Murder Key

  Murder Key

  ONE

  At dawn, the naked man squatted in the surf building sand castles. A boat, no longer than fifteen feet, lay on its side near him, its occupants sprawled lifeless and unnoticed on the sand. Attached to the boat’s transom was a small outboard engine with a rusted propeller. The lower unit was pitted by electrolysis, and bare metal showed through the black paint, sure signs of neglect. The placid green water of the Gulf of Mexico provided an incongruous back-drop to tragedy and farce.

  An accident, I thought. There shouldn’t be dead men on our beach on a bright fall morning. I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my shorts and approached the bodies. There were three small dark men wearing jeans and T-shirts. They were barefoot, lying askew on the beach like so much seaweed discarded by the tide.

  Two of the men had gunshot wounds to the head. I thought I saw chest movement in the third. I leaned down close, listening for breath sounds. He was alive. I dialed 911 and told the operator that we needed ambulances and police on the beach behind the Isla Grande Condominiums on Gulf of Mexico Drive.

  I sat on the sand next to the nearly dead man and held his hand. If he was about to die, he would at least have the touch of a human being in his last moments. I’m not a religious man, but I said a little prayer. I sat. And I waited. There was nothing more that I could do for him until the paramedics arrived.

  The naked man had not changed his position. He sat on his haunches and piled more sand on his castles. His eyes were vacant, staring straight ahead.

  “Joe,” I said to the naked man, “did you see the boat?”

  “What boat?” He turned to look at me.

  “The one behind you.”

  “Oh, yeah. With the greasers.”

  “Did you check them out?”

  “Nah, the police will do it.”

  “Well, they’re on their way.”

  “Shit. Am I going to be arrested again?”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He went back to his castle building.

  I heard the siren of an approaching ambulance, growing louder as it rushed toward us. It stopped, leaving the morning silence unbroken. In a few moments, two paramedics scampered down to the beach, their medical bags sitting on a wheeled stretcher that bounced over the packed sand.

  I held the man’s hand as I watched the medics trot toward us. I told him help was coming. Did he hear me? Who knows? I hope so. I wanted him to know that somebody gave a shit about him and his dead buddies.

  The medics bent over the patient, using a blood pressure cuff and stethoscopes. One of them spoke into his radio, relaying the man’s vitals. The hospital, I assumed.

  I told them what I knew and walked the few steps to where Joe was intent on his building project. “Let’s get you up to Grace,” I said.

  “She’ll be pissed at me,” he said, petulance written on his face.

  We walked across the beach to the condo complex where Joe and his wife Grace lived. As we neared the steps leading over the dunes, an ancient lady met us coming down.

  “Morning, Joe,” said the woman, looking him in the eyes. Joe nodded.

  Turning to me, she said, “Hey, Matt. Grace will have his hide for this.”

  “I know,” I said. “There are some dead guys on the beach, and the police are on their way. I’ve got to get back. Will you take him home?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What’s this about dead guys?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Just take Joe home.”

  As I turned toward the surf, I could hear the police sirens in the distance. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the elderly woman gently leading Joe back across the dunes.

  * * * * *

  Tiny’s was jumping, the Friday evening crowd in full swing. Susie and Debbie were behind the bar and a shaggy looking man sat in a corner playing his guitar and singing the oldies. My buddy Logan Hamilton was perched on a stool sipping an amber drink. A brown bag was next to his glass, an unopened liter bottle of scotch peeking out of the top. Logan had been to the package store next door, stocking up for the weekend.

  Dotty Johansen, a widow in her seventies, the doyenne of the North End, held court at her usual table. She was surrounded by her friends, all retired ladies who had lost their husbands to the grim reaper. Smoke filled the place with a volume that even the best air handlers couldn’t dent.

  It was Friday evening on Longboat Key and the crowd was breathing a sigh of relief at having survived another week in the workaday world. There was the usual mix of wealthy retirees, middle-aged professionals and construction workers, all come to Tiny’s to sit and talk and drink. It was late October on this barrier island just south of Tampa Bay, halfway down Florida’s west coast. Our summer had ended the week before, when the humidity dropped to a bearable level and the temperature hovered in the mid-to-low-seventies. Except for a few cold days in January and February, this would be our weather until the middle of May, when summer again blew its hot breath down our necks.

  Tiny’s was not really “Tiny’s.” Some new people had come to the island a few years before, bought the place from a guy named Tiny, and renamed it. The locals didn’t like the new name, and most couldn’t remember it, so Tiny’s remained Tiny’s. It’s a little bar, tucked away in the corner of a building in a small shopping plaza on the north end of the key. When the voters of Florida passed an amendment to the state constitution a few years back requiring all places that served food to be smoke-free, Tiny’s, because it was the only bar on the island that didn’t serve food, became the oasis of necessity for thirsty smokers. There are more of those people than you might expect, and Tiny’s gained a popularity far above its humble status in the world of bars. The new owners, who had already become part of the island fabric, were content with the place as it was, and so were the patrons.

  “Hey, Matt,” Dotty Johansen called to me as I walked in, “I heard you found those dead Mexicans this morning.”

  Dotty knew everything, and perhaps the greatest mystery on the key was how she knew so much, so quickly.

  “Actually, Joe Turnicoff found them,” I said.

  Dotty laughed. “I heard he was out naked again. He’s crazy.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, but he still has some good days.”

  Dotty made a face. “Not enough. Grace is going to have to put him in a nursing home. He scares the tourists and Bill Lester’s going to run out of patience with him.”

  Bill Lester was the Longboat Key Chief of Police, a well-liked cop who had worked his way through the ranks of the small force until he was in charge. Joe had once been a powerful businessman in Chicago, but Alzheimer’s was taking a terrible toll on him. His wife Grace tried to keep him at home, but once in a while Joe would get up early in the morning, before her, and sit on the beach naked. During the winter season, tourists would call the police about the crazy man on the beach and a cruiser would come. The patrol officer would drape a towel around Joe and take him home. Most mornings though, Grace found Joe before he could cause any trouble.

  Dotty swallowed a little of her vodka. “I heard one of them was still alive,” she said.

  I said, “He is, but he’s still unconscious. The docs don’t know if the guy will pull through or be a vegetable.”

  Logan turned on his bar stool. “Do they know what happened?” he asked.

  I said, “Bill says it looks like the one still alive shot the other two, then fell and hit his head. His fingerprints are on the pistol and blood and hair were on the gunwale.”

  Logan said, “That was a big offshore wind last night. It must’ve pushed the boat up on the beach.”

  I took the seat next to Logan and sipped from the Miller Lite Debbie had set on the bar. “Looks that way,” I said.

  A heavily ac
cented voice said, “Are you Matt Royal?”

  I turned to my left. A man I had never seen before was standing behind Logan. The accent was Spanish. His face was pitted with acne scars, and his black hair was combed back from a widow’s peak, no part. He had a thick mustache and a trim goatee. A big man, a couple of inches taller than my six feet. He was wearing one of those gray sweatshirts with a hood. There were slits in the front, giving access to the pocket in which his hands were concealed. The sweatshirt had “Property of University of Florida Athletic Department” written across its front in bold orange letters. I remember thinking that those preppie kids in Gainesville would never wear such a ratty-looking thing.

  “That would be me,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake, a reflex action among us lawyers. His right hand came out of the pocket holding a snub-nosed revolver. He was raising it toward my chest, his eyes starting to squint in anticipation of the report that would follow the bullet entering my body.

  My world slowed down, like in those cheesy movies where the lovers are running toward each other in slow motion. I was starting to react, to reach toward the gun, to grab the hand that held it and twist downward, as the Army had taught me so long ago. But I knew I’d waited too long. The shock of death stalking amid the gaiety of Tiny’s slowed my reaction time just long enough to seal my fate. My killer was grinning. He was enjoying this.

  A hand holding a full bottle of Scotch by its neck shot into my line of vision. The bottle came down onto the arm of my killer. I was expecting to hear the sound of a gunshot, but instead I heard the bones of the shooter’s forearm breaking. Two people screamed, Logan in anger as he followed through with the chop that saved my life, and the Hispanic guy in agony, as he dropped his revolver.

  There was silence. Nobody moved for a second, except the shooter, who turned and headed for the door. He was gone before anyone could react. As I rushed toward the entrance to stop him, I heard a motorcycle revving its engine. Several agitated people were right behind me, all of us pushing out the door at the same time. All we saw of the shooter was his back as he climbed aboard the bike, placing his good arm around the driver’s waist and holding the broken one between his chest and his rescuer’s back. The bike shot out of the parking lot and headed for the Longboat Pass Bridge, less than a mile to the north. He’d be across Anna Maria Island and onto the mainland before the police could get organized to chase him.

  I returned to my seat at the bar. Logan was still nursing his scotch. He hadn’t moved during the rush to the door. I was shaken by the events, by my near death experience. If not for Logan’s quick reaction, I’d be dead. I’d have to think on that some. Get my equilibrium back. It’s not every day that some maniac tries to kill you.

  “You saved my life, buddy,” I said, patting him on the back.

  “Your turn to buy,” he said.

  And he ordered us two more drinks.

  37

  Murder Key

  TWO

  Susie had picked up the phone as soon as the shooter dropped his gun. As we were settling down, she announced that she had called 911, and the cops were on their way.

  “Don’t touch that gun, people,” she said. “The CSI’s will want to see it. This is a crime scene.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the Longboat Key Police Department didn’t have Crime Scene Investigators. We could hear the sirens in the distance, and they quickly grew louder, drowning out the din of voices as Tiny’s customers told each other what they’d seen.

  My adrenalin rush was subsiding, and I was beginning to shiver all over. I couldn’t seem to stop. I sat, drinking my beer in small quick swallows, trying to stop my hands from shaking and hoping I wouldn’t throw up. The front door opened and a uniformed police officer rushed in.

  Susie pointed to the gun on the floor near my bar stool, and the cop told everyone to calm down. He added that more police were on the way and they would have to take statements from each one of the customers.

  The patrolman told Susie to shut down the bar. “No more drinking,” he said, “until we get to the bottom of this.”

  He was new to the force, and none of us knew him. It was obvious that he didn’t know this crowd either, not if he thought he could stop them from drinking just because they had witnessed an attempted murder.

  The young officer took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Who can tell me what happened?” he said.

  A cacophony of voices rose from the crowd. Everyone was talking at once. The cop was nervous, didn’t seem to know what to do. He was looking around the room, his eyes darting from one speaker to the next. They probably didn’t teach this kind of thing at the police academy.

  “Everybody calm down,” said Dotty Johansen, talking over the buzz of excited voices. She stood, took a big swig of her vodka, and said, “Young man, why don’t you ask Matt Royal? He’s the one the guy was trying to kill.”

  “Which one is Matt Royal?” he asked.

  I raised my trembling hand.

  He turned to me, “Why was he trying to kill you, Mr. Royal?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I never saw him before in my life. I don’t think I have any blood enemies, and as far as I know, I haven’t pissed anybody off lately.”

  The cop stood there, dumbfounded. He didn’t know what the next question should be. I was feeling sorry for him, and was about to make some inane comment, when Chief Bill Lester walked through the door.

  The rookie snapped to attention. The chief was about five- feet-eight, with a head full of black hair and a small well-trimmed mustache. He was wearing a golf shirt over a pair of chinos, his small belly beginning to push at the shirt, a sign of too much desk and not enough exercise. He came over to me and put his arm across my shoulder.

  “You all right, Counselor?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thanks to Logan.”

  “What happened?”

  I told him the whole thing, leaving nothing out. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to shoot me, and I’d have thought it a case of mistaken identity if the guy hadn’t asked me if I were Matt Royal.

  Turning to Logan, Bill asked, “Where’d you learn that kung fu crap?”

  “Ah, that’s just bar fighting 101, Bill. A full bottle of hooch can do a lot of damage. You think I could get another scotch? Matt’s buying.”

  “Sure,” Bill said. Several Manatee County Sheriff’s deputies had come into Tiny’s while we talked. They helped the Longboat police as needed. Lester had probably called them in to help take statements while the crowd was reasonably sober. He would’ve known before he reached Tiny’s that there’d be a crowd on a Friday night. The chief was a regular himself and he knew most of the people in the bar.

  Bill asked the crowd to calm down, and then told them he would appreciate it if each of them would give a statement to the deputies. There was a murmur of agreement, and the deputies began to move about the bar, talking to the witnesses.

  Bill turned to me. “You feel like talking now?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s get this down before I start to forget things.”

  We moved to a table in the corner where it was reasonably quiet. “What can you tell me about this, Counselor?”

  I gave him the facts, as best as I could remember them.

  “What were your impressions?” Bill asked.

  “Impressions? I was scared to death.”

  “I can imagine. But there must have been some thoughts going through your head.”

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t crap my pants when the bullet hit me.”

  “Okay, but think. Try to let your mind just flow around the memory. Is there anything else you saw, or thought you saw, or sensed?”

  “The shooter was wearing latex gloves. I don’t think that registered until now. But he was wearing surgical gloves.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “What about the motorcycle, the rider, the tag number, anything?” />
  “The driver had on dark clothes and a black helmet. One of those that covered his head completely. It had a tinted visor, and I couldn’t see his face through it. There was mud on the license plate. It was a Florida plate, but I couldn’t read the numbers.”

  “Anything else strike you about the driver?”

  I thought for a minute, concentrating on the few second glimpse I’d had of the driver. “He was small,” I said. “Maybe he was a teenager. His jacket seemed too large.”

  “Could it have been a woman?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. I nodded. “I suppose it could’ve been,” I said.

  “What kind of bike?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t a Harley. What do they call those others? Crotch rockets?”

  “Yeah. Harley drivers are a lot more sensible than those kids on the rockets. Could you tell the make?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “No problem, Matt. You’ve done better than most.”

  “I think I need to get home, Bill. I’m beat, and I can’t seem to stop shaking.”

  “Do you want me to get Doc Britt to look in on you?”

  “No, I’ll be okay. I just need to settle down some.”

  “Okay. I’ll put an officer at your condo tonight. We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Bill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The chief and I agreed to meet at the Blue Dolphin for breakfast the next morning. Logan insisted on driving me home. I’d retrieve my car the next day.

  37

  Murder Key

  THREE

  Logan walked to the door of my condo with me. “Want me to come in?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. I’m still a little shaky, but I’ll get over it.’

  “Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

  I couldn’t sit still. I roamed my condo, drinking a beer, trying to talk myself out of this odd state I’d been in since the shooter pointed his pistol at me. I looked out the window and saw the Longboat Key patrol car in the parking lot. I could just make out the figure of a cop behind the steering wheel. I knew another officer was outside my door. They’d be there all night, because the chief told them to, and because they were my friends. We islanders take care of each other.