by David Kersey
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Lake Okeechobee, also called “The Big O” by the locals because of its nearly round shape, is the largest fresh water lake in America that is totally contained within the boundaries of one state. Roughly half the size of Rhode Island, some call the lake “fisheye” due to the state of Florida, when viewed from space, resembling a fish, and the circular lake in an appropriate location to become the fish’s eye. The small town of Clewiston, on the southwest rim of the lake is known for three things. Fishing, widely regarded as some of the best bass and crappie fishing in North America; Roland Martin, the famous TV fishing show host; and sugar. It is the home of U.S. Sugar, the largest sugar manufacturer/refiner in the world. And to Bill Brownley, formerly Alan Abrams, it contained a fourth notable thing and the only thing he cared about. It was the home of Janice Miller.
He had found Sergeant Miller’s name in a VFW directory in Palm Beach County. Research revealed that she had done two stints in the Iraqi conflict and was discharged four years ago. She settled in Clewiston the year after and was now one-half owner of the R & M Tavern, a tired looking gin joint on U.S. 27 in the heart of town.
Brownley chose Uncle Joe’s Fish Camp as his base of operation, which location was eight miles outside of the center of town and located on a rim canal that afforded direct navigable access to the lake. He paid in advance for a week’s stay using David Jones’s cash. The tiny stand-alone cabins reeked of fish but that was only a minor distraction. No TV, no phone, perfect. Not only was it a good place to think and plan without the least disturbance, it also provided the unique way to approach her. She fished using her bass boat, alone, on her days away from the saloon. He knew that because on the third day of stalking her he followed the bitch to Martin’s marina, where she headed out, alone, vulnerable, and isolated. Perfect. Plan B, in case death on the water fell through due to weather or whatever other reason, was to kill her in her modest home at 148 Trinidad Avenue. The potential problem there was, of course, being seen by neighbors, or if she had company, though killing two people was not out of the question. Plus murder inside a residence presented problems by multiplying the chance to leave trace evidence. He had donned a long brown wig to make him look more like a fisherman. His dead dad’s dirty old John Deere hat helped build the redneck image. But if there were to be a struggle inside her house he would surely leave strands of unseen synthetic hair. Brownley was patient. He had all the time the prostate cancer would allot him, which could amount to years and hopefully many name changes. He didn’t care, it would be either the cancer or the cops that would drop him. He would wait for the right time even if it took an additional week in this Podunk town.
It did take two days longer than expected to seize the perfect timing and conditions. He piloted his john boat from Uncle Joe’s down the rim canal past the intersecting canal that led to her marina. Two and a half miles farther southeast down the canal was a bayou the locals called the dynamite hole. He never found out why it was named that and it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to ask questions of the locals for her body would be found there. Too much association. But he knew how to find it by experimenting in the days prior, that’s what mattered. The bayou was approximately three acres in size and was completely enclosed by swampland vegetation and tall moss laden pines. It was isolated from the rim canal except for the tiny ten foot wide entrance that small fishing boats could squeeze through to gain access. It was notorious for crappie fishing and would be a busy place on the weekends, but this was Thursday, her day off, and should be empty of any and all boats. He arrived at the hole and saw that he was quite alone if you didn’t count thousands of mosquitos and a few alligators, and some water moccasins. This would not be a good place to swim. He anchored and began the wait.
An hour passed. No Janice Miller. Yet. The Prednisone, one of the drugs he took for the cancer, had the side effect of making him sweat profusely plus make him irritable. The sweat drew all the more mosquitos. He didn’t have any repellant in his empty K-Mart tackle box, so he was angry, and anger is a good thing to have on a kill. An alligator swam toward his boat and then stationed itself about twenty feet away, staring at him. The thought occurred to him that the gator was playing the same game that he was. After a few minutes the gator got bored and slowly sank out of view.
Brownley’s insistent demon invaded his thoughts once again. Obama will not win this one, he thought. The thought of “gender diversity” in the military, a sinister current that had found strong legs with devastating field experiences as a result, made his blood boil in rage. Already what was once rigid infantry training had been watered down, adjusting the qualification standards downward for both men and women, but women even more-so. Obama had already replaced military leaders with the new breed of ass kissers that would advance his women-in-combat agenda. The result; many, among both sexes, who would have washed out from the more stringent training now were being pulled through the loop as acceptable candidates to defend the country. It made as much sense as replacing Peyton Manning with Goldilocks because it was mandated from on high. Female soldiers don’t want to be the “tip-of-the-spear”, but must follow orders. He had experienced it first-hand. The flashbacks and nightmares of that one particular event would not go away. Semper Fi now Whimper Cry when the bullets were flying. It was clear, Obama was attempting to weaken America. There could be no other conclusion. Clearly the progressive agenda but in fact it was digressive. Weakness. Degradation. Sinister. Fatal. Doomed. It must stop. He would do his part.
Two hours passed. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a boat motor approaching out on the rim canal. The roar of the motor diminished to a whisper near the narrow opening to the dynamite hole. It was her, ex Sergeant Miller, alone, that emerged from the tiny inlet, and she was soon to die. Brownley’s ears began to hum with the raging rush of adrenaline, yet he had to be patient. He would let her fish and catch a few crappie, for it would look peculiar to arrive back at Uncle Joe’s without some fish. Her fish, her crappie on her very last crappie day.
She anchored about a hundred feet to the north. They exchanged waves. He pretended to fish though he had no bait, just a fishing pole. He had, long before she arrived, unhooked the sparkplug cap just enough for there to be no contact. In twenty minutes she had boated at least six fish, probably more. He didn’t want to be caught always looking her way. She may have twice that many fish. It didn’t matter, it was time. He put away his fishing pole, slipped on the cheap K-Mart fishing gloves, and walked to the stern. He pulled on the starter rope and the little twenty horsepower motor only coughed. Again, same thing. A dozens pulls, no result. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that she had pulled anchor. Perfect. She slowly idled his way.
“You having trouble?”
“Yeah, motor won’t start. You think I could get a tow when you’re done fishing?”
“I’m done. Caught more than a dozen and I got a late start. You got a tow rope?”
“I don’t, just the anchor line and two short mooring lines. Not long enough to tow.”
“I have one, hang on. I’ll tow you as far as the marina, but you got an Uncle Joe’s boat and I can’t take you that far. You can get your motor fixed at the marina anyway.”
“That’ll be fine with me. Don’t throw the tow rope. I don’t see too well and I for sure don’t want to fall into this water. You’ll need to hand it to me.”
“Not a problem, be right there.”
Janice Miller pulled alongside his john boat. Brownley held on to the side of her boat while she stood to fetch her tow rope. That was all the distraction he needed. In two seconds he boarded her bass boat with knife in hand. She saw a flash of sunlight, then saw it came from a very long blade. She tried for her tackle box but was too slow. In one furious right to left swipe her windpipe was cleanly cut and her hands reflexively grabbed her neck. She was trying to gasp, he could see her chest heaving, desperately trying for air. There would be none. Her eyes bulged, wide open, the look of shock more th
an the look of pain. She mouthed “Why” just before her knees buckled. He knew she was losing the light of day when her hands dropped from around her neck. She crumpled onto the deck, unable to breathe. Gone, although her body convulsed in the useless struggle to remain alive. “You bitches should never wear the uniform, that’s why,” Brownley said to the deceased ex Sergeant Miller.
He grabbed her anchor and threw it into his boat which had drifted a few feet away, then pulled his boat back alongside and tied it down. He transferred her stringer of fish and her bait bucket to his boat. He checked the contents of a canvas tote bag she had tucked under the center console. It contained a billfold, which he emptied of twenty two whole dollars, then decided to keep the billfold. Perhaps robbery would be seen as a motive.
He boarded his own boat and retrieved the Igloo cooler. He grabbed the severed hand of David Jones and held it close to her limp hand. He grabbed her wrist and scraped the skin of the severed hand under her fingernails. The same with her other hand, as if she had struggled with her assailant. He repeated the process using Jones’s head, each of her hand’s fingernails were dug into his cheeks. He tore a few strands of hair from the Jones head and placed them in the growing pool of blood that surrounded her neck. They wouldn’t blow away because of the stickiness of her blood he didn’t think but the vultures might dispose of them. So he ripped out some more hair and threw the strands into the built in bait well. He found the shredded patch of Jones’s shirt in his pocket. He ripped it into a tiny piece and laid that under the center console where the wind shouldn’t get to it. Finally he cut open her khaki fishing shirt and parted it, revealing her tanned stomach. With the tip of his San Mai knife he dug his signature into her belly, the sign of the cross. The sign that in time would be associated with a psychotic maniac roaming haphazardly through the United States. He stood and examined the situation. He could see none of his own footprints but he wiped the deck in the places he had been anyway. Satisfied his mission was accomplished, he fed the local alligators with the rest of David Jones. But he kept the remaining piece of the flannel shirt. He might use it with his next victim who was more than two hundred miles north of Clewiston. And there he would become Charlie Cramer.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX