Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess)

by Middleton, Deborah

  Chapter 10

  “Think of a number, and then double it!” drawled the Dallas TV evangelist. He was encouraging his viewers to make a “love offering” and hoping to coax as much out of their cheque books as he could. He looked straight into the lens of the camera and gave them the benefit of his most beguiling gaze. He knew it would work; he had practised that gaze a hundred times in the mirror and his bank account could attest to the result.

  The bowls were passed back to him filled with envelopes and donations. The congregation was applauding and the theme music to the show began to play.

  “Thank you. Thank you.” The applause was deafening. “And God bless y’all.”

  After a few minutes spent waving and thanking, the TV evangelist exited the stage.

  “That’s a wrap,” called out his Director.

  “God, I’m beat,” he murmured. He was dressed in a cream shark skin suit with a light silk grey tie. This toned in well with his grey hair, worn a little long at the collar, but it suited him. He knew he appealed to the ladies, especially the older ones, and could charm widows and dowagers into parting with millions of their dollars. It was not only his good looks and theatrical gestures that captivated his audiences. He legitimately had the ability, much like the one accredited to Hitler, to mesmerise his audiences. His sermons were articulate, grandiose and memorable, promising hellfire and damnation to the wicked and redemption and all manner of blessings to those who lived a wholesome life. Nothing new in all of that but the delivery was spectacular and he had an innate ability to zero in on any hot button issues affecting the millions of Americans who now tuned into his show. He was good. He was very, very good… and he knew it.

  “You were particularly good today,” the key grip said, feeling the magnetism of the man and intimidated by it.

  “Why, thank you.” (He pronounced it “thaynk yu.”) The TV evangelist smiled at him with cold blue eyes, hiding his contempt for the fawning, scrawny young man. If only he knew how much he despised his “sort” – the weak, the servile, the sheep. Never mind. With his money and leadership, he had actioned a plan that would rid the world of such mediocrity. He realized he was put here on the earth to make a difference, to clean up the scum and issue in a new era of clean living and strong believers. His was a mission of sacred and global proportions. The fact that his lifestyle could never be described as one of “clean living” was a paradox that he had never bothered to examine closely. He had become a legend in his own mind, believing himself to be exempt from earthly scrutiny, answering only to a higher power. These were desperate times and it took a true leader to implement desperate measures. He knew with every ounce of his being that this was his calling. Other television evangelists were in the business purely for the money. He was above that. Yes, he was above all of that.

  He could not wait to get a copy of the latest Miami Herald to see if his plan was working. By his calculation, with all of the heroin his money had managed to import and contaminate, there should be hundreds upon hundreds of junkies festering in the ghettos due for a bout of “heroin flu” from which they would never recover. While he knew he had to keep quiet for now, eventually his name would go down in history as the Saviour of the New Age, the one who had taken on the devil and won.

  “The guy’s an ass!” exclaimed the key grip as he breezed into the coffee room. “You should have seen him preening like a peacock backstage. I swear, he thinks he’s a movie star.”

  Several other production employees were gathered around a table eating donuts and winding down from the show. They looked up at his entry and started to laugh.

  “You only just discovered that?” retorted a short blonde with spiky hair and a pierced eyebrow. “I’ve been here since he first started and I can tell you, he’s getting weirder and weirder by the year… or should I say ‘by the dollar’! I think he’s actually beginning to believe some of that shit he’s preaching.”

  “Well,” continued the Grip, “I can tell you; he’s ice cold. He looks down on anyone he can’t profit from. You should have seen the way he looked at me when I complimented him. Does he really think we don’t notice?”

  “You hit the nail on the head when you said he’s a horse’s rear end.” remarked flatly a cameraman as he topped up his mug of coffee from the pot. “Anyway, you know what these TV evangelists are like. They’re all showbiz.”

  “Think of it this way,” said the blonde, “if he wasn’t successful, we’d be out of a job.”

  “I guess you’re right,” grumbled the Grip. Balancing his coffee and donut, he grabbed a newspaper lying on the counter.

  “Hey, have you seen all these junkie deaths? What’s with that?”

  Detective Gonzalez gripped the phone gently. He had been put in touch with Archie Carmichael, the detective in charge of the overdose investigations in Bermuda. He had instantly liked his professional, forthright manner. Both of them immediately recognized that the overdoses could be connected. Much drug activity goes on through Miami. It was easy to make the leap that a shipment of poisoned heroin had been imported into Bermuda. Carmichael told him that there was a new direct Miami flight, so it could have come through that way.

  “However, I’m not convinced it came through the airport,” said Archie. “The dogs are pretty good at sniffing them out and we find that only the amateurs or tourists will try to do that. Usually, some idiot bringing stuff in for personal use gets caught.”

  “Do you see much activity with the power boats like in the Bahamas?” queried Gonzalez.

  “Not much. It’s too far.” Archie already knew from Burgess about the theory that “square snapper” had been picked up offshore, but did not want to let the Florida man know that just yet. All in good time when theories had been developed, identities verified and channels of communication officially opened. Also, the pathologist had not given him the report on the toxicology tests yet, so he wasn’t sure what was mixed with the heroin and if it realy was the same stuff that was killing off junkies in Florida. He got off the phone with the promise to get in touch, once he had more information. “I wonder if they’ll bring in the DEA,” he thought. “It’s certainly possible if this goes international.” This was turning into a real party. Forensics had flown in that afternoon from Toronto and were going over the crime scene at the beach and would later go to Court Street and to Somerset to look for clues at the two addicts’ last known addresses.

  He looked at his watch. Time to go home, clean up and ride over to Buddy’s place. Earlier in the day Burgess had promised him a few rum and cokes made with his favourite Mount Gay rum from Barbados and a steak grilled on the barbecue while they went over their theories. They both instinctively felt that the girl’s murder was connected to the heroin “overdoses.” He felt fortunate to have such a good friend. On many an evening they would bounce ideas off one another and, on more than one occasion, had solved a crime just by looking back at details they had forgotten or making new connections they had previously overlooked. Burgess had taught Archie the value of a good notebook and keen attention to detail.

  Just as he was locking his desk, the phone rang.

  “Detective Sergeant Carmichael. We had a 911 call from Spanish Point. You may want to come over and have a look at this. It’s real ugly. You may want to cancel any plans for dinner. You won’t want to eat after you’ve seen this.”

  “Give me directions. I’ll be right over.” Archie scribbled some notes, hung up, and then dialled Burgess’s cell phone. His evening of rum and steak now looked like a lost cause.

  Chapter 11

  Although it had not rained for several days, the humidity was through the roof. There was a haze in the air above the ocean. Gone were the crisp, spring days where you could see a clean line between ocean and sky defined on the horizon. Burgess knew they were in for a hot one. The dew glistened on the grass making his shoes and the cuffs of his pants wet. He made a mental note to cut the grass at the weekend. They were in the height of summer now and Berm
udians were beginning to get their camping licences and starting to shop for their Cup Match clothes. Cup Match is the annual holiday that spans Thursday to Sunday during the first week of August. Cricket was the main event. A team from Somerset on the Western tip of the island played each year against the team from the historic town of St. George on the Eastern end. It was Bermuda’s version of East meets West and an excuse for boating, barbecues and parties. Burgess was a die-hard St. George’s fan, while Archie rooted for Somerset. Each year they bought their lapel ribbons, dark blue on light blue for St. George and blue and red for Somerset, and placed their bets. It was their secret pact that the winner got to pour a bottle of beer over the head of the loser. For several years, Burgess had been victim of the beer shower. Last year, however, he had the distinct pleasure of giving Archie a good, foaming dousing. For the police, however, it was never really a holiday. Too much alcohol and too much sun, could lead to trouble and they were especially vigilant during the festivities.

  Burgess found himself driving into town more slowly than usual. He realized that his reluctance stemmed from an early morning meeting scheduled with the superintendent to go over Cup Match logistics. Instinctively, he knew that, in light of recent events, it was going to be a particularly unpleasant start to the day. He pulled into the police headquarters at Prospect and made his way to the Superintendent’s office.

  After a few minutes, he was ushered into the cool, carpeted office by the superintendent’s secretary, a trim young English lady who was the model of efficiency, the perfect match for a superintendent who prided himself on running a tight ship and having everything done “ay-sap.” Appearances were everything and she was a good gatekeeper too, keeping anybody who was not senior enough in rank waiting just the correct amount of time. It paid to remind them where they stood in the police hierarchy. Burgess often wondered if there was a set time for an inspector, another for a sergeant and just how long a lowly constable would be kept waiting.

  “Morning, Burgess.” With his thinning hair, hunched shoulders and great beak of a nose on which he had benched a pair of old fashioned reading glasses, the superintendent reminded Burgess of a large bird of prey.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Take a seat. How’re things?”

  “We’re making progress, sir, on the girl’s murder. We have some forensic evidence which we’re analysing and hope to have some more leads from it. The Canadian team is on island and has been doing a great job collecting evidence from the crime scene. They’re also looking at the drug overdose scenes to see if there is anything unusual there and any connection. The toxicology reports show that the heroin was laced with strychnine so we’re treating those deaths as murders.”

  “Might as well use the Canadians while they’re here, Burgess. Kill two birds with one stone. We need to have a resolution to this girl’s murder asap. The parents are flying in and I want to be able to at least give them closure. As far as the heroin is concerned, we need to get to the bottom of that asap.” Burgess could feel his blood pressure mounting at the continual use of the expression “ay-sap.” Why did he grate on his nerves so much? Could it be because he always stated the obvious as if it was an innovative idea and left everyone else to do all the legwork? When would he ever suggest something constructive that really could assist him? He also knew that he would want to go in front of the press and claim any credit, once they caught the murderer. He was famous for his grandstanding and for coveting the limelight.

  “Burgess, are you listening to me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “This heroin… very bad. What with Cup Match coming up, we have to make sure more people aren’t killed by it. I imagine there’ll be more dealing over the holiday. Your team had better be vigilant.”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many have you got on duty over at the Somerset Cricket Club?”

  “We’ve got eighty men in uniform and twenty undercover. We are liaising with Narcotics and the armed response unit, in case we need them and we have metal detectors and sniffer dogs at the gates. The Somerset Cricket Club has also hired its own security and we are liaising with them. We are deploying a few more men than last year and that seemed to be more than enough.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Not at this time, sir.”

  “Okay, keep me informed and let me know if anything develops asap.”

  “Yessir.” Burgess made good his escape.

  As the young detective left, the superintendent wondered just how on top of things Burgess really was. He was hard to read; never seemed to communicate more than the barest of details. His reputation was rock solid and he had a good record for catching criminals, but the recent spate of murders was troubling. He hoped Burgess was up to the task. Maybe he should talk to the commissioner about calling in Scotland Yard. He really hated the thought of them coming over, solving the case and getting all the credit. By extension, his men would look incapable and that might spill over on to him and his leadership skills. No, best wait a little longer. Maybe they would get a promising lead and put this all to bed before it went any further.

  Chapter 12

  Back in his office, D.I. Burgess had assembled his team. They had turned a small conference room into a “murder room” complete with a large whiteboard ready for them to note all their findings and theories. Various photographs of the victims and crime scenes were already in evidence on the board. Archie, Pamela Zuill, Sergeant De Souza and several officers from Narcotics were present as well as the head of the Canadian forensics team, a woman by the name of Jan du Bois. Burgess introduced her to the other members and watched their reaction to her, pretending to consult his notebook. She had short hair cut almost in a Mohawk and wore shorts and a t-shirt with open sandals. Not what you would normally expect from a forensics specialist but, then again, define what a forensics specialist should look like. All he had heard was that she was a fine scientist and, apparently, after a couple of drinks was the life and soul of a party with a keen sense of humour and some hilarious work-related stories. He could certainly live with that.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s get started. So far we have nothing concrete but we do have a theory for the motive of Rhonda Mayberry’s murder.” He went on to explain what they had found at the beach and the “square snapper” drug importation theory. “Miss du Bois, can you give us anything further on the forensics?”

  “Yes, Inspector. First of all, we managed to lift some partial prints from the spear gun but have yet to find a match on Canadian, U.S. or U.K. databases. We’ll start working with your neighbours to the south to see if there is anybody on file in the Islands. As far as the tyre treads are concerned, you were right. We have matched them to a pick-up truck. These particular tyres are more commonly found on the Suzuki, which I know is popular here. Unfortunately, there was nothing to tell us what colour but we believe, from the tyres, if they are the originals, the year is probably 2004. That should narrow down the search.”

  Pamela wrote this information down on the whiteboard with a black magic marker. It squeaked in the silence as she wrote and the smell of the ink pervaded the air.

  “Hopefully it will,” said De Souza. “We’ll have to liaise with TCD – that’s the Transport Control Department, Ma’am.” He looked across at Jan. “To see who the registered owners are of all the Suzuki pick-ups on the island. At least we can start with those that are 2004 models.”

  Du Bois nodded. “As for the heroin overdoses, we found no prints on the works other than those of the user. The houses were full of prints from different people, but nothing that would point us in the direction of a specific person. We analysed the heroin and it’s been laced with strychnine. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s not a pretty death. The samples we took from each victim both matched, so we’re looking at the same batch of drugs. I would anticipate you’ll be seeing more of this killer.”

  There was a collective groan from the group. Already, there was the feeling th
at this was only the tip of the iceberg and that the island was going to receive a lot of negative publicity, if they couldn’t put a stop to its distribution. Naturally, any inability to immediately find a solution would be directed at the police. With Cup Match that coming weekend, there was going to be hell to pay.

  Pamela continued to make the notations on the board regarding the strychnine.

  “Miss. du Bois -”

  “Please, call me Jan.”

  Burgess smiled. “Jan, what can you tell us about strychnine. We’re not in the Narcotics Department and I, for one, am not familiar with how it is found.”

  What made Jan du Bois such a sought-after forensic scientist by lawyers and police forces alike was her ability to talk to the lay person in terms that he or she would understand.

  “Strychnine,” she began, “is a deadly alkaloid poison that affects the central nervous system. If you remember, the bodies we found displayed what we call a ‘risus sardonicus’, which is just a fancy way of saying a ‘grimace’ on their faces. Strychnine makes the muscles go into acute spasms which cause this grin-like expression with clamped jaws. The victim will also experience convulsions in the abdominal area which may cause vomiting. Death normally results from respiratory failure or just plain exhaustion from the spasms and convulsions. All in all, it’s not a pretty way to go.”