A few minutes later, I stood at the edge of the tarmac as the Aztec lifted off into the morning sun. I followed its flight as it turned south, until tears blurred my vision.
Chapter Fourteen
After her calls to VI Birds and Peebles Hospital, Pamela Pickering had made a third call to RVIPF headquarters, which generated an immediate and, for the RVIPF, massive response. In little more than two hours, the St. Ursula could be seen approaching the government dock, up on plane at full throttle, a quarter mile of frothing wake scarring the sea behind it. Deputy Commissioner Lane stood at his usual position in the bow, but now he was flanked by four burly police officers wearing sidearms. The helmsman also stood at the wheel. Only Rollie Stoutt was seated, clinging to the coaming in the stern, surrounded by his forensic equipment cases.
The helmsman cut the throttle mere yards from the dock, and the DC and the four officers piled ashore like the US Marines assaulting Iwo Jima. Their haste was for naught. They were forced to mill about aimlessly while Rollie fussed and fiddled his way ashore with his gear.
With Inspector Stoutt finally disembarked, we crowded into the Land Rover, the deputy commissioner silent in the passenger seat, Rollie and two hulks jammed in the rear seat with the aluminum equipment cases, and the remaining two officers standing on the running boards, clinging grimly to the roof rack during the short ride to The Settlement.
The four officers automatically deployed to the four corners of the Methodist church when we halted in the parking area. Pastor Lloyd stood agog just outside the church door. Several passersby stopped and stared. This was the most police activity, indeed the most government activity, that Anegada’s citizens had seen since the Maritime Regiment had hunted down the pirate Bone in 1681.
The deputy commissioner wasted no time approaching the church entrance and Pastor Lloyd. Drawing himself to full height, he focused on the pastor. “Good morning, sir. And you are?”
“Pastor Lloyd. This is my church.” The pastor seemed to shrink a little as he said each word.
“Pastor, I am Deputy Commissioner Howard Lane of the Royal Virgin Islands Police Force. Your church is, unfortunately, a crime scene and under the authority and control of the RVIPF until further notice. Did you see what happened here?” the DC boomed in a voice that was one part Barry White, one part Sean Connery, and a smattering of God. The Old Testament version.
“No, Deputy Commissioner. I wasn’t aware anything had happened until I stopped in to do some work this morning and found Teddy—er, Constable Creque—inside with poor Anthony Wedderburn.”
“Did you see anyone here last night or this morning?”
“Just Constable Creque, this morning, as I said.”
“Did you hear anything unusual—strange noises, raised voices—last night or this morning?”
“No, nothing.”
“Who has access to the church other than you?”
“Well, I guess you could say everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“The house of the Lord is open to all.” Pastor Lloyd gestured with his arms held wide.
“Let me put it this way. Who has a key, Pastor?”
“No one. We do not lock the door. I don’t know anyone who locks their doors on Anegada.”
“Perhaps the good people of Anegada should unlearn that habit in light of recent events,” the DC said. “Do you know the victim?”
“Everyone on Anegada knows De White Rasta.” Noticing the DC’s exasperated frown at his slightly unresponsive answer, the pastor quickly continued, “To answer your question, yes, I know him. He is often around The Settlement. Sometimes he sleeps in the church, if we have a stretch of weather where the nights are cool.”
“De White Rasta?” The DC twitched a brow.
“That is Mr. Wedderburn’s nickname. Everyone calls him that because of his dreadlocks and the way he speaks. I daresay most folks around here do not know his real name.”
“Does he have any enemies?”
“No.”
“No arguments with anyone, no disputes or problems?”
“No, Deputy Commissioner. Anthony has a Christian attitude and is a friend to all. I have hope for his salvation. If not for that demon marijuana…” The pastor pronounced it mar-i-hu-a-na, like the name of an exotic tropical disease. In De Rasta’s case, maybe it was.
“Does he buy marijuana or other drugs from anyone?”
“I do not know. I never actually saw him using marijuana but many times I saw him under its influence.”
“Does he sell drugs to anyone?”
“Not that I am aware.” Pastor Lloyd would not have been aware if half the matrons in the Ladies’ Circle fired up a joint during their Wednesday evening prayer meeting.
“Where does he get his marijuana? Does he grow it himself?”
“Again, Deputy Commissioner, I do not know.”
“Did he know Paul Kelliher, the man who was recently killed at Spanish Camp?”
“Anthony knows everyone, and everyone knows him. So I assume he did, but I have no direct knowledge of this,” the pastor said primly.
“You are a font of information, Pastor,” the DC growled.
“You are most welcome, Deputy Commissioner Lane,” Pastor Lloyd replied, the DC’s irony lost on him. With an abbreviated bow, he made a beeline for the parsonage.
The DC glared after him and muttered generally in Rollie Stoutt’s direction, “There has to be a drug angle to this assault, and the murder. A druggie like Wedderburn supposedly finds Kelliher’s body and then winds up beaten himself mere days later. I’ll bet my last dollar there is a connection between the two men and narcotics. Have you turned up anything to indicate that Kelliher was involved in the drug trade?”
Maybe it was a desire to stand up for the only thing Anthony Wedderburn had left, his reputation. Maybe I didn’t want to be caught omitting information like I had been at my last crime scene. Or maybe it was a subconscious need to accelerate and finalize the suspended suspension the DC had left hanging over my head. Whatever the reason, I piped up. “I don’t think the assault on Anthony had anything to do with drugs.”
“Oh, really, Special Constable?” Both of the DC’s bushy brows stood at attention. “Why don’t you provide us with your insight?”
“Anthony was working on a project for me. He was deciphering a coded notebook I found in Paul Kelliher’s personal effects. He was using the church as a workplace and was close to breaking the code. When I found him this morning, the notebook and all of his work papers were gone. Whoever beat him did it to get the notebook, either to use it themselves or to prevent me from learning what was in it. And I do not believe the notebook had anything to do with drug trafficking.”
I paused to catch my breath. I had spilled the information rapidly, like a kid confessing to raiding the cookie jar and wanting it to be over quickly.
“Go on,” said the DC, his measured tone mimicking the father waiting to hear the full cookie confession before applying the rod.
“Kelliher was not a biologist. Boston University, which he claimed was his employer, has no record of him. His address and the information in his passport are false. He wasn’t here to study the rock iguana. I believe he was here looking for treasure. In addition to the notebook, he had two maps in his effects. They had something to do with the location of the treasure he was after. All the holes that had been dug at Spanish Camp were part of his search. They are marked on one of the maps. I think someone killed him because he was getting close to finding whatever he was after, the same person who needed the notebook to learn what Kelliher had come upon to lead him to Spanish Camp after ranging all over Anegada for the last five years.”
“Wait a minute, Constable. You mean treasure as in pirate treasure? As in buried chests filled with gold doubloons and pieces of eight? As in yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum?” The DC was incredulous, as if I had said Kelliher was digging up leprechaun pots of gold he had pinpointed at the ends of rainbows.
“Y
es, sir,” I said, so confident of my answer that I had to look down at my feet and toe the sand.
“Well, that explains everything, doesn’t it, Inspector Stoutt?” The DC spoke to Rollie but never took his eyes off me.
Rollie said nothing, glancing side to side for an available rock to crawl under.
A veil of sad disdain fell across the DC’s brown eyes. “Let’s suppose your pirate-treasure theory allows us to disregard the involvement of a known drug user in both incidents. It does not explain why Kelliher, or whoever he was, would conceal his identity for the purpose of conducting an activity that is perfectly legal in the Virgin Islands. It does not explain why he would return every year, with no apparent success, and without giving up, when we know the average treasure hunter exhausts his theories and enthusiasm in about a month. And it does nothing to explain who would want to put a bullet between his eyes, or why.”
Deputy Commissioner Lane assumed a pedagogical manner. “If, however, Paul Kelliher and Anthony Wedderburn were involved in the movement of narcotics through the BVI, with Anegada as a transit point, one can see why Kelliher would want to conceal his identity and purpose. One can understand why it would be convenient for him to return every year for a shipping season, if you will. One can see why it would be good business to have a permanent associate who is a belonger like Anthony Wedderburn to mind the store when Kelliher returned to the US. One can even understand that the transshipment of large quantities of drugs would involve equally large quantities of money, which in turn might cause a person or persons to be motivated to unsavory acts of violence to obtain the drugs or money, such as shooting someone between the eyes.”
“It does not explain why he would dig all those holes, or mark their locations on a map,” I said, expending my last shred of persistence.
“Actually, it explains it perfectly,” the DC said. “There is a real-life example, from just last month. The Joint Interagency Task Force South found a hundred kilos of cocaine buried in a deserted area just inland from a beach in Barbados. There were dozens of holes in the area, freshly filled in, but only one with the cocaine. The others were empty, designed to mislead the curious or any potential buyers who thought they would just dig up the goods without paying. When the seller was given the money for the buy, he gave a map to the buyer showing the correct place to dig. The buyer waited with the seller while his cronies confirmed the drugs were there. The deal would have been perfect but for an informant tipping off the JITFS.”
The DC concluded his lecture with a paternal pat on my shoulder. I deflated completely, my body language acknowledging the correctness of his line of reasoning though I was unable to verbalize agreement. The DC was right. I was an amateur, a special constable, not a real RVIPF officer, and had shown it by chasing some pirate-treasure fantasy to account for a crime no more glamorous than a drug deal gone bad. I still could not believe Anthony was a part of it, but deciphering the notebook probably would not have yielded the clues I had hoped. The notebook was gone now, anyway.
DC Lane deployed his forces. Rollie was sent into the church to dust for fingerprints and comb for other forensic evidence. The quartet of police officers dispersed to the four corners of The Settlement, asking questions and showing the flag. The DC marched the two hundred yards to the police station, making it his operations center. I was placed on guard at the church door, to bar the curious from entering and, more probably, to prevent me from befouling the investigation.
As the noon hour approached, Rollie emerged from inside the church. “Nothing,” he volunteered. “No prints on the pieces of coral used to strike the victim. On the other hand, there must be a thousand prints on the door, table, pews, altar, everything. I’ll bet if I fingerprinted everyone on Anegada, I would have a complete collection of matching prints inside this church.”
I nodded in agreement.
Rollie released the crime scene to Pastor Lloyd, who responded with his thanks, an inquiry as to the best way to remove bloodstains, and a brief prayer for De Rasta.
Rollie and I drifted back to the police station, lugging his equipment cases. On arriving, we learned that the officers the DC had sent to canvass The Settlement had fared no better than Rollie. It was not that the citizens of The Settlement were not forthcoming; the novelty of a strange police officer knocking on the door was cause for plenty of excitement. The spit-and-polish boys from Road Town all got an earful but in the end no one had heard or seen anything unusual.
DC Lane seemed to take the absence of useful evidence in stride. As his next-to-last act before leaving, he placed a call to Peebles Hospital. The report on Anthony was grim. Diagnosed with a skull fracture, he remained in a coma, hooked up to the hospital’s sole ventilator. Whether he would live would probably be known within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If he survived that long, and could be weaned off the ventilator, the extent of the injury to his brain could be determined when the swelling caused by the blow subsided.
Hanging up the phone, the final act of the DC was to shoo Rollie and the four officers outside. When they had gone, he turned to me.
“How can these things happen in a place as small as Anegada without your knowledge?” The DC might as well have asked me why I was not a better policeman. Or why I was a corrupt policeman, if drug money was involved as he suspected.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth, and it cut me to the quick to say it.
The DC saw the effect of his question and the answer I was forced to give. The hard brown eyes softened perceptibly.
“Try not to devote your time to treasure maps and coded notebooks. You are the eyes and ears of the RVIPF here; keep your eyes and ears open. Call Inspector Stoutt if you learn any useful information.” He placed an emphasis on “useful.”
If I was to keep my eyes and ears open, I was back on the case. Or cases.
The DC stood. I stood, and came to attention for some reason.
“At ease,” he grunted, and walked out the door.
Chapter Fifteen
At midafternoon on the day of Anthony Wedderburn’s beating, I leaned back in the straight chair that served as my desk chair and exhaled, a deep, long, slow breath that I hoped would clear the cobwebs from my head. It had been an hour since I had taken Inspector Stoutt, Deputy Commissioner Lane, and the contingent of police officers back to the government dock for their return trip to Road Town.
The exhalation did the trick. My head cleared like a weekend drinker’s on a Wednesday morning. I saw that the police work was all completed on Anthony’s assault. Rollie had the forensic evidence, which would turn into nothing after he had worried over it for a few days. The four officers had spoken not only to potential witnesses but to every man, woman, and child in The Settlement. There was no physical evidence to gather and no further interviews to conduct. I was again, for all practical purposes, useless.
I tried to conjure a course of action by close examination of the dust on my desktop. No success, so I shifted my efforts to a flake of peeling paint on the opposite wall. Still depressingly useless.
Believing movement was better than ossifying at the police station, I headed out on patrol. Traveling in reverse of my usual route, it was only when I turned in the drive at Frangipani House that I realized I had not gone on patrol at all. A wretched addict, I had gone for a fix of the drug that had controlled me for these recent months.
I found Cat on a chaise beside the pool, sunning, a lithe animal, sleek and feral. She wore a white bandeau bikini, oversized sunglasses, and a white Panama hat. A bottle of Cruzan rum and a squat glass, frosted with condensation, sat on a low table beside the chaise. She turned toward me, eyes anonymous behind the dark lenses. I knelt beside her. There were beads of perspiration on her chest and flat stomach. I leaned in to taste their salt-sweet heat and I was falling, falling again, into her body and away from myself, lost and not caring, sick with need and surrender.
It was an hour before the first words were spoken. By then we floated motionles
s in the pool, exhausted, expended.
“I was getting lonesome, lover. Thought I might see you earlier in the day,” Cat chided.
“Someone attacked Anthony Wedderburn. Clubbed him with a branch of coral inside the Methodist church. He may not live.” I went on to describe the events of the day.
When I finished, she said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”
“No one seems to have seen or heard anything.”
“Did they find fingerprints?”
“No. Or, rather, they found too many, from lots of different people. No way to pick out the attacker’s prints from all the others in the church.”
“Did they get any prints from the coral?”
“Not the pieces that were left. It looks like whoever did it took the part of the coral branch they held on to with them to dispose of later.”
“How do they know no one saw or heard anything?”
I explained about the canvassing of The Settlement by DC Lane’s police officers.
“Why would anyone want to do that to De Rasta?” Cat continued.
“I thought it was because of the work he was doing deciphering Kelliher’s notebook. It was taken, as well as all De Rasta’s working papers. Deputy Commissioner Lane thinks it’s more likely tied in with the drug trade, and that Paul Kelliher’s murder and the assault on Anthony are related to their involvement in trafficking. That may make some sense, but I don’t like to think that about Anthony.”
“Wouldn’t that be a pretty logical conclusion given the way De Rasta spends most of his time stoned?” Cat was piling on with the DC and I had to agree.
“I guess so,” I said reluctantly.
Cat pursued the topic. “So what are they going to do next to try to solve this?”
“Rollie Stoutt will probably take his hundreds of fingerprints and see if he gets a match with any in his database. I doubt it, since the data is only for the BVI and we would know if there was a stranger on the island. I suppose someone could have come in the dead of night and left again before dawn without being seen, but they would have had to navigate the Horseshoe Reef in the dark and that needs local knowledge. Even an experienced boatman from Tortola wouldn’t chance it in the dark.”
Sun, Sand, Murder Page 9