human finger, but sad to say, things like that happen.”

Lara had called Meg as soon as she could. She was amazed by how quickly after her first hysterical reaction everything had changed. She had calmed down in just a couple of minutes and managed quite well, she thought.

Rick had figured out that the object was indeed a human finger at the same time she did. To her relief, she had actually thought to ask Cocoa to go back for the finger before Rick did. Once Cocoa had retrieved it again they’d called the police. Now there were police divers in the lagoon and more cops all over the place.

The finger itself was already on its way to a lab. Sea Life had been closed for the day, and the conversations she’d overheard earlier had been surreal. Some of the officers were speculating that the finger was all there was to find, that its removal had been a punishment, a lesson to do better next time, and that the owner was out there somewhere, alive and well, but minus the forefinger of his right hand.

Others were speculating about where the rest of the pieces of the body might be.

And everyone was wondering who had lost his finger and maybe his life.

Somewhere along the line, Lara had realized that she was angry. Whoever had done this deserved to be incarcerated and maybe boiled in oil. She had survived being kidnapped by an insane killer; she wasn’t going to be terrified into leaving the new job she loved because of another criminal.

It just wasn’t happening, and she had told Meg as much.

“Lara, are you okay?” Meg asked over the phone. She was at her office in Virginia. It had only been a few months back that she had graduated from the FBI academy at Quantico and become an agent—a very special agent, going right from the academy to be part of Adam Harrison’s Krewe of Hunters, special units dealing with crimes that crossed the boundary between everyday reality and what could only be called the paranormal. And if it hadn’t been for the Krewe Lara wasn’t sure that even Meg could have found her where she’d been imprisoned in the old gristmill.

“I’m okay. I’m furious that someone killed someone or mutilated him or whatever, and then dumped the remains in our dolphin lagoons. I just called you because...because you’re my best friend and an FBI agent.” She hesitated. “I’m just venting. Really.”

As she spoke, looking out the window from the second-floor lounge in the small house where the Sea Life staff had their offices, Lara saw that still more law enforcement officials were arriving.

“This place is crawling with cops, and I think more have just arrived,” Lara said. “I think these guys must be FBI. They’re in suits,” she joked.

She realized that if the two men who had just arrived looked up, they would see her. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt her face grow flushed.

“They really might be FBI,” Meg told her. “Miami has a large field office. And what with the immigration situation and the drug smuggling, they might be looking for a missing informant or a low-level criminal who’s disappeared from their radar.”

Lara saw Rick standing by the newcomers and beckoning to her. “I’ve got to go. Whoever they are, I’m guessing the Men in Black want to talk to me.”

“Hang on a second,” Meg said. “Matt wants to talk to you.” Matt Bosworth was both her partner and her fiancé.

“Hey, Matt,” Lara said when he took the phone.

“Who’s there? Can you describe them?”

“Tall, fit guy who looks Hispanic and another tall, fit dark-haired guy who may or may not be Hispanic.”

“Most of our guys are fit,” Matt said. “The Bureau kind of insists on it. And down there, about half the people we work with have dark hair and tons of our agents are Hispanic,” Matt said. “Whoever they are, I’m sure they’ll take good care of you.” His voice grew more somber. “Meg and I can be down by tonight if you want us.”

“I know, and thank you.” She hesitated. The Krewe units came in when something about a situation was unexplainable, otherworldly. Lara had known all her life, throughout their long friendship, that her friend spoke with the dead. At times when she’d been with Meg, she’d believed she saw ghosts, too. Lara had never known if she really did, or if she somehow saw what Meg saw because she was with her friend. The friend whose talents had been crucial in saving her life.

Sometimes she forgot what it had been like—kidnapped and cast into a dark, watery pit. After just a few days she’d been on the edge of death; she’d been barely able to move when Meg had found her.

But that had been life or death.

While this...

This was no threat to her.

“Really, guys. No need for you to get on a plane. I’m surrounded by cops with guns. I just called because it was so bizarre and I wanted to talk to my best friend. Trust me, Rick Laramie, the trainer who was with me at the time, was as freaked out as I was at first. But I’m fine, honestly. Don’t go crazy and turn your lives upside down.”

“We never go crazy,” Matt told her calmly.

She smiled, because she believed that. She’d seen Matt Bosworth under pressure. He was a good man to have around at a critical moment.

“I know that,” Lara assured him. “I’ll keep you up with what’s going on,” she said. “But really, I’m good. Besides, I’m sure Grady Miller, who founded this place, will wind up talking to Adam Harrison, because they’re friends. Anyway, the locals have it covered. And now I’d better go. Your fellow suits are on their way up. Tell Meg I’ll talk to her soon. And thank you both for listening.”

She hung up quickly and stood, waiting, as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Rick had been joined by Grady and the two FBI agents.

“Lara,” Grady said the minute he walked in, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Grady Miller was the perfect grandfather. He had thick silver hair and a lined face, but he was very fit for his seventy years. He could still swim like a dolphin himself and was often in the water with the trainers, entertaining visitors with antics only he could manage with the creatures that behaved like beloved puppy dogs around him.

“I’m fine, really, but thank you for being so concerned.”

“Lara,” Rick said, “these are Agents McCullough and Cody.”

She wondered which man was which.

One was quick to smile and very good-looking. He reminded her of Mandy Patinkin in The Princess Bride, though with shorter, but still curly, hair. The other had even darker hair and equally dark eyes, and he didn’t smile. He had a ruggedly sculpted face and looked as if he should have been commanding a Roman legion.

“Hello,” she said, accepting a powerful handshake from each man.

“They want to know exactly what happened today,” Rick said.

She glanced at Rick, frowning. He had been there, too. “You didn’t tell them?”

“We’d like to hear about it from both of you,” the friendlier man said. “I’m McCullough, by the way. Diego McCullough. Strange name, I know, but this is Miami. Lots of mixes, you know?”

“Looks like a great mix to me,” Lara assured him.

The other man didn’t speak. He watched her—waiting. He seemed grim—or maybe even suspicious of her. He had a face with features so perfect and classic—and stern—they belonged on a marble bust.

She glanced at Rick, who shrugged, and then she said, “Rick was teaching me some of his training techniques. Part of training is play. Cocoa was fetching different-size boxes for me, and then she came up with the finger. She had it on the tip of her nose and nudged it toward me, so I picked it up. I didn’t know what it was at first. I think Rick and I realized at the same time. We both screamed, and without thinking I tossed the finger back into the water, then sent Cocoa to fetch it again, and we got out of the water and dialed 911. The police came, and as you can see, they already have divers in the water searching for more...more body parts.”