Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  She stared at the giant snake. “You’re right. They’re not supposed to be here. People, mostly out of Miami bought young pythons. But when the snakes started to get too large, the owners came out the glades and released them. The pythons have no natural predators here. A big gator will take out a python, but not one that size.”

  They watched it slink down the tree, the snake’s long black tongue darting in and out if its mouth. Within seconds, the python was out of the tree and slithering through knee-high ferns.

  Wynona watched the snake vanish, shaking her head. “I look at the flowers, orchids, the greenery around us, the water. This island’s like a garden out here, and now there’s an uninvited serpent in the garden. “ She started to walk, but stopped. She held her hand up for a moment, her head still, eyes searching for the source of the sounds. “Hear that?”

  “Yeah. It almost sounds like a muzzled dog trying to bark.”

  “Some people think it sounds like pigs feeding. It’s not. That’s the sound of vultures. And it’s coming from the other side of that wild grove of royal palms. I’ve seen vultures feeding on a dead manatee. You can almost walk right up on them before they’ll scatter.”

  When they made it through the stand of trees, they stopped walking. The sight was something that struck at the core of the heart—vultures striping flesh from the bones of a dead body. Three young, black vultures with featherless heads, pecked at remnants of human flesh still attached to a skeleton. Most of the face was eaten away, gray hair remaining on the skull, clothes ripped and torn by the bird’s sharp beaks. The body appeared to be that of a man, his shirt was a long sleeve, Seminole patchwork, the cloth wet and speckled with vulture vomit. Black flies darted in and out of the corpse.

  Wynona stared at the body. She turned to O’Brien and lowered her voice. “Don’t get too close to them. If you frighten vultures, they can spew vomit at you from ten feet away. That may be what’s left of Frank Sparrow.” She clapped her hands twice. The vultures stopped eating, turning toward Wynona and O’Brien, the birds hissing. They shuffled off, opening their wings and taking flight over the saw grass.

  O’Brien and Wynona approached the body, waving away flies, the sour odor of rotting flesh and vulture defecation in the humid air. Wynona studied the remains of the corpse. She knelt, looking at the right hand. Much of the flesh had been stripped away. A gold ring with the raised letters in the center, FSU, remained on his left hand, the flesh before the ring and after it, stripped away to the bone.

  Wynona stood. “Frank Sparrow wore that ring all the time. He was a graduate from Florida State, played football for the team.”

  O’Brien said nothing, studying the corpse and the immediate perimeter. He knelt near the head of the body, ants crawling from the open mouth. O’Brien looked at the area where the right ear had been. He could see a small hole a few inches above the ear canal. Another hole was at the base of the skull. “Looks like the killer used a .22 caliber. No exit wounds, the rounds have a tendency to bounce around the inside of the skull, destroying the brain. The bugs give us a time line. I’d say the body has been out here a couple of weeks. The blowflies get here first. Beetles check in a few days later. Ants follow them. The spiders are last to arrive. They show up to dine on any remaining bugs. And sometimes they stay, crawling down into dark places like eye sockets.” He stood and glanced over to Wynona. “The spiders have arrived.”

  “Until the forensic autopsy results, it appears that we know how Frank was killed. Why was he murdered and who pulled the trigger? Was it a mob-ordered hit, or something else?” She looked around the area, white clouds motionless against a hard blue sky, nesting egrets squawking from the trees. “I have to call this in to the department. All we need to do is figure out who dumped the body in a place where the killer or killers thought no one would ever find it.”

  “Maybe someone who knows the area. Before you call, let’s take a look at the shoreline.” O’Brien stepped around the body and walked to the edge of the island.

  Wynona looked down at the remains. “We’ll find who did this to you, Frank. I promise.” She joined O’Brien at the water’s edge and said, “About twenty years ago, a jetliner crashed out here. Investigators found a hundred and ten bodies scattered in and around the wreckage. One man survived the crash. He tried to walk through the glades to this hammock, but never made it. He was bitten above the ankle by a cottonmouth water moccasin. They found his body about fifty yards out there in the saw grass.”

  “Like you said earlier, this place seems to be a dumping ground for bodies … from the air or an airboat.” He motioned toward the embankment. “Look at that area. Something about eight feet wide came out of the saw grass and water. The ground is a little scraped on both sides. It appears like the airboat was beached in that general area. The person or persons most likely shut the engine down, carried the body over to where we found it, and then turned around and launched back out into the glades. Boats don’t leave trails in water, but airboats, when they scoot across marshes and mud, do leave their mark. Find the airboat. Maybe you’ll find some forensic evidence to connect the dots.”

  “I’m calling in to the station. The department has some four-by-four vehicles, even an airboat.”

  “Have a forensics tech check your airboat.”

  “Why?”

  “In the courts, the accused is supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Out here, I look at who might be guilty or complicit, and then see if the evidence will eliminate them.”

  Wynona lifted her phone and made a call. As she hit the keys, she looked up at O’Brien. “You have some keen powers of observation. You sure you don’t have some Indian blood in you?”

  “You never know.”

  She spoke into her phone. “This is Detective Osceola on the scene of an apparent homicide. I need a forensics team out here in the glades. The location is a hardwood hammock about three quarters of a mile north of Highway 234 a couple miles past Sam Otter’s property. It’s north of where the jet went down years ago. Bring off-road vehicles. Shouldn’t need the airboat. Have Detective Stillwater call me. I want to call in the Hendry County medical examiner.” She disconnected and looked up at O’Brien. “I wish I could read your mind.”

  He smiled. “No you don’t.” His phone vibrated. There was a text message from Dave Collins. News reports indicate bond request for Joe Billie denied at first appearance. Not looking good.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Detective Jimmy Stillwater and his partner, Detective Henry James, arrived first. They came in a four-by-four Ford pickup truck, the words Seminole Police and the department’s logo on both sides of the new truck. They parked next to O’Brien’s Jeep. Wynona Osceola spoke on her phone, giving them walking directions to the location of the body.

  O’Brien read a text from Dave Collins: Call me. Details on movement of the vehicle. O’Brien started to make the call when his phone vibrated. The incoming call was from attorney Lana Halley. “Sean, Judge Lewis refused to consider bond at Joe’s first appearance hearing. DA Gerald Carson is personally going to prosecute. He’s up for reelection in nine months. A formal bond hearing will be in one week. Unfortunately, Joe is being held in the county jail until then. I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. I know how initial appearances go. And with all of the news media there, I’m not surprised the DA is in the driver’s seat. Lana, I have to cut it short. I’ll call you.” O’Brien disconnected. He watched Detectives Stillwater and James approaching. They stopped, waiting for the medical examiner to catch up with them, a cavalry of crime scene and emergency troops converging. O’Brien watched the detectives in discussions with forensics techs.

  O’Brien’s phone buzzed again. He answered and Dave Collins said, “It appears that the car you tagged with the GPS monitor made two stops since leaving the campground. The first was probably unscheduled. They went to a residence in Broward County.”

  “What residence?�
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  “One of a Doctor Rudolph Bernstein. Heart surgeon. I ran a background check. Before moving to Miami, the good doctor worked in the ER at two hospitals in New York City. He was known to be the doctor of referral by the wise guys. Among other things, it seems that Bernstein, after he removed bullets from surviving gangsters, somehow managed to lose the rounds.”

  “That makes me wonder what might have happened if he was treating a member of a competing family.”

  “Interesting premise. I’ll text the address to you. After the car left his place, it was parked at a ritzy townhouse in Boca Raton. It hasn’t moved since. I’ll send the address to you. Be damn careful, Sean. You’re back down in your old turf. Things have changed. The Russian mob is shifting the playing field somewhat.”

  “They can’t be worse than the Colombians in their heyday down here.”

  “Smarter. These guys today were evil before they came out of the womb.”

  O’Brien glanced up to see Detectives Stillwater and James approaching. “Dave, I have to go. I’m in the Everglades working with a Seminole police detective. Her name’s Wynona Osceola. We found a body. I think, in some way, the murder here is connected to the killing of Lawrence Barton. I’m pulling at every string I can find. Joe Billie’s about to become the key player in what will amount to—as in a media circus—Florida’s version of the OJ trial.” O’Brien looked over at Wynona as she spoke on the phone. He lowered his voice. “When you get a second, run a background check on Wynona Osceola. Former federal agent, FBI.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I’d like to know a little more about her.”

  “You got it.” He disconnected, watching Detectives Stillwater and James walk up. They both wore jeans and dress shirts. No ties. Dark glasses.

  Stillwater was on his hand-held police radio when he arrived. He signed off, nodded to O’Brien and spoke to Wynona. “I haven’t been to this place in twenty years. Where’s the body?”

  “I’ll show you.” She motioned for them to follow her.

  Detective James shook his head. He glanced over the saw grass for a beat and then looked at Wynona. “I got a problem with this.”

  She folded her arms. “What’s the problem, Henry?”

  James gestured toward O’Brien. “He’s the problem. We have a civilian out here on an apparent homicide—a crime scene. The guy’s Joe Billie’s BFF. Billie was arrested by Citrus County for murder. Seems like a conflict of interest to me. What the hell gives, Wynona?”

  She took one step closer to him. “Are you suggesting that it is a conflict of interest to prove Joe Billie, a member of the Seminole Tribe, innocent? What gives? I’ll tell you what wasn’t giving. And that was the trail leading to Frank Sparrow’s disappearance. We found his car at the airport. We didn’t find him. He was a missing person. Now he’s a dead body. And because of our civilian’s skill, we located the body. Sean may no longer work directly for law enforcement, but he worked years for Miami-Dade PD. Do I need to remind you that county is right next-door? His investigations took him into the glades. So he’s far from a civilian.”

  James shook his head, walked by her, deliberately brushing against her.

  O’Brien watched the body language.

  Detective Stillwater said, “Hey, cool it—both you guys. We have Hendry County SD coming with their ME and some of their forensics people. Investigations become a team effort. No big deal.” He cut his eyes over to O’Brien. “Appreciate your help. What I’d like to hear is how you found Frank Sparrow.”

  “Juvenile vultures.”

  “Come again.”

  “The younger carrion birds get the scraps, so to speak. So after the adults have had their fill, the juveniles flock to what’s left of a body—animal or human.”

  Stillwater lifted his sunglasses from his eyes, cleaned them with a cloth. “Interesting. You must have seen the vultures from the air. So how’d you know they weren’t adults?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “Sam Otter.”

  Both detectives said nothing. They traded cursory looks, Stillwater putting his glasses back on, his lower jaw slightly popping. “Okay, Wynona. Lead us to the body.”

  “This way.” She began walking. O’Brien hung back, watching. He heard a noise across the saw grass. A Seminole Police swamp buggy, tires the size of those on a farm tractor, churned through the water and marsh. Three uniformed officers, all wearing dark glasses, looked as if they were riding bareback, their bodies bobbing on the open chassis. O’Brien could see two more off-road police vehicles, Toyota Four-Runners, coming across the muddy trail he’d followed.

  And then there was the unmistakable noise of an airboat zooming over the glades. He waited and watched. The sole operator was wearing dark wrap-around sunglasses. O’Brien wanted to observe him bringing the airboat to shore, to see if it might come close to the marks left by an airboat that had carried the body of Frank Sparrow.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Joe Billie walked by the cages. That was the only word he could think of—cages. Most zoos give the animals more room. Two pokerfaced uniformed guards escorted Billie down a corridor inside the bowels of the county jail, inmates yelling catcalls laced with profanities, most directed at the jailers. The stale air smelled of sweat, urine and bleach. They removed the handcuffs and opened the door to a six-by-eight-foot cell. “Home sweet home,” said one fleshy guard, ears red as a budding rose, face shiny. He motioned for Billie to enter.

  Billie stepped inside, and they locked the cell door. The heavy clanking noise of metal on metal, the lock catching, the receding sounds the guards’ boots made against the floor, it all echoed deep inside Billie’s soul. He stood in the center of the seclusion, looked at the stainless steel toilet next to a steel bed. The graffiti, jailhouse art, scrawled on the wall above the bed, the crude image of a woman’s vagina scratched into the surface.

  Billie sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the scars on the backside of his wide hands, thought about his years cutting palmetto and building shelters from the natural materials. His chickees were the exact opposite of his jail cell. They protected you from the harsh sun and rain, but allowed you to see the skyline. In the evening, a man could see the stars and the moon, and to catch the scent of the night-blooming cereus ushered by a gentle breeze across the glades.

  He thought of his niece Kimi, of his sister Nita, and what they endured the last few months. If he had to spend time in jail, to protect the only family he had left, then that’s the way it was to be. Billie remembered the stories he heard as a child, stories about the great Osceola. How he had been imprisoned after a flag of truce was agreed upon—how Osceola eventually died in prison.

  Billie thought of Sam Otter and how the medicine man, wise and patient, had taught him survival in the wild—survival anywhere. ‘I teach you to disappear without going anywhere. You learn to do that and you can walk across the fire pit, across the bridge into a land where no one will hurt you.’

  ‘How will I do that?’

  ‘I will teach you … and you will understand.’

  * * *

  The noise from the approaching airboat startled a large water moccasin sunning itself on a cypress log. The snake’s dark body was thicker than O’Brien’s wrist. Within seconds, the cottonmouth slithered from the log and retreated into the saw grass, the snake making unhurried S ripples swimming across the tannin water.

  O’Brien watched the airboat operator bring the craft to within fifty feet of where the marks were left on the shoreline from another airboat. Or was it the same? O’Brien walked over to the area as the operator shut off the engine, the propeller coming to a stop, the hot engine ticking. The operator had barely touched the land with the curved bow of the airboat, not bringing most of the hull out of the water.

  O’Brien looked up at the man in the elevated seat. He wore a Seminole Police T-shirt and jeans. He nodded, stepping down from the seat and pulling out a rope from a metal toolbox welded to
the deck. He looked over at O’Brien. “You mind taking a hold of his rope? Just enough to steady the boat ‘till I can step ashore.”

  “Sure.” O’Brien grabbed the rope and pulled, the airboat bow resting on solid ground.

  The operator stepped from the boat, a black body bag in one hand, reaching for the rope with the other. He was a short man, wide shoulders, dark skin and black hair. He kept his wrap-around glasses on, grinning. “Thank you. I’ll tie it to that water oak. Should be fine.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Be careful. I just watched a large moccasin come off that log near you. It went into the water. Could be another one close.”

  The man grinned. “I’ve been bitten by one when I was a kid, spearing fish. I wasn’t wearing shoes. Foot swelled up like a grapefruit. Mama thought I was going to die. I did too.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “Took me to a tribal medicine man. He rubbed some mud or something into the wound, hurt like fire. But a few hours later the swelling was almost gone.”

  “Was the medicine man Sam Otter?”

  The man paused, tying the rope, looking up at O’Brien. “Matter of fact, he was. How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Not a lot of people outside the tribe know Sam Otter’s name.” He smiled.

  “Why didn’t you bring the airboat further on land?”

  “I don’t like doin’ that on account of getting it back off. These boats have no brakes. The prop can push air out at 150 miles per hour. You slow down and adjust for mooring, but you really gotta know how and when to make a hard landing out here in the glades. And because it doesn’t have a reverse option, I’d have to get some fellas to help push me back out. I prefer to play it safe, and tie her up like a regular boat.”

  “Sounds like you know your stuff. What’s the length and width?

  “A tad over thirteen feet long. She’s eight feet wide.”

  “Can anybody else on the department operate the airboat?”