The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  He made a living building chickees—sturdy structures with thatched roofs made with palm fronds and cypress poles he harvested from the Ocala National Forest and other areas across South Florida. Palm trees constantly shed and drop old fronds as new ones grow. Joe would only cull a few branches from each tree, careful not to harm the trees.

  I pulled off Highland Park Road, following a gravel driveway that snaked around century-old live oaks, through a fish camp filled with cabins for rent, all with screened-in porches. Joe Billie lived alone down by the river in a vintage Airstream trailer. Max’s radar kicked in gear. The Jeep’s windows were down. She stood on her short hind legs, head out of the window, inhaling the smells of the fish camp—wood smoke from a smoldering campfire, pine trees and damp moss.

  I parked in front of his trailer, the silver roof stained dark amber from years of pine sap. A straight-back, wooden chair, its blue paint cracked and fading, was to the right of this front door. He had a small garden to the left of the trailer, a dozen stalks of corn, tomato plants—heavy with tomatoes, tied to wooden stakes. I counted seven watermelons, most twice the size of Max.

  But there was no sign of his truck.

  I got out and knocked on his front door, Max following me, sniffing the hard-packed dirt path leading to the door. I couldn’t detect movement in the trailer, but when it came to Joe Billie, that meant nothing. He could walk through the woods and not make a sound. I wrote a note, asking him to call me, folded the paper and wedged it in the doorframe right above the handle.

  Wind chimes, hanging from a low-slung limb on a live oak, played a lonely refrain under the influence of a breeze across the river. “He’s not here, Max.” She looked up at me as if she knew he wasn’t home. “Let’s head to the marina. Maybe later, Joe will help us hunt for a lost drone in a million acres of Everglades. If anybody can find it, it’d be him.”

  • • •

  Detective Cory Gilson got a surprise phone call. It came from a friend of his at the state crime lab. Gilson had asked him to please put a rush on the possible DNA samples from the cigar, hunter’s makeup stick and food wrapper. Gilson was at his desk in the criminal investigation division of the sheriff’s office. It was a sprawling, multi-story complex that housed the jail and many of the county’s emergency services departments.

  He glanced at a photograph of his wife and two grown sons as he picked up his phone, taking the call. “That’s was quick,” he said. “Whatcha got, Lou?”

  Lou Fisher, late fifties, thick hair like gray steel wool, wore a white lab coat, and stood next to an electron microscope. A half-dozen forensic technicians worked in the background. He said, “This one was easy. It makes it a hell of a lot easier when the unknown subject becomes a known subject because he’s in two data bases … CODIS and IFIS.

  “Tell me more.” Gilson sat more erect in his rolling chair, grabbing a pen and paper.

  “There was a very clean thumbprint off the food wrapper. Easy to lift and easy to ID. Guy’s name is Craig Moffett. He served a dime stretch at Raiford, in for armed robbery. Long rap sheet. One was the time he used his fists to rearrange the face of his former girlfriend, almost killing her. His prints are in IFIS and FDLE databases. The requirement to have all convicted felons submit to DNA samples is paying off when it comes to CODIS. The saliva soaked in that stogie was filled with Moffett’s DNA, and we picked up DNA off the makeup stick.”

  “Do you have a current address for this guy?”

  “Thought you might ask that. Cory, I’m always ready to make your job easier.” Fisher laughed and said, “He’s in your county. Lives at 1219 Honeysuckle Road. Now, it’s my turn. You think Moffett put a round through Joe Thaxton?”

  “Probably. The question is this … was it an accident, or did somebody pay him to kill Thaxton? Maybe today we’ll know. Also, what’s a convicted felon doing with a rifle?”

  “Good luck. Keep us in the loop. The crime lab lives vicariously through the criminal investigations you guys do.”

  SIXTY

  As Max and I drove to Ponce Marina, I thought about my last conversation with Wynona: I’d like for you to hear what he has to say—what he saw, and then maybe we can take a ride into the Everglades. I followed Max down L dock under a sapphire blue sky, the hot sunlight bouncing off the exteriors of boats—most painted white. A tern and sea gull tussled over a sliver of fish on the dock beneath one of the fish-cleaning stations.

  We approached St. Michael, Nick wearing faded swim trunks and using a hose to wash down the boat’s transom. Max watched him for a second. He grinned and sprayed a short burst of water toward her. She barked and chased the stream of water, drops clinging from her furry chin. Nick laughed. “Hot Dawg loves the water almost as much as me. I need to teach her how to dive. We hunt for starfish. They make the best chew bones for dogs.”

  I smiled and said, “You keep thinking Max is a Labrador retriever. She’s too small to take out diving. She’d be an appetizer for a lot of fish in the ocean”

  Nick shook his head, eyebrows arching. “I will protect her. I got Max’s back. She knows it. We just don’t see her enough here at the marina.”

  “You’re in luck. I need to head south for a little while. Maybe you could keep an eye on her. You know where her food is on Jupiter. Do you have time?”

  “I always have time for my lady, Maxie. I’m not fishing for the next couple of days. I’ll buy Hot Dawg a hot dog at the Tiki Bar.”

  Dave walked to the bow of Gibraltar. “Thought I heard Max barking. I’m watching the news, and before the commercials, the anchorman said they have more on the story of Joe Thaxton and a special interview with someone who could be an eyewitness. You might want to see this.”

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll join you.”

  Nick shut off his hose and followed us to Gibraltar. We stood in the wide salon, and Dave use the remote control to turn up the sound after a used car commercial ended. The anchorman said, “Police investigators are still searching for more evidence in the shooting death of state senate contender, Joe Thaxton. They spoke to a man who first located Thaxton’s truck far into the Everglades. Channel Two’s Linda Brown has more.”

  The image cut to an aerial shot of the Everglades, miles of sawgrass interspersed with island-like green hammocks of cypress trees, palms and swathes of palmettos. A female reporter’s voice-over narrative began. “The Everglades is more than one and a half million acres. In most places, you’d have to use an airboat or what locals call a swamp buggy to enter. Chester Miller knows the area well.”

  The image cut to Chester loading orchids into his truck. The reporter continued. “Miller, a world-renowned botanist and an expert on rare orchids, has made it his life’s mission to replant near extinct orchids back into the Everglades. That’s what he was doing when he was the first person to find the truck owned by Joe Thaxton. Thaxton’s body was found several miles away, just across the border of the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation. Detectives say he’d been shot once in the back.”

  The images cut to a Big Cypress Reservation sign and then back to sheriff’s deputies searching the wetlands. The reporter said, “Miller told detectives he’d seen a man driving an SUV through a muddy trail in the Everglades, not far from where Miller first saw Thaxton’s lost truck.”

  The image cut to an interview with Chester. “I’d say he was in his early forties. Dark complexion. No beard. Shaved head. He had what you might call a prominent nose—a Roman nose, if you will. And he seemed in a real hurry to leave.”

  “If you saw him again, could you recognize him?”

  “I believe I could.”

  Dave glanced over at me. The news story continued with the reporter saying, “Investigators are looking for the man, but they don’t have a lot to go on at this time.” The video cut to Detective Cory Gilson. He said, “We have a general description of the man and the car he was driving, but no license plate number. We believe he was driving a black BMW SUV. No doubt all-wheel-drive.”

>   In a live shot, the reporter, hair to her shoulders, stood next to an Everglades National Park sign. “Detective Gilson said, although Thaxton was shot on the first day of hunting season, they’re not calling the shooting accidental or a homicide. He said forensics tests on items found in the area of the shooting, include a partially smoked cigar, are ongoing and he’s waiting for the results. In the meantime, since Thaxton’s body was found on the Seminole reservation, the tribe’s police department has final jurisdiction. I spoke with lead detective, Wynona Osceola, who said it’s way too early to label the death an accident.”

  The video cut to Wynona standing in front of the Seminole Police Department building. Palm trees swaying in the breeze behind her. “We know that Joe Thaxton was shot at least a half-mile south of Seminole land. He chose to run or walk away from the direction of the bullet. I want to know why? Could he have seen the shooter and was the shooter wearing the bright orange vests a lot of deer hunters wear to prevent this kind of thing from happening … or was it something else?”

  The image cut back to the live shot of the reporter. She said, “Joe Thaxton was out here collecting water samples. The restoration of the Everglades was one of the central themes of his campaign. Funeral services are planned for next Monday. Now back to you in the studio.”

  In a split-screen image, the anchorman nodded. “Linda, as we understand it, detectives have a fair amount of forensics evidence that may be connected to this, correct?”

  “Yes, Steve … the state crime lab is processing things, such as a spent cigar and a food wrapper, found about a hundred yards or so from where Thaxton was shot.”

  The anchorman said, “Linda Brown, reporting live from the Everglades. In other news …”

  Dave muted the sound. “If I were part of Joe Thaxton’s family, I’d be most appreciative that Wynona Osceola is part of the investigation. Not only is she tenacious, she’s very intuitive. She follows the evidence and her gut at the same time.”

  Nick nodded. “I’m glad we got to know Wynona. I just wish she had a sister. I know she’s Seminole and Irish … but I gotta think she has Greek blood in her somewhere. I can tell these things.”

  “I’ll ask her,” I said. “I’m going back down to the glades. She wanted me to be there when she interviews Chester Miller and to go out in the glades where he found Thaxton’s truck. Maybe she thinks Chester will be more candid with both of us present since we bought orchids together from him.”

  Dave sat on his couch, Max jumping up next to him. “From the interview with Chester, I’d surmise he calls it the way he sees it. My BS meter didn’t budge watching him in the interview. I shared with you an article I read about the emotional connection many people have to orchids, one grower saying it’s as if the orchid flower has eyes that draw us to it. Chester Miller, maybe because of his age, his command of language, his knowledge of the glades … he draws people to his eyes, too. They don’t seem deceptive and certainly portray the message he’s beyond reproach. But, of course, in a criminal investigation that can be a double-edge sword with a witness.”

  I said, “Agreed. As eager as Chester is to help detectives, I’m concerned about the interview he did.”

  “If the killing is a homicide,” Dave said, standing, “and if the perp was watching or any of his associates were watching the news story, Chester’s ability to make a positive ID might make them nervous.”

  I said nothing, watching a 52-foot Viking sports-fishing yacht, the hull pale blue, rumble past Gibraltar. The captain, shirtless, in swim trunks, puffed on a long cigar. The reporter’s voice resounded through my thoughts: Forensics tests on items found in the area of the shooting, include a partially smoked cigar, are ongoing and he’s waiting for the results.

  Dave said, “When you see Chester Miller, you might want to caution him to be less forthcoming with reporters. If Thaxton’s death is not an accident, an elderly botanist could be a key witness for the prosecution.”

  • • •

  Wynona sat behind her desk in the investigation division of the Seminole Police Department when Detective Cory Gilson called her. She answered, and he told her about the DNA and fingerprint matches to Craig Moffett. “Seems to be a consistent criminal … in and out of prison. Heavy drug use. He’s out now. We’re told he works as a part-time house painter. After the lab matched his print, it was easy for them to get a DNA hit because his DNA is in state and federal databases.”

  “Where is Moffett right now?” Wynona asked.

  “Don’t know for sure. He could be on a job or at his place. We found an address. He lives in Collier County off a rural dirt road in a trailer. After we pick him up, you want to be around for the questioning?”

  “Yes. Thanks. In the meantime, I’d like to meet with one of your deputies or a forensics tech who worked the scene in the glades.”

  “You won’t find anything more than we did.”

  “Maybe. Just the same, I need to see the area.”

  “Okay. I’ll text you a contact and number. You can set it up. I think you’ll be wasting your time, but it’s your call.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  Craig Moffett was about to have a bad day. He set his can of Budweiser down on the ground at the rear of his double-wide trailer almost hidden behind the tall, skinny pines at the end of a long, rural dirt road. Moffett hoisted a fresh kill, a buck deer into the air using a rope and pully he’d attached to an oak tree limb.

  He wore ripped jeans, military boats. No shirt. Chest and arms filled with hair and tattoos. He was under six feet, late forties, thick neck, and bull shoulders that rolled with muscle as he used a serrated knife to slice through the deer’s hide. His round face was filled with speckled black and white whiskers, heavy dark eyes that could have been carved from coal.

  After a few minutes of skinning, sweat ran down his chest. He stopped for a moment, lifting the can of beer to his small mouth. He drank, right hand stained cherry red with blood. Moffett continued skinning the deer carcass, pausing for a second when he heard something in the surrounding woods. Probably just a squirrel, he thought.

  Detective Cory Gilson and twelve deputies, five of them SWAT team members, circled the trailer. They’d parked a hundred yards away, emergency lights off, radio communications through earpieces each officer wore. They could see Moffett’s rusty Toyota pickup truck under a towering gumbo limbo tree near his dirt driveway.

  Gilson and three men approached the trailer’s front door. Although they had a search warrant, they knocked. No reason at this moment to kick down a door. There was no response. No dog. No sounds. Nothing but a wasp buzzing by as it flew to a charcoal gray nest under an outdoor floodlight twenty feet to the left of the door.

  Gilson started to say something when one of the SWAT member’s voice came though the earpiece. “We got eyes on him. He’s out back, behind the trailer, skinning a deer.”

  Gilson spoke into a small microphone on his sleeve. “Keep in position we’re coming around there. Is the subject armed?”

  “Other than a damn big butcher knife, we can’t see another weapon. He’s not wearing a shirt. Could be a pistol in his pocket, though.”

  Gilson and the three deputies walked around the trailer. Moffett’s back was turned toward them as they approached. When they got within thirty feet of him, Gilson said, “Craig Moffett, we’d like to have a word with you.”

  Moffett turned around slowly, pokerfaced, his dark eyes obscure, the knife in his bloody right hand. When he saw the officers and the detective, he dropped the knife next to his right boot—the tip of the blade sticking in the ground. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Nobody said you did,” Gilson responded. He came closer, flanked by his men. The other deputies closed the circle from the woods. Each man had his hand on the grip of his pistol. Two deputies carried sawed-off 12-guage shotguns.

  Moffett looked around the perimeter. He shook his head. “What the hell’s this all about? Why y’all here. I’m clean, man.”

 
Gilson said, “We’re not looking for drugs.” He pulled out a search warrant and handed it to him. “We’re with the sheriff’s department. We are looking for other things. Is your back door unlocked?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Gilson motioned to the three men next to him. “Lyle, Ron, Jason … why don’t you fellas give the place a look. See what you can find.”

  Moffett held up both hands, palms out. “I ain’t done nothin’ illegal. I learned my lesson.”

  Gilson nodded. “I guess ten years in Raiford is a learning experience.”

  “How’d you know I did time.”

  “That’s our job to know.” He looked over at the carcass. “Where’d you get the deer?”

  “A friend of mine brung him to me. I used to work as a butcher at Tony’s Market. We split the meat.”

  “You say a friend brought him to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s this friend’s name?”

  Moffett paused a second. “Mark Conway.”

  “If I call Mr. Conway and ask him if he brought this deer to you, he’d better corroborate your story.”

  “What’s the big deal about a deer anyway? It’s in season.”

  “Handling firearms is not in season if you’re a convicted felon … ever.”

  One of the deputies came back out of the trailer, looked at Gilson and said, “We found a Remington Model 700 rifle in his closet.”

  Gilson took another step closer to Moffett and said, “Mr. Moffett, here in the great state of Florida, it’s against the law for a convicted felon to own a firearm. I’m betting your friend didn’t bring you that deer. I think you killed it out in the glades. And not having a hunting license is gonna be the least of your concerns. Let’s go down to the sheriff’s office. You have some explaining to do.” He looked at his deputy and said, “Jason, why don’t you go back in there, probably look in the same closet where you found the rifle and get Mr. Moffett a shirt. Judge Hathaway doesn’t like people half-dressed appearing in his court of law.”