by Moulton, CD
The list of where the various people were came in. It was, of course, incomplete. You could catch a bus to almost anywhere and the ID wasn’t checked. You got on the bus and paid when you got off. If you went from David to Bocas del Toro it was a matter of getting on the bus that was in the terminal or flagging it anywhere along the road and paying the $7.00 when you got off in Almirante three or four hours later.
Leonard Bellows was staying in Boquete and the general area.
William Frances went to David but no one knew where he went from there, if anywhere
Marcus Greco went to David and Las Tablas..
John Johns stayed in Panamá City.
Arlen LeGrande went to Bocas del Toro.
Richard Travers went to Bocas del Toro.
Edward Withers had no record of anything since he arrived in Panamá City and may still be there.
Travers and LeGrande were definitely in the area. Bellows and Johns were probably out of it. That left just five to check out.
Clint checked the hotels. Withers was staying at the Sagitario. LeGrande was at the Playa Mango.
Clint met with LeGrande first. He was right there at the hotel at the time of the murder. He was with a girl who worked for the hotel as a desk clerk during the day. They got along and had a date. She confirmed it. He was out. That left four.
Withers was on a tour. Clint waited while the boat came in at five. He was certainly big enough and fit enough and seemed to have an attitude. He was a black with a chip on his shoulder. The local blacks didn’t like him at all. He was the type who made so many gringos suspicious of blacks. He was also at the Cosmic Crab on Carenero at the time of the murder, drinking with another black with as bad an attitude from Tampa, Florida. Mohammed Something-or-other was on the same tour and griping because the first thing the cops did when there was trouble was round up all the brothers.
“In the first place, look around you and see what’s there,” Clint suggested. “There are fifty or more blacks right around this dock, most of whom own the boats like this one – Hi, Maxie! Que tal? (Maxie, who owned the boat, waved and said, ‘Fine.’ when was Clint going to visit him at his finca? The wife wanted to fix him some of his favorite lobster chowder) and no one is rounding anyone up. Color isn’t an issue here.
“In the second place, Withers is from the state, Louisiana, where the victim was from. She wasn’t here long so we look at ANYONE from that area. If you get over yourself for a few minutes you might find this is a great place to relax and blend. The only reason you don’t is that silly crap line! The next president of the United States is black, so the line won’t work anymore. Get a life! Make it one where you’re responsible for how people react to you.
“All I wanted to know is where Withers was at a specific time. It’s a question I’ve already asked a few whites. If he was with you the question’s answered and that’s probably the end of it. Thank you for your cooperation. If the regular police here asked and got that attitude bit you’d both be taken to the station for interrogation and you’d have to come up with several other people who could verify. That would take a couple of days at least – and would be the result of your own actions.
“I’m wasting my breath. I’m sort of stupid that way. Have a nice stay here.” He walked off, stopping to chat with Carlos, a good black friend, who had heard the lecture and who agreed totally.
Three left. They wouldn’t be so easy.
He went to the station to tell Sergio what he’d learned. Sergio said they had the information on her from Louisiana if he wanted to look it over.
Serena Allison Windham, 28, (description), born June 4, 1980, Longwood Tennessee, last known address: 4110 Hollytree Lane, Shreveport, Louisiana. Trade school (Barker Pvt.) Barryville, Georgia, secretary WSDG Moving and Storage, Atlanta, 1999-2003, hostess Little Black Pig Bar-B-Q and Lounge, Shreveport, 2003-present. NOW (no outstanding warrants) NPR (no police record). Son, Warren Cole Williams, December 15, 2007, Mercy, Shreveport. Biracial. Male parent unlisted.
That put Withers right back in it – and maybe Mohammed Whatever. Nothing said the father and/or killer had to be from Louisiana! Maybe he should get further corroboration as to whether they were at the Cosmic Crab when they said they were.
“Change anything?” Sergio asked.
“Maybe. We know we’re probably looking for a black.”
“I saw that, but the report didn’t say ‘Black’ – it said biracial,” Sergio pointed out. “I already sent a request about that and for a DNA chart of the child.”
“A DNA chart?”
“Half match. Better than fingerprints or whatever. Proof of parentage, not of murder.”
“I hadn’t thought of that one, but you’re damned well right!” Clint exclaimed. “Of course, the father will have one hell of a fun time explaining why he’s here – if he is.
“They don’t have to allow the DNA test, you know.”
“To find the mother’s killer? I really don’t think they’ll object!”
“You don’t know how gringos think. I HOPE they’ll allow it.
“It doesn’t say where the child is here.”
“We had the police check the address there. The landlord said she had a sister somewhere who sometimes came to take care of the baby for a day or two. She was there on the night Serena disappeared. She was gone the next morning. They’re trying to locate her.”
“Serena will have a way ... didn’t she have a cell phone at the place in Punta Robalo?
“I know she did! I brought it back!”
Sergio went to properties and came back with the things. There was a notebook in a code that might make this easier.
“What’s the sister’s name?” Clint asked.
Sergio looked at his notes. Lorna McMillan.
There was a code, SLM, with a number. Sister Lorna McMillan possibly?
Clint called the number in Champlain. He got an answer from a man and quickly requested, “Is Lorna handy? I’m calling for Serena.”
“A sec.”
She came on after half a minute and said, “Yes?”
“I’m Clint Faraday in Bocas del Toro, Panamá. I work with the police. Have you been contacted about your sister by any official here?”
“Oh, God! Is she in trouble? Contacted? Why...?”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that.”
“Worse? Is she sick? Hurt?”
“Worse.”
“Oh, God! Oh, no! How? Did he find her?” she asked dejectedly. “She thought she would be safe there. He wouldn’t be able to find her.”
“I have a request and I need some information. First, who was she hiding from?”
“I don’t know. He’s married and she can’t make him see she won’t cause him any trouble if he’ll just pay for the boy. She would never do that. He says he doesn’t trust her an inch. He beat her up twice.”
“The baby is biracial. Black?”
“Yes.”
“The father will be here. Can you tell me anything, anything at all, about him?”
“He’s pretty big and he has a job that they would fire him from, an important job of some kind. I only saw him once from a long way off, but he was big. Not fat. Big.”
“My request: we need a DNA chart of the boy. It will give us the proof we need to prosecute him here. Will you allow it?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“This is a secure line and he’s here in Panamá now. Captain Valdez will take an address and send someone to take the sample. It’s a very easy thing.”
“I know. I watch CSI Miami. I’ll do whatever I can.”
He turned the phone over to Sergio. Sergio took information and said he’d make the arrangements and call her back. Do not give any information to anyone unless they first say, “Panamá Red’s the best.” That included whoever came to take the sample. He then called the Police in Champlain and asked them to obtain the sample and send him a DNA chart. They said it would be done.
Now they’d have to
wait for that part, but Clint would go after the killer. It helped knowing he was very big and that he was black and that he had an important job that could be placed in jeopardy if it was known he had a child out of wedlock.
None of the group he already met were what he would call big, though Withers was far from small. Mohammed was smaller than Withers, but just a little. That meant the list. This one was traveling with his wife and family. Travers was big, but not what was described. He tended to fat.
He sighed and got out the list of people who were traveling with their families. He could eliminate most of them because they weren’t blacks.
Wrong! George Killian, William Bert, Yancy Bottoms and Joseph Bills were blacks.
Crap!
Okay. Killian was a construction worker with his own contracting business. He could be big enough.
William Bert was a cop. Maybe.
Yancy Bottoms was a lawyer. Probably not.
Joseph Bills was owner of a trucking firm. She had once worked with a moving and storage firm. As a secretary – but he owned the place, so how could he be fired? Maybe a big contract that wouldn’t happen if it was known. A church group or something such?
Unlikely, but there wasn’t anything likely. He would have to meet all of these people face-to-face. Traveling with families would make them easy to trace.
Sergio had a check made. Bills was staying in Punta Pena, close. Killian was in David. Bottoms was in Puerto Armuelles. Bert was in Santiago, David, Gualaca and Chiriqui..
All of them except Bottoms less than four hours from Almirante by bus and all of them where they wouldn’t be asked for ID to move. Double crap!
Clint would take a bus to David and get off at Punta Pena and, later, Chiriqui.
“Mr. Bills? I’m Clint Faraday. I’d like a word with you about a murder – but you are no longer a suspect in this one.” Bills was fairly large, but flabby. He wasn’t overly large. They chatted for a few minutes. Bills said he’d met a gringo from Louisiana for a few minutes while he was in Panamá City. He was big. He couldn’t remember his name. He had a beautiful wife.
Clint caught the next bus to David when it was passing and got off in Gualaca. Nobody knew anything and no one knew anybody by that name who was very large who was staying in the area.
Next bus, Chiriqui. Same result.
On to David. Killian was staying at the Puerto del Sol with his family and had been there all along. He liked David for the casinos and had won quite a bundle so far. He wasn’t nearly big enough.
Bus to Puerto Armuelles. One short look and Clint knew this one wasn’t it. Bottoms was a little weasely type. Clint didn’t even bother to speak to him. If it was one of these it would have to be Bert. He was a cop so how would he be fired ... a cop who was into politics? Running for sheriff or something?
Clint headed back to Bocas. He was told that a really large black gringo man was staying in Chiriqui Grande. He seemed a really affable sort and was liked. He had a knockout wife, which didn’t hurt anything!
Clint didn’t feel he needed to meet Bert. Yet. He had to get some information about him first.
He got to Almirante late. There were no more water taxis to Isla Colón.
Well, Dave was tied in with Hotel Chadam. It wasn’t open yet, but Kevin gave him a room.
“Sergio, I think William Bert is our killer. I really do! I have to get everything you can get on him. He’s a cop in Shreveport who’s going to run for sheriff or something.”
Sergio grunted and asked Jorge, the desk sergeant for the moment, to get the Shreveport police on the line – again.
“We got the DNA chart this morning. If this Bert is the father we can tag him.”
Clint nodded. The line came on. Sergio turned it over to him.
“I’m Clint Faraday, working with the police here in Panamá. I have to gather what information I can about a police officer there. He’s in the area. I have to know why.”
“Lt. Carnovey,” he answered. “Who?”
“A William Bert.”
“Bill? I know him, sort of. He’d be what we call a politically-motivated upwardly-mobile type. Gonna be governor in five years and president in ten. He’s squeaky clean. Doesn’t let anything that could hurt his plans get in the way.”
“If a woman was going to get in the way?”
“Hmm. I see. He once had a rep for his wild womanizing. With white women.”
“You black?”
“Yo, Bro. You?”
“No. No one here pays any attention to that kind of thing.
“Can you get me the particulars on him?”
“Pretty easy! He has a nice press release all ready to be sent out to anybody on the computers. I’ll send it fax or e-mail.”
“Been swept, huh?”
“Oh, yeah! I’ll go through the old stuff to see if anything’s been hidden from public view, if you dig.”
“‘Preciate it!” Clint said. They chatted a bit about Bocas and Carnovey said he’d like to take a vacation there. A few minutes later the fax dinged and the resume came through. He was a lawyer turned cop. He had a good record and was, as Carnovey said, squeaky.
What was the problem? The election was over and anything that might come out before the next one could be handled easily with the time to handle it.
The fax dinged again. It was just:
Aug. 4, 1998. Complaint that he hit a girl at the college. She dropped charges the next day.
May 7, 2001. Complaint that he got in a brawl in a bar. Woman said he slapped her and her boyfriend got into it. Charges dropped.
The D.A. here is in trouble and is about to step down. WB’s in line for appointment.
“YES!”
“What?” Sergio asked.
“It’s Bert. We have his ass!”
“If we can find him,” Sergio pointed out.
“He’s in Chiriqui Grande.”
They called the police helicopter and headed for Chiriqui Grande. Bert was on the bus for David.
He’d get a reception he hadn’t counted on there!
They took the copter on to David to be there when Bert got off the bus. Bert wasn’t on the bus, but the driver said he’d gotten off at the bombas (gas pumps). Chiriqui. They met the Panamá City bus and he and his wife got on.
Clint grinned. Sergio called Tolé where the bus would stop for ID checks, the only place that was done between David and Panamá City.
He wasn’t on the bus when it reached Tole’ twelve minutes later. The driver said Bert and his wife got off about a kilometer before the checkpoint. They got a detail map. Bert must know someone in the area. He could walk into Tole’ on the Chiriqui side and into Veraguas a little past the checkpoint. He could catch the next bus to Panamá City after he passed the station. They had the chopper, so flew over the road. A large black man and a woman were walking along a rock road half a kilometer past the checkpoint. They were pulling suitcases on wheels.
The pilot landed the chopper in a pasture beside the road and they waited for the two to come. She sighed and got on the chopper, but he had to be put in cuffs. He was going to fight it out, but Sergio put his Glock against the side of his head and suggested he give him the very tinniest reason to blow his brains across the road. He still didn’t think they had one little fact that could tie him to anything in Panamá – and what was it about, anyhow?
“We can tag your ass and tie you to a murder,” Sergio said. “You should have left well enough alone. She wouldn’t cause you any problems that you didn’t bring on yourself.”
“You might be careful about accusations you can’t prove!” Bert snarled. “I’ll bring some charges against YOU! I know the law!”
“Not here, you don’t. Here, you’re guilty until proven innocent. We can prove it very easily.”
“Oh? And how are you going to prove whatever you think you can prove?”
“DNA,” Sergio said. “I’d think a wannabe DA would know about DNA.”
“So we had sex. So what?�
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“So now you know who we’re talking about all of a sudden?” Clint asked. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“You can’t use anything I say here against me. I SAID I know the law.”
“Got some news for you, Dude!” Sergio said. “No Miranda here. No lawyer during questioning unless we say you can have one. If you say anything under any circumstances it can be used against you.
“That’s not the DNA I’m talking about. The half-match DNA from your son with her will tie you tight!”
“WHAT son? With WHO!” his wife cried.
“It’s bullshit! I don’t have any son.”
“Then the DNA test will clear you – for that,” Sergio said. “Then all we’ll have is that you’re here, you’re from where she was from, she wasn’t here long enough to make any enemies, she was murdered after she was located by you when she applied for her visa renewal, she was raped and it’s your DNA.”
“RAPED?!” his wife spat. “You said you just wanted to talk to her so she wouldn’t cause you a lot of trouble about the affair you had with her when you were in college! You KILLED her?”
He shut up and stared down at the floor. Clint was thinking about what Sergio said and got a little smirk on his face. The rest of the trip was in complete silence. At the station he said they couldn’t show that he was the only one who could want her dead. They couldn’t show he was ever trying to find her. He just happened to see her on the street and renewed the acquaintance. They had a roll for old time’s sake.
“That doesn’t work here, either,” Clint said. “We can definitely show you were searching for her.”
“Oh really? How?” He was looking a bit more confident.
“Why, no one can get the information about visas in this country except police officials. You had to present those credentials to have it reported when and where she applied for the extension. Changuinola has a copy of that request form with your signature and passport number plus your proof of being an officer with access to that information.
“You’d think any politically-motivated asshole would know better than to leave a paper trail anywhere it could come back to smack you in the puss.”