Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay

by Francis, Parker

  One of the volunteers, a retired dermatologist, edged closer to the basket and stared at the corpse. The dead man’s head had one eye open and the other closed as if giving us an obscene wink. “Isn’t that Bill Marrano?” the doctor asked.

  Poe and the others lived in St. Johns County and obviously recognized the vice mayor. Even though I lived in an adjacent county, a client once introduced me to Marrano and I recalled him as a wide-bodied man standing about five-ten. That’s when he was standing, of course. And when he had legs. I couldn’t be sure because of the garbage bag, but it seemed to me this body was missing those essential parts.

  I stepped away from the basket and pulled Poe with me. “Everyone out of the pit,” I ordered, reverting back to my Navy Master-at-Arms training. “I’m calling the police, so don’t touch anything.” I knew the rain, plus our digging and tramping over the site had erased most of the trace evidence, but we didn’t need to add to the mess the police would soon find.

  ***

  A squad car with two young, uniformed officers arrived shortly. They took one look at the basket and ran back to their car. Less than five minutes later, two more cruisers and an unmarked vehicle roared up, sirens wailing, lights flashing. We stood next to the church, out of the glare of the afternoon sun, and watched the police close off the narrow lane. I swatted at a cloud of gnats investigating my ears before moving on toward the corpse.

  August in St. Augustine brought with it suffocating humidity, along with throngs of tourists. Dozens of them were now lined up three deep along the yellow police tape gaping at the scene. I saw a boy of around nine or ten perched on his father’s shoulders pointing at the dead man’s body as if admiring a float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. Finally, one of the uniforms chased them away. A plain clothes detective approached Poe and our knot of volunteers. He identified himself as Detective George Horgan and asked us who found the body. Narrow and bird-like, Horgan’s face seemed to have been cobbled together by someone with a wicked sense of humor. His pointed nose and protruding eyes gave him a constant look of surprise.

  I answered his question. “That would be me.” I described it all for him, from finding the basket in the new depression, to pulling it out of the ground and seeing Marrano inside. Horgan took notes with a silver ballpoint pen, glancing up at me from time to time.

  “Can I have your name, address and contact information in case we need to ask you some more questions?” I noticed yellow nicotine stains on Horgan’s fingers, and the odor of smoke clinging to him like burrs on wool socks.

  “It’s Mitchell. Quint Mitchell.” I repeated my address and phone number before telling him I was a private investigator from Jacksonville Beach. Horgan’s bird-like face grimaced slightly at the words private investigator as though he had a bad case of acid reflux. He grunted at me before nodding towards Poe and the others.

  “Dr. Poe, I take it these are all volunteers working with you on this project.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell me how Mr. Marrano’s body happened to be buried where you happened to be digging?”

  Poe licked his lips, eyes darting toward me then back at Horgan before answering. “You’re not suggesting I had anything to do with this?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Dr. Poe. I’m only asking if you knew—”

  “I know what you’re implying and why you’re implying it, but you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  Dots of crimson peppered Poe’s cheeks, and I put a hand on his arm to calm him. “Think about it, Detective Horgan,” I said. “Would anyone, especially Dr. Poe, be foolish enough to hide the body where it would implicate him? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Horgan eyed me for a moment then wrote something in his notebook before gesturing toward the other volunteers. “I’ll need your names and addresses as well.”

  While the detective recorded the volunteer’s information, a white SUV screeched into the church parking lot. I looked up to see a thick-necked man in street clothes climb out of the Ford Explorer. He had a badge clipped to his belt, and the other officers stepped back as he approached the corner of the dig where the hamper sat.

  The cop stood motionless, staring at the corpse. He removed his sunglasses, and ran a hand through curly black hair flecked with gray. From my vantage point, I saw his jaw muscles working furiously, the cords in his neck straining. He stepped over the police tape and walked toward the basket.

  “Sarge, maybe you should …” Horgan began, but the sergeant’s withering glare made the detective swallow his sentence.

  The sergeant stopped in front of the basket and dropped to one knee to look at the dead man’s head from eye level. He remained in that position, silent, not touching anything. Finally, he raised a hand toward Marrano’s face, but stopped short of touching it. I saw his fingers tremble slightly before he balled them into a fist and turned toward our small group by the church. His eyes immediately drilled into Poe. He popped up and rushed toward the city archaeologist with the fierce resolution of a tiger leaping toward its prey.

  “What do you know about this?” he yelled, pushing his face within inches of Poe’s. He put a hand on Poe’s chest and shoved him against the wall of the church.

  Poe wasn’t a small man, but the sergeant had surprised him and he fell back, his wide-brimmed hat sliding forward until it touched his nose. The sergeant’s face flushed, and his right hand cocked back, the knuckles on his fist wide and white, straining at the taut flesh.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I said, foolishly stepping between them. “I’m the one who found the basket, not Dr. Poe.”

  My gallant gesture had the intended effect of diverting the sergeant’s attention, and he stared at me as though I was a cockroach crawling over his Christmas ham. Without a word, he dismissed me and turned his attention back to Poe.

  “You hated him, Poe. I know you’re behind this somehow. You’d do anything to stop that project.” Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth and a little tic worked beneath his left eye. He opened and closed his fingers as if trying to decide whether to slap Poe with an open hand or pound him with his fist.

  I’d never seen a police officer lose control of himself in this way, and I considered what the consequences might be if I had to pull him off my friend. I was an inch or two taller, and maybe ten years younger, but the sergeant was broader across the shoulders and chest and had forearms the size of bowling pins.

  Before I could do anything, Poe found his voice. “You’re wrong, Buck. Sure, Bill and I had our differences, but no way would I harm your brother.”

  His brother? No wonder he went ballistic. The sergeant leaned in toward Poe, his face a mask of hatred, one huge fist locked in the firing position. Against my better judgment, I spoke up again.

  “Listen, sergeant, whatever you may think of Dr. Poe, you can’t believe he’s capable of murder.” I made the mistake of putting a hand on his arm. He whipped it away and gave me his full attention.

  “Who the hell are you?” he shouted in my face. “I’ll need a name before throwing you in jail for interfering with a criminal investigation.”

  I raised both hands in a sign of surrender and backed off. Horgan quickly stepped between us. Looking at his notes, he said, “He’s the one who found the vict … your brother. His name is Quint Mitchell and he lives in Jacks—”

  “Quint Mitchell!” Marrano spit my name out as though it burned his tongue and studied me for a moment before continuing, “I know who you are. You’re the Jacksonville Beach PI who’s involved with that …” He paused and seemed to search for words. “… with that Howard woman.” He sneered and turned away from me.

  I felt a wave of heat creeping along my neck and up my cheeks. I fought to control my breathing, my chest tightening, my hands stiff at my sides. “You’re out of line, sergeant. I can understand how it feels to lose your brother, but—”

  With surprising speed, his left hand shot out, snatched a handful of my shirt, and yanked me towar
d him. At the same time, his right fist slammed into my stomach just below my ribcage and I doubled over gasping for air.

  “You know how it feels, you stupid bastard? How does that feel?”

  I struggled to force air into my lungs, to defend myself before he hit me again. He grabbed me by the shoulder and lifted me into position for another punch. Weakly, I raised an arm, but he only smirked and pushed me against the wall next to Poe.

  “If you had anything to do with this, Mitchell, I’ll make you sorry you ever came into my town.”

  He raised his fist again, but before he could throw another punch, Horgan grabbed his arm. “Not a good idea, sarge. The chief’s here.”

  Marrano swung toward Horgan who pointed at another squad car pulling into the parking lot. A balding, middle-aged man I recognized as Chief Milo Conover climbed out on the passenger side and approached us. Conover was considered a straight shooter. He’d risen through the ranks of the small St. Augustine Police Department and had been appointed chief last year after his predecessor retired.

  Horgan hurried over to the chief and they spoke briefly before Conover surveyed the hamper with its macabre contents. Taking in our little group and the beefy sergeant’s threatening stance, Conover strode toward us.

  “Buck, I’m so sorry,” he said, laying a hand on the officer’s shoulder.

  Marrano seemed to sag for a moment before the fury returned to his eyes. “We have the bastard who did this right here, chief.” He shoved a meaty index finger into Poe’s chest. “Everyone knows how much he hated Bill.”

  The chief toted more than a few extra pounds around his waist, but he carried himself with authority. He grabbed the sergeant by his upper arm and pulled him away from Poe. “You’re too close to this, Sergeant Marrano,” he said in a stern voice. “I’m asking you to step aside and let us give this case the thorough investigation it deserves.”

  Marrano tried to pull his arm away from Conover, but the chief held him firmly. “No way. I’m in charge of detectives, and that’s my brother over there. This killer has to pay for—”

  Conover yanked Marrano’s arm, forcing him to turn toward him. “Listen to yourself, Buck.” He kept his voice low, under control. “You may be Detective Commander, but you’re in no condition to objectively investigate anything at the moment. For your brother’s sake, we have to put emotions aside, and I don’t think you can do that.”

  Marrano had been staring over Conover’s shoulder at Poe. He looked back at the chief as if he’d just heard him and shook his head vigorously. Before he could respond, Conover said, “I'm putting Detectives Horgan and Thompson in charge of the investigation, Buck, and ordering you to return to headquarters.”

  Conover held Marrano’s icy glare. “Do you hear me, sergeant?”

  “I hear you,” Marrano murmured. He gave each of us a hard stare before turning and walking briskly to his car, taking one final glance at his brother’s head as he passed.

  Breathing normally now, I watched Conover and Horgan huddle together, the detective inclining his head in our direction several times before the chief approached us.

  “I understand Detective Horgan has taken your statements. This must be very traumatic for you folks, and I apologize for the sergeant’s outburst. I’m sure you understand what he must be going through.”

  Conover puckered his lips and shook his head slowly. “This is a terrible loss for our entire community, but we have to remember the Vice Mayor was Sergeant Marrano’s only brother. I hope you can forgive him if his emotions got the better of him.” His eyes slid over each of us before settling on me, and I figured Horgan told him Marrano had sucker-punched me.

  “Except for Dr. Poe, you’re all free to go,” Conover said. “Please remember St. Augustine’s a small town, folks. We rely almost entirely on tourism. We don’t want to frighten anyone, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself as much as possible while we conduct our investigation.”

  He turned away and addressed Poe. “Jeffrey, let’s go down to my office. We have a few more questions for you.”

  “But I don’t know anything.”

  “It will be better for everyone if we put this feud business to rest and try to get to the bottom of this terrible crime.” Conover studied Poe through hard brown eyes, reminding me of a shark contemplating its next meal.

  I stayed in place when the other volunteers departed, thinking I might be of some help to Poe. Offering my most conciliatory smile, I said, “Chief, I’m Quint Mitchell. I found Mr. Marrano’s body.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mitchell, we have your statement and appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Dr. Poe’s a good friend, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to accompany—”

  “Are you his attorney, Mr. Mitchell?” Conover cut me off.

  “Well, no, but I’m a private investigator.” Even as I said the words I knew how lame they sounded.

  Conover moved closer to me. I smelled peppermint on his breath. “Believe me, Mr. Mitchell, we’ll be in touch if we have any more questions for you. Right now, Dr. Poe is the only one we need to speak with. Routine questions, that’s all.”

  With that, he turned his back on me and guided Poe by the elbow toward his squad car.

  THREE

  Poe climbed into the back of Conover’s cruiser, and they pulled away leaving me rubbing my aching abdomen and nursing a bruised ego. Yellow police tape had been strung around the entire church parking lot except for a gap to allow official vehicles to enter and exit. While I watched, a man in his late fifties arrived in a white van. He approached Horgan who stood by the excavation site, a clipboard in one hand, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

  Horgan greeted the new arrival and passed the clipboard to the man, who wore a limp seersucker jacket that looked like it may have been purchased at a 1978 JC Penney summer sale. He tucked a small black valise under his left arm in order to hold the clipboard and signed in.

  As the primary investigating officer on the scene, Horgan was responsible for documenting the chain of evidence. If I was right, the gentleman with the retro coat and black bag was the county medical examiner. They conferred for a minute before Horgan pointed to the hamper where Marrano’s remains were now attracting dark clouds of gnats and flies.

  The medical examiner’s first order of business was to confirm the victim’s death. His next task would be to estimate the time and cause of death. The corpse’s temperature provided an approximation as to how long the victim had been deceased. But most of the answers would be found during the autopsy.

  Standard crime scene investigation procedures call for photographic documentation of the scene in order to create a permanent historical record, collecting of trace evidence and writing a detailed report, including diagrams, of everything found at the scene. But prior to all of this, I knew the police were required to clear all non-essential personnel from the crime scene.

  Right on cue, Horgan looked up and spotted me.

  “Mitchell, what the hell are you still doing here?” he blared out from his position next to the excavation site. “Even a PI should know a crime scene when he sees one. Now move your ass before I ask one of these officers to escort you to headquarters. If we need you, we know where to find you.”

  As he yelled, Horgan’s eyes bulged to the point I expected to see one of his orbs pop out of his head and roll across the ground like a marble.

  “Don’t get your tighty-whities in a twist, detective. I was just leaving.”

  Horgan didn’t need to remind me the police were in charge of this investigation, but as I walked away from the church, I worried about my friend. Jeffrey Poe was obviously more than a person of interest. He was at the top of the SAPD’s suspect list, and I didn’t want to see him railroaded because he and Bill Marrano had disagreed over St. Augustine’s future skyline.

  I’ve known Poe for about five years. We’ve grown increasingly close, particularly after his wife Gail died three years ago. She suffered through an agoniz
ing bout with liver cancer, Poe suffering along with her, a part of his spirit departing when she died. In the weeks following her death, he retreated behind a wall of grief, refusing to answer his phone and ignoring the friends and neighbors who came to check on him. Poe eventually dug himself out of his pit of depression, but now, I worried how he would react to this latest trauma.

  After Poe was taken in for questioning I spent an hour sitting on a bench in the Plaza de la Constitución making phone calls and observing the waves of tourists washing over the old city. The Plaza was slung between Cathedral and King Streets. Tourist guides tout it as the oldest public park in the United States, established by Royal Spanish Ordinances in 1573.

  From where I sat, across from the Government House, I watched young people playing among the Civil War cannons and running the stairs of the covered pavilion that was once used as a public marketplace. Also known as the Old Slave Market, during the civil rights struggles it had been the gathering place for local demonstrators. During the summer months, the park hosted weekly concerts and an occasional art show. These days, though, homeless men inhabited many of the benches.

  If I walked two blocks up King Street, I’d be facing the Casa Monica Hotel. Thinking of the hotel made me remember how Sergeant Marrano had erupted when he heard my name. What did he say? That I was involved with that Howard woman. His statement was correct. I just didn’t like the way he said it.

  Serena Howard is the marketing director for the Casa Monica, and we’ve been seeing each other for the past three months. Unfortunately, what had begun with a flash of sparks and grew into one of my most meaningful relationships had flickered down to its last embers. Time to pour water over our campfire and declare it officially dead.

  I didn’t want to think about our crumbling romance now, so I walked the six blocks to the St. Augustine Police Department. I wondered how Poe’s interrogation had gone. What could he tell them other than he was completely in the dark about Marrano’s murder? But how could he explain away the bayonet?

  Poe had a stubborn streak. Sometimes his temper might push common sense aside and he’d say things he later regretted, but in my heart I knew my friend was not a killer. I glanced at the monument sign in the middle of the sidewalk identifying the neat concrete building as the St. Augustine Police Department before climbing the white steps and entering.