Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess)

by Middleton, Deborah

  “Okay.” The Premier had heard enough. “What I think we need to do is hold a press conference. Put together what you want to say and run it by the Government Department of Communications. Let’s meet in the Cabinet Boardroom at three o’clock and be ready to talk to the public. We need to show that we are in charge and on top of this. I want each one of you to speak briefly to allay fears and give a show of strength to the public.”

  With their marching orders, the group stood up and began to leave the room.

  “Commissioner, could you give me a moment?”

  “Certainly, Premier.”

  “This Detective Burgess. Would he be Elsie Burgess’s son?”

  “Her grandson, sir.”

  “Miss. Elsie used to teach me in high school. We also go to the same church. Funny, I can’t recall ever meeting him. Good family, though. Does he have enough help? Is he doing a good job?”

  “Sir, we have given these cases top priority. We are hopeful of finding the murderer very soon and the forensics team from Canada have been a huge help.”

  “Well, if her grandson is anything like Miss Elsie, I wouldn’t want to be that murderer when he’s found!” The Premier managed a chuckle. “Okay, thank you. See you at three o’clock. Maybe by then you’ll be able to announce an arrest.”

  “I would dearly love that, Premier.”

  “You and me both,” was the grim rejoinder.

  They shook hands and the commissioner left.

  Chapter 18

  Archie was looking over Pamela’s shoulder as the printout came back from Jamaica. He was enjoying the smell of her hair and trying hard to concentrate on the job at hand. As the screen filled up they looked at each other, eyes gleaming.

  “Yes!” they exclaimed together as they did a high five.

  Back from the Jamaican Police Force was the name and photograph, complete with snake tattoo, of one Ja’von Ishmael Williamson formerly of Shade Tree Lane, Kingston.

  Pamela peered at the picture. “That is one ugly snake!”

  “Yeah and the tattoo is pretty nasty too!” laughed Archie.

  “I can’t wait to tell Buddy. Let me see if we can find out where he lives here. I’ll try the phone book and, if he’s not listed, then I’ll call Immigration. Fingers crossed he doesn’t go into hiding.” She pulled out the brightly coloured phone book and began to leaf through it.

  “Bingo. There’s a J.I. Williamson at 22 Tribe Road in Warwick. How many can there be? It’s got to be him.”

  “Okay, call him but don’t alert him to anything. Let’s see if he’s home.”

  “You just leave it with me.” Pamela picked up the phone and dialled. A Jamaican male voice answered.

  In her best broad Bermudian Pamela asked angrily, “Is Dwayne thar?”

  “No,” came the abrupt reply.

  “You coverin’ for him, coz he owes me money? You tell him (she pronounced it “tal him”) to get his ass down to de house… and soon. Um tired o’ him not comin’ home. Um need some halp… wid de baby an all.”

  “Woman, I don’t know your mon. Git off de phone.” It went dead.

  Pamela smiled broadly. “If I’m not mistaken, that could be our Ja’von. At least, he’s mean and he definitely sounds Jamaican.”

  Archie was impressed. He was looking at Pamela in a whole new light. This girl was resourceful… and fun! Qualities he liked in a girl. His mind began to go into overload. Cup Match was going to be a party this year. He was beginning to really look forward to it.

  “Archie? Earth to Archie!”

  “Sorry, Pamela, I was just wondering how we should handle this.”

  “Well, standard operating procedure - a dawn raid. - I would guess. Shall I send a car over there to observe?”

  “No, I’m off duty right now so I can go over on my bike and scope out the house. It’ll be less obvious. Maybe you could have a patrol car pretend to be checking speeders a little before the house in case I need them. I don’t want us to spook him and then have to chase him. Not in this heat, anyway!”

  Archie’s “bike” was a 1970s Triumph which he lovingly cleaned and polished in what little spare time he had. A member of the Easy Riders club – a group of bikers who owned a variety of vintage bikes – he often got together with them on Sundays for rides all over the island. They would cause quite a stir, often riding casually, single file along the roads in a group of thirty or more. In the winter time, they sported a lot of leather and studs whilst in the summer it was cooler to ride in a muscle shirt. Some of the helmets were from the World War II era and the bikers came in all sorts of shapes and sizes… even grandmothers with a passion for these beautiful pieces of machinery. Archie would hang out with them at the Country Squire Inn in Somerset where they would all meet up for a typical Sunday breakfast of codfish and potatoes. They had made him an honorary Bermudian and, when the conversation turned away from spark plugs and bikes, would use him as a sounding board for any perceived problems with the state of the island as far as morals and crime were concerned. Archie enjoyed their homespun philosophy on life, easy humour and irreverent remarks about the latest gaffe of some politician or well-known local character. They respected the fact that Archie could not divulge particulars about ongoing investigations and never pumped him for the latest news. He was grateful for that and enjoyed the welcome respite from dealing with the dark underbelly of Bermuda’s society. To ride with them was uplifting, relaxing and rewarding in every sense of the word.

  Pamela knew that if she ever got to ride on Archie’s beloved bike it would be like a rite of passage. She secretly hoped that the barbecue at Burgess’s would be the beginning of moonlight rides along the south shore this summer… But her mind was running away with her. “Okay, I’m on it,” she said.

  Archie was already half way out the door, helmet in hand.

  Meanwhile, D.I. Burgess was over at forensics talking to Jan du Bois when the call came in from Pamela. He was elated.

  “Pamela, tell Archie to wait. I want to get an armed response unit on this. Archie will need some serious back up. Remember, this is one mean dude - Williamson, I mean, not Archie! I know Archie can hold his own, but this guy has already killed twice… and violently. I don’t want anything happening to my ace boy. What’s the address again? What colour is the house? Purple? What colour are the shutters? Yellow? You’re kidding me! Oh, and the roof is white? Very funny! I don’t think I can miss that one. I’m on my way.”

  In spite of his attempt at levity, Pamela could sense the strain in Burgess’s voice. Clearly, he was concerned for the safety of his best mate. She dialled Archie’s cell phone in the hope of catching him. Luckily, he had the earpiece in place and was able to respond from his bike. She relayed the information to him and he told her he would wait for backup near the house but out of sight. He didn’t want to alert anybody as to the potential police raid. Secretly though, he was frustrated. He knew it would take some time to get the armed response team out there and patience was not his strong suit. He waited by the side of the road and removed his helmet. At least no one could mistake him for a cop on that bike. He hadn’t been there but ten minutes when he spotted a youth speeding from the direction of the house. He just had time to glimpse a snake tattoo on the young man’s neck as he throttled past.

  “Shit,” exclaimed Archie out loud as he jammed his helmet back on. He fired up the Triumph and took off in pursuit. Both were weaving in and out of the traffic on Middle Road, Ja’von narrowly missing a young school girl as she was crossing over to a bus shelter. Archie picked up speed and began to gain on him. By this time, he hoped the police had been alerted of the chase and would send a couple of cars to block off Ja’von’s escape. He was unable to communicate with anybody and needed all his skill to stay on top of his bike and avoid skidding on the hot asphalt. On a subliminal level, he noted that the Triumph was responding well but worried about overtaxing its engine. Even though he was the more careful of the two riders, once the traffic thinned, he was
confident he could come up alongside Ja’von and force him to slow down or even off the road. Ja’von was desperately shifting weight on his bike to get maximum speed around the bends. Archie knew it was just a question of time before he would lean too far over and come flying off. He needed to be careful he could take evasive action if Ja’von skidded out of control.

  They were approaching the traffic lights at the Paget Post Office and attracting a lot of attention. By now, he could hear sirens in the distance and silently praised the police for their quick response. Ja’von elected to swing through the red light just as a taxi was feeding into traffic from the hill on the right. Unable to stop in time, he clipped Ja’von’s back wheel and sent the bike flying into the air. Ja’von’s body sailed with it and parted company with both bike and helmet, ending up over the wall and in a field to the left of the traffic. By now the police car had arrived and Archie was able to stop amidst a flurry of colourful insults from curious bystanders and those snagged in the traffic. It was evident they had no idea he was a plain clothes police officer until his colleagues pulled up. Ja’von was lying face up, winded and with a leg twisted at what must have been a very uncomfortable angle. You could just see the bone protruding and the blood was beginning to pool – a nasty break. Clearly, he would be going nowhere in a hurry.

  “You okay, Detective Sergeant Carmichael?” Archie recognized one of the boys in uniform as he got out of the police car.

  “Thanks, Stanley, I’m okay. A lot better off than Mr. Williamson over there!”

  Archie and the two police from the patrol car went to check on Ja’von while a third officer from a second patrol car began directing the traffic. An ambulance siren could be heard in the distance. The EMTs would be there any moment now and they would have the pleasure of taking Ja’von to the hospital. Archie wanted to get to Ja’von first so as to be the arresting officer and the other two had the courtesy to lag behind to afford him that privilege. After Archie had read him his rights, one of the police officers would escort Ja’von in the ambulance back to the hospital.

  “How’s things bro’?” Archie heard Burgess’s measured tones behind him. His voice belied the anxiety he had felt on seeing the remains of Ja’von’s motorcycle. Thank goodness Archie was okay.

  Archie turned to his friend his face beaming. “No big ‘ting, mon,” he answered in his best parody of a Jamaican accent. In fact, now he had collared the perp, he actually felt quite shaken. He was still on a high, however, from arresting the man he was convinced was responsible for the deaths of Rhonda Mayberry and Deon White. It felt good to have someone in custody for those revolting crimes and he hoped they could broadcast it to the community soon. It would be a real coup for the police to have the suspect in custody so soon after two gruesome murders. Now they needed to be careful to follow procedure at all times so as to hand an airtight case to the Crown Prosecution. He hated this part of the job. When the lawyers took over, it could get tedious. Now the buzz word would be “alleged.” “Alleged this” and “alleged that.” Everything would be “alleged” until they could absolutely prove that this “alleged” scum had not “allegedly” but “absolutely” killed two people.

  Burgess was surveying the scene, notebook in hand, taking down details. The other officers had begun to get names of the witnesses. Already word was out that this might be the killer and, contrary to the norm, it seemed everybody wanted to be a witness to the take-down of the guy. The response was much better than normal and the officers realized they were going to be kept out in the sun for some time. One was busy measuring angles and distances from the bike to the taxi while the others were involved in collecting witness statements. The taxi driver was clearly having a field day, gesticulating and giving his account of events at the top of his voice. He was going to be a hero down at the Bermuda Taxi Union. Wait until this got on the news!

  The ambulance had arrived from King Edward’s and the EMTs were busy strapping Ja’von on to a stretcher. He was in a lot of pain and they were careful to treat him as gently as they could, given that they had to get him back over the wall and up on to the road. Archie and Burgess helped them manoeuvre the stretcher. Archie did not want to leave his bike, so one of the uniformed officers agreed to accompany the prisoner in the ambulance.

  Burgess looked up to see the ZBF van illegally parking in order to get the crew over to the scene. Johnny McCabe’s photographer was busy getting some footage of the EMTs settling Ja’von into the ambulance and Johnny himself was running over, microphone in hand, to try and catch Archie before he left. Archie hated to be in the news and, as Johnny asked him to make a comment, he pretended to answer while all the time gunning the engine of the Triumph so as to drown out anything he said. Burgess smiled to himself. That was Archie for you. Johnny quickly realized the detective was making a fool of him and moved on to D.I. Burgess.

  “Can you confirm that this is indeed the serial killer?” asked McCabe.

  “No, Johnny, but what I can tell you is that this gentleman will be helping us with our enquiries into the deaths of Rhonda Mayberry and Deon White.”

  “I noticed that he was pretty beaten up. Did Detective Sergeant Carmichael have to physically restrain him?”

  “No, the injuries you saw were sustained during his fall from the bike. According to witnesses, he ran the red light and caused an accident with the taxi over there. Any further information will be provided to you from the Police Communications Department.”

  “Thanks.” Johnny immediately rushed over to some of the witnesses for a more colourful and emotive description of what had taken place.

  “Oh, Lord,” thought Burgess. “God only knows what will hit the news tonight.” He did not appreciate the veiled aim for a “police brutality” angle on the reason for Ja’von’s injuries. “Who cares?” he wondered. This is one murderer who will not get a lot of sympathy from the general public. “How thoughtful of Ja’von to be captured in time for some commentary on this afternoon’s People’s Corner!” Nana would be wanting to know more tonight for sure. The chicken would not be the only thing grilled this evening!

  Chapter 19

  Detectives Gonzalez and Hofstein were enjoying a leisurely Cuban sandwich at a picnic table in one of the esplanade cafés by the beach. The sky was the kind of crayon blue favoured by child artists and the heat to go with it was stifling. Both detectives had loosened their ties and undone their top buttons to allow a little air to circulate around their bodies. Hofstein, much to Gonzalez’s delight, had been drafted to assist in the heroin poisoning cases. Addicts were dropping like flies and the Miami Herald had begun to pick up on the number of “overdoses” turning up at the morgue. Speculation was rife. Many concluded that it was a new form of terrorism which aroused an already paranoiac anti-Islamic sentiment as Floridians, whipped into a frenzy by the radio talk shows, began to vent their hostilities on local Muslims. The mayor appealed for calm and the Dade County Police force found itself understaffed to deal with the fall-out. Summer was already hot enough but even worse was the kind of heat the detectives were getting from their superiors. A break in the case so far had been elusive and they were both tired of interviewing junkies, dope pushers and ex cons to see if they could get a lead on where this heroin was coming from. They were even more tired of having nothing substantive to report to the lieutenant, who had been more supportive than the mayor who was really putting the screws on the police to come up with something positive. Several sets of detectives were now working different angles on the case but, so far, with no luck.

  “What’s our next move?” Hofstein wiped some mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth.

  “You know, I’m stumped. I wish forensics could give us some lead other than how they died. That’s something we do know and it’s been repeated about fifty times. You’d think someone would break the code of silence. I guess nobody really cares about these people.” As he was speaking his cell phone began to ring. He took it out of his pocket, expertly flicking it open wit
h one hand.

  “Gonzalez.” It was the station.

  “You might want to get on back here. There’s a ‘gentleman’ here to see you. Says he has some information on the poisoned heroin.” It was evident from the way the clerk said “gentleman” that it was probably another down-at-heel citizen willing to cash in on a few bucks in exchange for some bogus information but Gonzalez and Hofstein had nothing to lose by going back to their desks… and at least the office was air conditioned.

  “Come on, Hofstein. Let’s put our superior interrogation techniques to work.”

  “… And just when I was beginning to enjoy the great outdoors!”

  They both got up, left some change on the table and reluctantly made their way to the car.

  When they got back to the station, there was a nervous young man waiting to see them.

  “He was just about to leave,” said the clerk. “He’s been real twitchy all the time he’s been here.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Hofstein as he peered through the two-way mirror. “That’s a runner for Cujo, a big dope dealer on Banyan and Calle Cuatro. Small wonder he doesn’t want to be seen here. I wonder why he didn’t just give us an anonymous call.”

  They went into Interview Room 2, a beat up old room smelling of disinfectant and painted a now faded flamingo pink. Several windows placed high up were barred. This was no sleek set from CSI: Miami. The obligatory wall of two way mirrors was on one side whilst the coffee pot and water dispenser stood on a chipped and battered steel cabinet that had once sported a joyful Florida green paint job. There was a spatter of something brown on the walls behind the interview table which looked very much like dried blood. No doubt the Dade County police had preferred to leave it as a subtle warning to any potentially intransigent interviewees.