by Tom Lowe
“Comes and goes where?” asked the sheriff.
“I’ve seen it on a back dirt road between that bombing range and Juniper Springs. A black Ford SUV, usually three men. The one always in the backseat was the shooter.”
“You say his skin is dark, a black man?” asked the sheriff.
“No, like the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in some of the gangs.”
Sandberg said. “You mean prison gangs, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“How long were you in for?”
“Forty years. San Quentin.”
“Why?”
Palmer hesitated, his eyes scanning the officers in the background. “I killed a man in self-defense.”
“Maybe that’s what happened here, with the college kids. Maybe one of ‘em came at you with a knife, again self-defense. Where’s the gun you used?”
“I didn’t kill them. I don’t own a gun. Couldn’t buy one if I wanted to.”
The sheriff sighed. “Makes no sense to run unless you have something to hide. We’ll find it, whatever it is.”
Palmer shook his head. “Cops, your type never changes. Far as I’m concerned you all can—”
“Mr. Palmer,” I said, handing the rifle to a deputy. “The first death, the girl with the fairy wings. Did you know her?” The sheriff leveled a hard look to me.
“I didn’t really know her. I’d met her.”
“And was it some kind of festive celebration?”
“There was a big bon fire, lots of hippie kids hootin’ and dancing.”
“Wait a minute, O’Brien,” the sheriff began.
I said, “Mr. Palmer, did you see anyone at that celebration that may have resembled any of the three men who killed the college kids?”
“Maybe, now that you mention it. There was one dude that night, looked out of place. It was dark, but under the moon and light from the bon fire, I saw his face, and saw what he was wearing that night. Red T-shirt…the words Sloppy Joe’s - Key West on it.”
“O’Brien!” snapped the sheriff.
“Bear with me, please, Sheriff. Mr. Palmer, what did the girl in the fairy wings say to you that night?”
“She said her name was Evening Star, and she said she’d call me Night Raven.”
“What else?” I stepped closer, centered on his eyes.
He blew a long breath from deep within his lungs, looked at the dogs, his eyes meeting mine. “She gave me a hug…and…”
“And?”
“And said I was…she said I was loved.”
“That’s sweet,” said the sheriff. “Did you bury her in that grave?”
“Hell no, but I found her there when I was hunting for…artifacts. Saw fresh turned earth and thought someone was following me, digging where I was digging. I vomited my guts out in the bushes and just got away from there.”
I said, “That’s understood. Did you see the man in the red T-shirt again?”
Detective Sandberg cleared his throat. “Enough, O’Brien. You’re not in a position to question a suspect further.”
I smiled. “Don’t need to.”
“Why’s that?” the sheriff asked.
“Because he said all I need to know.” Luke Palmer looked over at me, guarded, but with something I felt he hadn’t seen in years.
Hope.
After Luke Palmer was hauled from the river and delivered to the command center, deputies carefully labeled and packaged his belongings. The sheriff turned to me. “He’s guilty. No doubt in my mind. How’d you get two shots off so fast it sounded like one, huh?”
“Lots of practice.”
The sheriff fished for a cigarette. “You don’t think he killed ‘em kids, do you?”
“No. This man described the killer. I think Frank Soto works for the killer.”
Detective Sandberg said, “You’re wrong O’Brien. Evidence will bear it out. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
I smiled and said, “The red T-shirt he was describing, he mentioned Sloppy Joes was on it. That’s the same T-shirt Soto wore the morning he tried to abduct Molly and Elizabeth Monroe. That wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the media, and this guy’s been out here so long, chances are if news media mentioned it, he wouldn’t have seen it.”
“How do we really know how long he’s been out here?” Sandberg asked.
“Because he fits the description of the guy that ranger Ed Crews mentioned seeing, not once, but twice. Look at his stuff left here on the bank, small tent, backpack and the steel rod. He’s not staying at a hotel. He’s been living out here, looking for something. I think he found the body of Nicole Davenport and saw Molly and Mark get killed.”
”Maybe,” said the sheriff, lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke though his nostrils. “Odds are strong that Palmer’s our killer. Why else would an ex-con swim across the most alligator-infested river in America rather than face us.”
“If he’d spent forty years in San Quentin prison, recently released, he probably has little knowledge of alligators in rivers. Gators aren’t found in the wild in California. When the adrenaline’s pumping, and you’re faced with a potential return to prison, maybe a long swim across a flat and calm river seems the best alternative.”
The sheriff shook his head, took a final drag from the cigarette. “Come on,” he said to Detective Sandberg.
As they were walking away, I said, “Sheriff, I’ll need a ride back to the command post. I volunteered my Jeep to help get Deputy Rodriguez to a medical team.”
“Okay, but now I’ve got to face the media, and I don’t want you in the vicinity. Understand? I recognize your concern, and we appreciate your help. You probably were a good detective in your day, but you don’t work for me.”
AT THE COMMAND CENTER, Luke Palmer was transferred from a four-wheel-drive Land Rover to a cruiser. A half dozen deputies and investigators coordinated the move. Palmer looked at the mob of reporters, each one jockeying for a better camera position. Not too much different from the gangs in the yard, he thought. Better dressed, maybe.
While they escorted him to a waiting cruiser, through the flashing lights, he spotted a lone woman. She stepped out from an open tent and stared at him. To Palmer it felt like the progression of time stopped in its tracks for a few seconds. All sound, the hum of diesels, the crackle of police radios faded as her eyes meet his. She folded her arms across her breasts. It looked like she had been crying. There was something familiar about her. Who was she?
“Did you kill those college kids?” shouted one reporter, microphone extended.
The media crowded as close as reporters and photographers could get.
Palmer said nothing.
“How long have you been out here?” another reporter asked.
“Stand back!” ordered one of the deputies escorting Palmer. A sweating deputy placed his hand on Palmer’s head and guided him into the backseat of the cruiser.
“Stand away from the vehicle!” shouted an officer.
“Rolling…” said a cameraman, holding a video camera on his shoulder.
A blond reporter stood with her back to the sheriff’s cars, microphone gripped in her manicured hand. “Police say that Luke Palmer, released from San Quentin prison, is a drifter. The two bodies found today bring the total to three. If Palmer’s convicted of three murders, he’ll then be compared to serial killer Aileen Wuornos, another killer who used the Ocala National Forest to dispose of bodies. Now back to you in the studio.”
TV camera operators flanked both sides of the car, lens touching the glass windshields. Palmer stared straight ahead. He was an ex con now back in a police car, a ride he took more than forty years ago. And now images of his face were beaming from a national forest to a national audience.
I walked over to Elizabeth while Detective Sandberg and the sheriff stood in front of the media to answer more questions. The patrol car transporting Palmer pulled away. It was preceded and followed by two other cruisers with flashing lights. Three news cars joi
ned the end of the parade, Palmer now heading to Ocala to be questioned further and booked on murder charges.
One reporter fired a question, “Do you think Palmer is responsible for the death of Nicole Davenport, the teen found in the grave earlier?”
“We’ll compare forensics,” said the sheriff. “The answer to that question will come pending further analysis.”
“What is the condition of the deputy bitten by a snake?” asked another reporter.
“He’s been taken to the hospital. We’re praying for a full recovery.”
I went to Elizabeth where she stood by herself under a tall pine tree and watched the news conference. I told her what happened as a single tear spilled from her eyes. She used her palm to wipe it away. “Why…why did he kill Molly and Mark?”
“He says he didn’t do it.”
She looked at me through swollen, bloodshot eyes. “Do you believe him?”
“He said that there were three men. One of the three shot Molly and Mark.”
“You didn’t answer me, Sean. Do you believe him?” Another tear trickled down her cheek.
“I believe there’s a possibility he didn’t do it.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I’ve made the mistake of letting physical evidence speak louder than my gut or conscience and people have paid the price for it.”
“He’s evil and he has no conscience. He’s a cold-blooded killer.”
I said nothing.
“He’s a psychopath! Can’t you see that? This man, a person who gunned down my daughter and her boyfriend, has been running around the woods like a rabid animal. And like a sick animal, he needs to be put down. How in God’s name did he get out of prison? Why is he free? Can anybody answer that for me?” Her fists balled.
“He served his time, but I don’t think he’s free.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He didn’t try to kidnap you and Molly. And now he believes he’s heading back to spend the rest of his life in prison. But he’s not in California anymore, and the man behind the black curtain in Florida is a state-sanctioned executioner.”
“So is he! Why can’t you see that?”
“Elizabeth, listen to me, please. There are few, if any, coincidences in a crime. You almost were abducted at gunpoint by Frank Soto. Why? Why would he risk a daylight kidnapping in a crowded parking lot? There has to be a very strong reason. He’s a professional hit man, an enforcer for gangs. And right now we don’t know where he is. But before Soto tried to abduct you, he was here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Palmer said he saw some kind of Midsummer Eve festival out here in the forest. He indicated there were lots of hippie types dancing and singing. That’s where he said he met Nicole Davenport, the girl with the fairy wings that we later found in the grave.”
“He buried my Molly and Mark in another grave!”
“At this festival, Palmer described a man resembling Frank Soto, and Soto was wearing the same T-shirt that he had on the day I jumped him at your car door. That information wasn’t in any news reports I saw.”
“It doesn’t mean Palmer didn’t do it.”
“No, but it does establish the fact that Soto was here, somewhere in the heart of this forest, and he probably killed Nicole Davenport. The tattoo on his arm has a likeness to her. Maybe it’s some kind of weird souvenir. Who knows? What we do know is that he was here, and he was at your car in the shopping center. Molly and Mark were here before the episode at Walmart. It’s not a coincidence. There’s a reason, and at this point, maybe Palmer is telling the truth.”
“Take me home, Sean.”
We started for my Jeep, and she turned to me. “I respect your judgment. If you really believe this man didn’t kill Molly and Mark, will you find out who did?”
The temperature suddenly dropped, and the wind hummed through the tops of the tall pines. “Will you, Sean?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Where will you start?”
“Somewhere in this forest. I need to find out what Molly saw. And just maybe, she was killed for something she didn’t even know she saw. The first place I want to search isn’t here?”
“Where?”
“In her camera.”
I walked Elizabeth to the Jeep, and the wind blew harder. Pine needles fell from the limbs and shot through the air like darts. Elizabeth held up her hands to shield her face and eyes. Black clouds moved over the sun and lowered a curtain that wrapped the woods in darkness. The temperature dropped and the air was cold across Elizabeth’s skin. The wind moaned through the pine tops. I said, “Storm’s almost here. Let’s go!”
Two reporters approached us. One stooped to the ground the second lightning exploded by a treetop less than fifty yards from where we stood. Thunder crashed with the ricochet of a bomb. Reporters and camera people ran for the safety of their cars.
I opened the Jeep door for Elizabeth and looked at the trees bending in the wind. Somewhere in there, somewhere hidden in hundreds of square miles was the reason Molly, Mark and a kid in a fairy costume were killed. I could smell the approaching rain. Maybe in its aftermath, I could find fresh tracks in the wet ground and mud. Something would lead me to whatever lies waiting deep within the forest. But I learned long ago that sometimes very bad men left few tracks. And just when I thought I was on the right path, I’d discover that evil was following me.
I closed Elizabeth’s door and a cold, silvery rain popped on the Jeep’s canvas top.
After leaving Elizabeth’s house, I picked up Max and we drove over to Ponce Marina. The closer we got to the Tiki Bar, the brighter Max’s eyes would shine. She stood on her hind legs in the Jeep’s front seat, poked her wet nose out the open window and sniffed the salt air.
I thought about leaving Elizabeth’s home earlier. A dozen people, neighbors and friends, came by her house in the short time I was there. Most were in tears. All were at a loss for the right words. But what are the right words when you learn someone blew a hole through a young woman’s left breast leaving an exit wound out her back the size of your fist?
Elizabeth promised me she’d stay with her sister until Frank Soto was found. She didn’t think it was necessary since Luke Palmer was in jail, her mind still wrapped around him being the killer.
Maybe she was right. But until Frank Soto was locked up, I felt Elizabeth was still in danger. Before I left, she handed Molly’s camera to me and said, “Please call me if you find anything. I don’t care what time it is, Sean, please call.”
Max whined once when we stopped in the marina parking lot, her nose now catching the smells of fried shrimp, broiled grouper and beer. We walked by the bar, and I saw Kim Davis pulling a draught beer for a charter boat captain I recognized. Kim smiled and said, “Sean O’Brien and Miz Max.” She petted Max and then looked up at me. “Sean, your face was on the news, Channel Nine, in the middle of that forest. Those college kids…what in God’s name is going on?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
“They caught the guy that did it, didn’t they? Some ex prisoner, a drifter?”
“They caught a man.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Don’t you think he did it?”
“I don’t know. I have some work to do that could eliminate him.”
“Leave Max here. Nicky always does. I have no problem with her hanging out to catch some pieces of shrimp. Everyone gets a kick at how fast she catches them. They never hit the floor.” She turned to the charter boat captain. “You have any problem with Max hanging with us?”
He sipped his beer, foam clinging to his moustache, face pinched from sun and salt. “Hells bells no. I could use the dog’s company. We’ll drink to the color of a fine sunset.”
I smiled and said, “I may take you up on that soon, but right now, Max needs her regular dog food, and I have to spend time in front of a computer.”
I OPENED JUPITER, Max sniffing all corners, the tide tugging at the lin
es. We entered the galley where I popped the top off a cold Corona. I attached Molly’s camera to my computer and begin looking through the array of images. Most were of her friends, snapshots around the college campus. Girls smiling, hugging and holding frozen yogurt drinks up in a toast. Some images were of a touch football game in a park. Young men and women in cut-off shorts, jerseys and T-shirts. Images of vibrant life forever sealed in a dead girl’s camera. Molly and Mark were in some of the pictures.
Max cocked her head. She suppressed a bark while she trotted across the wooden floor in the salon and darted out onto the cockpit. “Hotdog! Where you been, girl?”
Nick Cronus, wearing a faded swimsuit, unbuttoned Hawaiian print shirt, tattered flip-flops, and a bottle of beer in hand, eased across the transom and grunted. He knelt down and scooped up Max in one hand. She licked his three-day stubble. “I wish all the ladies miss me like Maxie does.” Nick walked in the salon and belched. Max turned her head away, looked toward me with wide, pleading eyes. “Sean, I was watchin’ the TV in Dave’s boat, and we saw all that shit goin’ down in the forest. Man, you go lookin’ for a tattoo joint and find a serial killer.”
“Like you said, Nick, sometimes shit happens.”
He flopped on the sofa, set Max beside him, propped his feet up on my shellacked cypress table and shook his head. He took a long pull from the sweating bottle, his dark face shining with trapped heat and the blush of alcohol. “Why does it happen to you?”
“It doesn’t. It happened to three kids. I was simply in a Walmart lot and noticed something out of the ordinary. It’s hard to get away from all those years of training.”
He stared at my computer for a moment. “What’s all those pictures?”
“They came from Molly Monroe’s camera.”
“I saw the picture of the butterfly you sent to Dave. He called one of his professor pals and learned a lot about it.” Nick drained the last sip in his beer, rubbed Max’s head with a callused hand and headed toward the galley. “Got any beer in there?”