Death Among the Mangroves

by Stephen Morrill

  At least he was spared the musty smell of old books. The school had almost no books. The kids all had tablets and laptops and smart phones and little music things stuck into their ears and probably more he couldn’t see. They were talking, phoning, texting, tweeting, Facebooking, instant messaging. He wondered how they had time to learn anything. In his experience with graduates of the Florida school system, they mostly didn’t.

  It turned out that the weekly community information session was the last event of the day. In the auditorium, Dr. Howard Parkland Duell, principal and also town councilman, introduced Troy as, “Hired on a probationary basis to try out for director of public safety.” He didn’t mention kicking Troy out of Duell’s house recently.

  Troy stood and walked to the front of the stage and to one side of the podium. He stared down at the faces before him. This auditorium did not have theater-style seats, just a lot of folding metal chairs lined up in rows. He realized it was actually a basketball court; there were baskets at each end of the room.

  He had a flashback to his high school in Troy, New York. The senior prom had been in a dreary room just like this one, with colored rolls of crepe paper strung around as if that made it festive and cans of spray scent sprayed around to try to cover the smell of sweat and dirty socks. A few kids had cars but mostly their parents brought them. Troy had no parents, or at least none who had wanted him. His mother had probably been a prostitute and his father some unknown Asian, and he had been abandoned immediately after birth. He didn’t know either of his parents or even if they were still alive.

  His date’s mother had picked him up at the front door of The Orphans Home. He was a skinny kid with a too-small suit clutching a too-expensive corsage. The girl was one whom nobody had asked to the dance, and some of the seniors had assigned Troy to her. The mother took the corsage from Troy and pinned it onto the girl’s dress, something Troy had been fantasizing about doing himself for a week. When the dance was over the mother dropped Troy off at The Orphans Home at ten p.m. and drove off with her daughter without a word of goodbye. Today’s kids showed up for proms in tuxedos and gowns and in stretch limos, had hotel suites rented for unchaperoned partying, and didn’t come home before dawn. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure which was more frightening to a shy teenager, the old days or the new.

  There were several hundred kids in the gym today. Troy waited until they had quieted and at least some were looking at him. The rest had their heads down, texting and tweeting their friends.

  “So, who was the last person to do this weekly pep talk?” Troy asked. Several kids shouted that it had been some man who flew a Coast Guard helicopter.

  “Well, I can’t compete with that. I’m the police chief…”

  “Actually, the director of public safety,” Dr. Duell said, interrupting.

  “…the police chief. I’m the Man, the po-po, the fuzz—does anyone even call us the fuzz any more?—the head pig.”

  Troy jumped down from the stage and walked through the folding chairs until he was in the center of his audience. Half of the kids had to squirm around sideways to see him.

  “Everyone now put both your hands up, like this.” Troy raised his arms over his head, straight up. The kids stared.

  “Seriously. Do this. Humor me. All of you. Every one.”

  They did so. Some still had their phones in one hand or the other. “I’m going to talk and I promise not to talk so long that your arms get tired. But I’d like you to pay attention to me and stop tweeting your friends who are probably right next to you.” There was a general laugh.

  “Most people think we drive around all day in our police cars looking for some excuse to write lots of traffic tickets. And, believe me, in a town with a thirty-MPH speed limit, no traffic lights and no parking meters, it’s not that easy to write a lot of tickets.” More laughter. “Sorry to burst your bubble. Oh, sure, if you do eighty up Barron Road, look for us in your rear-view mirror. Mostly, though, we serve and protect. We actually take that seriously. We will protect you from crime if we can and catch the criminals if we can’t.

  “But for you men and women, remember that we serve too. We serve you just as much as we do your parents. If you have a problem, something you don’t want to talk to your parents about, or your school counselor, or your minister or even your friends, it’s possible that we can help. And if we can’t, we probably know who can. We know all sorts of people, agencies, experts. If you don’t want to talk to my staff, you can call up and ask to talk to me, one-on-one. Not a problem. Any time, any place.

  “That’s my speech, except for this: Remember that we don’t like arresting people. We like helping people. That’s just basic psychology and you’re all smart enough to know about that. Does anyone have a question? Oh. Put the arms back down.”

  A girl in the front row raised her hand once more. Troy pointed at her. “What do you think happened to that girl who disappeared over on the beach?” she asked.

  “What do you think might have happened?”

  “I think she got killed. Do you think you’ll ever find her body? Everyone in town is talking about it. My dad says it’s bad for business.”

  “Kind of bad for Barbara, too. That’s her name. Barbara Gillispie. She has a name. She’s a person. I have her photo on my desk. And I’m going to find her if I can, dead or alive.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Promise what? I promise to keep looking. I don’t promise to find her. We’ve looked about everywhere we can in town but it’s a big marsh out there and the mangroves are even harder to search. A lot of you helped in the search on Sunday and I really appreciate that. Yes, you in the back.”

  “I saw you drive up. In some Japanese shrimpy-SUV wannabee,” a young man said, grinning. “Don’t you have a real police car?”

  “No. But I’m thinking about buying a whistle to hold between my lips and blow as I drive.”

  When the laughter died down a boy halfway back asked, “Are you going to arrest us for smoking marijuana?”

  “Ah. Marijuana. Mary Jane. The gateway drug. One toke and you’re instantly a maddened heroin addict. Did you know that cannabis is one of the most common weeds in some parts of the country? Not around here, sorry to have to tell you, but in the Midwest. But don’t smoke that crap. It’s like smoking a car tire.” There was a laugh from the crowd.

  “You ever toke any, man?” a boy to one side said. He was bigger than most and so were his friends with him. Probably the football team’s offensive line, Troy thought.

  “When I was younger, in college, I would sometimes take a joint being passed around the room,” Troy said. “But…”

  “I really don’t think you should be encouraging our impressionable youth to do drugs,” Dr. Duell said.

  “I thought I was talking there,” Troy said to Duell. “Hush up now.” He turned back to the students. “I was just being polite, or maybe I was afraid of looking like I wasn’t cool. Lots of social pressure on you here in high school and it takes a real man or woman to stand up to it. Fact is, or was, I never liked dope. Maybe because I never smoked cigarettes and so was not accustomed to smoking at all. When I got older I realized I didn’t need to worry about looking cool to anyone else. I realized that being independent, mature, my own man, was the coolest thing.

  “Even later, I realized something else. I didn’t like the feeling of not being in total control of my mind. That’s why I also gave up drinking.”

  “So you think we should all be teetotalers and Christian robots?” the boy said. “No cigarettes. No beer. No weed. Geez, you must have boring weekends.” A roar of laughter from the crowd made Troy grin.

  “Did I say that? My my. So much meaning packed into so little speech. No, you do as you please. Just don’t let me catch you with the weed, at least before the legislature changes the rules. Personally, I think the war on drugs is a dismal failure and probably always was. It’s a political thing. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. But as
Chief Adam, I’ll arrest you if you break the law.”

  “But that’s hypocritical,” the boy said.

  “No. It’s not. I’m in the enforcing-the-laws business. I don’t much like that law. You don’t much like it. But it’s a law and I’ll enforce it. I don’t get to pick and choose which laws to enforce and which not to. You want it changed, do something about it at the polls if you’re old enough, and by talking to your state and national legislators.”

  Troy stopped and then laughed. “Now I’m lecturing. You already get enough of that from stuffed-shirt adults, day in and day out. Sorry. I have good news for you; life actually gets better after high school. And college is a blast if you go for that. Now, was there anything else or can we all get out of here early and go home?”

  The kids were smart enough to sit on their hands, the ones not using their hands to text and tweet. But Dr. Duell stood and walked to the podium. “Last July you totally blew the town’s budget with overtime for your department. I trust that you have since learned fiscal responsibility. If not, I shall have to vote at the upcoming town council meeting against making your appointment permanent.”

  Troy turned and answered. “You’re running for reelection to the town council. I don’t get involved in that. Last July we had a hurricane and a murder. Am I supposed to not bother to protect and serve the community because it might cost some overtime? You—the town council—have a reserve set aside for emergencies. You know that. We didn’t come close to exhausting the reserve…”

  “Still, fiscal responsibility….”

  “Be quiet. I was talking. The reserve is fiscal responsibility. Now, stop politicking among the students. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  He walked to one of the exit doors and on out. Duell was saying something but Troy didn’t stop to listen. He found himself outside, facing Oyster Bay across the school football field and some bleachers, and on the wrong side of the building from his car. But once you have made a dramatic exit, you don’t go back. He walked around the outside of the school, got into his car, and drove off.

  Chapter 16

  Monday, December 23

  Troy drove from the high school on Barron Key over to the Temple of God’s Lightning on Snake Key. This was a single-wide mobile home cleared out inside to make a church. Troy found the Reverend Heth Summerall in a double-wide behind the church and which Summerall apparently lived in. Summerall was five-seven, with long moussed hair carefully combed up to add to his height, wearing a dark blue silk suit, and lifts in his shoes to make him two inches taller.

  Summerall insisted they walk back to the church and Troy followed him. The church had a small chapel with a half-dozen folding chairs and a folding card table in front to serve as an altar. The only hint inside the trailer that this was a church was a foot-tall white plastic cross standing on the table. Half the trailer was an office and Summerall went into the office and sat behind a desk. There were no other chairs in the office, so Troy stood in front of Summerall. The things people do to try to feel more important, Troy thought, amused.

  “What can we do for you, Chief,” Summerall said. “We are about to prepare our sermon for next Sunday.” He pointed at the computer on his desk. “We are a very busy man. Very busy indeed.”

  Troy looked around. “Is there someone else here besides you and me?”

  “We have no idea what you mean.”

  Troy looked at Summerall. The man seemed dead serious. “My mistake,” Troy said. “I’m just curious. How many, er, parishioners do you have?”

  “That would be confidential information.”

  “I didn’t see any sign outside showing the times and days you have services. Most churches have that posted.”

  “Our services are held on an…irregular…schedule. As needed.”

  “Aha. Well, I’ll see if I can be quick,” Troy said. “You are collecting the rent on a home on 19th Street. You moved in the Martinez family, Eduardo and Rosa and their kids.”

  “We may have. In addition to our pastoral duties we have many commercial interests, real estate management among them.” Summerall smiled and he had very large, square, perfect teeth. Troy suspected laminates.

  “I see,” Troy said. “Problem is, that’s not your house. It belongs to a Mark Johnson, who lives in Miami and who is trying to sell it. The Martinez’s appear to be living there unlawfully. You appear to have shown them the house and then rented to them something that wasn’t yours to rent. How would you explain that to, say, a law enforcement officer?”

  “My good man, we would direct you to Florida Statute 95.18 that permits ‘adverse possession’ of abandoned property. We took possession in accordance with that law. What we do with it—live in it or rent it out—is our business, not yours.”

  “Odd business for a man of the cloth,” Troy said. “I believe it includes burglary, trespassing, fraud and grand theft. Probably more charges in there but I would have to read more law books, which I find stupefying. You do understand that the house not only belongs to someone else but that he’s trying to sell it. Hard to sell a house that has squatters living in it.”

  “We have done nothing wrong. We act always within the law. Besides, we’re a minister.”

  “Right. Some minister. You would have needed a bolt cutter to get that realtor’s lockbox off the front doorknob. But my guess is that you hacksawed the entire doorknob off. Since almost nobody ever replaces a hacksaw blade, yours will still have microscopic bits of metal in the teeth that will match the metal in the doorknob.” Troy was blowing smoke; he didn’t even have the doorknob to test, even if what he said was true, and he didn’t know that it was. He was trying to rattle the good minister.

  Summerall shook his head. “We have followed the law precisely. We filed an adverse possession notice at the property appraiser’s office. They, in turn, mailed a notice to the homeowner of our intent to establish adverse possession. Apparently he never responded to that notice. We are sure that, had the homeowner only asked the tenants to leave, they would have immediately packed.”

  “That’s hard to imagine, since they think they have rented the house legally, and from you. I’ve spoken to them. You’re saying that Eduardo and Rosa Martinez know that you stole the house you’re renting to them?”

  “Whoever they are. We would need to look at our paperwork to see if that is to whom we rented the property.”

  “Well?” Troy waved at the office walls. “We’re in your office. Where’s the paperwork?”

  Summerall looked at Troy a long moment, thinking about it. He shook his head. “We are not disposed to take the trouble to find that information for you at this time. Do you have some kind of warrant for it?”

  “No. But my guess is that you have no paperwork. You grab a first month, last month and damage deposit, in cash, and run away, leaving the tenants to hold the bag.”

  “Bah. We reiterate, we did not ‘steal’ the house. We are doing nothing illegal.”

  “So, no, the Martinez’s do not know they’re living in a stolen house.”

  “Stop saying that. If this is so illegal, why did no one stop us and say, ‘You can be put in jail, be called a criminal, be charged with grand theft?’ At no time during our filing, or while talking to the people at the property appraiser’s office, were we told this.”

  “Perhaps they were confused by your pronouns. Or maybe the other part of ‘we’ has the paperwork.”

  “What do you expect us to do? What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Troy said. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Outside, Troy was opening his car door when his department cell phone rang. “Mark Stider was a student at Stetson,” Bust Prado said. “Gulfport campus. They kicked him out a few weeks ago.”

  “Bad grades?”

  “That and bad behavior. They didn’t even let him into the law school at UF because they knew him. I also called the Gulfport police. They would love to be able to pin a couple rapes and an assaul
t charge on the kid but nobody wants to testify. Apparently, the kid’s dad buys him out of trouble. All the vics were paid off and are keeping their mouths shut. The school told me the dad is a judge down in your neck of the woods.”

  “That he is.”

  “And you’re on this kid for a homicide? You better have your ducks lined up.”

  “I don’t yet. I’m working the problem.”

  “I will say this for you. You’re one hell of a digger and guesser. You always were the best at that. But guessing doesn’t count, long-term. Digging does.”

  “Thanks for the help…” Troy started to say but Bust had hung up.

  Chapter 17

  Monday, December 23

  Since Troy was already on Snake Key it was a short drive to Sasha Thompson’s house. She sat on a worn sofa and apologized for the furniture. “I’m renting it furnished,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You’re not renting from a fellow named Heth Summerall, are you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Never mind. Nothing wrong with renting. I rent a place too. I wanted to ask you a few questions. First, I suppose, why did you come to Mangrove Bayou? I know that you’re a nurse and work in the town medical clinic. In fact, you’re just a few steps from my own office at the other end of the town hall building. But do you have relatives or friends here?”

  “I’m a nurse, yes. It’s a portable job and I thought this would be a nice place to live. I was wrong. I have no relatives here, and so far as I can see there aren’t a lot of black people in town to be my friends.”

  “There are a few. I’m one, sort of. And people don’t have to be black to be your friends.” Got a redheaded Irish lover, Troy thought. I really fell into the tub of chocolate when I came to Mangrove Bayou.