by AJ Basinski
“So glad to see you, Mario,” Shipley said as I sat down opposite him on the picnic table bench. “I don’t know what caused you to change your mind about helping me out on this murder investigation, but whatever it was, it sure was good news to me. I can really use your help here.”
I thought about telling Shipley about the abrupt departure of Sun Li the night before but then decided against it. Besides which, I had the feeling in my gut that somehow Shipley already knew all about that.
“Well, I have some additional time, Ed,” I said. “Not a lot of time, but some time,” I emphasized. “I’m not due back on the Mardi Gras for another week or so. I thought I would step up to the plate and try to help out if you still need me, my old buddy,” I said with some false intensity. I really felt that I had to do something or I would just crazy on this island. Maybe I was already getting a slight case of island fever.
“Look, there is no one more pleased than me that you agreed to come on board,” Shipley replied. “I’m going to have to make you some sort of temporary deputy or something so you will have the authority you will need to assist in the murder investigation, but I can work out those details.”
“I figured it would be something like that,” I said. “Whatever you think is best, Ed.”
“Good. Well, why don’t we just go ahead and get started here. First of all, let me tell you a little bit about this Mark Sullivan, the guy whose body was found in the cooler the other day in the water near the Bonita Inn.”
Shipley explained to me that Sullivan had come to the island to live just a few months ago. Shipley said he wasn’t exactly sure where he had come from, but he said he thought it was somewhere up north. He described Sullivan as “nothing but trouble.” According to Shipley, during his short time on Palm Island, Sullivan had gotten into more than a few bar fights with some of the local residents. Usually it was over a woman.
“After a few boilermakers,” Shipley said that “Sullivan would frequently boast about all the women he was screwing on the island. Not surprisingly, some of the men in the bar had taken offense to that.” In one of these fights, Shipley said he had knocked a guy unconscious with a sucker punch. But for some reason when the guy woke up, he refused to press charges against Sullivan.
“Maybe the guy thought Sullivan would do something worse to him if he did,” I volunteered.
“Maybe,” Shipley said. “That’s a great point. Hadn’t thought of that.” Shipley also said his deputy had issued Sullivan a couple of citations for drunk driving and reckless driving along Palm Island Road. “He damn near killed this old fisherman guy who was crossing the road one night on his way back to his truck, where he sold stone crabs. The old guy got his license number and we tracked Sullivan down the next morning.”
“Recently, Sullivan seemed to have come into some money,” Shipley continued. “No one seems to know where he got the money or just how much. But he was clearly spending it like it wasn’t about to go away anytime soon.”
Shipley explained that Sullivan recently had bought himself a brand new, Ford F-150 pickup truck with a trailer hitch.
“I got to admit that I was kind of jealous myself when I would see him driving around the island in the new F-150. All I have to drive is my police cruiser that old Crown Vic parked over there” Shipley said as he pointed to the black and white police patrol car sitting in the gravel lot in front of the restaurant. “You know they don’t even make them anymore.” I remembered seeing the Crown Vic once before on the day we had arrived on the island. Shipley had laid down some substantial rubber when he had left the Bonita Inn parking lot that day.
“By the way, that trailer hitch on his truck,” Shipley said, “it was for a new fishing boat which he kept moored near the Bonita Inn, where you’re staying. A goddam 32 footer. To tell you the truth, Mario, I wouldn’t mind having a boat like that myself. Of course, on a police chief’s salary like I make, that ain’t’ going to happen any time soon.” Shipley sounded very disappointed as he said this, like he really was jealous of this Sullivan guy. It seemed like he had a lot that Shipley wanted.
Shipley continued, “Also, a couple of people from the island told me that they had been surprised to see Sullivan in downtown Fort Myers on several occasions recently wearing a blue pin-striped suit and fancy black loafers. Usually, like most fishermen on the Island or those who think of themselves as a fisherman, he usually just wore dirty old jeans and rubber waders. They said he was visiting a lawyer downtown on First Avenue.”
It was easy to tell that Shipley really did not like this Sullivan guy. Nor, apparently, did a lot of other people on the island. “I take it that you’ve checked out the truck and the boat for evidence?” I said.
Shipley nodded his head, “Sure, sure, what do you think? This is not my first rodeo,” he replied a little testily. “They were both clean as a whistle.”
“This Sullivan guy sure seems like a real jerk,” I said after Shipley had finally finished talking. “From what you just said, it seems like he had a lot of people who wouldn’t be too unhappy if he just disappeared one day. Have you talked to those people he had mixed it up with?” I asked.
“Yeah, I talked to some of them,” said Shipley rather nonchalantly. “No leads, though. Nobody seems to know anything. But that’s why I need your help, cause we got sort of an odd twist to his murder.”
“Odd twist, what the hell does that mean, Ed?” I asked.
Shipley paused for what seemed like an eternity before he said anything more. To me, it seemed like Shipley was choosing his words very carefully, maybe a little too carefully, making sure that he would tell me only enough information that I needed to know right at this moment. I also recalled from our days working together in LA, that Shipley was the kind of guy who would get upset if you disagreed with him on even the most minor points. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was who the prime suspect in a murder investigation was or where was the place to stop for the best coffee. Once he had made his mind up on a subject that was it. He would not consider any alternative. I guess he hadn’t changed very much from the days I knew him in Los Angeles. As I was waiting for him to continue, memories of some of our run-ins while on the LAPD came flooding back to me. I guess people rarely do change. Certainly, I really didn’t think that Shipley had changed much, if at all.
“You know, of course, we just recently began the process of renewing our country’s diplomatic relations with the Castro regime in Cuba,” Shipley said as he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. Obviously, he did not want anyone else to hear what he had to say.
I nodded my head in response. Sure, like everyone else, several months ago I had read with some surprise about that thaw in our relations with the Cuban government. But I have to admit that I was completely baffled as I heard this from Shipley now. What in the world does the United States’ relations with Cuba have to do with the murder investigation of a seemingly no account guy like this Mark Sullivan? For now though I decided to let Shipley continue talking without saying a word in response. I had often found that sometimes just being quiet was the best way to get information from a suspect or anyone else for that matter.
“So, first of all, let me make one thing absolutely clear: everything I am going to tell you now, needless to say, is highly confidential and cannot be repeated to anyone else. And I do mean anyone. Not only my life but CIA operatives here in Florida and in Cuba would be placed in great danger if any of what I am about to tell you should become public knowledge. Can I trust you, Mario, to keep everything I’m going to tell you to yourself and not tell anyone else?”
“Of course,” I said, nodding my head in assent. “I fully understand what you are saying. And, of course, I will keep everything I hear strictly to myself.” CIA? I thought to myself, what’s going on here? And what am I getting myself into anyways? Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe I should just go back to Miami and wait for the Mardi Gras’ repairs to be finished.
As Shipley was speaking, the waitr
ess, a young girl in tight blue jeans with red and green sparkles on the rear pockets and an equally tight tee shirt that said “Sam’s,” came by our table and took our orders. The two of us both ordered the grouper sandwiches at Shipley’s suggestion. Shipley stopped talking until the waitress had stepped away from the table. Obviously, Shipley did not want the young girl to hear anything that he had so say.
“You’ve heard of the Cuban Bay of Pigs invasion, haven’t you” Shipley finally began again after she was out of earshot, still whispering so that even I had trouble hearing him.
“Oh sure,” I responded. “Who hasn’t? But that was a half century ago or more. Although in Miami, particularly in Little Havana where I live, the way some people talk about it, it sometimes seems like people treat it as if it just happened yesterday. The emotions are still so raw there that even bringing it up in casual conversation can lead to blows. What does that have to do with what’s going on here on Palm Island now, the murder of this Sullivan guy? I thought that was what we were here to talk about.”
“Let me go over a little history with you that should explain why I think there may be a connection here between that ill-fated invasion and the murder of this Mark Sullivan guy earlier this month.”
I nodded my head as Shipley was talking, but I still had no idea how this all tied together with the murder of Mark Sullivan or why he was giving me an extended history lesson on the Bay of Pigs, all of which I had learned in History 101 back in Central Valley Community College. That was where I had received my associate degree in criminal justice before going on to the police academy.
Shipley explained that the Bay of Pigs was the location on the island of Cuba where a group of Cuban refugees, about 1400 men supported by the United States’ CIA, attempted to stage an invasion of Cuba in the spring of 1961 to overthrow the Castro regime, which turned out to be particularly brutal. Hundreds of Cubans had already been shot or imprisoned by Castro’s forces to eliminate any threat to the regime.
The invasion proved to be a complete disaster, largely because of the lack of air cover from the United States during the landings on the beaches in Cuba. Over 100 of the Cuban refugees were killed and most of the rest were captured by the Castro regime’s forces.
I let Shipley talk without saying a word in response as he repeated this story to me Now that he had started, he seemed eager to tell me everything. That probably should have been a clue. But I later acknowledged to myself that I had missed it at the time. I had once dealt with a CIA guy back in Los Angeles in connection with a big drug bust and series of murders that had international implications. I had reached the conclusion then that the CIA agents were real tight asses. Shipley seemed to have adopted that same type of attitude even with me.
“Few people were aware of this at the time,” Shipley continued, “but the Cuban refugees were trained by the CIA on a small, private island not far from where we are right now. The training took place on an island off the coast here that most people have never even heard of, or certainly visited. It’s called Useppa Island. It’s a private island now with just a handful of people who live there. And damn difficult to get onto. They don’t cotton much to strangers there. I know, because I’ve been there.”
Useppa? I had to admit that I had never heard of Useppa myself.
“This Cuban refugee army, if you can call it that,” Shipley continued, “was given some five million dollars in gold bars directly from Fort Knox by the United States government through the CIA. The Cubans were supposed to use the gold if the invasion was successful. It was to provide the basis for the treasury for the new government to help the economy get doing again after the Castro communist regime had managed to ruin it after just a few years in power.” Of course, I was aware that a US trade embargo did not help either. I could tell that Shipley, for some reason, was beginning to get angry as his voice rose. Was he Cuban? I didn’t think so but maybe he or his family had changed his name from a more Hispanic sounding name.
“After the disaster at the Bay of Pigs,” Shipley went on, “those damn gold bars just seemed to disappear. To this day, no one knows for sure what happened to them. There were all kinds of theories and rumors but no hard proof as to what happened to the gold. Now you would think five million in gold bars would be hard to hide, but it just seemed to disappear. Today, believe it or not, that five million in gold bars would be worth at least one hundred and seventy million dollars. And maybe more.”
“Wow.” I said, shocked at this number. “But wouldn’t this all have come out to the public by now?” I finally said. “After all, this whole Bay of Pigs thing took place over fifty years ago. Hasn’t the CIA released all its files on the Bay of Pigs a long time ago?” I was becoming more than a little annoyed at this guy with his history lessons so I prodded Shipley.
“You’re right, of course,” Shipley said, “there has been a lot of information that has been made public about the Bay of Pigs and what went wrong, et cetera. Some people within the CIA itself even believe it has gone too far in releasing information. But I can assure you that there is a whole file on the Bay of Pigs that has never been declassified by the CIA. This hidden gold thing is a part of that file.”
“I’m curious about couple things, Ed. How in the hell did you learn all about this gold if it was supposed to be a secret? And more to the point, what does this have to do with Mark Sullivan being murdered and thrown into Palm Island Sound chopped to pieces and stuck in an ice cooler?”
I had been nodding my head as I was listening to Shipley in between bites of my grouper sandwich, but I sensed that Shipley could see that I was becoming impatient. So, I wasn’t completely surprised when he said, “By the way, I’m sorry for being so long winded with the history, but I wanted to make sure that you had the complete picture.”
“I had guessed as much,” I said. “But go ahead. Finish your story.”
“Let me tell you how this whole damn thing ties together,” Shipley said. “The CIA guy I spoke to said that they think that this Mark Sullivan guy found the gold somewhere on Palm Island. You see, a few of the Cubans managed to come over to Palm Island in boats when the invasion failed. Apparently, the CIA now thinks that they buried the gold somewhere on the island. They think Sullivan may have somehow unearthed it recently, whether by accident or whatever. That would explain why Sullivan suddenly had lots of money to throw around on a new truck, a big fishing boat and some fancy new clothes.
“Wow, that’s a helluva story,” I said. “And, man, that’s obviously a lot of money,” I said. I could definitely understand how that much gold might be a powerful incentive for murder, if someone had found it and others learned of his discovery.
“And you think someone found out about Sullivan’s discovery and killed him for the gold?” I asked Shipley.
“You got it, Mario. That’s the present thinking.” Shipley answered. “The CIA sent a guy down here to see what he could find out. I knew the CIA guy from way back. You see, at one time, I worked for the CIA myself. I was what they call a NOC. He said that he knew he could trust me because of that so he decided on his own to get me involved since he knew that I knew this island a helluva lot better than he did.”
I thought to myself, what in the hell is he talking about.
“What is a NOC?” I said to Shipley.
“It’s all pretty complex,” Shipley said as his voice became even more of a whisper. “Let’s just say that I was in what the spooks like to call, ‘deep cover.’ Nobody, not even my wife, knew I was playing with the big boys. No one. You’re the only one I’ve really ever told. That’s because I know you will keep quiet about it.”
‘Deep cover’? ‘NOC’? What the hell kind of crap is this? I thought to myself. But I decided I had better play along, at least for the time being.
“I still don’t understand why you need me and how I can be of any help in this investigation,” I said. “To be honest with you, that whole scenario seems pretty far-fetched to me. What could Sullivan do wit
h the gold if he did find it? He couldn’t just take a gold bar or two into a jewelry store and trade it for cash,” I said. “In any event, wouldn’t the logical suspects in his murder be the Cubans who buried the gold here in the first place, if that’s what happened? Wouldn’t they be the ones who would be pissed that somebody was taking their gold?”
“You’re right, of course,” said Shipley. “And we are looking into that possibility. That is where we think you could be of great help to us. I know that you live in Little Havana in Miami where there are lots of Cuban refugees. I also know that you speak Spanish fairly well and are known in the Cuban community there. All of that could well come in real handy during the course of this investigation.”
I think that Shipley could see that I was still skeptical. At this point, Shipley said, “Look, at bottom, this is still a murder investigation and I still need your help. You’re the best. If anyone can find the murderer, it’s got to be you, Mario. But I got to caution you. If anyone finds out that the CIA is involved and that they are looking for gold on Palm Island, this whole place would just go ballistic. It would be worse than the gold rush of the ‘49ers in California. That’s what I really am worried about. I owe it to the community to protect them from all that, if I can. And I think if we can find the murderer of Sullivan, I’m pretty sure we will find the gold at the same time. It’s win-win. ”
I was nodding my head as Shipley was speaking, but I still had plenty of questions about this whole crazy scenario that Shipley was describing. I just wasn’t sure now was the appropriate time to bring them all up.
