Trial by Blood

by William Bernhardt

  “Why would anyone throw that away?”

  “Because they’re high. I wouldn’t know from experience—I can’t afford bad habits like that—but I assume when people are tripping they don’t always use the best judgment.”

  Probably a safe assumption. “And you never get any complaints?”

  “Oh, sometimes. You know, every neighborhood has some old lady who spends her day looking out the window, hoping she can catch someone violating the neighborhood association code or something. But there’s nothing they can do about me. Once that trash barrel is placed on the street, the law says it’s no longer yours. You have no right of privacy and no claim of ownership. Which means I can take whatever I find.”

  He couldn’t argue. Despite not attending law school, Quint did more or less understand the relevant property law. “And that’s when you found the syringe?”

  “Exactly. Over the years, I’ve developed a talent for knowing what’s valuable. A second sense, you might call it.”

  He wouldn’t. “Why would you keep a syringe? I wouldn’t think you’d want to go anywhere near that.”

  “You’d be wrong. All kinds of possibilities there. Might indicate other drug paraphernalia is about, or the drugs themselves. Might still be something yummy in the syringe. For that matter, the syringe itself is of some value. Junkies are always looking for clean needles. Hard to get good supplies without attracting attention. They reuse syringes out of desperation—and you know how that ends.”

  Maria looked like she was about to vomit. “If you sell syringes to addicts, you could spread all kinds of diseases.”

  “They’re junkies. They’re killing themselves anyway.”

  Oh, well, that makes it okay. “Drug paraphernalia means lucrative items for resale.”

  “Or cop money.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “A syringe in the trash means drug users. You give that info to the local cops, you get paid. Usually ten bucks for a solid tip.”

  “You squeal to the cops for money?”

  “I report a possible crime. Ain’t that what good citizens are supposed to do?”

  Maria tapped the toe of her shoe against the threadbare carpet. He could tell her patience was reaching its limit. “Is that what you were doing when you found the syringe in the trash outside the foster home where Ossie was living?”

  “Yup. I thought someone in there was a druggie. I had no idea he was a murderer.”

  Dan raised his arm—and it hurt. He had to remind himself. No sudden movements. Moving sent shivers of pain radiating through his body. “Ossie isn’t guilty. He didn’t kill anyone.”

  “That’s not what the cops told me. They said he must’ve shot that theater guy up with something, maybe to kill him, maybe to paralyze him so he could cremate the body.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would he kill Harrison Coleman at the theater—and then bring the syringe home, only to throw it away where someone could find it?”

  “Just because I don’t know all the whys and wherefores doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Crooks aren’t always geniuses. They get scared, panicky.”

  “You don’t have any reason to believe that syringe was tossed into the trash by Ossie, right?”

  “They tell me he lived there.”

  “But anyone could’ve done it. Lots of kids lived there. For that matter, a passing stranger could’ve thrown a syringe into the trash bin.”

  Quint looked as if he were about to say something—then stopped himself. “I think I’ve said enough. Maybe you should go now.”

  “You can’t withhold information from the defense.”

  “I can do any damn thing I want. Maybe the cops have to talk to you, but I don’t. Get out.”

  This conversation was finished. He pushed himself to his feet—slowly—so the pain was intense but not excruciating. “If you think of anything else important, please give me a call.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  No, he didn’t expect it would. “But if something important—”

  “Everything’s important,” Quint said quietly. “If you know the story behind it.”

  Chapter 23

  Maria drove back to the office, which freed him to daydream about stretching his aching body across a nice soft mattress.

  “Well, that happened,” Maria said.

  “Talking about Quint?”

  “Yeah. A ten-minute, completely unproductive conversation that left me desperate for a bath.” She glanced at him. “Do we need this garbage? Maybe we should ditch the courtrooms and start flipping houses. I hear those guys make tons of money. I’ll be St. Pete’s Joanna Gaines.”

  “Only if I can be Chip.”

  Maria glanced at him. “I will say this, Dan. At least you’re consistent. First you took me to a disgusting strip joint. Then to an even more disgusting motel room. What’s next, a deposition in the sewer system?”

  “I think it’s time we confronted Conrad Sweeney face to face.”

  “That would be even worse.”

  A jazzy ringtone burst from his phone. “What’s up?”

  Garrett got straight to the point. “The cops may have found the cabin.”

  “Ossie’s cabin?”

  “There’s a yellow triangle on the porch gable. Texting you a location pin. Out in the Everglades.”

  Dan slammed a fist onto the dashboard. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

  Maria grinned. “Good news?”

  “If it confirms Ossie’s story—absolutely.” He glanced at the map on his phone. “Truly secluded. No wonder no one found Ossie all those years.”

  He switched the call to speakerphone so Maria could listen in. “What else do you know?”

  “Not much. The cops aren’t in the habit of spilling everything they know to defense attorneys. But I did get a call from Kakazu’s lieutenant.”

  That made sense. Kakazu was a straight shooter. “He knows it relates to our case. He’s doing his duty to inform us of potentially exculpatory evidence. Does anyone still live there?”

  “I don't think so. But I didn’t get many details. You need to get out there.”

  “Course correction as we speak,” Maria said. “I’ll drop you off.”

  “You don’t want to come with?”

  “Tramping through the swamp in these two-thousand-dollar jeans? No thank you.”

  “Tell Kakazu I’m on my way, Garrett. Do you know what they found inside the cabin?”

  Garrett’s voice dropped several octaves. “Yeah. Bodies. Lots and lots of dead bodies. Corpses.” He took another breath. His voice wavered. “Mummies, actually. Most of them young boys.”

  * * *

  Dan couldn’t believe...well, most of what he’d learned in the last twenty-four hours. But at least this startling development was a positive one. For the first time ever, the crazy story Ossie told that no one thought had the slightest credibility started to look as if it might be true.

  The other massively unbelievable aspect of this journey, of course, was that he was being led by a police guide through largely uncharted and undeveloped stretches of Florida swampland. His Air Jordans did not function all that well in wet, marshy ground, and the less said about what this was doing to his Zenga suit, the better.

  He usually liked being outdoors, but this was something else again. Birds dive-bombed with such frequency he felt he was in a war zone. Cranes? Herons? Egret? He really should have spent more time studying the local birds, and he would’ve too, except he was terribly busy and that sounded terribly boring.

  He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. It was cold out here, cold and wet, even though the sun was shining. Maybe it was the power of suggestion. Get your sneakers wet, and you’ll be cold for the rest of the day, regardless of the climate. Still, the hike took hours. He should’ve chartered a helicopter.

  “How much longer?” he asked Sergeant Enriquez. Kakazu always seemed to put him in charge of the crime scene, even
when it was a million miles off the beaten track.

  “At least another hour.” Enriquez appeared to be using some combination of cell phone location service and compass app to navigate. He said they had asked the FSBI to loan them a drone to help the forensic teams find their way. “We can’t take the most direct route. Too much brush in the way.”

  “And yet we think someone lived out here?”

  “Guess that will be your client’s story. I can’t imagine.” Enriquez looked up. “I’m a homebody. I like to be where I can get Netflix and order a pizza.”

  He took another step—and felt his foot sink into a pothole, past his ankle. “Blast!” He jerked his foot out.

  “Be careful,” Enriquez warned. “It’s possible to get completely stuck. You might lose your shoe. Or be here a very long time.”

  Maria was right to stay away. He probably should have followed her lead. But time was ticking. He was already starting to regret his whacked-out idea of asking for the earliest possible trial setting. This eleventh-hour discovery only made it worse. But if there was something in that cabin that might help Ossie, or shed some light on what was going on in this case, he had to know about it. “Any other advice?”

  “Give up the lucrative life of the defense attorney and join the forces of good.”

  “Something more practical.”

  “Start buying your suits at JCPenney.”

  * * *

  Dan was greeted by Kakazu as soon as he and Enriquez emerged from the clearing. It was almost as if the homicide detective was waiting for him. Or was so amazed Dan had actually made it that he decided to offer his personal congratulations.

  “I must say, I am impressed,” Kakazu said.

  “You didn’t think I’d come?”

  “I knew you’d try. I just didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “Ridiculous. I’m an athlete. This was easy.” He brushed the mud and grunge from his clothes and wrung out his lower pant legs. “Kitesurfing is hard. This was just...”

  “Miserable?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Come inside. There’s a lot you’re going to want to see. Correction—” He stopped short. “There’s a lot here you don’t want to see and will never be able forget. You’ll probably never forgive me for showing it to you. But you insisted.”

  “I can handle it. I’ve seen a lot in my time.”

  Kakazu almost smirked. “Believe me, you’ve never encountered this. I should’ve sent you a trigger warning.”

  He mounted the porch. The front gable did have a yellow triangle on it. The triangle pointed upward and appeared a bit smudged at the bottom. And the cabin faced west, so Ossie’s description proved true on two counts. Of course, the whole place was so filthy it was hard to see anything clearly.

  Kakazu opened the front door. The odor sliced him up like a knife. Sharp and inescapable. Putrid. Made his eyes water. Took a death grip on his lungs and wouldn’t let him go.

  Kakazu handed him a blue face mask, like something a surgeon might wear. He put it on. It didn’t help much, but he left it on just the same.

  Kakazu led him into the cabin. It appeared to have only one room furnished with standard table and chair, some dishes by a sink, a cot in the corner. A few doors that might lead to other areas. Kakazu pointed toward a gaping hole in the floor. A wooden plank revealed a ladder leading down into what appeared to be some kind of basement.

  He drew in his breath. “Were they children?”

  Kakazu nodded grimly. “Young boys. Every one of them.”

  He felt a catch in his throat. “How—” He looked around the tiny room. “In here?”

  “There’s a cage in the back. Chains.”

  “And then?”

  Kakazu drew in his breath. “When he was done playing with them, he killed them and brought them down here.”

  “It’s...a basement full of rotting child bodies.”

  “Not rotting.” He started down the stairs, apparently assuming Dan would follow. “Mummified.”

  Chapter 24

  Dan hated to admit it, but Kakazu was right. He had not seen anything like this before. The cabin was the most horrific crime scene he had ever witnessed, bar none. Eleven small mummified bodies. Wrapped in cloth bandages like something out of a third-rate horror film.

  The human remains were dressed like little dolls. Some were even posed. Some had painted faces. One was dressed like a teddy bear, with a decapitated teddy head over the actual head. Four sat around a small table laid out with decorations. A birthday party for those who would never have another birthday.

  “Where did these boys come from?”

  “We have no clue. We’ve barely begun to collect information. But the cabin does appear to some superficial similarities to the one your client described—”

  “And none of you believed.”

  Kakazu tucked in his chin. “I’m still not convinced. But this does match the description, so we’re dutifully notifying defense counsel.”

  “The killer couldn’t have found these boys around here.”

  “We’re speculating that the killer made occasional forays into civilization to pick up supplies. Food, sundries—”

  “And children.” He pinched his nose, trying unsuccessfully to block out the stench. “Couldn’t have done it often. Too hard to get back and forth. But he probably didn’t need to. Or want to. And once he had them back here—where could they go? Even if they escaped, trying to get from here to anyplace they might be found would be almost impossible.”

  “Or would require a great deal of good fortune. The angels smiling.”

  “No kid who was abducted and dragged out here is going to claim the angels were smiling upon him. Do we know who any of the kids were?”

  “Not yet. We’re going through missing persons reports for the last fifteen years, but that takes time. And if the boys were runaways, there may be no local reports.”

  “Do we know what...the killer did with these boys? I mean—” He swallowed, then tried again. “Was it just for murdering? Or torture and murder? Or was there...more?”

  Kakazu’s head lowered. “We don’t know. But common sense suggests...more.”

  “Some kind of pervert.”

  “More like, pathological sadist.”

  “Gets off on seeing children tortured?”

  “Another grotesque possibility.”

  “So basically...the worst thing it could possibly be.”

  “We haven’t seen any signs of cannibalism. But other than that...yes. As repulsive as it gets.”

  “And if Ossie came from here—”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “He described the cabin.”

  “In the vaguest possible way.”

  “There’s nothing vague about a yellow triangle on the gable. Or the number.”

  “Could be a lucky shot. Something he saw somewhere else.”

  “I’m not buying it.” He turned his head away from the bodies. Was it too soon to leave? He thought he’d done a good job of playing the tough guy and pretending this didn’t make him want to hurl. But if they stayed down here much longer, he was going to vomit, tough guy or no. “I think you know Ossie was here.”

  “Then how did he get away?”

  “Presumably he left after his captor—the corpse upstairs—died.”

  “Then how did he get back to St. Petersburg?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “And how did the heir to a fortune end up in this hellhole in the first place? What happened to his memory?”

  He felt a shiver. “If I’d been here, I’d want to block it out of my memory, too.”

  * * *

  Dan stared at the body on the stretcher. Since this adult corpse, unlike the others, had not been mummified, the techs from the medical examiner’s office were able to deal with it in a more typical fashion. After a preliminary examination and the removal of exemplars, they prepared it for the arduous jo
urney back to the city.

  The body was covered with tattoos. Caked blood on the right hand. Bald, wiry, stained flannel shirt. In his fifties or sixties. “Joe.”

  Kakazu squinted. “What?”

  “That’s what Ossie called the man who lived with him in the cabin.”

  “Did he mention the man was a serial killer?”

  “No. He probably didn’t know about that part.”

  “It would be hard to keep that hidden.”

  “Maybe not. Serial killers tend to be careful. Meticulous. And Ossie was young. Innocent.” He looked away from the corpse. “What killed him?”

  “Believe it or not—natural causes.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping one of his victims got free and came after him with a chainsaw.”

  “No signs of that. Looks like his time was up and he stroked out.”

  “Is it wrong for me to hope it was painful? At least for a little while?”

  “No.” Kakazu thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “I hope he thrashed on the floor for days in complete misery. But in all likelihood, it was quick. And there was no one around to help him.”

  “Because he’d killed everyone who might possibly help him.”

  “I have a hunch the boys he brought to this cabin would not have been that keen to help. Torture has a way of turning people against you.”

  No doubt. If he saw the fake UPS guy who’d attacked him writhing on the ground, he was relatively sure he’d keep walking.

  He bent over to get a closer look, peering over the shoulders of the technicians prepping the body to be moved. Not terribly healthy, even before the stroke, probably. No ring, nor trace of a ring, on his left hand. “Can we be sure this is the man who killed those boys?”

  Kakazu moved to the other side of the room, by the window. He guessed the man probably needed some fresh air. He’d been in this death trap most of the day. “I don’t see anyone else around. Or traces of another person.”