Caribbean Moon (A Manny Williams Thriller, Book One)

by Murcer, Rick

  “Spare no expense” came to mind.

  Leaving the Casnovsky’s room the way he had found it, his impatience grew and questions multiplied. 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.

  Manny tapped his foot on the thick carpet. The captain had called the damned meeting, and he was late. Where was the man? 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 had 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 can’t be that incompetent. What do they think this is? 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, Richardson 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? Had he talked to staff to see if they heard or saw anything suspicious around the lifeboat? Richardson had to know the longer the 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 on this boat.

  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 pissy 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 that registered on all four faces. He guessed the last thing they had 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. Tension hung in the air as Manny waited for Richardson’s next move. Finally, the security chief shrugged off his staff, righted his chair, and sat down. Manny reluctantly followed suit, but only after he tossed a last kiss-my-ass look in the chief’s direction.

  “That’s better,” Captain Serafini said. “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?”

  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.

  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 their demeanor was familiar. They were cops, but not just cops: 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 guessed she had seen a thing or two, but it hadn’t hardened her. There was an air of persistence and 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, 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 were no-nonsense, and his demeanor left little doubt concerning who was in charge. Manny knew the type; agent Corner expected results, and fast. Exactly the kind of attitude that led to bigger and better things for his career.

  Tucker looked a little younger and stood about five-ten with a much slighter build. His black hair was slicked back, every lock in place. His large nose sat between small, intelligent eyes, missing 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 resources for information—in spite of the Feds’ 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 a hundred pages or so.

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

  “These are 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.”

  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 charged 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 th
e 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 our databases are, there’s only so much information they can give us. 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-renowned. 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. The ruddy-faced 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 air likely would not improve 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 Richardson gawking at his file in disbelief. So much for the easy gig he’d hoped 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 flickered 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, or he 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 have I 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 haven’t gotten 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 available to find fibers, hairs, trace of footprints, and body fluids. But, as I said, this killer 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.

  Agent Corner responded. “We all know the stats on domestic violence and spousal murders. But we don’t think Mr. Casnovsky is a viable suspect, at least in all three murders. He has never had anything in his past that would predict this kind of behavior.”

  “How do you know?” growled Richardson.

  Corner flashed a condescending yet polite grin.

  “We are the Feds, Chief. We do have access to a few things that local authorities don’t. Besides, on the night of Ms. Henkle’s murder, there are several cash advances issued in the casino from his debit card, and two casino dealers recognized him from his picture. We believe he was gambling during the time of her death. We would still like to talk to him once he’s located,” he said, looking at Sophie.

  For now, it didn’t appear that Sophie’s former lover was a homicidal maniac hurtling through the Caribbean engulfed in a binge of violence.

  “Witnesses?” asked Gavin.

  “Detective Perez?” deferred Agent Corner.

  “A bartender at the Wyndham saw Ms. Henkle speaking with a tall, well-b
uilt man just before she left,” Perez said. “It was too dark for the bartender to make out details of the man’s face, so we really won’t be able to have a sketch drawn up. He thinks that the man left a few minutes after her, but he was busy and couldn’t say for sure. He said the guy was a little creepy and definitely American.

  “We didn’t find anyone who saw anything unusual at the hotel. We’re not even sure he stayed there. With cruise ships in and out, it’s hard to get a handle on the coming-and-going confusion. We checked with the people at the front desk, but no one remembers anyone who resembled the bartender’s description.

  “It’s amazing what sunglasses, a hat, and baggy clothes can do to make someone just part of the crowd.”

  Manny’s blood turned to ice. The man in the courtyard at the Wyndham. It was him.

  “Wait a minute. I may have seen that guy,” he said.

  He explained what he thought he saw on the night of Mike and Lexy’s wedding.

  Gavin stared at Manny, his face turning as white as his shirt.

  “Why didn’t you say something to me? That’s my kid,” demanded Gavin.

  “I thought I was seeing things. It was dark. It was late. I didn’t want to overreact. I just thought I was having a hard time getting out of cop mode.”

  Gavin looked at him and sighed. “You’re right. No reason to panic over that. It’s a little scary, that’s all.”

  Corner said, “It could be nothing, but why don’t you compare notes with the bride and groom, see what they remember?”

  “I’ll talk to Mike and Lexy when we get out of here.”

  “Good place to start,” agreed Corner.

  Agent Tucker explained that no one saw anything at St. John either. Just the woman who had found Dot Maxwell.

  “Dot Maxwell was a pretty unfortunate lady. She had been assaulted about six months ago in that same office. Her statement said that she had been sure she was going to die, but something had scared him off or he’d just left. She wasn’t sure. Not so lucky this time.”