by R C Cameron
No visible sign of violence, it could be a basic heart attack, I told myself. The autopsy would confirm. Overwhelmed. I asked Cynthia to step off the boat, and I followed her, to protect the crime scene, just in case the death was not natural. My FBI instincts at work. Minutes later, sirens erupted around the marina and uniformed officers rushed in to investigate the reported call.
A few minutes later, an unmarked car with a red beacon flashing on the roof arrived with screeching tires. Two guys in suits came out and made their way towards my yacht, I recognized one. I walked in his direction. When he saw me, he paused for a second. Detective Freeman seemed surprised to see me.
(--)
Later that night, after our terrible day, Cynthia and I got our living space back, after the judicial system brought in their crime scene units to the marina. After my call, the normally quiet area saw its fair share of ambulances, police cars, coroner and forensic experts on site. Plenty of lookers just sat around waiting for God knows what.
They dispatched Wayne Freeman and his sidekick LeBron Jackson to the incident’s location to lead the initial investigation. They did not call it a crime scene at first. The victim was found sitting on the main salon couch, his head lying on the table, a drink spilled on the floor. Will his death be classified natural or violent? Hard to say. An autopsy will be performed to determine the official cause of death.
Freeman asked me a few questions while Jackson spoke to my daughter. After the interview, they compared notes; it was standard protocol. We received instructions to come to the station and fill out a statement which we complied. While we were away, other officers questioned folks at the marina, both owners and guests. The detectives solicited harbor management to give whatever video surveillance footage they possessed. The marina has about 12 parallel docks with boats moored on either side. A camera sits on top of a post at each door leading to the dock and record arrivals and departures. The camera looks at the door, not the boats. The harbormaster assistant, a young lady behind a large desk at the main harbor station prepared a DVD and handed it over to one of the detectives after proper identification.
I had known William for less than a week, but grown to like the man. He would have made a fantastic fishing companion with the knowledge of history he possessed. I will miss him. At 73, a heart failure can show its ugly head, I told myself.
Cynthia and I were brought to a location where our fingerprints were collected. Cynthia was surprised by this request but I explained experts needed to identify the inhabitants and figure what prints are supposed to be there. Before leaving, Freeman asked me if I wanted to review the camera footage before I returned. My daughter and I had not eaten yet, and I was getting tired. If he could give me a copy, I had time on my hands to review it tomorrow while on our way to Marathon. We waited ten minutes and then he brought us a small plastic container with a disk which I put in my backpack. He mentioned the video showed people moving around the marina but nothing criminal at first glance. A cruiser drove us back, and we were both hungry, I could sense it.
"Hungry? I have chicken breast in the cooler, I can grill while you make a healthy salad?" I said.
"What if we go out? I located a Brazilian steakhouse, on my last run, just a five-minute walk, want to try it out?"
"Sure honey, let's go."
Once seated with a glass of white wine for her and a martini for me, Cynthia told me how the unusual situation affected her.
“It’s quite a story so far dad, but I feel bad about a tragedy in your own living room. I’m not sure the yacht will be a happy place anymore.”
“I understand Cynthia. William was a true gentleman, and it’s unfortunate he died. But remember, he loved boats, fishing and marinas, so he died in a place he cherished, rather than in his small apartment downtown.”
“And you only met him once?”
“Ain’t this amazing we clicked right away. Already, we had agreed on repeating the fishing expedition soon. We were planning to use my boat next time.”
“I see your point. It may take time to get used to it, but I’ll manage, I guess. I’m hungry.”
As she was expressing her feelings, our plates arrived, and we ate in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. We returned to the boat around 9 pm just as the last police officer guarding the scene told us we could go in now. He departed and removed all the remaining yellow tape.
Our initial reaction as we entered the salon was to look at where William’s life ended. We both passed the table walking towards the galley and our sleeping quarters. I made a small pot of tea as Cynthia showered and prepared for the night.
At around 10 pm, I made a final check, all the lights extinguished, doors secured with my gun close on my side table.
(--)
We both overslept till eight o’clock the next morning, so tired after a horrific day. I got the morning coffee going before preparing the boat for a southbound six-hour run, direction Marathon. I opened the engine room access door while Cynthia called friends in Denver. The gas reservoir was full, bilge pumps and water-level alarms functioning, VHF radio operating, AIS systems online. The fridge held food and enough drinking water.
I moved the table to the aft deck, Cynthia loved the outside to eat breakfast with the rising sun. The night was restful as we talked over eggs, toast and fruits, happy she felt better to continue.
Mid-morning, with the preparations completed and Cynthia gone for a run, I reviewed my case notes. I had not called Mr. Taylor yet; I had a good opportunity now, Nadine had provided his number. The conversation was friendly. He supported his daughter’s quest to locate Mark. He was far from Florida that’s why he preferred Nadine handling the case. I asked him a tough question.
“Mister Taylor, did you give financial support to your son?”
“No.”
I had not expected this answer. If Mark didn't receive financial support from his family where else? His part-time bartender job limited ownership of an apartment, even a car. He needed another source, legitimate or not. Which one was it?
Because of the earlier answer, I risked another. "Was Mark slated to inherit part of your estate after you're gone?"
"Absolutely not, I advised both Nadine and Mark long ago of my wish to leave my fortune to charity upon my death. Their financial success would come from their own efforts."
"I understand, sir. It's important I got this information. Thanks."
His response was clear. I could ignore the idea Mark was treading water until the inheritance arrived. I learned no fortune was coming. In order for Mark's future to materialize, he would have needed a steady job, the opposite of his recent actions.
When Cynthia returned, she showered while I plotted our course to Marathon. She joined me on the flybridge where I summarized my call with Mr. Taylor.
"You are a lucky person," I told her. "Upon my death, you will inherit whatever I failed to spend. The Taylor offsprings will receive nothing. The patriarch, worth more than a hundred million dollars, will donate everything to charity. Don’t you feel blessed?"
"I do, dad. Bless his heart for caring about the needy. But a few millions would have helped his children and the charities wouldn't mind, I'm certain."
I could not disagree with her opinion.
With Cynthia’s help, I let PRIVATE EYE go off the mooring lines as I piloted the boat toward the inlet then the Atlantic Ocean. Cynthia, stayed by my side to absorb as much information as possible on maneuvering the yacht. After all, she just learned she would inherit my home. I described all the maneuvers in simple terms. Once in the open, I asked Cynthia to skipper. I showed her to hold course. While she was taking us to our destination, I wanted to make different computer searches while the signal was still strong.
I got my laptop setup on the work table on the flybridge, just behind the new female captain. She looked to enjoy running the yacht, and I kept an eye on her. I first viewed the Florida Keys missing person page on Facebook, nothing interesting. I had received no private messages from
my post. I didn’t hold too much faith in social medias to help me on this case. I pulled my phone out to access my photo gallery. I had taken shots of Mark's pay stubs during the storage unit visit. A half-dozen from four different organizations, bars I presumed. Curious, I mapped the locations of these four places to discover they're in the same area, within a half-mile radius. A coincidence? Was this a hotspot for spare barkeepers or a territory? Was he assigned this area to sell dope? The punk slang called a cocaine pusher a 'bartender'.
I remembered what John Russell told me during our last phone call: they are not to offer collaboration. What was that about? The local police contacted Homeland Security, and a message came back: do not help the investigation. Did I step on someone’s toes? Homeland Security collaborates with law enforcement both local and national. On the federal level agencies such as the CIA, NSA, FBI, DEA and others could interfere with local authorities. As a result, I needed to reach my friends at the FBI and see if they can help me.
Barry Gilmore, a native of California, is an IT specialist working at the FBI for the last 20 years. He got his bachelor’s degree from UCLA because, coming from a middle-class family, he could not afford the non-resident fees applicable in well-known out of state universities. With UCLA still classified as one of the best Information Technology universities in the country, he put all his efforts into his studies and passed with A grades.
After a few jobs in the commercial world including IBM, he joined the FBI and moved to Washington where I enjoyed the opportunity to work with him multiple times. He provided the technology side of the equation, I brought the investigative thinking, a fantastic team.
Barry can be strange persona. He likes listening to music, swimming and adores video games. Usually calm, he becomes agitated only in front of the gaming addiction he carries even on his cell phone. Single, he's been living for years with a girl he met in school.
I collaborated with Barry on a famous case in Clark, New Jersey in 1998. Timothy Poupart, a ten-year-old boy, did not return home after a visit to a state fair, her mother reported. Local law enforcement searched the house, the fair and the routes leading to it to no avail. Barry investigated mom’s lifestyle both before and after Timothy disappeared and discovered a terrible contrast. From a life of poverty, Marguerite Poupart, calling herself Sandy Heaven now, was living it big as a call girl in New-York City. She became our number one suspect then.
A year after the boy’s disappearance, a passer-by discovered the body of a young boy in a Maryland field. The crime lab identified the body as the missing boy in the Poupart investigation. A few weeks later, the mother confessed after I conducted a long interrogation. She is serving life in prison today.
I looked at the bars on my phone, still acceptable. I scanned my contact list and selected Barry’s mobile number. He answered after the first ring.
“The real Mister Tanner on the phone or is this a pocket call?”
“It is a live person Barry. How have you been?”
“I’m great and I must apologize for not going to your retirement party. I wish I could have been there.”
“Not a problem my friend. I know you're busy and indispensable to the FBI. They would have you work even during a government shutdown.”
“Won’t happen Jason. It’s impossible,” he replied.
We addressed the story of our last FBI director fired by the new president and how the morale of the entire group suffered. Knowing how dedicated the people working for the Bureau were, both he and I believed the agency will survive this setback.
After summarizing my activities since retirement and my new pass time, I got to the object of my call.
“I am investigating a six-month-old disappearance. Miami-Dade police has contacted Homeland Security to get the history of movement for my missing person. It came back NSF plus: don’t bother us anymore.”
“Hum. I can’t check Homeland’s files, but I can verify ours and see where that leads us. How can I reach you Jason?”
I provided the information as he promised to get back either today or tomorrow and ended the call.
CHAPTER SIX
AS WE APPROACHED Marathon, I took the helm; it was a little past 4:30. The map on my multi-function screen showed Captain Pip’s Marina. Electronics sure make it easy to navigate today. A call on the VHF radio informed the marina operator we were closing in. When we approached, an employee directed us to an available berth. The marina could hold maybe 30 boats, it was half-full.
The initial impression of the marina was quite a contrast from the one I just came from. If Miami displayed 21st-century design, this look was more like the 19th century. Docks and ramps were surely painted over a dozen times, the old colors showing at multiple places. My yacht looked spiffy here because all the other boats were older. No fancy electronics around, no free Wi-Fi.
During my preparation to come down here, I discovered a website which promoted the marina. The images came from somewhere else, surely. Pictures on the web showed room decors to date from my parent’s youth. Some TVs were bigger than the neighboring stove. The only reason I could fathom Mark would come to this hideaway, as it was called, were cheap prices. But still, $165 a night was pressing the lemon to the max.
Once moored, I walked to the marine office to complete the paperwork. An old sailor with an empty pipe manned the counter. His cap displayed Captain James in yellow letters, uncertain this was his real name, I hesitated to use it.
“Captain, what is your recommendation on a decent watering hole in the area?”
“Hum, there’s Porky's back there, as he pointed towards the back of the docks. Otherwise there's Barnacle Barney’s around the corner. There’s also the lighthouse grill a few streets down. And the young ones hang out at TJ’s Tiki Bar.”
I looked at Porky's, built as a complement to the ugly marina. “Barnacle Barney, is it far from here?” I inquired.
“Close. Walk down Route 1 on this side of the road and turn left after the Mexican restaurant. It’s behind the motel, near the water.”
I thanked him and pulled out my notebook with Mark Taylor’s picture which I showed him.
“Have you seen this man around here?”
He stared at the picture before saying: “No, can’t say I did.”
I wished him a good evening, and I returned to the yacht to get Cynthia and walk to Barnacle, the exercise would do us good. As soon as I exited the marina office, Captain James was on the phone telling the party he reached: “I need to talk to him as soon as he can.”
(--)
Walking on firm ground towards a restaurant provided a good relief from the waves we endured most of the day on our way to the Keys. It brought us back to earth. Tonight we explore the environment, I explained to Cynthia, not making any special inquiry. We were just having a father-daughter dinner.
Barnacle Barney’s bar sits right on the beach, next to a pool, not even a ten-minute walk. The interior harbors a large u-shaped bar, capable of seating at least 20 people. Another dozen tables inside and as many outside complete the decor. The place looks old but still clean. Fishing and sport artifacts appeared on the walls in a display of primitive imagination.
I did not see a hostess, so I assumed free seating the norm. We picked a table inside but with a view of the pool and the patrons outdoor. A minute later, a middle-aged woman with a blue apron brought two menus to our table and took our drink order. When in a bar, I guess they expect you to drink a pint of something? A sign on the wall read: “You can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning.” We each ordered a Sandbar Sunday, a beer brewed in Islamorada, close by.
“How is Denver treating you?” I asked.
“In the winter time, the temperature is bearable, in the summer though it gets hot. The city is clean, promotes good public transport and has plenty of entertainment.”
“And the hospital where you work?”
“Love it, except for the night shifts, otherwise it would be perfect.”
&n
bsp; A few minutes later, our waitress was back to take our order. Cynthia let me speak first while still deciding on what to eat. I handed the menu back and looked around, examining the attendance. I noticed the tall barman staring at us once again. An old guy like me with a young lady raised eyebrows. Was this his interest in us? Or my daughter? Difficult to say. I noticed he wore a tattoo on his neck, typical of people who spent time inside. Not what Cynthia would like. His chances of dating my daughter just got worse.
Someone at the bar shouts: “Tony, let’s have a couple more over here.” The barman turn around and grabs some beer for his thirsty customers.
Our plates arrived in the middle of intense talks about a new friend from Denver, not her boyfriend yet but from her tone, I expected an announcement soon. She continued chatting about him, without me having to ask questions, a sure tale of a closer relationship around the corner.
We got up to leave. As I turned towards the barman, he was still checking us out. This time I looked at him and held his stare. He pivoted and got busy with something. I’ve never seen him, but I will remember him.
(--)
The ensuing morning, Cynthia jogged in the streets around the marina while I did a little housekeeping on the yacht and washed part of my dwindling collection of T-shirts at a nearby laundry. Close to lunchtime, my phone beeped and displayed an unknown number in the Washington DC area code.
“Jason, it’s Barry.”
“Hey, how are you? You’re not on your regular device?”
“No, I’m calling from one of those rare public phone booth dinosaurs downtown.”
“Ah, I see, didn’t Superman change suits in those places?”
“Exactly, I got information, but I hesitated to call from the office or my personal phone, it’s touchy.”
“Don’t get in trouble over me Barry, let’s forget this if it’s improper.”
“Not a problem Jason, I’m sharing intelligence with a former FBI agent, not the Post or the Times. This is what I found so far on your man Mark Taylor. I first searched into our main database and located records about Mister Taylor’s disappearance reported by the Miami-Dade police. No other documents are available, I couldn’t even discover a traffic ticket, no help there.”