by Tom Lowe
NINETEEN
It was going viral. The Internet’s original moniker—the world wide web, certainly proved to be true in every remote corner of Earth where an Internet connection was available. The news video images of Michelle Martin’s body on the gurney was racking up millions of views online. According to a news blurb before the commercials, the viral views weren’t because of the white sheet over the body. They were because of what was seen for a few seconds at the foot of the gurney. The end of a mermaid tail was visible as the coroner’s staff worked to roll and then carry the gurney through the beach sand to an awaiting van.
We gathered in the salon on Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, waiting for a TV commercial to come to an end on the wide, flat screen television behind his bar. Dave sat on the couch, the TV remote in one hand, a coffee mug in the other. Wynona and I sat in two deck chairs, while Nick cracked open a beer at the bar. Dave, a man who still read three daily newspapers—one online and two in print, had the Wall Street Journal and Washington Post, folded neatly on his coffee table next to a stack of magazines, which included Smithsonian, National Geographic and Foreign Affairs. Gibraltar’s salon was an eclectic mix of nautical décor along with European antiques and artifacts that Dave had picked up during his long career with the CIA. He asked, “Can I get anyone a drink? Coffee or tea?”
“I’m fine,” Wynona said.
“No thanks,” I said, looking from Dave to the TV screen.
The commercial ended, and the picture went to a live cable newscast out of New York City. The silver haired anchorman said, “More this hour on that bizarre police investigation out of Florida. We just learned that detectives have preliminary results of an autopsy done on the body of a young woman found dead a few miles south of Daytona Beach. As you may have heard, her semi-nude body was discovered with the tail of a mermaid on it. Here’s the latest from Cathy Stephens.”
The video cut to a reporter standing on the beach, her brown hair jostling in the sea breeze. “It was just behind me where the body of nineteen-year-old Michelle Martin was found. She was without a shirt or swimsuit top. But it’s the mermaid tail attached to the body that has police scratching their heads in this case. Why was she out here, and what was she doing during the time before her death?”
The video cut to images of coroner techs pushing and carrying the sheet-draped gurney up the sand on the beach to a van in the parking lot. The tail fin was visible for less than eight seconds before a tech re-covered it with the sheet.
The reporter’s narration continued. “We have learned that Michelle Martin had auditioned for a role in a movie under production, Atlantis, that will feature mermaids as part of the storyline, and that she was on their call-back list. Although all of the autopsy results aren’t in yet, we’re told that initial findings indicate Martin died from drowning. Water was found in her lungs. What investigators want to know is this … was the drowning accidental or was she killed? We posed that question to the lead investigator on the case, Detective Dan Grant.”
The video cut to Grant outside the county medical examiner’s morgue. “What we know definitely is that she died by drowning. We are conducting extensive forensics and DNA testing on the body, of course, and the mermaid tail found on the body. All of this will take some time to conclude.”
“Do you believe she was murdered?” asked the reporter.
“We have reasons to think the death is suspicious.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“First is the time of death. The medical examiner believes she died at least eight hours before the body was found. That would lead us to think she didn’t die where the body was discovered, but elsewhere.”
“What sort of forensics evidence do you have so far?”
“At this time, because releasing that information may compromise the investigation, we need to keep what we have confidential.”
“Was Michelle Martin raped?”
“We don’t know that either. We’re awaiting lab tests and toxicology reports. Now, if you will excuse me.”
The video image cut to large semi-trucks parked, and a flurry of film production assistants unloading lights, cameras, and additional movie-making equipment. The reporter’s voice-over narration continued. “Although Detective Dan Grant is fairly tight-lipped about the investigation, we have learned that the mermaid tail is a prop from the Atlantis movie set. We spoke with casting director, Sebastian Gunter.”
A narrow-faced man in his mid-forties dressed in a black jeans and T-shirt, dark penetrating eyes, said, “First and foremost, our thoughts and prayers are with her family. We are providing these mermaid tail props to actresses we’re calling back for second and third auditions. After initial work in the pool, the more they can train, the better they’ll be when the cameras roll. Not only are we casting for mermaids, we’re auditioning roles for mermen as well.”
The video cut back live to the reporter standing on the beach. She used one hand to pull her windswept hair behind an ear, holding the microphone in the other hand. “The movie’s casting director said Michelle Martin told him that she grew up identifying with the animated character, Ariel, in the movie, The Little Mermaid. A college student, a young woman very close to Michelle Martin’s age, found the body and called 9-1-1. Police say twenty-year-old Savannah Nelson, a nationally top-ranked surfer, saw the body right after she’d finished surfing before a storm moved into the area. As police await DNA and toxicology reports from the crime lab, what we do know is that, wherever Michelle Martin drowned, there’s a good chance it did not happen in the water behind me … near where the body was found. Now back to you in the studio.”
The live shot changed to the anchorman in New York. Dave used the remote control to mute the sound. He set his Starbuck’s cup on the coffee table in front of him. “What a sad story.” Dave glanced at a framed photo of his daughter on an end table. “I can’t imagine what her parents are going through right now. And, of all people to find the body, it’s someone we know. Savannah Nelson has been hanging out at the marina most of her life, helping her dad on his boat. I heard she’s attending college near Tampa.”
Nick nodded. “I remember when Savannah first started surfing. The kid was fearless, staying out longer than most of the guys. Riding the big ones before some of the storms blew through the area. That kind of practice really gave her the edge to compete and win in surfing competitions in places like California and Hawaii.”
Dave sipped his coffee. “As good a surfer as Savannah is, and she’s excellent, it’s her dream to one day have a career in oceanography. That’s what drives her.”
Wynona said, “Both girls, the one in the mermaid tail and Savannah, are about the same age, probably share many of the same interests … the beach, swimming, and most likely—as little girls, they fantasized about living in the world of The Little Mermaid.”
I said, “Wynona and I had coffee with Savannah and her dad, Rex, earlier today. As you can imagine, she’s very upset.”
Dave looked directly at me. “I know you Sean. Was the conversation over coffee happenstance, or did you seek them out? If so, I’m assuming that you are seeing something ominous for Savannah? And I can extrapolate that even further … you want to help her.”
Nick folded his arms and said, “Don’t answer that ‘til I come back from the head.”
TWENTY
Detective Dan Grant didn’t have a warrant, but he had a reason. And, at this point in the murder investigation, it was good enough to question Craig Blake. Grant and his partner, Jason Lawson, showed their credentials at the guard gate, and drove through the entrance to Matanzas Estates, an opulent neighborhood of multi-million-dollar homes, most with large lots over two acres, all professionally landscaped. Expensive cars were parked in gated driveways next to mansions partially hidden behind tall canary palms and stately oaks casting deep shade over the verdant lawns. The manor had the smell of money and self-importance.
It was the large royal poinciana tree that caught G
rant’s eye. The blossoms were bright red. The tree was near the end of the road, in the center of a yard. Behind the tree, set toward the end of the massive lot, was the house which looked like a French chateau. Two story. Regal. A circular drive. A three-tiered fountain sat in the center of the drive near the home. A late model, black Maserati was parked near an ivy-covered privacy wall near the estate.
“I’ve heard a man’s home is his castle. Looks like Craig Blake’s daddy truly believes that,” Detective Lawson said, as they pulled up behind the Maserati.
Grant nodded. “We’ll soon find out. Let’s see if we can get junior to voluntarily come down to the station. Just to chat.” He half smiled as they got out and approached the front entrance, a massive arched double door. Dark mahogany, beveled glass, and intricate wrought iron handles. Grant pressed the doorbell and looked at a security camera above the entrance, the sound of chimes ringing. Just beyond the doors came the rapid barks of a small dog. Seconds later the door cracked opened. From the recesses of the darkened interior, suspicious eyes stared at them. A middle-aged woman wearing business attire, face tight, said, “Harold at the gate called. He said you’d be here. How can I help you gentlemen?”
“Mrs. Blake,” said Grant.
“Yes?”
“Just to make this visit official.” Grant held out his badge and ID. “I’m Detective Grant and this is my partner, Detective Lawson. We’re with the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office.”
The woman said nothing for a moment, her puffy, dark eyes unblinking, a thin odor of scotch at the threshold. “What do you want?”
Grant cleared his throat. “Is Craig here?”
“Why do you want to see my son?”
“We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”
“About what?”
“It’s in reference to the death of Michelle Martin.”
The woman took a deep breath. “I heard about that. It’s awful. She was a sweet girl. But my son had nothing to do with it, okay? They stopped dating a while back.”
Detective Lawson smiled. “We understand. If it’s all the same, though, we’d like to speak with him. We hope it’ll help clear up a few things and maybe give us some information that could help us find her killer.”
“He’s in the kitchen. Wait here. I’ll go get him.” A small terrier-mixed breed poked its snout through the opening in the door, barked once and trotted behind the woman.
Lawson said, “I guess we’re not getting invited inside.”
“That’s fine. Gives us more reason and leverage to take him to the station.”
The door closed, the sound of someone disengaging a chain-lock and then the door opened wide. Craig Blake stood there in the wash of daylight, not sure what to say or do. He had wavy brown hair and a few days’ worth of stubble on his face. Blue eyes filled with distrust.
“Craig, I’m Detective Grant. My partner is Detective Lawson. We’re investigating the murder of Michelle Martin.”
“I don’t know anything about that, and I sure as hell didn’t kill her.”
Grant nodded. “We didn’t say you did. All we want to do is to talk with you. Maybe you can shed some light on a few things for us.”
“I doubt it.”
“We can’t talk here at your front door. We need for you come down to the station with us. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I really don’t have anything to say.”
Lawson said, “You can make it very easy on yourself. Come with us, or if you refuse, we’ll come back with a warrant, and that will take the conversation to the next level.”
Craig stared hard at the detective. “You guys got this wrong. I loved Michelle. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, okay?”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “Good, then you have nothing to worry about. Let’s go.”
• • •
Nick sat on a stool next to Dave’s bar and said, “I know Savannah Nelson wasn’t raised on a boat, she had a brick and mortar house, but she spent most of her childhood and teen years hangin’ out with her dad on his boat. She’s a lot the like the kid next door, and when your neighborhood is a marina, we watch out for our kids. Her dad, Rex—that’s his middle name, by the way. His first name’s Terrence. I used to call him T. Rex. He’s a hard-working fishing guide.”
Dave nodded. “Sean, you said that you and Wynona spoke with Rex and Savannah. News media reports have made it common knowledge that it was Savannah who found the body. Do either of you see possible repercussions?”
I said, “There’s always that possibility when police are dealing with two dominant factors. The first one is the guy on the beach.”
“What guy?’ Nick asked.
“Savannah told police that she saw a man in the distance as she was riding a wave to shore. He was watching her surf. In the Tiki Bar, she told us that the man was wearing a hoodie. Not out of place considering it was a blustery day. He was standing beyond the mean high-tide area, near the sand dunes, watching her with binoculars. The question now … who is this guy?”
Wynona said, “Savannah’s an exceptional surfer, so someone watching her on a surfboard isn’t suspect. He may have walked to the dunes from the parking lot, checking out the higher than usual breakers, and then he saw Savannah riding a wave or two. Nothing suspicious per se about that. However, there was the body of Michelle Martin lying not too far down the beach. Did he see it? Or did he leave it? That doesn’t mean that he is the perp, but it’s something police would like to pursue, if they have an ID. And I doubt they do.”
Nick folded his arms across his thick chest. “That sounds like this dude could be bad news. Sean, you said two dominant factors. One was the guy, what’s the other?”
“The possibility of this being a serial killing. The death of Michelle might be a singular tragic killing. But if she is the first … or the first discovered due to the work of a serial killer, Savannah needs to be even more cautious. Some serial killers pick victims at random. Others stalk and seek out similar targets.”
Dave grunted. “And Savannah would be a very similar target. With the apparent cause of death due to drowning, and the time of death at least eight hours before Savannah found the body … how’d the victim wind up on the beach wearing a mermaid costume? If Savannah made the discovery in the morning, that means the girl’s body could have been carried to the location and dumped there in the middle of the night or very early in the morning, using darkness as cover.”
“I’m not sure dumped is the most accurate word,” Wynona said. “Savannah told us that the victim’s hair looked as if it had been carefully arranged—the body possibly staged or posed.”
Dave shifted his weight on the couch and reached for his mug of coffee. “Through the centuries, mankind has had an obsession with mermaids, or the idea of mermaids. This fascination is still present today in movies, books, and TV. And this fascination, just somehow, might have a remote connection to the death of the girl on the beach, Michelle Martin—her body found not too far from where we’re sitting.”
“What kind of connection?” Wynona asked.
“Let me pour a fresh cup of coffee—the beans are freshly ground and picked from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. With a fresh cup, I’ll offer a hypothesis. I may be wrong and hope that’s the case, but my gut’s telling me otherwise.”
TWENTY-ONE
Craig Blake wasn’t the typical nineteen-year-old facing police questioning in a murder case. His face was unreadable as he sat in a chair next to a table in the interrogation room, waiting for the detectives to reenter. He sat straight, shoulders back, legs not crossed, looking toward the large, one-way glass pane on the far wall. The door opened, and he stood.
A stocky man in a dark gray suit entered. His face was slightly flushed, a shine on his wide forehead, his black eyes furtive and guarded. Warren Harris was the Blake family lawyer and had been for more than a dozen years. He sat next to Craig and said, “They haven’t questioned you yet, have they?”
“No. I
told them I wanted my attorney present.” He grinned.
“Smart. Just like your father. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Detectives Grant and Lawson looked through the one-way glass, watching the two men. They studied Blake’s demeanor for any hint of nervousness. They saw none. But they saw something else, an air of indifference. Grant said, “Now that he has his lawyer, Blake’s cool as the proverbial cucumber. Too cool.”
Lawson nodded. “You’d think that the death of Michelle Martin would have left him fearful, or at least showing some kind of sorrow. I don’t care if she was his ex-girlfriend. Back at his house, he told us that he loved her. My empathy meter isn’t registering anything from this guy. But, then again, a psychopath isn’t capable of real empathy or sympathy in life or death.”
“We don’t know if he’s a psychopath … but we do know that his behavior is odd. Let’s find out why.”
The detectives entered the room, Grant sitting directly opposite Blake and his attorney. They made brief introductions. Lawson continued standing and said, “Can I get either of you something to drink. Water? Coffee or a soft drink?”
Both men shook their heads. Blake said, “No. I’m fine.”
Lawson sat down and cut his eyes over to Grant who looked at Blake and said, “We appreciate you coming down here. I know it’s inconvenient. But we’re just trying to do our job. We’ll be talking with a lot of people who knew Michelle … her family and friends.”
Blake looked at him and said nothing.
Warren Harris nodded. “Craig, remember that you are under no obligation to say anything that you don’t want to say. Because of manipulation and miscommunications, sometimes no comment is the most appropriate comment. Understand?”
Blake pursed his thin lips, nodding.
Grant cleared his throat. “Craig, let’s start off with this … where were you Tuesday night?”