Johnnie Finds a Dead Body

by DS Whitaker

  Johnnie Finds

  a

  Dead Body

  by DS WHITAKER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious and satirical manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the authors.

  Copyright © 2021 by DS Whitaker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, with permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-7342595-7-5 (EB)

  Author photo by Diana Lang

  Cover Design by DS Whitaker

  To Tim for his love and support

  To my Beta Readers with much gratitude

  To Stumpy, may you live forever in our hearts

  Prologue

  In the pale moonlight shimmering on the wet sand, an unusual form below caught Stumpy’s eye. It was a creature, but not moving. Just lying there, gaze upward. He descended from his roost and zigzagged over to the new thing on the water’s edge. It smelled human and also like saltwater. He fit his jaw around one finger, tugging at the skin. It was bloated and didn’t taste good.

  In a couple more hours, when the sun returned, the nice man with the round metal-framed eyes and brown boots would arrive, possibly offering a crunchy treat. Until then, he could allay his churning stomach with sleep.

  He climbed a tall palm tree using his thin razor-like claws, resting at the top, gazing across the bay at the twinkle of lights in the distance. A cool breeze tickled his leathery skin. Sometimes, his phantom tail would ache, as it did now. Losing it to that terrible machine all those years ago still pained him.

  As Stumpy closed his eyes to slumber, he thought, “Someday, I will have my revenge.”

  Chapter 1

  Dear Diary,

  Today was different, finding the dead guy in the surf at Hawksnest. Luckily, I found him before sunup. He didn’t have an ID, but I called him Bob, cause, you know.

  Bob had a strange look on his face. Like surprised, but that could be because he died.

  The police asked what I did, and I said ‘nothing’. Chief Tobias gave me that look he always gives when he doesn’t believe me. Said I shouldn’t leave the island. But I never leave, so that was dumb. Not like I have a million dollars. Or anywhere to go.

  Anyway, I went back to work afterward and none of the tourists were jerks, except for one guy at Cinnamon Bay who wouldn’t turn down his car stereo in the parking lot, but I counted to thirty and only spat in his direction once when he wasn’t looking.

  I didn’t see Cud today, which is weird. But maybe he was spooked by the dead guy.

  Plus, Bob had a cool Bugs Bunny key chain sticking out of his pocket. It jogged a memory of the hospital, so I took it before Tobias arrived. So Happy Birthday to me a day early, I guess.

  Sweet dreams, Johnnie.

  ***

  Johnnie leaned on his rake, scratching the scar along his collarbone. Not too much seaweed today. And no mushy dead guy like yesterday. The early morning surf lapped gently against the sand. The horizon was a pale blue with hardly a cloud or a breeze. Three sailboats were moored in the distance, dotting the horizon line. The sun broke over the hills behind him in a yellow glow. He consulted his phone to review his daily list of tasks and any specific directions via text messages from his boss, Kemper. Two texts from last night read, “Tobias needs you to call him,” and “Trunk Bay repair latch men’s WC.”

  Johnnie hit ‘delete’ on the first and flipped down his round, amber-lensed sunglasses.

  Stumpy ran up to him and eyed him with his head cocked and swished his chopped-off, ringed tail making grooves in the sand.

  Johnnie took a baggie out the pants pocket and threw two cheesy puffs to his buddy. The iguana ate one, held the second in his mouth and scampered away.

  His other friend, Cud, was sleeping under a swath of mangroves.

  To his right, a patch of sand was newly disturbed, appearing like a round depression about eighteen inches in circumference. Might be a sea turtle nest. If it was, he needed to report it and keep people away. He liked keeping people away from stuff. But turtles must be stupid, or at least this one was, because it was smack dab in the center of the crescent beach, where most of the tourists trampled and kids made sand castles. But he wasn’t allowed to move the eggs. Only put some stakes and rope around it and hope for the best.

  He walked east, through the trees and brush, over to Cud’s nest. His long-haired friend was awake, sitting on a broken boogie-board, rubbing his eyes with his tanned and bony fingers. His blanket—a discarded Sponge Bob beach towel and recent addition to his stash—rested on his lap.

  Johnnie said, “Yo, man. How was your night?”

  Cud, which was a nickname—because who names their kid that—was his best friend. Cud was older, but never said his age, and homeless, although he didn’t need to be. Johnnie’s sister told him she read an article about Cud once in Time Magazine, but that was years ago. Cudlow Loughton was a former investment company CEO and self-made billionaire. A decade ago, he mysteriously left his job in the Bahamas and gave up all his worldly possessions to live off the land in St. John.

  Maybe that’s why Johnnie liked him. They were both damaged and misunderstood and didn’t enjoy being around lots of people. But most of all, Cud was nice. All the time nice, not just nice when people are looking. And Cud didn’t waste his time with jibber-jabber or personal questions. Yeah, Cud was okay.

  “My man.” Cud pushed his long locks behind his thin shoulders and rolled his neck; the grinding of his bones was clearly audible. “I was having the best dream. I was on a roller coaster and then I was flying over the water. Plus, I was naked the whole time, and no one cared.” He stretched his arms to the sky and let out a long yawning grunt. “I have some beef jerky and banana figs for breakfast. Want some?”

  Cud’s beard was at least a foot-long and white. His hair was also long, falling nearly to his waist, although he tied it back with bits of fishing line. The result looked like a cross between dreadlocks and a disheveled, fraying rag mop, with a few dead leaves stuck in the tangled mess. Cudlow picked at the brown, brittle leaves and dropped them on the ground.

  “I’m good. Hey, I’ve got a few granola bars. They’re in the side bag on my scooter. Help yourself.”

  Cud brushed the sand off his faded brown tank top and cut-off pants. “Thanks, Johnnie. Can I help you this morning before I go?”

  Cud had a schedule. Or perhaps it was best called a routine. Sleep on the beach overnight, collect native fruits in the morning, walk into town or a resort to sell them in the afternoon, swim in the evening as the sun sets, and repeat. Some mornings, before his search for fruit, Cud kept Johnnie company during his chores at Hawksnest Beach.

  Johnnie said, “Maybe. Hey, yeah, can you scan the parking lot for trash? I’ve got to report a nest.”

  “A turtle nest? Wonderful. Show me.”

  The men walked over to the sunken area of sand. The birds were waking up to the sun, squawking in the canopy above.

  They stared at the sand, as if it might do a magic trick. Johnnie said, “I didn’t know you liked sea turtles so much.”

  “I appreciate all new life. It’s the only thing making this planet worth a crap. I haven’t seen a turtle come up on this beach in two years.”r />
  Johnnie took off his cap and scratched his head, feeling the half-moon-shaped raised skin above his right ear. “I guess. Hey, that reminds me, did you see the dead guy yesterday?”

  Cud clasped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, yes. Terrible.”

  “What time?”

  “Before you arrived. I heard a commotion out on the water the night before. Probably a boat. I got up to take a piss about an hour before you arrived and he was face up staring at the full moon. Only he wasn’t really seeing.”

  “Cud, where were you? You should’ve told Chief Tobias.”

  “You know I don’t get involved.” Cud dug his hands into the pockets of his cutoff cotton trousers, his fingers poking through holes at the bottom. On his leather belt was a black sheath with a black-handled knife. Only Cud didn’t own a belt or a sheath.

  “Where d'you get that?” Johnnie pointed to the belt.

  “Found it.”

  “Found it? Where?”

  Cud looked at the ground. “I don’t get involved.”

  “Oh, Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!” Johnnie shook his head. “You took that off Bob?”

  Cud furrowed his brow, “Bob?”

  “Bob. The dead guy.”

  Cud blinked. “You knew him?”

  “No. I just call him that.”

  Cud’s mouth gaped open. “Oh! I get it now. He floated—that’s not very nice.”

  “The belt. Where—”

  “What can I say?” His long-haired friend shrugged. “I needed a new knife. Mine’s as dull as butter from slicing coconuts. And he didn’t need it anymore.”

  Johnnie sighed and walked over to retrieve his rake where he left it, leaning against a palm tree. “Man, you know what? That means you’re involved.”

  He smiled and clapped Johnnie on the back. “Not if you don’t say anything.”

  Johnnie gnashed his teeth and closed his eyes. This was a quandary. His sister Robin said he needed to always tell the truth. But Cud was his friend. He could pretend he didn’t know about the knife. And besides, Cud wasn’t the only one who took a souvenir off Bob.

  “Fine, I didn’t hear or see anything.”

  “Good man!” Cud waved and headed to the parking lot.

  The beaches were open twenty-four hours a day, but most folks arrived after eight o’clock, with peak activity at noon. Johnnie tried to get his tasks at Hawksnest done before seven-thirty or eight, which included trash removal, combing the beach, inspecting and cleaning the restrooms, and small facility repairs. At that point, he got into the National Park Service pickup truck and repeated similar chores at Trunk Bay and Cinnamon Bay.

  He pulled out his phone and called Supervisor Snow.

  A female voice answered. “Hi, Johnnie. I was going to call you.”

  “Hi Kemper, I found a turtle nest. At Hawksnest Beach. Think it’s a nest.”

  “Okay, I’ll send the biologist later today. In the meantime, stake a ring around it.”

  “Will do, boss.” His stomach felt queasy and his heart rate quickened, realizing he’d forgotten to ask Kemper about his time off like he’d intended to last week. “Boss, is it okay if I take off early today? It’s my birthday. Robin’s taking me to lunch.”

  He heard her grunt with exasperation. But not in a mean way. “Sure, just make sure you do all the trash pickups and restroom cleanups. How many hours of leave should I put down on your timesheet?”

  “Four. Can I put it down as sick leave?”

  “Are you feeling sick?”

  “Kinda.” He coughed into the phone for good measure.

  “Fine. By the way, Chief Tobias wants you to call him back. He said you aren’t answering your phone.”

  Talking with Tobias was like negotiating with a brick wall to move out of your way after your brakes fail. Nothing good could come from it. “I told him everything. Nothing more to say.”

  “I don’t think you get to decide that. Call him back now. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Johnnie sat at one of the picnic tables and ended the call. Stumpy came over and brushed against his leg. He leaned over to face his scaly friend. “What do you want? More cheesy puffs? I don’t have any more. And they ain’t good for you.” It was true. He wasn’t supposed to feed wildlife. And junk food wasn’t good for people, no less iguanas. But Stumpy was old and somewhat broken. Stumpy’s skin was a dull gray-green and crusty looking; a swath of dorsal crests on his back were missing in a noticeable gap. His defining feature, though, was his chopped-off tail, the reason for his moniker. Giving Stumpy treats was technically bad, but not the worst thing he could do.

  Stumpy gave him a side-eye and blinked. [Maybe I just want to say Happy Birthday!]

  “Well, thank you, Stumpy. You are more polite than most humans, I think.”

  [And more handsome. What about some fruit? Got some fruit?]

  “Sorry, no fruit. Do you want to go to lunch later with me and Robin?”

  A large woman in a small bathing suit walked by and stared at him.

  He gave her the finger when her head was turned. Some folks called him crazy for talking with Stumpy. Since the incident in Afghanistan where he lost two centimeters of brain mass, he talked to lots of things. But it was no one’s business but his own. And he understood Stumpy talking back was only in his imagination. Unlike that time in Miami when he became psychotic. That was not a good scene.

  He also received strange looks because of his eye-wear. According to Cud, his round, wire-framed prescription glasses, with flip-up tinted lenses, made him look like the human fly or a steam-punk airship captain. But he liked them anyway. And the convenience of an all-in-one pair meant he no longer threw money away on misplaced sunglasses because of his poor memory.

  Robin said he shouldn’t worry about strange looks. Most of the time he didn’t. But when the looks were nasty, it bothered him. And when he got bothered, sometimes he got angry and said or did very wrong things. His therapist said fits of anger were common in people with brain injuries and wasn’t really his fault. But that didn’t excuse him from ‘doing the work’, meaning, using his coping skills and trying to behave.

  His phone rang. His landlord.

  “Morning, Gertie.”

  “Blessed morning, Johnnie. Happy Birthday! I won’t ask your age, but I have a present for you. I’m going to leave it in your apartment, and I know you don’t like your place messed with. So, I’ll leave it on the counter and won’t touch anything else. Is that okay?”

  “Aw, Gert, you didn’t need to do that. What is it? Another bookmark?”

  “No, something different. A small surprise. But I hope you like it.”

  In the corner of his eye, he spied an infraction. Three boys in their early teens were standing on the rocks on the east side of the cove. Against park regulations. They looked like jackasses because they were throwing stones up at a tree. Meaning, they were likely harassing a bird or an iguana. “Sorry, Gert. Got to go. Thanks for calling.”

  As he walked the three hundred feet to the other end of the beach, Johnnie counted. 1, 2, 3…

  He took the stack of cue cards out of his back pocket. The top one said, ‘relax muscles’ and the next ‘breathe deeply’. With every step, he inhaled for a two-count, inflating his chest, exhaling for another two-count. A squawking bird erupted from a tree branch and the boys, now looking in his direction, dropped their stones.

  As he reached them, the ache behind his eyes subsided. Johnnie looked at the sky and said, “Young men, standing on the rocks and harassing wildlife are both against park regulations. Please refrain.” He didn’t wait for a response and began walking back to the picnic pavilion.

  Behind him, he heard laughter. Mean, mocking laughter. They called him ‘Harry Pot-Head’. Johnnie knew he shouldn’t look back. Shouldn’t take note of their faces or clothing. Nothing to recognize them later for some kind of revenge. Or get the contraband fishing spear out of the tool shed and chase them into the water. No, those would be bad decisions
.

  Today was his birthday. These assholes weren’t going to mess it up for him.

  Chapter 2

  At ten o’clock, Johnnie had finished his chores at Cinnamon Bay and returned to Hawksnest, where he parked the white government pickup truck, locked it, and changed out of his uniform. Now wearing cut-off jeans and a green T-shirt, he called the day quits. He drove his scooter west to Cruz Bay, the commercial hub of the island.

  His red scooter, a 2007 Piaggio Fly 50, with a top-speed of 39 miles per hour, was nicknamed the Flying Pig. But mostly just the Pig. Robin gave it to him when he moved to St. John at her behest, after his alleged incident in Miami. He didn’t intend to hit that crowd of people with his car. He was lucky no one was badly hurt. Only some scrapes. His expensive lawyer got the toxicology report thrown out on some kind of lab protocol error and convinced the jury that the brakes failed. Also, the jury may have been sympathetic because of his Purple Heart. Johnnie couldn’t tell the jury the truth; that he was drunk and out of his right mind, somehow seeking to recreate the incident in Kandahar. Perhaps hoping for a different outcome? They would have had him committed. Johnnie stopped the binge-drinking after that. Nevertheless, once he moved to St. John, his sister decided it was best for him to drive something less lethal.

  Johnnie arrived at The Yellow Parrot at 10:30. It was an outdoor square-shaped bar with a red-tin roof near the ferry dock. It was usually filled with mainlanders who didn’t know the better hangouts. Not his favorite people. But the bar was conveniently located near Robin, who worked a couple blocks away.

  Mandy, the daytime bartender, was bubbly and smiled with gleaming, perfect white teeth. She was medium height, had a full figure, long dark braids down to her back, and wore a baseball cap with a New York Mets logo. She always wore a tank top and athletic spandex shorts. Johnnie found her very attractive as a person, although she was a little young for him. She was twenty-five. Today he turned forty-five. But he still admired her from a distance.