With dozens of crews working around the clock, electricity spread slowly from the Grand Surf north toward Santa Rosa. A large temporary cell tower was powered up and some phone service was restored. The first hint of normalcy returned to the devastated island.

The Santa Rosa chief of police was a veteran named Carl Logan. He and Hoppy Durden, along with the department’s only technician, a part-timer, arrived at Nelson’s condo and found it locked. They jammed the patio door, put on rubber gloves and plastic shoe coverings, and entered the kitchen. Hoppy walked Logan through the crime scenario as laid out by that kid who worked at the bookstore, and showed him the spatter stains on the wall in the den and the stains on the downstairs vanity. They photographed everything again, with better cameras, and shot a video. At Logan’s suggestion, they withdrew to the patio and decided to call in the state police.

There was no word from the crime lab about the autopsy.

7.

After a long morning by the pool, Bruce, Bob, and Nick were bored and worried about home. It was impossible to relax with their thoughts occupied by the destruction and chaos on the island. They called friends, grandparents, insurance adjusters, employees. Bruce tried repeatedly to get Hoppy on the phone but service was not good. They were buoyed by the report that some electricity had been restored. The names of the dead had not been released. At noon, it was announced that the bridge was open to residents but they were strongly encouraged to stay away for a few more days. The temperature was in the mid-nineties and water was scarce. There was little they could do until the cleanup gained momentum.

After lunch, the three packed their small bags, filled the tank with gas, and headed east. Their phones provided comfort and they talked nonstop. Bruce badgered people at the crime lab but got nothing. Nick searched for motel rooms and found two in Lake City, an hour west of Jacksonville. The traffic grew heavier and slowed their progress considerably. Late in the day, Bruce managed to get Carl Logan on the phone, and was relieved to learn that the police were conducting an investigation, at some level. Carl said he was waiting on the state boys to send in a team. At least Hoppy wouldn’t be in charge.

They ate pizza for dinner at a roadside joint, returned to the crowded interstate, and finally made it to Lake City.

By 6:00 the following morning, Day Four, they were on the road in an attempt to beat the traffic. They drove an hour into Jacksonville and parked in the lot beside the state crime lab, and waited. At 8:30 they walked into the lobby and Bruce informed the receptionist that he had an appointment with one Dorothy Grimes, assistant to the field director. He did not, but he had spoken to her on the phone yesterday afternoon and was desperate enough to start lying. Of course, Ms. Grimes was busy at the moment. They took seats in the lobby, found coffee, opened newspapers, and gave every impression that they were there for the duration. An hour passed and Bruce spoke again to the receptionist. His tone was not quite as friendly.

The receptionist said, “Ms. Grimes does not have you on her daily calendar.”

“We spoke yesterday and agreed that I would stop by this morning. Look, this involves the death of a friend who died in the hurricane. His body is somewhere in this building awaiting an autopsy and I have some valuable information. Can we just treat this as an emergency?”

“I’ll see.”

“Thank you.” Bruce returned to his seat and she returned to her phone. Half an hour later, a robust woman of about sixty stepped off the elevator and glared at Bruce. “I’m Dorothy Grimes, assistant to the field director. What’s going on here?”

Bruce was immediately in her face with a sappy smile and a limp handshake. “Bruce Cable, from Camino Island. We survived the storm but our friend did not. Can I please have five minutes of your time? Call it a humanitarian gesture.”

She looked him over, then quickly scanned his pals. Shorts, T-shirts, sandals and sneakers. All three were unshaven, red-eyed, rather unkempt, but the poor guys had just been through a major hurricane. “Follow me.”

Nick and Bob stayed behind as Bruce disappeared into the elevator. Two floors up, he stepped off and followed Dorothy to her office. She closed the door and said, “You have five minutes.”

“Thank you. I need to see the field director, Dr. Landrum. It’s rather urgent.”

“Well, you gotta talk to me before you talk to him.”

“Okay. My friend Nelson Kerr died in the storm. He has no family here and left my name and number as his contact. His body was brought here for an autopsy. At first the police thought he had been killed by flying debris. We think otherwise, and I need to know the results of his autopsy. Please. Just a few minutes with the boss.”

“He can’t discuss an autopsy with you. Completely against protocol.”

“I get that. Nelson’s parents are in Fremont, near San Jose. They’re desperate for information and don’t have a clue about what to do next. I’m their contact here. I have to tell them something.”

She pondered this as she stared at him. “Are you suggesting foul play or something like that?”

“Yes. But the autopsy should reveal a lot. Please.”

She took a deep breath, then nodded at a chair. “Have a seat.” Bruce did as he was told and she left the office. Fifteen minutes later she returned and said, “Follow me.”

Dr. Landrum’s office was twice as large and consumed one corner of the floor. He was waiting at the door with a generous smile and a handshake. Undergrad at Florida State. PhD in forensic science from Miami. About seventy and on the fading end of a long career in public service. He waved at chairs and they gathered around his desk. Dorothy remained in the room, now armed with a notepad like a legal secretary.