“What do you mean?”
“We’ve done extensive training with them. They recognize far more of what we say than we do of what they ‘say’—though we do recognize what many of the sounds they make mean,” Rick told her. “You’ll learn more the longer you stay with us. They can actually count. They can imitate one another. You’ve already seen how they can find one kind of object versus another. And they know and prefer certain people, beyond a doubt. You should see the lagoons when Grady goes in. They flock around him like puppies. You could be a trainer, you know. Although you’d better not tell Grady I said that, because you’re good at what you’re doing already and we certainly need someone in that position.”
“Well, thank you,” Lara said, pleased by the unexpected compliment.
“Your work with Cocoa today was pretty amazing, though,” he said.
“Well,” she murmured drily, “hopefully we won’t be doing this often.”
“It’s certainly the first time I’ve ever worked with the dolphins in this capacity,” Rick said, then nodded toward the ladder to the deck.
Lieutenant Gunderson, who was captaining their cutter, was coming down. He nodded to the two of them and headed to the coffeepot. He poured himself a cup the way a man might pour himself a scotch after a trying day. His back was to them for a long minute before he turned around.
“Lieutenant, has something happened?” Rick asked.
Gunderson was about fifty, with steel-gray hair. He wore his uniform with dignity. He looked at them, shook his head, then let out a long sigh. “The press is at it again. Guess these days I should say the media is at it again.”
“In what way?” Lara asked.
“You’ll hear about it soon enough. A man was killed today. Thrown in front of a Metrorail train, body went flying down to the ground. Hope it was fast—his neck and half his bones were broken. Just happened an hour or so ago, but there were kids on the platform that saw the whole thing. They twitted or whatever it is that kids do, and the information was all over the place. Worst thing is, they described the man who killed the guy.”
“How can that be a bad thing?” Rick asked. “Won’t the police be glad to have eyewitness descriptions of the killer?”
Lieutenant Gunderson didn’t have a chance to answer them; others were coming down the ladder, including Diego McCullough and Brett Cody.
“Mike the chicken,” Diego was saying dully.
“What, another dead man rose to commit murder? You’re not really falling for that zombie crap, are you? Because—” Brett asked him. Suddenly he stopped, as if realizing others were listening.
One of the Coast Guard crew said, “I’ll get coffee for everyone.”
“Thank you, Seaman,” Lieutenant Gunderson said, nodding his approval.
Lara felt a strange tightening in the pit of her stomach. “What happened?” she asked. “What are you all talking about? Apparently it’s already all over the media, so you might as well tell us.”
“A man was killed when he was about to get on the Metrorail,” Agent Cody explained. “There were three teenaged boys on the platform at the time. They saw the killer go after the guy. They described him to a police sketch artist, and apparently the drawing looked just like a friend of the victim’s who died three months ago. So naturally the media are going on about a zombie king sending zombie henchmen out to kill for him.”
“It may not be zombies, but something is sure as hell going on,” Diego said, shaking his head and sliding into the seat next to Lara.
“Something we’ll nip in the bud. I’ve asked that they start making arrangements to exhume the dead friend,” Brett Cody said.
“Remember, we know Miguel Gomez was supposedly dead, too,” Diego reminded him.
“Exhumation,” Brett said. “Simplest way to know one way or another if the guy has been in his grave for three months or not.”
“How did the friend die?” Lara asked. “Natural causes or...?”
Brett looked directly at her. “Heart failure. Died at the hospital. And as soon as we’re back, I’ll be speaking with the doctor who signed the death certificate—and the funeral home where his remains were sent.” He was quiet for a moment. “And those boys at the Metrorail station,” he added.
“If it’s just a drawing—even though it was done by a police artist—couldn’t it resemble someone but not be him?” Lara asked.
Diego looked at her. “It could, but right before the murder, one of the boys was taking a selfie, and the killer was caught on the kid’s phone.”
“Not a clear image,” Brett said.
“We haven’t seen it yet,” Diego reminded him.
Brett shrugged.