Caribbean Moon

by Rick Murcer

  “More things I don’t need to know,” said Manny.

  She grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and began moving her way through the eight drawers of the vanity.

  Manny started at the bed. Bending close to the comforter, he went over every inch making mental notes of what he saw, or of what he thought he saw. Everything was important.

  The threesome searched the stateroom for fifteen minutes without any significant revelations. Except for a small spot of blood Alex found on the bathroom wall.

  “There is no way to tell whose without DNA testing. It could have been from a cut while Lynn was shaving, or it could have even been from another cruise. Damn, it could have come from the killer,” he moaned to Manny.

  “Okay. Keep looking and we’ll check it out when the room gets processed.”

  Sophie had finished searching the drawers and closets, and was now down on her knees getting an up close and personal look at the floor in front of the closet.

  “Do you need any help?” asked Manny.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. I’m going out to the balcony.” He stepped out to the verandah, careful where he moved, hoping for something to jump up and bite him in the ass. It took a couple of minutes.

  After seeing nothing obvious on the table and chairs, he leaned over the railing for another look at the lifeboat below the Casnovsky’s cabin, taking in every inch of the orange covering. On the far border of the lifeboat’s tarp, near the center’s edge, flapped a three-corner tear, prancing ever so slightly in the breeze. Just enough to catch his attention before the sun’s reflection hid it again. The tear didn’t fit with the character of the immaculately maintained ship. It could be something, or nothing, but he’d have Alex check it out as soon as the meeting was over.

  When he turned to leave the deck, something caught his eyes, waving at the corner of his vision. Manny knelt down, twisting closer to a section of the narrow, white gutter running underneath the railing.

  “Sophie, Alex. You better take a look at this.”

  Sophie arrived first, and then Alex squeezed onto the small terrace. He looked like dough popping out a cylinder of store-bought biscuits.

  “What is it?” asked Sophie.

  Manny pointed to the small area of the drain.

  “I’ll be slapped shitless,” muttered Alex.

  Resting against the side of the drain was a small green, oval shaped leaf. The leaf had a dark red semi-circle spotting the left half. The stain winked at them through the mid-morning light.

  “What kind of leaf is that?” asked Sophie.

  “The killer’s favorite kind. It belongs to a rose,” whispered Manny.

  CHAPTER-36

  Manny was already seated at the large round table in the captain’s extravagant conference room, when Sophie sat to his left and Gavin and Alex plopped down on his right.

  There was little doubt that this meeting arena was designed for comfort and not necessarily for optimum function. The cherry trimmed chairs were leather and cushioned like none he had ever sat in. The smell said they were new.

  Spare no expense comes to mind.

  Leaving the Casnovsky’s room the way he found it had caused his impatience to grow and questions to multiply. He was eager to get on with this meeting, to find Lynn, then to begin the real search for Liz’s killer. Who knew, maybe one search ended the other.

  He tapped his foot on the thick carpet. When was the Captain going to show? He called the damned meeting and was late. They were wasting time, and that gnawed at his gut. Liz deserved better.

  But there were other emotions, too. Not the least was his irritation toward Richardson. The idiot let the possible murder scene sit too long. Way too long. Late was the worst kind of police work, and everyone knew it. Clues could be lost and information distorted because the “Sentinel of Security” on the Ocean Duchess feared upsetting other guests.

  Richardson sat opposite Manny, talking and joking with three of his security staff who seemed as clueless and oblivious as their poor excuse for a leader.

  Why hadn’t they processed the room? They couldn’t be that incompetent. What did they think this was? Some training exercise for first-year cadets?

  The answer was obvious as white on rice; the head of security still wasn’t taking this seriously. Even after Liz’s body had been discovered, he thought her death was some kind of domestic.

  Manny burned.

  What about canvassing the area to see if any of the guests had noticed Liz or Lynn; or maybe someone hanging around outside their door? Did he talk to staff to see if they heard or saw anything suspicious around the lifeboat? Richardson had to know the longer you wait the less effective an eyewitness interview became.

  It was probably this strain of slacker attention to detail that had caused Richardson to leave the big city force and accept a cushy assignment.

  Manny’s hand traveled through his hair, never taking his eyes from the security chief.

  “Take a deep breath, cowboy. You’re going to blaze a hole in that jerk’s face if you don’t knock it off,” whispered Sophie.

  It was too late. Richardson had finally honed in on Manny’s less than approving stare. How perceptive.

  “Can I help you with something, Detective Williams?” Richardson smirked.

  “I don’t think there is anything you can do to help me. And I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you can do to help solve the murder of Liz Casnovsky, either.”

  A slow, creeping red began its tour up Richardson’s neck.

  “What’s your problem, detective? You’re a guest on this ship, not in charge of this investigation. First off, you have no jurisdiction. Secondly, this isn’t Hicksville, Michigan. This is a real investigation. This isn’t putt-putt golf. We’re teeing off at Pebble Beach.”

  “Yeah well, doesn’t it take balls to tee it up? So far, I haven’t seen any in your sorry excuse for police work.”

  Richardson’s eyes flashed. He stood up, and his chair shot back, hit the wall, and rattled to the floor. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  The security chief started around the table, his staff reaching to restrain the large man. Manny jumped up, scrambling over the pristine table to cut him off. He felt Sophie and Gavin grab him, but he was stronger than the two of them, especially now. He didn’t slow down until Alex joined the melee, grabbing him around the waist. It looked like a scene from a redneck bar or an out-of-control brawl at a European soccer match.

  “Why haven’t you processed their room? What are you waiting for? The next damned cruise?” Manny yelled. “Explain that to me.”

  “I don’t have to explain shit to you.”

  Just then, the door from the Captain’s office swung open and Serafini led three others into the room.

  Manny caught the surprise registered on all four faces. He guessed the last thing they expected was a rumble scene from West Side Story.

  “Richardson, stand down, now!” ordered the Captain. “Detective Williams, that’s enough. Return to your chair.”

  Despite the Captain’s orders, neither man moved. Anxiety hung in the air like the final note from a Metallica concert. He waited for Richardson’s next move. Finally, the security chief shrugged off his staff, bent over, righted his chair, and sat down. Manny reluctantly followed suit, but only after he tossed a last disapproving look in the Chief’s direction.

  “That’s better. We have a serious problem here, very serious. We need to work together. That will happen or I’ll toss each and every one of you off my ship.”

  His dark eyes demanded full attention, as he glared around the table. He got it.

  “Is there anything I haven’t made perfectly clear?” asked Captain Serafini.

  In Manny’s view, no one in the room wanted to test the Captain’s peremptory question.

  “Good.”

  After a few moments of tension-riddled silence, the three newcomers, two men and a woman, sat down with the Captain.

&nb
sp; First impressions were important, so Manny gathered his.

  The medium height Latino woman wore a large golden crucifix in the hollow of her throat. Her hazel eyes reflected bright, searching intelligence that indicated she wasn’t easily fooled. Probably a bit paranoid. Not a bad thing for a cop.

  Her angular face was blemish free and pleasant to look at, and she was in great physical condition, maybe a runner. Manny guessed she was the detective from San Juan.

  The two men were dressed in dark suits and thin ties and possessed a familiar quality. They were cops, but not just cops. They were Feds, probably FBI. The Captain was right, they had a problem; a big one.

  CHAPTER-37

  “This is detective Christina Perez with the San Juan Police Department,” said Captain Serafini.

  The Puerto Rican detective flashed a warm, professional smile. But she was definitely a cop. Manny thought she had seen a thing or two, but it hadn’t hardened her. Yet there was an air of persistent toughness about her. He liked her immediately.

  “This is agent Josh Corner and agent Max Tucker from the FBI. Agent Corner will be in charge of the investigation.”

  The men nodded greetings to the others seated around the table.

  Corner stood six feet with a strong build and maybe thirty-five years behind him, and definitely ex-military. He was good looking, and his hair sported the popular, almost-shaved style. His piercing blue eyes said no-nonsense and suggested a line of attack that meant he wanted to be more than an agent, maybe even run the Bureau someday. Corner’s demeanor left little doubt concerning who was in charge. Manny knew the agent was used to results, and fast.

  Tucker looked a little younger and stood about five-ten with a much slighter build. His black hair was slicked back with every lock in place. His large nose sat between small, intelligent eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Manny guessed the African-American agent was the forensics expert. If he was right, and he was sure he was, Tucker had to be very good at what he did. The FBI didn’t hire from the bottom of the barrel.

  A small spark of hope flickered somewhere deep within Manny. There was no substitute for bright minds and vast amounts of information in spite of the Fed’s famous, or infamous, lack of a personal touch.

  Tucker circled the room passing out identical blue files with the official FBI seal stamped on the front, each containing 100 pages or so.

  These guys didn’t miss a lick. And why should they? Lansing could only dream about having the resources at the Fed’s disposal. Money talks.

  “This is all of the crime scene pictures and forensic information from the murder of Ms. Henkle in San Juan. It also contains as much information as we could gather from the murder of Park Ranger Maxwell in St. John yesterday.”

  Max Tucker’s statement ripped through the room like gunfire.

  “There are two other murders?” Manny asked, after regaining his poise, the scene at the hotel charging back like a runaway rhino.

  Agent Corner nodded.

  “I told you. You didn’t know what the hell you were talking about,” said Richardson.

  “That’s enough, Chief,” warned the Captain.

  Manny ignored Richardson as Corner continued.

  “Three in three days with almost identical MOs. Obviously, you can see the urgency. We have a serial killer running around the Caribbean, and we believe him to be on this ship.”

  Corner’s gaze settled on the Lansing side of the table.

  “We won’t beat around the bush here. We have three murders to discuss and the preliminary supposition is that they were committed by the same perp. I’m sorry for your loss. I actually worked with DA Casnovsky on a case a few years ago. She did a stellar job. The reason you’re here, however, has nothing to do with your relationship with her. In fact, that almost kept you out of this meeting and off the case.

  “But if what you suspect is true, that Robert Peppercorn could be involved with the Martin case, it stands to reason that he could somehow be involved in the others because of the killer’s MO.”

  The agent reached for his bottled water and took a thoughtful drink. “There aren’t many profiles jumping out at us that match the kind of savagery that Peppercorn committed. He seems to be a prime lead unless we have a newly evolved unsub. We don’t think that’s the case because of the specifics of the MO, primarily because of the rose. With that in mind, frankly, no one will have more insight than the Lansing officers.

  “As thorough as they are, there’s only so much information contained in the databases at our disposal. Even the Behavioral Analysis Unit can only give us a possible profile. The investigative analysts are helpful, but I find the local enforcement officers invaluable.”

  Corner’s eyes shifted directly to Manny. “Detective Williams, your Chief has recommended that you be the contact person for the LPD. You need to understand that you have no jurisdiction here and that you are involved to assist us. Is that clear?”

  Manny nodded. Clear, for now. Some things never change. The FBI’s reputation for dictating procedures, processes, and who got to play and who didn’t, was world renown. But this would be a tough one for them to control. He suspected Corner knew it, and Manny had no intentions of waiting for orders. Not on this one.

  “I need you all to think clearly, set aside any differences you may have, and lock up your emotions.” He looked at Richardson and waited for confirmation. Finally, the Security Chief gave a slight nod toward Corner.

  Tucker stepped to the front of the table. “I want you all to take a few minutes to leaf through the file. Maybe you can see something right away that will help speed up this investigation.”

  He spoke with a slight wheeze, like a long-time allergy sufferer. The muggy Caribbean would not be conducive to improving that situation. But he got a sense that Tucker would tough it out. Persistence is a good trait in a CSI, and Tucker seemed to fit that mold.

  The room grew silent as the rest of the members of the task force reviewed the information. At one point, Manny saw Chief Richardson gawking at his file in disbelief. So much for the easy gig he had signed on for.

  Ten minutes later, Tucker broke the silence. “Let me brief you on what we have. And please feel free to ask any question you’d like because anything could be helpful.”

  As Tucker presented his overview of the three cases, it became apparent to Manny that the agent was not just a CSI, but a forensics expert--a damn good one, too. His spark of hope was flickering into a small flame.

  “All three murders were committed by manual strangulation. No artificial ligature marks were found. He used his hands. The bruising isn’t totally clear because of the mutilation, but you can make out vague finger lines. He has huge hands and is extremely strong. There were no apparent signs of forced entry in the first two murders. It doesn’t appear to be the circumstance in the Casnovsky case either. He seemed to know their routines, is a charmer, or they knew him.”

  Manny rejected that Liz’s murder was a “case.” She was a friend. It sounded cold, uncaring to address her like just another statistic.

  But how many times had Manny done the very same thing?

  He focused on the agent’s last comment--“they knew him.”

  Lynn. Could he kill like this? Did his dark side travel that far into the terrible? He remembered Sophie’s emotional confession, how Lynn had hurt her and enjoyed it. Could he have tortured and killed not only his wife, but the other two women too?

  Agent Tucker squirted germ sanitizer on his hands and continued.

  “Again, the killer used his hands to kill, but the tearing and ripping on each body was done with his teeth. He has a strong, psychotic fixation with oral mutilation and he takes great joy in the torture process. He needs to dominate.”

  “There didn’t appear to be any ingestion of flesh. It was mostly there, just shredded. We believe that he tears the throat to symbolically quiet his victims. At least that’s what our analysts think. I’m not sure about that. The evidence indicates that he
just loses it.

  “It’s possible that he was maltreated by a woman who may have verbally abused him to an extremely vicious degree. Maybe even locked him up, or restrained him in some way.” Agent Tucker removed his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of his chair.

  “We think the victims were unconscious for most of, or perhaps, the entire ordeal. There are chemical traces of chloroform in each of their respiratory systems. Chloroform also leaves small red blotches wherever it comes in contact with skin. All three victims have that type of blotching around the nose and mouth. The fact that they were drugged during the assault reinforces our opinion that the victims were unconscious, at least during part of the attacks. We didn’t get much, so far, from the initial toxicology reports.”

  Tucker pulled an asthma inhaler from his pocket, took a shot, and continued.

  “He’s extremely bright. He wipes each victim’s neck with bleach to destroy any saliva evidence. We are trying to find untainted samples from the first two victims, but nothing yet. There is evidence of sexual activity, postmortem, but he must have used a condom because there is no semen left at the scene. He also clips the victim’s fingernails to remove any possible skin or hair samples that may have been left during the assault. Like I said, very smart. The rose he leaves behind has some personal meaning, but we’re not sure what.”

  “We brought in our best people from Evidence Response Teams to St. John and San Juan. They are using every collection process we have available to find fibers, hairs, trace of footprints, and body fluids. But, as I said, he is very careful.”

  Sophie twisted in her chair and Manny gave her a side glance. Each business-like word Tucker spoke must have brought more sardonic doubt to her. She had to be wondering the same things about Lynn that Manny was. She’s a good cop. Good cops looked at the possibilities. He heard her breath tangle in her throat and knew what was coming next.

  “What about Lynn Casnovsky? Should he be a suspect?” Sophie offered. Her voice was cool, calm, professional. He hoped no one else saw the emotion living just under her composure.