by Rod Helmers
“Eat as much of that as you can. Even if you don’t feel like it. Your blood sugar has probably bottomed out by now.”
Dr. Bob took a small bite and felt like he was going to vomit, but he knew the man was right and kept chewing. The more he ate the better he felt. Eventually he realized that he was ravenous. When he finished the candy bar, the man placed the water bottle back in his hands. Dr. Bob drank it all. The man bent over and grabbed the end of the blue tarp that had covered Dr. Bob and shook it out. Then he placed it on the ground at the back of the van.
“Don’t go anywhere.” The man chuckled as he looked down at Dr. Bob’s ankles, which were wrapped together with several layers of duct tape. Then he disappeared around the side of the van.
For the first time, Dr. Bob noticed the cacophony of insect noises and the smell of the swamp that surrounded him. He instinctively knew that he was far from civilization, and was terrified of being abandoned there. His eyes furtively searched the interior of the van and came to rest on some trash in the corner. The corner of his Blackberry peaked out from the rubbish.
Dr. Bob strained to reach for his cell phone with both hands, finally pulling it towards him with his fingertips. He was able to hold it between the fingers of his still taped together hands and throw the device with an overhand motion. It tumbled through the air and landed in the tall grass alongside the parked van.
Almost before the BlackBerry had fully settled into the dense vegetation, the man returned. He carried Dr. Bob’s laptop, a satellite modem, and several other seemingly unrelated objects. The man set everything on the tarp.
“That’s my laptop,” Dr. Bob stated with some surprise.
“That’s right. I stopped by your apartment and picked it up for you. You can thank me later.”
“What do you want?” Dr. Bob asked plaintively.
“I’m glad you asked. This is how it’s going to work. You will use your laptop and the sat modem to wire all the money you stole to my associate. I assume all of the information you need is on one of the encrypted files on your computer. Your life depends on that. The wiring instructions and routing information are on this slip of paper.” The man pointed to his shirt pocket.
“It’s too late. The money is gone.” Dr. Bob replied too quickly.
“Are you left or right handed?”
“Right.” Dr. Bob answered tentatively.
Before Dr. Bob could react, the man grabbed a pair of garden loppers off the tarp and placed the razor sharp blades around the base of the index finger of his left hand. Dr. Bob felt pressure but no pain as he watched his finger roll off of his thigh and onto the blue tarp. The pain came as blood spurted from his hand, and then the man snipped off the middle finger as well.
The man cocked his head to the side and studied Dr. Bob for a moment before he picked up a round cardboard container of Morton’s salt, flipped open the easy-pour spout, and applied a liberal amount to both wounds. The pain was now white hot and Dr. Bob felt nauseous and vomited.
“Jesus Christ!” Dr. Bob’s words were a scream, a moan, and a plea.
The man again studied Dr. Bob with a detached air. “I need you to understand how serious I am. Do you understand now?”
Dr. Bob nodded his head vigorously up and down. The man produced another bottle of drinking water and flushed the salt from the wounds. Then he doubled over a large rubber band and placed it around Dr. Bob’s wrist. Soon the blood flowing from Dr. Bob’s missing digits slowed to a dribble.
“Are you ready now?” The man asked.
“It’s not that easy. Wire transfers are electronic, but they’re not instantaneous. They take time to be reflected on your account.” Dr. Bob whined as his eyes darted from side to side.
The man violently pushed Dr. Bob onto his back and yanked his pants and underwear down to his knees. Dr. Bob began to struggle but became still as the blades of the lopper encircled the base of his penis. While holding the gardening tool with one hand, the man picked up the container of salt with the other and dumped the rest of its contents onto Dr. Bob’s crotch.
“On three. One. Two.”
“No! Please God. No.” Dr. Bob’s high-pitched plea bordered on hysteria.
“God can’t help you now. I know you are used to being the smartest kid in the class, but you are not dealing with unsophisticated people. Do you want to keep your cock?”
Dr. Bob’s eyes were bulging as he nodded affirmatively.
“Then you will use the sat modem to log onto a server at an address I will provide. My associate will be monitoring every keystroke remotely. I assume the funds have been wired offshore into several different accounts?”
Dr. Bob nodded again.
“You will verify the balance in each account and then transfer the funds as instructed. If you are very lucky, I will receive a telephone call from my associate indicating that the total amount transferred is satisfactory. I will then restore blood flow to your hand for a few minutes to preserve the tissue, and apply an antibiotic dressing. I will place your fingers in a sterile bag with ice. They were cleanly severed. The lopper was very sharp. I don’t think there will be a problem reattaching them. After I leave, I will call 911 and give them directions to this location. This doesn’t have to go badly for you.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Bob whimpered.
The man cut the tape away from Dr. Bob’s wrists and wrapped gauze dressing around the wounds. He then produced a syringe and needle, and Dr. Bob’s eyes grew large once again.
“What is that for?”
“A very mild dose of morphine for the pain. I don’t want your concentration disrupted by your injury.” Dr. Bob closed his eyes as the soothing effect of the narcotic made its way to his brain. He welcomed it almost as much as he had once craved it.
The man set the computer on Dr. Bob’s bare lap and connected the sat modem. The fingers of Dr. Bob’s right hand began to fly over the keys. In a few minutes he stopped and looked expectantly at the big sandy haired man. A cell phone rang and Dr. Bob watched with hope as the man listened and nodded. Finally the man flipped the cell phone closed and looked at Dr. Bob with eyes devoid of emotion.
“I’m relieved that you kept your end of the bargain. Unfortunately, I can’t reciprocate.”
The man picked up the laptop and modem and carefully set the devices aside before grabbing Dr. Bob by his mane of greasy hair and yanking him from the van. He dragged him to the water’s edge by his still bound feet, wound his hair around a meaty fist and brought him to his feet, took two steps backward, and viciously kicked him in the small of the back. Dr. Bob’s head jerked violently and his body tumbled into the narrow arm of brackish water.
Several gators on the opposite bank slid silently under the mirror-like surface - their movement betrayed by several pair of floating yellow orbs reflecting the bright moonlight. The big sandy haired man aimed a matte black 9mm Glock at one unlucky reptile, and squeezed off several rounds. The big gator rolled and began to thrash about violently.
“A little extra blood in the water ought to make death interesting for you.”
CHAPTER 18
Tillis kept a sharp eye out as he turned on final approach to Peter O. Knight Airport. The field was surrounded on three sides by the bay, and aircraft had sustained damage as a consequence of colliding with seagulls here. In one instance, the bird actually busted through the Plexiglas and joined the hapless pilot in the cockpit. Given family history, Tillis was paranoid about large fowl.
After landing, he was met by a fuel truck. The Fixed Base Operator (FBO) largely relied on fuel sales to pay the sky-high rent the municipal government charged to lease the property. Many pilots chose to only fill their tanks at fields located away from urban areas where fuel was a little cheaper. Tillis believed in paying his way.
“Top it off. Jet A with Prist.”
“Yes, sir. Nice King-Air.”
Tillis realized the young man in his early twenties was probably working for minimum wage. Just happy to be a
round aircraft. Hoping to get a little time in the air. After fueling the plane, the same employee would return with a tug and tow the craft away from the terminal to a parking spot in a less congested area. Tillis smiled and handed the uniformed kid a twenty.
“Find her a spot without a water view.” The statement drew a quizzical look. “Bird shit. They love a front row seat.” Tillis answered the unstated question.
Tillis turned and walked toward the terminal building. Upon entering he quickly glanced around, and then continued straight through the small building and out the opposite double glass doors. There were only a few cars in the parking lot this early on a Saturday morning, and in a moment a new black five series BMW flashed its lights.
Sally Cummings sat at the wheel, looking surprisingly chipper for the hour. She worked out of the Orlando office, and had arisen before four that morning to be in Tampa with Starbucks by 6:30. Her thick black hair was pulled back, and her skin was just as smooth as and only slightly darker than the tall latte she’d just consumed.
“How does a FDLE rookie afford a new five series Beemer?” Tillis asked as he dropped into the passenger seat.
“How does any FDLE employee afford a five-hundred thousand dollar King-Air?” Sally replied.
Tillis ignored the comeback. “Are the interviews set? Did you get my e-mail about the Division Directors?”
“They’re all waiting for us. Except for the Director of Data Mining - their IT guy. Apparently he’s gone missing. Probably not a good sign. Sam Norden is the Acting CEO and Director of Sales and Marketing. Interesting background.” Sally raised an eyebrow and nodded toward a manila file folder laying on the dash in front of Tillis.
“Anything else?’
“The sole shareholder of American Senior Security is a Cayman holding company. Those kinds of records aren’t public in the Cayman Islands. I called a friend at Homeland Security. He said the Caymans have been pretty cooperative since 9/11. He’ll get back with me.”
“You called the feds?”
“Yeah. What’s the problem?”
“It’s all a turf war with those guys. Especially since 9/11. You need to check with me before you call on that resource in the future.”
“Okay.” Sally prolonged the pronunciation of both syllables.
Tillis put his reading glasses on, laid the folder open on his lap, and popped the top off of one of two venti black coffees sitting in the cup holders of the console. “Try not to hit any bumps while I’m reading.”
“Try not to spill any coffee on my new car.”
Tillis looked over the top of his reading glasses at Sally Cummings. The thought crossed his mind that apart from race and sex, he might have been looking at himself thirty years earlier.
Tillis and Sally interviewed the Director of Finance and Investments first. Tillis was more than annoyed that he’d already lawyered up. Then the Director of Operations. All in all they had wasted two hours and accomplished nothing. Tillis was getting annoyed and hungry. Now it was Sam’s turn. Sally brought him into the conference room and pointed to a chair. Tillis continued to study a file that lay on the table, and didn’t look up even as he spoke.
“One-hundred and fifty million dollars is a lot of money to misplace, Mr. Norden. Have you checked between the couch cushions? That’s the first place I look when I lose something.”
Sam paused before replying, but Tillis still didn’t look up. “I don’t think that’s funny. The money hasn’t been misplaced. It’s been stolen.”
“You think?”
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mr. Tillis. It’s your job to find the money, and I’d appreciate it if you took your job seriously.” Sam tried to sound stern but reasonable.
Tillis finally looked up and locked eyes with Sam. “Its just Tillis, Mr. Norden. And you’re mistaken. My job is to figure out who did this and lock them up for the next twenty to thirty years. And believe me, I take my job very seriously. So let’s get down to it then. Did you steal the money, Mr. Norden?”
The color drained from Sam’s face, and he could feel his shirt becoming soaked. He looked down at his side and saw a huge sweat stain that nearly reaching his beltline. “What? You think I did it. Why? Why would you think I took the money?”
“Well, Mr. Norden, let’s talk about that, shall we? You have the technical ability and requisite knowledge. You’re a computer engineer with a finance degree. You have the means. You also have the opportunity. You’re CEO. You have one hundred and fifty million motives. You have no ties to the community, or apparently to anywhere or anyone else. And you’re no stranger to the concept of the people you work for losing millions of dollars. What am I missing Agent Cummings?”
Before Cummings could respond, Sam interjected. “Do you mean San Diego? That was different. I didn’t steal any money from those people.”
“I’m sure they would appreciate the distinction, Mr. Norden. What do you think, Agent Cummings? Does Sam look good for it?”
Again Sam interjected before Sally could respond. “But I’m innocent!”
“Now that’s refreshing, Mr. Norden. And novel. Let’s just start at the beginning, shall we? What brought you to Florida?” Tillis’ tone carried notes of cynicism and boredom.
Sam began to talk. And talk. He talked for over seventy minutes. He began with his life in San Luis and the first visit by Ellen Hughes, and ended with the events of the prior morning.
“Mr. Norden, you need to understand that I’m a cop. As such, I don’t believe in coincidence. That story you just told me had more coincidences than . . .” Tillis looked over at Sally who seemed bored by the speech being delivered. “More coincidences than what, Agent Cummings?”
“Than a hound has fleas,” Sally replied in a monotone.
“That’s it. More coincidences than a hound has fleas.” Tillis nodded with approval.
“It’s the truth,” Sam replied meekly.
“All right,” Tillis sighed. “Let’s start with this Ellen person.”
“Ellen Hughes. The headhunter.” Sam added helpfully.
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to her?”
“The second time she came to San Luis. No. That’s not right. I spoke to her on the telephone after she left. When I told her that I would come to Florida and interview for the job.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken with her since?”
“No.”
“This is the beautiful woman you had all the sex with, right?”
Sam looked over at Sally and blushed. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call her?”
Sam squirmed in his chair. “There’s someone else.”
“So you have a girlfriend here in Florida?”
“No. In San Luis.”
Tillis cocked his head sideways. “So you were banging this hot Ellen chick in San Luis. But now that you’re two thousand miles away. Now that you’re here. Now that you’re all by yourself in hot, steamy, sweaty Florida, you decide to be true to little Ms. Someone Else back home in San Luis? I must tell you, Mr. Norden, I find this to be highly unusual male behavior on your part.”
Sally Cummings bit her knuckle. Sam looked over at her with a confused expression on his face. “It’s complicated,” he muttered as Tillis’ BlackBerry began to vibrate its way across the conference room table. Tillis grabbed the device and punched a button.
“I’m in the middle of an interview, Ron.” Tillis snapped.
“I know, but I thought you would want to know that your flag to local law enforcement turned up a body down in the Ten Thousand Islands area,” Commissioner Alcorn replied.
“Let me guess. Dr. Bob.”
“Don’t know about the doctor part, but the guy’s name was Robert Delgado Martinez, Jr.”
“Dr. Bob. Details?” Tillis looked over at Sally and gave her the peace sign, although in this instance the gesture meant that the tips of Dr. Bob’s boots were now pointing skyward on a permanent basis.
“Well, he got chew
ed up pretty bad by the gators, but he still had his ID on him.”
“Homicide or stupidcide?”
“Local law enforcement found two cleanly severed fingers and signs of a scuffle, so they’re giving homicide a look.”
“Jesus help us. Who’s running the show?”
“Monroe County Deputy Sheriff. Billy Bob Williams. He’s in charge of everything on the peninsula side.”
When someone said Monroe County, most people thought of the Florida Keys. But Monroe County also encompassed the extreme southwest corner of the Florida peninsula. From the perspective of law enforcement and just about everybody else, the Keys was where the action was.
“I know him. He’s okay. Tell him to stop everything and preserve the scene. Get an FDLE forensics team out there now. From either Ft. Myers or Miami Dade. Whoever can mount up first. Anything else?”
“Well, the severed fingers were the only two undigested digits, but they did get a clean match to a Miami Dade juvy record, so I guess we got a clean ID.”
“Tell Billy Bob I’m on my way, and to bait my hook for me.”
“Bait your hook?”
“He’ll understand.”
“On it.”
Tillis hit the end button and looked directly at Sam. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Norden?”
Sam had heard the word homicide and feared the worst. “Is Dr. Bob okay?” Sam nearly whispered the question.
“Not exactly. Someone cut off his fingers and fed him to the gators down in Ten Thousand Islands.” Tillis replied in a factual and almost nonchalant manner as he organized his notes and paperwork.
Sam turned an even paler shade of white and pushed his chair away from the conference table, bent over to the side and began to wretch into a wastepaper container. Tillis looked over at Sally Cummings, raised an eyebrow and silently mouthed his words. “Make sure he puked in there.” A lot of people could cry on cue, but very few could actually puke on demand.
