“I was expecting to see more visible trauma on her feet or at least the toe that was broken,” I say.
“No blood or bruising because she was dead when it happened,” she says.
“I meant from the violence of whatever broke it,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah. She’s definitely in the better shape of the two.”
I look at the file for a few more moments but there’s nothing else to see.
“So you’re thinking the pattern is . . . make a murder look like an accident caused by or related to the storm and break a bone after death?” she asks.
I nod.
“How many you got in Gulf County so far?”
“Three,” I say, “but I’m betting more when we locate some more of our missing persons.”
“Our boy’s been busy,” she says.
“That’s what concerns me.”
“How you wanna handle it?” she says. “Sheriff says it’s up to me. I’ll be liaising from our end. Says we can create a task force or just coordinate on it.”
“Given how stretched everyone is,” I say, “why don’t we let our deputies and our investigators know what’s going on—and we need to tell the Port St. Joe and Mexico Beach police departments too—and then just coordinate with each other. Task force would eat up time and labor neither of our departments have right now.”
“Agreed,” she says. “We give each other copies of the relevant files and both dig in on them and see what else we can come up with. Maybe by looking at them as suspicious deaths we’ll come up with evidence that was overlooked before.”
I nod. “Sounds good,” I say, trying to keep the sense of futility I feel out of my voice.
“You’re saying it sounds good but you don’t look or sound like you think so,” she says.
“I just get the sense that this particular sadist has perfected his dark deeds to the point of not leaving behind too much in the way of evidence.”
28
On my drive back, I start calling the family members of the victims, beginning with Ellen Lucado’s older sister, Diane.
“My name is John Jordan and I’m an investigator with the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a moment?” I ask. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your sister Ellen?”
“Now’s fine, but . . . has something new come up or . . .”
“It’s just a routine follow-up,” I say. “We try to do it for all our cases. Just take a second look at our investigations. It’s one of our agency’s best practices. Helps make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
“Oh, okay. What do you want to know?”
“Can you tell me why she chose not to evacuate?”
“She didn’t,” she says. “I mean she didn’t choose not to, not that she didn’t evacuate—although I guess she didn’t, did she?”
I wonder if she’s nervous for some reason or if she always talks so circuitously.
“She was supposed to,” she is saying. “And I thought she did. We have friends who live on Overstreet—near the Wewa end—and she was going to stay with them but she never showed. I knew something was wrong because she didn’t call them or me and that wasn’t like her at all. She would’ve let us know.”
“Any idea why her plans changed?”
“No, but she was a really good person. If I had to guess . . . I bet she got delayed trying to help someone or trying to save some pets other evacuees left behind. She was always doing stuff like that. Had several elderly neighbors she helped out and took in strays like a mother. That would be just like her. I’ll tell you this . . . I’d give all the stupid pets in all the world to have her back.”
“Was there anything unusual going on with her in the lead-up to the storm?” I ask. “Did she mention anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all, no matter how small it seems? Something suspicious? Someone new she met? Any conflicts she had with anyone?”
“Why?” she says, her voice rising. “Do you think she could’ve been . . . you know . . . that someone killed her?”
“Like I said, we just want to be sure. Please don’t read anything into my questions. They’re just some of the standard questions that we ask. What we try to do when we take a second look at a case is to question the original determination of cause of death. So since your sister’s death was ruled accidental, I’m asking the questions we would have if it was suspicious. I’m sorry to put you through this but it really helps. Just please don’t think that anything I’m saying means anything different than what you already know. If I discover anything in this second look we’ll obviously let you know, but it’s very, very rare that we do.”
“I understand,” she says. “Makes sense.”
I’m glad it does to her because the more I say about it the less I believe it.
“No . . . she didn’t mention anything odd or suspicious . . . I mean . . . her life seemed absolutely normal—same as it always did right up until the storm hit. She lived a quiet life. She was content, you know, the kind of person who never got mixed up in anything. She . . .”
Though she’s very quiet about it, I can tell she’s crying.
“Again, I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “I . . . I just can’t make myself think that it’s real. Nothing seems real right now. The whole world is upside down. Nothing is like it was before the storm. Between losing Ellen and the impact of storm . . . I can’t get my bearings. I’m just . . . lost.”
“And I’m sure this doesn’t help. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I really appreciate your time.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “Thank you for looking into it again. It means a lot that y’all’re making sure everything was . . . right or whatever.”
“Well, take care,” I say. “You have my number if you need anything or think of anything you need to let us— Oh, before I go . . . I wanted to ask you . . . I really like the tattoo on Ellen’s left foot and I wondered if you could tell me what it means?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand. Ellen didn’t have any tattoos. She didn’t like them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Could she have gotten it since the last time you saw her?”
“I saw her the night before the storm and she was barefooted and she did not have a tattoo on her foot or anywhere else. Is it . . . Do you think . . . Is it possible y’all have the wrong . . . Could it be someone else? But if so where would Ellen be? She’d still be missing or—”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I keep making things worse for you. I’m sure I just got mixed up. Because of the storm . . . we’re dealing with a lot of deaths and it’s possible I confused some of the autopsy pictures I’ve seen. I’m sure that’s what it is, just a mistake—and I’m so sorry for making it. But I promise you this—I’ll get to the bottom of it and get back to you just as quickly as I possibly can.”
The moment I end the call with Diane, I find one of the few places on the side of the road that doesn’t have downed trees and pull over. As I open my briefcase and withdraw Ellen’s file, I’m tapping in the number for Leno Mullally, the ME’s investigator who worked her case.
When he answers he sounds like he has food in his mouth. The last time I spoke to him I thought he was eating because it was his lunch break, but now I’m wondering if maybe it’d be hard to catch him when he wasn’t eating.
“You worked the Ellen Lucado case, right?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Her body was found in the marina at Mexico Beach.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Attractive woman. Pretty feet. Real shame. She was found in the water but she didn’t drown. Blunt force trauma. A power pole or a sailboat mast—something struck her in the head before she went into the water. But that’s a Bay County case.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Investigator over there, Pamela Garmon, gave me the file. We’re looking at a possible connecti
on between a few of our cases.”
“This like the other one you called about?” he says. “Think it might not be an accident?”
“I’m looking at the autopsy photos,” I say. “Can you pull them up?”
“Sure, give me a sec.”
He takes the sec to not only pull up the photos but take another bite of whatever he’s eating.
“Okay,” he says.
I describe the photos I’m looking at.
“Yeah,” he says. “Ellen Tabitha Lucado.”
“These show a tattoo on the top left side of her left foot,” I say.
“Yep. See it.”
“I just spoke to her sister,” I say. “She says Ellen didn’t have any tattoos. Didn’t like them. Said she saw her barefooted the night before the storm and she didn’t have a tattoo.”
“Well, she had one when she was brought in here,” he says.
“You’re absolutely positive this is Ellen Lucado?”
“One hundred percent,” he says. “Not only does her appearance match her driver’s license photo, but we printed her. It’s her. No question. It’d hurt like a son of a bitch to get one done there. Just bone under the skin. No meat.”
“It’s not red or puffy around it,” I say. “And it’s not peeling. It’s not a new tattoo.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “It’s not new. Unless it’s not a tattoo.”
“What do you—”
“At least not a permeant one,” he says. “Could be a temporary one. It wasn’t a sticker. It was on the skin, but she could’ve just put it on as some kind of superstitious protection from the storm—which obviously didn’t work.”
“Can we check?” I ask.
“I love that you used we,” he says, “like you’d come to the morgue and we could examine that foot together, but, no, her body was cremated a few days ago.”
During my conversation with Mullally I missed a call from one of the deputies who took Rick Urich to the home of the man he’d helped the day before.
“Sorry I missed your call,” I say. “I was—”
“We’re back,” he says. “Couldn’t find the place. He led us down several dirt roads up near the county line that he thought might be it, but . . . none of ’em were. Says he’ll keep trying to figure out where it is and if he sees the guy again he’ll ask him, but . . . nothing today but wasted time and gas.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for taking him. Sorry it didn’t turn up anything.”
“Okay,” he says. “Just letting you know.”
Before I can say anything else he is gone.
29
I’ve almost made it back to Wewa when Pamela Garmon calls.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” I say.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” she says.
“What’s up?”
She clears her throat before she begins to speak and when she does I can hear the tension in her voice. “I shared everything with our sheriff and our lead investigator and they both have serious concerns.”
“Concerns?” I say.
“Doubts,” she says. “That there’s really anything there. They think everything can be explained as accidental—including the deaths themselves and the broken bones afterwards. Think it’s a real stretch to say we got some kind a serial killer on our hands.”
I’m not just disappointed but deflated.
“Just wanted to give you a heads-up,” she says. “Our sheriff’s going to be calling yours to discuss it, so . . .”
“I appreciate it,” I say, and I wonder if she can hear how disheartened I am.
“And hey . . . just between you and me . . . I’m still gonna look into it and we’re not gonna ignore evidence. I promise you that. If we get more evidence or if another case happens that’s similar enough to these to convince us . . . we will of course investigate it.”
She had seemed so convinced before. Had she been and the sheriff and lead investigator really persuaded her that quickly and easily, or was she just being polite to me?
“You seemed pretty convinced earlier,” I say. “They talk you out of it or did I read you wrong before?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m conflicted about it. I really am. I can see it both ways, but . . . your theory requires a pretty big leap that the other one doesn’t.”
I don’t say anything and we are quiet an awkward beat.
“The sheriff says he wonders if maybe you’re trying to distract yourself from your court case and this is how you’re doing it—imagining a serial killer. I’m not saying he’s right or that I agree . . . but . . . it’s probably worth considering. Have you considered that?”
“I have actually,” I say. “More than once. And maybe I am. I’ll certainly reconsider it.”
“And hey, like I said . . . I’m still gonna look at it on my own and I’m not gonna let anybody over here ignore evidence if we catch another case with any similarities at all . . . You’ll be my first call. Meantime . . . keep your chin up, partner, and good luck with your trial.”
When we end the call I think about what she said and wonder if I am trying to distract myself from Derek’s death, the trial, and what the eventual verdict will mean for me.
Maybe my subconscious is making a fool out of me.
There’s definitely a case to be made for these all being sad accidents that have a few aspects in common.
I haven’t finished thinking it all the way through when Reggie calls.
“Seems you made quite the impression over there,” she says.
“Evidently,” I say, and let out a sigh. “But not the one I was trying to. Did their sheriff convince you too?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. But . . . you even said yourself that these could be what they look like—tragic accidents.”
“Sure,” I say, “they could be. But . . . there’s certainly some evidence that indicates it . . . could be murder.”
“If they are accidental, no one would blame you for . . . seeing more.”
“Sounds like the sheriff of Bay County is far more convincing than I am,” I say.
“Give me a little credit,” she says. “I’m not saying I’m convinced either way. Just . . . let’s be cautious. Go slow. Consider everything—including your state of mind and whether you’re searching for a distraction. All we can do is keep examining the evidence and follow where it leads. And I’m not telling you to do anything other than that. But . . . I mean . . . we’re barely surviving right now . . . so just keep everything in perspective. You can keep looking into it and if you come up with anything else . . . let me know . . . but looks like you’ll be a task force of one. Bay County’s out and Darlene and Arnie want no part of it. And speaking of them . . . see if you can’t patch things up. Be far better for the department if y’all can be friends again.”
“I didn’t realize we weren’t,” I say.
“Which might say something about the state of your mind right now,” she says. “Given the storm and what you went through and with how things are now and with being on trial . . .”
30
That night I have a dark night of the soul.
For most of the evening I sit alone in my study, the flicker of candlelight from my altar the only illumination in the room, the interplay of its light and shadows dancing on my face.
I feel alone, isolated from every other person on the planet, my sense of separation intensifying with every passing moment.
The storm has been isolating—and not just because for a while we were cut off from the world outside our own, but because all the places that provided any opportunity for socialization, for gathering to break bread or have a drink, are gone. And not only that, but everyone is scattered, displaced, busy with day-to-day survival or early important recovery efforts. Merrill is busy with missing persons cases and other storm-recovery-related activities, but even if he weren’t, the old gym on Main Street where we used to play basketball is now filled with the emergency suppl
ies that pour into our little town daily—often by the semi-trailer full. The hurricane aftermath reality we’re living means everything has been disrupted. Every. Single. Thing. Nothing is simple. Nothing is easy. Nothing is as it was before. I miss Merrill. I no longer see Dad and Verna and Jake and other family and friends on any kind of regular basis, and when we do see them it’s for brief moments and everyone is exhausted and depleted, weary and rawboned. Home doesn’t resemble anything like home anymore. And everywhere we turn there is trash, rubble, debris. Our trees are gone. Our homes and businesses are caving in on us. The chaos and confusion and uncertainty and disorganization closes in on us, causing claustrophobia, anxiety, and depression.
But it’s not just the littered, lonely landscape that leaves me feeling cut off and alone.
The trial is also isolating—and not just because I’m trapped in the courtroom all day every day, far away from my normal routine and the familiar frames that give shape to my days, but because I alone am on trial. Even with Anna by my side, I alone am accused. I am the one being criticized and condemned. I alone am having my actions questioned and picked apart. I alone have to give an answer. And what can I say? I killed a kid. That’s the bleak, bitter truth of it. No matter the mitigating circumstances, no matter the situation—no matter who set it up or who fired first—I killed a young man whose life was just getting started. Even if I win the trial—whatever that means—I’ve already lost. What I have done can never be undone. And I am alone in the unmerciful and unalterable fact of it.
The current case—or what I thought was the current case—is also isolating. Especially after today. I may just be making it all up, my guilt and isolation causing a certain subtle madness in my own mind that is imperceptible to me. Am I just imagining it all? Am I just craving something to occupy my mind, trying not to think about Derek, his death, his parents’ suit against me for taking him from them?
The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Page 14