Wild Captive

by Tripp Ellis

  "I don't have a substance abuse problem. I told you, I can handle my high. My parents went through an ultraconservative phase. They thought I had a problem." She scoffed. "They're ones to talk."

  "If you hear from Violet, please let me know. Her father is worried sick about her."

  I grabbed a cocktail napkin from the bar and wrote my number on it and handed it to Autumn.

  "Thanks for the drink," JD said.

  Autumn smiled. "Anytime."

  He slurped the daiquiri down as fast as he could. Within seconds, the plastic straw was siphoning the last bit of liquid from the bottom. He returned the curvy glass to the bar, and by the time he started back, he had a hell of an ice headache. He grimaced with pain, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

  I sent Mary a direct message on social media. Hopefully, she would respond.

  We walked to the street, and I climbed onto the bike. Big Tony had told us we could find Dmitry at the Red Dragon club on Oyster Avenue. His dad was an investor, and Dmitry held court there in the VIP room every night. That gave us the afternoon to ourselves. JD suggested we get a little fishing in.

  I cranked up the bike and followed him out of the neighborhood. We stopped at a light, and I pulled alongside the red Porsche. JD revved his engine, taunting me. He had a devilish grin on his face. I shook my head and shouted through my helmet, "You know you're going to lose, right?"

  12

  The light turned green.

  JD dropped the clutch and mashed the gas pedal. The flat six howled, and the tires barked as the car launched forward.

  I stood still for a moment, watching the red Porsche race down the avenue.

  Then I decided to show him who's boss.

  My fingers released the clutch, and I twisted the throttle. The bike roared, and I held on for dear life. With a couple of shifts, I was over 100 MPH. I caught up to the Porsche and streaked past it. We were acting like a couple of high school kids, showing off. It was ridiculous.

  I pulled to a stop at the next light and waited for JD.

  "At least I've got a backseat," JD shouted.

  I laughed and followed him back to the marina. We parked the vehicles and strolled toward the dock. I was surprised to see Mr. Miller examining the remains of his boat. It had been blown on shore during the hurricane and had been sitting there ever since.

  My eyes widened with disbelief. I had thought he might be dead. We never really got along, but I was relieved he was okay. "Mr. Miller, it's good to see you. I wasn't sure you made it."

  Instead of his usual scowl, he flashed what could be interpreted as a grin. "I finally came to my senses and left. Went to stay with my brother in Alabama. I should have listened to you. I had no business trying to stay here. When I saw the devastation on the news, I just couldn't bring myself to come back right away."

  "I'm sure things will get back to normal before too long."

  "How did you make out?"

  "I did okay. No damage." I left out the part about the assassin.

  "Maybe you can show me where that hurricane hole of yours is?"

  I didn't want to tell anyone the location of my secret hurricane hole. It was too good to give out, and too many people already knew about it. I smiled and said, "Sure."

  I hoped he would forget about it and wouldn’t bring it up again.

  "Well, I guess I'll see you around? If there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

  "I appreciate that," Mr. Miller said. "I've got a marine transport coming. We're going to hoist this thing up and put it on a flatbed and take it to a boat yard."

  "She'll be seaworthy in no time," I said, optimistically.

  Miller didn’t share my enthusiasm.

  JD and I strolled down the dock to the Wild Tide.

  Buddy charged us excitedly as we entered the salon. JD knelt down and petted him. He wouldn't admit it, but I knew he had grown quite fond of the little Jack Russell.

  Buddy was in desperate need of a walk, so I leashed him up and took him out to run off some energy.

  By the time I returned to the boat, JD was ready to cast off the lines and get out on the water. It was a gorgeous afternoon. Too nice to let go to waste. But I got a phone call that squelched our plans.

  The sheriff’s gruff voice barked through the speaker on my phone. “I need you two numbnuts to get to Taffy Beach. We've got a situation."

  "I thought I was on administrative leave."

  "You’re back on active duty. An internal investigation cleared your shooting, stating it was within policy. Congratulations. Now get your ass down here!"

  "What's going on?"

  Daniels hung up without answering.

  JD was not pleased that we weren’t going to spend the afternoon on the water, drinking beer and catching fish. I was pretty sure he really wanted to get out there and search for treasure. He tried to play it off like it wasn't a big deal, but he had gotten serious about it. He had been devouring as many books about Jacques De La Fontaine, the infamous French pirate, as he could find—searching online, chatting in Internet forums and social media groups. I think it had become a mini-obsession for him.

  I'd tempted fate enough for one day on the motorcycle, so I rode over to Taffy Beach with JD. Waves crashed on the shore and the gulls squawked overhead as we walked down the sandy beach. There was a gentle breeze coming off the water. A crowd had gathered around the crime scene. Sheriff Daniels, the medical examiner, and the forensics team had already arrived.

  With the crowd shrouding the area, I couldn't see into the crime scene. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out something unpleasant had happened at this picturesque beach.

  I flashed my badge and pushed through the crowd to Sheriff Daniels. A grim look tightened his face. My eyes flicked from him to the body in the sand.

  My heart stopped, and my chest tightened. The creamy skin was devoid of color. The condition of the body was disturbing. I worried I would have to give Big Tony bad news.

  Maybe JD was right? Maybe we shouldn't have offered our assistance to the former Mafia enforcer?

  13

  "A kid was digging in the sand and found the body," Sheriff Daniels said. "Poor kid is going to be traumatized for life."

  I hovered over the body which had been buried a few inches underneath the surface of the sand. It had been uncovered by the medical examiner, and the gruesome sight was in full view.

  The pale skin was speckled with grains of sand. The victim's head had been decapitated, and the hands cut off. All that remained were stumps, and insects had already started devouring the flesh. Flies buzzed around the corpse, and the pungent odor of death filled the vicinity.

  I wouldn't know if it was Violet until Brenda brought the corpse back to her office and ran an analysis. With no facial features to go on, no dental records, no fingerprints, it would be a little more difficult to ID the remains.

  My stomach twisted, and I wondered what the hell I was going to tell Tony?

  Commotion filled the air as a news crew pushed their way through the crowd, trying to get footage of the remains.

  The sheriff’s face twisted with a scowl. "Get them the hell out of here!”

  Two uniformed officers stepped in front of the camera crew, and an officer blocked the lens with his hand.

  "Have some respect," the officer snapped.

  "We’ve got a right to be here!" the reporter shouted.

  "You're interfering with an active crime scene! Backup, or you will be spending the night in jail," Daniels barked.

  "I've got something I think you might be interested in," the reporter shouted.

  She held up a Ziploc bag with a piece of paper sealed inside.

  Daniels nudged me with his elbow to see what the fuss was about.

  I strolled over to the saucy brunette. I knew who she was. Reagan Mackenzie. An investigative journalist on Key 24.

  I flashed my badge and introduced myself. "What have you got?"

  “It's some type of cipher,
" she said, handing me the sealed note. "It was sent to the station, addressed specifically to me."

  The note was typed on ruled paper and had a series of multi-digit numbers spaced out in paragraph form. It was clearly a coded message.

  There was a bloodstain at the bottom right corner of the page, along with a small, hand-drawn symbol.

  "When did you receive this?" I asked.

  "It was delivered to the station this morning,” she said.

  "And you heard the call on the police scanner and thought they were connected?" I asked.

  "You catch on quick."

  "So I'm told."

  Reagan Mackenzie was an attractive woman—5’5”, athletic frame, impeccably dressed. Sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, pouty lips. She was the kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and nobody was going to stop her from getting it.

  Reagan had the tenacity of a pit-bull. She didn't take no for an answer. She earned a reputation on the island for getting to the truth, no matter where it led. She routinely alerted the public to frauds, shady businesses, and aided disgruntled consumers when they encountered problems with heartless corporations.

  I had to admire her spunk. Though she didn't seem like she'd be the easiest woman to deal with. I certainly wouldn’t want her snooping around my business.

  "How many people touched this piece of paper?" I asked.

  "Just me and a colleague."

  "I'll need prints from both of you."

  "No problem."

  "What's your contact information?"

  She handed me a business card. "My cell is the best way to reach me."

  I gave her my cell number. "You call me the instant you receive another letter."

  She gave me a mock salute. “Aye-aye, sir!”

  Reagan was sassy, alright.

  “Plan to head down to the station for fingerprinting when you wrap up here," I said.

  I started back to the crime scene, but Reagan wasn't finished with me yet.

  "Excuse me, Deputy? Would you mind saying a few words on camera."

  By the time she finished the question, the cameraman already had the lens focused on me.

  I blocked the lens with the palm of my hand. "No comment."

  "There's a dead body on the beach, and you have no comment?"

  I forced a smile and turned around.

  "We're planning on posting a copy of that note on the website and featuring it on the evening news."

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  "Well, you can't stop me."

  "You don't even know what this is yet,” I said, holding up the note.

  "No, I don't. But I’ve got a hunch. And my hunches are never wrong."

  I returned to Sheriff Daniels and handed him the cipher. He studied the paper for a moment. "Get that to the crime lab, see if they can make heads or tails of it."

  I took it back from him, and my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the screen and cringed.

  It was Big Tony.

  I let the call ring for another moment as I decided what to do, then I finally swiped to answer.

  "Tell me it's not her," Tony said in a distraught voice.

  "How do you people find out about this stuff so quickly?"

  “I’ve got my ears to the ground. Tell me it's not her."

  I hesitated for a long moment. "I don't know."

  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

  I frowned. "The condition of the body doesn't allow for easy identification."

  "Condition?" Tony said, terrified. "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "I can't talk about this right now. I'll call you back."

  “Do NOT hang up on me,” Tony growled.

  "Look, just try to stay calm. I'll contact you as soon as I know anything. I promise.”

  Tony finally agreed, then I ended the call.

  JD examined the cryptic note, and I glanced around the crime scene. There were a sea of mortified faces gawking at the remains. I knew it was common for criminals to visit the crime scene and watch law enforcement during their investigation. It was an ego trip. Some of these creeps reveled in playing games with police. Most of them were narcissists and felt their intellect was vastly superior to law-enforcement. If this note was, in fact, from the killer, he was definitely the type who liked to play games.

  I had no doubt that he was probably watching us right now.

  I looked for anyone who seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Reagan found the boy who had discovered the body and was interviewing him on camera.

  I shook my head. Vultures.

  14

  "What kind of sick son-of-a-bitch does this?" JD asked as we stood in the autopsy room at the medical examiner's office.

  The victim lay on a stainless steel examination table that had blood gutters and a hydraulic lift. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and a stainless wash station lined one side of the room, while stainless shelves lined the other. There were clear glass cabinets that contained specimen beakers, vials, test tubes, disinfectant, and numerous other clinical items. Red biohazard containers with hazardous waste symbols were located throughout the room. It reminded me of the zombie apocalypse.

  The facility was stark and antiseptic. It was the stuff of nightmares. It could have been a set for a horror movie. Cold and clinical. The smell of death lingered in the air.

  Brenda surveyed the body. She wore a mask, goggles, latex gloves, surgical scrubs, and a hair cap. She looked like a doctor in the OR, only this patient wasn't coming back to life.

  Brenda rolled the victim onto her side and examined her back. The victim had a small tattoo that ran along her spine, just above her tailbone.

  I called Tony. "Does Violet have any tattoos?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "No tramp stamp?"

  I could hear his jaw clench through the phone. "No. My daughter doesn’t have a tramp stamp."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Unless she got one in rehab, I'm sure."

  "Then this victim isn’t your daughter."

  Tony breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank the Lord."

  "I'll let you know if I find anything else."

  "Keep looking," Tony said before he hung up.

  “Can you tell how old she was?" I asked Brenda.

  The M.E. flashed me an exasperated look. "If you would give me a little time to do my job, I could tell you a lot of things. But, judging by the skin texture and thickness, joint space, and other osteoarticular features, I’d put our victim between 18 and 22."

  “Cause of death?"

  Brenda shot me a look. ”Judging from the bruising around her neck, I'd say she was strangled. But I can tell you more if you will give me time to do my job."

  She forced a smile.

  “There was a girl from Key Largo that went missing. Gabriella Atkinson. She might be our Jane Doe.”

  “I’ll check,” Brenda said.

  JD and I decided to leave the exam room before Brenda started carving into the body. I'd seen plenty of grisly things in my day, but I wasn't inclined to watch her cut up the remains of a young girl and pull her insides out.

  JD was silent for a long while after we left the autopsy room. I think the victim being so close in age to Scarlett had him really spooked.

  Hanging out in the morgue kinda killed my appetite, but JD wanted to grab happy hour at a new sushi place called Nemo’s. It wasn't as good as Blowfish, but not bad. And JD hadn’t dated any of the waitresses yet, so I felt like our food would be relatively safe.

  We caught the tail end of happy hour and kicked back a few Kirin Lights. We had plenty of time to kill before things ramped up on Oyster Avenue. Dmitry probably wouldn't be at the Red Dragon until 10 or 11 PM.

  The local news played on a flatscreen display behind the bar, above the bottles of top shelf liquor. There was footage of Regan Mackenzie at the beach, interviewing the child who found the victim.


  "I just wanted to make a sand castle. I was digging in the sand with my sister when we found the dead girl," the boy said. He didn't seem fazed by it in the least. Hell, there wasn't anything these kids hadn't seen before on the Internet.

  "The Sandcastle Killer has also left a calling card," Reagan said into the camera. "A cipher was sent to the station before the body was discovered.”

  A picture of the coded message flashed on the screen.

  "Our experts have managed to break the code."

  My eyes widened with surprise.

  Reagan continued, “It reads: I killed the girl. It was fun. I will do it again."

  She gave a solemn look into the camera. "The victim remains, as yet, unidentified. There's a serial killer loose in Coconut Key. We are urging all young women to take active precautions and maintain awareness. Avoid dark and desolate areas, and always travel in groups if possible."

  I grimaced and exchanged a glance with JD.

  "For KTCK 24, I'm Reagan Mackenzie."

  JD looked as surprised as I was. "They broke that code fast."

  "Sheriff Daniels is going to be pissed."

  It wasn't a moment later when my phone rang.

  "What the hell was that all about?" Daniels barked. "One body and she's already declared we have a serial killer on the island?"

  "Let's hope this is the first and last time the Sandcastle Killer strikes."

  Daniels grumbled to himself. "This is the last thing I need. This is going to be on every station and the front page of every paper." He sighed. "I want you two on this. Find that son-of-a-bitch before he strikes again."

  "Yes, sir!"

  15

  The line to get into Red Dragon twisted around the block. It was a sea of miniskirts, toned legs, and stiletto heels. Painted on dresses barely contained sumptuous assets. If you were a hot young woman, you got in free. There was a $20 cover charge for guys, and the bouncer was extremely selective about who he let into the club. JD and I bypassed the line of pretty people and flashed our golden badges.

  The bouncer waved us into the dim club.