Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

“That would be classified,” Bob responded. “What we came to ask you is, what’s so special about that bridge?”

“What you’re actually asking is ‘Did my bridge get your men killed?’ Right?” Overstreet was edgy. He had hands on hips and a definite chip on his shoulder.

“Look,” Gabe said, “we’re not looking for a scapegoat. We’re looking for a killer. The old iron bridge collapsed, and the new bridge is in bad shape. McFarland has a hand in both. Now what do you know that will help us?”

Not used to being confronted, Overstreet stepped back and picked up a report from the stack he’d brought in with him. “Okay, let’s start here. I printed this for you as background. It’s from The Journal of Rock Mechanics and Geotechnical Engineering. I’m sure you’re familiar with it?”

“Sure, read it every month along with Cosmo and Ladies’ Home Journal,” Gabe answered.

“Cute. As you know there’s very little rock in Florida. We have sand, clay, and limestone, but mostly sand. Right?”

They both nodded.

“Okay, what this report explains is the number-one cause of bridge failures nationally is the washout of their footings or foundations. It’s referred to as scour in the reports. It states that in the US in the last thirty years, over six hundred bridges have collapsed or failed due to scour problems. Officer Jones, I understand you’ve been diving under the bridge, and you reported the massive scouring under the footings. Is that right?”

“Correct,” Gabe answered.

“It’s a constant problem in Florida. We have contractors out there now surveying for the repairs. We’ve had regular inspections, but I was surprised at the amount of scouring described in the report our crew did after your dives. However last fall’s storms dumped an inordinate amount of rain. Surely enough to account for the washout. I assure you. There was nothing wrong with that bridge. Now, what else?”

“The inspection reports we saw, well, they made me wonder if they were real. They were more like photocopies with sequential dates. And they are all signed by the same guy: Sergeant Wesley Rogers from Dade. That raises more questions. Like where are the rest of the reports, and what’s a guy from Dade doing in the panhandle?”

Overstreet looked up abruptly, “The reports you saw? Those aren’t for public access.”

“We’re not exactly the general public,” Bob corrected. “Tell us about Rogers.”

“Rogers knows that bridge and the dangers with what’s left of the old steel lift span bridge beside it. It was too dangerous to send new men. The loss of your diver proved that.”

“What about the old bridge?” Gabe continued. “We recovered a large number of explosives; we found trip wires and detonators. It was booby trapped. And my partner died by setting off one of those detonators.”

Overstreet shook his head and held up his hands as though preparing to defend himself. “Now, wait. Explosives, yes. We knew it was possible there were unexploded shaped charges on the spans when the bridge collapsed. Our experts said it was impossible to detonate them without electrical current. As far as I know, there aren’t any outlets or generators running on the bottom of the river. So we decided it was safer to leave them than to get someone hurt removing them. Booby traps? I’m sorry about your partner, but someone has an overactive imagination. Down too long perhaps? Now if that’s all, I have a meeting.”

“I want all those reports,” Bob said. “And I’ve been trying to get a set of plans for the bridge for some time now. We have good reason to believe there were problems with the construction. If necessary, I’ll come back with a warrant,”

Overstreet looked stunned, then stammered, “Warrant? There . . . there was a fire last year. I’m afraid most of our records going that far back were destroyed. But I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with the way that bridge was built.”

Bob pushed harder. “So now you’re saying the evidence we need no longer exists because of your convenient fire and that my dead diver couldn’t possibly have been killed by booby traps, even though our EOD team found battery-powered detonators and trip wires. There’s nothing worth hiding in the history of the new bridge, so there’s no reason for at least two deaths? And we’re supposed to trust you? I’ll be back with more than a warrant.” Bob made serious eye contact. “Don’t have any more fires.”

Overstreet bolted for the door. “I don’t know about any of that. You’ll have to excuse me.” The room was cold, but he was noticeably sweating.

“Two more questions,” Gabe asked and stepped in to block Overstreet’s exit.

“What?” The portly manager’s intent was now nothing less than full retreat.

“Who is the contractor doing the repairs?”

“The builder, McFarland Construction. Who better? What else?”

“How many bridges have they built in Florida?”

“Several, I suppose. There are a lot of builders. I don’t keep those kinds of records. Why?”

“We’re going to need a list of all the builders and all the contracts let in the past thirty years,” Gabe said. “That includes all the repair contracts.”

“I told you there was a fire.”

“Then find me the ashes. My partner died on your bridge, and we’re going to find out why.”

“You can’t come in here giving orders. Who do you think you are?” Overstreet was flushed, flustered, and frightened. He moved again for the door. And again, Gabe blocked him.

“One more thing. Who is Wilson Corbitt, and how do we find him?

“I have no idea,” Overstreet answered too quickly. “Let me out of here, and if you come back bring a warrant.” Gabe glanced at Bob who nodded. Gabe stepped aside, allowing Overstreet to pass.

The dark clouds moving up from the Gulf as they drove back to the office reflected Gabe’s mood perfectly. “I’d say you turned that guy into a friend for life,” Bob laughed. “I expect we’ll be invited back for all the office parties from here on out.” Bob checked the weather app on his phone.