by Tom Hansen
Willy walked around the dumpster with his hands on his waist and stared perplexingly at the sky. What just happened? He was certain Sam Dulie and Governor Daughtry were up to no good, but how was his brother involved. Willy thought back to the day Tyrus’ son, Tyrone, was born back in June of 1966. While recuperating in a Vietnamese Army hospital, Willy received a letter from Tyrus’ girlfriend, Abby Charles, claiming Tyrus had mysteriously disappeared the night Tyrone was born. That same night, Tyrus had proposed to marry Abby and she had accepted. After Willy was discharged from the Army, he moved in with Abby and helped raise his nephew Tyrone. He couldn’t believe Tyrus would abandon his own son and wife-to-be, but here he was, only a hundred or so miles from Seminole Bend and had never tried to even make contact with his family in the past sixteen years.
Willy was determined to find some evidence of wrongdoing in Sam Dulie’s office, so with a sore shoulder, cut up backside and skin-tight Elmer Fudd t-shirt, he launched a cement block that had been lying in the parking lot through Sam Dulie’s office window and climbed in.
CHAPTER 58
Friday, March 12, 1982
3:00 p.m.
L ew nervously watched footage of the airplane crash site from a television in Agent Jones’ office. Seldom seen in church since Brett’s death, Lew’s hands were folded in his lap and he was now pleading with God that his wife was not on that flight. Jones had noticed Lew’s lips moving and could guess what he was thinking, but he also knew that the past couldn’t be changed regardless of the prayers being offered. At least he didn’t think it could. Jones had been on the phone continuously for the past few hours talking with other agents in Tampa when Agent Johnson walked into the room.
“Jack, I need to interrupt. It’s important.” Agent Johnson looked over to Lew and then lowered his head, not wanting to make eye contact with Lew.
“Should I leave?” asked Lew.
“No, you need to hear this, too,” replied Agent Johnson.
Agent Jones hung up the phone and looked up from his desk at Agent Johnson. “What’s up?”
“We just got word from Heartland Lakes Airways.” Johnson paused momentarily, then continued. “Janet Berry was on the manifest list. I’m so very sorry, Mr. Berry.”
Lew dropped his chin down to his chest and tears welled up in his eyes. Agent Jones moved from his chair and stooped down in front of him. He softly patted Lew on the thigh and said, “I’m sorry, Lew, I really am. I hope you know if there’s anything I can do, I want you to ask.”
Lew looked up and with a faint smile he choked out the words, “Thanks. I will.” However, the reality of losing his only son, his daughter-in-law and now his wife was too much to bear.
“We will issue you a plane ticket back to Pittsburgh. There’s a flight from Miami at 8:20, if you can be ready. It’s almost three o’clock now, so you have a few hours.”
“Thanks,” breathed Lew in a barely decipherable tone, but he shook his head no. “I need to go back to Seminole Bend. I left some unfinished business there.”
Agents Jones and Johnson looked at each other inquisitively.
“Well, okay, Lew,” said Jones. Because of Lew’s obvious dysphoria, he was going to leave it at that. But before Lew left, he wanted to give him assurance that the FBI was going to continue their efforts to find answers in Brett’s case. “When we find out more information about Brett’s truck and the man who was last seen with your wife, how can we contact you?”
Lew stood up and shook hands with both agents, then headed to the hallway. As he exited the door to Agent Jones’ office, Lew turned back and said, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
A minute later he was back in the Trans Am headed for Seminole Bend.
CHAPTER 59
Friday, March 12, 1982
3:15 p.m.
W illy examined every inch of the Department of Natural Resources building as any good private investigator would do. He found boxes of blank fishing and hunting licenses in storage closets as well as file cabinets full of reports on alligator migrations in the Everglades and bald eagle sightings in Wekiwa Springs State Park. But he found no evidence of Sam Dulie’s wrongdoings.
Willy stood in front of Sam’s desk and examined the communications contraption that had a cable wire running from it attached to the satellite dish outside. Sam had said it was missing a faulty mic that he had planned to replace at Radio Shack. But as Willy looked closer, he could tell there was nowhere for a mic to be attached. Strange!
Willy started to pick up the contraption, but it wouldn’t budge. Something was holding it down on the metal desktop. Willy looked under the desk for a nut and bolt, but didn’t see any type of coupling. He was about to stand up when he noticed a one-inch-square plate fastened onto the underside of the desk with two tiny screws. It was so small he almost missed it.
Using a micro-sized Phillips head screwdriver and a flashlight he found in Sam’s top drawer, Willy unscrewed the plate and peeked inside. Another cable was coming from the bottom of the electronic gizmo and being routed through a gap in the desktop to the left rear leg of the escritoire. Because of the tiny opening, Willy couldn’t see far, but he assumed the cable was running inside the leg and down to the floor. He looked at the floor and couldn’t see the cable, which could only mean that the cable ran underneath the linoleum tiles and possibly through the concrete slab foundation. But how could that be? There are no basements in southern Florida. The Atlantic Ocean would wreak havoc on one.
Willy stooped down and noticed the desk’s legs did not sit on the floor, but descended completely through the linoleum tiles and were fastened somehow underneath the concrete. That way the desk would never move from its spot by the window. Although his arms and shoulders were sore, Willy grabbed the backside of the desk near the leg with the cable and yanked mightily. He heard a screeching sound and then a snap. The desk rose about an inch, then Willy put it down. He knew he couldn’t have damaged a solid slab of concrete with that jerk, regardless of how vigorous it may have been. That snapping sound must have been wood.
Willy was puzzled. Could the linoleum have been laid over lumber? Willy wasn’t much of a scientist, but he knew that a wood floorboard existing in the extraordinarily high humidity and intense rain of southern Florida would be a feast for termites.
Willy wrestled with his tight blue jeans and dug into a pocket to pull out his Swiss Army knife. He sliced into the linoleum near the leg of the desk, cut a two-inch strip and jimmied one end so his fingers could find a grip. With a pocket lighter he found on Sam Dulie’s desk, Willy heated up the tile until the glue underneath softened and he could pull back the strip. Sure enough, the linoleum had been laid on plywood coated with a thin layer of plastic to keep moisture out.
Willy found a tool box in a storage closet and returned to the desk with a hammer and coping saw. He pounded the one-inch-thick plywood until it fractured enough to allow the coping saw an entry point. Then he chiseled out a two-foot-square chunk of pulp and plastic, making sure he left enough support to keep the desk from collapsing on top of him.
Willy shined the flashlight into the hole. Directly under the desk was a basin about eight-feet-by-six-feet wide and three-feet deep. A concrete slab foundation surrounded the vault and was protected on all sides with very thick plastic material to make it moisture-proof. Fitted neatly into the vault was an electronic box with wires and cables running in and out of it, one through the leg of the desk that Willy assumed was attached to the contraption on top. A series of blinking blue, red, yellow and green lights assured Willy that the box in the hole was currently switched on and functioning. Several coaxial cables ran from the back of the box through a polyvinyl chloride pipe conduit that fit snuggly through a hole in the wall of the vault. The cables continued to run underneath the concrete foundation of the DNR building and Willy was determined to track the PVC conduit and locate its origin.
Willy walked out the back door of the office and traced his steps along the DNR’s foundat
ion line. Moments later, he noticed a bare stretch of earth that began near a utility shed that was connected to the building. It appeared to be a very long and narrow trench that was covered by dirt and seeded with ryegrass. The trench line was easy to follow because the ryegrass was a lighter shade of green compared to the Saint Augustine turf surrounding it. Willy grabbed a shovel out of the utility shed and dug down. Sure enough, the PVC conduit was running about a foot underneath the ground and heading west beyond the DNR property line.
Willy dusted off his hands and went back in to the storage room next to Sam Dulie’s office. He remembered seeing several dark green shirts with a State of Florida Department of Natural Resources logo embossed on the shirt pocket. They were hanging over a cardboard box full of khaki shorts. The shirts had large numbers on the back and a picture of a cartoon alligator swinging a bat. The taxpayers of Florida were supporting the DNR’s local softball team and according to the plaque on the wall in the lobby, the winners of last month’s beer trophy in the Florida City Invitational.
Willy found an extra-large shirt and shorts that fit him, albeit snuggly, so he exchanged his unsnappable blue jeans and Elmer Fudd t-shirt for number twelve and walked back to the trench. He climbed over the chain link fence that marked the DNR’s boundary and followed the line through a thick patch of Brazilian Pepper trees until he came to a small orange grove about a mile away. Peering through the trees, Willy noticed a cement block structure in the distance. The trench line ran from the DNR office and ended in that building.
The structure appeared to be a house with the citrus grove being used as a back yard. Willy thought it was strange that the back of the house had no door and no windows. Who would live in a house without doors or windows? Willy glanced beyond the side of the house and saw a gravel road that ran perpendicular to a seashell and sand driveway. He started to walk around the corner to the front yard, but froze in place when the barrel of a Colt 9mm submachine gun rammed into his chest.
“Halt!” said the gunman who was dressed in a National Guard uniform. “Who are you and what are you doing on this private property?”
Thinking quickly, Willy responded, “Oh, sorry sir! I work for the DNR and was looking for our guard dog, Snuffy. He’s a German shepherd that started chasing a rabbit this way. Haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No, and you need to leave, sir. Use the road this time.” The guard pointed to the gravel street with the machine gun.
“Will do, sir. Right away. By the way, who lives here? Just curious. It’s not every day the good folks of southern Florida hire a guard to watch their home.” Willy pretended to be looking at the guard, but he was actually checking out the house. The front had a metal door and there was a four-by-five-foot picture window on the east façade with iron bars draping its exterior. That was it, plain and simple, a cheap, but very secure home. Why would a National Guardsman be providing security services, with a machine gun, no less?
“This is Governor Daughtry’s winter home, now take a hike!” replied the guard.
“Governor Daughtry? Why have a home here? You’d think he’d want to be on South Beach, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t ask questions and you shouldn’t either. Now for the last time, you need to leave.” Once again, the guard pointed with the gun.
It had been a very long couple of days for Willy and he’d heard enough. The governor would not be living in this dump. This is where the trench line stopped, and whatever the electric wires and coaxial cable were attached to was inside. He wasn’t about to leave now.
“Yes, sir. Nice to meet you, sir!” Willy reached out with his right arm to shake hands goodbye and the submachine gun’s barrel rose to Willy’s forehead. With a mighty force, Willy kicked the guard directly in his groin. The stunned young man lurched backward and dropped the gun to the ground. The helmet he was wearing jerked loose from the chinstrap and slid down his face, covering his eyes. He doubled over and instinctively reached for his crotch wishing beyond hope that the searing pain would subside soon.
Willy grabbed the gun and pointed it at the guard who was in tears, not from losing his defensive position, but from the throbbing misery below his belly.
“Put your hands up,” Willy ordered.
“I, I, I can’t just yet,” stuttered the guard. “Please, just give me a minute.” His hands were at his crotch, holding on tight.
Willy pushed the guard to the ground and unbuckled the man’s belt. He slid the belt off, then rolled the man over so his face was tasting the white sandy earth. Using the belt, Willy tied the guard’s arms behind his back. To buy some time, he used the trusty knockout chokehold that he had learned in the Army and the guard immediately became unconscious. Willy blasted through the door lock by firing a sustained round of ammunition from the submachine gun. Then he dragged the guard inside the house and shoved him into a cloakroom next to the entryway. Willy blocked the door by shoving a large couch from the living room in front of it, then he pushed a mahogany gun cabinet next to the couch and tipped it over. The guard wouldn’t be coming out through that closet door anytime soon.
Willy looked around. The small living room resembled a hunter’s man cave. The leather couch that was now blocking the cloakroom door had a matching marshmallow-soft chair placed next to a brick fireplace with an oak mantelpiece. Fastened to the wall, above the mantel, was the mounted head of a red deer. Old Field and Stream magazines were spread out on an oak coffee table. But the only window in the entire house was protected by iron bars, and Willy found that very peculiar. Beyond the living room was a simple kitchen with a gas stove and refrigerator, plus a small, plain and cheap table with two chairs. Not the type of place you would find a governor of any state calling his “winter home.”
Willy noticed a door off to the right that led into the master bedroom. Oddly, considering no one was home, it was locked. Willy gave it a kick, but it didn’t budge. Willy saw that there were three dead bolts securing entry into the room. Using the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife, Willy tried to drill a hole through the door near the locks, but found that the wood was reinforced with a plate of steel inside. Governor Daughtry must want to ensure his nights were uninterrupted.
Willy tried to smash through the sheetrock, but that too was steel-reinforced. Then Willy had an idea. He walked outside and around to the back of the house where the trench line came in, then dug down using the fireplace poker and shovel until he hit the PVC pipe. He dug away under the cement foundation, being careful not to dislodge the conduit.
A short while later, darkness set in. Willy went back in the house and located a flashlight in a kitchen cabinet that could shed enough light to keep digging. It was almost eight o’clock when Willy finally came to the spot where the pipe took a right angle upwards into the house. Lying on his back in the cramped hole he had excavated under the foundation, Willy started chipping away at the concrete with the blade of his Swiss Army knife. An hour later he had broken through, and a few minutes before midnight Willy had produced a hole in the substructure large enough for him to enter the room.
Willy boosted himself up and rested on his knees for a moment to catch his breath, then shined the light around the room. This was definitely the master bedroom because he could now see the inside of the door with the three deadbolt locks. But this master bedroom had no bed, nor did it have a dresser or nightstand. What it did have was twelve television screens, each with a videocassette recorder and a remote control device. The walls were covered with shelves that contained thousands of videotapes, most likely used to record whatever was displayed on the television screens. Eleven monitors were currently active with a black and white view from a live feed. The twelfth was on, but it was showing only the snow of a disrupted signal. Willy stood up and looked for a light switch, which he found next to the door. He turned on the lights and glanced around the room in stunned silence.
In the muffled distance, Willy could hear the guard pounding on the closet door and yelling profanities. The y
oung man would just have to wait.
CHAPTER 60
Saturday, March 13, 1982
12:15 a.m.
N ot knowing where to start, Willy took a look at the TV screens. Each were numbered from one to twelve and they appeared to be sending live signals. Television number one was videoing movement down a highway somewhere. It was difficult to see the location because of the darkness of the night sky. A camera must be attached to the very front of a vehicle, perhaps on the hood or in the grill. Willy couldn’t tell what kind of vehicle it was because the camera was forward-facing and the car, truck, bus or van was behind it.
Screen number two was also a vehicle moving down a road, but this was very puzzling to Willy. It was in daylight. Thus, if it were a live feed, it would not be in the continental United States seeing it was just past midnight in Florida. A billboard along the side of the road was in a language that Willy didn’t recognize.
Screens three through eleven had no movement, just a still image which Willy assumed was due to the vehicle being parked. However, it was obvious the mode of transport on those screens were airplanes because Willy recognized walkways to the left, buildings with tall glass windows straight ahead and gate numbers posted above them. Screen number twelve was just television snow, complete interference with the picture display.