Palm Beach Bones

by Tom Turner

  Crawford smiled and shook his head. “Let’s split up Loadholt’s past cases,” he said. “See if the guy’s as squeaky clean as Rutledge remembers him being.”

  Twelve

  Ted Bundy was more famous than the Crazy Bitch, but not by much. Plus the Crazy Bitch had a big time movie made about her, and all Bundy got was a lame made-for-TV flick. Like her, the lights went out for Bundy at Florida State Prison. The difference was he went out in the clutches of Old Sparky, whereas she took a lethal injection thirteen years later.

  Back in 2002, Libbie had driven down to Raiford and met with the Crazy Bitch again. She was pretty near the end of the road on death row but was still chatty. The first thing Libbie asked her was what she did when she first left home.

  “Left home?” said the Crazy Bitch. “That makes it sound like I had a choice in the matter. Like I told you before, my grandfather kicked me out of the house at age fifteen, after one of his buddies knocked me up.”

  “I remember you telling me that,” Libbie said. “I’m wondering where you went after you got kicked out?”

  “Told you that too. Ended up in the woods behind my house in Michigan turning tricks for beer money. I didn’t know where else to go. Eventually ended up getting the hell out of there. Became a pretty decent hitchhiking hooker, also known as a truck-stop whore.” She smiled like she was talking about getting straight A’s on her report card.

  “And at some point you got married, right?”

  The Crazy Bitch roared with laughter. “Oh, yeah, that was a fuckin’ doozie. I was twenty and the horny old bastard was sixty-nine. You can imagine that was a match made in heaven.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Got annulled after a few weeks,” the Crazy Bitch said. “Then I went back on the road. Lived in the back of cars, cheap motels, and jail.”

  “Jail?”

  “Oh, yeah, honey, between drunk driving, armed robbery, obstruction of justice, disturbing the peace—”

  “How’d you disturb the peace?”

  The Crazy Bitch cackled. “How didn’t I? One time I threw a cue ball at a bartender in this dive in Daytona. Another time tossed a plate of grits that had pubic hair in ‘em at a waitress. You name it, I disturbed it.”

  “What else did you do?”

  The Crazy Bitch cocked her head. “Why are you so curious?”

  “Because I can relate to what you’ve been through.”

  The Crazy Bitch looked at Libbie in disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah. You can relate, huh?” said the Crazy Bitch. “‘Cause you had a kid at fourteen, ‘cause you lived in the back of an old Pontiac, ‘cause you married a guy fifty years older ‘n you?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Not exactly. I’m lookin’ at you and I see this righteous young thing—what early twenties?”

  “Twenty.”

  “A twenty-year-old chick with a nice dress and an expensive ring—”

  “I ran away from home when I was a kid. Been workin’ eighty-hour weeks ever since—”

  The Crazy Bitch shook her head so hard it looked like a filling might shake loose. “Well, bully the fuck for you, darlin’.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound—”

  “Like a holier-than-thou little bitch. Too late, cupcake,” the Crazy Bitch said. “You’re sitting there judging me, that’s what this is all about. ‘Cause you’re thinkin’ I’m the way it coulda gone for you if you didn’t work your sweet little ass off, dug yourself out of the big fuckin’ hole you were in?”

  The Crazy Bitch had pretty much hit the nail on the head. Even though Libbie really was genuinely sympathetic too. “No, that’s not it at all,” she lied. “I just want to understand.”

  The Crazy Bitch shook her head, unconvinced. “Understand? Where the fuck’s that get you?”

  Now desperate to change the subject, Libbie asked, “So what else did you do?” One thing was clear, the Crazy Bitch liked detailing her criminal exploits.

  “Like I said, what didn’t I? Armed robbery, check-forging, car theft, whatever the fuck I had to, to stay alive.”

  Libbie nodded. She had successfully gotten the focus off of herself. The guard with the crew cut came up behind her.

  “Ten more minutes,” he said.

  Libbie nodded and turned back to the Crazy Bitch.

  “Was there ever a moment when you thought, ‘I’m gonna turn it around. I don’t give a damn how bad I had it as a kid. I don’t care how many bad things happened to me that I didn’t deserve—’”

  “Okay, cut the shit, will you,” said the Crazy Bitch, shaking her head so hard saliva flew. “Just ‘cause that’s your story doesn’t make it mine. No way I was ever going to have a sane, normal life ‘cause nobody I knew had a clue what a sane, normal life was. You think I had role models? Think I grew up in the Partridge family?” Suddenly, the Crazy Bitch went into a laughing fit and her whole tone changed. “I remember wondering whether Susan Dey balled her grandfather. I remember wondering why they called it the Partridge family in the first place. Why’d they pick a bird and since they did, why not the Vulture family or the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker family.” She laughed her little maniacal laugh again. “I remember wondering whether Susan Dey married that guy with the hat.”

  Libbie had no clue. “What guy with the hat?”

  “You know, Boy George.”

  “What?” said Libbie, totally lost.

  “Susan Dey George, duh?”

  Wow, so this is what prison does to you, Libbie thought to herself.

  The guard came up behind her and tapped his watch.

  That was the last time Libbie spoke to the Crazy Bitch.

  A month later—October 9, 2002, at 9:47 a.m. EDT—she died by lethal injection. She declined the last meal that she was entitled to and had a cup of coffee instead. Her last words were, “Yes, I would just like to say I’m sailing with the rock, and I’ll be back, like Independence Day, with Jesus, June 6, like the movie. Big mother ship and all. I’ll be back, I’ll be back.”

  At least so far, she has not been spotted.

  Thirteen

  Ott walked into Crawford’s office with a big grin on his face.

  Crawford leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “I can tell you got something good. I’m assuming on Loadholt.”

  “Correct on both assumptions,” Ott said sitting down across from Crawford. “I’ve got two suspects, both—turns out—of the female persuasion.”

  “Really?” said Crawford. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Okay, so the first one happened thirteen years ago,” Ott said. “About three years before Loadholt retired at the age of sixty.”

  “Okay, so he was around fifty-seven.”

  Ott nodded. “There were a series of home burglaries that took place in houses that were on the ocean.”

  Crawford nodded. “Like how many?”

  “Six over the course of a year, mainly snatching jewelry—necklaces, rings, watches—plus some furs and one time a couple of expensive paintings. Only thing they had was that on two occasions a couple was seen walking on the beach near the house that got hit. Both times it was like nine or ten at night, kind of an unusual hour for a beach stroll, and the witnesses said, in both cases, it was an older guy and a young woman.”

  “So they were scouts?” Crawford asked. “Looking for a house where no one was home?”

  “Good guess,” Ott said. “So Loadholt posted some under covers on the beach and also a couple guys on a boat, including himself. The boat would run with no lights and the engine cut, patrolling. One night, report said it was really foggy, one of the under covers on the beach saw a couple go into a house from the beach side. He radioed the boat, which Loadholt happened to be on that night, and waited. Ten minutes later the couple—older guy, younger woman—came running out of the house with full pillowcases in both hands and ran down to a boat that had just pulled up a few feet from shore.”

  “So Loadh
olt was nearby in his boat?” Crawford asked.

  Ott leaned forward in his chair. “Yeah, and he pulls up—‘cause it’s all foggy—not far from the other boat, just waiting for the couple to get on, then take ‘em down.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Turned out the suspects had a lot faster boat than Loadholt’s,” Ott said. “The couple got on it, a cop with Loadholt flashed a big light at ‘em, while Loadholt, through a bullhorn, told ‘em to shut off the engine and put their hands up.” Ott took a pull on his water. “So the guy driving the boat suddenly guns it. Turns out it’s a Cigarette with a 2,200-horsepower Mercedes engine that the driver races in his spare time. In like three seconds all Loadholt sees is spray. He pulls out his Glock and starts firing, totally blind. Can’t see anything but spray.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Couple of bullets hit the boat’s engine and it dies,” Ott said, taking another pull on his water. “Another one hits one of the burglars.”

  “Jesus, what happened?” Crawford asked.

  “Loadholt pulls up to the boat, and the woman’s hysterical. Screaming at Loadholt, ‘You killed him, you killed him.’” Ott lowered his voice, “Turns out her father took one right in the head.”

  “Holy shit,” Crawford said. “Was there any kind of disciplinary thing? That’s not exactly by-the-book.”

  Ott shook his head. “No, Loadholt’s story was he heard gunshots and returned fire. That the people in the Cigarette were shooting at them. The guys with him backed him up. So the girl gets attempted murder.”

  Crawford shook his head slowly. “I’m getting the sense Loadholt was kind of a loose cannon,” he said. “Literally.”

  “Yeah, well, wait ‘til you hear the next one,” Ott said. “But to finish it up, the daughter and the guys on her boat go to trial and the daughter’s lawyer points out how there were no guns found on the Cigarette. He’s trying to get them to drop the attempted murder charge, reduce it to aggravated burglary. And of course, Loadholt testifies that he saw them tossing guns over the side. Then the daughter gets up and says she and her father never shot a gun in their whole lives. Anyway, at the sentencing, the daughter yells at Loadholt, ‘You murdered my father and you’re gonna pay. Trust me, we’re gonna make sure of that.’”

  “‘We?’”

  “That’s what I wanted to know, so I dug around a little more and found out she has a brother down in Miami who supposedly heads this gang that hits banks and jewelry stores. He was actually on that show America’s Most Wanted, got the nickname, ‘the Ghost.’ Has a couple murders on his lengthy resume.”

  Crawford was nodding. “So the obvious question—”

  Ott nodded. “If he killed Loadholt, why would he wait thirteen years?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Okay, so here’s the clincher,” Ott said. “The daughter, Sonia Reyes, is her name, just got out of Broward jail a month ago”

  “No shit,” Crawford said, clenching his fist. “Did you happen to check who the judge was?”

  “Knowing you’d ask me that, I did,” said Ott. “It wasn’t Rich Meyer, but a guy named John Pickett.”

  Crawford looked at his watch. “All right, we gotta track down this Sonia Reyes,” he said, getting up.

  “I’m already on it,” Ott said. “Where you going?”

  “Mookie’s,” Crawford said, referring to a downscale cop bar in West Palm Beach.

  “Don’t you want to hear about the stripper?” Ott asked. “I saved the best for last.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Crawford said. “But I’m meeting Don Scarpa over there. I want to hear what he has to say about Loadholt. They worked together for a long time. I’ll come back here afterwards.”

  Ott looked at his watch. “You better get there pretty soon; that crusty old bastard’s usually in the bag by seven.”

  “Yeah, but he can still think pretty straight even after six or seven Jim Beams.”

  On the way over to Mookie’s Crawford got a call on his cell. ‘Alexa Dillon,’ according to the display.

  “Hello,” said Crawford.

  “Hi, Charlie,” she said. “It’s Alexa Dillon, you know, that pesky reporter.”

  “Pesky and persistent. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to know how you’re coming on the Clyde Loadholt murder. And, once again, offer to buy you a drink to make up for—”

  “Getting sand in my eyes?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Sorry, Alexa, I don’t drink. I’ve been a teetotaler since…well, that terrible day back in 2007.”

  “What happened back in 2007?” She asked, trepidation in her tone.

  “Sorry, I…I can’t talk about it.”

  “Okay,” she said, “but I didn’t think there was a cop in the world who didn’t drink.”

  “Is that one of those stereotypes? Like all reporters are pains in the ass?”

  She laughed. “Okay, then, what if I buy you a Coke?”

  “All that sugar,” Crawford said.

  “All right, a bottle of water?”

  “Sorry, Alexa, gotta go.” Crawford swung into Mookie’s parking lot. “Just pulled into my cop bar.”

  A pause. “So…that was all a big lie?” Alexa asked.

  “Nah, just a little fib.”

  Fourteen

  It was known as the Donald Bruce Scarpa Honorable Barstool and nobody sat in it except, of course, Don Scarpa. It was down at the end of the bar right under the poster of Clint Eastwood in the role of Dirty Harry, complete with his .44 Magnum hand cannon. In fact, there was a resemblance between Scarpa and the old actor, though Scarpa was twenty years younger than Clint and had a whole lot less hair.

  Scarpa had a Marlboro dangling out of his mouth and a fresh Jim Beam and water in one hand. The owner, another ex-cop, Jack Scarsiola, had demanded, cajoled, and pleaded with Scarpa many times not smoke in his establishment, but Scarpa ignored him. On several occasions, Scarsiola had pointed out that Scarpa was in a profession committed to upholding the law—and no smoking in a public establishment was the law. Scarpa, who had been retired for twelve years, had responded in his typically cryptic manner, “Ain’t a cop no more, bucko.”

  “Thanks for taking a break from your busy day to see me,” said Crawford slipping into the barstool next to Scarpa.

  Scarpa chuckled. “That meant to be humorous?”

  “Just givin’ you a little shit,” Crawford said. “Keeps you on your toes.”

  “I see,” said Scarpa with a wry smile. “So you wanted to ask me about my old buddy, Clyde Loadholt?”

  “Yeah,” said Crawford, holding up his hand for the bartender. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “A ballbuster,” Scarpa said. “Made Rutledge seem like a day at the beach. Ran a pretty tight ship, which a lot of people liked.”

  “Yeah, someone else said that,” Crawford said, as the bartender put down a mug of Bud in front of him.

  Crawford flicked off the foamy head with a finger and took a long sip. “I’m getting the impression he was the type to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Scarpa laughed.

  “What?”

  “Palm Beach ain’t exactly Dodge City,” Scarpa said. “Not usually a lot of shooting going on in your little burg.”

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, I hear you, but every once in a while,” he said. “Like when he shot that guy on a boat who’d been burglarizing houses on the ocean.”

  Scarpa nodded and thought for a second. “I forgot about that. That was like out of Miami Vice or something. Also, there was another thing that happened. Where Loadholt crippled a guy.”

  Crawford swung his head around to Scarpa. “You’re kiddin’. What the hell happened?”

  Scarpa lit up another Marlboro with his vintage Zippo. “So I think it was the reason he had to retire two years before mandatory,” he said. “See, there was this really public gay couple who Loadholt always seemed to be busting for minor shit. Just didn’t like seein�
� ‘em around.”

  “What do you mean, really public?”

  “Well, like kissing in restaurants, I heard. Shit like that. But, you know, harmless shit,” Scarpa said. “So what happened was the two of them were walking down Worth Avenue one day, holding hands, and along comes Loadholt.”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Crawford.

  “So he tells ‘em to knock it off or something.“

  “Like there’s a public ordinance against it,” Crawford said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, I know. So apparently they’d been drinking and one of ‘em lips off to Loadholt. Tells him to go fuck himself or something. So Loadholt loses it and decks the guy. Starts kickin’ the shit out of him, then the other one jumps on his back.”

  “Jesus, right in the middle of Worth Avenue?”

  “Yeah, right in front of Polo, I remember,” Scarpa said. “So, long story short, when the guy hit the pavement something happened to his back and he ends up paralyzed.”

  Crawford was shaking his head very slowly, tempted to ask Scarpa for a cigarette. “That’s unbelievable. Why wasn’t he fired right away?”

  “‘Cause he said the guy threatened him,” Scarpa said. “Had a pistol in his waistband.”

  “You’re shittin’ me? Hardly sounds like a guy—”

  “Everybody figured it was a throw-down that Loadholt pulled out of his ankle holster or something,” Scarpa said. “Which is exactly what the other guy claimed. That he saw Loadholt stuff it in his buddy’s waistband. But, ends up being Loadholt’s word against theirs.”

  “That’s incredible,” said Crawford, draining his Bud.

  “Palm Beach got hit with a five million dollar lawsuit, which it ended up settling. The gay couple, I heard, got the hell out of town.”

  “Jesus, who can blame ‘em.”

  “You got anything yet on his murder?” Scarpa asked.