Third Chances

by Dan Petrosini

  “Chapman? No, I don’t think so. Hannah, do you know him?”

  “No.”

  Her reply came a little too quickly. Did she have a reason, maybe in her past, to distrust the police? It had to be, because if she was somehow mixed up in this, she was doing a piss-poor job of hiding it.

  Gabriel rose. “I’ll go ask Miriam if she knows anything.”

  Hannah said, “Don’t. She left for lunch.”

  Who needed air-conditioning when this woman was around?

  “Oh, well, when she gets back then, we’ll check and let you know.” He picked up a pen.

  When the minister finished writing Chapman’s name, I asked, “Would either of you know the sexual orientations of Brett Tinder and Dick Cornwall?”

  Gabriel shifted in his chair. “I couldn’t answer definitively, but I believe Brett was heterosexual.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Booth?”

  “How would I know?”

  I wanted to say, perhaps one of them made a pass at you, but considering the threat of frostbite, that was unreasonable.

  “So, you have no knowledge, then?”

  “I only knew Brett. As Minister Booth said, he appeared to like women.”

  She addresses her husband as Minister Booth?

  “Can you think of anyone, a member of the church or not, that had an argument or conflict of some kind with Brett Tinder?”

  “We have a special community here, Detective, and don’t tolerate mean-spirited behavior. It would destroy the supportive, brotherly environment we foster at The Spirit of Fellowship Church. There’s no one that comes to my mind. How about you, Hannah?”

  The minister’s wife shook her head.

  Chapter 12

  The hotline we’d established to snare leads hadn’t given us anything other than the normal—people who thought their neighbor was strange or who were afraid. We needed more.

  I never liked getting in front of a camera, but pleas for information always generated higher response rates when the rank and file made them. It was more proof of the distrust Americans have with smooth-talking people with power.

  Tips from the public were a vital source of leads, despite having to check into scores of time wasters. To be sure we covered as large a demographic as possible, Vargas and I were both going to make an appeal for help.

  Mary Ann told me to wear a sport jacket but no tie, and she wore a navy-colored pantsuit that was nowhere near my favorite. We were sweltering in a Publix parking lot when the word came we were going live. The video would be distributed to all television outlets and spliced into their coverage of the serial killer. It was miles easier than making the rounds with every network and local station.

  The reporter asked, “Detective Luca, what would you like to say to the public?”

  “These murders were brutal. We’re asking for the public’s help in solving the killings.” I looked straight into the camera. “If you have any information relating to the so-called Aquatic Assassin killings, we ask that you call our hotline at 855-888-9000. The person or persons responsible for these shootings are dangerous. Do not attempt to engage them. please call the police.”

  Vargas said, “We urge you to come forward quickly. Your information will be held strictly confidential. No matter the circumstances of how you’ve gained any knowledge, you can be assured it will remain anonymous if you choose. Please, we need your help before anyone else is harmed.”

  I said, “Any information you may have could be critical to apprehending the person or persons responsible for these murders. Please call our confidential, toll free hotline at 855-888-9000. This is a private number. Your call will not be traced. Thank you for helping to get this killer off the streets. As a token of appreciation, the county has offered a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest of the killer. Here’s the number again, 855-888-9000. Thank you.“

  ***

  The morning after the plea aired I was at my desk, sorting through emails when the phone rang. It was the officer running the hotline.

  “Hey Frank, there’s two calls we think should be run down. Both of them aren’t concerned with confidentiality. In fact, the first guy seemed like he wanted to talk.”

  I grabbed a pen. “Feed me.”

  “The talker was this guy, Tony Kelp. He sounds older, lives in one of those buildings off Vanderbilt. He said he thought he heard a gunshot the night Tinder was found in the pass.”

  I jotted down Kelp’s contact details. “Okay, what else?”

  “Woman, Justine Francis, saw a car the night Chapman was shot.”

  I took down her address and said, “Anything else?”

  “Wish I had more for you, Frank, but out of the seventy calls we got, these were the only ones worth chasing.”

  “Thanks. if anything else comes in, let me know. Chester is all over this, and I’d rather get them as they come in.”

  I hung up, called the two leads, and headed out to interview them.

  ***

  Justine Francis lived in a condo off of Deerwood Lane in Lely Resort. I was surprised but glad there was no gate to get through. Maybe it was being in law enforcement that made me dislike the false sense of security the gates provided.

  Justine was a big-framed woman who looked to be in her late sixties. I liked her instantly. Hair a silvery tone, Justine was one of those lucky ladies who didn’t have to dye it, though she made up for it by pounding on the makeup. She spoke in a soft voice that didn’t quite fit her size.

  “It’s really frightening to know the killer is still out there.”

  There was a hint of Febreze in the air. “We’re working around the clock to apprehend those responsible. I don’t believe you have anything to fear, ma’am.”

  “I hope not. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Only if it’s made.”

  “I have one of those pod machines. Follow me to the kitchen. Cream or sugar?”

  Cream? Who serves cream at home? “Just a tiny bit of milk if you have it.”

  She set a mug, emblazoned with the Naples Zoo logo, on the table and told me to take a seat. The coffee was almost pure white. Why couldn’t anyone just put a little milk in? Especially when asked for it that way.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I wanted to thank you for calling the hotline. We appreciate any help we get to keep our neighborhoods safe.”

  She smiled. “I hope I can help, Detective.”

  Pulling out my Moleskine, I asked, “Why don’t you tell me what you saw the night of June twenty-fourth?”

  “I was driving on Wilson Boulevard and saw this car on the other side of the street.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About eight or a little after.”

  “What made the car stand out; why’d you notice it?”

  “I donno, really. It was raining, and I’m pretty sure it was the only car I saw going home.”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  A bit of blush came through all the makeup. “My boyfriend’s. You see, my husband—we were married for thirty-seven years—he had a heart attack and passed away just over five years ago.”

  Five years? That seemed like more than enough time in my book. “Okay. Did you notice the color of the car?”

  She shook her head. “It was dark. I donno, maybe black or a blue—maybe it was brown.”

  I lost hope we’d be able to identify the car. “Any idea on the type of car? You know, was it a four-door?”

  She brightened. “Oh yes. It was a Honda, four doors.”

  What? “How can you be so sure?”

  “My son Jimmy—he lives in Michigan—he has one just like it.”

  “Excellent.”

  It really wasn’t excellent; there must be at least twenty thousand Hondas in Collier County.

  “Did you happen to see how many people were in the car?”

  She closed her eyes. “Hmm. I donno. I�
�m pretty sure there was somebody on the passenger side but wouldn’t swear to it.”

  “Male driver?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’m pretty sure about that.”

  “Any idea on the age of the driver?”

  “Kinda the same age as my son. Jimmy’s gonna be thirty-seven in November.”

  “Did you happen to notice the license plate?”

  “I can’t say I did. Sorry.”

  “That’s fine. Can you recall even seeing a front plate on the car?”

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think to look at the time. I didn’t realize it would be important.”

  “That’s fine. It's no problem. Let’s go over this again.”

  We went over what she saw, and Francis kept to her story. I thanked her and left for the second caller, thinking of ways to track down a dark-colored Honda sedan.

  ***

  It was my first time at Aqua, a high-rise development in Pelican Isle. It was in North Naples by Wiggins Pass. I’d seen a couple of ads for the condos, and boy, were they pricey. I didn’t think you could get one for under two million.

  Aqua was made up of three shapely buildings, nestled among a marina and had nice Gulf views. Tony Kelp lived in the northernmost building. Seeing its location was near the area where Tinder was found raised my hopes.

  Kelp asked me to call him when I got through the gate. Parked in a visitor spot, I hopped out and dug my cell out, dialing as I walked to the water’s edge. I called six times but kept getting his voice mail. I went to the front desk where the doorman said he thought he saw Mr. Kelp leave.

  I hung around for another forty minutes, calling Kelp every fifteen minutes before leaving. Where the hell was this guy? Was something going on here?

  Chapter 13

  Nothing burned me up more than a hypocrite. And Shaun was among the worst offenders. Additionally, the son of wickedness looked similar to the lowlife who killed my mother. Listening to him lecturing others like he was some saint was painful. He had damn nerve telling people to get right with God. He was a perverted thug, abusing young girls and stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. The final straw was his dip into the collection box.

  Shaun said, “You all right? You’re quiet as all hell.”

  I nodded. “Just praying. Fell behind today. It's no excuse, but my day was extremely busy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I know it’s a bit late, but do you mind if we make a quick detour?”

  Shaun said, “What’s up?”

  “Gideon asked me to do something for him and the church.”

  “That’s cool by me.”

  He fiddled with the radio, settling on a station that had annoying rap music playing. I turned onto Santa Barbara, and he said, “Where we going, all the way out here?”

  “Gideon wanted us to explore the area out here. He wants to expand the church and was thinking of a satellite location.”

  Crossing over Radio Road, Shaun said, “That’d be something, huh? Two locations. Maybe he’d let me do more. Maybe even help run it.”

  This thieving idiot was delusional. “He tells me he likes you so, why not?”

  We passed through the Davis Boulevard intersection, and he said, “It’s dead out here. There’s nothing—no buildings, no nothing.”

  “Guess that’s why Gideon likes it. I’m sure it’s much cheaper out here.”

  “That’s got to be it.”

  I slowed down as a road wall protecting a community ended. There was nothing on either side of the road for at least two miles and no headlights in sight. Pulling onto the grass, I slowed to a crawl just shy of County Road.

  Shaun said, “It’s so damn dark out here, can’t see nothing.”

  “What, are you scared?”

  “Just a little spooky, that’s all.”

  I stopped the car, reached under the seat and pulled out my gun.

  “What do you got that for?”

  I smiled and pointed it at Shaun.

  “Come on, stop fucking around with that.”

  “Get out of the car. Slowly.”

  “What are you talking about? I ain’t getting out.”

  Pressing the muzzle against his temple, I said, “You certainly are. Out!”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Now. Get out!”

  Opening the door, Shaun’s lips trembled. “You can’t leave me out here. How am I gonna get home?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Now, back up.”

  “There’s a fucking canal right here.”

  Sliding to the passenger seat, I opened the window, raising the gun up.

  “Stop fucking around. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Matthew 6:5 ‘And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others.’”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Squeezing the trigger, I fired two shots in rapid succession. They hit his chest, and Shaun toppled into the canal. I looked around—nothing. My back needed stretching, but I couldn’t take a chance getting out of the car.

  Pulling onto Santa Barbara, my hand fished for the shell casings. I smiled, The Lord’s Sword had cast a smidgen of chaff aside.

  As I made a right onto Rattlesnake Hammock Road, I felt a surge of pride in doing the Lord’s work. Removing irredeemable sinners one by one wasn’t going to make heaven on earth, but it was progress, and I was emboldened by Gideon’s wisdom to be unconcerned about the temperature of the ocean, only the water around your ankles.

  Chapter 14

  Why was Santa Barbara Boulevard three lanes in each direction? It didn’t make sense, it was dead once you passed Davis. It didn’t look like Naples to me. There must be a lot of developing coming out this way, as the infrastructure was in place already. If so, the politicians were thinking ahead for once. How about that?

  Vargas pulled behind a caravan of parked police cars, and before the car was stopped, I popped the door open and the humidity flooded in. Hanging my head out, I took a deep breath, hoping to choke down the bile. I’d spit up the bagel I grabbed waiting for Vargas and hadn’t been able to keep anything down since the news broke that another body had been found.

  “We can’t be doing this every two weeks. We’ve gotta catch this bastard, Vargas.”

  “We will—we always do.”

  She was too optimistic for me. I knew eventually whoever did it would get caught. But I was a helluva a lot less certain I’d be leading the case when it happened.

  “Chester left me a message. He reach out to you?”

  She nodded. “I called back and told Becky we’d report back after we were done here.”

  We limboed under the yellow tape and stepped on the grass. It was firm and dry, traces of dew excepted.

  I said, “Hey, everyone! Pull back to the road. I don’t want the scene trampled.”

  Vargas glanced my way, and I said, “It didn’t rain last night, did it?”

  “Not by me.”

  I looked up at a darkening sky. “Maybe forensics will be able to pick something up before it pours. That is, if these clowns didn’t already contaminate things.”

  “You smell that?”

  “Yeah, what is that?”

  “I don’t know, Frank. Maybe a fire.”

  “This time of the year, with all the rain?

  “Maybe someone’s burning their trash or something.”

  I looked around at the desolate area, certain there were a few yahoos out here who’d do that.

  As the officers retreated, we checked to be sure no one disturbed the scene. Satisfied, Mary Ann and I stepped to the canal’s edge. The bottom of the ten-foot-wide drainage canal was visible.

  “We got a shot. At least the victim is not submerged in water this time.”

  Crouching at the same time was an interesting development in the relationship arena. W
e hung our heads over the edge. Lying on an angle, his upper back and head above the water, was another thirty-something white male.

  “Looks like at least one gun shot, no?”

  I said, “Tough to see, but looks like it.”

  Mary Ann stood and pointed. “There’s a walkway.”

  We walked about fifty yards, crossing over a catwalk that topped a debris screen. The view from the other side was better but did nothing to clarify the situation. As we walked back over the narrow walkway, the coroner’s van pulled up.

  ***

  It was seventh grade again, and we were sitting in front of the principal. Chester had both of his palms on his desk and was drumming the fingers of his right hand. He stared at us like we were the damn bad guys.

  Chester shifted in his chair, and a stream of sunlight blinded me. He said, “I want you to explain this. What theories do you have? What we are dealing with?”

  Vargas moved to speak but I waved her off, shifting out of the sun, saying, “You’re not going to like this, sir, but we don’t know exactly what we have now.”

  The sheriff muttered, “Just great.”

  “The ballistics of the gun used to kill Shaun Parker doesn’t match the other victims. They ran it multiple times, and it’s not a match.”

  Vargas said, “This may be a copycat killing or simply that the killer used another gun.”

  I said, “The killer’s MO was consistent, but the body wasn’t completely in the water. Either it didn’t go as planned, or it’s not the same killer. What is interesting is, for the first time, we have forensic evidence to work with.”

  Chester said, “That could mean either the killer is getting careless, or it is, in fact, a copycat scenario.”

  “Exactly. We know all killers, no matter how careful, eventually make mistakes, get sloppy, or overconfident. We’re hoping the hairs found on Parker will lead someplace.”

  “Hope is not enough, detectives. Do you have any idea how terrified the public is?”

  “We understand, sir. But they really have nothing to fear.”

  Chester bolted upright. “Really?”