Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  “Because I left it under the bumper.” Click, click, click.

  “What!”

  “Relax, I’ve got him right where I want him.” Serge stowed the cell phone and turned off the naked bulb.

  Coleman’s forehead beam swung wildly around the room in panic. “How can you be so calm?”

  “Because I’ve got a gauge on this guy, and we have a huge organizational advantage.” Serge’s own beam swung back to the wall. “You’ve seen my tidy corkboard. Now take a look at how his is put together. That’s just embarrassing.”

  This time, they simply unlocked the front door. Coleman crept behind Serge. “Is he still there?”

  Serge looked up the street. The previously occupied spot at the curb was empty. “Damn.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.

  “He’s gone.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “No, very bad,” said Serge. “I assumed he was waiting for us to come out and would follow us to our next stop, so he could ambush us in the middle of the night at our motel room. Now it looks like he was just watching to see if we got in the house to know whether he needed to abandon the place. Then he split.”

  “But how is that bad?”

  “He’s going somewhere else, and I have a good idea where.” Serge pulled out his cell phone as he dashed back to the Cobra.

  They sped north and picked up the turnpike in Florida City. Serge kept dialing and dialing.

  “Well?” asked Coleman.

  “Nobody’s answering because it’s so late.” He continued pressing buttons. “I was able to leave a message on Heather’s machine, but Bobby doesn’t have one. We have to beat him to the park!”

  “How do you know he’s going to the park and not after Heather?”

  “He’ll eventually go after her because she’s his main target,” said Serge. “These guys like to kill in a particular order. Take out the father first to terrorize her before the finale.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but you just have to think like a serial killer.” Serge nodded to himself. “Yeah, the park. And he’s got a big head start.”

  Serge hit the gas.

  Chapter 40

  Myakka River State Park

  A nightlight in the shape of a seashell dimly lit the dark-green walls. It also served as a fragrance dispenser. Ranger Bobby lay on his back in the tiny room’s single bed. Snoring. The fragrance was pine trees.

  The ranger’s eyes fluttered open. He got a feeling that something had awoken him, but he didn’t know what. Bobby wouldn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “What time is it?” He looked at the alarm clock. “Four a.m.? The park’s closed, so it can only be another ranger, or maybe a camper with a problem.”

  He yawned as he opened the door, and suddenly became ultra-awake.

  Bobby ducked as the fist swung imprecisely where his head had just been.

  “You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!”

  Another off-target swing from the hand that wasn’t holding the bottle. “After all I did for you. Stabbing me in the back with that recording! You destroyed my Senate campaign! My whole life!”

  “Take it easy, Jack,” said the ranger.

  Another attempted punch, this one hitting the door frame. “Fuck!” The former Senate candidate sucked on his bloody knuckles. “You think you could screw me and then just hide over here like a coward? You think I wouldn’t find you? Track you down to the ends of the earth?”

  “You need to take deep breaths.” The ranger extended an arm. “And more importantly, give me that bottle.”

  “No!” Grayson jerked away the fifth of Scotch and clutched it to his chest. “It’s mine!”

  “You need to sleep this off,” said Bobby. “And you’re in no condition to drive. I’ll call and make arrangements for a ride and a hotel room. Wait here.”

  The ranger went inside and reached for the wall phone. The one he always unplugged at night so solicitors wouldn’t wake him. By law, solicitors weren’t supposed to call so late, but many were now also scam artists who didn’t color within the lines. He plugged it back in and began to dial. Through the open door, he saw the ex-candidate weaving away from the cabin, upending the bottle as he staggered.

  “Hey, come back here!” yelled the ranger.

  “To hell with you! To hell with everyone!” The politician neared the edge of darkness at the tree line. “I’m Jack Grayson!”

  “Then I’ll call the police!” shouted Bobby.

  “Blow me!” And he disappeared.

  Bobby closed the door and dialed 911. “Yes, I have an emergency. I’m a ranger at the park, and I need to report someone in danger of driving severely drunk . . .”

  The Cobra rolled up to Myakka River State Park in the middle of the night.

  Coleman pointed behind them. “You’re passing the entrance.”

  “It’s locked at this hour, but I know a back way,” said Serge. “An authorized-personnel-only dirt road. It’s usually locked, too, with a chain, but nothing bolt cutters can’t fix.” He climbed out of the car and approached the gate with the long metal tool.

  “That’s weird. The whole chain’s gone. Someone must have gotten careless.” He swung the gate open, then drove through on a winding route until he arrived at the cabin in the woods.

  Serge almost immediately tripped over something in the darkness. He caught his balance, then held an arm out sideways to block the way. “Coleman, step around . . .”

  They got to the door. Knock, knock, knock.

  From inside: “I’ve already called the police. Don’t go anywhere.”

  More knocking. “Bobby, it’s me, Serge.”

  The ranger opened up. “What are you doing here? And how’d you get in?”

  “This is urgent. You’re in massive danger.”

  “Danger maybe, but I don’t know about massive,” said Bobby. “He was practically knee-walking drunk.”

  The park entrance was miles from anything in the isolation of surrounding pasture land, but eventually they heard the distant sirens.

  Bobby’s head turned in their direction. “Good. The police are almost here. Grayson was in no condition to drive.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Serge.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I almost tripped over him on the way in.”

  The ranger left his apartment and headed for the trees. “Passed out?”

  Serge followed. “It’s not something you need to see.”

  Bobby stopped, looking at the ground. “Dear mother of God. What happened?”

  “Overkill,” said Serge. “I’m guessing an ax.”

  “We’ve got a killer out in the woods?”

  “This is the danger I was talking about,” said Serge. “If my hunch is right, it has something to do with a case your daughter is investigating.”

  “My daughter! Is she safe?”

  “For now.” Serge pointed toward the politician’s body. “But I think the serial killer she’s tracking is onto her. He might have come here to target you, just to rattle Heather beforehand. The freshness of this kill at our feet means he’s at least a three-hour drive from reaching your daughter on the other coast. But it’s imperative we contact her as soon as possible.” He pulled Heather’s business card from his wallet. “I’ve left several messages on her office machine . . .” He happened to turn the card over, and popped himself in the forehead. “I’m such an idiot. She wrote her personal cell number on the back.”

  “Give me that,” said the ranger, heading inside his apartment and grabbing the phone off the wall. He dialed.

  It rang and rang, as could be expected in the dead of night. “Come on! . . . Pick up! . . .”

  Around the eighth ring, a sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dad,” said Bobby.

  “Dad? Why are you calling at this hour? What time is it?�
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  “Heather, this is extremely important. You’re in great danger.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Just listen. There’s been a murder at the park. Only minutes ago. Serge thinks it has something to do with the case you’re working on.”

  “Serge?” On the other side of the state, Heather sprang up in bed. “He’s there?”

  “Yes, and he thinks the killer you’re tracking is after you,” said Bobby. “You have to get yourself someplace safe.”

  Her feet hit the floor. “I’m coming right over!”

  “Honey—”

  Click.

  Bobby pulled the receiver from his head.

  “What happened?” asked Serge.

  “She hung up! She said she’s driving over! What am I going to do?”

  “For now, relax.” Serge put a hand on his shoulder. “Heather’s a highly trained state agent, and she now has a heads-up. Plus she’s mobile and armed. Those are all good things.” Serge looked out the apartment’s door as the police sirens grew louder. The first flickers of red and blue lights hit branches at the tree line. “And those are bad things. It’s not exactly the best time for me to interact with the law.” He headed out the door. “Coleman, we need to make ourselves scarce again.”

  “Serge!” yelled Bobby. “Stop! The cops will probably seal this place off as soon as they see the body, and they’ll be scouring the woods. Whatever you’re trying to avoid, it will only look worse if they find you hiding in some bushes under these circumstances. Not to mention there’s a killer somewhere out there who could get you. Stay here at the apartment.”

  Serge stopped in thought and began nodding to himself again. “Sage advice. Hide in plain sight.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” said Bobby. “Just stick close to me, and I’ll handle anything that might come up by distracting them. And try not to get too chatty.”

  “Me? . . .”

  Fifteen minutes later, at a remote location in Florida known for its quiet, the natural solitude was anything but.

  A dozen police cars sat at random angles, some with the lights still going. Every ranger in the park was up and out. Cameras flashed, detectives opened notebooks, and someone with a spool of yellow tape began roping off the body.

  It was man-to-man coverage, a detective talking to each ranger.

  “I just woke up minutes ago when I heard the sirens . . .”

  “I know about as much as you . . .”

  “What’s going on? . . .”

  A lieutenant flipped open another pad. “Are you Bobby? The one who called this in?”

  “That’s right, but I only reported someone trying to drive drunk,” said the ranger. “I didn’t expect a response like this.”

  “That’s because we got a second call,” said the detective. “Reporting the murder.”

  “I didn’t make that call.”

  “Have any idea who did?”

  Serge whispered sideways to Coleman. “The killer called. Trying to trap and frame us here in the park.”

  The lieutenant turned. “What did you say?”

  Bobby stepped between them. “Nothing.”

  “Do they work at the park as well?”

  “No,” said the ranger. “Longtime friends staying with me. They volunteer.”

  “So let’s back up,” said the investigator. “You only called in a potential DUI? So the victim was alive when you last saw him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And why were you seeing him?”

  “Didn’t want to,” said Bobby. “We had a political dispute a few months ago, and he came banging on my door pissed off.”

  “So you were the last person to see the victim alive, and you argued with him just before he was found brutally murdered just a few feet from your door?”

  As a lawyer, Bobby knew where this was going. Then he saw the handcuffs come out. “Look, I called in the DUI thing and went back inside. If I’m guilty, why would I have summoned the law to find that grotesqueness out in the open?”

  Other rangers also saw the handcuffs dangling from the detective’s fingers and rushed over, including the park manager, vouching up and down for Ranger Bobby.

  “All right. For now.” The detective stowed the bracelets. “But nobody go anywhere until we complete all the interviews and figure a few things out. We’re quarantining the whole park.” He wandered off to compare notes with colleagues.

  “Man!” Serge whistled. “When you said you’d distract them to protect us, you go all the way!”

  “That wasn’t precisely my plan,” said the ranger. “Let’s get you two back inside my apartment to avoid any more unpleasantness . . .”

  Hours later, the eastern sky betrayed the first hints of light. A white Crown Vic raced through the woods and up to the cabin.

  Heather Sparrow jumped out and showed her badge to the locals. Her status as a state agent carried a lot of water in law enforcement circles, and they showed proper deference.

  “Who called the FDLE in on this?”

  “My dad!” said Heather. “Is he okay?”

  “Your dad?” asked a Sarasota detective.

  “Bobby Sparrow. He works as a ranger here,” said Heather. “He called me about a case I’m on.”

  “Oh, we questioned him earlier. I think he’s back in his room.”

  “I know the way.” Heather ran down to the last door and knocked hard.

  Bobby opened up and got a big, tight hug he wasn’t expecting. “Come on inside.”

  She entered, and the ranger closed the door. That’s when she saw his visitors.

  Heather immediately unholstered her Glock and aimed it at Serge. “Don’t move! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  “Jesus!” said the ranger. “Honey, what are you doing?”

  “Stay out of this, Dad.” She widened her stance from cadet training. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “I kind of think I do,” said Bobby. “Could you just lower the gun?”

  She shook her head. “Back at the field office, I finally completed the family tree I was telling you about.”

  “Wow!” said Serge. “I’m impressed. I’ve been busting my ass on that thing and have weeks to go. Good on you!”

  “Keep those hands up!” said Heather. “Dad, like I told you, when I finished the family search, he was on a list of cousins.”

  “Of course I’m on it,” said Serge. “I told you at your office I have a corkboard just like yours.”

  The agent maintained aim and separation as she slowly reached for her own handcuffs.

  “Honey, you’re wrong,” said Bobby. “He came here to warn me. And you. He’s been calling your number all night.” The ranger held up her business card.

  Heather briefly glanced to the side. “Turn it over.”

  He did.

  “Just as I thought,” said Heather. “I wrote my number on the back and gave it to that guy Dixon. You grabbed it off the Bible after killing him.”

  “No,” said Serge. “I plucked it from a corkboard in Homestead. You should see that guy’s place. What a loon!”

  “Don’t make any false moves!”

  “Unappreciated moves.”

  She held the cuffs out with her free hand. “Dad, put these on him.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Dad!” said Heather, taking steps backward and reaching behind for the door handle. “Then I’ll get one of the other officers to do it.”

  Bobby’s arms waved emphatically. “Don’t! That’s a bell you can’t un-ring! Just hear me out first!”

  Serge wiggled the fingers he had up in the air. “Excuse me? Hello? I can prove it . . . Bobby, grab my cell phone and look at the image gallery. I know it’s pretty big because I tend to get carried away with the photos. Ask around. But the most recent images are of the corkboard at the real killer’s house in Homestead.”

  Bobby navigated through the phone until he found them, and held
it up toward his daughter. “Serge is right. Here’s the corkboard.”

  Another brief glance to the side. “Dad! That’s his corkboard.”

  “Mine?” said Serge. “I’m deeply hurt. That thing is just embarrassing.”

  Bobby blew up a photo, then another and another. “Hold on a second . . . Heather, there are a bunch of zoom photos on these boards. From outside your office and this park. You, me, even Serge and Coleman. We’ve all been under surveillance. And it would have been impossible for Serge to photograph himself at such a range.”

  “Don’t move!” Heather snapped at Serge. “Dad, hold it closer.” She took a series of quick sideways glimpses. Distant blow-ups of her getting in the Crown Vic, then with her father outside the cabin, and more of Serge and Bobby hiking together in the park.

  “See?” said the ranger. “These weren’t taken at selfie distance. Someone else had to shoot them. And if we don’t listen to Serge, we could be ignoring the real danger.”

  She stood in thought for the longest time, then at Serge: “Take a seat in that corner and don’t move and we’ll talk about this. Tell me everything you know . . .”

  And he did.

  Serge’s exhaustive detail and accuracy passed the smell test. The side trips into Sea Hunt and the Statue of Liberty, not so much. “His name’s Artemas Kenilworth Tweel. I have his address and everything. Your people need to check him out.”

  She finally holstered her service pistol. “Dad, we have to get you into protection.”

  “You too,” said Bobby.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Excuse me,” said Serge. “Your dad’s right. If Tweel could get close enough to shoot photos of you, that’s also close enough to shoot.”

  “Honey, please?” asked the ranger.

  She relented and pulled out her cell. “Okay, we’ll both get protection. I’ll call the office and have us set up in a safe house until this is over.”

  “May I?” said Serge. “This is my wheelhouse. There’s safe and then there’s safe. I have a better idea.”

  “May I?” said Heather. “We do this for a living.”

  “Stop dialing and let me tell you a story,” said Serge.