Inspector Ed Dill in charge of the narcotics team began his report.
“We have interviewed some fifty people in the outlying parishes and on Court Street. The best information we have is that Frenchie is in league with somebody called ‘Captain’. Our information is that Captain is the gentleman who is supplying the drugs to Frenchie. It appears that he brings in cocaine and heroin. We don’t believe he’s running the marijuana that comes in from Jamaica. It seems that his area is hard drugs from the United States. It would appear that Captain has a boat or access to a boat, which is how the heroin came in. Apparently it’s packaged in a waterproof wrap with a GPS transmitter attached and thrown overboard. According to our information, Captain has several people working for him. One of them was Deon White and the other Ja’von Williamson. We managed to interview Deon White’s best friend, Derek Trott. By the way, Detective Inspector, thanks for the lead on that. Anyway, he says that he stopped hanging with White when he got involved with the Captain and Williamson. Apparently, White started making big bucks and was flashing it all over the place, buying jewellery and betting on the dog fights. Trott also told us that White had recently placed an order for a new flashy BMW convertible. His feeling was that White was in too deep with some bad characters and was not smart enough to handle himself.”
“The boy’s a prophet,” remarked Archie wryly making several of the officers smile.
Burgess was thoughtful. “Do we have a description of this guy they call Captain?”
“Yes.” The narcotics officer started flipping through his notebook. “Hell, I can’t find it. Sergeant Tucker, do you have the description to hand?”
Another member of the team took over. “Yessir. He’s Bermudian around forty. Brown skinned, slender build, not quite six foot and has a funny voice. Apparently, it sounds as if he’s had a problem with his voice box. Oh, and he has a lot of brown moles on his face and neck.”
“That’s quite a description.” Burgess saw that Pamela was taking notes. “How many Bermudians have a captain’s licence that look and sound like him? Interesting about the voice. That could be a major clue.”
“Yes,” said Tucker. “Several interviewed mentioned his distinctive voice. It’s kind of husky. In fact, the pushers are all furious with Frenchie because of the problem with the heroin. They have been unable to sell much of it and some have even sent theirs over to the hospital dump site. According to our sources, there is quite a feud going on between the Captain, Frenchie and his dealers.”
“I’m not surprised. This has got to be bad for business. Okay, Inspector Dill, could your team look into identifying the Captain and follow up on the boat angle?”
“Sounds good.”
“Ms. du Bois, could you give us an update on forensics? For those of you who have not met Jan du Bois, she heads up the Canadian forensics team which is assisting us on these cases.”
Jan was all business. Even though she was dressed casually in jeans and short sleeved shirt and had a slightly Bohemian air, her reputation had preceded her and the room was silent in anticipation of what she had to report.
“Thank you. As far as the heroin deaths are concerned, we have analysed the heroin and concluded that it had been laced with strychnine, a component nowadays used in rat poison. Death would have been pretty painful. As you know, Dr. Brangman performed autopsies on all of the drug victims and found no evidence to suggest that these people were intentionally murdered. It would seem from evidence at the scene of each death, the way the works were left and fingerprints, that the victims had administered the heroin themselves and were unaware - or just too desperate to care - that the drug was lethal. Our findings correspond closely to those of the Dade County Coroner’s Office and analysis of the heroin confirms that the tainted heroin in the Miami area has the same chemical composition as the heroin here. We can therefore positively establish a link between the dope in Miami and the shipment to Bermuda.”
“Archie, what can you tell us of the raid on the lab?” Burgess deliberately cut short Jan’s report so as not to give the Narcotics team any additional information on the forensics of the two murders.
“Detective Gonzalez of the Dade County Police reported that they had had a ‘two beer day’. From that comment, I believe they were pleased to have captured several illegal Mexicans working in the laboratory, together with some pretty sophisticated equipment. A Chinese doctor was apparently in charge of the lab which was also messing with cocaine and making methamphetamines. They found some waterproof packaging and GPS transmitters, so, again, we think that is probably the origin of the square snapper dropped off in Bermuda waters. Unfortunately, we do not have a sample of the packaging for comparison purposes, so we cannot use that to further support the chemical analysis. However, as Jan said, the chemical composition is the same, so I think we’ll have enough just with that. Anyway, it appears that they know who’s behind the operation, a fellow named “Cujo” Menendez.”
“Cujo?” exclaimed Sergeant Tucker. “Like the movie of the mad dog?”
“Yep. I imagine he is quite a charmer! Anyway, Gonzalez is going to report back to us when he has more information.”
“Good. That, I think, brings our narcotics information up to date. Does anyone have anything to add?” Burgess was eager to talk to his core team. “Yes, Jan?”
“Could we get a sample of the packaging from the hospital dump site? It’s possible that some pushers may have dumped the drugs still in the original packaging. That way, we could send it over to the U.S. for comparison with the packaging they picked up in the lab.”
“We’ll get on to that for you,” replied Inspector Dill.
“Excellent idea,” said Burgess. “Anything else, anyone?” he paused. “No? Then Inspector Dill, I want to thank you and your officers for all the valuable assistance you are providing. We’ll look forward to any further information on the boat and, if you could let us know how you make out with the identification of its captain?”
“Will do. Let us know if anything comes up that we should look into.”
Detective Inspector Burgess paused while the Narcotics team made its way out of the conference room. When he had his team around him again, Burgess gave the room back to Jan du Bois.
“Jan, can you update us on the forensics concerning the two murders?”
“Sure. Dr. Brangman performed autopsies on Rhonda Mayberry and Deon White. We have conclusive evidence through partial prints on the spear gun and White’s blood in the seams of Williamson’s clothing that he probably killed both victims. We have evidence in the form of prints on beer bottles, his helmet containing hair and hair oil plus saliva on what was left of a spliff, to place him at White’s house shortly before his murder. Tyre tracks at the scene of the first murder are identical to those of a Suzuki pick-up owned by White with both White’s and Williamson’s fingerprints and traces of Rhonda Mayberry’s blood inside the truck. We figure that Williamson got blood on him when he cut the cord attached to the spear gun. He obviously thought she was dead but, from the autopsy, we now know conclusively that she managed to crawl towards the water’s edge which is how she ended up being lifted by the tide and carried along to the mangrove swamps. Sea water and sand in the lungs points to the fact she was still alive when in shallow water. Fingerprints on the rubber inflatable at White’s house place both him and Williamson in the zodiac and tracks at the murder site near the vehicle have now been identified as those of the zodiac being dragged to the pick-up. Sand and salt water residue in the vehicle also lead us to conclude that the zodiac was transported in the bed of that same truck. We have yet to find the murder weapon for Deon White but, based on Dr. Brangman’s autopsy findings, he was most likely killed with a partially serrated double edged blade, probably a diver’s knife. The kind of trauma sustained is consistent with that type of weapon.”
“Thank you, Jan. Anything else?”
“Not at this time, sir,” replied Jan formally.
“Detective Sergeant De
Souza interrogated Ja’von Williamson and can update us on that.”
This was going to be a long morning’s session.
Chapter 30
He checked the gold Rolex on his left wrist. It would be lunchtime in Dallas; time for a “Come to Jesus” talk with his Texan colleague. Back in the late seventies they had been room mates in college – one studying theology and the other business. Even back then, both had entertained dreams of wealth and success – two threads that had bound them together and made them unlikely friends; one black from a small island and the other white and poor from the South. They soon found that their ambitions and response to those who looked down on them were things they had in common, in addition to their burning desire to make something of themselves no matter what the cost. Their friendship was born out of a recognition that they were both, in reality, cut from the same cloth. He recalled with a smile how they used to clown around singing “Ebony and Ivory” in their dorm room. Streetwise as they were, it was back in college that they had learned what a heady experience it was to profit from the weak. It was there that they got involved in pushing dope to their fellow students, never touching the stuff themselves. They had managed to build up quite a nest egg and had taken pains to remain low key so as not to attract undue attention. All in all, they had used university, not just for the diplomas but also for the financial gain they had made there, as a springboard to greater things. His friend, having been forced by his family to study theology, had become a nationally renowned tele-evangelist, whilst he was now the first black Bermudian Chief Executive of an offshore insurance company. Their dreams and ambitions had been realized much sooner than anticipated and the thought pleased him. He reflected that their friendship and business dealings had lasted more than twenty years and he could not remember ever having had a problem until now with this shipment of tainted heroin. This was a conversation that would not be pleasant and he was going to need all his diplomatic skills to handle it well. He was unused to the feeling of a knot in his stomach as he dialled the number and it made him mad.
The voice mail on the very private line played the unmistakable honeyed drawl of the Reverend William Whylie announcing he was unavailable.
“Houston, we have a problem,” he muttered into the mouthpiece and hung up.
Close by, Archie and Burgess sat on their favourite bench at Albuoy’s Point. They each had grabbed a sandwich from the deli and were sitting going over the morning’s briefing. They watched as a luxury motor yacht slipped its moorings at the Yacht Club. It had to be one of the largest boats there and its graceful lines and throaty engines were causing quite a stir with those lunching on the Club’s terrace. In the park, the breeze off the harbour was refreshing and a homeless man was sleeping under a tree, his empty bottle of rum in a brown paper bag next to him. They could watch the ferries coming and going as they plied their way through the whitecaps around the harbour. From time to time a fast ferry would come in from Somerset. The water was a vivid deep turquoise and offered a stark contrast to the yellow-green of the island’s vegetation and the brightly coloured houses with their gleaming white roofs. The air was thick with humidity and both police officers were grateful for each gust of cooling wind. It was, as Detective Inspector Burgess put it “a two handkerchief day”, adopting and adapting the expression coined by Gonzalez. He took his second clean handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his head and the back of his neck. It was hard to stay groomed in this heat.
Archie looked at him. “If you wore shorts and a golf shirt in the summer, you’d stay cooler!”
“Not all of us have the legs for them, Arch. Nor the biceps for those golf shirts!” He liked to rib Archie about his body building. It had become almost a thing of vanity for him to have a well-muscled torso. “You going to enter for next year’s body building competition?”
“Hell, no. You have to diet all through the summer and I can’t handle that!”
“Archie,” he said, feeling his way. “Changing the subject, I can’t help wondering whether the Jamaican was tipped off the other day. Why did he leave the house when he did? If you hadn’t been there, we could have lost him. It takes time to put together a team to do a raid and we probably would have missed him.”
“I know, I wondered about that too. Thing is, only Pamela, De Souza, me and a couple of clerks were in the department at the time the information came back from Jamaica. I’m not even sure if De Souza was aware what was going on at the time anyway. I left about five minutes later just to check out the address. It was right as my shift ended. I wasn’t even on duty. That’s why I had my own bike. Good thing too. I’m not sure a patrol car could have chased him in that traffic.”
“Yeah, we got lucky. Could be he just always speeds and you happened to be there. Somehow, it smells to me more like he got spooked, and that’s what’s worrying me.”
“You don’t suspect Pamela, do you?”
“Right now, I don’t suspect anyone, but I do think we need to be cautious with any new information and maybe we should lay a trap for the people who had access to the info from Jamaica soon after it arrived.” He could tell Archie was getting uncomfortable with the thought that Pamela would be included in that group but pressed on. “We need to exclude everyone so we can work unfettered in the future. If we do have a mole, then we need to get them out of the picture and find out who they’re reporting to. I’m thinking of planting a different piece of false information for each one of those people. If one of the pieces of false information goes further, then we’ll know who leaked it.”
“Okay, I’m with you. What do you have in mind?”
Detective Inspector Burgess pulled out his notebook and he and Archie began to plot.
Chapter 31
The Reverend Whylie was ecstatic. His grand plan was coming to fruition, single-handedly cleansing the greater Miami area - and parts of other cities too - from the parasites that were a drain on society. He was in the throes of putting together an impassioned sermon condemning the sinner and extolling the virtues of clean living. Later he would practise it in front of the mirror, carefully choreographing his gestures and modulating his voice for the benefit of the camera. He knew that this way he was at his most seductive and could mesmerize both his live and TV audiences. A well orchestrated close-up could translate into greater donations and he knew how to work that camera. God, how he loved his life!
He sat back to contemplate his good fortune when in walked his “very personal” assistant. She was a beach-bleached blonde with large breasts and high heels that exaggerated the length of her legs so as to appear almost cartoon-like. “Bambi-esque”, was how he thought of her. Nobody amongst his overly paid and highly discreet administrative staff expected for one minute that she could actually type, or that those breasts were real, but they were smart enough to keep those thoughts to themselves. The Reverend had met her at a party in Hollywood some five years earlier. She was an aspiring starlet and, with her career going nowhere, had figured that she had found her “big break” with the Reverend. For his part, he had been estranged from his wife for several years, having parked her in a large mansion in Palm Desert. Both had a tacit understanding not to delve too deeply into each other’s private lives. As long as the Reverend kept the cheques coming and paid her country club dues, his wife was content to go about her business. In this way, they avoided the scandal of a divorce, something that was not well regarded in the Reverend’s line of business, and could both still have their freedom to live their lives as they pleased.
She walked over to him dressed in a well-cut suit with a knee-length, tailored sheath skirt. Only the Reverend knew that she wore no underwear underneath. He loved to think he could peel up that skirt in as little as three seconds. Not for nothing did he keep a comfortable leather couch in his office. It was a huge joke to him to have his way with her whilst on a conference call with his church colleagues. He enjoyed watching her move as she came towards him feeling aroused.
“There’s a mess
age on your red phone.”
The news disturbed the Reverend. Very few people had the number to his private telephone. No member of staff was allowed to touch it.
“Come over here, baby.” He beckoned to her.
She knew that look and began to unbutton her blouse, a provocative smile upon her lips. The Reverend reached over and picked up the red phone. As he listened to the message his face clouded and he abruptly pushed her away. He could tell she was affronted and knew he had better make amends or he would pay for it later.
“Sorry, Honey. Some bad news. I need to be alone for a moment. Why don’t we get together for dinner this evening at that French restaurant you like; wear the emeralds I got you. They go great with your eyes.”
Immediately she smiled for real.
He tried to keep the disdain from his face. How obvious you are. I can distract you with a false compliment and a dinner just as easily as a dog with a ball. God, how he was tired of stupid people. It was time for a change. He deserved better. As she left, he picked up the red telephone again. He felt uneasy. He wondered what the problem could be and steeled himself for the conversation to come.
“Brother Whylie. It’s been a long time. How are you?” His friend’s voice was the same as always, or was there an underlying note of tension? The Reverend was unsure.
Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) Page 12
