by Tom Lowe
“Yes … I’ll cut the deal. Can’t see as I got much choice in the matter. Maybe with manslaughter I can get out before I’m seventy.”
Cory stood, turning his back to Moffett and Wynona. Cory looked at the one-way glass and slightly nodded to me. I thought he’d prefer to take a bow. I watched Wynona. She looked at Moffett and said, “I believe you.”
Moffett didn’t respond, his eyes resigned to his fate. Cory turned back around, looked at Moffett. “You’re making a smart choice. We’ll get the prosecutor in the state attorney’s office to begin the paperwork.”
Moffett leaned back in his chair, picked at a callus on the knuckle of his middle finger, left hand. A skull tattoo on the same finger.
SIXTY-SEVEN
We met for coffee if the sheriff’s office break room. Wynona, Cory Gilson and I sat in hard chairs around a square table. Coffee in white Styrofoam cups. Wynona’s purse hanging from the back of her chair. Cory said, “I spoke briefly with Sheriff Ketcham and the SA’s office on speakerphone. With all the news media outside, the sheriff said he’d announce speedy success in the co-op between our department and Seminole PD. Manslaughter charges don’t exonerate Moffett or imply it was an accidental shooting. In this case, it means a career criminal is gonna go back to prison.”
Cory sipped his coffee and looked at me. “It’s almost like old times, Sean. I know you weren’t in the interrogation room with Wynona and me, but I could feel you cheering us on through the glass.”
I said nothing.
Wynona held her coffee with both hands and said, “Not a lot to cheer on in there. Granted, Moffett is a career criminal, a guy who pops pills chased by twelve-ounce cans of beer, and smokes weed to top it all off. That’s a dangerous combo with a hunting rifle in the glades. And, when we factor in his naturally aggressive mental state, it’s proven to be lethal in the past.”
Cory nodded. “That guy never should have been released before serving out the last seven years of his original sentence. If he was still behind bars where he belongs, Joe Thaxton would be alive.”
“Unless,” I said, “Moffett didn’t do it.”
“Come on, Sean. Moffett was tramping around the glades and Big Cypress, drinking beer, smoking dope and shooting at shadows. He may not vividly remember sighting down on Thaxton, but his pile of shit puts him in a direct line of fire to the victim.” He chuckled. “The guy’s too much of a liability to be a professional assassin. It appears to be a sad set of circumstances … Joe Thaxton being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Moffett, the careless criminal that he is, packing a high-powered rifle with a low-powered brain. The collision course is when, at twilight, he squeezes off a round or two and one goes through Thaxton. A jury will see it that way.”
Wynona said, “Probably, but that’s not the way I see it. Not after sifting through everything Moffett said in there.”
“Moffett just admitted he fired in the direction where Thaxton was standing or walking. Manslaughter charges will keep him in prison for years, and that’s a damn good thing for society.”
She looked at Cory, choosing her words with tact. “I think you’re right about Moffett being seen as a liability in terms of him possibly hired as a hit man … especially if the order is coming from powerful people and not some jealous or greedy spouse. It’d require a lot of luck for Moffett to hit Thaxton at that distance, and that would be with him completely sober.”
“Accidents happen. If he didn’t do it, who the hell pulled the trigger?”
“I think it was the guy Chester Miller saw. We just need to find and question him.”
Cory looked over at me. “Sean, you’ve been quiet through most of this. What do you think?”
“I think Wynona has a valid point and a strong argument. Is the shooter the guy in the SUV that Miller saw? I don’t know, but I do think it’s worth pursuing. And I don’t think Craig Moffett killed Thaxton.”
Cory leaned back in his chair, his face drooping. He glanced at his watch. “We have a pack of news media right outside. Sheriff Ketcham is gonna want to hold some brief news conference. You know, announcing something.”
Wynona nodded. “I can hold it with him, and I should. We can say that Moffett is a person of interest, even a suspect. But we don’t have to make an arrest, and later find out that we were wrong.”
Cory shook his head. “Later? I don’t have time for later when what we have right now is manslaughter beyond a reasonable doubt. Searching for some guy an old man saw in the glades driving an SUV is going to be a futile effort, and you both know that. With the physical evidence, I say we go on and charge Moffett, let a jury decide, and we’ll have done our jobs. We don’t have time or manpower to hunt ghosts.”
“No,” Wynona said. “When the effort goes into building a case against Moffett, it quickly subsides from looking at anyone else, and you know that, Cory. The last thing I want to do is put a man in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know it happens, but not on my watch.”
“Okay. Let’s go talk with Sheriff Ketcham. If this thing backfires, and no one is charged in Joe Thaxton’s death, it’s on you.”
“I can bear that accountability. What I can’t and won’t bear is the responsibility of putting a man innocent of the crime in prison. If the sheriff wants to share a news conference with me on those terms, I’m happy to do so. If not, I’ll walk out there and speak to the media alone.”
She picked up her purse from the back of the chair and stood. I glanced up at Wynona and nodded. I looked forward to the news conference … with or without the sheriff.
SIXTY-EIGHT
I could tell Sheriff Dwight Ketcham was old school. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a competent lawman, it simply meant, in his book, that not all suspects were innocent until proven guilty. And when he factored in a preponderance of forensics evidence that placed the suspect at or near the crime scene, the sheriff didn’t seem to want any other facts to get in the way of how he saw the story. And, since he was up for re-election next year, I knew that he saw a good opportunity for garnering positive publicity by bringing a man to justice in the shooting death of Joe Thaxton.
I thought about that as I looked at framed photographs on the wall of his office—the sheriff posing with career politicians, including the current governor of the state, a man whom Joe Thaxton had criticized because the governor had appointed his cronies to the various state water and conservation boards.
Ketcham set behind his large, walnut desk, a bronze statue of a cowboy riding a bucking bronco on the left side of the desk. There was no clutter on the desk. Two closed file folders, one with the name Craig James Moffett on it. Ketchum leaned back in his black leather chair and listened to Wynona’s argument. The sheriff was in his late fifties. He’d held the top office for sixteen consecutive years. Comfortable. Complacent. He didn’t want to turn in his badge. At least not yet. Ketchum was large boned. A narrow, tanned face and long ears. His dark eyes reflected enduring skepticism from a lifetime of dealing with crime and those who caused some of it.
When Wynona finished, Ketcham looked at her, nodded and glanced over at Detective Cory Gilson. After the initial introductions, the sheriff didn’t make eye contact with me. He cleared his throat. “Detective Osceola, how is tribal chairman, James Stillwater? He’s been a great friend of mine over the years.”
“Good. I’ll tell the chairman that you asked about him. Now, shall we both go out and hold a joint press conference?”
“I always enjoy working on cases in an inter-agency capacity. It often brings in excellent and additional resources. I think that was evident in how quickly Detective Gilson and our forensics techs got the physical evidence analyzed. I’m not suggesting that the Seminole PD couldn’t have done it as fast, it’s just that we first found it in the county before the body was discovered across the line. We moved quickly. I don’t want to come across as territorial, I just want you to fully understand that this department is vested in bringing to justice the ma
n responsible for Joe Thaxton’s death.”
“Then you will continue to assist because the man responsible may not be Craig Moffett.”
Ketcham leaned forward, his chair just squeaking. He lifted one of the folders off his desk. “Detective Osceola, this dossier is the record or rap sheet, if you will, for Craig Moffett. He’s been in trouble since he was fourteen. He’s a man very prone to violence. When he was younger, he was associated with a gang—even they kicked him out. He used to beat his girlfriend that finally resulted in a conviction after one of the last beatings he gave her. Just for being out there in the glades with a hunting rifle spells prison time for this guy. When you factor in all the forensics and physical evidence, seems to me like it’s a no-brainer. I’d hate to walk out there, speak to the news media, and tell ‘em we’ve cut Moffett loose because we don’t have enough compelling evidence. I’m sure you can understand the gravity of that.”
“What I understand even more is the gravity of putting an innocent man behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t care what history Moffett has. If he didn’t shoot Thaxton—accident or premeditated—he shouldn’t be charged.”
“We don’t know that.”
“And we don’t know that he committed it, either. What we do know is that there was another man out there at the same time. We have a plaster cast of his tire tread marks. We have an eyewitness description. As the lead agency on this case, I will investigate all of the evidence until there’s nothing left to investigate.”
He stood from his seat, slightly rocking in his black shoes. “Duly noted.” He picked a second file folder. “Detective, I was intrigued with how this thing went down. The shooting happened in my county. The body ended up on the Seminole reservation. That’s gotta be a first. When Detective Gilson told me that we’d be working with you, I was pleased. I wanted to know more about you. Seems you have a distinguished and yet somewhat tarnished record in law enforcement. Stellar with the FBI as an agent until you apparently took the law into your own hands and chose to pump several rounds into a man. Even your partner at the time told an internal investigation team that the man you shot was dead after the first round. Great first shot, Detective. But maybe not great judgment since that decision got you removed as an agent for use of excessive force. I’d hope you aren’t using the same judgement here. Letting stuff interfere with your judgement.” He grinned and set the folder down.
Wynona said, “I’m not going to the low level to dignify or justify that crap with a response. I don’t have to.”
I stepped a little closer to the big desk. Cory Gilson looked up at me, licked his lips and started to say something before I said, “Sheriff, you question Detective Osceola’s judgment. Perhaps we should question yours.” His eyebrows arched. “I checked your campaign contribution records thus far for this upcoming election. One of the highest profile lobby firms for Big Sugar and the many in the agriculture industry, has and is contributing to your elections and re-elections. The known amount is close to six figures. The unknown amount, the PAC money, could be a lot more. Joe Thaxton was a vocal critic of these corporations and others. I’m not sure if the news hounds out there are aware of all your connections. You might want to play this one the way the lead agency is requesting. Am I clear?”
Detective Gilson looked at his shoes. Sheriff Ketcham pursed his lips, a small nerve just below his right eyes twitching, looking like he winked. I turned and walked toward the door. “We’ll see you in ten minutes.”
SIXTY-NINE
Sheriff Dwight Ketcham was not a happy man. But as a politician, he managed to disguise his displeasure approaching a podium in the county’s media briefing room. Wynona stepped to the left of the podium. A deputy turned on the PA system, testing the microphone. “Check one,” he said. Detective Cory Gilson, the chief deputy, and two senior deputies grouped behind the sheriff near an American flag and a Florida state flag.
I stood in the rear of the room and watched as more than two-dozen members of the news media jostled for front and second row seats. Camera operators secured TV cameras to tripods. Reporters prepped recording devices. A few used pens and paper pads to take notes.
Sheriff Ketcham cleared his throat. “Thank y’all for coming out today. As most of you know, this is a unique case.” A photographer focused his lens. Cameras clicked. “We believe the shooting of state senate candidate Joe Thaxton occurred in Collier County … however the body was actually found on the Seminole reservation. Thus, we are conducting a joint-agency task force in this investigation. We have yet to determine if it is a homicide or an accidental shooting that happened out there on the first day of hunting season. To my right is Detective Wynona Osceola with the Seminole Tribe Police Department. Detective Osceola is taking the lead in the case because that is where the death apparently occurred and where the body was located. She has the full support of this office. Together, we have questioned and will continue questioning a number of people, including Craig Moffett. Mr. Moffett is a felon who was released from the state prison in Raiford two years ago … his DNA was found on objects our forensics staff discovered at the spot we believe the shot or shots were fired. Mr. Moffett denies any involvement in the death … accidental or otherwise. He is not in custody at the present time. Before we take a couple of questions, Detective Osceola will have an opportunity to make a statement.” The sheriff stepped aside.
Wynona stood behind the podium and looked at the reporters. She smiled and said, “Thank you, Sheriff Ketcham. I know everyone here is on deadline and would like as much information as possible in regard to this case. So, rather than make a statement, I’d be happy to answer any questions that I can at this time.”
A hand shot up. A female reporter in the front row asked, “Since Craig Moffett’s DNA was found where you believe a rifle shot was fired … isn’t this enough evidence to charge him or at least make him a suspect?”
Wynona said, “The investigation is still in the preliminary stages. Mr. Moffett is very much a person of interest. Will the status of Mr. Moffett change? Perhaps. But right now, we can only go with definitive evidence that is irrefutable and evidence that the state attorney’s office can use to get a conviction from a jury. We are sifting through all of that at this time.”
“Are you investigating this as a homicide?” asked an unshaven male reporter.
“Absolutely,” Wynona said. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. He scratched the tip of his nose. Wynona continued. “Certainly, it could have been an accident. As the sheriff mentioned, it was the first day of hunting season. However, because it was the first day and there were hunters stalking sections of Big Cypress Preserve, we shouldn’t be too quick to write it off as an accidental shooting until we have definitive proof. Let’s disprove that it wasn’t a homicide before we focus on all the apparent reasons it could have been accidental.”
I watched reporters shift in their seats, some leaning forward, hands shooting up. Wynona said, “What we will look at is who might want Joe Thaxton dead … and why? Who could have the most to gain, financial or otherwise, upon his death? What did he do or what was he going to do that would have caused someone to kill him? If it was a homicide, was the shooting done by a hired hitman? Or was it done by the person who may have the most to lose had Joe Thaxton lived to be elected and make the sweeping environmental changes in office that he promised?”
“Where is that investigation taking you?” asked a reporter on the second row. “Do you think someone, or some company connected to environmental pollution is behind this?”
Wynona shook her head. “I am not suggesting that at all. What I can tell you is, that in my professional opinion, the shooting appears suspicious. That’s not saying it was a murder. The facts, as we uncover them, I hope will lead us to what really happened in the Everglades.”
“Can you offer more details?” asked a newspaper reporter in a plaid shirt and jeans.
“There are some things we are at liberty to share and others that might compr
omise the investigation. I would like to say the sheriff’s office has been thorough in its initial investigation. The forensic samples give us physical proof that Mr. Moffett was at or near the scene of the shooting. He doesn’t deny that, but contends he was hunting and never saw another person out there that day, including Joe Thaxton.”
“How far from that point of impact to where you discovered the body?” asked the newspaper reporter.
“Approximately a half-mile.” Wynona nodded, glanced at the sheriff and then at the news media. “Our joint investigation goes into full bore now. We’re optimistic that, in a few days, we’ll have a lot more than we have right now. Thank you for coming.” She turned toward Ketcham. “Sheriff, is there anything more you’d like to add?”
“No,” he said, folding his arms. “I think you’ve covered the bases.”
A tall reporter in a tan sports coat and jeans stood, holding his recorder toward the dais. “If this was a murder in the glades, and you’re not arresting Craig Moffett, can you tell us if he has implicated someone else in the crime?”
“What did Thaxton find out there at the time of his death?” fired another reporter.
Wynona ignored the barrage of questions coming from the media, stepping down from the dais and walking toward me. I couldn’t have been prouder of her.
SEVENTY
Simon Santiago stood behind his desk in his large office on the twentieth floor of a glass and steel building overlooking Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. The Miami headquarters for the Carswell Group was opulent. Each office spacious, expensive fine furniture and art. All of the offices had a spectacular view of the ocean. It was approaching six o’clock in the evening and most of the attorneys, lobbyists, and staff had left for the day. Santiago put his feet on his desk, picked up a remote control and turned on a sixty-inch TV in one corner.