The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “Ok.”

  “Later, I looked at our own internal files and discovered a link to a Mark Taylor, uncertain if he was our man. When I tried to access these files, it advised me I needed a higher authorization code. Us, IT specialists, get around this restriction in no time. I learned in this case, the Director of the FBI must consent. I have never come across this situation.”

  “The Director? Barry, you’re sure?”

  “Certain. The condition is effective since last August, around the time your man vanished.”

  “Hum.” I paused a few seconds trying to figure out the reason behind this level of mystery.

  Barry then explained how he got a computer operator to bring back an old database from almost a year ago. The team needed to verify if a new software could restore older backups. Unclear what he meant, but the result is he restored files to an older status.

  “Afterward, I pored over earlier files, before they altered Taylor’s status and raised interesting material. Mark Taylor was an informant for the famous Drug Enforcement Agency. And, to my surprise, they also paid him in cold cash, no checks, no payroll records.”

  Even the FBI moved away from such deals I remembered, the governance people hated it.

  “Barry, what cases was he working on those days?”

  “Can’t say, case file data is near impossible to access, I must rethink my plan to reach the information. Maybe it's inaccessible.”

  “Don’t get too sneaky and lose your job, I would never forgive myself for contacting you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be cautious and drop the process if it’s too risky.”

  “Good. Last question: do we know if Taylor is still alive?”

  “There’s no sign to confirm, either way, Jason. With the status change in August, it could mean anything including he’s deceased, or he moved to Russia for all I know.”

  “I see. Thanks, Barry. Just so I don’t call you on your cell phone and leave traces, If I text you with the word Florida, call me on a secure line.”

  “I will. Take care.”

  And I hung up and looked at Cynthia preparing dinner in the galley.

  “What’s up?” she says.

  I resumed my conversation with Barry keeping silent what risks he took to get the information.

  “What does that mean dad?”

  “Barry found a link between Mark’s disappearance and his activities as a DEA informant. Someone sealed his records recently, they gave no reasons. He’ll try to uncover his assignment, but this will be difficult.”

  After lunch, armed with my notebook, I started on a typical detective beat: walking and questioning. My first stop was to see Captain James. The administration office can entertain three people at most, it’s tiny. I first talked about fishing the area to get the conversation going. After a while, I exhibited Mark’s picture.

  “This person came down to your hideaway last September. Do you remember him?”

  “Do you remember what you did last September Mister?”

  “Can you at least check your reservations, I believe he arrived on September 10th of last year, Mark Taylor.”

  Captain James didn’t move one bit. After a few awkward seconds, I pulled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to an outstretched hand. He put it in his shirt pocket, turned around and retrieved a well-used book.

  “September 10th you say?” as he flipped pages.

  “Here we go... Taylor, Taylor,” as he moved his finger down the page. “Yes, Taylor on September 10th, stayed two days.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Is this a divorce case?” he asked smiling.

  “Just answer the question,” I replied.

  He looked at his book once more. “He was alone.”

  “Any other reservations that night?”

  Without even looking, he answered: “No, he was my only guest. Thank you, Mister, I have to run.”

  The conversation ended on this note. I turned around and walked away. So the ledger confirmed Taylor’s presence in Marathon although we possessed that information from his credit card statements. It cost me twenty dollars to find out what I already knew.

  It was only a short distance to Barnacle Barney, and I arrived in no time. The sun was high in the sky, but more than a dozen customers sat at the bar. I slipped onto a stool in a quiet corner. When the barmaid came around, I ordered another Sandbar Sunday like when I had dinner with Cynthia yesterday. I liked that beer.

  When she brought it, I said: “It's the first time I see you. Have you been working here for long?”

  It was the first time.

  “You must come nights then. I’ve been working here more than a year now.”

  “Then maybe you’ve seen this gentleman,” as I showed her Taylor’s picture on my notebook. While she looked at it, I added: “He may have been with a couple of Asiatic men back in mid-September, maybe two or three days in a row.” She continued to look at the picture, but her memory failed her.

  “I can’t be sure, maybe. So many visitors come here once or twice that I can’t remember everyone.”

  “I understand, thanks anyway.”

  I returned to the yacht and prepared to go out fishing with my daughter in the afternoon. I inquired what species swam around the Keys to other marina residents. We were aiming for African Pompano and we tried in deep water and over the reefs. We were unsuccessful, but we caught a blackfin tuna which I cleaned as Cynthia maneuvered us to port.

  After enjoying our grilled tuna, we sat on the aft deck as we watched the sun go down over the sea. She asked about my theory on this puzzling case.

  “Well,” I began, “we have a well-educated young man working part-time only, at least that’s what is clear. He disappears six months ago and the police cannot find him. We find evidence of fentanyl and cash in his possession. This has the makings of a young man getting involved in selling drugs. How and from who he gets the product is unclear. His target customers are other drug makers who mix the product with cocaine or make fake pain-reducing opioids, possibly.”

  “But the DEA connexion?” she asks.

  “It throws a wrench to my theory. Somehow I doubt Mark is on the good guy's side. The drug seller image may well be a front, a way to get closer to big players.”

  “Then, it’s possible they eliminated him because they found out about his activities.”

  “Possible and it would explain why we can’t find his body. They kill him, tie him down with heavy weights and drop him in 500 feet of water. Fishes would take care of the rest.”

  “But why come to Marathon? He works one evening in Miami and then runs down here the same night. There must be a good reason.”

  “You are thinking like a real detective now, a good question. My theory is that someone summoned him here. He left the bar, not even asking if he worked the next day. He left with two unidentified Asians, left his car at home and came down with his newfound friends right here.”

  “Why?”

  “An important meeting possibly?”

  “Or an ambush?”

  “Yes, possibly.”

  And we both fell silent. We were trying to imagine why this city was important in the scheme of things.

  (--)

  The following morning after a refreshing sleep, I planned a visit to local authorities. The station is near the tail end of a canal almost reaching Route 1, also named Overseas Highway.

  I lowered the dinghy to the water and grabbed a lockable cable to secure the small boat while I visited the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office. To reach there, I had to go west, round the tip of the island and head back east into Boot Key Harbour until I reached the canal going inland. I took almost twenty minutes, but I had fun, riding the tender and sightseeing at the same time. Much better than a taxi ride.

  I walked towards the desk sergeant and asked to speak to the Sheriff; it was a courtesy visit. Directed to his third-floor suite, he was just stepping out as I arrived.

  I used an old trick. “Sherif
f, I bring you greetings from John Russell.”

  “Long time no see. And you are?”

  “I had lunch with John last week and he said when you’re in Marathon, salute Sheriff McBain for me.” A small white lie! I got his credentials from a display panel when I entered the building.

  “My name is Jason Tanner, I’m a private investigator and a former FBI agent. I am working a missing person case from John’s jurisdiction. We believe our absentee may have disappeared here, in Marathon.”

  “And how can I help you?”

  “I would like to verify if the person I’m looking for matches any unsolved disappearance in the county?”

  “Maybe, come with me.”

  I followed him down the stairs to the second floor and he introduced me to an enormous man who looked like Sargent Schultz in the TV series Hogan’s Heroes still in reruns. There was one thing different: he was called Sargent Gomez. I saluted him politely and after telling him what I was interested in, he invited me into a small room with a few screens and printers. He took a seat in front of a keyboard and asked me to sit beside him.

  “What are we looking for, sir?”

  “Call me Jason, Sargent. We are digging for unsolved cases, filed on or after September 12 of last year, with an unidentified body.”

  Gomez typed something and then a screen full of data appeared. “One-hundred-and-eighty-seven cases are still open in the Monroe County, sir.”

  “Could you sort them by the type of case?” I asked.

  With just one click, the screen reshuffled. With the help of Sargent Gomez, we eliminated several cases such as property and statutory crimes, leaving us with personal offense. We then removed felonies such as rape and sexual assault resulting in cases for simple assault, battery, kidnapping and homicide. With around a dozen investigations left on the display, Sargent Gomez suggested we drill down into each. He highlighted one case at a time and double-clicked on it to have a full page of information.

  After exploring the unsolved cases, only one got my serious attention. In August, a decomposed body washed ashore, and is unclaimed yet. If I could get DNA samples for Mark, I could confirm or eliminate this particular case.

  Gomez printed the summary with the name of the detective in charge, a Roberto Angelillo. I informed the sergeant I would get some DNA from Mark’s belongings and communicate with the detective. He said it was fine and would inform Lieutenant Angelillo of the game plan.

  “You understand Sir, it’s not because your missing person is not in our files they’re alive. Water surrounds us and there are many ways to dump a body in the ocean and never see it again, ever.”

  “I have seen ‘Dexter’, I understand Sargent,” in reference to a popular TV series where a Miami Police blood-splatter analyst by day becomes a serial killer by night and dumps his victim’s body into the ocean around Miami.

  I exited the Sheriff’s office and called Nadine. No answer, so I left a message. The phone rang a few seconds later, so I assumed Nadine was calling back.

  “Hello.”

  “Jason, it’s LeBron Jackson, do you have a minute?”

  “What’s up?”

  “We received the autopsy report for the man found on your boat. He did not die of natural causes. The medical examiner concluded drug overdose as the cause of death.”

  “No kidding. I knew William for a short period but he’s not a drug user.”

  “He doesn’t fit the profile, that’s certain. It looks like someone injected pure fentanyl into his neck. After the toxicology report came out, the medical examiner looked for needle marks in the usual places, but found nothing. He inspected the body again and located a mark in his neck, in the jugular vein. He died right away.”

  My mind was racing now. The intended target wasn’t William, but me. I asked him to stay aboard while I searched for my daughter. They wanted to eliminate me, damn.

  So much for a quiet pastime PI career, this is dangerous.

  “Jason, did you find something on the camera recordings?”

  “Gee LeBron, I completely forgot. I’m returning on the yacht now and get right to it.”

  “OK, let me know,” and he ended the call.

  Someone wished me dead, but why? Was I getting too close? To what? It baffled me. Cynthia was alone aboard PRIVATE EYE, my stomach clenched up in knots with the fear of what could happen to her, I had to warn her. I reached for my phone in its usual back pocket, empty! I either lost it or I didn’t bring it. I had to return right away. I ran to the dinghy, hopped in, started the engine and pushed the power lever to the max. Blinded by the sea water splashing in my face as I raced back, I feared losing another loved one for a moment. The pain was excruciating. I didn’t want to live the experience again. Every few seconds I pushed the power lever to the max, again and again, in the hope of finding an extra bit of speed, to no avail.

  In half the time I took to get to the Sheriff’s office, I was back at the marina and zigzagging my way towards her at full speed. Boat owners shot dirty looks in my direction, but it had no effect, I didn’t intend to slow down.

  As I approached, the rear door opened and Cynthia showed up on the aft deck. “Are you OK?” I asked in a hurry.

  “Fine, what’s wrong?” she answered.

  I tied up the tender and came on board. “I got a call from Detective Jackson in Miami,” I said while we moved inside. Leaving no details untold, I repeated the conversation I had with Jackson.

  “No-o-o-o,” she let out, in her typical way. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath. She connected the dots without difficulty. My safety, and hers by the same reason, was on the line.

  “We need to be careful going forward darling.”

  “You can say that again, dad.”

  “Let’s stick together as much as we can, all right?”

  “And when I go running?” she adds.

  “I’ll try to keep up.”

  (--)

  I prepared a quick lunch for both of us and after cleaning the galley, I got my laptop out and loaded the DVD with the marina's recordings. I took an extra ten minutes locating my external DVD player well hidden in the storage area underneath my bed.

  We set up the system on the dining table, closed a few curtains to get a better screen view and sat together on the main sofa. A date time stamp appeared on the screen’s lower section.

  The first images started at 7:03, Saturday morning, March 17. We could see the backside of the door used to access our dock with a security device on the other side to open it. The setup brought out my first reflexion: to unlock the gate leading to the yachts, you need a proximity card delivered by the harbormaster. A procedure similar to when you rent a hotel room. They provide you with a personal card to unlock your door. At the marina, it unlocks the gate, the door we’re looking at on the screen

  “How would someone access the docks without an owner’s card?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, dad.”

  I adjusted the fast forward speed to three times normal so we could review a half-hour of video in ten minutes. Should we discover something interesting, we could go back and replay at regular speed.

  At 8:05, we see Cynthia’s backside as she leaves dock H, I recall our berth was H9. I adjusted to normal speed as we watch her stretch her arms as she exits on the main walkway running along the marina. At around five minutes to nine, she returns from her exercise, unlocking the door with one of the two cards they gave me when I registered at the marina office.

  Since it was a weekend, a lot of action took place on multiple docks. People in beachwear attire were bringing in coolers and lunch boxes from the marina’s parking lot and going aboard their boats. Fishermen carrying lines with tackle boxes hurried along.

  I skipped the DVD to around 10 am. A few minutes later we both exit dock H, turn right towards the shore and disappeared out of view a few seconds later. We were going onto our beach surveillance mission. I fast-forwarded to around 11:30, knowing I was back befor
e noon. I set it at normal speed, wanting to see everything.

  A young lady with blond hair and cut-off jean shorts turn onto our dock, approaching from the parking lot area. A few minutes later, William, probably coming from his own dock, where his boat is located, walks onto ours. He exits a few minutes later, having found nobody aboard my yacht.

  At 11:51 I reappear with my backpack, unlock the gate and walk pass the camera. Now 11:54, William, who saw me arrive or observed a movement on my boat, returns to dock H. Four minutes later, at 11:58, I come out, turn left towards the city-side walking fast in search of my daughter. This is when I asked William to stay and wait for my daughter’s return. A simple ask with a terrible consequence.

  At 12:04, someone exits my dock and turns left. The spring-loaded gate closes but just before it locks, a hand stops it. He’s sporting a broad Panama and waits near the gate still held open by his left hand. A few seconds pass and another man, also wearing a large hat with a shoulder bag, arrives. Both now walk onto the dock and disappear from the video. They’re going towards my boat possibly but we can’t know for certain. One thing we are almost certain, they don’t have a proximity card with them, therefore they have no right to being on the docks.

  At 12:11, both visitors, pass under the camera again, this time leaving. They turn right and disappear. They had my full attention: they were the only two visitors without shorts, swimwear or jeans, they are donning dressed pants. The Panama hats were their only disguise, but the taller man was wearing big round sunglasses when he arrived. I have seen him before.

  (--)

  Certain to have seen the two Asians on the video, I headed to my cabin to retrieve my camera. I extracted the memory card and inserted it in my laptop. Several images appeared, and I located the one I wanted.

  I zoomed in to find, in the middle of the screen, the same guys in discussion with Yang Nelson in South Point Park. The image showed Nelson’s face, but the two Asians were facing away, no face shot. Still, they wore the same clothes as on the video. No doubt in my mind, these individuals had killed William Tudor, I needed to inform Freeman right away.