Edge of Midnight

by Leslie Tentler

  They talked awhile longer, with Eric asking after his mother and sister, Hope, who was younger by seven years and working on her doctorate in Art History at Georgetown. The remainder of their conversation was perfunctory, an almost obligatory, even formal exchange between father and son. Richard loved him, Eric believed that, but he was uncomfortable with emotion and he set the bar high for his eldest.

  “Be careful, Eric.”

  Good hunting. Godspeed. The airwaves went dead. He returned the phone to his pocket and stared out at the tumultuous body of water awhile longer, his heart heavier than before.

  19

  “Two canoeists hiking down to Black Creek found it.” The park ranger was still chalk-faced under his uniform hat. “One of ’em went off trail to take a piss and stumbled over the grave. Hell of a start to a Saturday morning.”

  Eric followed his gaze to the two young men who sat huddled on a downed tree trunk a few dozen feet from the parking area. Their canoes and backpacks lay nearby. Although Jennings State Forest was outside of their Duval County jurisdiction, Detectives Boyet and Scofield were there as well, talking to the local police. Workers from Forensics and the M.E.’s office moved around the cordoned-off crime scene.

  “The fella with the ponytail thinks he stepped on her.” The ranger added with a grimace, “You know, squish.”

  Cameron frowned. “Didn’t he notice the smell?”

  “We’ve got a lot of wildlife out here—raccoons, otters, alligators—he just thought it was a dead animal until he saw a hand sticking out of the brush. Hey, is this one of those abducted women out of Jacksonville?”

  Eric didn’t answer. He had arrived a few minutes behind Cameron, who lived closer to the latest dump site. Dread sat heavy in his stomach. Karen Diambro had been missing for over two days, but he already knew the body located by the canoeists wasn’t hers.

  He left Cameron talking to the ranger and moved past the crime scene tape to the makeshift grave, although it was more of a natural, shallow ravine than a hole someone had dug. Tree limbs and brush had been used as cover. One of the forensics techs was busy taking photographs.

  Eric stared down at Anna Lynn Gomez. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, his throat tight with anger and guilt. Wild animals had gotten to her, not to mention the impact of the Florida heat that had sped up the deterioration process. Bugs crawled over the badly bloated corpse. It was hard to imagine the flight attendant had only weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds. The release of gases inside the body had caused blisters to form on the skin. Despite this, a crudely carved number, nine, remained partially visible.

  Eric couldn’t look away. Her fingernails were all missing. Flies buzzed around the rotting carcass.

  Cameron joined him. Based on the white smear under his nose, he’d taken time to borrow vapor rub from one of the techs in an attempt to mask the stench. “He won’t make it official until autopsy, but the M.E. suspects she died by hanging, due to pinpoint hemorrhaging and horizontal bruising around the throat—the line’s too high for manual choking. He rolled the body earlier and there’s an inverted V indentation on the back of the neck indicating where the noose was pulled tight by the vic’s body weight.”

  Based on the low ceiling of the room Mia had described, there wouldn’t have been much of a distance for a hanging victim to fall. Which meant The Collector had probably placed her on a chair and then taken it out from under her. Eric looked briefly over the sloping, moss-covered ground, heartsick. Death in that manner would have taken a while, the asphyxiation gradual. He tried not to think of Anna Lynn struggling, suspended in midair for her killer’s pleasure.

  He pushed emotion from his voice. “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll notify the family.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Victor Gomez already unloaded on you once. Why don’t you send the detectives—”

  “I’m going,” he said tightly. “I owe her father that much.”

  “Then I’m going with you. That’s nonnegotiable, Eric.”

  A tech who had been combing over the forest floor near the gravesite captured their attention. He held up the butt of a marijuana joint in an evidence bag. “We’ve got something.”

  “That’s not the killer’s.” Eric nodded discreetly at the two guys seated on the tree trunk, who were exchanging nervous glances with one another. He guessed they’d attempted to calm themselves while waiting for the ranger service, or it was why they’d been off trail in the first place. His own nerves felt splintered. He was merely chasing dead women, left behind like a trail of stale breadcrumbs for him to find.

  There had to be a break in the investigation soon.

  Forty-five minutes outside Jacksonville, Mia drove along the Atlantic Coast, heading north into Fernandina Beach.

  Bypassing the historic downtown district, she traveled past hotels and high-rise condominiums until the buildings became older and incrementally smaller, eventually morphing into a long line of private beach homes. A few minutes later the Volvo’s GPS indicated she had reached her destination. She came to a stop in front of an aged beach cottage with a covered observation deck on the roof. Tall clumps of sea grass bordered the property, and a whimsical painted-wood sign on its gate announced it as The Captain’s Roost.

  Mia took the yellowed folder from the passenger seat. The sultry breeze lifted her hair as she exited the car, bringing with it the scent of seawater and suntan oil from vacationers on the shoreline. She went to the front porch and rang the doorbell.

  “Up here,” a booming voice called. Shielding her eyes, she squinted up to the deck. Retired JSO detective Hank Dugger was not what she had expected. Far from frail, even robust, he leaned over the deck railing, his eyes bright under a thick head of silver hair. “Take the stairs around back.”

  Smoothing her khaki shorts, Mia headed up the steps. Green outdoor carpeting covered the deck floor, and a corner bar made out of old dock timbers displayed an impressive collection of liquor. A battered rattan couch and chair set were arranged nearby under a canopy of netting woven with seashells. Jimmy Buffett sang from a pair of speakers mounted to the wall. She extended her hand, which he shook.

  “I’m Mia Hale. We spoke earlier by phone?”

  The retired detective had deep crinkles around his blue eyes. He remained handsome despite the sun damage to his tanned skin. “Back in my day, reporters didn’t look like you, Ms. Hale. If they did, I might’ve been a little more cooperative.”

  “Call me Mia.” She judged Hank to be somewhere in his mid- to late sixties.

  “Can I get you a drink? How about a rum and Coke?”

  “I have a long drive back to Jacksonville. Just the Coke would be great.”

  As he poured their beverages, Mia noticed the view from the deck. Even though the house was nothing fancy—more of a beach shanty, really—the view was breathtaking. Seagulls fished and took flight on the shore, and vacationers’ umbrellas provided pops of bright color along the pale sand. Just beyond them the green ocean waves rolled and crashed into foam.

  “You can see the old lighthouse to the left,” he noted, handing Mia her drink. Indeed, it stood on a faraway sandbank, a red-and-white candy stripe swirling up its length.

  “You have a nice place, Detective.”

  “I worked for thirty years and bought this property when it was still affordable. And I’m not a detective anymore, thank God. Call me Hank.” He peered at the folder Mia had set on the low table in front of the rattan couch. “Is that it?”

  When she nodded, he said, “I’ll be damned. I’m surprised they haven’t cleared all that out by now.”

  “Apparently it was buried in the JSO records room. I understand it took a while to find.”

  His eyes held interest. “And they passed it over to a reporter, just like that?”

  Mia hadn’t been completely forthcoming with the retired detective in their earlier phone conversation. “I am a reporter with the Courier. But my interest in the case is more�
��personal. I think I might’ve known Joy Rourke as a child. We were both in foster care, in the same group home at the same time.”

  Hank nodded thoughtfully as he regarded Mia. Taking a sip of his drink, he sat on the couch and indicated she should do the same, then leafed through the file. As he read, Mia noticed the sign over the bar.

  This Property Guarded by Smith & Wesson Three Days a Week. You Guess Which Three.

  Based on her impression of the man beside her, she wasn’t completely sure it was tongue-in-cheek.

  “Yep, these are my reports—I can tell because the space bar on my typewriter had a tendency to stick.” He shook his head nostalgically. He’d retrieved a pair of bifocals from the pocket of the Hawaiian shirt he wore and perched them on his nose. “Crying shame we never found this kid. My partner, Carl Witherspoon, and I worked the case. Carl died a few months ago. Throat cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hank grunted, still scanning the file. His gaze returned to Mia. “How can I help you, exactly?”

  “I’m wondering why the Sheriff’s Office closed the investigation.”

  “As best I remember, we ran out of leads and were assigned elsewhere—”

  “Didn’t a child’s disappearance merit more time?”

  He frowned. “It wasn’t my decision. JSO detectives in those days were handling nine, maybe ten cases at once. Probably a lot more than that now with the city’s budget cuts and the jump in crime. Like I said, I’m glad to be retired. It’s not like it used to be. These days you look at a perp the wrong way and get your ass sued.”

  “You said you followed up on all the leads regarding Joy’s disappearance—no one stood out to you?”

  He sighed. “We talked to neighbors, the group home director and caseworker, even the children who were residing there. No one claimed to have seen anything. The little girl didn’t have any relatives, and those are typically the first suspects when a child goes missing out of state custody.”

  Mia scrubbed her hands over her thighs, ill at ease. She wondered if Detective Dugger and his partner had spoken to her back then and what, if anything, she’d told them.

  He must have noticed her disquiet, because he leaned forward and added, “I know this girl seems special, but you need to understand that over two thousand children a day are reported missing in this country, whether a noncustodial family member or a stranger takes them, or they just run off of own their accord. We did what we could given the resources, but eventually we turned the information over to the FBI. They keep a file on missing children. If I recall, the NCMEC even put her face on billboards for a while, but none of the calls that came into the hotline panned out.”

  “The NCMEC?”

  “The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. You say you knew this girl?”

  “Not well,” she admitted.

  Draining the rest of his drink, Hank placed the empty tumbler on an end table. He handed the file back. “I wish I could tell you more, but it was a long time ago and my memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. ’Course, that’s why God invented notepads.”

  Mia tilted her head. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “What you read in that official file are just summaries—the forms and paperwork required by the job, rolled up to an executive level so the top brass doesn’t have to waste time reading through everything. Most of my real thoughts on cases I kept in a spiral-bound notepad. Probably went through hundreds of them over my career.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  Chuckling, he slapped the arm of the couch as he stood. “Pardon my French, but does a bear shit in the woods?”

  The cottage was comfortable and quaint, with a country-style braided rag rug in the living room and well-worn furniture. A television set was blaring a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game. Mia followed Hank through the kitchen into a rear bedroom that now appeared to be used as a study. As he rummaged in the closet, Mia noticed framed photos that indicated grandchildren and possibly also a wife. But there was no other sign of a female presence in the house. Her heart tightened as she wondered if Hank was a widower.

  “Here it is.” He pulled out a cardboard box labeled 1985-90.

  “I can’t believe you still have all those,” Mia said as he shuffled through the collection of notepads, most of them looking as old and dog-eared as the cold case file she held.

  “I’m a pack rat, young lady. Old habits die hard. And once upon a time I considered writing my memoirs.” He finally located the notepad he was looking for and handed it to her. “You’re welcome to my notes, Mia. If you can decipher my chicken scratch. I can’t guarantee anything in there will make sense after all this time, but who knows. Like they say, the devil’s in the details.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure to return it.”

  “I’d say don’t bother, but if it brings you out to see me again, all right.” He gave her a wink. “Next time, wear your bikini, though.”

  As he walked her to the door, Hank handed her several coupons for free margaritas at a bar where he worked part-time at the Fernandina Harbor. “My pension’s good, but bartending gives me a chance to get out and knock off the dust.”

  “You’re hardly dusty, Hank.” She touched his arm. “And you should consider writing your memoirs again. I suspect you have some stories to tell.”

  They said goodbye. Her purse strap over her shoulder, Mia returned to her car with the cold case file and notepad.

  The devil’s in the details.

  It wasn’t exactly what the idiom meant, but she wondered if something in the detective’s notes might be useful in discovering more about Joy Rourke’s abduction. Flipping through the thick notepad, she noticed Hank’s tendency to fill up every inch of space. There were notations running along the margins, thoughts and observations written in a loose scrawl, phone numbers as well as names. She shook her head, smiling faintly at the jumble. Starting the engine, she turned on the radio and pulled onto the highway. But the good mood the feisty Hank had put her in soon dissolved.

  The lunchtime news report stated that a body believed to be that of Anna Lynn Gomez had been found.

  20

  It was the worst part of the job and one that had been required of Eric too many times over the years. He’d fully expected Victor Gomez to rail at him, even take a swing at him. But the man had simply crumpled to the floor, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Behind him, his wife and remaining daughter had clung to one another, their cries filling their modest home.

  Eric wished Gomez had hit him. Physical pain was preferable to the responsibility he felt. There had been nothing he could do but hoarsely offer his condolences and leave the family alone with their grief.

  Entering the rental bungalow, he removed his holstered gun, the darkening sky a purplish bruise through the window behind him. The Saturday had been one long blur of unpleasantness, beginning with the discovery of the body and search of the surrounding areas, ending with the grim autopsy proceedings. Eric had attended alone, sending Cameron back to the office to file reports. In between, there had been a news briefing and another tense call with SAC Johnston. His muscles ached from the stress collecting in them all day. Mia had left a voice mail message on his cell phone, but there had been no time to get back in touch.

  He looked out as Cameron’s car pulled in front of the property, the arrival giving him a sense of foreboding. His partner had been anxious to get home on a weekend night.

  “What’s up?” he asked, meeting him at the door.

  Cameron looked troubled as he entered. He carried a too-familiar white envelope. “It was in the office mail.”

  The padded envelope turned Eric’s heart sideways. He hadn’t expected the recording of Anna Lynn to arrive so soon.

  “I…listened to the beginning of it,” Cameron said. “I know how hard the Gomez family hit you today. I thought if there was nothing useful on the recording I’d hold it until tomorrow.”

  “You did the right thing
to bring it. I should hear it now—”

  “Eric.” Cam’s eyes held his. He hesitated, swallowing hard. “You don’t understand… It’s not Anna Lynn Gomez.”

  Realization slowly hit him. Eric felt his world spin a little.

  “When I realized what it was, I thought about not giving it to you. But she was your wife…”

  He had stopped hearing him, Cameron’s voice drowned out by the buzz building in his ears. Neither man wore investigational gloves. Not that it mattered—he’d been through this too many times before. There would be no prints. Eric took the already opened package. He recalled the painful wait three years ago for the recording that never came, the awful anticipation its own form of torture.

  It was here now. He worked to find his voice. “How much did you listen to?”

  “Enough to realize it was her.” Cameron stepped closer, his expression earnest. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll take it and listen to it for you—all of it. Let me do that as your friend. This guy’s messed you up enough.”

  Eric shook his head. “No.”

  “Then I’ll stay while you listen. You can come home with me tonight. Lanie can have the guest room ready. You shouldn’t be alone—”

  “Go home, Cam,” he said quietly.

  Cameron remained standing by, uncertain. After a while he said, “I’ll call you in the morning, all right?”

  Eric had moved to the pedestal dining table in a corner of the living room. He lowered himself to one of its chairs and placed the envelope in front of him, his eyes fixed to his name and the neat, hand-printed address on the envelope’s front. For a brief time, he thought Cameron had already left, but then realized he’d only gone into the kitchen. Returning, he set a glass and a bottle of single-malt Scotch on the table. Where exactly it had come from, Eric wasn’t sure.

  “When this place isn’t rented out, I use it when I need some time to myself.” Cameron briefly clasped Eric’s shoulder and then departed.