Death Among the Mangroves

by Stephen Morrill

  Stider took Troy’s chair behind the desk. He spun the chair around to face the windows that looked out on the town boat ramps across Sunset Bay. Since it was dark outside, and since Troy had long since closed the wooden blinds so the reporters couldn’t stare into his office from the outside, Stider couldn’t see out. He turned the chair around to look at Troy. “I stopped by as a courtesy,” he said. “You can probably guess what I’m talking about.”

  Troy took a quick step forward. He grabbed Stider’s tie and lifted Stider out of the chair. Stider gave a little yelp as Troy walked him on tippy-toes a few feet and dropped him into a visitor chair in front of Troy’s desk. “I think you will find that chair more comfortable,” Troy said. He sat in his chair, pulled open the top right desk drawer where he kept his department-issue Glock, folded his hands on his desktop and tried to look polite and attentive.

  “You assaulted me,” Stider cried. He tugged at his tie to get it straight. “You attacked a judge. I’ll have you in jail for contempt of court.”

  Troy stared at Stider. He had learned the dead-eye CopStare a long time ago. He rarely used it. Stider, he realized after a moment, probably saw the Stare all the time in court. The judge did not seem intimidated. Between Judge Stider and Reverend Summerall, Troy was wondering if he needed to go back to cop school for a refresher in Basic Intimidation 101. Nobody seemed scared of him.

  After a moment Stider spoke again. “Aren’t you going to say something in your defense?”

  “Why are you here, Judge?”

  “Why? Why, about my son, of course.”

  “Why isn’t he here with you?”

  “I handle the problems in my family.”

  “And he’s a problem? Here I thought he was a fine upstanding lad attending law school. Popular with all the girls, or at least with the ones who can’t run fast.”

  “He’s not a problem, you ass. You are a problem. You came to my home, not to my office, mind you, but to my home. You interrogated my wife and my son in a most insulting manner. You will not do that again or I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Why would I go to your office in Naples to question your son at your home here and about something that happened here?”

  “You don’t question him at all, you idiot. You ask me. Politely. I handle all the questions and answers for my family.”

  “Here’s a question for you. Do you know that Mark has been kicked out of Stetson?”

  Stider stared at Troy for a long moment. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “I’d know about it. Mark just decided to take a semester off.”

  “You may need to call the school. Your son is persona non gratis there.” Troy saw no reason to bring Bust Prado into the conversation.

  “I also know that you squelched the search warrants I wanted,” Troy said. “Quick thinking on your part. Our town counsel told me that was the fastest he had ever seen you move.”

  “I’ll do more than that. I’ll issue a restraining order against you and your entire department if you keep bothering me or my family.”

  “Interesting legal concept,” Troy said. “Can a judge—an officer of the court—order the police not to investigate a crime where his son is a suspect? That would be one for the Supreme Court, for sure.”

  “Try me. Just try me. I got those search warrants dropped. I have friends in the judiciary and in the legal community…”

  “No, Judge. You don’t have friends. You have people who are afraid of you and you think that makes them friends.”

  “Whatever. I’m part of the legal system, a circuit court judge. You’re a little town hireling who writes parking tickets. I can crush you like this,” Stider held out a hand and folded it into a fist. Given the petite size of his fist it was less than effective and Troy remained calm. “I can have you so tied up in civil suits you will want to move to Canada and change your name. I already know you’re only here on probation and the decision to hire you permanently comes up next week at the town council. I will be there and my voice will be heard. Unless, of course, you back off this investigation.”

  Troy thought about that a moment. “Okay,” he said at last. “Deal. You leave me alone. I leave you alone. I need the job. How does that sound?”

  Stider got to his feet. He tucked his tie back inside his vest. “Like you finally got some sense into your head. Leave me and my family alone and you get to keep your job. Now go back to writing parking tickets and leave the serious legal questions to the professionals. Is there a back way out of here? I don’t think any of those people out front recognized me but I’d rather not confront them again.”

  “Don’t blame you. Follow me.” Troy led the judge to the rear door by the cells. Apparently the judge had walked from his house, not too far a distance.

  Troy walked over to the seawall that was the west boundary of the town hall parking lot and looked at the boat ramps on Sunset Bay. Nobody seemed to want to launch a boat this evening but there were several cars with trailers in the parking lot. In the daytime the trailer lot would fill up. One of the duties of the night shift was to note the tag numbers for cars and trailers left overnight in the lot. Parking was free but if someone didn’t come back, having the car there several nights in a row might be a warning. People needing to be out multiple nights were instructed to tell the police before they left.

  He walked around the front of the town hall, past the parked television trucks, and then left around the corner onto Connecticut Avenue. He stopped by the station front door. It was seven p.m. and he had an audience of blinding lights and shouting people. He explained that he had no fresh news and let himself into the station.

  Back at his desk he looked at his duty roster. Dominique Reiss was on the evening shift, four to midnight. It was Dominique’s last shift of a five-day week and she would be off the next two days. Troy got on the radio and called her in to the office. Dominique was there in five minutes, letting herself in the back door from the parking lot.

  “Want you to go undercover,” Troy said. “Can you drive stick?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Go back to the lockers and change into your civvies. Or go home and get some civvies. Whatever. And you will use my car, not a department truck.” Troy took his key off his key ring and handed that across to Dominique. “Five speed manual; reverse is far right and back. Don’t screw up my transmission. Car’s already set up. Dome light’s shut off and it won’t beep ever. And nobody notices a Subaru.”

  Dominique looked at the key and back at Troy. “And I’m doing…what, undercover?”

  “Here’s what I want. Hang out where you can see the Stider residence.” He gave her a note with the address. “If Mark Stider moves that Porsche, follow and see what he does with it.”

  “I go off duty at midnight.”

  “No. Stay on them all night. I’ll send someone to relieve you in the morning.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas, Chief.”

  “Well, so it is. Welcome to life on the cops.”

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday, December 25

  On Christmas Day Troy awoke in Lee Bell’s bed and lay there looking out her bedroom window across a swimming pool and long lawn at the Collier River flowing past. At that distance he couldn’t really tell it was flowing. Beside him, Lee turned over and put her head on his chest. Beyond the river, Troy could see a small park and picnic pavilion on the other bank, and some homes on Barron Key.

  They got up and had breakfast on the back patio. The weather was crisp but not too chilly. One thing Troy had not gotten accustomed to was a warm Christmas with no snow. There were residents of Mangrove Bayou, grown men and women, who had never laid eyes on a snowflake. Troy remembered how, as a child and young man in Troy, New York, he had worn only a sweater and maybe a light jacket any time the temperature was above freezing. Today, like most Floridians, he thought he was cold if the outside air dipped below seventy degrees. On the plus side, he was perfectly comfortable on an August day anyone from New York might des
cribe as a hellish sauna.

  Lee had several presents for Troy. He opened a package with a new pair of Sperry Topsiders.

  “This is great,” he said.

  “Just a pair of shoes,” Lee said.

  “You don’t know how useful this is for me,” Troy said. “My boat shoes go downhill; the newest are for daily wear when not in uniform. Then they became shoes for sailing or canoeing, where I need to walk in salt water. When they’re too ragged for even that they became chocks for my boat trailer tires.”

  Another present was a new sport coat in pale blue, with matching tie. He was reminded of Christmases past when he got a year’s supply of clothes, usually secondhands the Salvation Army passed along to The Orphan’s Home, and no toys. He preferred toys.

  “These are just terrific,” he said. “How did you know what size to get?”

  “You’re joking, right? You leave half your clothes here in my closet.”

  Lee looked around. All the rest of the presents were ones she had wrapped to deliver later in the day to friends in town. “Didn’t you get me anything?”

  Troy took out his wallet and extracted a Nordstrom gift card. “Here, you go,” he said. “Fifty bucks. Don’t spend it all at once.”

  She looked at the card. “I can’t buy a handkerchief in Nordstrom for fifty dollars.”

  “Look for something on sale. But I might have something else.” He lifted up the white cotton fake-snow batting they had put around the base of the tree and found a small Swarovski box. Lee opened it and exclaimed, “Oh. Wow!” She pulled out a thin gold chain necklace with a crystal pendent. “When did you find time to buy this?”

  “Last August when I was up in Tampa on business. People with important police chief things to do need to plan ahead.”

  “But that was right after you met me.”

  “Sure. But I already knew I loved you and would be spending Christmas with you.”

  “Aww.” She leaned over and kissed Troy. “I love you too.”

  “And also,” Troy said, “the smart bachelor always keeps a couple things like that in his sock drawer in case he runs into some passing woman and gets lucky.”

  Lee punched him. He rubbed his arm. “At least punch alternate arms. This one’s getting sore. And I think assaulting a police officer is unlawful. I’m almost certain I’ve read that somewhere.”

  “Good. Always wanted a strong man to handcuff me. Now what are we doing this fine Christmas day? I have a flight to make this afternoon but I’m free until then.”

  “You could come to my office and watch me doing important police chief business.”

  “What, the pizza crusts are piling up again and you need to empty the trash? No. I think I’ll go around town and deliver my gifts.” She pointed at the ones still under the tree.

  Troy was in his office at eleven a.m. June, the dispatcher, had the holiday off. Most of the television trucks outside had gone on to other assignments and there were only three reporters out front stuffing themselves with doughnuts and coffee. Frank Lawton, the town’s counsel, came in and sat in a visitor chair. He had a box of doughnuts and a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee. He put the box on Troy’s desk.

  “Those were for the reporters,” Troy said. He reached into the box and took out a maple sugar-coated doughnut. He already had a mug of coffee on a cup-warmer on the credenza behind his desk.

  Lawton nodded and chewed. He took a sip of coffee. When he could speak he said, “Those three guys were trying to eat two dozen doughnuts. Thought I’d help out.”

  “Heroic of you. Thanks for coming by,” Troy said.

  “You call me on Christmas day?” Lawton said. “You got nothing better to do?”

  “I have important police chief things to do.”

  “Well, let’s make it quick,” Lawton said.

  “Sure.” Troy pulled a legal pad in front of him and uncapped his fountain pen. “Tell me about adverse possession. Florida statute 95.18.”

  “That old chestnut?” Lawton took another doughnut, to Troy’s dismay the last maple-sugar one. “Someone pulling that around here?”

  Troy told Lawton about the Reverend Heth Summerall and Mark Johnson’s house and the Martinez family.

  “Every legislative session we try to get that idiocy stricken off the books,” Lawton said. “Have you ever sat in the visitor gallery and watched the Florida legislature in action?”

  Troy shook his head.

  “I have. It’s scary. Those mouth-breathers can’t even speak the King’s English. They have lobbyists write the bills for them and then stand there trying to explain what their dim minds cannot understand. Sometimes they can’t even read the bills they supposedly wrote because they can’t pronounce the long words. That and the jury system are enough to destroy your faith in democracy.”

  “It’s good that your job has not made you bitter,” Troy said. There were only two doughnuts left, one with powdered sugar, the other a plain glazed. Troy took the plain glazed. Let Lawton get powdered sugar all over himself. Teach him to hog the maple doughnuts.

  “You laugh,” Lawton said. “But to adverse possession: The law actually requires the adverse-possessor to live in the property himself, or have someone live in it on his behalf—and a renter counts there—and for seven years. And he pays the taxes when the original owner didn’t. It’s the taxes that determine whether or not the property is truly abandoned. Only then can he claim it’s legally his. And only then would he have the right to sell it.”

  “Mark Johnson says he paid his taxes,” Troy said, “that he’s up-to-date. And he is. I checked.”

  Lawton nodded. “Problem is, the property appraisers and tax collectors offices are sloppy and often don’t check things. If the rules were actually enforced, adverse possession would be an extremely rare event instead of the common scam it has turned into.”

  “Wonder why Mark Johnson didn’t answer the adverse-possession notice the tax collector’s office sent to him?”

  “Well, he should have,” Lawton said. “Probably didn’t understand what it was and tossed it. Or he hadn’t filed a change of address with the tax assessor and so he never got the notice. Most of these guys, the adverse-grabbers, let’s call them, just file on every vacant property they see, hoping that someone won’t answer the notice. Most times they know they’ll get their claim rejected outright, but in the meantime, they’ve got first and last month’s rents out of poor people.”

  “So,” Troy said, “it seems the good reverend is, in fact, breaking the law.”

  “Of course he is. He’s broken, entered and rented. He gets fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars out of it whereas if he B-and-E’d you and stole your old TV set he’d get twenty bucks from a pawn shop.”

  Troy smiled. “Never looked, come to think, because I never watch the thing, but my TV came with the rental condo and is probably bolted to the cabinet it’s sitting on. Be hard to swipe it.”

  “Stay classy, Chief. But these guys do this, and they do it all over Florida, because they so rarely get punished for it. See an empty house? Break in, change the locks, rent it out. By the time the true owner shows up you’ve collected a few months rent on something that wasn’t even yours. Tough break for the homeowner who usually finds his property trashed by angry tenants he didn’t want in the first place. Tough break for the tenants who are usually living hand-to-mouth and who can’t get their last rent payment back and now don’t have the wherewithal to rent something else. So they end up on the street.”

  “Appreciate your explaining all this. I believe I’ll pay the Reverend Summerall a visit soon. Discuss it with him.”

  “Discuss it? Just discuss it?”

  Troy gave Lawton his very best CopStare. “I can discuss pretty hard,” he said.

  “You’ll need to.” Lawton stood. “Well, got things to do today. It’s been fun. Call me any time there’s a holiday and you need company.”

  Troy let Lawton out the front door, locked that and returned to his offic
e. He looked at the one doughnut left in the box and then picked it up and ate it. “Waste not, want not,” he said as he took the box to the break room trash can and brushed the powdered sugar off his shirt.

  Chapter 21

  Wednesday, December 25

  Later that day, Mayor Lester Groud came through the connecting door to the town hall offices and headed straight down the hall to Troy’s office. Troy was still alone in the station. Groud glanced at the glass top of Troy’s office door as he passed. Troy almost never closed the door. Groud sat in a visitor chair. “Aren’t you going to fix that door,” he asked. “It still says you’re the Director of ‘Pubic’ Safety.”

  “Nobody’s confessed yet.”

  “Nice station front door, though. Etched glass, Everglades scene with ‘Mangrove Bayou Police’ across the top. Looks good on all the TV news shows.”

  “Got the guy who did the doors for the Osprey Yacht Club to do it,” Troy said. “Last August. He did good work.”

  “Which you paid for yourself.”

  “Damn town council is so tight they squeak.” Troy got out his wallet and put a dollar on the desk. He would add it to June’s Bad Word Jar later.

  “Yeah. Well the damn town council is worried about all this overtime you’re racking up.” Groud took out his own wallet and put a dollar on top of Troy’s.

  “We going to sit here and swear at each other to see who’s richer?” Troy asked. “I give up. You don’t pay me enough to argue with you.”

  “Good. Christmas already costs me enough. Big family. I know you don’t have family. Where’s that tall redhead airplane pilot you hang with?”

  “Lee Bell. She’s flying some people to Key West this afternoon for some sort of family reunion there. She’ll be back this evening.”