I said, “There are numerous examples of men who portray themselves as heterosexual but are really gay. It takes a toll, and they sometimes get violent, many times with women.”
Chapter 6
Lights flashing, I slowed to a crawl as an officer moved cones to the side. Turning off Route 41, I drove on the wrong side of Immokalee Road. Traffic was blocked from Airport Polling to 41, and it was weird—there wasn’t a car on the westbound side. Rubberneckers on the eastbound side had created a bumper-to-bumper jam trying to see what the police activity was about.
“You know, Vargas, if people were so curious about the rest of their lives, it’d be a better world.”
We pulled up to the Palm River intersection, joining three patrol cars.
“Is that Bailey? I hope not.”
“Yup.”
“Last scene I worked with him on Keewaydin, he was trampling all over the damn place. I’m surprised he’s not taking a swim down there.”
“Oh, Frank, you always exaggerate.”
“Hey, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that you look good. Am I?”
Her smile brightened the mood for a moment.
We approached the drainage canal that ran alongside Immokalee. A couple of patrolmen, including Bailey, were gathered on the Palm River bridge intersection with their arms on the railing. Bailey saw us and said, “If it ain’t George Clooney himself.”
I considered tossing him over, but said, “What do we got?”
Bailey pointed toward the water. “Heckuva place to take a swim.”
Leaning over the railing, there was a body pinned against a stanchion. Another floater. Based on the clothing and hair it looked male, but you never knew these days. I looked straight up the canal toward Airport Polling. Nothing stood out.
I said to Vargas, “This guy could’ve floated down from Collier Boulevard.”
“We gotta check to see if all the locks were open.”
“I’m betting, with not much rain, they were. I can’t even remember the last time I saw them closed.”
When I first came to this area I spent time familiarizing myself with a network of canals, basins, and ditches. The systems were used to control flooding and storm water runoffs, keeping water quality high while preserving the wetlands. It was effective, but what interested me were the possible ways criminals might use the system. This was the second body we’d found in the time I’d been here, and I was laying odds this guy had been killed as well.
I looked down at the body again. It was the third floater in less than a month. The current bobbed the corpse, and I said, “Tell Bailey to call Aquatics and have the locks shut. I don’t want this guy floating into the Gulf.”
Vargas said, “I think this canal feeds into the Cocohatchee.”
I pointed at the dark clouds gathering in the east. “Whatever. It starts raining somewhere out east, feeding the canal, and our body will be in for a ride. And get him to have District One send a boat down here to help fish him out.”
As Vargas instructed Bailey, I headed across the bridge and toward the bank. The canal sides were steep. Grabbing a large valve, I eased a couple of feet down the slope. There were no signs of a gunshot or a stabbing. Did this guy fall in? Was he drunk?
There was a legion of men, mostly younger, who fished in these canals. The idea grossed me out. The canal waters were pretty clean, but why the hell would you fish here with the Gulf of Mexico staring you in the face?
Vargas walked over. “What do you think?”
I shook my head. “Not sure. this guy could’ve been fishing and slipped, hit his head. Or was blitzed and—who knows?”
“It feels like these are connected, Frank.”
“How so?”
“Water. The bodies are found in water.”
I snickered. “First off, this is Southwest Florida, my dear. If you noticed, we’ve got ourselves a bit of water around here.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes you’re a real know-it-all, you know that?”
Oops. “Just kidding, Mary Ann. The Chapman guy was in a drainage gully, with no standing water.”
“I was there. Remember?”
Keeping my wise mouth shut wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to piss her off. “I know. I’m just saying—”
“Well, next time think about how you say it.”
I felt myself nodding as Vargas stormed off. Maybe this dating a partner thing wasn’t such a good idea.
***
After sticking a pole in the water to measure the depth, two officers in chest-high waders shimmied down the bank, into the water. An aluminum, ladder-like sled was lowered off the bridge. The officers submerged the device, securing the body on it. They gave a thumbs-up, and the body rose, albeit not from the dead.
I helped two other officers hoist the contraption over the railing. Though soaked, I estimated its weight at a hundred and seventy pounds as we set it down on the pavement. The body was clad in skin-tight jeans and a green golf shirt.
As they untied the straps, I pulled on gloves, asking, “Can you turn him over?” As an officer knelt and grabbed his legs, I dipped into the corpse’s back pocket and handed a soaked wallet to Vargas.
Before he was fully on his back, I could see blood stains on the front of his shirt. Two bullet holes were the source. I looked up at Vargas, expecting her to be smiling. She wasn’t, and that’s the thing about her; she was a much better person than I was.
The victim was Dick Cornwall, a thirty-seven-year-old who lived off Davis Boulevard. His face was marginally bloated, but, excepting the two bullet wounds, there were no visible injuries. Cornwall had tattoos on both forearms and had kept whatever hair he had left short. Men seemed to be going balder earlier and earlier. Was it something evolutionary?
“Mary Ann, your hands are smaller, check the front pockets.”
Vargas squeezed her hand into the left pocket and came up with a pair of keys and three dimes. The right pocket held a pocket knife shaped like a fish.
She handed the knife to me. “This guy could’ve been fishing.”
Opening the blade, I examined the fish-shaped implement. The side opposite the blade was shaped in a fish tail and was designed to open bottles. I said, “Maybe, or he carried it to open bottles of beer.”
“You want me to have a search of the banks along the canal to see if any fishing gear is lying around?”
It was an idea I should have thought of as soon as I’d arrived on the scene. “Sure. Have them look all the way up to Collier Boulevard but call it in from the car. I wanna get back and find out who this guy was.”
Chapter 7
There was no doubt I was glad to see Frank Morgan go, but with a new sheriff, I’d have to prove myself to a fresh boss again. It was the third time in three years I’d have to build a relationship, and it was tiring and distracting.
Don Chester seemed like a decent guy and a law enforcement pro, but being new to the position and having what looked like a serial killer on the loose was enough to turn a puppy into a pit bull.
Without Vargas as a buffer, I was shown into the sheriff’s office. Chester pushed back from his desk and stood. I liked the respect, but gone with the cowboy boots was the informality that made Morgan tolerable.
Chester buttoned his suit jacket, and hand extended, came around his desk.
“Detective Luca. It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Chester had a law degree but was groomed like a Madison Avenue ad man and said, “Have a seat.”
Circling back to his desk, he picked up a copy of the Naples Daily News. “Have you seen this?”
Shaking my head, I took the paper. The headline screamed, “Aquatic Assassin Strikes Again.”
“Aquatic Assassin? They’re branding to sell papers?”
“This hits the heart of our economy. We must find this nut, fast.”
“We’re working on it, sir, now that we b
elieve it’s the same killer.”
“If you’re unable to solve this quickly, I’m going to have to request assistance from the FBI.”
I didn’t have a problem with the G-men, but I needed more time. Besides, the FBI had quite a few swings and misses in the last year. “I don’t believe that will be necessary, sir. We’re confident we’ll apprehend the person or persons responsible for these murders.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have much time, Detective Luca. The pressure to find this killer is building.”
***
Starving, I chewed on a bagel from the cafeteria and began reading emails. As I read one from forensics, I tossed the bagel in the trash and looked at the ceiling.
Even though I knew it, the confirmation was unsettling. This was the biggest case of my career, and I wasn’t at my best. Three dead, and we were nowhere close to figuring out who the hell was responsible. This case was a make or break for me.
Demarcation points were coming at me like a driving rain. I’d gotten divorced, lost my former partner, moved down to Naples, gotten cancer, and was falling for my partner.
I was on fresh territory, both on the job and with what was happening with Mary Ann. This relationship thing could get complicated. As the senior homicide detective, I was her boss. Could I turn things off and on? I had to. Lives were at stake. Mary Ann would understand; she always got things before I did.
Reading the report again, there was no doubt the bullets that killed Chapman, Tinder, and Cornwall came from the same gun. We had a serial killer on our hands. I got up and paced, trying to think of any contacts I had up north, when my partner/girlfriend came in.
“What’s the matter, Frank?”
“Ballistics report came back on Cornwall. Same gun as Chapman and Tinder.”
“Okay, but we knew that.”
“I know, but I guess it’s the reality of it.” I lowered my voice. “This is a big case, Mary Ann.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You think I don’t realize that?”
“No, no. It’s just that, we’ve got to work hard and—”
She sighed. “What’s up, Frank?”
Why couldn’t she just read my mind entirely? “I’m just, you know, concerned about us. You know, we’re doing good together. But I’m the lead here, and I don’t want you, I mean, I can say stupid things on the job, and I don’t want it to affect our relationship.”
“So, that’s it? You’re worried about us?”
I nodded.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Frank. No worries, okay?”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled. “Absolutely.”
“That’s great.”
“And detective, just so you know, you don’t say stupid things only when you’re on the job.”
***
Vargas was outside the courthouse in a black SUV. I skipped down the stairs. Pulling the door open, I was hit with the smell of stale smoke.
“Geez, it smells like a damn ashtray.”
“I know, you’ll get used to it.”
“I bet it was O’Reilly. He’s a frigging chimney.”
“Probably. You know that guy Horchow gave us, Alex Chenko? You’re never going to believe where he is.”
“Behind bars.”
“Yep. He couldn’t have done it—he was arrested earlier, the day before Tinder washed up.”
“Just great. we got nothing, then.”
“What about the homosexual angle, Frank?”
“We need more—a lot more than we have.”
“Chapman was gay, and though we don’t have proof, Tinder could’ve been. Maybe he swung from both sides of the plate.”
“If the first killing wasn’t Chapman, would we even be looking for an orientation angle?”
“I’d hope so, but you’re right, we probably wouldn’t.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t relevant, but for now let’s park it.”
Chapter 8
Less than a week later, I was back in the sheriff’s office. Chester was wearing a red tie and a worried look. He rose. I stuck out my hand, but he sat right back down, saying, “I just had a conversation with the governor. He’s receiving flak from the hospitality industry. People are beginning to get worried. Bookings are trending downward.”
“I understand, sir, but there’s no connection. No tourists have been harmed or targeted. You ask me, I think this guy might be settling old scores.”
“You have a particular theory?”
“We’re developing several angles at this stage.”
“The governor suggested we ask the FBI for assistance, have one of their profilers help steer us in the right direction.”
“With all due respect, sir, I believe it’s premature. I’ve taken several courses on profiling, two of them at the Hoover Building in DC. I just don’t see the value at this point.”
“I don’t know about that, Detective Luca.”
“It’d be a distraction, sir.”
“I’m going to give this further consideration.”
“I understand, sir.”
The sheriff straightened his tie. “Please tell me what you have and the direction you are pursuing.”
“We’re exploring a couple of theories. There’s been no evidence of raging violence, gunshot wounds excepted, so we’re certain the killing is premeditated. Given the criminal backgrounds of the victims, it’s possible these are revenge killings. The killer, or killers, may have been a victim of a crime perpetrated by the people he’s killed.”
“You believe he’s finished killing?”
“It’s a possibility, sir. If he’s settled his scores, assuming that’s what this is, he may be done.”
“Is that what we’re hoping? That whoever did this is finished?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that was our main avenue of pursuit.”
“What else do you have?”
“Well, we’ve recently learned that Chapman, the first victim, was homosexual. It could be that the killer had a relationship with him.”
Chester tilted his head. “Or Chapman made unwelcome advances.”
“That’s possible, sir. Or it could be unrelated to a relationship and be a hate crime.”
“But are any of the other two victims gay?”
“Not openly, but we’re working backgrounds on each of them to see if they were.”
“It’s an angle to pursue, but you must be careful. We’re going to need something tangible—and quick.”
***
I slammed the door. “Two days ago Chester said he’d give me time, and then he goes and gets the FBI involved.”
Vargas said, “I thought you said he was giving it consideration.”
“Whatever. It’s bullshit. These guys come down from Washington like their shit don’t stink. You should’ve seen this Haines guy, sitting there so smug. The twerp even dyes his hair.”
“Take it easy, Frank. We can use the help.”
“I don’t like it. He wants to give us a profile, fine. But no more than that.”
“It could help. You know, the first profiling ever was done on the Ted Bundy case, and it helped.”
“Come on, Vargas, I took classes myself. Besides, Bundy was caught in a traffic stop. Look, it can help, but the next thing you know the Feds are crawling all over here, and we’re on the outside. It’s bullshit, I’m telling—”
There was a knock on the door before it swung open.
“Is this a good time, Detective?”
It was Tom Haines, the FBI agent.
“Sure, sure. Come on in. This is my partner, Detective Mary Ann Vargas.”
Haines’s eyes paused a little too long on Mary Ann. I said, “Have a seat. You want a coffee?”
“Nah, I’m trying like hell to cut back. Had four cups already.”
I was dying for a cup but wasn’t gonna leave him alone with Mary Ann. “I hear you. Okay, then, let’s get right t
o it.”
“Are you familiar with the process?”
Vargas said, “A little.”
“Like I told you, I’ve taken courses on profiling.”
With his whitened teeth, Haines smiled at Mary Ann and said, “Good. This is going to be substantially more in-depth, and we’ve developed a couple new practices that have proved useful.”
This guy was a know-it-all, and Mary Ann was leaning forward like a six-year-old at a magic show.
“Tell me about the victims and crime scenes.”
***
I closed the door behind Haines and turned to Vargas. “Thank God for the FBI. Can you imagine, the killer is a white male who’s intelligent? How the hell would we have figured that out?”
“He just got here, Frank. We’ve got to give him a chance. We need the help.”
“He and Chester are wasting our time. We both agreed it was likely a male who was smart enough or careful enough not to leave evidence. I don’t need a damn Washington profiler. What I need is a connection between the victims, or else we’re just looking for a nutjob who randomly chooses his victims.”
“Like you always say, Frank, we do the work, and the clues will start piling up.”
“Yeah, but this time we’ve got Haines and Chester breathing down our necks.”
“You’re getting a little paranoid, Frank.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Haines seems like a nice guy. It’s not his fault he’s here. And besides, he has a lot of experience with serial killers.”
“So, now you’re defending him?”
Mary Ann shook her head and got up. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m sure glad I’m due in court in an hour.”
I pushed it too far, again. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
On her way out the door she said, “I guess so.”
I guess so? Weren’t we going on a date tonight?
Chapter 9
We walked through a packed, glass-enclosed room at HB’s On the Gulf and out onto the patio. A drier than usual breeze, infused with the smell of heated sand, swept away most of the tension between us.
Third Chances Page 3