Bermuda Conspiracy

by K D McNiven

  Visibility was reduced because the mud had been stirred up, creating silt out conditions. This interruption forced them to lower extra lighting, putting them further behind schedule than anticipated. The delays caused frustration for the crew, they were hoping they would finish up and move on to other commitments. At the same time, they wanted their work to be meticulous and above reproach.

  When they had finished up their work, it was close to one in the morning. It didn’t take long for the crew to wash up and settle in for the night. They were exhausted.

  Early the following morning, Dax was met with a phone call from Detective Brock Scanlin. He was assigned to the case, investigating the reason why the tug sank and the details concerning the five dead crewmen. He told Dax he would like to ask a few questions.

  Dax agreed to meet him on the docks and had the Zodiac prepared to take him ashore. He wasn’t sure what other information he could tell the detective, but he was curious what evidence they’d come up with thus far.

  Detective Scanlin was dressed in a brown tweed suit, white starched shirt and a black tie with red pinstripes running diagonally. His jacket was slung over his shoulder as the day was already warm and humid, and a felt hat with a black band was patted down over his graying, short-cropped hair. Scanlin had a toothpick at the corner of his mouth, giving the appearance he’d just finished up breakfast.

  Brock stretched out his hand and shook Dax’s, flashing his badge. Tucking it back inside his front pocket, he said, “Good morning, Mr. Drake. Let’s walk over by the steps. I see a bench where we can sit and talk.”

  Dax followed close behind and dropped down on the metal seat. A few gulls circled around them, their shrill cries resounding in the air. To their right was a fish cleaning station where several fishermen were busy cleaning their morning’s catch. The air was heavily scented with salt and hours-old fish scraps. Not a pleasant smell, but one Dax had become used to.

  “What can I do for you?” Dax asked. “We’ve turned everything we’ve found over to the authorities.

  “Your crew has done a great job,” Brock said. “Unfortunately, we’ve learned the five men who were pulled from the wreckage were all shot in the head execution style. A sixth man’s body parts were discovered as well.”

  Dax’s brows shot upward in surprise. “Sounds horrifying. Have the men been identified?”

  “All but one,” Brock said. “We should know by the end of the day who the other man is.” Brock cleared his throat and became conscious of the toothpick. Propriety instinctively took over, and he plucked it from his mouth. A slight smile tipped his thin lips as he continued. “The scraps of metal you hauled up revealed they came from a pipe bomb.”

  Dax was not surprised. It had been his first thought when he’d discovered the shards. “But what would anyone have to gain? Whoever placed the bomb in the engine room had already killed those on board?”

  Brock rubbed his chin, stubbled from neglecting to shave the day before. He stared thoughtfully out over the brown Mississippi. “If I was a wagering man, I’d have to say whoever is responsible for this despicable act wanted the petroleum to spill into the river in order to create an environmental catastrophe. Think about it, releasing hundreds of gallons of hydrocarbon into the Mississippi—marine life, plants and fowl would be devastated. Take a moment to consider tourism in this area. It would utterly break New Orleans and surrounding cities. I’m not a wagering man, by the way, so I have to compile all the evidence before making any rash conclusions.”

  Dax leveled his gaze on Brock. An edge of admiration filled him. “You’re thinking terrorism?”

  “As I said, I follow the trail of evidence. It’s too early to conclude. But gut instinct…”

  “Don’t envy you, Detective. Now, I have to ask, why do you want to speak with me?”

  “I’d like your team to do one more dive,” Brock told him. “Another sweep to see what you might turn up. Anything—clothes, more metal…a gun.”

  “Those gut feelings telling you that the unidentified man blown to smithereens might be the shooter? It would be reasonable to assume if the gun used to shoot the other men is found near the blast, the same man probably planted the bomb and was blown up in the engine room.”

  “You’re a quick thinker, Mr. Drake,” Brock chuckled. “I’m merely throwing a line out and hoping to catch a fish.”

  “Of course, I’ll take another sweep of the area.” Dax was willing to do whatever possible to assist Detective Scanlin. “I want whoever is responsible for this atrocity to be caught and punished.”

  Brock reached up and tipped his hat, and got to his feet. “Appreciate it, Mr. Drake.”

  He slipped his hand into his rear pocket, pulled out his wallet and withdrew a card. “If you find anything, give me a call.”

  “You got it, and good luck, Detective.”

  “I can use all I can get.”

  Dax stood for a fleeting moment, watching the somewhat round-shouldered man walk back toward the parking lot. Though Detective Scanlin did not mention it, Dax saw the detective was visibly shaken. No wonder with six corpses on his hands.

  Chapter 6

  ⁂

  Decker Hayden rounded the corner of the warehouse. The lighting in the parking lot was dim, the sun having slid beyond the horizon more than an hour before. As he walked through the back door, Decker saw the soft golden light in the back office where Derrick Lasslo was hard at work.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the invoice he needed. After he’d picked up his crate of diving supplies, Decker noticed a few items he’d purchased were not in the crate. Derrick would make good on it he knew, having done business with him over the years.

  Derrick had sounded a bit distracted when Decker had called earlier in the day as if something had provoked him. When Decker asked him about it, Derrick side-stepped the question, but did say he had a packet to give to Decker, and said he thought it might be useful in his exploration of the Bermuda Triangle area, should Decker decide to return. He told Decker he would hand it off to him when he came in for the missing parts. It sounded a bit cryptic, but he shrugged it off. He’d know soon enough.

  “Derrick,” Decker called out as he stepped inside the small office. The room was empty. Decker looked around and walked through the warehouse calling out for him. Again, no answer. He waited patiently, assuming he must have gone to the restroom, but after several minutes ticked by, Decker made another sweep of the place.

  He knocked on the restroom door and was met with silence. Twisting the handle, Decker stepped inside, shocked when he saw the lifeless body of Derrick. He rushed to his side and knelt down on one knee. Derrick lay in a pool of blood, a hole the size of Decker’s fist through his chest. It looked like a P266 MK 25 pistol was used at close range. This weapon was often wielded by the military.

  Shaken, he reached for his cell phone, intending to call the police, stopping short when out of the corner of his eye he caught a shadowy movement. Someone was still inside. He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door, cautiously peeking around the corner. A bullet whizzed past his head, and he ducked back inside, dodging the wooden splinters erupting from the door frame from the bullet’s impact. He stood rigid against the wall, his gun pressed against his chest in a ready position. His breathing was heavy, his heart pounding like a drum. What had he walked into, he wondered?

  In one quick movement, he spun and popped off several shots, diving to the floor behind a large wooden crate. A round of gunfire followed. He caught sight of the muzzle flash to his right, letting go another barrage of bullets. Quickly, he ejected the empty magazine and reloaded, his mind whirling. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to murder Derrick. Possibly a robbery, but to Decker’s knowledge, most of Derrick’s transactions were by phone and put on credit cards.

  Off to his left, he saw another flash. He rolled out away from the crate and discharged his firearm, the sound of metal resonating and a dull thunk. A groan followed
. Decker scrambled to his feet and raced toward the door, his body bent forward. He slid in behind a wide beam, pressing his back firmly against the post, his pistol held upward near his chin. He listened for any sound, but everything went dead silent.

  Unfortunately, he realized he’d left his phone on the bathroom floor when he’d gone for his gun. He sputtered a curse. No way did he plan on going back for it. The warehouse door was feet from him. Leaning away from the post, he began emptying his chamber, at the same time barreling for the door.

  He had no sooner stumbled out into the night air that he caught a flash of metal out of his peripheral vision. Everything swirled around him, his body collapsing in a heap to the cement.

  ***

  Callie Hayden paced the floor. She had called her husband’s cell phone multiple times and it had gone straight to voicemail. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening, unlike him to be so late. Knowing he had only gone to check on some missing items he’d purchased, concern set in. She had even called Derrick’s cell. Even it appeared to be dead. Something didn’t feel right.

  Grabbing her sweater off the back of the chair, she headed down the companionway on the Jade II and hurried along the docks to their BMW parked in the spacious marina parking lot.

  The warehouse was a few miles from their apartment so it wouldn’t take her long to arrive. More than likely, Decker had gotten caught up in a long conversation, and she was worrying needlessly—or so she tried to convince herself. However, she had left several messages and Decker tended to be prompt at getting back to her. She did her best not to speed, but the quicker her heartbeat, the faster she found herself driving.

  Upon pulling into the parking lot, Callie’s heart missed a beat. There were no other cars parked, only their second vehicle Decker had driven, a small, two-door, sports car.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the outline of a man’s body lying outside the door. She dashed from the leather seat, racing across the lot to where the man lay.

  The golden-brown hair…the lean physique…she knew it was Decker. She dropped to her knees, feeling for a pulse. “Decker!” she called out in a frantic voice. She shook him and heard him moan. Rummaging through her purse, she grabbed hold of her cell and dialed the emergency line. Within a few minutes heard the blaring sirens.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the silhouette of someone off to the side of the warehouse. She was sure they were watching her. Her heart picked up a beat as she withdrew her Sig 228 from her hip holster and directed the barrel towards the shadowy perimeter.

  “Come out here where I can see you,” she yelled, her eyes darting back and forth.

  The dark figure darted into a small grove of trees just beyond the parking lot. Callie rushed that direction, squeezing off a warning shot into the air. The further she went, the darker it grew, wisdom telling her to go back to where Decker was lying. She didn’t want to walk into a trap, and without a flashlight in hand, she would be trying to maneuver in the darkness.

  When she turned back, she saw flashing colored lights heading her way and knew the ambulance was turning into the lot. She holstered her gun and hurried back.

  Decker was regaining his consciousness, his hand reaching up to brush the side of his head matted with blood. His eye had already swollen shut and starting to turn a deep purple.

  “Decker, can you hear me?” she asked.

  “W-what h…happened?’ He groaned, fighting to sit upright.

  “Lay back,” she said. “The ambulance is here.”

  “Derrick…Derrick’s dead.”

  “What!”

  “In the warehouse…he’s been shot.”

  The ambulance pulled up near them and a man dressed in a blue jacket leaped out of the van, rushing over to where Decker was lying. Two other men were pulling a gurney from the rear of the vehicle and hurried over to where Callie stood.

  “What happened?” One of the first responders asked, looking over the wound, shining a light into Decker’s eyes.

  “Someone blindsided me when I came out,” Decker said. “They shot the owner. He’s inside.”

  “We’ll get you to the hospital, you need to be monitored for a concussion.” Without another word, the emergency workers rolled him onto the gurney and transported him to the ambulance. “We’ll contact the police. They can take your statement later.”

  Decker opened his mouth to speak, but before the words tumbled out, he lost consciousness again. When his eyes fluttered open, he blinked several times to focus in on his surroundings. The smell of antiseptics assaulting his nostrils. He saw a couple of people milling around the room dressed in white jackets and turned his head to catch sight of Callie who looked distraught.

  He managed a smile.

  “Thank goodness.” She stooped to drop a kiss on his lips. “I’ve been so worried about you. You’ve been unconscious for some time.”

  Decker tried to gather the fragments of what had transpired. Some of the events were still foggy. Unfortunately, he did remember Derrick’s body stretched out on the floor, lying in a pool of crimson blood. Much as he tried to shut it out, it kept cropping back up like weeds in a garden. His head throbbed and he could only see out of one eye. His other, completely closed. He lifted his hand and felt a gauze bandage near his temple, along with shooting pain. He winced.

  “You had a few stitches,” Callie said. “You have a deep cut and lost a lot of blood, but the doctor said you’ll pull through it all right. They took a CT scan to make sure you didn’t have any cranial bleeding. My guess is you’ll have a headache for a day or two though.”

  “I’ve had better days,” he replied. “Have they found the person responsible for Derrick’s murder?”

  “Sorry,” Callie replied, raking her fingers through his golden-brown hair and bent to kiss his forehead. “I’ve been here for hours. No one has updated me. The police did come in once and said they wanted to speak with you as soon as you were up to it.”

  “Don’t have much to tell them.”

  “You need to rest.”

  “When can I blow this joint?”

  Callie grinned. “You’re so impatient. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to bolt already!”

  “If I thought I had the strength, I would, Callie.”

  The doctor came into the room and moved to the side of Decker’s bed. He sat down on a stool and flicked on a small penlight to look into his eyes.

  “What’s the prognosis, doctor?”

  The white-haired doctor smiled. “I think you’re going to live, Mr. Hayden. Except for some cuts and bruises from falling, I think you’ll recover in a couple of days. I do want to give you some antibiotics for your head wound—any swelling or drainage I want you to call me immediately.”

  “I can go then?”

  “Sorry. I’m going to hold you overnight for observation. I don’t see signs of a concussion, but I don’t want to release you too soon. Your wife insists she’ll watch over you like a hawk once you’re released. So, for the next couple of days, you need to kick your feet up and watch a few good football games.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  ***

  The next day a uniformed officer pulled up a chair beside Decker’s hospital bed. He held a clipboard and pen in one hand and extended his other to Decker. Though his face was kind and unintimidating, he wore an intense expression that read, let’s get to the bottom of this matter.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Hayden?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “Would you start at the beginning? How well did you know Derrick Lasslo?”

  Decker shrugged. “I’ve known him a for a couple of years. I ordered dive equipment from him when I lived in Malibu. I moved here recently and have gone to his warehouse a few times to pick up orders. I didn’t know him all that well really. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”

  “What was your purpose for going to the warehouse yesterday evening?”

  “I had picked up
one of my orders earlier in the morning. Got home and noticed a couple of parts were missing from the invoice,” Decker explained. “I called him to let him know, and after he looked around, found the missing items and called me back to let me know. I decided to go pick them up.”

  “Do you recollect what time?’

  Decker took a moment to reflect before answering. “Must have been around seven-thirty—he closes shop at eight.”

  The officer jotted down the specifics. “Do you know off-hand if Mr. Lasslo had any enemies? Anyone who may have been threatening him?”

  “As I said, I didn’t know him well.”

  “Were you able to get a look at whoever was shooting at you?

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Do you have a carry permit?”

  “Wouldn’t be without one.”

  “Was there a reason you felt the need to have a gun on you when you went to collect your missing items?”

  Decker grinned. “My gun is with me no matter where I go. It’s saved my butt on more than one occasion.”

  The officer looked him in the eye. “Yes, I’ve read up on you. You have quite a flair for getting into death-defying situations.”

  “Not my own doing, mind you.”

  “I came to the same conclusion after reading past reports. Just a thought, Mr. Hayden…you don’t suppose someone was after you instead of Mr. Lasslo?”

  “Derrick was dead when I arrived,” Decker explained. “No one except my wife, Callie, knew I was heading to the warehouse.”

  “We found a handful of bullet casings. Some were yours—some from the other shooter.” He stretched out his clipboard to Decker and said, “Can you draw me a diagram showing me precisely where you were standing when the gunshots were fired.”

  Decker pushed himself into a sitting position, took the note pad into his hands and began to sketch out a rough draft.

  A light rapping at the entrance to Decker’s room diverted his attention from the officer to see their friend, Karina Gustoff leaning against the frame, a wide smile tilting her lips. “You can’t seem to stay out of trouble can you, Hayden?” came her soft, welcoming voice.