Death Among the Mangroves

by Stephen Morrill

  “You holding down the fort today?”

  “Sure. I don’t have family, as you said. Let the troops have some time off if we can manage it. Sort of unofficial. Still got one patrol out and I cruise around when I’m not in here.”

  “No problem there. You’re the chief.”

  “What’s on your mind, Les?”

  “Ah. You’re never one for small talk. You had your people out combing the islands for that girl. All on overtime. You got out the volunteer fire department—I don’t know how you did that—and I sent out all the fishing guides I knew. Looked on all the town islands, Barron, Snake, Airfield even Government Key. Looked through the marsh. Looked around all the nearby mangrove islands. We found nothing. There are about ten people still looking too, mostly rich guys with boats out of the yacht club. And nothing to show for that so far either.”

  Troy nodded. “This is true. I promised the fire guys some more of those fire drills at the school. They loved that. Since I’m an honorary member, I told Paul Ronson over at the yacht club…”

  “The commodore and head bigot.”

  “…the commodore. I said that I would eat in his dining room every night, waving around my black nigger face and back-slapping his members, unless he recruited some people to help with the search.”

  Groud chuckled. “Whatever works.”

  “Probably didn’t need the threat. Those people love to get out and do some boating for an actual purpose.”

  “We guides looked in some places the yacht-club crowd doesn’t know about,” Groud said. “Got some jon boats and looked into the marsh too.”

  “I know. Appreciate that.”

  “Troy, I hate to break this news to you. You don’t have a black-nigger face. You’re more of a…beige…color.”

  “Beige. That’s right. You told me at my job interview that it’s a good color. ‘Goes with almost any furniture,’ you said. I loved that.”

  “Well, whatever. I’m not up on color names. Most folks think you’re a Seminole or Miccosukee, what with the straight black hair and eyes. Do I owe a dollar for the nigger thing?”

  “I used it too. Let’s call it even and not tell June. Anyway the word originated in the late 1700s and simply referred to someone from the African region of Niger. It was not originally thought of as a pejorative, any more than calling you English.”

  “I’m German. And nobody rounded up Germans, forced them into ships, brought them here to be slaves, and whipped them if they didn’t pick enough cotton between sunup and sunset.”

  “This is true,” Troy said.

  “And today we can’t even read Nigger of the Narcissus in school,” Groud said. “Too much political correctness. So much for Joseph Conrad.”

  Troy raised one eyebrow just because he could. Once in a while, Lester Groud surprised him. “Well, let’s agree that the N-word is incredibly offensive to a good percentage of the American population. But back to your question about Barbara Gillispie,” Troy nodded to the framed photo on his desk. “We’ve searched for three days now, four days counting today, and just about everywhere a body could be that we could expect to find easily. I called the parents in New York state again and she’s not there and they’ve never heard from her. I had sort of hoped that she had left town and we missed it, and that she was on her way home without telling her friends. It was a long shot.”

  “We talked about her maybe being kidnapped,” Groud said.

  “Yes. And that’s a dead end, at least so far, too. No phone calls to her parents. Albany, New York police are still on it at that end but they told me they are coming up empty. The Gillispies are in Naples now. Peter Gillispie called me. He’s probably here in town now, wandering around.”

  “So, you got any other leads?”

  Troy told Groud what he had on Mark Stider and his conversation with Judge Stider in Troy’s office. He left out the part about assaulting the judge, in order to give Groud plausible deniability.

  “You actually plan to back off on all this? Like you told the judge?”

  “Of course not. But if lying to him makes him hold off a few days, especially over a holiday, while I get my act together, I’ll lie to him.”

  “You’re a devious son…”

  “Careful. That’s a four-dollar penalty.” Troy nodded toward the money on his desk.”

  “…devious person. But here’s the thing. The next town council meeting is Friday. Last Friday of the month, as usual. Your six months’ probation is up. We either vote to keep you on permanently or we fire you. You have me and Max Reed on your side. Max is kind of indifferent but he doesn’t work with you as close as I do. Duell hates your guts.”

  “I have come to realize that I’m going to have to go through life without Doctor Principal Councilman Howard Parkland Duell’s approval,” Troy said.

  “Yes. You are. And he happens to be the one up for reelection next January. We elect one new guy each year. Or reelect the old guy. Duell is not very popular. When you’re a councilman it’s hard to keep folks from finding out what an asshole you are. That was worth a buck.” He added a dollar to the collection. “I expect he’ll want to make some trouble for you, or me, or anyone else he can think of. Any topic he thinks will appeal to his demographic, which is mostly rich white people easily impressed by overeducated gasbags. Which is all of the Osprey Yacht Club membership, most of Airfield Key and some of Barron Key.”

  “Odd, though,” Troy said. “Not to disparage the town council, but it’s not the White House. There’s no salary, just a lot of work most people never appreciate.”

  “Yeah. ’Course with Duell, he doesn’t do much of the work. He always has some excuse to weasel out. He just likes the title. He’s into titles, ’case you never noticed.”

  Troy grinned. “He corrects me every time I say I’m the police chief. Maybe we need a sort of Debrett’s of correct titles for Mangrove Bayou.”

  “What’s a Debrett’s?”

  “Book, several books, about how to properly address British royalty.”

  Groud stared at Troy and a slow smile appeared on his weather-beaten face. “One reason I’ll vote to keep you on: you know crap nobody else in the world even cares about.”

  Troy tapped the money on his desk.

  “Oh, come on. ‘Crap’ isn’t really a swear word.”

  “I already tried that argument on June. Put your money where your mouth was.”

  Groud slapped down a dollar. “Thing is,” he said, “we got this missing girl.” He looked at the photo on the corner of Troy’s desk. “You haven’t called in any help like the sheriff’s or the FDLE.”

  “Sheriff’s sent us that chopper last Sunday.”

  “Sure they did. You know what I mean. I got half the business community on my back about this. If you can’t find that girl by Friday night, and alive, I don’t know which way Max Reed would go with your hiring. We need results. Fast.”

  “And you still have the gap-toothed applicant with the left eye pointing south when his head is facing west,” Troy said. “Good to have bench strength.”

  “Well, he was the only other person to apply,” Groud said.

  “Actually, Milo Binder, your nephew, once told me he wanted the job and you said no.”

  “He was a kid. Not remotely up to it. Bubba Johns could have done it but he refused.”

  “Yes. He told me that, my first day.”

  Groud nodded. “But I’m serious. You’re doing good here, so far, and so far as I’m concerned. But if Max Reed votes with Doctor…all that stuff…Duell, I’ll be advertising for your replacement the next morning. Nothing I can do about that. Finding the girl, alive or dead, would be a big help.”

  “The girl is dead. I assume that,” Troy said. “Town’s too small for her to be missing this long and still be alive. And I’ve checked with the sheriff’s and they and the Naples police have checked bus terminals and airports and rental cars. The cops up in Albany, New York are watching for phone calls from kidnappers. The
y even sent in a man and woman to sit in the Gillispie’s house and pretend to be the family in case anyone calls. But, as for Barbara,” Troy glanced at the photo, “there is no evidence she ever left Mangrove Bayou.”

  “I didn’t know you had done all that.”

  “We actually do police work here, Les. We don’t talk about it too much, but in-between doughnuts and coffee we try to earn our salaries.”

  “All right. So earn your salary. Where is the girl?”

  “You’re a guide. You know the Ten Thousand Islands, the Big Cypress Swamp, and the Everglades National Park better than I do. You tell me.”

  “Humm. Fact is, I could bury a hundred bodies out there and nobody would ever find them,” Groud said. “There likely are a hundred bodies out there now, skeletons under the mangroves someplace. Ever read Killing Mr. Watson?”

  Troy nodded. “Peter Matthiessen. Think about that book any time I’m camping out at the Watson Place on the Chatham River.”

  “The Everglades is the third-largest national park in the continental U.S., the largest east of the Mississippi,” Groud said. “And among the most remote and least visited. You can’t even make a cell phone call from most of it. May to November the mosquitoes can pick you up and fly away with you. The no-see-ums and deerflies can drive a man mad.”

  “Hate deerflies,” Troy said. “No-see-ums, mosquitoes, just cover yourself in DEET. Deerflies, they think that only makes you taste spicy.”

  “Tell me about it,” Groud said. “I get fishing clients still think Skin-So-Soft actually works. Or they rub themselves with dryer sheets. One hour out and they’re begging me for the bug repellant. But you go in, deep in, to the Everglades and you’re on your own. Nobody’s gonna come get you out. Even some of the trees are poison. And what the gators don’t eat, the boa constrictors swallow. We got constrictors that eat gators, and not small ones either. Man coming in striking distance of one of those hasn’t got a prayer. And I’m not even talking moccasins, or sharks if you’re in the water, or diamondbacks on dry land, what little of it there is. They’re everywhere.”

  “You sound like a tour guide,” Troy said. “A very scary one. You sure you’re good for the Mangrove Bayou business community?”

  The mayor grinned. “Sorry. I got a patter I give the clients as we motor out to the fishing spots. Stops them getting out of the boat to go pee in the trees. Are we gonna find that girl by Friday?”

  “Probably not. And without some sort of clue as to where to look, probably never.”

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, December 26

  The department cell phone rang at two a.m. Lee mumbled something into a pillow and picked it up and handed it to Troy. Troy was spending the night at her house. It was Milo Binder, who had picked up the tailing duty on Mark Stider.

  “They’re moving the boat,” Milo said. “I followed them to Snake Key. They’re launching it from that little boat ramp by the Guide Club.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “The kid and his dad. Dad’s ride is a Mercedes GL SUV. Got a trailer hitch on it. Oh, and they got a canoe too, put that on top of the boat at the house and I guess they’re taking it out too. Why would you need a boat and a canoe?”

  “Maybe they need the canoe to get into some place the boat can’t go. Soon as they actually leave, get over to the Snake Key boatyard. There’s a list of gate codes in the armrest between the seats.” Milo was driving Troy’s Subaru Forester.

  “I’m sending Bubba too,” Troy said. “Can you launch the police boat? The Subaru has a trailer hitch.”

  “Well, I suppose. Never did it before.”

  “You have to turn that around to put the two-inch ball up,” Troy said. “Do you know how to do that?”

  “Well, I guess so. But not sure about the launching part.”

  “Then don’t try that.” Troy’s Subaru was stick shift and launching a boat on a slanted ramp was a little tricky for a human with only two feet. “Just get the trailer onto the car. Bubba and I will be down there ASAP.”

  Troy called Bubba Johns and woke him up. Bubba ran the police boat. “Got an emergency,” he explained. “Does the police boat have AIS on its chart plotter and radar?” AIS, or the Automated Identification System, transmitted a signal from a ship that identified the blip on another ship’s radar. Most of the better radar and chart plotter systems sold to yachtsmen also had this capability.

  “Yeah. ’Course,’ Bubba said. “Nothing but the best when we got that money from the big drug bust.”

  At the boatyard, Lee Bell parked her red Corvette and Troy extricated himself from the passenger side. “Christ,” he said, straightening up and arching his back. “I’m pretty sure you crossed over a yellow line back there. Felt it in my butt.”

  Bubba was there in a few moments in his pickup. Milo had hooked up the RIB, a 25-foot Rigid Inflatable Boat. “Your car didn’t have the hookup for the brakes,” Milo said. “You think you can launch that boat with that little car?”

  “Watch me. That car has all-wheel drive and a good engine. It can climb up the side of a building if I want it to.” Troy backed the RIB into the water while Bubba tended lines, then parked his Subaru and the empty trailer. “I want you to follow the Stiders’ boat,” he told Bubba. “No lights, it’s a dark night. Try not to clue them in to your presence.”

  Bubba looked at the chart plotter which he had turned on. “If they got an AIS transmitter, they turned it off. But look at the radar. They’re heading straight out the river channel into the Gulf.”

  “Damn,” Troy said. “Thought they’d be leading us into the islands, maybe to where the girl’s body is.” He thought a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll go with Bubba. Milo, leave the Subaru here. Lee can take you home.”

  Bubba eased the boat away from the boatyard pier and they slowly followed the Stiders out the Collier River channel. They were both glad to be wearing sweaters and windbreakers and those were barely enough. At least in December it rarely rained. Bubba had turned the chart plotter’s backlight to Night mode so they didn’t have that white glare in their eyes, and be visible from a mile off too. Troy used the binoculars but could see nothing ahead. Apparently the Stiders were running without lights too. Troy couldn’t recall what phase the moon was in but it was not above the horizon and the night sky showed only stars. Troy had always enjoyed being out in the Gulf of Mexico at night. Usually even in summer the daytime storms settled down and the sea was calmer, just the stars wheeling overhead, the gentle action of the waves, the night around you like a warm blanket, the occasional flashing marker buoy light in the far distance to remind you that there were people who cared enough about you to light the way.

  “They got a radar and use it, we’re not going be a secret much longer,” Bubba said.

  “No radar. I’ve seen the boat. Open boat. No hardtop.”

  “I don’t think they have the AIS system,” Bubba said. “Or they got it turned off. I turned ours off too, so’s not to show up on their chart plotter.”

  In the darkness Troy could more sense than see the islands covered with mangrove trees sliding past on either side of the channel. Bubba was using the lighted channel markers to steer by.

  “Doesn’t matter, so long as we have them on radar.” Troy pointed up at the radar antenna mounted on the hardtop above their heads. “Not like there’s a big crowd out here tonight.”

  In a few moments they were clear of the islands and in the open Gulf of Mexico. Troy recalled how, just months earlier, he had paddled his canoe out here one night and seriously thought of going on towards Mexico until the next storm he encountered killed him. That would at least end the nightmares that had plagued Troy for years, nightmares about killing a man in Tampa and then a boy some time later. Troy realized that Bubba had said something. “I’m sorry, thinking of something else,” he said.

  “I asked if you want us to catch up to them or do we just follow them until one of us runs out of gas.”

  “Bubba, I d
on’t know. I didn’t even have anyone watching the boat, specifically. I was focused on the kid’s car. Let’s see what they do. I mean, they’re heading for Brownsville, Texas right now. That can’t be the plan.”

  They passed the sea buoy, actually here a marker made of a few telephone poles driven into the sand and angled in to support a single white light. Locals called it “the spider.” The boat lifted as they hit a gentle swell.

  “This really is quite a boat,” Troy said, looking around.

  “Drug money,” Bubba said. “Weren’t for drugs, half the police departments in Florida would be driving old jon boats with British Seagull outboards.”

  “I actually remember British Seagulls,” Troy said. “Not much for speed, but hell for loud. They were maybe five horsepower, but with a gearbox that could turn a big prop set for push rather than speed. One of those could push this boat at maybe two knots.”

  “Well, we got twin Honda one-fifties on here,” Bubba said. “Can hit fifty knots easy, and twins are better, in case you hang one on an oyster bar and need to limp on home. More speed if we need it but that’s scary. Les Groud wanted to put on two-fifties. I told him we would just kill ourselves. We put the rest of the money into new trucks instead.”

  “They’ve stopped,” Troy said, looking at the radar. Bubba began to pull back on his own throttles but Troy stopped him. “Take us off to one side. Get us away from the river channel and the spider.” Bubba eased the boat back into gear and crept off a mile to one side. He put the boat into idle and they sat and watched the radar for half an hour, bobbing gently in small waves that had traveled far to greet them.

  “The boat just picked up speed,” Bubba said. He was looking at the radar screen. “Heading straight out. And there’s something, something small, behind the boat.”

  “Canoe, most likely,” Troy said. “Take us wide around the canoe, follow the boat. Don’t lose it.”

  That was easier said than done. At its height above the water the radar had a range of about four miles. The Stider boat had twin outboards—Troy had seen them on the boat at the Stider’s house and couldn’t recall their size, but they were substantial. Once clear of the canoe and able to open the throttles without the Stiders hearing, Bubba had to push to keep the blip on his radar screen. Their shallow-vee fiberglass bottom let them plane but at the cost of comfort. Even in the low swell the RIB bounced and they had to hang on as they sped through the darkness.