War of the Whales (32 page)

16

Heads That Tell Tales

“Here you go, man,” said Les Adderly as he switched on the overhead fluorescents. “Take any boxes you want.”

Balcomb and Claridge surveyed the cartons of beer, ketchup, and napkins piled along the wall of the restaurant storeroom. “This one should work for the Cuvier’s,” he said, grabbing a 100-roll box of paper towels. “And this one”—he pulled out a big box of toilet paper rolls and measured it against his outstretched arm—“looks big enough for the Blainville’s.”

It was early morning on moving day. Time to pack up the heads and the dolphin for the trip to Boston. After two weeks of wrangling between the US and Bahamian departments of Fisheries, all the paperwork had been arranged to allow the whale specimens to leave the country. If everything ran according to plan, they’ d deliver them safe and still frozen to Darlene Ketten’s radiology lab at Harvard Medical School by early evening.

Balcomb cut the tamper-evident tape from around the freezer lid and wrote the date and time on the chain-of-custody form. Balcomb signed, and Claridge countersigned as witness. With Les’ help, Balcomb hoisted the Cuvier’s, and then the Blainville’s, head out of the freezer chest. Claridge had to help them negotiate the frozen dolphin.

They double wrapped each head in 40-gallon garbage bags and then covered them in a thick layer of bubble wrap. The Cuvier’s went into the paper towel box, along with the two jars containing whale ears submerged in formalin that they’ d brought from the house. They wedged the somewhat smaller Blainville’s head into the toilet paper box. It took three rolls of duct tape to secure the boxes to Balcomb’s satisfaction. Ketten had shipped them a metallic silver body bag for the dolphin. At six feet long, it fit snugly inside. They had to coax the zipper to close around its dorsal fin.

Les helped them load everything into the back of their pickup, while his daughter, Mercy, cooked them scrambled eggs with crawfish and hot sauce. With a daylong sprint from Abaco to Miami to Boston to Harvard still ahead of them, Balcomb figured this could be their only chance to grab a meal.

Bob Gisiner had promised to reimburse Balcomb the $900 it cost to charter an Abaco Air six-seater for the flight to Miami. There was just enough room on board for the three human and three cetacean passengers.

As soon as they hit the ground in Miami, everything shifted into sped-up Keystone Kops mode. They ferried their frozen cargo on dollies across the overheated tarmac to Agricultural Inspection, and then to customs, and finally to the passenger terminal for the flight to Boston, with the departure time drawing closer with every delay. The paperwork they had to process was mind numbing. There were Agriculture Inspection manifests, Bahamian and US Fisheries export and import papers, and chain-of-custody signatures every step of the way. There were inspectors on break, and inspectors who had to confer with supervisors to figure out how to properly categorize “whale products; ears” and “whale products; heads” and “dolphin; deceased.”

No one had told Balcomb and Claridge that Miami International Airport was the largest airfreight terminal in the United States—and the most notorious port of entry for drug shipments from South America and the Caribbean. Every package was given a close going-over at every inspection station. As they waited in one line after another, Balcomb couldn’t stop visualizing drops of moisture beading on the whale heads as they began to thaw in their boxes.

At length, they reached the front of the customs line. “Any firearms, alcohol, or tobacco products to declare?” the agent asked.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Any currency, US or foreign, in excess of ten thousand dollars?”

“No,” Balcomb said. “We’re declaring two beaked whale heads, two ear bones, and a spotted dolphin. And we’re in a hurry.”

That got the agent’s attention. Of course, he then wanted them to untape the boxes and to explain why they were importing frozen whale heads into the United States. They unzipped the body bag all the way down to the dolphin’s tail, and the customs agent fished his hand around in the corners of the bag, searching for contraband. “Just last month we intercepted five kilos of coke stashed inside a sealed coffin,” explained the agent. “Inside the corpse, actually. In the stomach cavity.”

When it was time to sign the customs forms and transfer custody of the heads to US Fisheries, Balcomb hesitated. The heads were the most important physical evidence of the stranding. Once he handed over custody to Fisheries, he’ d lose control of the specimens and become expendable to the investigative team. But he had no choice. He signed the transfer documents.

He and Claridge were merely couriers now. And they were dangerously behind schedule. They piled their cargo back onto dollies and jogged toward the American Airlines passenger terminal. The flight was scheduled to take off in 45 minutes, and there were a dozen passengers ahead of them at curbside check-in.

Balcomb collared the nearest redcap and pleaded for his help. “We
have
to make this flight,” he said with an urgency that he hoped would convey authority rather than naked panic.

The redcap shook his head as he surveyed their cargo. “These boxes are too big to fly as baggage. They have to go as freight, and freight check-in for this flight closed”—he checked his watch—“fifteen minutes ago.”

“We’re carrying crucial evidence for a federal investigation,” said Balcomb, patting the body bag for emphasis. The redcap tilted his head to one side.

“It’s true,” said Claridge. “Here’s the paperwork.” She pointed to the Fisheries seal on the transfer documents. The redcap scanned the manifest.

“Are you folks involved with those beached whales I’ve been hearing about?”

“Yes, we are,” said Claridge. “We’re the directors of the Bahamas Marine Mammal Survey.”

The redcap laughed. “You’re not going to believe this, but my daughter is a marine biology major at U. of Florida. She’s
crazy
about dolphins.”

Claridge unzipped the top of the body bag far enough to reveal the dolphin’s rostrum. “This is an Atlantic spotted dolphin that stranded on Powell Cay under suspicious circumstances. Dr. Darlene Ketten is standing by at Harvard Medical School to examine these specimens.”

“Alison—that’s my daughter—she’s going to go bananas when I tell her about this.” The redcap chuckled to himself and then checked his watch again. “You’ll never make it through this cattle line. If you hustle inside and upgrade your tickets to first class, that will get you each a cargo allowance. I’ll check the dolphin through as golf clubs.” With that, he levered the body bag onto his trolley. “Then I’ll wheel the boxes over to the cargo bay myself and make sure they get loaded on the plane.”

The redcap waved away Balcomb’s offer of a tip. “I just want to tell Alison I played a part in the whale investigation.”

Balcomb was nervous about letting the heads out of his sight. And he hated shelling out $400 a ticket for first-class upgrades. But he gave the ticket agent his credit card and held his breath while he waited to see if the up-charges busted his credit limit. The charge went through.

He sent Claridge ahead to board the plane while he hung back to watch the cargo being loaded. Just as the cabin door was about to be sealed, he caught sight of the duct-taped boxes and the silver body bag as they rumbled up the conveyor belt ramp and disappeared into the cargo hold.

After six sweaty hours of wrestling their unwieldy cargo off the island and onto the Boston-bound jet, Balcomb and Claridge suddenly found themselves deposited into plush first-class thrones. “Look, a swag bag!” Claridge exclaimed, pulling fluffy cotton booties and a satin eye mask out of a drawstring bag. A steward poured complimentary glasses of sparkling wine. Another one offered them moist, perfumed hand towels.

Claridge sipped her wine, slipped on her booties, and reviewed the movie options. Balcomb was still worrying about how he’ d explain the $800 upgrade to Gisiner, and whether he’ d be good for it.

•  •  •

One of Ketten’s grad school assistants met their flight at Logan International Airport and helped them load their cargo into a Massachusetts General Hospital van. The sun was setting over the Boston skyline as they approached the hospital and descended into the basement service entrance. Three empty gurneys stood sentinel on the loading dock.

The underground arteries of the night hospital were virtually empty of patients and staff as the three of them guided their heavily laden gurneys through the dark hallways. Eventually they pushed through swinging double doors marked “Computerized Tomography Lab” into a cold, brightly lit room. A gleaming white CT scanner dominated the middle of the lab.

Ketten emerged from the rear office dressed in pale blue surgical scrubs, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. “I hope my volunteers had a gentle transit.” She smiled at the three gurneys, barely looking up to acknowledge Balcomb and Claridge.

There was no confusion about who was in charge of the investigation now. Ketten’s beachside dissection had been in Balcomb and Claridge’s backyard, replete with island gaiety, blood, and guts. Ketten’s lab, by contrast, was immaculate and silent, save for the whir of the air-conditioning and a faint buzz from the banks of fluorescent lights.

“Before we begin,” Ketten said, “let’s take care of paperwork.”

Claridge presented her with the packet of permits, which Ketten read page by page. “Excellent. These all appear to be in order.” She time-stamped and signed the chain-of-custody forms, held them for Balcomb and Claridge to countersign, and then handed them to her assistant. “Carl will file these in a secure cabinet.” Carl disappeared into the back office.

“Hope you don’t mind,” said Balcomb, raising his camera bag off the floor, “but I brought my video camera. To record the proceedings.”

Ketten stiffened. She said that she’ d need to get permission from the department chief before Balcomb could use recording equipment in the lab, but he’ d left for the day. She’ d invited Ken and Diane to stay for the scanning out of professional courtesy. Since neither of them had forensics accreditation, they could participate only as observers, not as investigators.

“That’s what I’m here to do,” said Balcomb, indicating his camera bag. “Observe.”

During his two Navy tours, Balcomb had navigated his share of face-offs with bureaucrats who wielded protocol like a sword. As he began to slowly, methodically unpack his camera gear, he reminded Ketten that the specimens remained the property of the Bahamian Ministry of Fisheries and that as the photo-identification expert on the team, he needed to document the proceedings, as well as archive copies of the CT scans. He was bluffing. Ketten could kick him out of her lab or even call security if she wanted. But he wagered that she wanted to show off her imaging expertise to another beaked whale aficionado, someone who would share her excitement at the scans.

“Give me a moment, please,” she said and then retreated to her back office. Balcomb could hear Ketten talking to someone on the phone. A moment later, she emerged from the office with a document for Balcomb to sign.

“It’s a waiver. It says you agree to consult with the attending—that’s me—on any use of recorded material, including the CT scans, which remain the property of Mass General.”

Balcomb signed the waivers. Ketten countersigned and handed Balcomb one copy. Balcomb wished he’ d had the presence of mind to get his own agreement with Ketten in writing when she was in the Bahamas. But that ship had left port.

“Carl will help you scrub in,” she said crisply, returning to her office to file the waiver.

Soon they were all identically attired in blue cotton scrubs and white latex gloves. As Ketten cut open the box holding the Cuvier’s whale head, Balcomb leaned over her shoulder to peer inside. When they’ d claimed their cargo at Logan, he’ d checked to make sure that nothing nasty was leaking through the cardboard and duct tape. But he hadn’t had a look inside the boxes since customs, six hours earlier. He prayed the specimens were still frozen solid.

Ketten cleared her throat and began dictating notes into a tiny digital recorder that hung from her neck. “The frozen
Ziphius cavirostris
head was transported in”—she looked at the paper towel box and withdrew some of the bubble-wrap batting—“an insulated box, by charter and commercial airlines from”—she consulted the chain-of-custody document—“Abaco Island via Miami to Boston on 30 March, 2000, with a total transit time of”—she checked her watch—“twelve hours, with specimen examination beginning at 7:34 p.m.”

She peeled away the plastic garbage bags and probed the head with her gloved hand. “The
Ziphius cavirostris
head is well preserved, with little evidence of freezer artifact,” she said, nodding in approval. “There is no evidence of thawing of any but the most superficial layers.” She favored Balcomb and Claridge with a slight smile.

Ketten removed the two specimen jars containing the whale ears. “The head was dissected in a fresh state, on-site in Abaco, the Bahamas, on March 20, 2000,” Ketten continued. “The ears of the animal were extracted and secondarily examined with ultrahigh-resolution computerized tomography.”

Carl positioned the whale ears side by side on the scanner bed, two feet apart. “The left ear on the left,” Ketten intoned, “the right on the right. Just as nature intended.” She motioned Balcomb and Claridge to follow her into the glassed-off observation area and sat down at a computer terminal in front of a bank of monitors. She typed in the species, sex, estimated age, and the location where the Cuvier’s stranded. When she pushed a button on the console, the bed began moving slowly through the donut hole opening of the scanner, emitting a short, clipped buzz with each thin-slice X-ray exposure. Line by line, a two-dimensional image of the inner ears began to form. At first it looked like something drawn on an Etch A Sketch toy, monochromatic and low resolution.