by R C Cameron
Many months later, after classes and special training, I moved into my dream position, Special Agent—Criminal Investigations Division where I worked in Chicago close to my hometown.
With my career settled for a while, I envied my colleagues when they returned from their weekend and described their activities with families and children. It was time I looked into building a family someone told me. One day, my friend John, another special agent, introduced me, through a blind date, to Laura. We connected and four months later we celebrated our marriage in Springfield with all my family attending along with several FBI agents from the Chicago office. A secure marriage you could say.
Laura gave us a lovely daughter, Cynthia, after our first year together. Not long after her birth, the FBI moved me to different offices in the country. It was a nice experience but also difficult to move a wife and child every time. The second child never arrived as we were often on the move.
Back in Chicago, Laura, now forty-five, passed a routine exam. They discovered lumps in her breast. Two years later, even after all the multiple treatments available, she passed away. The house was now empty. Back in Denver, Cynthia had moved in with two friends where she worked as a registered nurse.
When my father also died not long after Laura, I now had no family or they lived far away. I had friends in the Bureau, but scattered around the country. My two brothers who left the cold temperature of the North for the most acceptable climate of South Carolina were also far away.
Two years after Laura’s unexpected passing, I was eligible to collect my pension from the FBI and I retired after over twenty-five years of service. Nothing much held me back in Illinois. My father, my last living parent, had left my brothers and I, a sizable legacy of almost two million dollars amassed in his later years. Along with my FBI pension, my financial future was pretty much assured.
After my retirement, I decided to put the house up for sale. Already too big for a single person, it also reminded me so much of Laura. On the second day, I tackled the disposal of furniture, clothing, books and other knickknacks keeping enough items to leave the house presentable. I sold the property in less than a full week. With the sales document signed, I used an extra week to get rid of the remaining furniture and handed the keys to the new owner.
Dr. Ferguson who treated me during my stay at the hospital after the bombing incident remained my personal doctor and I reached out to inform him of my move to South Florida. Concerned about the pain medication I was still taking, he informed me he was also retiring and could not write me a new prescription. He strongly recommended I connect with a pain clinic in my future neighborhood to search for alternative solutions for my back problem. My new doctor would prescribe painkillers if no alternate treatment remedied the situation. I thanked him for his support over the years and decided to follow his advice. Little did I know my good intentions would take me somewhere totally different.
Alone, I packed my life belongings, except for winter clothing, in my Ford Escape and headed south. Stopping in South Carolina to see Carl and Freddy, for a few days, we reminisce and enjoyed a good time together. Because our mutual lives were far apart, we did not see each other often. The traveling inhibited a better relationship. We still had a pleasant time sitting around the dinner table. When I left my brothers, I promised I would be in touch more than I had in the past. I also gave them an invitation to visit once settled.
Next stop, Florida. That was my end game. I have stayed and visited many of our 50 states and Florida was at the top of my list. It had the warm climate, the sea, the fishing, and I hoped I could find something to keep me busy.
(--)
Hold on a minute Mrs. Taylor. I apologized and entered the main salon of the yacht to retrieve a small notepad. I returned to my seat and scribbled a few words while trying to smile and look sad at the same time.
“So tell me in what circumstances did your brother disappeared?”, I asked.
“It happened back in September, Mister Tanner. From what I understand and what the police has put together, my brother Mark showed up for work at the Black Cat Bar in South Beach on a Friday night, a very popular site. At closing time, he left the bar, as usual, never seen again.”
“And that was his regular job at this bar?”, I asked.
“He worked as a barman, just one of many livelihoods he experimented. After college, he worked a few jobs, never for a long time. He also contracted work, just a few months at a time. I think he accumulated a few dollars and then stopped working for a while. On occasions, he would tend bars, one of his talents. Even as a bartender, it was never permanent, he replaced regular barmen during their absence. Often at the last minute, he got called at 7 PM to show up at 8 PM, you see.”
“Yes, I understand. Not a line of work to plan a budget, a family, a livelihood,” I concluded. “Mrs. Taylor, do you know who was the last person to see your brother before he left for his job that day?”
“No, I don’t. My brother lived in a small apartment, alone as far as I know. I am not aware if anyone was with him when he left that day. Is that important?”
“Well, it could be should he be down or depressed. That could influence what he did that night.”
I looked at Nadine and wondered why she waited six months before restarting the investigation. I assumed she harassed the Miami Police during all that time and gotten nowhere. The Miami Police detective unit runs dozens of investigations at the same time. When a new case appears on his radar, a typical detective will concentrate on it for the next 48 or 72 hours. After that period, the case will see less and less interest. After a few months, the file just sits on the desk and sees no action.
“Does Mark have a regular girlfriend?”
After taking a few seconds to answer, she admitted “Not that I know of. I have seen him with a few girls, but never the same.”
“If ever you can dig up any name for me, that would help us, anyway. Is bar tending his only occupation?”
“He told me he contracted work for some IT firms, I don’t know which one.”
“You know what his responsibilities were?”
“No, I know it was contractual work and not full-time.”
“Did your brother own a car? Did he drive it to work on that last Friday?”
“He owns an old Toyota. My husband and I found the car parked close to his apartment. Did he use it that night and came back? Nobody can confirm.”
“How long has he lived in Florida?”
(--)
Was I a long time resident myself? Far from it. After visiting my brothers in South Carolina, I headed to South Florida over interstate 95, Fort Lauderdale, my ultimate destination. I preferred the East Coast with its real ocean waves compared to the West Coast and its anemic water movements. Miami is too busy, West Palm Beach too quiet, Fort Lauderdale seemed like a good fit.
With a sufficient supply of capital to get started in Florida, I now required a place to camp and located a small but decent motel in Lauderdale-by-the-sea and paid for the first month. I then shopped for homes, close and far from the beach. A million dollars or a hundred thousand, these were my options. My budget allowed either one. But I rejected both, another idea was shaping up in my mind.
Back in Chicago, I owned a modest fishing boat used on occasions. With Laura and Cynthia, we would cruise along Lake Michigan on Sunday mornings enjoying the fresh air and the sightseeing. Other times, alone or with some friends I went out to fish for bass.
A yacht I could live aboard tempted me. As a result, I could fish or coast around South Florida with my “house”. That became my new game plan. I opened my laptop and shopped a new residence. I scrutinized many YouTube videos testing various yacht types, called around, visited dealers, and consulted experts. As a result, I decided and ordered a 35-foot trawler big enough to live aboard but still small enough for a single person to handle. While waiting for my new toy delivery, I looked for a berth. After visiting the immense Fort Lauderdale Marina, I choose a smaller,
friendlier location in Pompano Beach called the Sands Harbor marina on the Intercostal Waterway.
When the dealer turned over the yacht, I hired a local captain for a few days. He taught me new skills around the area and perfected my talent to maneuver in windy situations and varying currents. I then docked the yacht at my new marina and moved my few belongings aboard leaving my temporary housing.
Although the trawler is not enormous, equipment is plentiful, and it’s roomy enough for one or two people aboard. The main salon holds a large sofa, a dining table and storage space with a pop-up TV screen. Amidships, a well-equipped galley on port side and a pilot cockpit on starboard. Up front, a guest room appears on port side. On starboard we find a micro bathroom and shower, an owner’s suite in the bow.
On top, the flybridge is another location to control the ship. It has a seating arrangement and a work table. I store a tender on the aft portion. It's a small boat lowered to the sea when necessary.
My setup was complete now and I could now proceed with my next big project.
(--)
“How long did Mark live in Florida, you ask? Let me see... It must be almost three years now. I came here in 2011 when my husband transferred to Miami. Mark arrived three or four years later.”
So I picture our missing person, in Florida for three years, still drives an old Toyota, has no steady girlfriend or a permanent job and is not attending classes. I wonder what he does of all his time.
“Would you have a recent picture of him?”
“Yes,” as she reaches for her bag beside her chair. She extracts a 4X6 picture of two couples, a young blond male with Nadine and a man, I assume is her husband. I don’t know the fourth person.
“Is this your husband?” I asked, but I knew the answer already.
“Yes, his name is Joe Patry, I kept the name Taylor. Besides me, Mark and the girl, her name is Diane, she was with him that day at the beach. We took this picture last summer in Miami Beach.”
I kept adding these tiny pieces of information in my notebook while flipping back and forth between pages. We both were silent for a moment. A bell sounded close by and I noticed Nadine looked around for the source.
“Raising the bridge,” I said. She nodded, having crossed that bridge on her way over.
A few hundred feet away, where Atlantic Boulevard crosses the Intercostal Waterway, a bridge opens on the hour and the half hour to let taller boats go by, mine included.
“Ms. Taylor, what did your brother do with his time? He has a part-time job, part-time girlfriends, and is not in school. What am I missing here?”
“An excellent question Mr. Tanner. Whenever we chatted, and that was rare, he was always elusive. He surfs a lot, he tells me, it occupies most of his mornings. He spends time with his buddies at South Beach, I imagine. And he has a computer contract here and there and works behind the bar part-time.”
“Does he travel?”
“He went to South America a few years ago but I am not aware of any past or future travel plans.”
“Was he into drugs you think?”
“I don’t think so,” she said with her eyes flicking to a small boat passing by and then back at me.
Did she tell a lie?
I decided not to pursue this line of questioning today. Opportunities would come up later. In my capacity as a PI, I would have other occasions to revisit the subject.
(--)
Private investigation was how I intended to keep myself busy in sunny South Florida. Once I got settled in my new toy at the marina, I needed a part-time occupation to live: something to keep my gray cells working and to have activities other than fishing or sunbathing.
One evening, after cleaning the galley, I opened my laptop on the salon table. I typed: becoming a private investigator in Florida. The search engine located over 4 million results. I concentrated on the first page and found a website which showed the requirements to become a PI in the state. Eighteen years old, a legal resident, and no criminal record; no problem. A good moral character I also had. No history of mental illness, I didn’t think so. Free of illegal drugs and alcoholism; all I took was legal. Finally, I needed at least two years of comparable experience. So far, I meet all the basic requirements.
The next step was to complete the specialty training for the job. With my 25 years of FBI experience, I possessed all the mandatory training. I only had to read class material addressing specific Florida requirements. A week of study would be sufficient in my estimate.
Next problem: carrying a concealed firearm. I needed 28 hours of training according to the website. I received plenty of FBI tutoring in firearm safety and use during my career. Maybe I could skip right to the exam because of my existing skills.
So I jumped into my studies, devoting close to ten hours a day. I needed to be ready for the written test in West Palm Beach, the closest examination facility. As a side benefit, it would allow me to take my first cruise and experience the world of planning and executing a boat trip. I was looking forward to this occasion.
I took the exam, received my grades, and applied for my class C private investigator license in Florida. Once I received it, I now could work cases.
On the personal side, my back problems persisted, and I eventually got in touch with a pain clinic as Dr. Ferguson suggested. A search of these institutions near me proposed more than a dozen. I selected one close by and scheduled the first evaluation.
After filling a long questionnaire, I met a specialist who reviewed my answers. It did not take him long to conclude I was running full steam ahead towards addiction, I may even have arrived. Symptoms were numerous: I appreciated the quiet euphoria it provided. I displayed several disturbing physical symptoms such as some abdominal pain, sweating, and some dizziness. My preoccupations for getting OxyContin were important, another symptom. I had to come to grips with my situation and accept to enter a pain-management program. They scheduled my first meeting in three weeks, about the time my prescription ran out.
Now, on the business aspect of investigations, I needed to inform my potential customers I was now open for business. Publicity today was having a website and advertising on Google or Facebook. It was not my intention. I wanted a low-keyed operation, few cases, enough to keep me occupied part-time. Informing my business contacts in Florida of my new status became a priority. I knew police detectives in Jacksonville, Miami, Naples, and other places. I would contact them one by one. The rest, it would have to wait.
I put the plan in motion the next day by purchasing the documentation and started my studying period. I resolved the firearm training issue to my satisfaction. After a few weeks, I registered for the PI licensing examination to occur in the next 10 days. Because of this schedule, it would leave me time to review the material and get to West Palm Beach, a three-hour ride by boat.
Two weeks after my exam, I received my private investigator license at the post office. I called a local lettering company to come to paint the name of my boat: “PRIVATE EYE”.
CHAPTER TWO
“MS. TAYLOR, HOW did the police get involved with the investigation?” I asked after a long silence.
“I contacted them after I could not reach Mark. At the beginning of the week, I called to invite him for a brunch on the following Sunday; I had not seen him in ages.”
“What date was it?” I asked.
“It was September 13th. He did not answer his phone, but I left a message on his mobile. A few days later, I called again, same result. Saturday afternoon, I drove by his apartment and knocked on the door, no one was present. I asked his closest neighbor who said he has not seen Mark all week.”
“What happened next?”
“I called the police reporting a missing person, my brother,” she said and lowered her head at the same time. I let her have a moment. It was painful, I could see. After a few seconds, she lifted her head and continued, she looked stronger now. “The police arrived at the apartment and got a key from the building manager. The two pol
ice officers entered and came out a minute later: nobody was home. At least they had not discovered a dead body, I was relieved.”
Nadine continued her story. “The officer asked me some questions and then I returned home that afternoon. Later on, two detectives showed up.”
“I’ll need their names,” I said.
“Someone called Freeman, Wayne Freeman. The other, I don’t remember but Captain Russell would provide the information I believe.”
“And the police never found him,” I said, stating the obvious to get her talking again.
“They tried but had no success. I had several calls from Freeman, daily at first, every few weeks thereafter, to tell me the same thing. No sign of my brother, like he disappeared from the face of the earth. One day, I asked to speak to Freeman’s boss, and that’s when I reached Captain Russell.”
“And...”
“He had the same message as Freeman. They investigated, they questioned neighbors, people at the bar, they found nothing. A picture of my brother appeared on the Miami-Dade website for missing people, but that has generated no leads so far.”
I noted this while thinking with all the local police resources, assisted by federal agencies, it is astonishing a person just vanishes.
“Do you know if the police pulled your brother’s phone records?”
“Yes, they did, Freeman told me so. They have looked at his incoming and outgoing calls from the phone company’s records and found nothing of interest other than the last call was on September 10th. After that date, nothing. I also know they asked the communication provider to locate his phone, to no avail. No more signal they told me.”
“How about his personal affairs?” I asked.
“After a few months of looking for Mark, my husband and I arranged his affairs. We settled with the owner of the apartment he was living in, we picked up his mail and rerouted it to my home, we also settled some outstanding bills. His old car is on our property, whatever he had in the apartment, we boxed and put in storage.”
