Caribbean Moon

by Rick Murcer

  The killer had staged this. He wanted everyone to see his version of a three-ring circus.

  A stout black-haired woman standing just behind Manny, dressed in a glittering, purple formal gown, ejected her recently eaten dinner, splattering on the deck with conviction. The stench filtered over the crowd and triggered several other guests to follow suit. Vomit plastered all over the deck was not in the cruise line’s brochure.

  Just then, Richardson chugged up beside him. He was out of breath and clutching his chest. His wheezing gasps caught in his jowled throat when he saw the arm.

  Manny took a step closer, and felt the weight of the world drop on his shoulders.

  Any remaining hope that Manny held of finding Liz alive had vanished. He recognized the large diamond ring and polished gold wedding band attached to her unmoving ring finger.

  It had belonged to Liz’s mother. She had been married with the ring and wanted her only daughter to have the same experience.

  Liz Casnovsky’s cruise was officially over.

  CHAPTER-30

  The dismal silence thrumming through the sterile, impersonal waiting room of the ship’s infirmary, where Manny and Alex Downs sat, did little to alter Manny’s mood. The aroma of rubbing alcohol jitterbugged through the air reminding him of every doctor’s office he had ever been in.

  Manny scanned the textured floor, knowing Alex and he were both walking through various stages of denial, trying to deal with the murder of their friend just the same.

  The others decided to wait in Gavin and Stella’s suite until Manny and Alex returned. None of the rest really wanted this duty call anyway. Not tonight, not this one, not Liz.

  Mixed emotions strolled into his mind like they owned the place and in a sick way, they did. He swore this wouldn’t happen on his watch, like the murder of his partner those years ago, yet it had. He knew he wasn’t on duty, but pensive, nefarious guilt said that he was partly to blame.

  “Stop it,” interrupted Alex. “This isn’t your fault, and it’s not about you, got it?”

  Denying where his thoughts were running, especially to Alex, was like suggesting water wasn’t wet. He looked back to his good friend. “I know. I’m working through it.”

  Alex sighed. “Yeah, me too.”

  The joy arising from a Caribbean cruise should go hand in hand with simply boarding the ship. Cruise was synonymous with great time. But not this one. Instead it had become a harbinger of dread and sadness, and for good measure, guilt.

  How did this happen? It was a wedding celebration and a Caribbean cruise. It doesn’t get much more harmless than that.

  The ship’s security staff had taken over the murder scene and cleared the deck so they could process the area and move Liz’s body to the infirmary. Richardson made it quite clear that cops from Lansing would be treated no differently from the rest of the guests, and he would call them when he needed them to identify the body. Manny started to argue, but thought better of it. Richardson was an ass, but more of a fool if he thought Manny wasn’t going to be a part of this investigation--with or without the Security Chief’s pointless approval. No one was going to put him, or the rest of the Lansing contingent, on the sidelines.

  He studied his hands, but didn’t really see them. He’d never been in this situation before. Far from home, no jurisdictional rights, and in unfamiliar surroundings--the trifecta.

  Nothing about any murder case on a cruise ship would, or could, be considered routine, especially given the emotional investment they all had with Liz. There were too many people with too many opportunities to contaminate evidence, and a clever killer would find it relatively easy to hide in a population of 5,300 people. Particularly when the ship’s Senior staff wanted to keep a lid on things. It wasn’t a sound business practice to have dead bodies hanging out of lifeboats.

  Nothing like shoveling shit against the tide.

  He funneled a glance toward Alex. He was glad he had brought the chubby CSI to the morgue. Maybe Alex could see something that the ship’s staff wouldn’t or didn’t. He had a feeling that crime scene processing was rare on a cruise ship and the people doing it weren’t that talented. At least not like Alex. To top things off, there had been no sign of Lynn anywhere. Where in hell was he?

  Over ninety percent of spousal deaths and assaults were committed or conspired by the other spouse so that made Lynn a natural place to start the questioning, but they had to find him first.

  His thoughts churned like an old-fashioned clothes washer over what Sophie had told him earlier, that Lynn was involved in another affair. How he took pleasure in getting his rocks off imitating the Count De Sade. He wanted to find Lynn first.

  If it were Lynn, where was he? Maybe he jumped ship after he killed his wife. But he had no money or ID. Was this an elaborate scheme to get rid of Liz and start over?

  What if it wasn’t Lynn? Was he in a lifeboat, too? How did Liz get into the boat without detection?

  The questions bombarded him like some frantic finale from Lord of the Dance.

  Dr. Simon Kristoff, from Kazakhstan, (according to his worn name tag) entered the tiny waiting room, and Manny and Alex rose and shook his hand. The doctor’s round face was ashen and drawn. His already thin lips were mere lines grooved across his face. The doctor’s eyes were glazed over like he had seen the impossible or something close to it.

  “Are you all right?” asked Manny.

  Kristoff stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “No, I think not. In all of my years of training and studying medicine, I have never seen anything like this,” replied the doctor, in a thick Russian accent. “It is beyond vicious.”

  “What did you see?” quizzed Alex. “It can’t be that bad.”

  Manny thought maybe it could.

  Dr. Kristoff stared at the men and, without another word, motioned for them to follow as he turned back toward the examination rooms.

  They walked through whitewashed rooms with black, padded patient tables tilted on forty-five degree angles. Several instrument cabinets housing medical paraphernalia eyed them as they moved past.

  The doctor led them through another door on the other end of the hospital and Manny was amazed at the sign above the entrance. MORGUE.

  He looked at Alex. “Morgue? On a cruise ship?”

  Alex nodded. “It makes sense. I read somewhere that as many as 100 people a year pass away while cruising. Usually older folks with health problems.”

  “Not something they put in the commercials,” said Manny.

  Alex smiled a tired smile. “Not good for their image.”

  As they walked through the last door, Manny noticed four brushed steel, rectangular doors about the size of a dormitory refrigerator on the right, kitty corner from the entrance. He looked closer and saw a name on one, Rose Charles. He wondered what had happened to poor Rose.

  To the left were two stainless steel tables situated about eight feet apart. Each one had a large umbrella light hovering above it. The lamp on the second table was shining like a spotlight in a stage production as it illuminated a sheet-covered body.

  The doctor strode to the second table and grabbed the white, bloodstained sheet, then hesitated. “Are you ready for this?” Without waiting for an answer, he rolled the sheet down to the victim’s waist.

  Hot, tingling silence raced up and down Manny’s body as the two men, two friends, took in the sight of Liz Casnovsky’s body. Manny swallowed hard to clear unexpected choking.

  He heard Alex catch his breath. He sounded like a member of the local polar bear club who had just dove into icy thirty-four-degree water.

  Angry tears of frustration and sorrow burned a path down Manny’s cheeks and he wanted to leave his body and come back when things were normal, when God had restored sanity to the unholy portrait in front of him. Maybe then.

  Liz’s neck and chest were ransacked. Shreds of skin and muscle where tangled everywhere. She looked like something left over from a lion attack on a gazelle. Bite mark
s riddled both sides of her once pretty face. There was a small section of orbital bone bulging under her left eye.

  Some things never leave you. A good song. Your first kiss. A religious experience. The first time you make love. The birth of your first child. Your first car. But nothing could attach itself to a man like a violent crime scene. Its memory, forever blistered into one’s psyche, could eviscerate wonderful recollections and render one sleepless for nights without end.

  It seemed impossible that he would ever see anything like this again. Even the textbooks said so. But the textbooks were wrong. All that was pure screamed this depraved scene couldn’t exist again. Not in a million years, not on a cruise ship, and especially not to his friend. But here it was.

  Kristoff reached over to a small steel table and picked up an object. It was wrapped in a plastic evidence bag, but still easy to recognize. Resting in the bag was a black rose with bloodstains running down the length of its foot-long stem.

  “We found it underneath the body.”

  Manny heard Alex mumble something under his breath. Then, as if he realized he hadn’t spoken clearly, said it again. “Sylvia Martin’s killer.”

  CHAPTER-31

  Liz Casnovsky’s killer stood on his private balcony, basking in the sultry, late night air, draped in his arrogance. The full Caribbean moon’s cloying light adorned his huge body. He hardly looked human.

  The train was in motion and picking up steam. His plan had begun to unwind just as he hoped it would. Even better. The ship’s security staff consisted of inbred misfits, especially their fearless leader, Craig Richardson, and wouldn’t be any challenge.

  A sneer enveloped his smooth-shaven face as he thought about the New York cop. The incompetent dick never had a notion that he would be in the middle of a grandiose crime scene like this one. He was probably in his room right now playing kissy face with a bottle of rum hoping this would all be gone in the morning. He laughed. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  The FBI would be brought in, and Williams could be a problem, but that only made things better. For him, at least.

  Feds or otherwise, none of them would ever suspect what was coming next.

  His concentration slithered back to his years at the damnable prison. It was where he developed; where he had figured out life--and death. Few should be exposed to what he had seen and heard. But his time there had been a spiritual teacher, a reciprocal lover, and an opportunity to be reborn, instead of the hopeless resignation that usually accompanies prison life. He had risen from the ashes, the pit, like the mythical Phoenix. For him, the shithole had been equivalent to the elemental soup where some scientists say life developed. Order from chaos.

  There were so many truths experienced by immersing one’s self in full-bore survival mode. He had fooled them all, and had more than survived, he had become.

  He had learned all the right responses and avoided the wrong, playing their game and winning.

  Not one single degrading thing he had been subjected to would control him again. He had made that promise to himself and intended to keep it.

  Turning from the past, the killer’s thoughts skipped to his next “assignment.” This one would be better. Not that making sure the Casnovskys were taken care of hadn’t been good, a real pleasure. But this one would be…amazing.

  The more he thought about the next day, the more his body stirred. His thighs began to twitch, and he had become aroused to a steel-hard state. Blood flowed through his veins at an unbelievable pace as each drop vibrated with the beat of his heart. He wasn’t sure he could contain himself any longer. Visions of her spun in his mind.

  It was going to be so good.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the plan. He had to stay clear, unattached, unemotional, setting aside any desire he might possess because the only thing that mattered was completion of the goal.

  Slowly, his breathing became shallow and controlled. Muscles slackened while his entire system bridled down enough so that he could get dressed for dinner. A meal with all the trimmings was just what the doctor ordered

  His last contemplation as he left the room was about the island of Dominica and her trimmings and how he’d collect them. Make them his own.

  What a stop it would be. Not just for him, no, but also for the sweet object of his affections, his new woman.

  Particularly for her.

  CHAPTER-32

  “You can’t be serious. I don’t need any help with this investigation,” fumed Craig Richardson. “Carousel hired me to handle these things, especially situations like this. These people are from Podunk, Michigan, for God’s sake. How in blazes do you think they can help me?”

  Captain Serafini’s black eyes were alive as he addressed the ship’s Security Chief. They snapped across the great expanse of his desk as the Captain struggled to stay his infamous temper.

  The large leather chair shifted under his weight while he harvested a long breath. He had never really cared for Richardson. It was difficult to respect a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye. His father always told him it was a way to judge a man’s character. Papa was right.

  He knew Richardson’s drinking was worse than the Chief let on, much worse. If he pushed the issue, he supposed he could have the Chief removed, but the position wasn’t high profile. Until now, that is.

  There were the usual drunken guest scenarios, an occasional assault, even accusations that guests were cheating in the casino that needed to be discreetly investigated. But that was the problem with Richardson, wasn’t it? Discretion was not typically part of his modus operandi. The man probably couldn’t even spell the word. He’d upset more than one innocent guest with false accusations. Throw in a drinking problem and there could be real trouble.

  The Captain shifted to the opposite side of the chair and drank a mouthful of the gourmet coffee calling his name. There had never been anything like this on any of his ships; a murdered woman for the whole ship to see and a missing husband who seemed to vanish in the tropical breeze. Damn it. Guests on a cruise ship aren’t supposed to see ungodly things like that. It was bad for business and bad for him.

  He needed Richardson functioning at full capacity, whatever that was.

  “Mr. Richardson. How much are you drinking these days?”

  The Chief’s eyes darted to his sandals and then spiked contempt toward the Captain.

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “You don’t? Well, I do. Let me spell it out for you. If you’re drunk or even under the influence a tiny bit, you could miss something important.” Serafini leaned over his desk. “Now, please answer the damned question.”

  “I had three beers Sunday night and nothing last night,” he said.

  The Captain knew better. “No more. Not another drop until this is over. Do you understand me?”

  Richardson bit his lip, holding back words that would most certainly cost him his job and then seemed to have a change of heart. “I won’t. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Do I look like I feel better?” He hoped Richardson was telling the truth, but he knew you had to play the hand you were dealt, even if it was most assuredly going to cost you. Maybe dearly. He had, however, made his point.

  “I talked to Dr. Kristoff last night and he told me what the Lansing officers said about the woman’s injuries, what they had seen before, which you, by the way, never bothered to share with me.”

  “Captain, I think they’re blowing smoke up my ass with a peace pipe. I don’t think they have ever seen anything like that before. My professional opinion is that when we find the husband, we find the killer. There is no psycho lunatic running around on this ship ripping out women’s throats. Especially one that followed them down here.” A defiant tone rose in his voice. “I know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  Without speaking, the Captain yanked open the top right-hand drawer of his immaculate desk and pulled out two documents, sliding them across the polished finish.


  “I received the first one from the San Juan PD yesterday morning. I got the second one about an hour ago. It’s from the authorities in the Virgin Islands. Read them and then tell me you still know “what the hell you’re talking about.”

  The Chief picked up the papers and gave the Captain an uneasy glance. He read both faxes. His eyes widened, quickly looking back to the Captain. “Is this shit for real?”

  “Oh, I assure you, my fine Chief, it’s for real. That’s three murders in less than forty-eight hours, and it would appear that the sick maniac is on this ship. My ship.”

  Serafini swiveled in his chair and looked out his window, intently focusing on the lush green island landscape.

  They had done their best, with fair success, to minimize the traumatic effect of last night’s incident. The rumor mill, supplied by the ship’s crew at his orders, depicted an awful suicide by an unhappy woman. If it got out that this was the third incident in three days, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the killer was cruising on the Ocean Duchess.

  He desperately needed to keep a lid on this. It was hard to accept that Richardson was his best shot at doing that. His security officer may be as sloppy as the killer was clever. They needed real help.

  He curved his chair back to face Richardson.“In an hour, Detective Perez from the San Juan Police, FBI Agent Josh Corner, his associate, and four members of the Lansing Police, to whom I have extended invitations, will meet with our staff to discuss this situation. If the people from Lansing think they have information that can help, and are willing to assist us, we are going to accept that assistance. Is that clear?”

  Richardson slapped the two documents in front of him. “Perfectly.”He lifted his large frame as the chair squeaked in protest. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  After the Chief slammed the door, Serafini let out a long breath. “So do I, so do I.”