The Mango Opera

by Tom Corcoran

  The last time I’d seen him, late Saturday afternoon, Fernandez had looked like a wino walking on ball bearings.

  Liska became adamant. “They were just plain fucked up. At seven-fifteen A.M. They looked around the murder scene for what … four minutes, maybe five?”

  Monty nodded.

  I sensed that Liska had told this before. “They went outside, had a chat, checked the address against something on a clipboard, then walked down to Wheeler’s house and rang his doorbell. Woke him up. Got Sam out in the middle of the street in a pair of Levi’s with no shirt, no shoes. Then they drove away. No goddamned explanation. They left Sam standing there and drove away.”

  Monty glanced over to prompt further details.

  Liska obliged. “It was so strange that I broke down and called my ex-wife. My ex-wife who is now married to the ugly son of a bitch. She tells me he’s been wacky for almost a week, stumbling around the house like a cuckoo bubba, and now she’s sorry she left me. I didn’t need that kind of bullshit an hour and half after sunrise, I tell you.”

  “An hour later,” said Monty, “they arrested Sam at his dock. We sent the city attorney out to the county jail. No word yet.”

  “Bernier told me another tidbit,” I said. “Pepper Neice was detained.”

  “You’ll love this.” Chicken Neck and Monty got on a short laughing jag and Liska continued, “He checked into a motel up in Boynton Beach. I guess he needed a piece of ass but he was too broke to buy a whore. He goes out to the pool and pulls down his pants and sticks his dick in the suction hole for the water recirculation system. Gets it stuck in there. These motel pools have high-rate pumps, to clean out all the kiddie pee. So his pork’s in the suction hole, and he starts yelling for help. You got to picture this. Somebody tells the desk clerk, the desk clerk calls 911, and right away they got fifty motel guests, a crowd from the lounge next door, and two TV stations with video crews.”

  Liska’s stopped to catch his breath. His laughing was contagious. “The next morning on the news clips they got bystanders yelling, ‘Send him home to his goat!’ and ‘Throw a bucket of water on him!’ Shit like that. Some lucky fireman had to get down there and squirt KY all over the man’s unit. The anchor lady speculated on whether or not the motel would have to drain the pool to reduce the risk of AIDS. Meanwhile a city cop runs the name that Neice had registered under, and finds out it’s a fake. Didn’t take long to find out who he was. The poor bastard.”

  “Poor bastard?” I was still laughing. “Think how the pool felt.”

  “That’s not what he meant,” said Monty. “Neice didn’t know his daughter was dead.”

  We stopped in front of a three-bay shotgun house on Elizabeth, a few doors south of United. A dour, overweight Key West police officer sat on a weathered pine porch swing in the shadows of a gumbo limbo tree. Bright yellow DO NOT CROSS tape encircled the building and yard. The broken window behind the officer had been knocked from the inside outward. Birds chittered on the utility lines.

  Over on South Street, traffic, especially high-pitched mopeds and pickups with bad mufflers, raced in both directions. The world went on around us as we approached another room where time had stopped for someone else.

  “Freeman, we’re going in for a few minutes,” Liska said to the uniformed cop. “If anyone shows up, ask ’em to wait.”

  “Yessir.” His voice came from somewhere in his mouth, but the man did not move a single muscle, even as he spoke.

  Mary Alice’s living room was white wicker furniture, pastel cushions, and small throw rugs with geometric designs. A pure-white stereo system. French doors faced a small plant-filled deck at the rear of the main room. A chubby sand-colored cat with a floral collar lay on a wood-slat bench. Nothing familiar until I looked closely at the framed art on the walls. I remembered the night she had led me to her place in the Strunk Apartments. She’d owned an impressive collection of local work, much of which she’d acquired inexpensively, early in the artists’ careers. She had not stopped accumulating. There must have been thirty pieces on display. The work had appreciated. The four A. D. Tinkham watercolors would pay the house rent for six months, maybe a year.

  “Okay,” said Monty. “Except for that window, everything’s placid in here. We haven’t said a thing about any of this because we want you to look and tell us your impression. The body is gone and there’s dust from the lab crew all over, but everything else is untouched.”

  I looked at Monty, then at Liska. They both deadpanned. I was either their biggest clue or biggest suspect. For the third time I felt that my spark of fear at the airport had been right on. They wanted me to incriminate myself. A setup, out of the wild blue yonder. All too tight. My innocence gave me little comfort.

  Chicken Neck opened the bedroom door. The room looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Two broken lamps, busted glass in the frames on the wall—more photographs than art in here—drawers pulled from the bureau and turned, a large potted palm on its side with sphagnum and dirt and vermiculite spilled across a genuine-looking Oriental. Blue and beige wallpaper torn near the doorframe. The four-poster bed at an angle; one leg broken under the frame. Rope secured to each post. The loose ends cut clean by the ME squad.

  “Say anything you like,” said Monty. “You’ve photographed the Albury scene and viewed the Balbuena and Guthery scene details in Lester’s photographs. By the way, Mary Alice’s face was duct-taped like Ellen Albury’s, and her robe lay open like Sally Ann Guthery’s. She had on a short nightgown, like a teddy. Whatever they call it. Victoria’s Secret type of thing.”

  I went into analytical overdrive. The hitches on the near side posts looked right. A bowline on the footpost. A rolling hitch high on the headpost. On the far side of the bed the knots mirrored the first two. Same height, same rub marks in the dark veneer. The son of a bitch had done it again.

  I shifted my attention around the room as if framing evidence shots. The place didn’t have the same feel as the others. The extreme messiness had something to do with it. I looked again at the knots. The braided rope was fresh. It could not have come from Barracuda. Something on the far headpost caught my eye. I walked around the bed for a closer look. The knot that I’d taken at first to be a bowline was a simple slip knot. I checked the footboard post. The hitch was more like several half hitches and a clove hitch. A sloppy knot that happened to have a multiple definition. The first knots I’d inspected were correct. The knots on both far posts were wrong.

  “Shaking your head,” said Monty. “Sympathy for the victim?”

  “These two knots held, but they’re the first ones that aren’t correct.” I held the clipped end of the rope. “Plus this. Brand-new. The Albury house rope was weathered sisal. In the Julia photos it was frayed polystyrene. Lester’s pictures of the Guthery scene showed sisal, but I couldn’t tell if it was old or new.”

  Monty kneaded one of the other ropes. “I hear what you’re saying, but how could we have a copycat with no details on the street?”

  “Where’s the ex-husband?” I said.

  “He was hunting in Texas with Mayor Gomez and Doc Wicker,” said Liska. “They’re on a plane back here right now.”

  “You know what else is wrong?” I pointed at a rectangle of wallpaper on the wall opposite the west-facing windows. “That spot isn’t faded. If the blank space was a photograph … Has anything been missing from the other scenes?”

  Monty looked behind a cushioned bench that sat against the baseboard under the faded spot. “Not that we know of. Nothing’s back here.”

  “Hold it.” Liska puffed up his cheeks and let a long exhale escape through a slit between his lips. His gaze drifted toward my face, but did not meet my eyes. “I like your knot ideas, Rutledge, but don’t push the detective act. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I looked around once more, looked again at the blank spot on the wall.

  Bienvenidos to the Lord’s Motel.

  23

  “One last thing on Pepp
er Neice.” Monty Aghajanian drove the slow lane up North Roosevelt Boulevard. “This wasn’t on the television. He had ‘Yo Papa’ tattooed four inches below his belt line, right across the top of his pubes.”

  Chicken Neck Liska shook his head and stared out at the strip of fast-food restaurants and car dealerships. He’d obviously heard about Ellen Albury’s tattoo and Pepper Neice’s history with children.

  Just before the boulevard curved southward to Cow Key Bridge, the stark-white Monroe County Detention Center dominated our view to the northeast. Set back from the mangrove shallows on the shore of Stock Island, the huge jail provided a cultural and scenic landmark for vacationing families at the Comfort Inn, Econo-Lodge, and Holiday Inn. The only windows on its west wall were at the forty-foot level: administrative offices. There were no windows on the lower levels or on the other external walls. I’ve always believed that if every inmate breathed in at once, the roof would cave in. The place is a perfect companion piece to its neighbors, the dump called Mount Trashmore, and the rust-colored stacks of the waste-processing plant.

  Monty turned onto the two-lane that snaked off Junior College Road to the jail compound. Fortified transport vans waited near portals marked INMATE INTAKE and INMATE RELEASE. Dejected-looking trusties carried brooms and pole-mounted dustpans in the asphalt parking area.

  Dozens of ages, colors, and shapes had crowded into the jail’s triple-glazed vestibule, more a cage for the free than a waiting room. Children displayed runny noses, ill-fitting dime-store attire, and their own little mean streaks, their own lost gazes. Girlfriends and wives had nasty attitudes and unwashed hair. The few men in the room looked like uncaught accomplices, and the attorneys acted like gamblers staking an errand against the slim chance of compensation. The jailers looked bored and resentful. On our entrance fifty eyes focused on Liska’s clothing and accepted Chicken Neck as one of them. The moment gave me a better understanding of the man’s success as an investigator.

  Liska flashed his badge and a guard slid a battered clipboard under a glass partition. Monty and I relinquished our driver’s licenses and signed civilian waivers. With a loud electrical crash a door unlocked and a bright red strobe flashed above the door until we had passed through and it closed behind us. A barrel-shaped man with a crew cut, large ears, and the name ROLLE on his plastic name tag accompanied us.

  “Where are we at with this, Coco Butter?” said Liska to Rolle.

  “Not sure, Chicken Neck.” Officer Rolle spoke in the requisite monotone, enunciated as a military subordinate might report to a commander. “The man had to jack off this morning so they could match him to an evidence sample.”

  I’d never seen Deputy Rolle before, but he had the thick accent of an old-time Conch. I realized I was listening to a detective named Chicken Neck talk to a jailer named Coco Butter. Only in Key West. Rolle continued, “He couldn’t get it with Playboy. Don’t know why. We had to finally send in Letters to Penthouse.”

  “Results?” Liska’s voice echoed in the hall. He managed to maintain a straight face.

  “Ain’t heard. They runnin’ the analysis past all them murders. Looks like the perpetrator shot his load every time. All over the area of the tits.”

  Monty and I looked at each other, deadpan. It sounded like the forensic puzzle piece I had hoped for. I had no doubt that the guard believed “tits” to be an accepted term in law enforcement.

  Liska kept his mouth shut and nodded, urging Rolle to say more.

  “This don’t happen that often,” continued Rolle. “Man claims innocent and the personnel in this facility believe his ass. We hear that sweet tune every day. We ain’t fools. This one, I don’t know what’s with them deputies.”

  I caught a glimpse of Sam Wheeler standing with two jailers at the end of the long hall. He faced into a doorway talking to someone in an office. Just as we reached speaking range he stepped into the office and the door shut behind him. Rolle steered us into a briefing room. A tall young woman I took to be Marnie Dunwoody leaned against a stained table that held two coffee urns, Styrofoam cups, sugar packets, and jars of powdered cream. She had more of a suntan than most Key West working women.

  Monty introduced me, then added, “Thanks for the article on my certification screw job. Every little bit helps.”

  Rolle attempted to maintain command. “’Preciate you wouldn’t repeat all that stuff to the reporter here, Detective. Sheriff’ll talk to her hisself.”

  Ignoring Rolle, the reporter offered her hand and expressed concern about Annie Minnette. A lanky beauty built like a volleyball player, Marnie had straight medium-brown hair and wore an oxford-cloth blouse, wheat-colored jeans, and new-looking deck sneakers. A casual but classy approach to looking professional with minimum maintenance. She gave a curt nod to Liska.

  “Always a pleasure,” said Chicken Neck. It did not sound like the truth.

  “How can you stand the smell in here?” said Monty. “Piss and sweat and Pine-Sol.”

  Marnie twisted her nose, grinned, and shrugged it off. “In spite of what the officer has told you, you are free to speak to the press anytime you choose to do so. I believe permission is included in the Constitution, a piece of paper located in a northern state. Lord knows, no one else around here has told me a thing.” She turned to Rolle. “Is Tommy Tucker going to show before I turn into a pumpkin and make up my own story? I’ve got a press deadline in an hour and forty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll go check, ma’am.”

  I turned to Rolle before he hit the door. “Can you get a message to Mr. Wheeler? Tell him Rutledge is here? See if I can help him in any way?”

  “You a lawyer? Man refused to hire one.”

  “I can find him one fast.”

  “Well, he may not need one if he gets out of here today. I can’t say nothin’ for sure, you follow?” Rolle disappeared into the hallway.

  “Miss Dunwoody, I hate to say this…” Chicken Neck did not appear to be apologetic. “I need to talk to Sheriff Tucker before you do. Business.”

  “Like what I’m here for isn’t business.”

  Monty raised one finger: the press liaison officer mends a fence. “Maybe Tucker’ll talk to us all at once.”

  “Oh, sure.” Marnie extracted a scratch pad from her belly pack. “And Stock Island will turn into Hilton Head. Screw it. I’m out of here.” She flipped some pages of notes and turned to me. “Mr. Rutledge, will you be at 298-8798 later today? That’s your home number, right?”

  “I’ll be in and out. You might get my machine, but I’ll try to call you back.”

  “I understand Miss Minnette is out of town.”

  “As far as the newspaper is concerned, Miss Minnette doesn’t exist. You understand this is for her own safety.”

  Marnie closed the pad. “You understand it is my job to tell the truth.”

  Sheriff Tommy Tucker, in civilian clothes and chomping a large unlighted cigar, stuck his head into the room. “Gentlemen from the city are welcome to join me in my office. The civilians will have to stand by. Sorry, little lady.”

  Marnie raised one hand to eye level and extended four fingers upward. “This many questions, Sheriff. Has this man been charged? Is he the only suspect? Are there suspected accomplices? Is there a known motive?” With each question one finger folded downward. “I’m going to fill that front page with hearsay and loose fiction if you don’t leave a message on my voice mail.”

  The cigar wiggled up and down as he said, “You bet.” Either the sheriff didn’t believe her or didn’t care.

  Monty looked exasperated. “Alex, can you sit tight awhile?”

  Rolle appeared in the hallway behind Tucker. He caught my eye and said, “The man ’preciates your coming out. Says he’s okay. Wants you to buy a bag of charcoal and a bunch of steaks.”

  Sheriff Tucker rolled his eyes.

  Marnie nudged me with her elbow. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “Perfect. I’ve got a duffel in the city vehicle.”

>   Monty pulled out the car keys and gestured for us to follow him. “I’ll be right back,” he assured Liska and Tucker.

  I reclaimed my driver’s license and walked into the heat of the afternoon. For all I knew the day’s air was clear and clean, but I couldn’t erase from my mind the smoldering stench of the dump. I imagined that I smelled it every time I hit Stock Island. The Monroe County Health Unit’s main clinic sat in the shadow of the incinerator stacks. I was surprised to see shrubs and trees still living.

  Along with my travel duffel, the trunk of the Taurus held an arsenal of guns, aerosol weapons, and shields—enough to fend off an invasion force. Monty handed me the bag and slammed the lid. “Talk to you later. You call me. For sure.”

  Marnie Dunwoody drove a bright orange Jeep Wrangler with black foam padding on its roll cage. She started the engine as I climbed in.

  “I need to go to Sam Wheeler’s house on Elizabeth Street, if that’s okay.”

  She flipped a thumbs-up and drove toward the road. I reached back to grab an angle brace in the roll bar. For the second time in a week I felt vulnerable and exposed in an open vehicle, an odd sensation for a cycle rider.

  “Redneck boys in authority outfits.” Marnie grimaced with disgust. “At least I don’t have to work in that gymnasium stench. The government has rules for every detail of their lives. The width of the safety tread on the stairways. The thermostat setting on the central air. They have to measure out their dental floss at home.”

  It’s always a surprise to get an inside look at any profession. This woman had built up her share of cynicism. She stopped at the light where U.S. 1 splits into North and South Roosevelt Boulevards, and slid into the left-turn lane. “One of these days, Tommy Tucker is going to get a ‘little lady’ lesson in black-belt karate. He’s a major malfunction on two legs, and I can’t put that in print.” She stopped for a moment, then added in a surprisingly pleasant tone, “I may not have the greatest job, but at least I’m not on the outlaw assembly line.”