By Pamela Love
The white door swung open before I could knock. Agent Hutchinson waved me in. “Welcome to the team, Ms. Dying Words Detective.”
“That’s Detective Fernanda Alves.” I weaved my way through the dozen other agents squeezed into the commandeered construction trailer near the zoo’s entrance. “Let me see the footage.”
I wasn’t talking to anyone from the Bureau, since none of their agents had recorded the death of Art Pierce, hitman. No, I was speaking to Officer Leo Ricciardi, whose body camera had documented Pierce’s fatal accident. That’s how Lieutenant Sorensen knew about it and why I had to look at it.
I watched as the footage played out on the small screen. Less than ninety minutes before, Art Pierce had run a red light on his bicycle. What followed were squealing brakes, a bad day for a truck driver, and a worse—and last—one for a hitman.
I swallowed hard to keep my stomach’s contents where they belonged.
Ricciardi had sprinted to the crash site, calling for EMTs. Meanwhile, Hutchinson, who had also been following Pierce, barreled out of his unmarked sedan and raced to the accident. He squatted beside the dying man. “Where’s the meetup? We know it’s at the zoo. Where were you going?” he bellowed.
The hospital later declared Pierce DOA, but this video showed his lights weren’t quite out yet. His bloodied face turned to Hutchinson. “To the wise. To the wise…” Pierce stuck out his tongue. Loss of control due to trauma? A feeble attempt at an insult? His head lolled to the side.
Ricciardi switched off the tape. “That’s all he gave us.”
Hutchinson stared down at me. “Pierce’s girlfriend told us he was heading to the zoo to meet a client—who, if we’re lucky, is still here. This zoo’s a hundred acres plus. The clock is ticking. We need to find whoever it is before they give up on Pierce and hire somebody else to do the job.
“Your boss says you’re a genius at last words—interpreting them even when they don’t make sense. You’ve heard what we’ve heard. Where was Pierce going?”
I’ve had a number of cases where a suspect, witness, or victim died before questioning. Based on their last message—a note, a text, or their garbled, spoken words—I’ve been able to figure out important information, fast. But speed had never been this important before. I started to sweat. “Pierce didn’t know the client?”
“Not according to his girlfriend. Whoever it was would know Pierce from his missing front tooth and that T-shirt he’s wearing. We’re hoping the client can give us their middleman, too.”
“Well, it’s a zoo. Probably some exhibit. Um, wise as an owl?”
Arms folded, Hutchinson mocked, “Thanks for that brilliant idea. I already checked, and this zoo doesn’t have owls, or even an aviary.”
I bit my lip. “Okay, so chimpanzees are the smartest animal, next to humans—”
“What about gorillas?” another agent interrupted. His ID said Clevens. “There was that one who knew sign language. What was her name? Koko. And elephants are—”
Hutchinson banged his fist on a table. “Is this an investigation or a PBS wildlife series?”
“What about the saying, ‘Wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove’?” Everyone turned to Ricciardi. He shrugged. “I read the Bible, okay?”
“Believe me, officer, there’s no way Pierce knew anything from the Bible.” Hutchinson rolled his eyes. “And he definitely wasn’t an expert on animal IQ.”
I ran my fingers through my rumpled hair. “Pierce probably had a concussion. That would’ve affected his thought processes and speech. Maybe he wasn’t saying wise, W-I-S-E. What if it’s the letter Y, plural?”
Hutchinson pulled something from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Clevens. “Check out the yak situation.”
My fingers twitched, anxious to grab the zoo map. Can’t decide if I’m angrier at Hutchinson for not showing it to me before or myself for not asking if he had one.
“No yaks,” Clevens reported. He tilted his head. “But some striped animals have a pattern that resembles a Y if you look at it the right way.”
Hutchinson jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go squint at a zebra, but don’t open your mouth unless you’ve found the suspect.”
Open mouth… “Ricciardi, show me the video again.” I leaned closer to the screen for another look at Pierce’s final moments, then lunged for the door. “Come on!”
Ten minutes later, one of Hutchinson’s people walked into the reptile house wearing a T-shirt matching Pierce’s. I stayed at a casual few paces behind him. Sure enough, a fidgety zoo visitor approached the decoy, handing over a wad of cash and a photo of his wife before remembering to check for a missing tooth. When the agent flashed a grin, revealing superior dental care, Nicholas Taylor panicked and ran, but I made the collar a split second later. He was cuffed before he reached the door.
As agents marched Taylor out of the reptile house, Hutchinson tapped his foot. “So, Pierce knew that Bible verse after all, huh?”
I smiled. “Probably not. I still think my plural Y theory is correct.”
Hutchinson scanned the signs with the species’ names. “None of these start with that letter.” He made a face. “Some have stripes, though. Don’t tell me Clevens was right.”
“No. You gave me the key when you talked about Clevens opening his mouth. That reminded me of the last thing Pierce did before losing consciousness. Whether he meant to or not, he was showing you where the Ys were.”
I pointed at the exhibit beside him. Behind the glass, a keeper put in a pair of mice. Two coral snakes slithered toward them, their forked tongues flickering in and out.
“Pierce was trying to tell you—it was on the tip of his tongue.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This is the second in my series of stories about Detective Fernanda Alves, the Dying Words Detective. The first, “Second Place”, also appeared in Havok.
Very clever! Good story!
Glad you enjoyed it!
ms. dying words – great moniker! very astute too. a fun read.
Thanks for the kind comments!
Another sneaky solution. Nice.