Mermaid

by Tom Lowe

  “Apparently. They’d had sex. Most likely forced. No semen or DNA that the lab could find.”

  Wynona looked toward the lighthouse, taking a deep breath. “With a psychopathic killer, they can be charming, glib, and very persuasive when they want to be. Psychopathic killers are often chameleons. They can be an imposter, an actor … perhaps someone with an absolute fanatical obsession with the fantasy of Atlantis and all of its myths. Mermaids being his ultimate fixation and sexual fantasy. Unfortunately, as you pointed out, you have a lot of actors and other people on that movie set. To help narrow down your pool, you may want to alter your questioning to draw out a psychopath.”

  Grant said nothing. He touched the tip of his nose with one finger, looked at Wynona and then at me. “Maybe one of them is acting out his most diabolical fantasy. This is going to be a challenge to pull their masks off and find the killer in a place where make-believe fantasy is how they make a living. What type of questioning would you suggest?”

  “Questions that draw out a strong egocentricity, a focus on expertise that leans toward fantasy, lack of empathy, placing unrealistic conditions on others or making them feel uncomfortable, the ability to stimulate emotions in others or for themselves … your gut will tell you if it’s genuine. Questions along that line rather than your typical, initial questions, which you can get into later.”

  I slowed Dragonfly as a 50-Bertram crossed our path. I said, “Wynona has a valid point, but immediately, you won’t need to pull back any masks.”

  “What do you mean?” Grant asked.

  “You can start by looking for the hand with a missing finger. Also, look for someone who is working close with actors who have speaking roles. If the third victim had a speaking role, she joins the ranks of the other two. Someone, whether it’s a fellow actor on the set or someone who’s directing young actors with marginal speaking roles, is purposely selecting these women.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Savannah Nelson was never nervous in the water. Even as a little girl, she was never afraid of jumping into the deep end. But today she was anxious about her performance in the water with movie cameras capturing her every move. She thought about that as she pulled her Subaru up to a secure entrance area to the closed set, stopping at a stop sign. The production company had leased a portion of the Daytona Marina where they would shoot some scenes on and near boats.

  Two uniformed security guards came out from a post similar to what Savannah had seen when visiting her friend at MacDill Air Force Base near Tampa. One security guard, clipboard in his hand, held a hand up as Savannah’s car rolled to a stop. She lowered her window. He nodded and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, my name is Savannah Nelson. I was told to report to the film set by eight o’clock this morning.”

  The round-faced guard, sweat already glistening above his top lip, looked at his clipboard, slowly turning the sheets of paper. “You said Nelson, right?”

  “Yes sir. I’m supposed to be in some of the mermaid scenes.”

  “You and a hundred others.” The guard squinted from the reflection of the morning light off the papers. “Here it is … Savannah Nelson. Pull into the lot to your right. You’ll go by three large motorhomes, or trailers. The trailer with a red and white awning on it is where you need to be.” He handed her a piece of yellow paper. “Put that up on your dashboard, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Savannah put her car in gear and slowly drove around an open metal gateway, into the lot. She glanced at the production assistants unloading filmmaking equipment from two parked semi-trucks. She drove past dozens of people, from technicians to extras, as she made her way to the trailer with the red and white awning.

  Savannah parked and got out of her car. As she headed to the trailer, someone called out to her. “Hey, you made the cut.”

  Savannah turned around. “Excuse me?” she said.

  The boy she thought was cute at the casting call stood there with a wide smile on his face. He said, “Your high dive was awesome, and your swim that day had some of the best moves I’ve ever seen. So cool. I see it got you the part. Looks like we’re gonna be in the movie together. I’m Eric Young. I’m betting your name will be in a lot of movie credits in the future.”

  Savannah smiled. “Right now, it’s just on my driver’s license. I’m Savannah Nelson. What role did you get?”

  He grinned. “I remember your name. I’m not sure my character has a name, at least not a real name. I’m cast as merman number seven.”

  “Well, maybe seven will be your lucky number, and they’ll give you a speaking part.”

  “Do you have a speaking part?”

  “Yes. It’s just a couple of lines.”

  “That’s easy to memorize. What is it?”

  Savannah glanced around the property, technicians moving equipment. Production assistants with walkie-talkies in their hands, moving to a fast step. “Due to rewrites, my dialogue might be changing. The latest is this … Mother, I never want to leave Atlantis. It is the only home I have ever known. Where’s father?” She stood a little straighter. “What do you think?”

  “Love it! Are they shooting your scenes today?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I was told to be here and be ready. They called it being on stand-by. One of the production assistants told me they shoot everything out of order and put it in order during the editing. So, if an actor is sick or something, and they have to shoot around his or her scenes, they can do it. The weather can delay stuff, too. It’s like a lot of what ifs that go into making movies, you know? Lots of Plan Bs, I guess.”

  Eric smiled. “That’s for sure. I think we should be going to the production trailer to find out exactly where we go from there. Which one is the production trailer?”

  “The one with the red and white awning and a lot of other extras going in the front door.”

  “Makes sense. I heard that Keanu Reeves might be starring in Atlantis. Maybe we’ll meet some A-list actors like him.”

  “Maybe. But, if we don’t report in on time, it’ll be like we’re fired before we ever get the chance.” They headed across the lot toward the trailer.

  • • •

  Three hours later, Savannah Nelson, Eric Young and more than seventy actors—most of them cast as extras, were loaded into one of two large yachts that the production company had rented along with the movie’s executive and administrative teams. The gleaming white yachts were some of the largest Savannah had ever seen, and by far the largest one she had ever boarded. The second yacht was set up purely as a production vessel, loaded from bow to stern with expensive equipment, many members of the movie’s below-the-line crew, and the stunt doubles for the main actors who had access to specifically designed work-out and practice areas.

  On the way to the location, a half-dozen smaller boats, most filled with crew and additional equipment, followed the larger boats out to sea. A film-production helicopter kept abreast with the flotilla, the camera operator ready to shoot some of the aerial scenes.

  As they made their way to the blue waters of the Atlantic, two assistant directors spoke with the extras, waiting for the director to enter the enormous salon. First assistant director, Mark Myers, said, “Okay everyone, listen up. We hope to get a couple of our open water scenes shot today. Out here on the ocean, we’re at the mercy of the elements. It really adds to the authenticity of the story, but we’re at mother nature’s good graces on the open ocean. In a few minutes, you all will be going back to hair and makeup to prep for the scenes. Now, with a show of hands … who has speaking roles scheduled for today?”

  Savannah and three other extras, two women and one man, raised their hands. Myers nodded. “Excellent. In a minute, you guys will follow Susan Graham, the lovely woman in the white shirt and ponytail, to the long table over there. They rest of you stay right where you are for the time being. We’ll explain the scenes we’re shooting, the logistics, and when you will most likely be needed. We have six smaller boats for water
transport. Some of the scenes will be shot off the coast of the Canaveral National Seashore. Others shot in open blue water.”

  Savannah smiled, her heart beating faster. She and Eric stood in the front row of the semi-circle of extras. She turned her head as a door to the salon opened and four people immediately entered. She recognized all of them, and she could tell at least one of them recognized her.

  FIFTY-NINE

  The first person to enter the yacht’s salon was executive producer, Marcia Steinberg, a tall, statuesque woman with silver and black hair. She flashed a wide, welcoming smile to the actors. She was followed by the casting director, Sebastian Gunter, art director Jonathan Lloyd, and story consultant, Howard Ward. The last film executive to enter was the director of Atlantis, Miles Venuti, followed by two assistants, women in their mid-twenties, both carrying file folders and iPads. Venuti nodded, managing a smile, walking close to the front row of extras stopping near Savannah. She made a dry swallow.

  “Congratulations, everyone,” Venuti said, grim-faced, hair uncombed, dark circles beneath his eyes. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, matching jeans and boat shoes. No socks. He wore a black baseball hat on his head, the logo of the New York Yankees on the cap. He cleared his throat. “You’re about to be in the first scenes that we’re shooting for the movie, Atlantis. I was just out on deck, looking at the ocean. As a sailor, I believe there’s nothing on Earth more photogenic than the sea. And there’s nothing more foreboding and powerful when the gales begin to blow. Hopefully, we won’t have any of the latter.” He paused, looking into the eyes of the extras like an unshaven circuit preacher might gaze, unblinking, into the faces of his newest congregation.

  “The studio wanted me to film a lot of Atlantis in large Hollywood soundstages with water tanks and massive greenscreens. I fought to have most of the film shot on the open ocean, because the realism we’ll find here can’t be replicated in a soundstage. It just can’t.” He looked directly into Savannah’s eyes for a moment. “You all are very special to the look and feel of this movie. You are not extras … you are actors. Please keep that in mind. You were chosen for your skills, your physical attributes, and, frankly, for how well you will perform in the water. Those who swim like dolphins have the best chance of not being cut in editing.” He turned toward his art director, Jonathan Lloyd. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jonathan?”

  “Absolutely.” He stood next to executive producer, Marcia Steinberg. Sebastian Gunter and Howard Ward were to her right. Lloyd walked up to Venuti, nodded and then looked at the extras “That’s one of the reasons we wanted to film at sea, for the realism you can only achieve by being on the ocean … the home of the original Atlantis. And, in our story, the home to the original mermaids and mermen. To help us maintain authenticity, at least in terms of marine behavior and aesthetics, will be Doctor Howard Ward. Some of you worked with him earlier. Where the esteemed oceanographer Jacque Cousteau left off, Doctor Ward picked up and continues with ocean and marine mammal research.” Lloyd smiled. “I see a lot of blank faces, which tells me some or most of you don’t know who Jacque Cousteau was, right?”

  A teenage boy raised his hand and said, “I watched a show on Discovery Channel with my dad. They had a dude named Philippe Cousteau on there. I’d guess they’re probably related.”

  “They are,” said Lloyd. He looked at Savannah and asked, “How about you … have you ever heard of Jacque Cousteau?”

  “Yes.” Savannah cleared her throat. “He was a filmmaker … mostly documentaries. He was a scientist, author, researcher, and a conservationist. Jacque Cousteau was one of the people who developed the Aqua-Lung, which helped to bring SCUBA diving to the world. My mother was a big fan of him and his work. She had all of his documentaries on DVD. We’d watch them together.”

  Lloyd folded his arms across his chest, exchanged glances with Venuti and said, “Impressive. What’s your name again?”

  “Savannah Nelson.” She smiled.

  Lloyd eyed Savannah, his brow wrinkling. He looked at Venuti. “Savannah is the girl who made an impressive high dive and then dove from the lower platform and swam like a fish underwater.” He turned back to Savannah, choosing his words, a smile working on one corner of his downturned mouth. “You have the long auburn hair of a mermaid. If we were to lift the hair from your shoulders, would we see the gills of a fish? Young lady, you are a remarkable swimmer. We can’t wait to see how you’ll perform out there today.”

  Savannah wasn’t sure what to say, so she smiled and kept silent. She looked over to producer Marcia Steinberg who returned an encouraging smile and said, “She’ll do great as will everyone here.” Steinberg and the others walked closer. Sebastian Gunter seemed restless, checking his watch. The man standing next to him, Doctor Ward, appeared to be bored.

  “Okay, everyone,” Director Venuti said, turning to one of his assistants. “Let’s prep and rehearse for the first scene. The captain tells me that we’ll be at our destination in less than an hour.” They walked away, leaving the extras in the hands of second unit directors and production assistants. Savannah watched them leave, Jonathan Lloyd pausing at the door, turning around for a moment. He observed Mark Myers speaking with the extras, and then Lloyd’s eyes drifted over to Savannah. His stare reminded her of a fish—a specific fish. When Savannah’s dad would catch one and pull it onto his boat, he’d toss it back into the ocean every time. It was the barracuda. Eyes the size of quarters, distant and unblinking. Something about them very primal.

  SIXTY

  Nick Cronus was there to help tie down Dragonfly. “Throw me a line!” he shouted over the rumble of the diesel as I cut the engine. Wynona tossed a bow line to Nick. He quickly had it secured to a dock cleat like a rodeo cowboy tying a calf’s legs together. He grinned, moving to the stern to do the same thing. I threw a line to Nick, Max barking, gulls protesting above the mast.

  Detective Dan Grant nodded. “I appreciate the boat ride and the suggestions.”

  I said, “I wish, between Wynona and myself, we had more to offer. But it looks like you and Ron Hamilton, with your combined, joint-agency task forces, are doing all you can do with the physical evidence and leads you currently have.”

  “In the meantime, a third girl in a mermaid costume is dead on the other side of the state. Looks like we’ll now be joined by the Pinellas County S.O.’s office. A third family is being torn apart. And, now, even more news media from all over the planet will be clamoring for the salacious details … another girl becomes a victim in the sensational mermaid murders.”

  I said nothing, watching Nick secure a third line. I put three rubber bumpers in place, the movement of the current and rising tide slapping the large wooden pilings. We all got off Dragonfly. I introduced Nick to Dan Grant. Nick grinned and said, “I remember you from the time you were here when Sean’s niece was accused of killing a guy who worked in a traveling carnival. Are you on the case or involved with the cases of the killings of those girls dressed as mermaids?”

  “Yes,” Grant said.

  Nick stared at nothing in the distance, his dark eyes unreadable. “I was over on Dave’s boat and just saw the news on CNN. Another girl in a mermaid tail was found dead.”

  Grant nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  “Man, I hope you guys can take this guy down before he does it again. Are you gittin’ close?”

  Grant didn’t respond. Wynona said, “Dragonfly is almost ready to sail, Nick. We’re hoping your Caribbean weather forecast holds up for us.”

  Nick grinned, his moustache lifting, eyebrows rising. “You got my word. Just don’t wait too long into the hurricane season. Mother Nature gets a little crazy later in the season, and just when folks think she gave ever’body a pass, along comes the big blow.”

  Grant said, “I need to get back to the office. Good meeting you, Wynona. Thanks for giving me a better insight into a psychopathic serial killer. I’m convinced that’s what we have in these murders, too.”

  “You can always
tap the FBI for help if you feel the Bureau could be of value.”

  Grant lifted his phone from a pocket inside his sports coat. “We’ll see. I’ll speak with Detective Hamilton in Miami and get his take. Now, with this third murder, we already have another county’s police agency joining our mix.” He let out a deep breath. “Speaking of Hamilton, I see he’s one of three people who left me a voice-message during our boat trip across the marina.”

  Dave Collins walked down L dock, a large cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand, some mail in the other. He eyed Dragonfly. “She looks great. All spit-shined and ready to sail.”

  “Almost,” Wynona said. “We’re getting there.”

  Dave looked at Grant and said, “Detective, it’s good to see you again. Before today, best of my aging recollection, you were here two years ago … the carnival killings as I recall. If I may ask, what brings you to our marina community today?”

  “Thought I’d chat with Sean. He used to work with a Miami-PD detective I’m now working with in a joint investigation involving the girls murdered in the mermaid costumes. On our short boat ride across the marina, I also had the opportunity to talk with Wynona. With her background as a former FBI agent, I gained some additional insight out here today.”

  “I saw the news as they were covering the horrendous story of the third young woman found dead on the remote beach of a barrier island on the west side of the state. They had video shots from drones and helicopters. This killer is playing a chess game, leaping over geographic barriers to throw off your police posse. I wonder if the killer lives near any of the three areas where the bodies were found grotesquely posed, or did he carefully choose those different locations … maybe thinking that, by getting too many detective agencies involved, the right hand wouldn’t know what the left hand was doing. Or, perhaps, feeling untouchable, he thinks he can sit back and watch the agencies compete like some spectator sport.”