by Tom Lowe
SIXTY-TWO
Chester Miller was at the top of an aluminum ladder, propped up against a cypress tree, when Wynona and I arrived. I parked my Jeep close to his cabin. Callie held the base of the ladder. She smiled wide when we got out and approached them. Chester glanced down at us. He held a small watering can directly above the Persephone orchid. “Welcome back. Be right with you folks.”
“No rush,” I said.
Callie shook her head. She blushed, flashing an awkward smile. “Grandpa won’t let me feed and take care of Persephone. So, at age eighty-five, he climbs the ladder every other day and does his thing.”
Chester used his thumb to tamp the soil and said, “How are you today, Miss Persephone? We’d love to see you soon. Perchance you might emerge before I reach my ninetieth birthday? That’s in five years. Maybe you’ll surprise us all before my ninetieth.”
Wynona glanced up at Chester as he set the small can on a rung of the ladder, took an eyedropper from his kangaroo pocket and squeezed some drops in the soil next to the base of the orchid. “Are you giving it vitamins?” Wynona asked.
Chester smiled, finishing. “The word nutrients is perhaps a bit more applicable. But it’s essentially the same. It’s a nutritional formula I’ve developed throughout the years, definitely through a lot of trial and error … and eventually to success. It captures many of the same dietary requirements the hybrid nucleuses would find in their native lands. Here in Big Cypress, we have a lot of the essential elements in terms of the environment, but this plant will need more to bloom.”
He finished and began to climb down the ladder, Callie holding it steady with both hands. When his feet were on the ground, he picked up his cane and turned to us. “It’s good to see you both again.” He shifted his eyes to Wynona. “I trust the last orchids you purchased are healthy and in good standing. I’d so love a good report card.”
“They made the grade. All are high achievers,” Wynona said. “They’re beautiful and seem to be healthy.”
“Ah, yes. But remember, a happy orchid is usually a healthy one, too. As with humans, health and longevity are often associated with reduction of stress, diet and companionship. Chat with them occasionally. Otherwise, they can get lonely, shrivel up and waste away. Just like us. Thank God Callie is here.”
Callie smiled. “Mom tries to call you.”
“I know. Your mother is a fine woman, in spite of me being her papa.” He grinned and turned toward us. “It’s teatime. Care to join us? Did you come for more orchids?”
Wynona said, “We’d love to have a cup of tea, but we aren’t here to buy more orchids. I’m running out of room in my house.”
Chester used both hands, gesturing toward his property. “That’s why I’m here. I can’t run out of room, and by restocking the glades, I’ll never run out of room … only time.” He looked up at the Persephone plant and chuckled. “It’s been said the two most powerful warriors are patience and time. I’m running out of both as I wait for Persephone to rise. Maybe she’ll bloom at night when the constellation Virgo is on the rise.”
“What do you mean?” Wynona asked.
“You only see the constellation Virgo during certain seasons, rising in spring … just like Persephone, the goddess of spring. She comes and goes, brings the season of growth after the dead of winter. I believe, when the orchid, Persephone finally blooms, it’ll be after a dark period. And it’ll have been worth the wait.” He lowered his gaze back at Wynona. “When you said the purpose of your visit this time is professional, I sense it has something to do with your profession, working for the Seminole Police.”
“It does. We come with questions and a word of advice.”
Chester nodded. “That sounds like it could be interpreted as a warning, which at my age, has little weight or consequence. Nonetheless, I would like to hear your questions and suggestion. Let’s have some tea and sit in the shade.”
SIXTY-THREE
The four of us sipped tea seated around the wooden picnic table under the moss-draped limbs of a live oak, a scrub jay above us crooning its songs of the swamp. Chester leaned his cane up against the table, glanced at me and asked, “Where’s your little canine companion?”
“Back at Ponce Marina. A couple friends of mine take turns dog-sitting.”
Callie said, “Watching your dog, Max, made me want to get a dachshund one day. Maybe after college when I’m more settled.”
“For the most part, Max is low maintenance as long as she’s first in line for dinner.”
After the laugher died, Wynona looked across the table at Chester and said, “We saw your interview on TV. That’s one of the things we’d like to discuss with you.”
“Did they get my good side?” He smiled.
“Absolutely. Also, they broadcast what you said. Chester, I don’t want to alarm you or Callie, but you might want to refrain from granting requests from reporters to do interviews. Please consider this at least until the investigation into Joe Thaxton’s death results in an arrest, if that’s the direction it takes.”
“May I ask you why?”
“At this point, we have no idea whether the death of Joe Thaxton is from a hunting accident or from a round fired by a hitman. If it was the latter, the man you saw in that car could have been either directly responsible, or an accomplice to the killing. And if he, or whomever hired him, believes you can make an identification, that could put you at risk.”
Callie looked at her grandfather. Chester nodded. “I understand. I don’t know the fella’s name, of course. But if police managed to locate him and put the gentlemen in a police line-up, I believe I could recognize him.” He paused, watching the scrub jay swoop among the limbs. “I was raised to stand up for what’s right. I believe we now live in a society that has an allegiance to two things—themselves and their phones. Most young people, excluding my lovely granddaughter, Callie, hardly look up to see what’s around them. I’ve been a proponent of helping neighbors all my life. My neighborhood today is Big Cypress and the glades. When I see something that might be out of the normal, and when I hear there was a death near the place and time that I saw something out of the ordinary, I think it’s my civic duty to report it. I’m not accusing the man I saw of anything. He could have been a lost tourist who wanted to get off the highway and experience the road less traveled.”
Wynona smiled. “That’s admirable. It’s certainly the right thing do to in helping police do their jobs. But there’s no civic or municipal protocol that says you have to help reporters to do their jobs.”
I said, “Too often helping them can hurt an investigation. It can become a liability and certainly a double-edge sword—cutting both ways.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Wynona said, “As a detective, and before that as an FBI agent, I had to balance the integrity of the case, witnesses and evidence, against what might happen if the information was released prematurely to the media. Often, I had to withhold details of a case from the news media because to release it would compromise the investigation. It could unveil details that should be kept private about a case until charges are filed and often beyond that. We owe it to the victim and his or her family. When the time is right, and the investigation is wrapped, it’s fine to speak with reporters. In the meantime, the public doesn’t have a right to know if that information allows an alleged killer to go free as it may keep the real killer from falling between the cracks.”
Chester sipped his tea, setting his cup on the table. “You offer a persuasive argument, Wynona. I see the value and the wisdom in your reasoning. One day, perhaps you’ll share with me why you are no longer in the FBI. I believe you were good at the job.” He chuckled. “I may be an old dog, but I can still learn a new trick or two.” He smiled at Callie. “From now on, let’s offer reporters orchids but that’s all.”
“Sounds good, Grandpa.”
Wynona said, “Chester, because Joe Thaxton’s body was found on the Seminole reservation, the tribal
police department is taking the lead in the investigation. Before you saw the man in the SUV leaving quickly, did you hear any gunshots?”
“I heard one. Figured it was a hunter. I’ve heard poachers in Big Cypress out of hunting season, but when the season opens, especially the first few days, I hear a lot of gunfire.”
“But you only heard that single shot before you saw the man in the SUV, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, before you saw the man in the SUV, after you heard the gunfire, how long was it between the gunfire and the moment you spotted the man leaving?”
“Oh, I’d say maybe ten minutes.”
“Were you driving your truck when you heard the shot?”
He smiled. “No. I’d stopped to pee. Too much coffee and plumbing that’s frayed. It was when I was walking back to my truck that I heard the shot … way in the distance.”
I asked, “Which way, Chester … north, south, east or west?”
“Definitely west.”
Wynona asked, “And that would be the direction the man was coming from, correct?”
“Yes. The topography of the glades is so flat it’s easy to hear gunshots. Especially when there’s little or no wind.”
Wynona jotted down the information on a notepad. “Chester, I know you’ve given Detective Gilson a description of the man you saw, he shared it with me. I was wondering if there are any other details that you may have forgotten when you spoke with him that you could recall now?”
Chester folded his hands, interlocking his fingers, brown age spots on the backs of both hands, knuckles scarred. “The driver had large hands. I could tell because he was gripping the wheel. I do remember there was a gold hoop earring in his left ear. I couldn’t see his right ear. I don’t recall if I’d mentioned that to Detective Gilson. In my sideview mirror I could see that the car had a Florida plate, and I noticed something else, too.”
“What was that?” Wynona asked.
“Smoke. I’m not sure if it was coming from the car’s exhaust pipes or someplace else. It could have been steam because there’s so much water out there, dirt potholes filled with rainwater, maybe it splashed up on the engine and created steam.”
Wynona’s phone buzzed. She looked at the in-coming text, reading it. She eyed me and said, “Looks like we’ll be meeting one of Detective Gilson’s forensic techs at the scene. From here, we’re close.”
Chester leaned back, the wooden bench creaking as he reached for his cane. He looked at me and then shifted his eyes to Wynona. “Do you think Joe Thaxton was murdered?”
I said, “That’s a strong possibility.”
He nodded, watching the scrub jay make a loud cry and fly off through the cypress trees. Then he looked at me and Wynona. “In my gut … I do too. You two seem to make a fine team. I hope you can locate the person responsible … even if it was an accident. A man is dead, and someone should be held accountable for his death”
SIXTY-FOUR
We didn’t have to wait long. Wynona and I stood next to my Jeep near the spot where Joe Thaxton’s truck was found. I could hear a vehicle approaching beyond the twisting, muddy trail leading through an abyss of sawgrass. “We should have company in just a moment,” I said. The breeze smelled similar to an oyster flat at low tide in the sun. Protein either dying or procreating.
Wynona looked at me and half smiled. “Let’s hope it’s the good guys and not the perp coming back to try to find something he left out here.”
“If he spotted the drone, I’d bet he might like to find it, or he may have found it.”
“I hope Joe Billie reads your note and calls.”
“He will, but I never know when. Sometimes he just shows up at my cabin after he takes his canoe upriver and ties to my dock.”
She walked to a grassy area along the muddy path, studying all of the tire tread marks in the mud. “That won’t do us much good if you’re here, and he’s there.” She pointed to something white more than ten yards away. “This might be where the forensic techs took the plaster cast of the tread.”
She walked in the direction, west, staying on the grassy areas as much as possible. I watched a Toyota 4-Runner approach, the sheriff’s star insignia on the doors, engine whining, mud flying from the tires across the door panels. I could see a woman behind the steering wheel, both hands holding tight, her head not far above the wheel.
Wynona knelt by the tire track, touching the white substance with the tips of her fingers, and then standing as the 4-Runner pulled up next to my Jeep, the engine shutting off and ticking in the still air. A woman in a polo shirt got out and smiled. A logo patch of a sheriff’s badge was sewn over the left-side pocket. She wore snake-proof boots almost up to her knees. Blue jeans tucked inside the boots. Her light brown hair was pinned back on both sides above her ears, wide smile and dimples. Small build. No firearm visible.
We walked over and introduced ourselves. Her name was Vera Barkley. She told us she’d been with the sheriff’s office more than three years. Works forensics only and earned a master’s degree in criminal science from Florida State University. Wynona said, “Vera, we really appreciate you coming out here today. Let’s get started.”
“I hope I can help. The area is pretty picked over. We spent a full day and a half, covered as much as we could—dawn ‘til dusk.”
“Is that where you guys did a tire tread plaster cast?” Wynona pointed to the tracks, a dried white mortar substance on each side of the track.
“Yes. It was pretty easy to run down the make and model of the tire. We got that information back about two hours ago.” She opened a small notebook she carried in her right hand. “The track was made from a Continental tire … a four-by-four Contact tire. All season. It has some tread wear and nicks. That, like the bottom of a shoe or boot, leaves its own distinct tread mark. We narrowed the type of tire down to a 255–50-R-19. If we can find a BMW SUV with those tires, and the exact treadwear, we can place it out here.”
“But we can’t tie the driver directly to the shooting,” I said.
“Correct, but for him to be in the glades, in this vicinity, near or at the time the victim was shot, definitely makes him a person of interest.” She looked over at Wynona. “Speaking of a person of interest, we picked up a man for questioning. Detective Gilson asked me to have you call him. Gilson says he’ll keep the individual in the interrogation room. He’s not charged with anything yet, but his prints and DNA put him not far from the blood we found near the victim’s backpack and drone controller.”
Wynona said, “That’s a good start. How far is the spot from where your team found the cigar and other stuff to where Thaxton’s backpack was located?”
“Not too far. I would say the distance between where the cigar and wrapper were found to the backpack and controller is approximately 150 yards. It’s a direct line of sight from where we found the things to where we believe the vic was shot.”
I said, “You can get in my Jeep, if you want. No need to take two vehicles out there and risk getting one or both stuck.”
She looked at a large green and orange grasshopper—four inches long, crawling across her hood. “Thanks.”
• • •
After traveling through some extremely narrow and bumpy trails, and through shallow water and grassy areas, we were there. Vera sat in the back seat and said, “Okay, you can stop here. I’ll show you where we theorize the shot originated.”
We got out and followed her to an area where a cypress tree fell years ago, its root system the size of an Army tank. The tree, which had probably toppled from the winds of a hurricane, had a portion of it roots oddly attached to the earth. It was at least one-hundred feet long. It was a fallen goliath among a sea of sawgrass dotted with a few hardwood hammocks, like mirages in the distance—a random oasis of green in sawgrass the color of hay.
Vera pointed to a spot next to the fallen tree. “This is where we found the cigar, food wrapper, and makeup stick. We pulled a cast of a boot print fr
om here. We think the shooter used the downed tree as a place to steady his rifle. We found two very small marks not much larger than a pea, about eighteen inches apart. The marks could have been made when a heavy rifle rested on a bi-pod.”
I looked up from the fallen tree, across the sawgrass to a hardwood hammock about 150 yards to the north. Three snowy egrets sailed toward the vista. I pointed. “Is that the wooded area, where you found the backpack and controller?”
“Yes. It was quite a shot. I’m not sure your average deer hunter would have attempted it.”
Wynona said, “I doubt it either. If he had a scope, it’s perhaps attainable. But it would require the skills of an expert marksman, someone with the highest rating, I’d think.”
I said, “It could be accomplished without a scope by a real pro, depending on the movement of the target and the wind. A deer grazing, or a man standing, relatively motionless, could be hit from the distance. But through a scope, the shooter could easily be able to see the target was a man and not a deer. So, I’d suggest, if the round was fired through the aid of a scope, it was murder.”
Vera let out a long breath. “That’s the feeling I have.”
Wynona said, “What bothers me is the stuff you found here. I’d think a real deer hunter would smoke his cigar at the end of the day, not while hunting. I’d imagine that a deer, downwind, could smell the smoke and run the opposite direction.”
Vera said, “Maybe the shot was fired at twilight and the hunter took it because the movement from here to there was all he had before heading home. I’m sure that some hunters spend long, boring hours waiting for game to approach. They get hungry, eat on the trail and maybe are somewhat anxious and careless.”
Wynona nodded. “But do they drop trash in a hunting spot? Maybe. It just seems out of character.”
I said, “That would be a question to ask the guy Cory Gilson picked up for questioning. Obviously, he must have dumped that stuff out here. The question is … was it right here next to the tree … or somewhere else and brought here?”