by Tom Lowe
“Blake’s phone pinged off two cell towers, one not far from Key Biscayne.”
“Sounds like it’s time to question him, again.”
“Yeah. But what bothers me is the water in the girl’s lungs. Both victims lived in different parts of the state. Could they have drowned in the same body of water?”
FORTY-EIGHT
The next morning, Wynona and I had coffee in the Tiki Bar, sitting at a table in the corner, Max lying on the wood floor between our chairs. Good Morning America, volume barely audible, was on a TV screen behind the bar. About a dozen customers sat at tables and three were on bar stools at the bar. The smell of blackened fish, buttered grits, fried potatoes and grilled onions drifted from the kitchen.
Wynona had pinned her hair back, face lovely in the early morning light through the restaurant’s open windows. She used a spoon to stir her coffee while looking at me with compassion and concern, as if she could read my mind. “Sean, you’ve seemed distant lately. Maybe you’ve given me a glimpse as to why. The things you revealed to Dave, Nick and me … some of the horror you experienced in the military, I’m sure that wasn’t easy to talk about. But I’m glad you did, and my heart hurts for you … what you saw over there and how it’s affected you. Thank you for talking about some of it.”
“It’s not easy. I rarely, if ever, do.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you get specific. I’m sorry those atrocities happened to you and your men. You explained to us why you mentioned it, and I can tell it’s weighing heavy on your thoughts today.”
“Only because I was thinking of what the families of both girls are going through, trying to come to terms with something that will never be comprehensible … the capacity some human beings have for evil. In the murders and display of the girls in mermaid costumes, I see a cross-pollination of the criminal mind, as if the spores blew in the wind from Afghanistan to take root here only because it reminded me of what I’d seen over there. And I still see it sometimes when I dream and wake up with night sweats.”
“I’ve heard you talk in your sleep. Even in sleep, those horrible experiences can’t be extinguished.”
I sipped my coffee, instinctively touching one of the beaded scars on my chest beneath the T-shirt. “Sometimes it’s worse during sleep. I think that’s because the subconscious mind takes over. It’s there where the demons still live. When I’m awake, for the most part, I can keep them on a leash.” I looked out the open windows to the boats tethered to the docks in the marina. “But right now, we’re having a fine morning. We’re getting ready to haul Dragonfly out of the water. It’ll be a good day. And even better now that I see Flo coming toward us.”
Flo, carrying two breakfast menus, stopped tableside. Max lifted her head. Flo said, “I can tell Maxine is ready for breakfast. How about y’all?”
Wynona smiled. “We’re ready.”
She handed the menus to us. “Special this mornin’ is blackened grouper with eggs and hash browns. We always have shrimp ‘n grits, of course. Wynona, I’ve seen more of Sean and little Max in the last few days than I usually see in a couple of months. They’re usually livin’ out there in that cabin on the river. I’m darn glad the marina’s most eligible bachelor has found you, or maybe you found him. Doesn’t make any difference. I’m excited to hear y’all are taking Dragonfly to the islands. Just don’t stay down there too long, okay?”
Wynona smiled. “Okay. That’s a promise.”
I said, “As a matter of fact, we’re having Dragonfly hauled out today. Hope to be on blue water soon.”
“Y’all deserve it.” She looked at Wynona, then glanced around the immediate area of the restaurant, lowering her voice. “How you feelin’ now, baby? You look great, and I always believe a woman’s real beauty begins on the inside before it can ever make its way to the pores in the skin.”
“I’m much better. Thanks for asking.”
Flo’s eyes smiled in a caring, maternal way. “You’re part of our marina family. We watch out for each other. Now, what can I bring y’all?”
After we ordered, Flo looked up at the TV above the bar. “They got something on the national news about the last murder of that poor girl in the mermaid tail.” She motioned to one of her employees, a sleepy-eyed, gray-haired man, behind the bar. “Carl, can you turn it up a little bit?”
The bartender nodded, found the remote control and turned up the sound on the television. A cable news reporter, a woman in a business jacket, stood on Key Biscayne with the lighthouse in the background. She held a microphone and looked into the camera. “Police are being fairly tight lipped about the circumstances surrounding the mysterious murder of the second young woman found dead in a mermaid costume, her body apparently left on some kind of sinister display.
“Neither detectives nor the medical examiner’s office are disclosing whether or not the victim, twenty-year-old Kristen Morgan, was sexually assaulted. We have learned there are similar circumstances in the deaths of Kristen Morgan and Michelle Martin. Martin’s body, as you may know, was found recently on the shoreline a few miles south of Daytona Beach. Both young women had auditioned for parts as extras in the movie, Atlantis, being shot here in Florida. A spokesperson for the movie, Ann Davenport, told us that neither of the victims had been officially cast in the film.” The image cut to Davenport standing near a production trailer. She said, “They were part of the call-backs. Both of them had impressed the casting director enough to receive an invitation for another audition.”
The reporter asked, “Did the production company lend mermaid tails to both Michelle Martin and Kristen Morgan for them to use as practice for the parts?”
“Yes, we allowed some of the girls auditioning to borrow the costumes to become better acclimated, more comfortable in them, should they be offered the parts. Michelle Martin and Kristen Morgan were included in that group. We have asked for an immediate return of the remaining costumes from the girls who we allowed to take them. At this time, our hearts go out to the families of the victims in these horrible tragedies. To help police with their investigations, Pisces Productions and our distributors for Atlantis, Lights Out Entertainment and Lyra Films, are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information that helps police quickly solve these crimes. A link to the details was just added to the studio’s website.”
The image cut back to the reporter. “Ann Davenport told us the studio is fully cooperating with any and all police investigations. However, she said it would be a … and I’m quoting here, a farfetched assumption to think that anyone with the production of Atlantis could be even remotely involved in these heinous crimes. Now back to you in New York.”
The TV screen cut to a news anchorman and a studio desk in New York. Flo shook her head. “I’m glad the movie people are offering a big reward. Maybe somebody knows something and will come forward. They can’t arrest the killer fast enough. Jesus, what’s this world coming to?” She walked toward the kitchen in the rear of the restaurant.
Wynona said, “Until those remaining mermaid costumes are returned, I’d suspect that the other two girls who borrowed them could be in danger.”
“Is one of them Savannah Nelson?”
• • •
Detective Dan Grant and his partner, Detective Jason Lawson entered one of the interview rooms in the Volusia County Criminal Justice Center. Seated at the table were Craig Blake and his attorney, Warren Harris.
The detectives sat opposite Blake and his lawyer. Grant said, “Gentlemen, it’s good to see you here today.”
Neither Blake nor his attorney said a word.
Grant continued. “Craig, we know you were in Miami Tuesday, July seventh. Why’d you go down there?”
Blake glanced at his attorney and cleared his throat. “To look at boats.”
“Boats or a particular boat. Are you buying a boat?”
“My father is, I’m just looking for him. I went to a boat show in Miami.”
“Did anyone go with yo
u?”
“Just me.”
“Can you prove you attended the boat show?”
The attorney leaned forward. “He doesn’t have to prove it. At this point, you have his word. It’s up to you two gentlemen as to whether you believe him or not.”
Detective Lawson smiled and said, “Then he has no alibi, at least no way to corroborate an alibi.”
The attorney shook his head. “He doesn’t need an alibi because he’s done nothing illegal.”
“Then we can’t dismiss him as a murder suspect.”
“You haven’t charged my client with a crime, so there’s nothing he has to disprove.”
Grant said, “No, but your client is a suspect in a capital crime or an accomplice in a crime. An alibi that can be corroborated should at least remove him as a person of interest in the death of Kristen Morgan.”
The attorney shook his head. “The burden of proof, gentlemen, is on you.”
Grant was expressionless. “Craig, we found out that your father is one of the largest investors in the movie, Atlantis. He was instrumental in spearheading financial incentives that the state of Florida offered to have the movie filmed here. In return, your father will be listed on the credits as an executive producer. And, in what amounts to a quid pro quo, you and your dad have access to the film sets. We know you were there for at least one casting session, the one that your ex-girlfriend Michelle Martin attended.”
“So,” Blake said, his eyes indifferent. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“With an all access pass to the set and the people who work there, you could have seen which girls were given mermaid costumes. You’d know who they are and could find out where they lived. Including where Kristen Morgan lived in Miami.”
“Objection,” said the attorney.
“This isn’t a courtroom,” Grant fired back. “Nothing to object to. No records to strike, counselor.”
“Sure, there is. The innuendos, the leading questions. You’re right. This isn’t a courtroom. Meaning … my client has the right to get up and walk out of here. And I’m advising him to do just that. So, unless you are filing charges and arresting him, this voluntary interview is over.”
FORTY-NINE
The following day, Diana Harmon found a spot to park in the Odyssey Restaurant lot and thought about the last time she saw her friend alive. And now Kristen Morgan’s face was all over the news, not just the local news in Miami, but the international news. Diana parked and sat in her Toyota, thinking about the night she watched Kristen walk to her car, remembering the conversation now as if it had just happened. Diana thought about the frightened look in Kristen’s eyes when she said, “You’d remember this guy.”
“Why? A hand is a hand.”
“It’s missing most of the ring finger. And the first time he did it, I could just barely see in the space where his finger was gone. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see one of his eyes. Like it was an eye of a dead thing. Or something without a soul.”
Diana opened her purse and found the card the detective had given her. She took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, and made the call. When Ron Hamilton answered, Diana said, “Detective, it’s Diana Harmon. You asked me to call you if I could think of anything else … you know, stuff about Kristen.”
“Yes, thanks for calling. What do you have?”
“It may be nothing. I didn’t think about it when you first talked with me and some of the others in the restaurant. But now … with Kristen’s picture all over the news, and with them finding her body near the beach on those rocks … it’s made me remember some stuff that had happened recently.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Kristen told me that a guy, a customer in the restaurant, came up to one of the porthole windows on the side of the aquarium. As a mermaid, it’s really hard to see people inside the restaurant because the water is always in our eyes. It’s sort of like trying to look through ice. Anyway, Kristen told me that a man would come up to her window and put his hand on the glass and just hold it there—like giving a high five. So, she would place her hand on the opposite side of the glass, inside the aquarium. She was just being friendly like we are taught to do as mermaids, even learning how to smile underwater. Kristen said, after she took her hand off the glass … the guy kept his hand pressed to it. Like he was waving goodbye or saying hello.”
“Could she tell anything about this man … young or old? The way he was dressed, maybe.”
“She said he looked distinguished, but she didn’t say how, you know stuff like the color of his hair and things like that. But Kristen said the guy was missing part of a finger, the one where people usually wear wedding rings. And she said, through that missing part of his hand, she could see his eyes … at least one of them.”
“Did she make out the color?”
“No, but she told me his eye looked dead … like there was no soul behind it.”
“Diana, where are you right now?”
“In the Odyssey parking lot. I have to go to work. My shift starts soon.”
“I’m coming over there. I need to see you.”
“Okay … but why since we’re talking on the phone.”
“I want you to show me the exact window that Kristen made reference to, okay?”
“Okay. What are you going to do?”
“Dust it for fingerprints. One other thing—”
“What other thing?”
“Don’t tell anyone that I’m coming there. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon.”
Detective Hamilton thought about one of his conversations with Dan Grant when Grant showed him the pictures of the handprint in the turtle’s nest. “Here … take a look. You can see boot tracks and the handprint. It looks like the impression, from the left hand, may have been missing most of the ring finger.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled, “O’Brien … what else do you know?”
• • •
An hour later, Detective Hamilton and two members of the CSI team, a man and a woman, stood inside the Odyssey Restaurant. Diana Harmon, her hair back in a ponytail, was there to meet them. A bartender in a tropical print shirt sliced limes and lemons while two female servers placed crystal wine glasses on tables. A middle-aged manager, a man in a dark sports coat with pale white pants, glanced at his watch, face anxious. Hamilton looked at Diana and asked, “The window that the man touched … did Kristen say which one it was?”
Diana nodded. “The one that’s almost in the center. Kristen was such a good swimmer, able to hold her breath longer than any of us. She always appeared behind that center window.”
Hamilton stared at the surface of the glass. Then he watched two stingrays drift through the water like birds soaring, followed by a loggerhead sea turtle and dozens of colorful fish. He turned to the manager. “Do you know if that window has been cleaned since Kristen Morgan worked here?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, looking from the detective to the aquarium. “The cleaning crew usually cleans them twice a week, which the last time would have been the morning of Kristen’s last appearance in the tank, and then tomorrow. They are cleaned in between only if something gets splattered on them. That rarely happens because of the way the tables are situated fairly close to the windows. Guests typically don’t stand in front of them and touch the glass … it might block the view of the other patrons in the restaurant.” He looked at his watch, folding his arms. “Detective Hamilton, we’ll be seating diners in less than an hour. It will be somewhat unnerving for them to see police dusting for fingerprints from the windows of the aquarium.”
Hamilton looked at the manager without turning his head. Only his eyes moved. He said, “What’s still unnerving to me is how one of your security cameras, the one overlooking the employee parking lot, was not working the night your employee, Kristen Morgan, disappeared from this property. And you are still telling me you don’t know how the camer
a went off-line. So, at this point, Mr. Garcia, I’ll have my teams spread the black fingerprint dust all over this restaurant if I feel it will lead to the person who abducted and killed Kristen. Am I making myself clear?”
“Of course. I didn’t intend to come across as—”
“As what? As an uncaring boss when one of your employees, from what I hear, one of your star mermaids, was murdered?” Hamilton turned to the CSI techs. “Let’s dust the center window. In addition to fingerprints, I’m hoping we can lift a complete handprint as well.”
The techs nodded and walked up to the window, opening forensic kits that resembled fishing tackle boxes. Hamilton followed them. From a right angle, there was a slight reflection on the glass window. It was of Diana’s face—a frightened look, as if she’d seen the ghost of her friend Kristen appear in the water.
FIFTY
Detective Dan Grant didn’t want to go too close to the water. Not that the water looked dirty or that he wasn’t a good swimmer. But, as he watched one of the three forensic techs enter the lake in a partial hazmat suit—waders, plastic eyewear and long rubber gloves, it managed to give an otherwise picturesque looking lake an ominous feel.
Grant was standing near his unmarked car next to the white CSI van. The forensic team, two men and a woman, took water samples in three areas of the 150-acre lake. The air carried the smell of decaying water lilies near the shore, pine needles, and clover. The last sample was coming from a spot near the large waterfront estate owned by Craig Blake’s family.
From where Grant stood, he could see the expansive wooden deck on the backside of the house, overlooking the lake. There were less than twenty other homes around the water, much of it kept from build-out by the county and developers who received construction permits after mitigating a portion of the land to remain as a nature preserve.
“Anything else, Detective?” the female tech asked, carrying two vials of water in her gloved hands. One of her colleagues was walking beside her, holding a camera in his hands, dark mud on their boots.