Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Chester D. Campbell

  “Think we’ll have a chance to see the show this time around?” Jill asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how many problems I run into with this investigation.”

  “What kind of problems are you looking for?”

  “I never look for problems, babe. But they seem to have no trouble finding me.” I stared morosely at my bagel before taking a bite.

  “Maybe this will be different.”

  I doubted that. I always figured if things were going too well with a case it meant I was headed in the wrong direction...or overlooking something.

  After we finished breakfast, I set up Jill’s pulley device on the bathroom door and she labored through her exercise routine. Catching the look on her face, I knew she would have preferred to be on the balcony watching the dolphins or rambling through some souvenir shop down the beach. But I had to hand it to her, she was determined to do whatever necessary to get her arm back in shape.

  It was after eight when we headed downstairs. Since this walk would be more business than pleasure (I guess exercise can sometimes be called pleasure), I had skipped the usual shorts for a pair of khaki pants and a knit shirt. Jill, who always dressed better than me, wore designer jeans and a white top. I also had on my blue and white Titans cap in consideration of the Florida sun’s ultra violent rays.

  Gulf Sands was a multi-structure complex, with the office located on the ground floor of the building next door. We made our first stop there. Marilou Edens, a tall redhead with a pixyish look and a demeanor to match, stood behind the counter.

  “Well, well, the McKenzie clan is back,” she said in a teasing way, then sobered as she realized the likely reason for our visit. “I’m sorry. I really hate what happened to that Gannon fellow. I know he was a friend of yours.”

  I nodded. “He was a fine young man, the son of our best friends. Did you go with the Sergeant to our condo Saturday?”

  “I sure did. Is everything all right?”

  “No problem. We were just wondering if he was by himself or if there was another officer with him?”

  “He was alone. I went in with him. He just looked around, didn’t bother anything, as best as I could tell.”

  As I expected, but I felt I had to ask.

  “Fine,” I said. “By chance has anyone turned up a key to our unit? The one Tim Gannon had is missing.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Nobody’s brought it in here. You think he lost it somewhere? It wasn’t in his car?”

  “No, it hasn’t showed up anywhere. I’d appreciate it if you would get Whitley to change the lock on our door.” Whitley was the Gulf Sands maintenance man.

  “Sure. I’ll get him onto it this morning. And drop around again while you’re here, okay? You doing all right, Jill?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she said. “I had rotator cuff surgery a few weeks ago. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  We left the office and walked across the parking lot, headed toward Johnson Beach Road. I had a strong feeling that key could be critical to finding Tim Gannon’s murderer. But I had no idea at the moment where to start looking for it.

  14

  I could feel another hot day in the making, but as we turned toward the park, a strong easterly breeze fanned our faces, putting a roar in our ears like listening to a conch shell. At least the brisk walk would be pleasant.

  We passed more multi-story condo developments on the right and a cluster of wooden houses on the left, odd, boxy structures in weird Florida colors. Beyond the houses, white sand lots languished on streets laid out and paved but starkly deserted. When we approached the National Seashore entrance, Tim Gannon’s elegant architectural design rose off to the right like a towering medieval castle, red-tiled turrets jutting into an expanse of blue he had once inhabited as a Navy pilot. We slowed our pace as we spotted the drawbridge balcony hanging down like a fallen exclamation point, a crude metaphor for the crashing end to Tim’s dreams.

  As we walked into the Seashore, Jill glanced around at the metal pipe gate that had been swung to the side. OPEN TO PUBLIC 8 A.M. TO SUNSET was lettered beside a red stop sign.

  “How did Tim get his car through here in the middle of the night?” she asked.

  I looked at the sign and at the large locks that hung from the end of the gate. “Since that Blazer didn’t have wings, I guess that’s a question we’ll have to ask.”

  The roadway split around the small park entrance building, and I noted the cameras aimed to each side. I flashed our Golden Age Passport for the ranger at the window and got a wave and a “Good morning.”

  We walked past dunes covered with scrubby pine, yaupon bushes heavy with clusters of red berries, golden aster, rapier-sharp spines of palmetto and the aromatic evergreen rosemary. As we approached the parking area, the soaring concrete pylons of the Star Pavilion, used for picnics, loomed off to the right above the beach. A string of gray wooden buildings with sloping roofs angled away from it. A white car with green stripes and blue lights was parked beside one of the structures.

  I knew the car belonged to the Park Service’s law enforcement division, but I had never met the ranger who drove it. We found him standing in a breezeway between two buildings. He was short and athletic looking, curly black hair, probably late twenties. He wore forest green shorts with a pistol belt and side arm, high-top shoes and a gray shirt on which were pinned a gold badge and a name plate that said ALVAREZ. The name and dark skin indicated Cuban or Mexican.

  “Greg McKenzie,” I said, extending my hand. “This is my wife, Jill.”

  The ranger smiled as we shook hands. “Ricky Alvarez. Where are you from?”

  “Nashville, Tennessee.” I never say Hermitage outside the Nashville area, since few people would be familiar with it. “We’re friends of Sam and Wilma Gannon, parents of the young man who was found shot around here Saturday morning.”

  Alvarez’ face sobered. “That was a bad scene. Give your friends my condolences.”

  “Will do. Actually, his dad asked me to look into what happened. I’m a retired agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you, other than he was found in his car on the road over toward the boat launch. He was dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  A flock of sea gulls flapped and squawked past us like a bunch of white-feathered rowdies having a serious disagreement. I tried to sound a bit more reasonable. “That’s the problem I’m looking into. The self-inflicted part. Tim’s parents don’t believe he would have committed suicide, and I’ve got some serious reservations. Would you mind showing us where it happened?”

  “Not at all. But I think you’ll have a real problem trying to find some other explanation for his death. The Medical Examiner ruled it suicide, and Sergeant Payne of the sheriff’s office was quite positive about it.”

  “We’ve already spoken with Deputy Payne,” Jill said, a bit tartly. “We’re well aware of his predilection toward suicide.”

  Alvarez shrugged. “Are you in your car?”

  “We walked,” I said. “We have a condo down the beach at Gulf Sands. Tim was staying at our place when he was shot.” After a pause, I added, “By whomever.”

  “It’s not far,” he said, “but I’ll drive you over.”

  He locked the nearby door to his small office, and we walked out to his car. I opened the back door for Jill, then took the seat next to the ranger. The road into the parking lot continued straight across the key to a boat launch site on the Big Lagoon, the body of water on the mainland side of the island. The road was a paved, two-lane strip bordered by weary seagrass, mostly languid shoots of brown, thick tangles of bushes and spindly but tall pine trees. As we drove along, I followed my normal instincts and inquired about the ranger’s background.

  “I joined the Park Service mainly because of my interest in the outdoors,” Alvarez said. “I’ve been a camping nut ever since Boy Scouts. As I got o
lder, I still hiked and camped out every chance I got.”

  “Are you originally from Florida?”

  “I was born and grew up here. My parents came to the U.S. on a boat from Cuba in 1975. I studied criminology at the University of South Florida, then applied for law enforcement with the Park Service.”

  “Did you ask to be assigned here?”

  “Sure did. But after putting me through a four-month basic course, they gave me several temporary assignments around the country. When I got my permanent assignment here, I spent four months at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick, Georgia.”

  That had recently become the home of the Air Force’s Special Investigations Academy, where OSI agents were trained. It meant Alvarez had received instruction in all areas of law enforcement. He was more than just a Smokey Bear protector. Or, in this case, a Perdido Key Beach Mouse protector—I had read about the local white rodent the feds had put on the endangered species list.

  He parked at the side of the road a good hundred yards back from the large circle of asphalt where fishermen backed up trailers to launch their boats into the lagoon.

  “This is the approximate location,” Alvarez said as he stepped out onto the road. “The Blazer was sitting here when I arrived around six-fifteen. The fisherman who found him called star-five-five, and the Gulf Breeze dispatcher notified me.”

  Jill and I got out and I looked around. The area was isolated, far from any habitation. “I’m sure nobody heard the gunshot,” I said.

  “Hardly. Campers who spend the night in here have to be more than half a mile beyond the end of the road that runs down the key. That’s several miles away. The fishermen were either out in boats or fishing from the shore farther to the east.”

  I turned to the ranger. “How did Tim get his car in here in the middle of the night? Isn’t the gate locked at sundown?”

  “It is. But people with an overnight camping or fishing permit are given the lock combination in case of emergency. Also, a lot of fishermen buy a Night Owl Pass that’s good for a year. Allows them to come and go as they please. They also get the combination, which is changed monthly.”

  “Did Tim have a pass?”

  “No. I checked the list. He wasn’t on it. But anybody who knew the combination could have given it to him.”

  “Or somebody with the combination might have met him at the gate and let him in.”

  “Did Sergeant Payne tell you about the surveillance tapes?”

  I nodded. “Could you see Tim’s face in the picture?”

  “Yes. When he passed the camera he was looking straight ahead, a troubled expression on his face.”

  “Are you sure it was troubled, or maybe just stern?”

  “Good point. I really couldn’t say.”

  “Could you tell if there was anyone else in the vehicle?”

  Alvarez frowned. “The interior was pretty dark. I couldn’t detect anyone else, but I wouldn’t want to swear there was no one. The camera didn’t show anyone coming out on foot.”

  “Maybe they walked down the beach.”

  “That’s possible, but unlikely,” Alvarez said. “Incidentally, I checked all the fishermen I could find that morning, and went up and down looking for campers. I didn’t find a single person who had given out the combination or seen anyone around the gate during the night.”

  I looked at how the car was parked. “Sergeant Payne said the doors were locked. Did you open them to check and see if he was alive?”

  He walked over to the door of his car, looked down inside and pointed. “Mr. Gannon was sitting in the right-hand seat. He had fallen over to the left, across the console. I could see the entry wound toward the front of his head, on the right side, and blood on the seat. I doubted he was alive, but I got my probe out of the car and unlocked the door.”

  “Which door?”

  “The driver’s side. I figured the shot had to have come from the right. If somebody else was the shooter, they would have used the passenger side door. I wanted to protect the crime scene, if there was one.”

  Good thinking. But I wondered if there had been any follow-up.

  “The body was cold,” Alvarez continued. “The jaw and face were taut. Rigor mortis was already setting in. I notified my supervisor at Gulf Breeze, then called Sergeant Payne. I had worked with him on other cases and had his number.”

  “Did you find anything unusual around the right side of the vehicle?”

  He shook his head. “I never had a chance to check it. A group of fishermen and campers had started gathering around. I spent my time answering questions and keeping everybody away from the scene until Payne could get here. He recognized Gannon immediately and told me about the balcony falling at The Sand Castle. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that it was suicide. And he made a convincing case for it. We found the glove compartment open. Payne reasoned that Gannon had moved into the passenger seat to make it easier to get the pistol out.”

  “So Payne had no interest in looking any further.”

  “You’re probably right. An investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office arrived about that time, made some photos, checked the body and they took it away. The wrecker was here by then and hauled the car off to the sheriff’s office. And that was it.”

  I folded my arms and must have had a grim look. “So we’ll never know what might have been found in the edge of the woods over there. Like vegetation trampled by someone standing outside the car. Something that could indicate another person may have stood there and fired the shot.”

  “That’s true,” he said, hands planted on his hips, accepting the challenge. “But I have no reason to think that might have happened. Particularly after going through those videotapes. You’ll need to come up with something a lot more solid than mere speculation to convince me of it.”

  15

  We arrived back at the condo just as Whitley was finishing work on changing our door lock. The Gulf Sands maintenance man, pool custodian and grounds keeper was a tall, lean black man who always wore blue jeans, a colorful shirt and a Jacksonville Jaguars cap. We’d had a few lively discussions about the Jaguars’ rivalry with the Titans.

  “Here’s the new one, Mr. McKenzie,” he said, holding out a brass key. “I’ll take Marilou hers.”

  I accepted the key and smiled. “Thanks a lot, Whitley. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

  He tugged at his hat. “Must mean gold’s not worth much these days.”

  I laughed as Jill asked, “Would you like something to drink before you leave?”

  Whitley shook his head. “Thanks. I’ve got a bunch of other stuff to get done this morning.”

  We had an answering machine on the pass-through counter to the kitchen, and it was chirping like a tired cricket when we walked in. The message was from Walt, saying he would be at his motel until ten. It was still a little before that, so I sat on the sofa and gave him a call with the portable phone.

  “This shit gets deeper and deeper,” he said, punctuating his displeasure with a grunt.

  “Have you been by the building inspector’s?”

  “No. I talked to that miserable fart Farnsworth, who thinks he’s God’s gift to the ladies. First time I met him, he was in some bar chasing a skirt. Drives a red Corvette and acts like he owns the town.”

  “What did he say that’s got you so disturbed?”

  “The sonofabitch claims those rebars met the specs. He has a copy, of course, and said he’d show me.”

  “Are you going to take a look at it?”

  “You’re damned right. If that’s what it shows, somebody’s been screwing around with the plans.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Wouldn’t it require the architect’s signature to make a change like that?”

  “The sheets dealing with the rebars were sealed by Tim as the structural engineer who drew up the specifications.”

  “Sealed?”


  “An embossed seal, like a notary uses. If anything is changed, it must be sealed like the original.”

  “It couldn’t be forged?”

  “Like I said. I guess anything is possible.”

  “Who could have done it?”

  “The logical party would be Claude Detrich, the general contractor. It would have saved him a lot of money.”

  I knew the answer to my next question, but went ahead and asked. “Any way to prove tampering?”

  “Not without our missing plans. That caper is beginning to make a little sense now. But I still don’t understand how they pulled it off.”

  “Get me the info on the guys who left and we’ll see,” I said.

  Jill was standing there with a bottle of fruit juice when I got off the phone. Orange-banana this time. “When you’re off duty, you can have a nip of scotch,” she said in a teasing voice.

  As I told her what I had learned from Walt, she dropped onto the edge of the sofa and stretched her good arm across my shoulder. I got a whiff of perfume and a generous nudge from one of those curvaceous body parts she knows how to tantalize me with.

  “If somebody down here doctored the plans,” Jill said, “that lets out Tim as the bad guy, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right. And it would add another chapter to the mystery. If somebody here arranged the theft of those plans, they must have also erased the file in Tim’s laptop.” I reached over and grasped her right hand, squeezing those long, sensitive fingers.

  I felt a shiver ripple down her arm, and her fingers tightened on my hand. “That would mean someone was here...in our condo.”

  I nodded. “I think it’s time we started looking for SH.”

  16

  Pensacola and Escambia County may be worse than Nashville for long streets that change names as often as crabs on the beach change their shells. The route into town was almost a straight shot once you started across the bridge to the mainland. But what began as Perdido Key Drive became Sorrento Road at the first traffic light, changed to Gulf Beach Highway a few miles later, and then to Barrancas Avenue. We crossed the high bridge over Bayou Chico and veered off to the east through the downtown business area and the historic section, where the city was settled back in the late 1600’s.