“No, at least not yet.”
“You can go on and carry your ass off this property.”
“When you stomped out your cigarette you left a nice print in the dirt. It was the same print you left up on the mound near one of those recently dug holes, presumably the holes dug by the man who was killed at the base of that mound.”
Bobby’s eyes were flat. Detached. He slowly reach in one of the pockets on his jeans jacket, shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a vintage Zippo, the smell of lighter fluid in the air. He took a long drag from the cigarette holding the smoke deep in his lungs for a few seconds, eyes leaden, smoke flowing from his nostrils. “As a kid, I played all over that old mound. After the killin’, cops didn’t wrap yellow tape around it. So I rode out there and took a look. Nothin’ wrong with that. It’s our property. All I saw was a few fresh digs on the mound. For as long as I can remember, between my grandpa and my dad, we’ve had to run off people sneakin’ out there to hunt for buried treasure.”
O’Brien studied Bobby for a moment. He could see that one pewter button was missing from his sleeveless jacket. “You see Joe Billie out here much?”
“He comes and goes. I work so I’m not on the property that much.”
“You believe Joe killed and scalped that guy?”
“Could he? Probably—if the dude came at Joe, maybe. Did he do it? Not much ruffles his feathers. He is real quirky when it comes to the Indian ways.”
“How do you mean?”
“He won’t smack a skeeter. Won’t kill a damn fly. Joe’s all about bein’ one with nature. He carries that machete to cut the palmetto. Maybe a knife. Never seen him with a gun. That’d be like seein’ Joe with a cigarette in his mouth. Doesn’t seem right.”
“Was the victim shot?”
“I don’t know. All I heard was that he had his throat cut and scalped.”
“Where do you work?”
“Dude, you ask a helluva lot of questions.”
“Just curious.”
He took a drag off his cigarette, nodding as he blew smoke from his nose. “Curiosity kicked the damn cat. I’m only talkin’ with you ‘cause my old man thinks you can help Joe. That’s cool. I work security at the casino near Tampa.”
“They let you carry a pistol?”
“Not in the casino. They’re scared some depressed loser could try to grab a gun and go postal. I’m licensed to carry, if that’s what you mean.”
“Let me guess. Living out here you might need a pistol with a lot of knockdown power. Maybe a .357 or a .44 magnum.”
“We don’t have grizzly bears in these woods. I usually carry a Berretta, nine-mil. Just depends on what kind of mood I’m in when I wake up.”
O’Brien smiled. “You might want to start your day with decaf.”
Bobby flipped his cigarette butt onto the barren yard. A dirty white-feathered chicken pecked at the butt. “All right, I’m done. I got to get back to changin’ oil. I’m religious about that kind of thing.”
The screen door on the main house slammed. O’Brien looked over his shoulder. Lloyd Hawkins carried a coffee cup in one hand, chickens scattering as he approached. He said, “Just made a fresh pot of coffee. Care for a cup?”
O’Brien shook his head. “No thanks. I need to be heading back. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“Just tryin’ to help Joe if we can.”
“You told me earlier what you and the people from the state saw when you approached the body. Did you see any signs that the victim had been shot?”
Bobby stopped twisting a wrench and stood.
Lloyd said, “Didn’t see any signs of gunshot wounds. Not that we stood there studying the body. It was in bad damn shape, and the maggots gave it a gut-retching look and smell. Dr. Sanchez vomited in the bushes after she saw it. We stood way back and went to call the law.”
Bobby said, “That why you were asking me about pistols? You think I shot that guy?” He approached, jaw-line popping.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were fishin’ for something. You think I shot that dude?”
“I don’t know if he was shot. Your dad didn’t see wounds from any rounds. At the moment, it’s irrelevant.”
“So are you, so take a hike. Joe Billie can do better than you.” He returned to his motorcycle, shaking another cigarette from the pack in his chest pocket.
Lloyd walked O’Brien to his Jeep. “Don’t take offense from Bobby. He’s been more easily agitated since returning from Iraq. He didn’t have to join the Army. I think he just wanted to get the hell away for a while. His mama left us when he was fourteen. He always felt abandoned by her. One shrink said Bobby never felt loved by her and that cut deep in the boy. I did my best. Tried to keep him off drugs and in school, sports, and keeping his mind out of the gutter. Sometimes I think we did all right. Other times, not so much. You have kids?”
“No. My wife died before we could have children, and I’ve not remarried.”
“You still got some time. But don’t wait too long. Where you headed?”
“To speak with Joe.”
“Let him know I’m thinkin’ about him ... anything he needs … tell him to call me.” He handed O’Brien a card. “My number’s on this. You need to come out again, no problem. Let me know.”
“Thank you.”
O’Brien got in his Jeep. He looked in the rearview mirror as he turned onto the dirt road, Lloyd Hawkins watching him. When O’Brien cleared the property, he found Detective Robert Edward’s card.
He placed a call.
NINETEEN
The detective answered on the fifth ring. “Edwards, homicide.”
“Detective Edwards, this is Sean O’Brien.”
Silence.
“I met you when Joe Billie was leaving the station.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. O’Brien?”
“I’m hoping that I can do something for you. Did you find a shell casing at the crime scene? Maybe one casing near the victim?”
“How’d you know he was shot?”
“I didn’t. I assumed, though. Was it a nine-mil?”
“What are you up to, O’Brien? I don’t have time for games. There’s been nothing released to the news media about that. Sometimes we elect to withhold some of the details of an ongoing investigation because of extenuating circumstances. But I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“I understand. I may have found the shell casing.”
“How? You poking around out there?”
“I’ll tell you when I drop the casing off to you.”
“You know better than to move it. You’d compromise the evidence chain. But since Joe Billie’s your BFF, maybe that’s what you had in mind. There are repercussions.”
“I didn’t move it. It was sort of dropped on me. I can be at your office within an hour. Was it a nine-mil?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“See you soon.” O’Brien disconnected.
On the way to the sheriff’s office, O’Brien called Dave Collins. He told him what had happened on the property, and Dave asked, “So you think this guy, Bobby Hawkins, did it?”
“Maybe. The matching boot prints can’t prove he actually dug those holes on the mound. They can establish he was there at one point. He says he showed up after the crime, of course. What fascinates me is how the flock of crows reacted to him. It was as if they knew him. Somehow recognized his face. Maybe he was the one who shot the crow Max found lying dead. Maybe the other crows saw that killing and were, in some way, retaliating.”
“Crows have strong cognitive recognition abilities. My friend, Eli Morgan, a professor of ornithology at the University of Florida, has spent years studying these fascinating birds. I’ll place a call to him. I do remember him telling me about a study with crows and science researchers using full facial masks. I’ll tell you more about that when you get back here. As far as that one crow dropping the shell casing from the tree, that’s not out of the norm for these
birds. They’re one of the few mammals that can use tools to open things and have the intelligence to do it. Maybe the crow was intrigued with the shiny casing. Or maybe the bird was using it to whack a seed or nut. The fact that it fell from the tree limb while the crow was toying with it doesn’t mean more than that.”
“Maybe. But if the casing matches a round found in the victim, it means that physical evidence, something that would help clear Joe, was literally dropped into my hands.”
“Does Joe have a nine-millimeter?”
“No. He never talks about guns and will only use one if forced to.”
“Sean, what if he was forced to?”
“Then it’d be self-defense, and Joe would tell me. Bobby Hawkins’ father, Lloyd, told me his sun suffers from PTSD and has anger issues. Which makes me wonder how he passed a background check to work security.”
“Where does he work?”
“A casino near Tampa.”
“Would that be the casino owned by the Seminoles?”
“Bingo. I know what you’re thinking, Dave. Is there a connection somewhere?”
“You always tell me that you pay little stock to a coincidental chain of events in a specific crime.”
“It’s all about the fall of the dominoes. All about backtracking to see who tipped the first one.”
“When are you back at the marina?”
“After a visit to the sheriff’s office, I’m stopping by my cabin for some extra clothes, and then I’ll try to find Joe. Maybe it’s nothing, but I have a gut feeling he’s not telling me what I need to know to keep the cuffs off him. I’ve got to get him to take me to the place where the first part of this puzzle began five years ago—the Seminole reservation.”
* * *
Detective Robert Edwards kept O’Brien waiting more than fifteen minutes in the lobby of the sheriff’s department. When Edwards appeared, he was alone. He strode across the lobby, red striped tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned near the collar, sleeves rolled up two turns. He said, “This is touching on the unprecedented edge. You bring in a shell casing you believe could be connected to a crime, a crime in which your pal is a prime suspect. It reeks of deception.”
“I’m here because the shell casing is in no way linked to Joe Billie.”
“Let me see it.”
“Why wasn’t a gunshot wound obvious to the witnesses who found the body?”
“Because the victim had been shot in the buttocks. Looks like someone wanted to make this guy suffer.”
“Was the bullet found during the autopsy?”
“Yes, and in good condition because the round hit no bone.”
O’Brien reached in his shirt pocket, pulling out the Ziploc with the casing. “Maybe it came from this.” He handed the plastic bag and casing to the detective.
“Okay, now tell me where you found it.”
“Sort of dropped out of the sky.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“The ranch owner, Lloyd Hawkins, along with his son, Bobby, were on the property with me. They showed me the spot where Lloyd found the victim. But that’s not where the shell casing was found. It was located more than fifty yards away, near the north edge of the mound. I watched a crow in a cypress tree, and the crow had something shiny in its beak. When I approached the tree, after maybe half a minute, the crow leaned over a branch and dropped this casing less then six feet from my shoes.”
The detective said nothing, slightly rocking in his large wingtips. O’Brien studied him, the detective deep in thought. He exhaled. “You’re telling me a damn crow tossed this to you?”
“No, gravity brought it down. The crow only released it. I don’t know where the bird found it. Chances are it was somewhere close by the crime scene. Maybe the round came from this casing. Did you locate the gun?”
“No. And if the perp wanted to toss it in the swamps or the river, you’re talking about miles of water. Finding it would be about as rare as a crow picking up a casing.”
“That’s not uncommon. Crows and ravens are known to find things, sometimes using them as tools to accomplish small tasks.”
He looked at the casing through the plastic. “Well, chances are the evidence is contaminated.”
“What—with crow DNA? I used a twig to pick it up. Could be a partial print on it. And it could be a match with the round found in the vic.”
There was a slight twitch under Detective Edwards’ left eye, as if something crawled beneath his skin. He nodded, turned and left the room, the sound of his wingtips hard against the tile floor.
Back in the Jeep, O’Brien flipped on the air-conditioning and called Joe Billie. After Joe answered, O’Brien told him some of what he found at the crime scene and added, “The road leads back five years, Joe. For me to travel it, you have to come, too. I need to know more about that first time you found Lawrence Barton on the reservation.”
Joe was silent for a few seconds. “I’ll meet you at your river cabin. It’s the first place we met years ago. And coincidentally, it was right before that I had the confrontation with Lawrence Barton at the Seminole burial grounds.”
TWENTY
O’Brien pulled into his driveway near the Ocala National Forest, a secluded location in the center of Florida. His old cabin, and the three acres that came with it, bordered the St. Johns River. The national forest was across the river, more than 610 square miles of pristine land. He drove over oyster shells and acorns down the long driveway toward his home. His seventy-year-old cabin sat on a high shell bluff overlooking an oxbow in the river.
Max stood on her hind legs, head out the Jeep’s open window, tail wagging, her nostrils inhaling the smells of home, the fetid scent of decaying acorns layered with the sweet perfume of blooming camellias and wild honeysuckles.
The cabin was built from native Florida hardwoods, yellow pine, cypress and had a large river-rock fireplace. The roof was made of thick corrugated tin. The back of the cabin, facing the river, featured a screened-in porch, Adirondack chairs, and a worn leather couch that O’Brien would sleep on occasionally. He sometimes slept on the porch when the sound of soft rain was falling on the tin roof and a chorus of bullfrogs sang from the riverbank.
He parked under a century old live oak, Max scampering out, scouting the immediate vicinity. O’Brien spotted tracks in the soft dark earth near the tree. They were almost as large as his fist, four dominate toe indentations with a rear pad the size of a big moth. Max sniffed the tracks. O’Brien said, “Looks like a panther crossed here. Maybe the big cat was going down to the river to sip some water.”
O’Brien looked toward the river. At the end of his dock, a man was sitting, his legs crossed, looking at the river. A canoe was tied to the dock. O’Brien could see the man’s long salt and pepper ponytail. “Come on, Max. Let’s go say hi to Joe.”
Max sprinted toward the dock. O’Brien followed. The dock was made of cypress posts and boards. It extended seventy-five feet into the St. Johns, the dark water hugging the thick anchor posts. A large blue heron stalked the shallows; the bird motionless standing by cypress roots in water the color of sun tea.
Joe Billie stood, turning around. Max trotted up to him, tail whipping. He lifted her. “How’s my Max?”
O’Brien said, “She’s back from a hunt.”
Joe smiled. “Max, a hunting dog? What was the game, field mice?” He set her back on the dock. “A few minutes ago, I spotted a river otter larger than Max.”
“It’s amazing how they elude the gators.”
“Most do. Some don’t. The otter is the playful roadrunner of the river.”
“As I mentioned on the phone, we were at the crime scene near the mound. That’s an impressive testament to construction.”
“Millions of baskets full of shell and mud went in to building it. A few of the ancient tribes in Florida go back two thousand years before the pyramids were built in Egypt. Centuries later some of the Seminoles made their home in the area of the Withlacoochee.”
“Joe, the victim was shot with a nine-millimeter round. Do you own a nine-mil pistol?”
“I own no guns.”
“I gave Detective Edwards the shell casing. I have no idea if it’ll match the round taken from the victim during the autopsy. A large crow found it somewhere. The casing was in its beak at the top of the tree before the crow dropped it. But it was almost as if the casing was tossed because the bird moved its head a couple of times, sort of like a baseball pitcher warming up, and then releasing the ball. It fell within a few feet of where Max and I stood.”
Billie looked out across the river, a gentle breeze moving over the surface. And then he cut his eyes back to O’Brien. “For some people, they believe the crow is a harbinger of death—a bad omen. For many Native Americans, the crow is the exact opposite. The bird seems to understand or at least to practice psychological warfare to win. It outwits the hawks and eagles, and sometimes humans. When I read The Art of War by Sun Tuz, I was not yet twenty-one. Most of what I identified within the book was what a Seminole medicine man taught me years earlier. I think the crow has some of that knowledge.”
“How so?”
“The crow practices deception. Successful warfare is based on deception. When we are able to attack, we must seem unable. When using our forces, we must appear inactive. When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away. When far away, we must make him believe we are near. The crow is a clever and skillful winged warrior. And they have a long memory.”
“Max found a dead crow in the shadows of the mound, not far from where the body was recovered. It appeared the bird had been shot through the neck.”
“Were its eyes open or closed?”
“Closed. Why?”
“My great grandfather used to say the crow’s spirit wanders if it is found dead with its eyes open. The elders thought the crow could carry the spirits of the dead across the river of fire and, if for some reason the soul wasn’t ready to go there, the crow could return with the soul on it’s back.” Billie sat on the wooden bench, his eyes pensive.
O’Brien sat near him, Max watching a young alligator glide quietly across the river. “Joe, is there something you’re not telling me? We’re friends. I need to know.”
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