Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess)

by Middleton, Deborah

  “Hey, Buddy, It’s me. You got a moment? You know that DB over in Somerset? Well, I’ve got a funny feeling about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Looks like he OD’d on heroin… but the body doesn’t look right.”

  “Is the pathologist there yet?”

  “No, we’re just waiting on her to get here.”

  “Well, flag your concerns to her and have her do more than a cursory examination of the body. Perhaps a complete tox report and look for any other signs that it might be more than just an overdose. Also, make sure you get forensics to check for fingerprints on any works.”

  “Okay, gotcha. Here she comes now. I’ll call you back.”

  At this moment the familiar Subaru of the pathologist pulled up. Out she stepped, black bag in hand. Dressed in a sun dress which floated around her and with a wide headband holding back her long, wavy hair, nobody would guess that she was there to examine a corpse.

  “Mornin’ Dr. Brangman,” drawled Archie in his most seductive Bajan tones as he leaned over her.

  “Good morning, Detective Sergeant Carmichael. What do we have here?”

  “My guess is a heroin overdose but I’m not sure it’s that straightforward.”

  “This is getting scary,” she breathed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the second overdose I’ve dealt with today and, with the girl in the morgue from yesterday… I’m having a very busy day.”

  “Second overdose?” Archie’s interest was really piqued feeling that familiar tingling at the base of his skull.

  “Yes, another one early this morning on Court Street. A hooker, apparently. I’m pretty sure it’s diacetylmorphine but I want to run some more tests.”

  “So I was right. Heroin’s the culprit. What do you think? The body doesn’t look right to me but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Jacintha was fully focused. Snapping on her latex gloves, she crouched down beside the body and deftly went to work examining it closely and putting plastic bags on its hands and bare feet.

  “I agree with you, Detective, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  “Archie, call me Archie,” he flashed her a roguish grin.

  “Archie, then. This looks suspicious to me. That rictus could mean strychnine poisoning, but I’ll need to examine the body thoroughly in a better light and I’ll also order a toxicology report. Judging from rigour and his liver temperature, I’d say he’s been dead no more than a few hours at the most. Probably no more than six, even though the flies have already started laying larvae in his nose, eyes and mouth. They usually take a couple of days to hatch. We don’t have a resident bug expert – we could do with a ‘Grissom’ from ‘CSI: Las Vegas’, but I’m pretty happy with this preliminary time line without going into that.”

  “Do you think they may call in forensics from Canada?” Archie began to sense things were going to spiral out of control if they couldn’t solve these cases pretty quickly.

  “Well, if things carry on the way they have been, I’ll be glad of the help.” Jacintha looked up and warm brown eyes smiled at him. Archie felt his pulse quicken. No wonder Buddy was a little sweet on her. She was gorgeous and not a little intimidating.

  “Will you keep me posted?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

  “Of course, I’ll call as soon as I have something for you.”

  Archie walked back over to the policeman. “Do we have any witnesses?”

  “You kiddin’? Anonymous tip.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Archie scratched the back of his head. “I guess we’ll have to rely on forensics then.”

  Archie walked out of the cottage straight into the lens of the ZBF photographer. “How the hell do they get here so fast?” he wondered. Johnny McCabe thrust a microphone at him.

  “Any connection to the Court Street case, Detective Sergeant Carmichael?”

  “Johnny, you know I cannot comment at this time. Please talk to the Police Communications Department and they’ll fill you in.”

  “Aw, c’mon Detective, can’t you give us more than that? Do we have a serial killer on the loose?”

  “No comment,” said Archie as he made his escape. Oh God, now they’re really going to stir things up on the rumour mill. Archie could only imagine the tongues wagging and opinions spouting on the popular People’s Corner aired on the radio each day. The e-mails and telephones would be abuzz with gossip. Archie had never known a place such as Bermuda for bush telegraph. Three dead bodies in two days and one definitely a murder; this was going to rattle some cages in very high places.

  Chapter 4

  Burgess wiped his shaven head and neck carefully with his handkerchief. His office air conditioner, balanced precariously in the window and duct-taped around the edges for waterproofing, left a lot to be desired. It was noisy, smelly and basically did not work. It was ironic really. The easiest way to break in anywhere was to push in the air conditioning unit. He was not surprised that nobody had bothered to break into his office. The furniture was old and the petty cash was, well, very petty. He sat with the telephone to his ear murmuring a “yes sir” from time to time, half listening to the phones and conversations of his colleagues in the background.

  This was the worst part of the job. The dead bodies, the hardened criminals, the long hours, all of that he could take, but having to keep his superiors happy, that was another story. This time it was the Superintendent. Normally his boss, the Detective Chief Inspector, would handle communications with the Super. However, recently diagnosed with cancer, he was currently away at Johns Hopkins receiving treatment and the task of heading up investigations and reporting to the superintendent now rested fully on Burgess’s shoulders. He preferred a hands-on approach to solving cases and normally left the politicking and handholding to the DCI. Every encounter with the superintendent only increased his admiration for his boss.

  “Detective Inspector Burgess, we’ve got to get this resolved asap.” He pronounced it “Ay-sap” which irritated Burgess.

  “Yessir.”

  “The Minister of Tourism is all over me. If this girl is a tourist, we’ve got to get her identified and minimize the damage to the island’s reputation. If she’s Canadian, we’ve got to be even more careful. Remember the fall-out from that botched investigation of the murdered Canadian boy? It’s still a political hot potato.” He was referring to a case several years before which had soured relations with the Canadian Government and brought about a downturn in Canadian tourism to Bermuda. Bermudians had been outraged and, as justice had never been done, the wound had never fully healed. Bermudians were particularly sensitive to anything involving violence towards tourists as it offended their sense of hospitality and pride in their island.

  “Yessir.”

  “Where’re you on this?”

  “We have men canvassing the Shaw Park neighbourhood and I’m waiting to get a report from the pathologist. She’s away from the hospital at the moment on another case.”

  “Oh yes, what’s this I hear about two heroin addicts overdosing? Next they’ll be saying it’s a serial killer.”

  “Yessir. I believe they’re already saying that.”

  “What? You better get this situation under control asap. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.”

  Burgess placed the phone carefully in its cradle, wiped his forehead once more and breathed a long sigh. When will they just let me get on with my job? The truth was he was worried. Three dead bodies in two days was highly unusual for Bermuda and he hoped he would have the resources to handle the cases. If they took too long, Scotland Yard would be called in to help. Sometimes that could be more of a hindrance than a help, depending on whom they sent over. The local police knew how to handle the Bermudians and had a grip on the criminal element on the island. They could also work the informants. Other times, however, it worked better if a stranger came in with a fresh approach and no fear of reprisals. They did
n’t have family to worry about and were like Teflon when it came to those kinds of threats. The phone rang. Burgess picked it up.

  “Sir, I think we may have something.”

  Chapter 5

  In a house in Spanish Point voices were raised and accusations levelled. Profanity hung in the air along with the pungent scent of marijuana.

  “Why the fuck you had to kill her, bro’? Now it’s all over the news.” The speaker was a skinny, brown skinned youth in his early twenties. A sweat-stained blue bandana tied around his forehead accentuated his short corn rows, making them stick up almost jauntily over the fabric giving him that popular “pineapple head” look.

  They had been hanging out, smoking weed and drinking beer when the news had come on. The unidentified dead girl was still top story. Despite the fact it was early afternoon, they were both drunk and the news had only served to wind them up further.

  “I had to, mon. She coulda fingered us,” rebutted the other, a tall, heavily muscled, dark-skinned Jamaican. He was rapidly growing tired of the Bermudian but he thought it best to lie low for a few days and this was the best place. The house was hidden in plain sight in a noisy neighbourhood, yet the way it was set back against the cliff wall, you could see who was coming and escape out the back window and over the cliffs in seconds. There was always so much activity in the neighbourhood that nobody would notice an extra bike in the yard.

  “You screwed everything up, Ja’von.” Pineapple Head was not letting this one go. “This job was sweet. Now it’s a mess.”

  There was no love lost between the two men. The Jamaican was always bossing the younger man around and making him feel stupid. Pineapple Head knew that killing the girl would not go down well with the powers-that-be who were paying them to pick up dope. Mr. “High and Mighty” here had made a huge mistake and he was going to enjoy every moment of rubbing it in. It was payback time.

  “Shut the fuck up. You gettin’ on my nerves. You worry too much. Just shut up.” Ja’von was clearly agitated. His body was shiny with sweat and the snake tattoo that wound up the side of his neck undulated as the vein in his neck throbbed. He was clenching and unclenching his fists while the pitch of his voice rose. It infuriated him that this skinny runt was gloating over his discomfort.

  Under normal circumstances, Pineapple Head would have known better than to continue… but he was drunk and stoned and too far gone to know when to stop.

  “Now we’re gonna have the fuckin’ po-lice all over us.” Pineapple Head’s voice rose to an accusatory wail. “You should’na killed her”. He was too stoned to read the signs that the Jamaican was close to losing control. “What you do that for?”

  “Shut up, shut up… just… shut up,” screamed Ja’von his hand at his belt, fingering the quick-release lock to the sheath of his diving knife. “You don’t shut up and I’ll give you a reason to whine.”

  Pineapple Head was unfazed. “Um not whinin’. Um just tellin’ you… You can take the rap. I didn’t do nothin’. Um gonna tell the boss that I had nothin’ to do with this. You fucked this all up. It was a sweet job… You can take the rap.”

  Ja’von was beside himself with fury partly fuelled by booze and partly by guilt. He knew, but would never admit, that the boy was right. He had acted without thinking and screwed everything up. It enraged him, however, that the boy was not showing more respect. He was used to people fearing him.

  “You stop dissin’ me.”

  “Um not dissin’ you, um tellin’ you like it is.”

  Had Pineapple Head been looking straight at Ja’von when he said this, he might have been able to avoid the first swing. Instead, the knife connected with the side of his neck with a searing burst of pain. He screamed in horror, one hand held against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the spray of blood from his severed artery, the other hand outstretched in front of him to ward off more blows. But Ja’von was in the heat of it now. This felt good. This was power. He was back in control. He’d teach this kid a lesson. Swinging blindly at the source of all his aggravation, he struck again. “Shut up,” he cried in rhythm with each slash. Blood spattered up the wall and into Ja’von’s eyes. More blood and sweat ran in rivulets down Ja’von’s elbows. He kept stabbing and slashing until Pineapple Head lay against the wall, unrecognisable, a bib of blood rapidly staining the front of his t-shirt. The Jamaican stood over him, shaking and gasping for breath. Slowly through the fog of anger, dope and booze, realization set in and he knew he had to distance himself fast from all of this.

  He steadied himself with another few swigs of beer, noting the blood all over his hands. He ran to the sink and washed off as much as he could then went into the bedroom and grabbed a sheet from the bed. Spreading it on the living room floor, he rolled Pineapple Head on to one end and then kept rolling until he was completely wound up in it, only his feet protruding. Ja’von noticed that the sheet was quickly turning red; time to move.

  Looking first outside to make sure it was still quiet, he dragged the body to the door. He had an idea. Grabbing the keys to Pineapple Head’s truck, he went outside and backed it up to the front door. He could load Pineapple Head into the back of the truck and drive it towards the cliffs. That way, he would not have to drag or carry him too far. Glancing into the back of the truck, he saw several large plastic containers of paint from Pineapple Head’s weekend job as a roof painter. What a stroke of luck! He lifted several of them and noted that they were full… and heavy. He also noticed some rope under a piece of tarpaulin. This gave him another idea. Going back to the house, he grasped the bundled body in the middle and tried to get it over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Shit but he’s heavy. Who would have thought such a skinny kid could weigh so much? Ja’von struggled with the body and finally managed to lever it over his shoulder and on to the truck. Pineapple Head’s skull hit the bed of the truck with a resounding thud. Well, I bet that didn’t hurt. Ja’von chuckled in a release of tension.

  Firing up the engine, he carefully slid forward towards the back of the house where the cliffs began. Satisfied he was not being watched, he wrapped the body in the tarpaulin and then spent the next ten minutes tying the paint cans to the rope and then winding the rope around the body. This is a new version of cement shoes. Ja’von felt almost light-hearted. I can get away with this. Nobody’s going to find him! He dumped the body over the cliff and heard it hit the water below. He watched as the body sank like a stone, white paint seeping like a cloud from some of the cans whose lids had evidently not been put back on properly.

  Now, to get out of there. He was covered in blood again and knew he needed to get rid of the knife. He drove the truck and re-parked it just as before and went back into the house. Struggling into his wind breaker and tucking the knife back into its sheath on his belt, he left the house, hood up. Stepping on the gas, he roared away on his motorcycle, hoping that nobody would notice the blood on his clothes. I’ve kept the weapon. They won’t be able to trace me to the crime. As he sobered up, he began to panic about what evidence he had left behind to connect him to what was now, in the space a few days, his second murder. He was pretty certain Pineapple Head had not survived the attack… not the way he looked when he’d rolled him in that sheet and, if he wasn’t dead before he hit the water, he was fish bait now.

  How to get rid of the knife and bloodstained clothes? He prayed he could get home in time to clean up before anybody noticed him. It was at this moment, with a lurch of his stomach, he realized he was riding without a helmet. If the police saw him, they would immediately pull him over. His heart pounded as if it would burst in his chest. Just get home. Just get home, he breathed.

  This was crazy. Without his helmet and with blood everywhere, he didn’t stand a chance. He turned his bike around and headed for a cove where he knew he could wash up and bury the knife, wind breaker and his t-shirt. If they pulled him aside, at least he would be clean and he could claim he was drunk and high. That part, at least, would be true.

  He pa
rked his bike on a sandy track and ran into the water with his clothes on, knife now clutched tightly beneath his jacket. The water was warm and, as he looked down, he could see the blood leaching from his clothes like red smoke. His body began to react from the booze, dope and adrenaline. Hands shaking, he rinsed off the knife, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. Paranoia was setting in. This was as good a place to bury it as anywhere. He swirled his hands in the water to disburse the blood and began to feel more in control. He’d killed twice in as many days and the truth was, he liked how it made him feel. Now to dispose of the rest of the evidence… He knew he had to go back to the house and retrieve his helmet and get rid of the bottles he had touched. DNA was a killer to a killer.

  Chapter 6

  D.I. Burgess’s pulse quickened at the sound of the voice on the telephone. It was one of his officers canvassing the Shaw Park area.

  “We found a house on the point with lights on and front door unlocked. The neighbours live quite far away but they said the owners’ dog came over to their house yesterday morning and they’ve been feeding him ever since. They tried calling but no answer. They’re really upset that they didn’t bother to walk over to check on things. The girl’s wallet and a suitcase are here. I imagine she may have been house-sitting while the owners are away. Apparently she’s not their daughter and, with the suitcase and all…”