Wild Killer

by Tripp Ellis

  Tim, the owner of the boat said, “We found her drifting in the water. It was a miracle that we even saw her."

  I knelt down beside the girl. “I'm Tyson. I'm a deputy with the Coconut County Sheriff’s Department. What’s your name?"

  Her empty eyes stared into space. She had the look of someone who had been through a severe trauma. Eyes as deep as oceans. It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, it was faint. "Heather."

  "Can you tell me what happened, Heather?"

  "I don't really remember," she said in a scratchy, weak voice. "One minute, I was in Coconut Key, the next minute I woke up on a boat, tied up.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I was brought to an island and…"

  Her eyes welled with tears and she began sobbing. "It was horrible. I thought I was going to die. I was sure he was going to kill me."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. I never saw his face. He wore a mask."

  "How did you get off the island?"

  She took a moment to compose herself. "He’d leave me alone for days at a time. I managed to untie myself, and I found a pallet that I thought I could use as a raft. I had to get off that island. Anything was better than staying there. I figured if I died at sea, so what? It was better than dying there."

  "You're safe now. You’re gonna be all right. He can't hurt you anymore." I paused. "Where are you from?"

  "Miami."

  "What were you doing in Coconut Key?"

  "I needed to get away. I was involved in some bad shit in Miami. I thought I could start over in Coconut Key." A grim chuckle barely escaped her lips. "Some new start, huh?"

  “You have any family in the area?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where are your folks?”

  “Oklahoma. But we don’t talk.”

  It explained why no one reported her missing.

  She stopped crying, and her face grew solemn. Rage and hatred filled her eyes. Her lips quivered as she said, “You’re gonna get that fucker, right?"

  "I promise, we will," I assured. "Was there anyone else on the island?”

  "I don't think so. Once I got free, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could."

  "How long have you been at sea?"

  "Three days, I think."

  "Do you know where the island is?" I asked.

  She shook her head.

  "What can you tell me about it?"

  “It was run down. It must have been an old resort. There were several cabins. There was an old pool that was full of algae. Everything was rotting and dilapidated.”

  I knew instantly where she was talking about. I exchanged a glance with JD. "Sounds like the old resort at Crystal Key.”

  I thanked Heather for the information and wished her well. The paramedics transferred her onto the rescue boat and took her back to the hospital in Coconut Key.

  We boarded the sheriff’s patrol boat and raced toward Crystal Key.

  It had once been a posh resort, but it had been abandoned for the last few years. The previous hurricane had demolished the property. I guess it was underinsured, and the owners filed bankruptcy. The property had been on the market forever, but no one had snatched it up for re-development yet.

  It seemed our killer had turned the former oasis into an island of horrors.

  48

  Daniels cruised the patrol boat in with the surf, plowing the aluminum bottom boat into the shallows. JD and I hopped into the water, trudged to the beach, and advanced to the tree line with our weapons in the firing position.

  The island had slowly taken back the resort. Asphalt paths were cracked and overgrown with weeds and foliage. The tennis courts were faded and cracked. The pool looked like it was home to a creature from another dimension. The cabanas had been boarded up, but many of the boards had been ripped out. Siding had been torn off, and roofs had collapsed. Some buildings were nothing more than piles of rubble. Others had weathered the storms without much damage.

  JD and I swept through the premises, clearing the area.

  My heart pounded with anticipation. We cleared the rooms one by one. They were littered with debris—empty beer bottles, tattered clothing, used condoms, syringes. It was evident people had squatted in them over the years. Threw parties. Did God knows what.

  They were built on stilts to avoid the rising water, but the resort was no match for the force of the hurricanes. The steps leading up to each room creaked and groaned, and some could barely hold weight.

  We didn't find Reagan in any of the cabins on the west side of the island.

  A sour acidic taste crept in the back of my throat as my stomach twisted. I feared we might never find her.

  We crossed what used to be the main lobby, moving to the east side of the island. We passed dilapidated sand volleyball courts, shuffleboard, and the remains of an outdoor bar.

  We reached another set of cabins and searched one by one.

  A wave of relief washed over me when we found Reagan.

  She was bound and gagged, laying atop an old, stained mattress. Tears had streaked her mascara, and her hair was ratty and disheveled. I knelt beside her and removed the gag from her mouth and untied her bonds.

  She flung her arms around me and held tight.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," she said, sobbing.

  "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

  "No."

  I didn't want to let go of her. I could feel her heart pounding against mine.

  "How did you find me?" she asked.

  I told her the story.

  I helped Reagan to her feet. She was weak and dehydrated. I gave her a bottle of water when we got back to the sheriff’s patrol boat. She guzzled it down in a matter of moments.

  "I'm gonna look around the island," JD said. "See If I can find anyone else."

  He disappeared back into the forest.

  The island was small—half a mile across, and a mile long.

  "What can you tell me about him?" I asked.

  "Not much," Reagan said. "He wore a mask. I never saw his face. He was a big guy. 6’1”, maybe 6’2”. 200 pounds? I'm not real good with that kind of thing.”

  "Would you recognize his voice?"

  "Maybe?"

  After a cursory search of the island, JD returned. "There's nobody else here."

  JD pushed us into the surf, and I helped him aboard. Sheriff Daniels cranked up the engines, and he angled the vessel back out to sea.

  Reagan didn't want to go to the hospital. She just wanted to go home, take a shower, and get something to eat. "I need to wash this whole experience off me. Then I need a nice bottle of wine."

  I chuckled, relieved to see her in good spirits. But I knew the psychological effects of a traumatic experience could manifest itself over the next several days, weeks, or months.

  We bounced across the water, racing back to Coconut Key. Reagan curled beside me, my arm around her.

  "Thanks for rescuing me," she said.

  "Well, I figured I probably ought to. I mean the news just wasn’t the same without you."

  She smacked my chest playfully.

  Back at the sheriff's office, Reagan filled out a police report, and JD and I filled out an after action report.

  Afterward, JD drove Reagan home, and I followed on my bike. A swarm of reporters waited. As soon as Reagan stepped out of Jack's Porsche, the cameras closed in, and microphones were shoved in her face.

  "What can you tell us about the killer?"

  "Do you know his identity?"

  "Can you tell us what he did to you?"

  Reagan and I pushed through the horde, and I escorted her inside the house.

  Jack got out of there as soon as he could. He said he would catch up with me later.

  Reagan breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the front door after she latched it. "I'm going to take a shower, grab a change of clothes, then you and I are checking into the Seven Seas. I don't think I can stay here. I just d
on't feel safe."

  "That's probably a good idea."

  "Please tell me you have some idea who this guy is?"

  "I'm pretty sure I know. Proving it might be a different story though."

  Reagan frowned. “Who?”

  “Erik Cain. Nurse at the hospital.”

  Her eyes widened, and rage boiled on her face. She didn’t have to say anything.

  “Trust me, I’m working on it.”

  Reagan moved into the bedroom, peeled off her clothes, and slipped into the bathroom. She twisted the shower knobs, and the water sprayed into the stall.

  I checked the premises, making sure to look into the closets and underneath the beds this time. I made sure all the windows were locked and all the doors secured.

  After her shower, Reagan got dressed, packed a bag, and she took her car over to the Seven Seas. I followed on my bike. We had to fight our way through the horde of reporters, and dozens of them followed us to the hotel. It was a crazy caravan of news vans.

  The rude woman that wouldn't rent me a room was behind the desk. We checked in and got a 4th floor unit that overlooked the water. We pushed into the room, and Reagan fell onto the bed and exhaled.

  I stowed her bag in the closet, then climbed onto the bed beside her. She rolled on her side and curled around me. I lay there, stroking her hair, appreciating the moment. "How are you doing?"

  "Never better," she said.

  She was putting on a good front, but an experience like she’d been through had to mess with a person.

  "If you want to talk about it, we can. If you don't, we won't. I'm here. Whatever you need."

  She smiled and kissed my cheek. "Thank you."

  She rested her head against my shoulder.

  We stayed like that for a few moments, then she said, "I need food. And wine. Possibly whiskey. Probably a lot."

  49

  I had a hunch, and I was right.

  We had never recovered the heads, or the hands, of the victims. I figured this was partially to obscure their identity. But I knew most of these sick bastards liked to re-live the crime over and over again. They would often revisit crime scenes and dump-sites. The killer would want to keep souvenirs close by.

  We brought cadaver dogs to Crystal Key Island. It didn't take long for the astute canines to indicate over a grave-sight. We unearthed several grisly remains and were later able to match them to known victims. The remains were in different states of composition. The most recent victim’s head was still relatively intact.

  Unearthing the burial site wasn't for the faint of heart.

  Brenda collected the remains and brought them to the lab for analysis. We needed something to connect Erik Cain to the crimes. A strand of hair. A sample of DNA from skin or bodily fluids.

  Brenda called me a few days later with repulsive news. "You know that DNA saliva swab we took from Erik when you guys brought him in for questioning? Well, we got a positive match with semen found on one of the victim's remains."

  I was both ecstatic and disgusted by the news.

  "It seems like he continued to defile the victims even after they were dismembered."

  I tried not to visualize the gruesome act, but it was already too late. "Thanks, Brenda."

  "Go get that son-of-a-bitch!"

  “You got it.”

  The evidence was enough to convince the DA to move forward. The judge issued a warrant for Erik Cain’s arrest, and Sheriff Daniels sent JD and I to collect the suspect.

  I hopped into JD's Porsche and we raced to the hospital. I flashed my badge and displayed the warrant at the front desk, then pushed through the double doors into the patient area of the emergency room.

  Erik Cain stood in the hallway, talking to Dr. Parker. The scumbag’s eyes widened as soon as he saw us. There was no smug grin on his face this time. By the determined look in my eyes, I'm sure he was able to tell we had something on him.

  He turned and ran down the hallway.

  I gave chase. "Freeze! We have a warrant for your arrest!"

  My words did nothing.

  Erik's footsteps echoed down the hallway as I chased after him.

  JD wasn't far behind.

  The suspect twisted and turned through the maze of hallways, weaving through nurses and patients. It was a dangerous proposition. Barreling into someone with a medical emergency wouldn’t be good.

  Erik slipped past two nurses wheeling a man in a hospital bed down the hallway. He grabbed the railing and rotated the bed, blocking the path.

  The patient groaned, the railing rattled, and the bag of IV fluids swayed.

  The bed obstructed the hallway and slowed me down enough to lose sight of Erik as he rounded the corner.

  After a moment, the nurses cleared the hallway, and I resumed my sprint. When I rounded the corner, Erik was nowhere in sight.

  There was a bathroom on the left, several patient rooms on the right, and an exit door at the end of the hallway.

  With my weapon drawn, I edged forward.

  JD took the restroom.

  I peered into the rooms, then advanced toward the exit.

  The blinding sun squinted my eyes as I pushed through the door into the parking lot. It took a second for my eyes to adjust. I scanned from left to right and caught sight of Erik slipping into a black Mustang.

  He cranked up the engine, dropped the car into gear, and spun the tires. Smoke wafted from the wheel wells as he screeched out of the lot.

  JD burst through the door a moment later.

  We ran to the Porsche which Jack had parked in the red zone at the curb near the entrance to the ER. I hopped in the passenger seat, and JD cranked up the flat six. He popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking lot.

  We turned onto the highway, chasing after the black Mustang. Jack ran through the gears with precision, and a few moments later, we were hitting triple digits, racing down the blacktop.

  The Mustang was fast!

  But the 3.8 liter flat six was faster.

  Erik weaved in and out of traffic, swerving around slower cars.

  I could see him dart in and out in the distance.

  JD had the pedal mashed to the floor.

  110 MPH…

  120 MPH…

  130 MPH…

  140 MPH…

  The acceleration pinned me against the seat. The roar of the engine filled the cabin. With the top down, the wind swirled around, tossing my hair.

  Jack jammed on the brakes as we caught up to the traffic.

  The blacktop highway had two lanes moving in each direction, divided by a grassy esplanade.

  JD carved through the traffic. The Porsche hugged the ground with hot, sticky rubber. As soon as we made it through the clump of slower cars, JD floored it again, and soon we were nearing 150 MPH.

  The Mustang had to slow down at the next cluster of traffic, and we finally caught up to Erik.

  I angled my weapon out the window as JD pulled up behind the black vehicle.

  Erik wasn't going to stop.

  There was no lawyering his way out of this one. We had him dead to rights.

  Or so I thought.

  Erik stuck a pistol out the driver’s side window and aimed it back at us. Muzzle flash flickered from the barrel, and bullets streaked through the air.

  He didn't even aim the damn thing. He couldn't. He was just hoping against hope he’d get lucky and hit something.

  I was done playing games. I took aim at his back tire and squeezed off two rounds.

  The tire burst with a loud pop, then shredded shortly thereafter. The highway tore it to pieces. Amber sparks showered from the rim as it carved into the blacktop.

  The Mustang got squirrelly, and Jack hit the brakes.

  Erik cranked the wheel and veered to the left, crossing over the highway, nearly missing the oncoming traffic.

  Horns honked.

  Cars jammed their brakes.

  Tires squealed.

  The engine roared as the Mustang barreled do
wn an unpaved road into a gravel yard.

  Jack jammed the brakes and we waited at the esplanade for the traffic to clear. A moment later, we crossed the highway and chased after the Mustang.

  Erik left a trail of dust in the air. It made him easy to follow, but it brought visibility down.

  I coughed as the dust hit my lungs.

  Jack followed the Mustang into the gravel yard. Piles of sand and limestone towered above. There were heavy rock grinders used to crush and sort stone. There were plenty of trucks and heavy machinery. Large yellow backhoes, loaders, excavators. Rows and rows of dump trucks. Conveyers transported the sorted rock to various piles.

  It reminded me of a vast desert with towering dunes.

  We slowed as we entered the yard, the piles of gravel creating a giant maze.

  Erik was in here somewhere.

  50

  We followed the trail of dust, gravel crunching underneath our tires. I kept my weapon at the ready as we snaked around the man-made dunes. We moved into a clearing where Erik had done several donuts, kicking up as much dust as possible. It hung in the air like a storm cloud.

  He had done it to cover his tracks. There was no telling which pathway he had disappeared down.

  We sat in the clearing for a moment, waiting for the dust to settle.

  A backhoe operator pointed us in the right direction.

  We followed the path as it curved around the dunes. I called the sheriff and informed him of the situation.

  Backup was on the way.

  We crept through a narrow canyon, like a predator stalking its prey. Dusty haze hung in the air.

  The Mustang launched from a side road. The car barreled toward us and slammed into the driver’s side door. The impact lifted us on two wheels and twisted the car around before we plopped down.

  It was a good thing there were steel reinforced safety beams in the door, or JD would have been dead.

  As it stood, he had a hell of a headache.

  So did I.

  The Mustang backed up, jammed the breaks, then Erik twisted the wheel and mashed the gas. The remaining rear tire spit gravel as he took off, heading back the way we came. Gravel flew through the air, pelting the Porsche.

  Erik fired two shots at us as he departed.