The Consequences of Finding Daniel Morgan

by Peter J Robinson

  “This is the sharp end of the operation,” O’Reilly explained. “It’s where we rear the young birds, and train those that have already been ordered.”

  No mention had yet been made of the hatching process. Royle was about to ask, when O’Reilly opened a door behind them, revealing what Royle recognised as an incubator room. They saw it contained twenty or so electrically powered industrial-sized incubators. As far as he could tell from looking through the plastic covers, all contained eggs, perhaps fifty or more per incubator.

  O’Reilly was clearly proud of the set-up, explaining how they employed skilled staff to tend the incubators and care for the birds. Royle, though, was casually inspecting the contents of the incubators, which mostly fitted the impression being offered – that this was a legitimate business dealing in captive-bred, hand-reared parrots. But he had already identified some issues. Like the fact that although parrots lay white eggs, some in the incubators were the reddish-brown type laid by birds of prey. He also noted that a substantial number of eggs came from obviously larger parrots than any they had been shown so far.

  “Do you only keep small parakeets, or do you have anything larger? What I call proper parrots.”

  O’Reilly indicated a door at the far end. “We need to go through to the other building for those.”

  The ‘other building’ turned out to be identical to the first, though with an even greater noise output, one of three such buildings joined in a line, and clearly this second building contained Royle’s ‘proper’ parrots. The main difference here was that the small anteroom, the one that previously held incubators, now held numerous young birds, all still being hand-fed.

  Again, they inspected the aviaries. “It’s probably a silly question,” Royle wondered, “but if birds die do you have them stuffed?”

  O’Reilly turned, opening a freezer and searching around, before extracting a sack of dead parrots. “We sell them to a taxidermist.”

  Standing next to O’Reilly as he was, Royle found the freezer’s remaining contents of even greater interest, particularly the frozen packs marked ‘Day-old Chicks’. Just what, he wondered, did a place that supposedly kept only parrots want with commercial packs of frozen day-old poultry chicks? Of the kind used to feed birds of prey.

  But O’Reilly interrupted his thoughts. “Well, that’s about it. We need to get back to the office and let Deming check the paperwork.”

  O’Reilly and Akroyd then made their way back along the length of the building, discussing the next phase of the state man’s inspection. Royle, though, took the farther walkway, passing several aviaries containing baby parrots, several coming to the wire netting in anticipation of food. Quickly he treated each to a spray, having first checked to ensure the other two men were not watching.

  Ten minutes back up the road Akroyd pulled over in front of a diner and all three went inside.

  “What did you make of that?” the state officer wanted to know.

  “It was extremely useful,” Royle responded. “We proved all sorts of things and raised several additional questions that need answering.”

  “What kind of things?”

  Royle shrugged his shoulders. “This is where it gets serious. Anything we discuss here stays between us?”

  “You got my word on it.”

  “Great. Then this is what we now know about Big Experience’s California operation. Firstly, they keep large numbers of common parrots, probably legally.

  “Secondly, a lot of the eggs and young parrots we saw do not have any corresponding adult birds out at that site. Or none we were shown.

  “Thirdly, they’re also hatching bird-of-prey eggs. Probably falcons.

  “Fourthly, some of the young parrots without parents match hand-reared young birds we saw yesterday in Mexico.

  “And lastly, many of the young birds are endangered species. Again, it’s possible they have legal parents out there, though personally I doubt it.”

  “You can tell all that from just one visit?”

  “All that and more. If they only keep parrots, which eat mainly seeds and fruit, why store bird-of-prey food in the freezer? And why did he give me the wrong name when I asked about the princess parrots?”

  “Pretty sure I’ve never seen any birds of prey.”

  “Ever been in the third building?”

  “Can’t say I have. We will have asked where the livestock was kept, and they would have shown us on a site plan. Someone would then have drawn up an inspection schedule, and that’s what I work from.”

  Royle was busy sugaring his coffee.

  “What does all that boil down to, then?” Akroyd wanted to know.

  “It means,” Royle responded, lowering his voice, “that that place is about as believable as a nine-dollar bill. They truly are selling lots of apparently legal birds, and doubtless they make big money from that. But they make far more money selling rare birds they don’t breed legally.”

  Akroyd sounded even more impressed. “I’m blown away by how you can go in there for an hour and then come away with all that information.”

  “There’s no need to be,” Charlie volunteered, glancing up from the menu. “That’s what he does.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” her partner then interrupted. “We need to see what Mac’s found in Miami harbour. How about us catching a flight back this afternoon, have a lie-in tomorrow and then get a look at our dead photographer?”

  Akroyd smiled. “You two certainly get around.”

  Nine

  Lunchtime Friday saw Charlie and Royle in Steve McGill’s Miami police office, a couple of blocks back from the Bayfront area. As a reminder, Mac first produced Royle’s photographs of the mystery airport photographer, before making their way down to the police mortuary, where Royle confirmed the identification.

  Mac nodded. “Then let me introduce you to the late Jimmy Quigly. We found something else – there’s been blood in the vehicle’s trunk.” He handed Charlie a sheet of paper. “And this was also in the vehicle; our lab managed to make it readable again.”

  Royle watched her face as she studied the paper and realisation obviously dawned.

  “You’re going to love this,” she suggested, handing it over for his inspection.

  Confronting Royle was a clearly recognisable hand-drawn map of Big Experience’s upstate Florida facility, complete with a cross marking the location of the tiger pen’s locked access gate.

  It was Charlie who broke the silence. “My bet’s on the blood being Dan’s. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

  “And if Charlie’s right then it suggests Quigly was getting rid of Dan’s body, presumably for someone else. You said you had an address?”

  Mac held up a bunch of keys. “Down on South Beach. These were in his pocket and we got the address from the Vehicle Registration Office. We’ll take one of my uniformed guys.”

  Royle looked thoughtful. “Quigly would need at least one key to access the tiger pen. So, who gave him that, and what’s their involvement?”

  “Not only that,” Charlie added. “Whoever killed this guy could just have hit him over the head and tipped him into the bay. Instead they tied him into the car – they wanted him to know he was going to die.”

  They both spotted the grin on Mac’s face.

  “Something else?” she asked.

  “If the purpose of sending the car into the bay was to hide the body then the killer got it wrong. The aerial was poking above the surface at low tide; the call came from a passing boat.”

  “Talking of calls, I don’t suppose there’s any sign of Jimmy’s cell phone?”

  Mac shook his head. “Sorry, Charlie, we’re guessing it’s at the bottom of the bay still.”

  Inside Quigly’s apartment it quickly became obvious he had lived the good life. Good enough to raise questions over where the money came from.
Spotting a sagging bookcase Royle set about checking the dead man’s literary interests, just as a scantily clad young woman emerged from the bedroom, demanding to know what was going on.

  Having checked there were no other occupants Mac raised an eyebrow in Charlie’s direction, pointing towards the girl and then the bedroom. Taking her cue, Charlie ushered the girl back into the bedroom, closing the door after them.

  Royle continued with his book inspection. Amongst a surprisingly wide range of subjects, the undoubted revelation was the assortment of bird books. Or more precisely, books dealing with birds’ nests and eggs, several hard-to-get volumes, testifying to Quigly’s specialised interest. As he continued his exploration, the silence was interrupted by a muffled scream from the bedroom, and the three officers exchanged knowing glances. Obviously, Charlie had just given the bedroom’s occupant the bad news regarding Quigly’s unscheduled departure.

  Mac knocked on the door and Charlie re-appeared, closing it quietly behind her.

  “She’s upset but she’s dressed. Should I bring her out?”

  Mac nodded and Charlie slipped back inside, re-emerging holding the still sobbing woman’s arm and manoeuvring her towards a chair.

  “This is Crystal Brown,” she explained.

  Mac also pulled up a chair. “Crystal, when did you last see Jimmy?”

  The girl wiped the tears from her face. “A few days ago; he often disappears for days at a time. I thought it was him when I heard the door opening.”

  “What does he do when he’s away?” Mac asked, but it seemed the woman had no knowledge of such things.

  Royle, though, had ended his brief search of the apartment and had a question or two that needed answering. “Crystal, Charlie and I work for the government. It would help if you came through to what I’m guessing is Jimmy’s office.”

  Once there, Royle indicated a large mahogany collecting cabinet, comprising two stacks each of twenty-five shallow drawers. He had seen numerous egg collections housed in similar cabinets around the world, plus he was acquainted with egg collectors and their bad ways. He also knew that in America, as in most countries, their interests involved activities prohibited not just by state or federal laws, but also international laws – the same laws controlling the parrot trade that Dan Morgan had apparently become entangled in.

  Royle established that the cabinet contained eggs taken from countries around the world, as far away even as Australia. Most were marked with a combination of letters and numbers, indicating that somewhere there were corresponding record cards. Those cards would contain all the information needed to prove when and where these eggs had been collected, along with the names of any people involved. Given the serious criminal implications of those records being found, collectors were extremely careful about where they were kept. Usually they were hidden, often at a different address.

  Two things therefore seemed obvious. Firstly, whatever else he might have been involved in, Quigly had been internationally trading in the eggs of some seriously endangered birds. What particularly grabbed Royle’s attention, however, was the number of eggs that, in his expert opinion, originated from birds often found in captivity. Including many parrots. One question therefore demanding an answer was from precisely where had Jimmy obtained these parrot eggs? And Royle suspected he knew the answer. For one thing, there was an obvious relationship between eggs in Jimmy’s collection and birds they had seen out in the California desert the previous day.

  Royle directed the woman’s attention to the cabinet. “What’s this, Crystal?”

  The girl looked at him from behind wet eyelashes. “It’s Jimmy’s. It’s where he keeps his eggs.”

  He held up one of only four small data cards he had found in the cabinet. It read: ‘Palm Cockatoo, L. Toombs, 4th October, Jardine River, C3.’

  “Who’s this Toombs person?” he enquired, catching Charlie’s eye.

  Crystal’s face was blank. “Jimmy doesn’t let me near his eggs.”

  “I understand that, but do you know any friend of his called Toombs?”

  Mac grasped Royle’s arm, pulling him to one side as the girl shook her head, tears evident again.

  “Do we take possession of all this stuff?”

  Royle had already made up his mind on that point. “Afraid so. The eggs certainly, plus we need to go through the paperwork – this Toombs person probably gets a mention somewhere. Charlie and I will do that – you need to know what you’re looking for.”

  Mac was agreeable, if only because of the work it saved him. “Who is this Toombs character?”

  Royle briefly repeated what Sharon had told him. “Eggs in this cabinet originated from someone called Toombs,” he emphasised. “We’ve no idea yet who that is, but I sure as hell intend finding out.”

  But then something dawned on him, so delving back into the cabinet he retrieved the four record cards.

  “Palm cockatoo, Jardine River – fancy me missing that. The eggs on this card were taken from a nest in Australia’s Cape York, up in Queensland. That’s where the Jardine River is, and that’s the only place in Australia where palm cockatoos breed. Our Toombs person’s in Australia.”

  “What’s the C3 bit mean?” Charlie wondered.

  “It tells us there were three eggs in the nest. They were taken on 4th October, though no year is given.”

  Royle sat himself down beside Crystal. “Someone did something very bad to your Jimmy. We need to find out who that was, and who this Toombs person is. If you remember anything, it’s important you let us know. I’ve scribbled some phone numbers for you.”

  * * *

  At the end of a tiring week in California, Mexico and then Miami, Charlie had spent an hour talking to her parents on the phone the previous evening. She and Royle had agreed to meet up out at the ranch this morning, and on her way there she thought through the events of the past few days.

  The undoubted main development had been their recovery of Dan’s remains, though it seemed difficult believing they had made much subsequent progress. In fact, the follow-on part of their inquiry seemed particularly complex, though they should perhaps be encouraged by the Australian link Royle had uncovered at Quigly’s apartment. They had agreed to spend this afternoon going through Quigly’s paperwork, carrying that over to the Sunday if necessary, before Whitland’s Monday case update.

  Interestingly, Charlie felt she should probably admit to being happy now with their working relationship. Royle clearly was experienced, not just as an enforcement officer but more so in his specialist subject. She was less clear, though, on where they stood with their personal relationship. Mostly it seemed entirely professional, and certainly no one could accuse him of any sexual advances, with perhaps the one obvious exception! But even there she felt it unfair putting all the blame on him; hadn’t she ordered the second bottle of wine? And hadn’t she made the decision that they go back to her apartment? Neither could she deny all responsibility for what happened in the cab; indeed the jury was still out on what might have occurred had he not collapsed half in and half out of her bed.

  When she did finally track Royle down, he was stretched out on the rear decking surrounded by his laptop and three boxes of Quigly’s paperwork. Lying on an adjacent lounger was his daughter.

  “I guess this is as close as it gets to a normal weekend in the Royle household,” Charlie suggested, quietly creeping up behind them.

  “He needs to relax more,” Sam suggested, jumping to her feet and disappearing inside.

  Charlie stared down at him. “I hope you appreciate how lucky you are having Sam for a daughter.” She then followed the girl into the kitchen.

  “I’m making us a sandwich; would you like one?” Sam asked.

  “I would, please. Where is everyone?”

  “Granddad and Grandma are off somewhere for the day, and the hands are out annoying the cows again.”


  Charlie volunteered her help, seizing the opportunity to speak to the girl without interruption. “Your dad and I had a long talk at Roberto’s the other evening, but it didn’t go quite as expected.”

  “He took you to Roberto’s?”

  “I tried discussing the medals he and Dan got, but he didn’t want to know.”

  “I never heard them speak about it either. What else did you discuss?”

  “He did what he always does, threw another surprise at me. In the form of his studies.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he has a law degree from Harvard. He never mentioned that the other night.”

  The girl was shaking her head. “He has a Harvard PhD in Environmental Law, plus a degree in Applied Ornithology from Cornell. Why would he tell you different?”

  “Who knows. He’s so difficult to read; unless you’re working alongside him, then all the pieces fit together.”

  “I’ve heard Doug Whitland say as much to Granddad.”

  * * *

  Whitland had been out all Monday morning, Royle and Charlie putting the time to use firming up on their understanding of where the investigation now stood, supported by a rash of coloured pins in their boss’s wall map. Whitland’s mail and the daily newspapers were still exactly where Paula had left them: in two orderly piles in the centre of the desk, mail on the left, newspapers on the right. During a short coffee break Royle snatched a brief look at the newspaper report of a man and a woman in separate cars, both dead from multiple gunshots somewhere nearby.