“You sound just like Les Groud,” Ronson said.
“Really? And here I thought I was being original.”
“You’re not. And if the Frister woman goes on working here?” Ronson asked.
“Then I microwave my usual frozen dinners most nights. I reserve the one night per month and an occasional visit when I have someone to entertain.”
“Humpff. What do you think, George?”
“I think we don’t need some kind of lawsuit for having fired a victim of a crime.”
“Very well. The woman can stay. But if this keeps up I may change my mind.”
“Don’t worry,” Troy said. “We’ll get the guy, sooner or later.”
Chapter 37
Tuesday, July 30
On Tuesday afternoon Mayor Lester Groud ordered the town evacuated ahead of the approaching storm. Donald was still a category one hurricane. In the meeting room on the second floor of the town hall, employees checked their emergency food, blankets and medical supplies. Any refugees could shelter on the floor there. Troy called in his troops for a meeting. He was in the break room giving out instructions when the siren on the roof went off.
“Jesus,” he said, sticking his fingers into his ears. “They going to blow that thing all day?”
There were a few laughs. June got up and left the room. “They do it for one minute,” Angel shouted. “Alerts everyone to check the town web site for news, or their smart phones for a text message.”
“Modern technology paired with old. I like it,” Troy shouted back. June came back with the Bad Word Jar and set it down in front of Troy. The siren stopped. “Some of you have families,” Troy said. “Feel free to bring them in here. If you need to go get them, do that. They can sleep in the cells. But I need all of you out there serving and protecting. Now, let’s get out there, two to a truck. Lights on. Cruise the residential streets and use the loudspeakers to tell people to pack up and get out.” He took a dollar out of his wallet and pushed it into the jar. It was almost the end of the month and the jar was getting full.
“Most residents know the drill,” Juan Valdez said. “Some will go, some will stay, no matter how much we yell at them. A category-one storm, hard to get a lot of people to leave. A cat-three, about everyone goes. A cat-two, don’t know.”
“Do the trailers over on Snake Key first,” Jeremiah Brown rumbled. They got to evacuate.” Along the coast of Florida all trailers, mobile and manufactured homes were automatically included in any county’s Evacuation Zone A. The flood waters weren’t the problem, but the wind. Lightly built of plywood and tin, even with tie-down straps, trailers were dangerous places to try to shelter in. After a good blow all that was left sometimes was the bottom metal frame, the wheels, and the tie-down straps.
“What about our prisoner?” June asked.
“I can’t spare anyone to take him to Naples right now,” Troy said. “He stays where he is. And that means that, no matter what, one of us must always be in here too. We never leave an unattended prisoner who has no way to get out if there’s a problem.”
“I can stay here,” June said.
“You’re not an officer. I can’t make you.”
“I know. What else are Bob and I supposed to do? Sit around the house listening to the roof come off? Here I can be useful. Him too.”
“Thanks, June. You’re now the jail matron too, you and Bob. Now everyone, you’re on payroll, June too. Private cars get per diem. The two not out in the Suburbans get out in your own cars or just walk. And check the motels. I want the tourists out of town, not drinking booze and partying.”
“A lot of them won’t leave,” Tom VanDyke said. “They’ve never been in one of these and they’re on vacation.”
Troy nodded. “I made up a form on the computer and ran off a couple hundred copies. Each of you take some of the forms. It’s a release for them to sign if they wish to stay. They understand that we’re not going to risk our lives to save theirs when they had the chance to leave. Ask them to put down the contact information of a next of kin for us to notify of their deaths. Tell them you are supposed to use a ball point pen to write their social security numbers on their foreheads so we can identify the bodies later. If they actually let you do that, make a note on the form.”
“Jesus,” Angel said. “Like Auschwitz.” June slid the jar over to Angel.
“I’m just trying to make them think and maybe scare them a little. If they don’t buy the number thing, or refuse to fill in the form, let it go.”
“We give these forms to the residents? The townspeople?” Tom VanDyke asked.
Troy shook his head. “First, I’m hoping they’re smarter about hurricanes, though that may or may not be entirely true. Second, they live here, so should something bad happen it’s not that hard to know who they are. Third, I don’t see the need to piss off the people who pay our salaries.”
Jeremiah reached for the jar and slid it down in front of Troy. “Oh, come on,” Troy said. “That’s just a biological emission, not a real swear word.” Jeremiah just tapped the top of the jar and some kind of subterranean rumble came from the top of his thick neck. Troy got out another dollar. “OK. Everyone hit the streets. Milo and Bubba, I want you back here at six p.m. to get some rest so you can take over the night shift later. June, you and Jeremiah go upstairs to the meeting hall and steal a dozen blankets and anything else you think we will need to stay here overnight. Milo, you hang back, I want to talk to you. You and Jeremiah can take the second Suburban out in a half-hour.”
Each person had full foul-weather gear—yellow bib overalls and heavy yellow coat with hood and reflecting tape, and white rubber boots. Not fashionable, but practical. They struggled into those and put their duty belts on over the clothes. “We look like a Mrs. Gorton’s Fish Sticks commercial,” Angel said. Soon, Milo and Troy were alone in the break room. One good note, Troy thought, was that Milo had put his squeaky shoes into his locker when he changed to the boots. Troy looked at Milo and said nothing. Milo fiddled nervously with the Bad Word Jar and said nothing. Troy just sat with his arms crossed and stared at Milo.
“What’s up, Chief?” Milo asked after a few moments.
“What’s with you and Wanda Frister?” Troy asked.
“Whattya mean?”
“As a general rule, trained law enforcement officers don’t hold hands with crime victims. By the way, where is Wanda?”
“She’s at her place. I punched out the door lock with a tire iron. I told her not to do anything with the A/C unit yet. If the storm blows her trailer away what would be the point of a new air conditioner?”
“That’s actually good thinking. You sort of taking Wanda under your wing, are you?”
Milo looked up. “I guess you can say that. She’s alone and scared of Billy Poteet and scared of her home being wrecked by the storm. Isn’t there something we can do about Billy Poteet?”
“Did you check her trailer for any drugs?”
“Yes, I did, Chief. She has a few over-the-counter things, like for colds. That’s all I found.”
“Did you look anywhere else but the medicine cabinet?”
“Yes I did. I looked everywhere. And it was goddamn embarrassing. Are you happy?”
“You bet. You did your job, embarrassing or not.” Troy put a dollar into the jar for Milo. “I got this one,” he said.
“Thanks. I still need to find Billy Poteet and beat the living…stuffing out of him.”
Troy smiled. “We will do something about Billy Poteet. But the main difference between us and him is civilization. He just acts on impulse and a vicious nature. We act within legal rules and we don’t act on our emotions. We don’t act on our emotions no matter how hard it is for us to not do that. It takes us longer but what we do sticks. Do you understand the difference?”
“I suppose so. Like you didn’t use your gun on that guy in the back cells.”
“Like that. Why don’t you go now, find Wanda, tell her to bring her car here and bunk
in with us tonight.”
“Really? OK. Sure will. We done here, Chief?”
“Yes we are, Officer Binder. Go find Jeremiah and when he’s done helping June you guys take the other patrol truck out. I guess I can hold the fort here until June gets back, me and Norris Compton back there.”
Troy went back to the cells. Compton was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Troy unlocked the door, went in, and sat on the other bunk. Compton sat up and turned to put his feet on the floor. “You know, Chief Adam, I never had any trouble like this before.” He looked around. “First time I’ve ever been in jail. Heck, first time I’ve ever seen a jail.”
“I know. And our jail is pretty nice compared to some others. But it’s only intended for temporary holding. Norris, I read your file, what you told the other officers. You’re not in the system. I checked. No wants or warrants. You’re an accountant, as I understand. You’re divorced and still helping put a kid through college. There’s no record of you ever having so much as a parking ticket.”
“That was all up in Atlanta. I worked for thirty years in an office, shoving paper around. Just moved here a year ago when I retired. I wanted to fish. Mostly I needed to get out of Atlanta and clear out my head. But Chief, I just got freaked out by the storm. Never seen a hurricane before.”
“You haven’t seen one yet. But you soon will.”
“I drink too much sometimes. Didn’t use to. I think I get bored. I argue with Marjorie a lot and, mostly, she’s right.”
“Marjorie being your girlfriend?”
Norris nodded. “Marjorie Liston. She nags me about the beer-drinking and wants me to get a job. Well, I had a job. I don’t need money. I want to fish but I really don’t know how. Then this storm came along and I freaked out. I honestly thought all the noises I heard were looters trying to break in. I guess that was the beer talking.”
“Maybe you need to talk more to people and less to beer bottles.”
“Probably. I called an attorney—thanks for the use of a phone—and he tells me I’m looking at twenty years in prison. Is that true? That seems ridiculous.”
“It probably is ridiculous. But it’s true. Florida has a 10-20-Life law. Use a firearm during the commission of a felony and the penalty is an automatic ten years. And that can be applied on top of the penalty for whatever crime you were committing at the time. Actually shoot off the firearm and it’s an automatic twenty years on top of anything else. Hurt or kill someone and it’s an automatic twenty-to-life sentence.”
“But I wasn’t committing a crime. I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Actually, you were committing aggravated assault on myself and the other officers at the moment you pulled that trigger.”
“That’s it? So it’s just the gun? Hell, I didn’t even know you were standing there. So if I had waved a samurai sword at you, I’d be up on charges of assault only. What’s the jail time for that?”
“With your record, or lack of a record? Probably some probation and community service. Do you actually own a samurai sword?”
“Of course not. Just making a point. I do own some kitchen knives. So wave a carving knife at you and I pick up some trash alongside the road for a hundred hours. Shoot a gun out the front door and high into the air—with no intention of actually shooting at anyone at all—and I go to jail for twenty years.”
“That’s a pretty good summation. Here’s what happens next. We send you up to the Collier County Jail in Naples and turn in some paperwork on you. You get an arraignment before a judge as soon as possible. Those are generally each morning, but the storm has upset the usual schedule. While awaiting your arraignment, you stay in the Collier County Jail. Not so nice as here. You might be able to bond out after the arraignment.”
Norris frowned. “You could withdraw the assault complaint. You know I’m not some criminal or dangerous…”
“Norris, a drunk waving a .38-caliber revolver is dangerous.”
“I know that. And I know you can give me another chance with a stroke of a pen.”
“I’ll think about it,” Troy said. “Best I can offer right now. Got other fish to fry.” Troy stood. “You’re about to have company, by the way. My staff and some of their relatives will be bunking in here in the other cells. You’re lucky, you get a whole cell to yourself. A cell all your own is going to be luxury accommodations tonight.”
Chapter 38
Tuesday, July 30
Outside, the wind had become a steady hard howl and the rain was coming down sideways and in bursts. Troy knew these low islands were a few feet of sand over porous limestone. Once the sand had soaked up all the rain it could, which would not take long, the water would just flow sideways on the surface in a sheet and into the Gulf in front or Oyster Bay behind. Flooding would not come from rain but from any storm surge, and the greatest danger would come at high tide, which would add about two feet to the surge. High tide was due at 1 a.m.
It was a little after 6 p.m. and June, sitting out front at her desk, had been talking nonstop to people, explaining their options. She had chased off her husband, Bob, who was now upstairs helping settle in people wanting to stay there overnight. Standing outside the front door of the station on Connecticut Avenue, Troy could see in the distance, a steady stream of cars, Snakers coming off the 8th Street bridge from Snake Key, heading for Barron Road and out of town. Airfield Key people would be meeting Barron Road three blocks farther east. He had officers at each intersection to smooth the traffic flow. They would be having a hard time directing traffic in this wind and rain. He walked back inside, shaking the rain off his hood. The second non-emergency line lit up on June’s phone. June was still on with line one. Troy stepped a few feet down the corridor and into the office his officers used to write up reports and the like, and took the call.
“Afternoon, may I speak to the chief there?” a man’s voice said.”
“Speaking. I’m Chief Troy Adam. What can I do for you?”
“Ah. You must be the new guy. I heard they were shopping. You do the phones too?”
“And take out the trash. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Navin Sheets. I strawboss the Collier County Sheriff’s patrol boats. I need a little help.”
“Protect and serve. What do you need?”
“Well, I hate to ask, but we’re overloaded already, picking people out of the water up and down the coast and up a few rivers. But we got some people went missing in your neck of the woods. Out in a rental boat. They called the Coast Guard, gave a position, said they were aground, wrecked really, on some oyster bar or in some trees. Coasties passed that to us. Said they could launch a chopper out of Clearwater or Opa Locka but that it would be useless in those mangroves. And their nearest boat station is Fort Myers Beach.”
“The lightweight boats they got that could go into those trees couldn’t make the trip down here in the open Gulf right now,” Troy said. “How about the Marine Patrol?”
“How about them folks?” Sheets said. “No. They’re busy too. Can you lend a hand? You’re about it for right now. I know you got a town police boat.”
“I’ll do what I can. No promises. Give me some information.”
Sheets read off what he knew: boat size and color, four people onboard. No injuries. Latitude and longitude last reported. “They went off the air, though,” he said. “Maybe the boat sank or flooded so as to kill the battery and electronics. Near as we can tell they’re safe on a mangrove island, or were last time we had contact with them. But they won’t be safe for long.”
“We’ll give it a shot. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Appreciate that. So they’re breaking you in fast down there, eh?”
“Let’s just say it’s been a large day already.”
Sheets laughed and hung up. Troy asked June to call in Bubba and she said he was in the break room. Troy had forgotten about asking two of his crew to come back at six to get some rest. Bubba came into Troy’s office and asked what was up.
“We need to launch the town police boat. Go out to rescue some people who are looking like drowning tonight.”
“You’s joking, right?”
“Wish I were. Sheriff’s office just called and asked for help. Can we get that boat launched?”
“That boat’s on the trailer and I chained the trailer to the fence at the boatyard,” Bubba said. “But I can get it loose. Where are these people? Wait one, let me get a chart. Got a spare one in the other office.”
He came back with a nautical chart and a ruler and spread the chart out on Troy’s desk. Troy read off the coordinates and Bubba marked the spot.
“Can you get the police boat in there?” Troy asked.
“I can get close. Surge will probably help me get closer.”
“How long to get out there and back?”
“Two hours out, counting launching the boat. If they’re there at that spot. If I don’t have to circle around looking. An hour to come back if I don’t mess up a prop on any floating trees or running over some oyster bar I can’t see in the dark and rain. But I won’t be coming back.”
“Why not?”
“Be dangerous to go out. By the time I load the boat with more weight and start back the hurricane will be on top of us. Be suicide to try to cross any of them open bays between there and back to here. But you see Faka Key here?” He pointed to the chart. “I can make that with a load,” Bubba said. “I’ll have some cover from the wind on account of all the mangroves around. It’s plenty high, old Indian mound. Used to be a settlement out there. Nothing left of that but a graveyard.”
Mangrove Bayou Page 17