by Pat McKee
“I can’t imagine anyone like Judge Richards killing himself. He seemed so enthusiastic about life and was so happy to be on the island. It could only have been a tragic accident. He prized that shotgun so, he must have been cleaning it one more time to admire it. It’s such a shock. I just can’t . . .”
Fowler appeared skeptical, hesitated, then as if to indicate his acceptance of my apparent change of heart, his tone softened as he continued to carry on his part of the charade.
“The sheriff asked me to accompany him to inform Mrs. Richards, so I must leave shortly. I’m sure there will be a number of details that will have to be attended to. I know you’ll want to be going soon, and I probably won’t be back by the time you do. Please have a safe trip. I regret your weekend had to end so badly.”
My host had surrendered all subtlety. It was clear he wanted me gone.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll make it a point to get an update from you when you return to Atlanta.”
I choked down my breakfast in silence. I went upstairs, packed, and by the time I came back downstairs, Fowler and Oliver were gone. I stood for a moment in the entry hall, bag in hand, looking through the study and out the heavy-beamed window to the cobbled plaza below, listening to the quiet of the house.
Since I had left Melissa early that morning, I had been thinking only of her. We had ambled the beach, climbed the dunes, confiding, conspiring, until just before dawn when she had to return to avoid detection by her ever-watchful uncle. I walked Melissa back to the Abbey before first light, and we kissed, long and slow, before she disappeared inside the lobby. We had planned to meet for lunch after my outing with the judge to continue our plotting. If I was being manipulated by Melissa, I was enjoying it.
Then came Fowler’s incredible revelation at breakfast. With the death of the judge, my suspicions of Melissa’s uncle and ostensible guardian now went beyond mere corporate corruption and attempted murder to cold-blooded execution. It horrified me to bring the logic to its obvious conclusion: If Anthony was willing to kill a judge to cover his bribery and to kill his brother to claim his shares in the corporation, what would he be willing to do to Melissa, Placido’s only heir, the only one left in a position to challenge his dominion over Milano?
I threw my bag in the back seat of the car. I stopped myself before I climbed in. I went back inside the house, grabbed one of Fowler’s shotguns and a box of shells, stashed them in the back seat under my bag, and headed straight to the Abbey.
“We have no one by the name of Milano registered.” The clerk, sweat beading his upper lip, tap, tap, tapping a chewed pencil on the desk, peered over my shoulder at a detective interrogating the manager and then back at me. “No. No one by that name.” Police vehicles, blue lights flashing, jammed the valet stand, officers flooded the lobby, questioning staff and visitors. The Milanos couldn’t have been checked out for more than an hour; Melissa hadn’t returned much earlier than that. I had a chance of catching them at the airport. Even if you were Anthony Milano, it takes time to get your jet in the air, and this departure had all the earmarks of a hasty and unplanned retreat. I knew Melissa had no prior warning that she’d be leaving, since we’d made arrangements to meet again for lunch.
I jumped back in the Porsche and flew down the main road toward the airport, passing most of the morning commuters in the opposite lane. I sped to the hanger that housed the Milano jet, hoping to catch Melissa and Anthony before they took off. I hadn’t yet determined what I’d do if I were successful.
The Frederica Island airport is like everything else about the island: different. It’s not even on Frederica Island, but rather on St. Simons, the island to the south—though it’s not more than ten minutes away from Fowler Cottage. The airport was once commercial, served by daily flights from Atlanta. Soon the private jets out-numbered the ones from the commercial carriers, and today the only way to fly to Frederica Island is on your own plane. This requirement doesn’t seem to be an inconvenience for the island residents. Anthony Milano’s Gulfstream G650 wasn’t the only one parked on the tarmac this week, though the Milano Corporation logo on the tail made it the most recognizable. I careened onto the airport road just in time to hear the jet blast and to see that logo rise high above the live oaks of the Frederica Island lodge and disappear as the Milano jet banked sharply on its flight over the Atlantic, taking Melissa out of my life as abruptly as she had appeared.
Being a lawyer has many benefits. One, not so evident, is that a lawyer’s mind is filled with obscure legal data which often comes in handy at the most opportune times, such as the knowledge that flight plans of private jets are public information, a fact that popped into my head as the Milano jet became but a speck in the sky. My check with the tower confirmed that Milano had filed a flight plan directly to Naples, the closest airport to Anthony’s villa that could safely handle his jet.
At a top speed of Mach .90, the Gulfstream G650 is one of the fastest civil aircraft in the world. It can travel non-stop from Frederica Island to Naples in less than 8 hours without breaking a sweat. In little more than the time I could drive from Frederica Island to Atlanta and unpack my bag, Melissa would already be climbing the rugged hills of the Italian coast in her uncle’s Lamborghini to his villa in Positano. Even during Melissa’s flight, she would be in cell phone contact, although I knew I couldn’t safely call her until I was confident she was out of her uncle’s sight.
Still, I had more to do here. I had to find out for sure if there was more to Judge Richards’ death, if it was more than a suicide or accident. It still was not beyond possibility that Judge Richards killed himself either out of guilt or for fear of being exposed, but if Judge Richards was murdered, then Melissa was in far more danger than I wanted to think about.
While Frederica Island has its own private police force, it isn’t a separately incorporated municipality, and it must rely on Glynn County and the port city of Brunswick, the county seat, for most of its other governmental services. In spite of the wealth of the islands, the less affluent residents of Brunswick control the politics of the county by dint of sheer numbers. Other than the facts that it’s located on the Atlantic and surrounded by some rich neighbors, Brunswick is much like any other county seat in South Georgia. One of the common fixtures in these towns is the coroner.
Coroners in Georgia, those who are charged under state law with pronouncing death, are elected officials. Coroners gather those who died of suspicious circumstances and give opinions on cause of mortality. They usually work part time and are not required to have any formal medical training. The Office of Coroner is but one of many endearing legal quirks left over from Georgia’s antebellum era, when there were few professionally trained doctors. And, for some reason not so readily apparent, those elected to the Office of Coroner often have colorful nicknames like “Boo,” “Shug,” and “Peabo.” As I pulled up to the place of business of “Wimp” Boyd, Glynn County Coroner, an ambulance was idling in front of the loading dock, its crew keeping cool in the air-conditioned cab, awaiting yet another call.
I found Wimp cleaning up from bringing in another unfortunate. He had the professional appearance of a part-time shade-tree mechanic whose full-time job was drinking beer. And he wasn’t unsure of his conclusion about the judge’s cause of death in the slightest.
“Clear case of dumb-ass. Blew the top of his damn fool head right off. Hell, those people at the Abbey already had movers, cleaners, and painters outside the door ‘fore I could even get the body out good. They gonna have a time, though. There was hair and brains all over that wall, what was left of it.” He finished wiping his hands on a bloody rag and tossed it in a stainless steel sink. “What else you wanna know?”
“The judge and I went skeet shooting yesterday afternoon. We were supposed to go shooting again today. I can’t imagine that he would have waited until this morning to clean his gun.”
“That’s what it looked li
ke he was doin’ to me. Sittin’ on a sofa with the gun on the floor ‘tween his legs. Shoulda knowd there was two shells in the chamber. Sure wasn’t suicide though. Seen a lot a that. Somebody wants to kill hisself puts the gun in his mouth. Ain’t never seen anyone point a shotgun at his own head and pull the trigger—mighty hard to do, after all. Was an accident all right.”
“Will you make an official report?”
“Yup. Public Record. You can get a copy of it if you want.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“Sorry it didn’t work out with you and the judge, but the way it looks to me, you’d been taking your life in your hands goin’ shootin’ with him.”
None of this made sense, but I had nowhere to go with my suspicions. As I walked back on the loading dock, one of the drivers was sitting on his heels outside the ambulance having a smoke. As I passed him, he rose, crushed the butt under foot, and spoke.
“Sorry ‘bout the judge. You a friend a his?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I sure hope they find who did it.”
“Did what?”
“Shot him. Wimp didn’t tell you? Found him in his pajamas laying in his bed with his head blown off. Sure as hell was no accident. Whoever did it must want to get caught. Shotgun was right beside him, wasn’t even wiped clean. Wimp got it in his truck.”
A jolt of realization pulsed through me as I recalled the judge taking his shotgun from my hands and gently placing it in the gun case, waiving off the attendant who offered to clean the gun. It was likely there were only two sets of prints on that shotgun: his and mine.
By the time I got back to Fowler Cottage, Fowler had returned. He didn’t answer the door. I let myself in. I walked down the hallway and glanced into the darkened study. There he sat, staring at the door, poised for a challenge, no longer the affable law partner, his eyes shining with malevolence in the darkness. His look stopped me short before I entered the room.
“Wimp told me you were on your way. What I paid him to assure the judge’s cause of death is officially an accident was apparently insufficient to secure the silence of his assistants. I chastised him for the indiscretion of his ambulance driver. I’m sure he will be dealt with severely. My only surprise is that you made it back so quickly. That new Porsche is rather fast. You are predictable Mr. McDaniel, you and your poor-boy earnestness.”
Fowler stood, and I took a couple steps into the cramped room toward him, remaining just out of his reach.
“What the hell is going on? You think I—”
“Oh, you know very well what’s going on. You and that Milano girl. You both got it figured out last night, didn’t you? Anthony and I were able to manipulate the results of the Milano trial and get the shares of the corporation in his hands with hardly a wrinkle in our plan. And I had every reason to believe you would take your undeserved share in the partnership and keep your mouth shut even if you figured out what happened. But I did not count on Melissa’s considerable charms and her ability to convince you to throw it all away for an illusory chance to be with her. I am always amazed how beautiful women can make brilliant men act stupid, and you’re just another in a long line.”
His taunting had the desired effect: I clinched my fists, ready to pummel him. Fowler looked down at my hands, then locked on my eyes; he didn’t flinch.
“Melissa didn’t—”
“Melissa is a liar. But now I’m afraid you’ll never have the chance to find out just how thoroughly she deceived you. All she really wants is the shares of the corporation to be returned to her father so that they can be hers when he dies, preferably sooner rather than later. And she figures you are the only one reckless enough to take on Anthony Milano and risk all on her behalf. You probably should’ve studied Don Quixote a bit more closely; in the end things don’t go well for the chivalrous knight.”
“How . . . how did you find out what . . .”
“Don’t act so surprised. You don’t really think you could spend any time in this house where the President of the United States once stayed and make a move, say a word, or even think a thought without my knowing about it, do you? This cottage is wired as tight as the White House. As soon as you went out last night, James alerted me from the guard house that you had walked out the kitchen door and were sitting on the loggia. He sent a live video feed to my cell phone. He even told me you were drinking San Pellegrino. When you went to the sand and out of range of the surveillance cameras to meet Melissa, the microphones lining the beach picked up every word of your conversation. James sent the audio to me as well. Hell, I thought you were going to get lucky. Both you and that girl would have been better off doing that instead of talking all night, which is what I was forced to listen to until dawn.”
Fowler’s intimate knowledge of my evening with Melissa turned my pugnacity into loathing; I could barely spit out my disgust.
“So you had Judge Richards killed as soon as his utility for you and Anthony passed?” I shook my head. “You didn’t even let the poor bastard spend the night in his beach house.”
“You shouldn’t feel sorry for Judge Richards. He died as the result of acute hubris. One would have thought ten million dollars from the coffers of Strange & Fowler would’ve been sufficient to keep him happy for the rest of his life, and it would have, had he just been discrete. But he had to show it off, buy a beach house and a hundred-thousand-dollar shotgun. Hell, even you suspected something was amiss. Does everyone who grows up poor have to prove they made it by buying outlandish trinkets and bringing unwanted attention to themselves? Like that Porsche of yours. And who, in their right mind, buys a hundred-thousand-dollar shotgun, even if they have the money? So I’m afraid that Judge Richards had to learn just how dangerous such a weapon is. There are some very dedicated people in Strange & Fowler’s security arm, and they’ve been able to accomplish their task without bringing attention to me or to the firm; that is, until your snooping resulted in a chance encounter with the coroner’s ambulance driver.”
“So everything’s come unraveled because someone had to smoke a cigarette.”
“The reason is of no consequence. Now Anthony and I risk having our entire plan exposed by you and Melissa, something I don’t intend to endure. I can only guess how Milano is going to deal with Melissa, but I sure as hell know what I’m going to do with you.”
Fowler closed the gap between us in two steps, pulled a dark pistol from inside his jacket, and pointed it at my heart. I looked around the room for the security camera and saw a small grey lens near the ceiling over Fowler’s shoulder.
“Oh, don’t worry. I disabled the cameras and the microphones in the study. And the camera in the kitchen as well. Just before I shot Oliver to make sure there were no other witnesses. But the sound monitors worked perfectly, as I expected. Security called immediately. I told them I eliminated a raccoon that had gotten into the kitchen through an open window. When they call back I’ll tell them you were holding a gun to my head when they first called, and the next shot dispatched you.”
I made a move to the door.
Fowler grabbed my arm and shoved the gun in my chest.
“You’re going nowhere.”
“You can’t get away with killing me.”
“Of course I can. I’ll tell the cops you became enraged when I confronted you about being out of the cottage at the Abbey this morning—about the time the judge was shot, a fact the doorman will conveniently confirm. And your prints on the shotgun will establish your guilt. I’m sure Wimp will revise the cause of death from accident to murder just as soon as I point out his error. You determined that your desperate attempt to prevent the judge from betraying your bribery scheme had come undone, and after you killed the judge, you tried to kill me to seal the final leak. Oliver nobly gave his life to protect me.”
Fowler smirked.
“You’re just another brilliant young lawyer
gone bad.”
I wasn’t going to die this way. I grabbed the gun, still hot from the shot that killed Oliver, and bent it hard away from myself. Though a former athlete, Fowler was no match in strength to someone forty years younger. The gun kept turning, turning away from me toward Fowler, my hand around his, my finger groping for the trigger. In an instant the gun was only inches from Fowler’s chest.
“You are so damn predictable.” The gun went off. The shock momentarily stunned me. Fowler’s hand went limp. I had no idea whether it was my finger or his that found the trigger, or even if the gun had gone off as we both struggled for it. He fell toward me, then crumpled to the floor. I still held the gun in my hand. When I realized it, I dropped the pistol to the floor beside the body. Blood and powder residue were on my hands, and a fine red spray covered the rest of me. I ran from the room, looking for Oliver, sprinting to the kitchen, turning the corner to the pantry, finding him lying in a puddle of his own blood. There was a dark hole in his forehead.
The phone rang. Security. If Fowler didn’t answer they would be here in seconds. Surely he wasn’t dead. I ran back into the study. I touched his neck to find a pulse. There was none. But my own heart was about to pound out of my chest. And the phone kept ringing.
I picked up the gun. I realized my prints were now on two weapons involved in three deaths on the island within the span of a few hours. I would soon be the prime suspect in three murders. I could hear sirens in the distance. Standing there with the gun in my hand, I knew there was one sure way out: I could turn the gun on myself. Was that what Fowler had done? Was that what he meant just hours ago when he told me in this very room that he’d do anything for the firm? Was this to be the ultimate test of my loyalty? Had Fowler staged his own death to look like a murder to avoid the inquiry that his suicide would bring—that would destroy the firm? Or had he used me as the agent of his death so that he wouldn’t have to endure the fall that loomed before him? Is that what he’d meant by telling me I was so damn predictable?
