by Owen Parr
“Were all the people murdered locals?”
“Yes sir,” replied Bedrock cop one, wanting to be involved.
“What about the two missing persons?”
“All five were Geechees,” Reed replied.
I looked at them. “Geechees?”
“Gullah population referred to as Geechees in Georgia. The Gullah’s are African-Americans descendants of slaves in the coastal regions of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. They go all the way back to the eighteenth century. They even have their own language.”
“Is it a derogatory name? Geechees, that is.”
“No, is not,” Reed replied.
“Okay. So, someone has been killing these people for no apparent reason, right? Have you ever found any motivation behind the murders? Robbery, fights, anything?”
“No. These people here are all mostly related to each other. Never any problems with them.”
“All five were older people like Bernard?”
“Yeah…that’s about right,” Harrington responded.
“Have you ever uncovered any clues, leads, or suspects to any of these cases?”
All four officers remained quiet for a few moments. It was obvious that no one wanted to admit they had zilch.
“I guess not. So, all these cases are cold cases, right?”
Harrington finally said, “I’ve only been here a year and involved in only one of those murders. But, you’re correct. All are open cold cases.”
And no one gives a shit about them either. I needed their cooperation, so I decided to keep that to myself.
“All right guys. I’m done here. Before you go, get me your mask, will you? And please find out where I can meet the lady who found the body. Oh, also, let me know when you have the coroner’s report.”
12
The temperature during the day was in the mid-seventies, dropping to the high fifties at night. Officer Reed gave me a mask before he left the scene. Lacking swim trunks, I stripped down to my gray boxer briefs. The tide had risen about three feet and was about to cover the crudely marked murder scene. I flung a medium-size rock standing by the crime tape, to approximately measure how far out someone could have thrown the murder weapon. That was assuming they disposed of it in this manner. The water was freaking cold as I swam out to the spot where the rock landed. In about eight feet of water, I soon realized this effort was not a good idea. The incoming tide, strong as it was, kept rearranging the bottom. Shells, pebbles, seaweed, all were being thrust forward toward the shore.
An hour later, having covered an area of about forty yards wide and maybe twenty yards from shore, I was exhausted and began swimming, then walking, out of the water. The murder scene was now fully covered. Fortunately, I had the foresight to lay my clothes out of reach of the rising tide. In ankle deep water, shivering from the cold, I stepped on a sharp object that pierced the skin on my right foot. I lost my balance and fell into the water. Reaching down to my foot, I anxiously felt around for the object.
As I gathered my clothes, I noticed The Citadel gang leaving their observation post for a second time, about one hundred yards from my golf cart. Without a towel, I made a pointless effort to shake myself dry before getting dressed. I figured if it worked for dogs, it might work for me. When I finally reached my golf cart, I sat to rest a minute.
“Excuse me, would you like a towel?” A soft voice asked from behind me.
I turned around to look and a lady in her fifties, dark eyes, very pale, with short black hair, approaching my golf cart holding a towel. She was barely five-feet tall. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you,” I replied, taking the towel and covering the front of my briefs with it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Tiunal, and I’ve been watching from my balcony. Over there,” she said, pointing to a two-story home just off to my left.
I glanced at the home, then back at the lady. “Again, thank you,” I said, wrapping the towel around my waist.
“I can leave if you want some privacy to get dressed.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” I said, putting on my shirt and still holding my pants in my hand. “My name is Carlo Perego. You said your name was Tiunal?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the lady who found the murder scene?”
“It was Mauvais, my Rottweiler, who found it. But, please, get dressed. I can see you’re cold.”
Her comment gave me a flashback to a Seinfeld episode where George Costanza talks about cold water causing shrinkage. How much, or little, had this lady seen? I thought. I went ahead and put on my pants with the towel still wrapped around my waist. “What time was that?”
“It was three in the morning. Mauvais had been barking on and off for a while, so I decided to take him out.”
“You have a clear view of the scene. Did you see anything?”
“No. I should have looked when Mauvais began barking, but I thought he just wanted to go out. Are you investigating the murder?”
“In a manner of speaking. I’m a journalist, but I do have some experience in these things.”
“It’s a shame what happened to that man. Why would someone do that?”
“Do you live here year-round?”
“This is our third year. My husband and I rent this house occasionally. We love this area called Bloody Point. Our home is in Montreal.”
“Have you seen this group of young fellows, about twelve of them, hanging around the island?”
“That group? My husband calls them ‘Les arrogants.’”
“The arrogants. Not a friendly group?”
“Just a bunch of spoiled, rich brats. They stay to themselves, never say a word to anyone else, and act as if they own the island. Mauvais dislikes them. Normally he’s friendly toward everyone, but not these kids.”
“Interesting.”
“Do you have any clues as to who may have done this?”
“No, not at the moment.”
“Carlo, did you know your foot is bleeding?”
“Yes. I cut myself walking out of the water. It’s just a small cut.”
“Did you see what cut your foot?”
I hesitated. “No, not really. May I call you if I have any other questions?”
“By all means. Call my husband’s cell. His is always on. By the way, our last name is Elbaib.”
I pulled out my cell phone. “Go ahead. Punch in the number, please.”
“Here. I’ve added the number with our last name.”
“Thank you. You said both you and your husband were sleeping when Mauvais began to bark?”
“Corbeau, my husband? I assume he was. I was watching a movie downstairs but fell asleep. Mauvais’s barking woke me up.”
“And Corbeau never woke up?”
“I don’t know. But, a train could go through our bedroom, and he would not wake up,” Tiunal replied, laughing.
“You guys retired?”
“No, no. My husband sold his butcher shop two years ago. We now own and manage a steakhouse restaurant in Montreal. The Steakhouse, corner of Broadway and Princess. His brother is part owner. Remember that, in case you’re ever up there.”
“I will,” I said, as I noticed two flat tires on my golf cart. “Oh, shoot. Look at that.”
“That’s a problem. If you’d like, come back to my house, and I’ll drive you to yours.”
“Thank you. Let me call the place where I’m staying and advise them. If I need your help, I’ll walk over. Thank you again.”
“Very well, Carlo. Don’t worry about the towel for now. I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Tiunal said, as she walked away.
Little weird and creepy, this lady. I dialed the B&B.
“Hi, this is Alice. Can I help you?”
“Alice, this is Carlo Perego.”
“Hi, Mr. Perego. Finished with your meeting?”
“Yes, I am. However, I was headed back but somehow got two flat tires on the golf cart.
“Oh, my!
No problem. Bobby is back, and I can send him over to help. Where are you? At the Wetherly home?”
“I’m over at Bloody Point Beach.”
“Okay. Walk back to the main road. I’ll send Bobby over. He’s got a pickup with a small flatbed trailer. We can pick up the golf cart and bring it back here. And, I’m sorry about that. I can’t imagine having a flat, let alone two. Give Bobby ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Alice. I’ll wait for him. Thanks.”
I felt the hair on my neck rise. I looked to my left and saw creepy Tiunal and whom I assumed was Corbeau, with Mauvais, watching me from their balcony. My first reaction was to get the hell out of their line of sight.
I walked up to a pine tree-lined paved road. The wind whistled through the pine branches, and the temperature was dropping. What a contrast to New York City this was. It was a quietude I could quickly get used to. I heard an engine. Bobby? That was a quick ten minutes. Then, the sound of the engine increased, only from behind me. I turned three hundred sixty degrees, in the direction of the sound. One golf cart stopped about ten yards from me. Then another. And another.
Within seconds, I was surrounded by gas-powered golf carts. The Citadel boys, all twelve of them, just sat, smiling and looking at me.
13
Pivoting with my right foot, I made slow counterclockwise turn, keeping an eye on every golf cart and all the occupants. I noticed all except one were sitting back displaying a look of arrogance—Les arrogants, as creepy Tiunal called them. Locking eyes with the single one who was leaning forward with his arms crossed atop of the steering wheel, I said, “What can I do for you?”
I knew I chose right when the leader of the pack looked around to the other boys, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “Who are you?”
All golf carts that surrounded me were about ten yards from my spot. Taking a few steps forward, nearing the assumed leader, I replied, “My name is Carlo Perego. I’m a journalist working on an article.”
“What kind of article?”
None of your fucking business, you little shithead. There was no need for me to exacerbate a tense moment, not with twelve against one. I took a chance and said, “I’m working on an article about your grandfather’s investment firm.”
The young man laughed sarcastically. “How do you know he’s my grandfather?”
“Let’s see, you are Alexander Higginson Wetherly, and from the looks of things, you’re a platoon sergeant at The Citadel.”
“Hey guys, either we have a very informed journalist or a psychic in our presence,” he said, followed by laughter from his crew.
I made another circular turn to make sure everyone was still in their golf carts. They were.
Alexander said, “Let’s see if you’re a psychic. What do you think is going to happen next?”
“The best outcome would be if you and your guys just left and pretended we had a nice introduction.”
“And the worst outcome?” he asked.
“The worst is that someone is going to get hurt.”
“You guys worried about getting hurt?” he asked loudly.
In unison, the crew replied, “No, sir!”
“Tell me, Mr. Reporter, what were you doing with the police on the beach?”
“A friend was murdered last night, and I was curious.”
“Bernard was your friend?”
“He was.”
“Huh. What was it you pulled out of the water?”
“I cut myself walking out of the water. But, I guess you saw that.”
“You brought something out with you. Where is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know what I did with it. I think I threw it away.”
“Did you now?” he said. Turning to his right, he called out, “Troy. Dane. Search Mr. Reporter.”
Two of the biggest boys in the crew, both over six feet and with broad shoulders, began to walk toward me. I swiveled my head to see if anyone else was approaching. None were. “I suggest you stop right there. No one is going to search me,” I said, pointing to the two wide-bodies.
Troy and Dane looked at Alexander. He nodded to continue.
A short-cropped blond and the biggest of the two, came at me first. Remembering my teenage years and my short boxing career, I faked a right jab and nailed him with a left hook to the jaw. They say the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Troy’s feet left the pavement as he fell backward. He was out before he reached the ground. Dane made a futile attempt at a roundhouse punch with his left, which left him fully exposed. I pivoted with my right foot and landed a right to his midsection, which had to break a few ribs. He doubled over and fell on his knees, holding his left side in obvious pain.
Alexander shouted, “John, Jack, Tom, Martin. Get this asshole!”
All four of these boys were behind me, so I quickly turned to face them. From nowhere, a scraggy little guy, no more than one hundred fifty pounds, wearing jeans, a dirty red tee shirt, and a white painter’s hat, appeared from behind them. In a rapid movement with incredible flow, like the Kung-Fu Kid or maybe a ballerina, he swung his legs, kicking, tripping, and dropping two of the four, never using his hands. As their faces hit the pavement solidly, the two others hesitated momentarily.
The Kung-Fu Man stood next to me. In a southern drawl, he said, “Hi, I’m Bobby. I heard you needed my help.”
I smiled without saying a word but keeping vigilant of the other two boys, who stood frozen. “Sergeant Wetherly, I suggest you tell your men to pull back.”
I heard the gas engine of a golf cart start up. I glanced at Alexander Wetherly as he drove within two feet of where I stood and muttered, “This ain’t over, reporter.”
All other golf carts proceeded to fall in line, except for the fallen, who were being helped up by the frozen attackers.
Bobby and I took a few steps back, giving the injured space to get in their carts and whimper out of there.
“Good timing, Bobby. Thank you,” I said, extending my hand. He was missing his two front teeth.
“These fucking brats. They’re nutting but trouble. Nutting but trouble.”
“I wish I could replay your moves back in slow motion. Where did you learn that?”
“Ah, that’s nutting. Something I picked up along the way, that’s all,” he said, spitting tobacco on the pavement.
“I think we taught them a lesson.”
“Nah, these fucking brats don’t learn that easy. Now, where’s that cart of yours?”
Bobby drove the pickup to the entrance to the beach, placing the flatbed trailer right in front of the golf cart. When he tilted the flatbed, I drove the cart onto it. He examined the tires and said, “Huh, each tire has a nail in it. I can fix the flats, no problem.”
“What kind of nails are they?”
“Let’s pull one out and see.” Bobby got a pair of pliers from a toolbox in the bed of the pickup and pulled one out. “One and a quarter inch long. These are roofing nails.”
“I see. Can I have that?”
He handed me the nail. “Ms. Alice will give you another cart. We keep them at the main house. She doesn’t have many guests right now. Just be aware, it looks like she cleaned this one for you. The others may not be as clean.” Bobby said as we drove away.
“That’s not a problem. Did you learn martial arts in the service?”
Bobby put a new wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and turned to glance at me. “What kinda arts?”
“Martial arts. The kicking stuff you did on the guys.”
“Yeah, I picked it up along the way,” he replied, spitting out the window.
I wanted to start questioning Bobby about Bernard, but I had to tread carefully as not to insult him. I mean, shit, he just saved my ass.
“I understand you live at home with Alice and her husband.”
“Arnold. Yeah, yeah, Nice people. I have a room there. We’re cousins you know, but we’re all cousins in southern Georgia,” he said. He started to laugh but instead starting coughing. He spat again.
“Did you hear anything last night? Someone fighting, or any scuffle?”
“You talking about Bernard?”
“Yeah. I think he was killed around the house and then dropped at the beach.”
“Yeah? No, I didn’t hear nutting. You think these boys did it?”
“Why? You think they could have?”
“These fucking boys are always giving the Geechees a hard time. They have no respect for them. I mean shit, they make fun of their language and all. You know what I’m saying?”
“Did you know Bernard well?”
“That old man was a master carpenter. Learned on his own, you know. Never went to school or nutting. Yeah, he was a good man. Was teaching me his craft, you know. Hey, you hungry?”
“I’m starving. What you got in mind?”
“There are two guys by the old school house serving a mean burger and fries, and they got some cold beers. Their place is called Lucy Bell’s Café. Is a yellow trailer, and we eat outside by the oak trees.”
“My kind of food. I’m buying.”
I waited for a few minutes as he drove through the narrow, paved roads. Small homes and shacks were scattered throughout the island. Very different than the guarded and private community of Haig Point, where Mr. Wetherly lived. I wanted to ask a few more questions. “Who would want to kill Bernard? I don’t understand.”
“Some folk don’t need a reason to kill, you know? They do it.”
“But, the way he was killed. Just doesn’t make sense. It’s like a hate crime.”
“You mean hate against black folk?”
“Something like that.”
“Some folk is crazy motherfuckers, man. They just crazy motherfuckers.”
14
After a delightful muenster cheese bacon burger with all the trimmings—lettuce, tomato, and grilled onions—we made our way back to the B&B. My first order of business was to give Carmelite my condolences and a big hug. I had only met Carmelite and Bernard a few hours ago, a genuine friendly bond had developed immediately between us.
Carmelite was sitting at a kitchen table. I grabbed her hand and squeezed gently, bending down to whisper in her ear, “I’m going to find the person who did this.”
