by Tom Lowe
“The more you get involved, and I’ve seen it a dozen times, the more obsessed you get. I’ve heard you say that someone has to speak for the dead, the unsolved murders. The shear volume is like being in a war, maybe like some of that shit you went through in the Middle East.”
I said nothing. I could hear him breathing hard into the phone.
Ron said, “I’m not a psychologist—”
“That’s right. You’re not.”
“You were a damn great investigator. You take justice personally, but it doesn’t work that way, bro. I saw how this tore you apart from people in your life. People who are or were alive. Sherri and—screw it! You are who you are. Sorry, Sean. Just let it be old buddy.”
I let Ron cool off of a few seconds before I responded. “You ever hold a dying girl in your arms?”
“No.” His voice was flat.
“I do get obsessive when I see a human being victimized that way, and I feel the investigation is a lot weaker than the perp who did it. You know it’s the first forty-eight hours that shape it. I don’t think the lead detective up here has a sense of urgency. But I held her for God’s sake. Did everything I could to keep her alive. Her life and, if she died, her death, do take on a personal priority.”
Ron’s voice was softer. “In homicide, we aren’t called to the scene before they die. Must be damn awful to stumble on one alive…barely.”
“There was something about this girl…something I’ve seen before.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t know. I can’t place it because I was trying so hard to save her life. The usual details I always scrutinized became a film shot at high speed though adrenaline. And I'm having a hard time playing it back in slow motion. Maybe it was something she said. The way she looked. Exotic and fragile. She said something in a language I didn’t recognize. She said, ‘Atlacatl imix cuanmiztli.’”
“Wonder what it means?”
“Not sure. She might be here illegally, smuggled. Maybe connected to the migrant camps, but I don’t think the vic had spent an hour in the fields. No calluses on her hands. The way she was dressed. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel that got way out of hand, or something with deeper repercussions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not sure yet.”
“I’ll check missing person’s reports. Might want to touch base with the feds. ”
“And I might want to try bungee jumping.”
Ron laughed. “You remember Lauren Miles in the FBI’s Miami office?”
“We’ve crossed territorial paths.”
“That’s her. Too bad, she’s such a looker. Easier to dislike if she wasn’t.”
“What about her?”
“The Herald ran a story on one of her investigations a few months ago. She’s investigating missing persons, mostly young women, or at least she was. Florida’s kinda the epicenter for runaways and people that simply vanish.”
“They vanish because their bodies are never found. Others are stolen, maybe sold in some human trafficking ring. And they might as well be dead, too.”
“Yeah, Sean, but unless they’re somebody’s neighbor, they become yesterday’s news real fast.”
“They’re all somebody’s daughter. I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing. You do owe Sherri, God rest her soul, a promise to do something else with your life. Sounds like you stepped in a big shit hole. Ask yourself if it’s worth it. Remember the price you paid.”
Ron was gone, but his words lingered in the salon like foul cigarette smoke.
SIX
I had to get some fresh air. I tossed my phone on the sofa in the salon, went out the sliding glass doors leading to the cockpit, and climbed the ladder steps to the fly bridge. This was the perch I liked most. I unzipped and folded up the isinglass, exposing all four quadrants of the bridge to the coastal breezes. I sat in the captain’s chair, swiveled around, propped my feet up on the console and sipped the beer. Another hour and the sun would be setting beyond the expanse of estuaries and flat, tidal marshes. A half dozen brown pelicans sailed effortlessly across the marina.
I held the cold bottle to the left side of my forehead. The alcohol and aspirin seemed to work in unison, the throb becoming less of a pain and more of a state of mind. I looked across the marina toward the wide Intracoastal and thought of the last time I sailed with Sherri. I closed my eyes and could hear her voice.
“Hey Sean! Got a minute?” It was Dave Collins, standing on the bow of his boat, rinsing off the swim platform.
“Sure.”
Dave Collins wasn’t one of the boomers who dreamed of sailing around the world. Before retirement, he was employed by American oil companies. He’d worked in countries like Saudi Arabia, Sudan and Israel. He had been in “human resources, ” a recruiter, so he'd said. Dave had two daughters and one grandson living in Michigan. His boat, Gibraltar, a 42-foot trawler, was a few slips away from Jupiter.
Dave shut off the water and put away the hose. In his early sixties, he was silver-haired and broad-shouldered. No beer belly in spite of his love of dark beers. Like me, he’d lost his wife, but his loss was because of divorce.
As Dave stepped onto Jupiter’s cockpit, I said, “Get a beer and come on up.”
He whistled as he rummaged down in the galley and then climbed the bridge ladder, beer in hand, with the agility of someone half his age. “You had a visitor.”
“Who?”
“A detective. Said his name was Slater.”
“What else did he say?”
Dave sipped his beer. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Sean?”
“By default.” I told him about finding the girl.
Dave sat the beer in the cup holder. “I saw a little piece on the news. They didn’t have much. Said an unidentified woman was found beaten and stabbed near the St. Johns River. The reporter said police are questioning a ‘person of interest.’ By the detective’s line of questioning, I bet you’re that ‘person of interest? You think this Joe Billie did it?”
“Wish I knew.”
Dave made a slight grunt and sipped his beer. “Tell me again what the victim said, the words she uttered to you?”
“Atlacatl imix cuanmiztli.”
Dave wrote it down on the back of a napkin. “Wonder what it means?” He folded the napkin and placed it in the pocket of his Hawaiian-print shirt. “If English isn’t her first language, what is? Where’s home?”
“She looked exotic, similar to the people I’ve seen in areas of Central America. I’d held her hand waiting for paramedics. There were no calluses. Nails were painted, lipstick smeared, she wore tight jeans and a blouse.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if she made it. Who’s her family? Where’s she from?”
“Sean, this detective Slater is curious about you.”
“What else did he say?”
“Didn’t seem like your typical sleuth.”
“How?”
“Poor listener. Knew answers to questions before he finished asking them.”
“What sort of questions?”
“The usual. How much time did you spend on your boat? Did you ever bring women here? Any rough stuff or noises? He was trying to see if you fit a profile.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you were a loner and came to the boat only on the night of a full moon and on a high tide.” Dave chuckled and swallowed the last ounce of his beer. “I didn’t tell him a damn thing, really. Nothing to tell. You’re one of the good guys, Sean. A burnout, but one of the good guys. Seen my share of the bad ones.”
“Bet you have.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“Maybe I can catch you for eggs and issues in the morning.”
Dave never referred to the morning meal as ‘breakfast.’ It was always called ‘eggs and issues’ because it was when he liked discussing the morning ne
wspaper.
“Tiki bar at eight a.m. for breakfast,” I said.
#
THE ROAR OF A DOZEN Harleys carried across the marina. The bikers seemed to parade through the marina’s gravel parking lot, disembarking in front of the Bayside Bar and Grille. Black leather and jeans stepping from the shiny chrome, like cowboys tying up horses in front of a saloon at sundown on a Saturday night.
I could smell the smoke from blackened Florida redfish coming from the Bayside, which was an outdoor tiki bar with a roof of dried palm fronds. The hangout catered to tourists, boaters, bikers and a few vagabonds that fell between the cracks and landed on barstools. The tiki bar sat on stilts over the water.
Maybe I’d stay on Jupiter for the night, make sure the bilge was performing well. As I debated whether to make the drive home, I thought about Max and her tiny bladder.
So it would be an evening with a wiener dog. I’d call Dave and cancel breakfast.
I CROSSED THE DUNLAWTON BRIDGE just as the sun was painting the Halifax River in shades of flattened copper and deep merlot reds that simmered across the water like a river of blood. The day’s events seemed a lifetime ago. Was the girl okay? No, she wasn’t okay. Never would be. But was she alive?
Then I turned my Jeep around and drove fast toward Halifax Hospital.
SEVEN
Death has an odor unlike any other. The smell is often the first thing that greets you at a murder crime scene. In Miami, the heat and humidity would accelerate the decay process. Some cops seemed to get used to it. I never did. It was resurrected the moment I walked into the hospital emergency room.
The intensive care unit of Halifax Hospital is a sanitized place where the whiff of death isn’t permitted. But there was the smell of misery. I could detect it between the layers of disinfectant. It was the scrubbed hint of diarrhea, bleach, vomit, adhesive bandages, medicines and human stress.
Nine adults and three children sat in the ER waiting room. I looked at each face, trying to determine a connection between the victim I’d found and anyone in the waiting room. Three of the people were black; half dozen others were white.
A nurse seated behind the desk ignored me as she keyed information into a computer. “Excuse me,” I said waiting for her to pause and look up. “A young woman was airlifted in here this morning. Can you tell me how she’s doing?” I noticed that a doctor stopped writing for a moment and looked over at me.
“What’s the patient’s name?” the nurse asked.
“I don’t know. She was young. Face injuries. Probably a rape victim.”
“I need a name.”
“How many severely beaten young women do you have airlifted in here during the last twenty-four hours? Is she going to be okay?”
“Are you a family member?”
“No.”
“I can’t release that information unless you’re a member of the family or a police officer. Sorry.” She dropped her eyes from me and began typing on her keyboard.
I almost instinctively reached for a badge that I hadn’t carried in a year. “My name is Sean O’Brien. I found the victim. I was a homicide detective with Miami PD. Here’s my driver’s license. All I’m asking you is to let me know her condition.”
“That information is private. Hospital rules.”
I started to tell her that I couldn’t care less about hospital rules when the doctor nearby stopped writing and approached me. He motioned to follow him from the reception desk into an alcove. He studied me a second or two through dark eyes that looked tired yet compassionate.
“I’m Doctor Saunders. Did I hear you say that you found the girl brought in by air-ambulance today?”
“Yes. How is she?”
“No one has been here except the police. We don’t even have an ID for the deceased—”
“Deceased?”
“We did everything we could to save her. She was brutalized.”
I said nothing. Acid burned in my stomach.
“She’d lost a lot of blood. We had to remove her womb to try and save her.”
“What?”
“She’d been so abused there was no option. It’s tragic. I hope her killer is found.” He paused and started to leave, then hesitated. “I heard you say you were a homicide detective. Are you going to search for whoever did this to that poor girl?”
As I started to answer, his name was paged.
Dr. Saunders swiped an ID card through a slot and a set of double doors opened to a labyrinth of treatment rooms. I stood there a moment and watched him walk down a long corridor of hope and despair.
The sounds of my surroundings seemed more acute. The pulse of digital monitors connected to misfiring hearts. Soft sobs came from behind a curtain. A baby cried.
Outside, I inhaled the night air, filling my lungs to capacity. I wanted to purge the medicinal smells of human pain from the back of my throat. There was the scent of blooming roses, fresh-cut grass and pine. Lightning illuminated clouds over the ocean.
Exhaustion was sinking into my chest and the back of my neck. I looked forward to seeing Max. She was such a damn good listener. Never talked back, always seemed to care about what I was saying. I’d hoped she could hold her little bladder a while longer. Half an hour and I’d be home to let her out, feed her, fix myself some leftover chili and end the evening on the porch with Max on my lap and a scotch in my hand.
I was almost to my Jeep when two people stepped from a row of cars.
“That’s far enough O’Brien,” one of them said. “Put your hands where we can see them.”
EIGHT
Detectives Slater and Moore cautiously approached me the way officers do when they think a gun is present or an arrest is imminent. Detective Moore carried something in one hand. She looked nervous, her lips tight, eyes wide, ready for confrontation.
Under the parking lot streetlights, I could see a pulse beat in one side of her neck. She said nothing, allowing Slater to throw out the first pitch.
“Mr. O’Brien, we meet again. How’s the vic?”
“She’s dead, but you knew that.”
He was silent, searching my face. “Where have you been since I last saw you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind. I’m not a convicted felon. You’re not a parole officer. So why don’t you two tell me what you want and we can enjoy the rest of the night in separate places.”
“I’ll tell you what we want. We want your DNA. Detective Moore is prepared to take it. Don’t suppose you’re wearing your gun.”
“Not tonight. I usually do wear a gun in a hospital to see how fast security can respond. Part of my consultant business.”
Detective Moore almost smiled. She said, “We appreciate your cooperation.”
Slater said, “Then you don’t mind turning around and placing your hands on top of the hood. Spread your legs.”
“Glad to oblige, Detective.” I placed my hands on top of someone’s BMW and spread my feet apart. I could hear the sirens of an approaching ambulance a few blocks away racing toward the hospital. Slater frisked me.
“All right,” he said with a sound of satisfaction. “Turn around. Why were you at the hospital?”
“If there isn’t a new law against hospital visitations, I’m leaving.”
“Not yet,” he said, holding his palm out like a crossing guard. “We’ll take that DNA sample. Leslie, why don’t you go on and secure a sample from Mr. O’Brien.”
“Why don’t you ask my permission before you start reaching in my mouth?”
Slater’s eyebrows rose like an animator drew them high on his forehead. “We can do this downtown or we can do it here, Mr. O’Brien.”
“I don’t have a problem with a DNA sample. I do have a problem with your method of getting one.”
“If you don’t like police protocol, take it up with the sheriff.” His jaws hardened.
“This’ll be fast,” said Detective Moore, taking a swab from a plastic kit she held. “This will just take a couple of s
econds. Please, open your mouth.”
“Do I say ahhhhh?” I asked, opening my mouth, allowing her to take the saliva sample, which she did.
“Thank you.” This time she did smile.
Slater rocked on the balls of his feet. “When we did the search at the crime scene we found blood in the back of your Jeep. We tested it. Came from the victim.”
“And as I told you, I tried to stop the bleeding from her chest. I ran back to my Jeep to call for help and to get a towel. I must have touched something.”
“What did you think when you heard she’d died?”
“What did I think? I was saddened. She was someone’s daughter.”
“No one’s claimed the daughter—the body. Don’t have an ID. Makes it hard to alert next of kin. Right now she’s a Jane Doe, unless you know her name.”
I said nothing.
“I’m looking forward to the results from the DNA,” he said. “Why’d you really leave Miami PD in the prime of your career? I checked on you. Seems you took a medical leave after you shot and killed an innocent man at a crime scene. Was the line gettin’ a little blurry for you, O’Brien?”
“Why would I assault this girl and stay at the crime scene?”
He grinned. “We’re eliminating suspects. You haven’t been eliminated.”
“I’m not your perp, pal. He’s out there. And chances are he’ll do it again if he hasn’t already. Now either arrest me, or get the hell out of my way.”
“I’d watch that temper if I were you, O’Brien. Leads to stress.”
I walked between Slater and Moore. I hoped Slater would reach his sweaty hand out to try and stop me. He didn’t.
#
I DROVE WEST ON HIGHWAY 44 toward DeLand and the St. Johns River. I watched a quarter moon play hide-and-seek with me through the trees near the road. I hadn’t been home in almost fourteen hours and I felt bad for little Max. If she’d peed on the floor, I made a silent promise that I wouldn’t even raise my voice to her.
The day’s events played back in my mind. What had the girl whispered to me? Was the bruise on her cheek the letter U or something else? All I knew is that somewhere there was someone who loved her and was never going to see her again.