by Tom Lowe
A tourist, a woman with a British accent and wearing a yellow sunhat asked, “Is that the area where one of the lighthouse keepers was killed doing the exchange of gunfire?”
“Yes, ma’am. It sure is. The other lighthouse keeper was going to jump to his death, but the Indians retreated, and he was soon rescued by some men on a schooner who saw him frantically waving the bloody trousers he managed to remove from the fella who was shot to death.”
No one said anything more as they each walked from the top steps to the outside balcony. The guide followed the last person out of the coal-black cast iron door. “To your left, the opposite direction from the ocean, is Biscayne Bay. If you look south, you can see the national park, and south of that is the northern part of Key Largo. Directly north from the lighthouse is Virginia Key and then Fisher Island.”
A tall man from Canada turned to his young wife and said, “Would you look at that? Wow … this is such a magnificent view. We’re more than one hundred feet above the Atlantic. Check out the color of that blue-green water near the beach to where it turns to sapphire blue further out at sea.” He lifted a small pair of binoculars to his eyes.
“It’s spectacular,” she said, putting her sunglasses on and staring north toward Miami in the distance. She glanced at a long and massive pile of stones, a jetty, that extended from near the base of the lighthouse to about eighty feet out in the shallow coastal area, waves gently rolling over some of the stones near the surface. “What’s that?” She pointed.
“It’s sort of like a retaining wall. Lots of stones and boulders piled up to help prevent erosion. Some people call it rip-rap or a revetment barrier.”
She shook her head. “Todd, I’m not talking about the damn rocks. Look, at the end of them, further out in the ocean. It appears to be a lone woman sitting out there.”
Her husband stared in the direction his wife pointed. He squinted and then lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Oh my God …”
“What is it? Let me see.”
“It’s not just a woman … it’s a mermaid … or someone dressed in a mermaid’s tail. And from here I can see that she’s not moving.”
THIRTY-SIX
I hoped he’d take my call. No sure bets, but I made the call anyway. I stopped walking halfway down L dock, a 54-foot Bertram entering its slip. I looked around the perimeter, at rooftops, the adjacent docks, and the service workers. I walked quickly to a partially obscure area adjacent to the Tiki Bar. The receptionist in the Volusia County Sheriff’s Department transferred me to the criminal investigation division. A woman answered the phone. “CSI homicide, may I help you?”
“Detective Dan Grant, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sean O’Brien.”
“Hold a moment.”
After less than one minute, Dan Grant answered. “Sean O’Brien … how the hell are you?” Grant sat at his desk in the detective division, a picture of his wife and teenage daughter in one corner.
“I’m well. And you?”
“I’ve had smoother days at work. Speaking of work, I normally wouldn’t say this, but thanks for coming to the rescue of that kid in the Amber Alert. I’d hate to think of what probably would have happened to her had you not intervened.”
“I got lucky. In the right place at the right time, that’s all.”
“No, it’s a helluva lot more than that, O’Brien. I think you’re wasting your time as a PI. You ought to think about reinstating your career in law enforcement.”
“Been there and done that. Now, I get to be a lot more selective. I know you’re in a challenging place right now. I’ve been following the highly publicized case of the vic found in the mermaid tail. It’s tragic.”
Grant leaned back in his chair. “It’s one of the worst I’ve seen. Not so much because of trauma to the body, not much there. But what got to me was the damn bizarre way the perp put her on display, like some crazy guy who catches beautiful butterflies, kills them and then pins them to a felt background under glass. As far as I’m concerned, the killer put Michelle Martin on exhibit. Unless someone who knew the girl is trying to make a damn, weird statement, there could be more to this case. Seems like every year here in Florida, the perps are getting sicker. Did you ever have anything this sick when you were with Miami-Dade PD?”
“I had my share of cases that I still think about too much. Thankfully, the majority of them were solved. It’s the cases that weren’t—they’re the ones that stay with me the longest.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Are you calling because you have a tip or two you want to share?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I know the girl who found the body, Savannah Nelson, and her father Rex.”
“We interviewed Savannah. Tell me more.”
“Rex is a fishing guide here at the marina. Savannah has hung around here, helping her dad on his boat, since she was a kid. I was just speaking with Rex. He’s very worried about Savannah’s safety. He’s concerned that the man Savannah saw on the beach could be the perp, someone who might want to silence her if he thinks she could ID him.”
“From what Savannah told us, she’d have a hard time making a positive ID because of the distance between her on the surfboard and the guy on the beach.”
“But the guy on the beach doesn’t know that, especially if he’s hauled in and placed in a lineup. I went to the area where Savannah said she saw the man near the path leading to the county parking lot.”
“Our CSI guys checked it out. Couldn’t find much. Shifting beach sand makes it tough.”
“Off the beaten path, maybe twenty feet or so from the part that leads to the parking area, I found signs of a sea turtle’s nest. The baby turtles had recently left the nest—”
“O’Brien, with all due respect, is there a point to your nature story?”
“I found a couple of boot prints near the nest, and the tread appears to be the kind you’d find on the rubber boots that commercial fishermen wear.”
“Maybe some guy was stealing turtle eggs.”
“Did you find similar boot prints near the body?”
“No. Savannah said the beach was deserted that morning. We could see her footprints and some nondescript markings that didn’t lead anywhere.”
I gave Grant a rundown of everything I found on and around the turtle’s nest and why I thought there was a possibility the prints could have been made by the person who killed Michelle Martin. “I shot some pictures of the prints. I’ll email them to you. I know you’ve questioned the former boyfriend. Is he missing part of a finger on his left hand?”
“No. And he’s not missing a big ego either.”
‘Do you think he’s the perp?”
“You’d be the first to know that I have to keep the details of the investigation under wraps, but because of our prior working relationship, if you will, and because you know Savannah Nelson and her dad … and because you know the importance of confidentiality in an open case, I’ll tell you what I can at this point.”
Grant gave me a rundown of the investigation, his thoughts, and added, “We’re looking at the ex-boyfriend, Craig Blake. He comes from a wealthy family. He’s lawyered up to the teeth. He’s certainly a person of interest. Blake says he was home the morning Michelle Martin’s body was found. The ME says she died at least eight hours before the body was located. Blake tells us he never saw Michelle in the days leading up to her death. The ME says Michelle drowned, and most likely not at the beach because the water in her lungs wasn’t saltwater. It was fresh.”
“Any signs of rape?”
“No signs of sexual trauma in terms of blood or bruising. The ME’s report indicates the vic may have had sex. Whether it was consensual, who the hell knows. There was no evidence of semen.”
I watched two men in a 40-foot Bertram tie off the yacht, the rising tide water in the marina slapping against the boat’s white hull. “Dan, do you think this is an isolated, one-off murder, or do you believe he’ll strike
again?”
“In these kinds of cases, that’s always the big question isn’t it? We don’t have enough yet to charge Blake, and we don’t have anything pointing us in the direction of another suspect. Will it happen again? I hope to God it doesn’t. But, at this point, we simply don’t know … and it worries me. Right now, all we have is a dead kid on the beach stuffed into a mermaid tail. It’s like the aftermath of a sick Halloween prank gone too far.”
I chose my words carefully, not to come across as an ex-cop offering suggestions when they weren’t solicited. “I may be completely off base here, but I keep thinking about two things.”
“What two things?”
Bingo. “Well, since you asked. The first one is the staging or posing of the body. It’s as if the killer had a delicate, almost repentant side in the aftermath of the murder … like he wanted to make amends to his victim and honor her with an artsy yet ghastly display of her body. The comparison you made earlier about the guy who catches beautiful butterflies to kill and put them on exhibit, might not be far off base.”
“What’s the second part?”
“The mermaid tail. A major movie, Atlantis, with a reported budget of more than a hundred million dollars, is shooting all around here and in other parts of Florida. They’re casting for roles as mermaids. When a girl is found dead, topless and dressed in a mermaid tail less than thirty miles from the movie’s production offices, that makes me wonder if there’s some kind of a connection.”
“My partner and I are already with you on that. Apparently, so are the news reporters. They’ve interviewed or tried to interview producers and whatnot with the production. Michelle Martin had auditioned for a part in the movie. She wanted to play a mermaid. Does that mean some freak on the set got the hots for Michelle and killed her? Of course not. Was Craig Blake jealous and resentful to the point of killing her and placing her body in a mermaid tail as the ultimate F-you? Maybe. We can’t prove that yet.”
“Did you speak with any of the movie people?”
“Yes. And we’re not done there. We questioned the casting director, an executive producer, the art director and the director. All feigned politeness, but clearly bothered to think the police would see a possible connection between the murder and their movie. So much for people in Hollywood having an imagination.” He chuckled.
“It’s not make-believe to them.”
“You got that right. The director, in a not so subtle way, told us that the movie studio was spending at least ten million dollars in Volusia County alone, and more money across the state. The implication was to leave us the hell alone. Go away and don’t bother us with your murder investigation because we have a movie to make.”
“If there is a connection, and there may not be until you peel back the onion, it might not be on the level of the director and executive producer. It could be a production assistant, maybe a lighting tech, or any one in the dozens of positions on a movie set.”
Grant leaned forward in his chair and opened a file. He read some of his notes. “There was this one guy … he’s the art director. Name is Jonathon Lloyd.”
“What about him?”
“Could be he’s just a guy who’s got a bad cocaine habit or something, but he’s intense. Made no real effort to hide his angst at having us come on his movie set. He’s one of those ultra-perfectionists who forgets his movie is just pretend. Maybe, in his mind, fiction is the F-word. Regardless, he’s going to great lengths to create a pretend world—an Atlantis that, in his head, and the eye of the camera, is as real as it gets. Nothing wrong with that until it becomes extremism, and he’s in a weird place not to be aware of where and how to draw the line between art and real life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, O’Brien. It’s just an old detective’s hunch, something about that guy sticks in my craw like a tiny fishbone. He’s evasive. Patronizing to us and the actors, especially the girls playing mermaids. He’s designed prosthetic mermaid tails that may look like the real thing. However, in speaking with some of the extras, it’s hard for them to maneuver in the costumes, making it tiring and dangerous to swim, especially in the ocean. And that’s where some of the scenes will be shot.”
“We know that Savannah Nelson is an excellent swimmer.”
Grant looked at the framed photo of his daughter. “At this point, I’m not sure what Savannah Nelson’s father should be concerned about the most … a possible serial killer with Savannah potentially in his sights, or some irrational art director who may be going a little too far in his attempt for realism. My daughter, Lillie, is about the same age as Savannah. I wouldn’t want Lillie to work in the movie as a mermaid for a couple of reasons. You don’t know if someone might be lurking in the shadows, preying on beautiful young women dressed as mermaids. And, secondly, the possible danger in the water with those mermaid tails is an accident waiting to happen. Unless they have some kind of safety net just under the surface, like circus trapeze artists use, the sea can be unforgiving.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Detective Ron Hamilton stared at the gawkers in boats. People in swimsuits simply out for a good time on the waters of Biscayne Bay, looking for nice weather, sun, and calm seas. What they spotted was a murder scene. “It’s too bad we can’t put the yellow crime scene tape in the ocean,” said Hamilton, a seasoned veteran with the Miami-Dade Police Department.
He spoke with Detective Kim Ramirez, early forties, light brown hair and empathetic black eyes. They stood near the end of the rock jetty barrier, a dozen boats motoring and circling offshore, most at least eighty to one hundred yards away from the body that was near the end of the jetty. The tide was coming in, waves hitting the large boulders, sea spray going ten feet up, the smell of salt in the air. Gulls circled above the crime scene, their shrieking coming in assertive bursts, as if they could feel the tension in the warm breeze.
Ramirez looked at spectators in boats and shifted her eyes back to where CSI techs were photographing the body of a young woman, topless, an emerald green mermaid tail starting just below the navel, the body propped up on an outcropping of rock. Ramirez looked at Hamilton and said, “We have marine patrol units in boats on their way. If anyone on those boats records video and posts it on the Internet, I’ll personally track them down and arrest them.”
“Amen. Whoever killed her had to know this area well, had to know that there was an extension of rock, some of the rocks on the ledge situated enough like a natural chair, so he could prop the body up. To stage it like he did.” Hamilton looked toward a small crowd on the beach.
Ramirez shook her head. “It’s as if the body was simply sitting on the rocks watching boats go by. I’m surprised this wasn’t called in before the people at the top of the lighthouse spotted it.”
“Could be because most boaters are zipping by this area so fast, trying to go from Key Largo up to South Beach, that they might have looked this way but only saw the tall lighthouse and not a woman’s body on the rocks.”
The two detectives walked up to the body and began a closer examination, about a dozen CSI techs, sheriff’s deputies and two people from the coroner’s office working the crime scene, all waiting for the detectives to finish their initial inspection. Ramirez pulled on rubber gloves and stood next to the body, looking at the girl’s hands, fingernails, and other body parts, examining for obvious or potential causes of death, traces of blood, bruises, and wounds, either by a knife or gunshot. There were none. She examined the neck, lifting the hair, looking for ligature bruising.
Detective Hamilton knelt down on the other side of the body, studying it, examining the adjacent rocks for evidence. “What a shame. Want a damn shame. She can’t be long out of her teen years, if that. Wonder who she is?”
“She still is someone’s daughter.”
“Just like the girl found dead south of Daytona Beach … somebody’s daughter and stuffed in a mermaid tail.”
Ramirez inspected the mermaid tail. “That’s the first
thing that came to mind. I wonder if these killings are related, or do we have copycat killer, doing the dirt down here in South Florida?”
“It could be the same perp. He’s certainly a long way from the other crime scene. From up there, I’ve heard their vic may have been killed elsewhere, and the body taken to the beach after death.”
“I’m guessing that’s the case here. No sign of blood. It’s like a dramatic scene out of a horror movie. The world has become an even stranger place to live nowadays.”
Hamilton looked at the dead girl’s face. “I can’t retire soon enough.”
“Well, don’t retire until we find this guy.”
“I have two more years. Let’s hope it doesn’t take that long.”
“On first look, I’d say we have the same perp as in the Daytona area homicide, and what appears to be the same MO. This thing he has for mermaids or young woman dressed as mermaids, probably some weird-ass guy who can’t get a normal date and resorts to this sick fantasy.”
The medical examiner, Doctor Patricia White, mid-fifties, graying hair, spoke quietly with an assistant. White nodded to the detectives and walked around the body, the ocean swells getting close to the crime scene. The ME was attractive without a trace of makeup. Her fingernails were not painted. She folded her arms, looking at the detectives. “I hate to stop you folks in the middle of your investigation, but if the tide gets much higher, were going to have to move the body. Last thing we want is potential evidence washing away.”
Detective Hamilton nodded. “And the last thing we want is the body washing off these rocks. It can get pretty rough out here. And that makes me think that whoever did this came here at low tide, most likely by boat … carried her up the rocks and propped the body in this sitting position, staging it for dramatic effect. Like the poor girl was sitting on the rocks and looking out to sea. Sort of the illusion of the mermaid sightings of old.”
Hamilton slowly stood, as if his back hurt. He stared at the shoreline. Dozens of beachgoers were standing behind the yellow crime scene tape that deputies had staked out around the entrance to the long jetty barrier. He eyed Detective Ramirez. “How much longer do you need?”