Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “That’s the one. Sikes would have been nineteen back then.”

  “Nineteen … You know, that girl may have been Sikes’s first victim.”

  57

  IT WAS EIGHT-THIRTY when Goldman got off the phone with Wilkerson. He opened his briefcase and rifled through a stack of business cards until he found Albright’s: Harold Albright, M.D., Medical Examiner, Brevard County. On the back was the good doctor’s home phone number. Goldman learned many years ago the importance of getting home phone numbers.

  Albright went on a tirade. He didn’t appreciate the late night phone call, even from the FBI. After a few minutes of cajoling, Goldman managed to calm him down, at least long enough for Albright to explain that the autopsy report had been submitted to the local authorities and the FDLE. But because there were no suspects for the murder of Sara Ann Riley, he had only submitted a report.

  Perfect.

  “Yes, all the physical evidence is still at the morgue,” Albright explained, in a rasping, irritated tone.

  “Good. I need the hair samples tonight.”

  “What?” Albright shouted. Here it goes again. “Goddamn it, it’s late. Shit, it’s almost nine. I’m trying to watch a movie with my wife.”

  Goldman would do what ever it took to get the hair samples, and uncharacteristically, that included kissing Albright’s ass. “I understand, and again I apologize for the late night call. Please offer my apologies to Mrs. Albright.”

  “I’m not telling her anything. She’s still watching the goddamn movie.”

  “Look, why don’t you finish the movie and then meet Detective Wilkerson at the hospital when it’s over? How’s that sound?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve already missed the best part. Son-of-a-bitch.”

  Goldman was silent.

  “You there?” Albright asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Goddamn it, Goldman, this really pisses me off. I’ll meet him inside the lobby around ten.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The bullshit I have to put up with. Everybody wants something immediately—”

  The phone went dead.

  58

  WITH THE HELP of Detective Averly, Agent Goldman arranged for an FDLE forensics tech to meet him, and Detective Wilkerson, at the regional laboratory on Cushman Avenue at eleven forty-five.

  Goldman easily merged his car into the sparse traffic heading north on I-4. The scanty number of cars on the road was a relief from the midday struggle through gnarled traffic and hopeless attempts to catch his exit. The pavement had a yellowish hue from the sodium-vapor lamps mounted atop neatly-spaced tapered-aluminum poles planted alongside the road. There was a slight haze hovering over Orlando, adding to the eerie sullenness of the tawny road. Goldman cruised toward the forensics lab.

  He pulled off Cushman Avenue into the parking lot of the Wellington Building, where the FDLE had four laboratories and several offices that occupied the entire third floor. Goldman shut off the engine and walked toward the building. The late-night air was still and moist. There was a shadowed figure standing outside the entrance. As he walked closer, he finally saw it was Wilkerson, toothpick proudly hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a large envelope tucked under his arm.

  “We’re ready,” Wilkerson said, holding up the envelope. “I got the samples. Where’s Averly? Wasn’t he supposed to come?”

  “He’s staying home. I told him you and I would handle this.”

  Wilkerson shrugged his shoulders and flicked his toothpick into the boxwoods lining the sidewalk.

  Wilkerson rang the doorbell, and after several minutes a guard showed up and checked their IDs.

  “Sam Weber’s in the lab waiting for you,” the guard mumbled. “Follow me.”

  The guard led the two down a brightly-lit hall with shiny white walls. The glossy paint and white tiled floor gave the long corridor an eerie perspective, like something out of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. They marched behind the guard as he turned left and then suddenly stopped. He took a magnetic card from his shirt pocket and swiped it through a reader, and the door latch snapped open.

  Inside the large, dimly-lit laboratory was a single man sitting at a small wooden desk. A bright desk lamp illuminated something he was reading. He quickly tossed whatever it was into one of the desk drawers then turned his swivel chair toward the men and popped up from its seat.

  “I’m Sam Weber.” He suppressed a faint burp with the back of his hand.

  “I’m FBI Agent Doug Goldman and this is Detective Glenn Wilkerson with the Cocoa Beach Police.”

  “How’s it goin’? I’ll be doin’ the analysis on the hair samples,” Weber said. He reached for a can of Dr. Pepper on the desk and sipped from it.

  Weber was tall, actually lanky, maybe six feet. His most remarkable feature was his shoulders. He basically had none. They sloped downward like slides on a playground. Goldman also noticed the man’s fingers when he shook his hand. They were alien-like, protruding from his hands like dangling jellyfish tentacles.

  Goldman motioned for Wilkerson to hand him the large brown envelope. He ran his finger down the seal and pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags.

  “These are the hair samples taken from the victim,” he told Weber.

  Goldman reached into the envelope again and took out another plastic bag, this one slightly larger than the first. “And here’s a hair sample found by forensics,” he said. “We need to know if they match.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Thanks for doing this so late at night,” Wilkerson told Weber.

  “Yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.” Again he muffled a faint burp with the back of his hand.

  “How long will the analysis take?” Goldman asked.

  “Ah, geez, probably three hours, give or take.”

  “When you’ve completed your analysis, just give me a call at my hotel. Okay?”

  “What’s the number?”

  “I’ll give you the hotel number and my cell phone number.”

  Weber shrugged with what there was of whatever you’d call shoulders. “Sure.”

  Goldman retrieved the small notepad from his sport coat pocket and jotted down the numbers.

  59

  THE TWO HAIR samples matched. Now Goldman had to make a decision: wake a judge at 3:00 am for an arrest warrant, or wait until the morning? Waking a circuit court judge at this hour probably wasn’t a good idea. Besides, Sikes’s apartment building was staked out. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Goldman lowered his head on the king-size down pillow and closed his eyes. At least I’ll get a few hours of sleep. He was drifting. A buoyancy swept over him, and he smoothly sailed into a deep sleep.

  I wasn’t even a teenager. I like this dream … The Untouchables was his favorite TV show. At twelve, Douglas Goldman’s mother finally gave in to his father and allowed him to watch the most violent show on TV.

  “Ah, come on, Louise, it isn’t that bad. You used to watch The Honeymooners.”

  “The Honeymooners, George! What does that have to do with this discussion?”

  “It has a lot to do with it.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Remember, ‘One of these days, Alice … Pow! Right in the kisser.’”

  “What?”

  “Or, ‘You’re going to the moon, Alice.’ Or, ‘Bang! Zoom!’” George shouted with his right fist raised high in the air.

  “You’ve flipped your lid,” Louise said. She shook her head and placed the final wrapped leftover from dinner in the refrigerator.

  “Violence, dear. It’s the violence. Ralph Kramden is a violent man. Al Capone and Eliot Ness were violent.”

  “Oh, come on now, you can’t compare those two shows.”

  “Sure I can. Look, these are TV shows, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “The Untouchables has real violence.”

  “What? Real violence! It’s a TV show. And besides, it’s not that
bad.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m tired of arguing about this. Dougie can watch it, but only with you.”

  “Yes, dear,” George said with a lopsided grin.

  At eight-thirty Thursday morning, the detectives staking out David Sikes’s apartment building reported he hadn’t left for work. One hour later, Goldman had a signed arrest warrant. He met Wilkerson in the parking lot of the Circle K convenience store two blocks from Sikes’s apartment building. They drove together in Goldman’s rental car to meet up with the two detectives staking out Sikes’s apartment.

  The four approached the front of the apartment building. The two detectives on the stakeout split up and covered the backyard. Sikes’s apartment was on the bottom floor of an old, ratty house that had been converted into four small apartments. Wilkerson rapped hard on the front door with his knuckles, jarring loose some flaking paint.

  No response.

  He banged harder the second time, shaking loose more paint chips that fluttered down, settling on the porch. After a few seconds the door opened.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Step outside,” Wilkerson ordered.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Hands in front of you, and step out here.”

  The man standing before them wore a Dale Earnhardt T-shirt with a large number 3 and a pair of ragged blue jean shorts. His pudgy upper body supported a pair of spindly legs. He had a round, boyish face and long dark-brown hair tucked back over his ears.

  He slowly moved through the front door and onto the porch.

  “State your full name,” Wilkerson said.

  “David Allen Sikes.”

  “Mr. Sikes, you’re under arrest for kidnapping and first-degree murder.”

  “What? Murder? I didn’t murder anyone!”

  “Turn around.”

  Sikes turned his back, and Wilkerson slapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

  “You have the right to remain silent. If you chose not to, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney, the court will appoint one. Do you understand these rights?”

  “Ah—yes—ah—yes, I do, but I didn’t murder anybody. Why are you arresting me? Damn it, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Do you waive your rights?”

  “You mean will I talk to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you what ever you want. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Goldman stepped forward and took over. “Mr. Sikes, my name is Doug Goldman,” he said in a soft tone. “I’m with the FBI. We’re going to the Cocoa Beach Police Station to talk.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Sikes repeated, looking around but not making eye contact with either man. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “There’ll be just you and me in the room; no one else. How does that sound?”

  “No—no. Why can’t we talk here? I didn’t do anything.”

  “We’re going to go to the police station and talk. It’s in your best interest to cooperate with us. If your story checks out, then you don’t have anything to worry about, okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Sikes’s chin met his chest and he mumbled, “You’ll have to let me go, you’ll see. I need something to drink.”

  “We’ll both have something to drink when we get there. How’s that sound?”

  “I guess. But I don’t want to stay there long. I have things to do.”

  Wilkerson grabbed the shiny stainless-steel chain between the two cuffs and pointed toward his car.

  60

  AFTER QUESTIONING SIKES for two hours, Goldman called Adam Riley. Adam was about to step out of his office for a late lunch, probably at Frank’s Wing House down the street, a popular, greasy, in-and-out restaurant.

  “We’ve made an arrest,” Goldman said.

  Adam fell back into his chair. “Who is it?”

  “He’s a part-time electrician. Lives in Frontenac.”

  “How’d you catch him?”

  “I can’t say much now. Don’t want to jeopardize the case.”

  “Are you sure he’s the right man?”

  “I’ll say this much, we have some very compelling evidence.”

  “What happens next?”

  “First he’ll be charged with the kidnapping and murder of your daughter. Then there will eventually be an arraignment, where he’ll have the chance to plead guilty or not guilty.”

  Adam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “It’s going to be a long process, isn’t it?”

  “It usually is.”

  “Thank God Florida has the death penalty.”

  “That’s up to the state attorney.”

  “He deserves to die.”

  “I’m going to leave tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Riley.”

  “I guess your work’s done here.”

  “Almost.”

  Adam shut the door to his office and then leaned back in his heavy leather chair. Something was troublesome about the whole thing. Maybe it was the thought of the ordeal that lay ahead, the legal maneuvering, the trial, the jury’s long deliberation, and then the final verdict. Guilty. He has to be found guilty.

  Adam had to call Valerie and Dawn. They would sit together at dinner, not a word would be spoken, each one personalizing the fate of the monster that took Sara Ann from them.

  Averly was scheduled to arrive at the police station within minutes, along with several investigators from the FDLE. Goldman had skillfully handled the multi-jurisdictional dynamics over the past several weeks, but now it would become a real challenge with the overlapping investigations. Who gets the credit? That’s what it always boiled down to, that someone’s running for office, someone else wants to make lieutenant or captain, or they all want to see their name in a newspaper headline, or better yet, national exposure on television.

  Before the questioning of Sikes continued, Goldman conferred with Wilkerson. They sat in a small alcove on the other side of a two-way mirror, watching Sikes in the interrogation room. Sikes appeared more confused than anything, rocking in his chair and occasionally throwing his head back. Sometimes he rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had dug into his skin.

  “What do you think so far?” Wilkerson asked, taking his eyes off Sikes and looking to Goldman.

  “I’ll say what I said several days ago: we’re dealing with two different people,” replied Goldman, staring straight at Sikes through the two-way mirror.

  “You mean he’s schizophrenic?”

  “No, multiple personalities. Sikes won’t acknowledge any involvement with the death of either girl. But that’s not unusual, and lacking evidence, you’d never know for sure. But in this case, I sense that the David Sikes I’ve been questioning didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Wait, you think he didn’t—oh, you mean the other Sikes killed, not this one,” Wilkerson said, making quotation marks with his fingers as he said “other.”

  “Correct. There’s part of him that’s guilty as hell, but that’s not the part of him that I’ve been questioning.”

  Goldman was about to reenter the room where David Sikes sat with a half-full cup of water when Averly showed up with three FDLE investigators. Goldman had Wilkerson brief the four men while he continued questioning Sikes.

  Get into his head, Goldman thought. Find the one thing that will trigger the other Sikes. Put yourself in the mind of the killer.

  “Mr. Sikes,” Goldman said, as he entered the room.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want some more water?”

  “No, I’m all right. When can I go back home?”

  “You can’t.”

  “But you said I could go home after we talked.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said if your story checked out, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I want to go home.”

  “Do you understand the charges against you?”

  “I understand the charges,
but I didn’t do it.”

  “Do you remember the name of the murdered girl I told you?”

  “Sara Riley.”

  “That’s right, Sara Ann Riley. She was in high school, about to start her senior year. Very popular girl. Do you remember the description of her I gave you?”

  Sikes didn’t hesitate. “You didn’t give me a description.”

  “Well, she had dark hair and brown eyes.”

  Goldman watched.

  Sikes didn’t bite, shrugging his shoulders and throwing his head back to sweep the dark-brown strands of hair from his forehead. He sat in silence.

  Goldman shifted in his chair and glanced at a notepad he held. Then he tossed it onto the table. “Mr. Sikes, have you ever heard of Gabriel?”

  Sikes’s brow wrinkled and he shook his head. “Gabriel? I don’t know a Gabriel.”

  “You’ve never heard of Gabriel.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Gabriel, except the angel.”

  “So you do know him.”

  “I know of the angel Gabriel. Everybody knows him.”

  “I suppose so. I think you should call an attorney, Mr. Sikes.”

  “Why?”

  “You need counsel. Either call one, or a public defender will be assigned. Your choice.”

  “I know one. Harley Buckwald. He’s in Orlando. I’ve seen him a lot on TV.”

  “Okay. Someone will bring you a phone. You can talk to Mr. Buckwald in private.”

  61

  LATE THURSDAY AFTERNOON Adam sat in his office with his feet propped up, heels planted on the large wooden desk. Goldman’s words earlier in the day had moved him even further from his work. Good judgment and fertile imagination that served him well at his job in the past now seemed distant, almost as if they had sailed off to wherever Sara Ann was. He was missing important meetings and unable to concentrate on even the simplest tasks.

  His mind wandered, moving toward something unnatural and foreign, as if a black veil had been cast over him, holding in the rage and hatred for the monster that brutally murdered his baby girl. His distance was now a main source of disharmony between Adam and Valerie. Adam discounted her notions of forgiveness for David Allen Sikes. The idea of forgiving a brutal, murdering savage like Sikes just wasn’t fathomable. Valerie’s words wouldn’t stop echoing in his head: “We can’t expect to have closure unless we forgive.”