Like now as I stood next to Marston, who had changed into rubber boots, gloves, safety goggles, coveralls and a heavy lab apron that she pretended to be having trouble tying.
“Do you mind,” she asked, touching fingertips to my arm before turning her back to me.
“Sure, happy to help,” I said, and tied the thing, aware of the nasty look her former lover was giving us.
When I was done, I managed to make the situation worse by letting my hand linger on the woman’s shoulder as I told the little group, “This my first necropsy. For an alligator, anyway. You know Frank Mazzotti, the saltwater croc expert? I almost had the chance to watch him work, but I had to leave the country for some reason. I really appreciate the invitation.”
“Well,” the woman replied, sounding a tad breathless, “it’s always nice to be the first at something in a person’s life. Paul”-she looked at the sullen man-“did you read his paper on filtering species in brackish water environments? It was in the Journal of Aquatic Sciences , wasn’t it, Dr. Ford? Really an excellent piece. Your writing style reminds me of the late Archie Carr, the turtle master. Formal, very orderly, but readable. No bullshit academic flourishes when clear, concise sentences will do the job.”
I told the woman I wasn’t in Carr’s league and meant it. Then added, “Let’s make a deal. Call me Ford. Or just plain Doc-which is a nickname. It has nothing to do with what I do. Having a degree, I mean.”
I tried not to sound like a self-satisfied jerk, but I bungled that, too.
Now I felt like an even bigger ass as I let the woman pat my shoulder while she continued speaking to Paul. “In the article, he referenced a necropsy on a manatee that had died during a severe red tide. Wasn’t that at Dinkin’s Bay where you live, Doc? He was the first to make the association between dinoflagellates and toxicity in sea-dwelling mammals.”
“How nice for Dr. Ford,” Paul said, ignoring me-not that I blamed the guy. I really didn’t, although he was pushing the limits when he added, “And let’s not forget that we also have Dr. Ford to thank for providing us with a dead alligator to work on this morning. Very, very thoughtful of you to kill such a beautiful animal. What did the police report say?”
The man looked at a clipboard, before reading, “‘The alligator was subdued by four shots at point-blank range from a nine-millimeter Kahr handgun.’
“Subdued,” the man continued, sarcasm creeping into his voice. “I guess that’s police jargon for slaughtered.”
He looked up from the clipboard and spoke to the graduate student. “I’ve never understood why some men feel inadequate unless they’re carrying a gun. I’m not talking about you, of course, Dr. Ford,” he added, his sarcasm undisguised. “It’s the rednecks and hicks I’m referring to. The right-wing bumper-sticker types. I’m unfamiliar with handguns. Is a Kahr one of those famous pistols that heroes use in the movies? Maybe you’re carrying it now concealed somewhere in your pants. I bet Emily would love to see it.”
I had been watching the woman’s face color, but the guy had finally crossed the line. She snapped, “Paul! Enough! Stop what you’re doing right now! Dr. Ford’s my guest, and I won’t allow you to-”
The man cut her off, saying, “Your days of telling me what I can and can’t do are over, Milly dear. The courts took care of that, remember? It was your decision, not mine. And, frankly, I couldn’t be happier. Didn’t we come here to work? I have other things to do.”
Which, from Marston, earned the man a chilly “Don’t we all have better things to do, Paul? You’re the one who insisted on coming along.”
“I volunteered to help. And, of course”-for the first time the man looked directly at me-“I wanted to see why you were so determined to meet the famous Dr. Marion Ford. I thought maybe I’d understand once I saw him. But, sorry, I just don’t get what the fuss is all about.”
I had taken a step back to remove myself from the conversation. Long ago, I learned not to participate in quarrels between lovers-particularly if I happened to be one of the lovers. So I stood there, feeling embarrassed for both people, as they argued, Drs. Paul and Emily, two intelligent people who had once been in love.
It went on for a while. The barbs they exchanged exhibited a practiced familiarity that proved these two people had become expert at hurting each other. But it ended abruptly when the woman finally called a truce, saying, “Paul… Paul, I’m sorry, Paul! I was wrong to let you come. It was mean of me. It was thoughtless, and I’m sorry. I truly am.”
The man, Paul Marston, Ph. D., I would learn later, responded by throwing his apron and clipboard on the ground as he said, “Yes, your behavior has been very mean and thoughtless. For once we agree. And how refreshing to have you finally admit it, for a change.”
Then the man turned, strode to his Subaru and drove away.
“Damn it,” Emily said when he was gone. “I’m so sorry you two had to witness that. Paul isn’t like that. Not really. And neither am I. But we signed our divorce papers less than two weeks ago, so it’s an emotional time. I’d hoped we could continue our professional relationship, but clearly…”
The woman allowed silence to trail off.
The grad student, who had pretended to be busy organizing her camera gear, spoke for the first time, saying, “I think they both behaved like jerks, Dr. Marston. What is it about men?”
It took me a moment to realize that the girl had included me. What the hell had I done besides allow myself to be used as a foil? Even so, I decided it was time to try to reverse the dark momentum on this pretty spring morning.
“There’s a lesson for ladies everywhere,” I said to them both. “The male of the species is equipped with a prick for reasons that exceed the demands of basic human reproduction.” I looked at Marston. “If you come up with an explanation, I’d like to be among the first to hear it.”
I was hoping to see a pair of smiles. It took the grad student a moment-maybe we both shared the same physical awareness of Emily Marston.
Finally, though, the girl gave in.
Fifteen minutes later, I was saying to Emily, “I’m particularly interested in seeing what’s in the animal’s stomach.”
She was wearing a digital headset. She nodded and said, “An animal this age, you never know what you’re going to find.” She nodded again to the grad student as a cue, touched the POWER button on the mini-recorder, selected a knife and then began dictating as she started the necropsy.
“The specimen is an adult male alligator. Length and weight have already been noted. Scutes at”-she was looking at the ridges on the animal’s back-“scutes seven and ten show distinctive scarring, but I judge it to earlier injuries. There is no evidence the animal has ever been tagged or documented. We’ll begin by making a standard Y-cut from the animal’s sternum to its cloaca.”
The woman looked at me, adding as an aside, “There’s no scalpel big enough for something like this. So I use a Gerber Gator Serrator. Really. That’s the name of the knife. I found it at some outdoors store and couldn’t resist.”
The tool in her hand looked like an oversized pocketknife, and it was sharp. I watched her saw through the dense scale work of the gator’s belly as the grad student moved to a better angle with her video camera.
Marston was good. She worked with speed and a minimum of wasted effort. I watched her remove and weigh, in precise order, the animal’s heart, its liver and other vital organs, before she said, “Next we open the stomach. As I told Dr. Ford, you never know what you’re going to find, particularly with an animal this age.”
She looked at the grad student with concern before adding, “How are you doing? I know, the smell can be tough to deal with. Are you okay?”
The student had gone a little pale. “Maybe if I get a bottle of water,” she said, “that might help. Mind if we take a short break?”
With Marston’s permission, the girl hurried off to the shade, where there was an Igloo filled with ice and drinks.