I sighed and kept trudging toward Duval. I could decide whom to call later. Or maybe I could walk all the way home. It seemed that I had walked a long distance before I stumbled over the remains of my bicycle. When I managed to lift it, I couldn’t straighten the handlebars, but the pedals were okay. The spokes in the front wheel were bent and some of those in the back wheel had been forced from the metal rim. They pointed in all directions like broken fingers on a maimed hand.
I pulled the crippled bike from the street and up onto a small terrace where I laid it under a tree. I hated to abandon it, but I couldn’t push it forward. But neither could anyone else. That thought consoled me. The bike should stay where I left it.
No sidewalk lined this little-used street, and the houses, all without lights showing, were few and far between. I finally recognized it as an area where the city planned to build low-rent apartments for service workers. I guessed that some old houses already had been razed in preparation for the new construction. I limped along facing any traffic that might approach. People had parked trucks and boat trailers here and there along the road’s edge, and when I saw a vehicle approaching, I ducked out of sight.
I looked to my left, and far in the distance I saw the lights on the widow’s walk at Ashford Mansion. Relief flooded through me, then I groaned to myself when I realized I’d become lost on my way to a pharmacy right here in Key West where I’d lived my whole life. Maybe hitting my head on the concrete had left me disoriented.
After walking a short distance farther, I saw a single headlight. It approached more quickly than I could duck from sight, drawing close beside me and stopping. A motorcycle cop—not a person I wanted to see right now.
“Hello, Miss. Officer Brady here. Can I be of help?”
My voice sounded ragged when I forced a response. “No thank you, Officer. I’m heading home and doing okay.”
He trained his flashlight beam on me. “You don’t look so okay, to me. Care to tell me what happened?”
“I’m fine, officer. I’m just going to…to visit a friend.”
“Can you give me an address?”
“No. I’m not sure of the address.”
“Look, lady. Show some ID, please.”
In my hurry to get to a drug store, I’d jammed a couple of bills into my pocket and rushed out the door. “No ID with me. Sorry.”
Officer Brady said no more. Instead he radioed for backup help, and in a few minutes a squad car arrived. No sirens wailed, but blue lights flashed, sending eerie shadows into the street and the sky. Officers Bremmer and Hilsabeck identified themselves, and I sighed. Friends—of sorts. From their expressions, I knew I must look a mess. The little strength I’d mustered faded away. I made no fuss when they helped me into the back seat of the squad car.
“Where are you taking me, Jeff? Please don’t take me to the police station. There’s no time for that. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was going to CVS. I need to pick up pills for Gram. She’s having chest pains. I need to get nitro to her quickly. Can you help? She dropped her pills down the drain and…” I sensed myself babbling.
“Try to relax, Keely.” Hillie’s cello-like tone helped calm me.
“Please get her pills to her. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.” Hillie radioed Officer Brady and ordered him to pick up and deliver Gram’s medicine and help her take it.
“No problem,” Officer Brady replied. “Know her place well. Best espresso on the island.”
“We’re taking you to the hospital, Keely,” Jeff said. “Emergency room. Care to tell us what happened? Someone mug you?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, of course not. You don’t have to answer any questions right now. We’ll let the medics check you over and ask the questions. Then we’ll work from there.” Jeff activated the siren and we turned several corners before we sped along Truman Avenue, running three stop lights before we crossed the Boca Chica Bridge and headed down the street toward the hospital.
Once inside the ER, I ignored the medicinal smell, the sound of rushing feet as an orderly hurried toward me. I glanced into a wall mirror near the admission desk, catching a glimpse of someone I hardly recognized. Me. My hair lay matted to my scalp. My forehead still oozed blood. And my clothes hung in tatters.
“No ID,” Jeff told the admission clerk. “But I know her. Keely Moreno.”
“Miss,” the clerk said. “Isn’t there someone we can call in your behalf?”
With great reluctance I gave Punt’s phone number. Almost immediately, a nurse and an orderly eased me into a wheelchair and pushed me into a hospital room where the nurse helped me into a hospital gown. I felt too exhausted to complain about the gown’s air vents down the rear. Once I lay on my back on their hard bed, they didn’t matter.
The nurse had covered me with a warmed blanket, and I lay dozing when a doctor arrived. He asked only a few questions before he began ordering X rays, treating my abrasions, and administering shots. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I awakened, Punt sat on a chair beside my bed and pink and gray shafts of light lit the sky.
Punt rose to give me a kiss, and in spite of myself I burst into tears. He waited until I calmed down before he spoke.
“What happened? Who did this to you? Do you feel like telling me about it? Maybe you need to sleep some more.”
“I’ve had enough sleep and I want out of here—want to go home.” I ached all over but I sat up, forced my legs over the edge of the bed. “A car hit me while I was riding my bike to get some pills for Gram. Don’t know who it was. No idea.”
“It didn’t stop?”
“It slowed down a little but it didn’t stop.”
“What kind of a car was it?”
“Big. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Man driving? Or a woman?”
“No idea at all.”
“The person say anything?”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Just a warning to back off the Darby case. And Punt, whoever it was knows you’re involved too. The person said your name. Someone must have been watching when we met at your office this afternoon.”
“Yesterday afternoon, Keely. Today’s Friday. You’ve been here all night.”
Punt rang for a nurse while I was getting up, testing my legs to see if I could stand. He’d brought me fresh clothes and although I moved slowly, I stood almost dressed before the nurse arrived. She didn’t bother to hide her surprise at seeing me up and about, and after she made me sit down so she could check my vital signs, she insisted that the doctor must see me, too. So we waited for almost an hour before the doctor strolled in, checked me over again, and gave his permission for me to leave the ER with the understanding that I’d see my family doctor for a follow-up visit at the first opportunity. Nobody said anything more about the police, and I certainly didn’t intend to bring up that subject.
I filled out forms at the admission desk, then Punt offered his arm for support as we left the hospital and walked toward the Karmann Ghia. The sun, slipping from behind some morning clouds, began to warm the day.
“What about the police, Punt? They asked questions. I didn’t have my ID with me. Am I supposed to report to them?”
“I’ve taken care of their questions. Forget them for now unless you want to press charges against someone.”
“No charges. Don’t know whom I’d press them against. Oh, Punt! Thanks for your help. What would I do without you?”
“Yes, what! Think carefully about that. You need me. I need you. We need each other.” He helped me into the car, sealing my lips with his kiss, and then propping my head against a pillow he’d brought along.
“Gram will be having a fit. She needed medicine. She’ll know I didn’t come home last night.”
“Relax, Keely. I called Celia the minute the doc said you had no broken bones and weren’t seriously injured—anyway, no injuries that wouldn’t heal in a few days—or weeks. The police delivered the nitro to her. I’m guessing she had a restful
night.”
When Punt crossed the Boca Chica Bridge, I spoke up.
“I need my bicycle. It’s a mess, but I need to get it to a repair shop. I abandoned it somewhere a few streets behind Duval. Maybe in Bahama Village.”
“It’ll probably be right where you left it.”
Punt was right. We passed Emma Street and two unmarked streets—a common thing in Key West. Then I saw it. The bike lay there looking like a twisted cry for help. The Karmann Ghia offers little storage space, but we managed to cram the crumpled bike in behind the bucket seats and Punt drove to the Moped Hospital where a mechanic guaranteed to return it to my doorstep the next day. Maybe. Good fishing weather put the maybe in lots of be-done-tomorrow promises.
“I want you to follow the doctor’s orders, Keely,” Punt said as we left the repair shop then reached my office. “Cancel today’s appointments. Sleep until you wake up. I’ve arranged another meeting with Maxine and Randy, but it can wait until you’re out and about and feeling fit again. Give me a call.”
Gram met me at my door, aghast at my cuts and bruises. “All this happen on my account. Keely. Keely. Now it be my turn to take care of you. To bed with you. Now.”
I was so glad to see Gram up and around that I let her boss me, let her turn back my covers and plump my pillow and bring me a cinnamon latte. I hated to take a day off to sleep, but I agreed to do that. Punt cancelled Friday’s appointments for me. After hearing my promise to “sleep it off,” he gave me a farewell kiss and left.
It was hard to fall asleep when the full impact of my injuries reached me. I could be the next murder victim.
SIXTEEN
Worry didn’t keep me awake for long. Nor did Gram’s fussing over me. Nor did Punt’s insistence on paying an off-duty policeman to do surveillance on this end of Duval Street. I slept like a tarpon in frigid water. When I finally woke up, it took me a few moments to get my bearings. My watch said midafternoon on Friday. I closed my eyes again. My whole body felt like a rusty scupper, but I managed to limp to the shower. Hot water sluicing over my body made me believe that I’d live to see another day.
After I checked in with Gram, repeating the whole story of last night’s attack, we agreed to call the incident an accident and say no more to the police—at least not right then. I called Punt and we made tentative plans for the rest of the day, including a meeting with the Jacksons. In a few minutes he called me back.
“The meeting’s on. I’ll come get you and we’ll meet Maxine and Randy at my office in half an hour.”
“Maybe your office is bugged.”
“I checked. No wires. Someone lurked outside watching us yesterday. No matter. Nothing we can do about it. Our lurker already knows we’re investigating the Darby murder. Our meeting today will tell him for sure that we haven’t backed off.”
When Punt arrived the top was up on the Karmann Ghia. Maybe for safety. Maybe for privacy. I didn’t ask. I inhaled a slight smell of canvas all the way to his office. Maxine’s Ford occupied the visitor’s slot and we all entered the office together. She was wearing her blue-and-white-polka dot bloomers again. Maybe she had several pair. Maybe they were her uniform like my khaki jumpsuits were my favorite work outfits. Punt and Randy both wore jeans as usual, but today Randy’s T-shirt advertised the Parrot Heads and Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.
Shoes and chair legs grated against terrazzo as we settled ourselves in a semicircle in front of Punt’s desk. I saw to it that Maxine sat between me and Randy. I hoped Punt wouldn’t mention the attack I’d suffered last night. And he didn’t. I’d worn a long-sleeved shirt that hid most of my abrasions.
Randy spoke first. “We need to get DNA samples from the dive guys I mentioned yesterday. Helmer. Grovello. Soto. Slone. Those four for starters. And maybe Beau Ashford. DNA saved my ass—got me out of Raiford. Maybe it can help me again.”
“How do you collect DNA samples?” Maxine asked. “We don’t know how that’s done and we don’t want to go at it in a way that might make the suspects suspicious.”
Punt grinned. “Everyone carries DNA with them, Maxine. It’s found in hair, in skin, or…”
“Or in shit and semen, right?” Randy gave me an insolent glance as if to see if I found his language shocking.
“Yes,” Punt agreed, without pause. “Or in other body fluids—blood, sweat, and saliva. Sometimes it’s easy enough to get DNA specimens—if you go after them in a nonoffensive way.”
“Next time Gus or Ace come for treatments, I’ll request a lock of hair for my scrapbook.” I laughed and Punt broke in before Randy could suggest more personal ways of DNA collection.
“In the long run, DNA specimens may point out Dyanne Darby’s killer, but before we go after any specimens, we need to lay careful groundwork. Let’s think this DNA business through carefully. Randy, what would you do with DNA specimens if you’re lucky enough to get a few?”
“Take ’em to the cops.” Randy scowled. “You got other ideas?”
Punt shook his head and smiled. “Before we go to the police, we have to be sure the police are interested in this case. Otherwise, they’ll be irritated because we’re wasting their time.”
I sensed that Punt used the word “we” to discourage Randy from taking the investigation into his own hands and acting on his own. I tried to avoid imagining how he might go about collecting DNA samples.
Randy glared at Punt. “You thinkin’ those dumb bastard cops aren’t interested in finding Dyanne’s murderer?”
I knew from the way Randy’s scar began to glow that his anger might be reaching the boiling-over stage.
“That’s right, Randy. They may not be interested. Sometimes the authorities say that a person’s being exonerated doesn’t prove his innocence, that it merely proves that prosecutors couldn’t prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Sorry if that news shocks you, but that’s the way it is.”
“But…but…” Randy spluttered.
“Faced with unresolved murder cases, police rarely pursue additional avenues of investigation—especially if years have passed since the first investigation.”
“That’s unfair,” Maxine said. “I think it’s their way of covering up.”
“Sometimes it seems that way,” Punt agreed. “But prosecutors have legitimate reasons to abandon cases. Many murders become almost unsolvable with age, because witnesses have died and memories have faded. The evidence is old. The trail’s cold.”
Randy began pacing. “I’m going to make the police listen, to reopen this case.”
“The police will be interested only if we can prove that the DNA donors or would-be donors are actually suspects—people who had both motive and opportunity for murdering the Darby woman.” Punt looked directly at Randy. “No point in presenting DNA from what the authorities might consider a random sampling of people who might not have any bearing on this murder that happened two decades ago.”
“Prove opportunity?” Maxine asked. “After all them years it would be purty hard to do that. Who could prove what any of them divers did on the night of the murder?”
“Right,” Punt agreed. “It’ll take lots of in-depth investigating to learn those necessary details. But it may not be such an impossible task as it seems at first glance. Once we have the needed facts, then Randy’s absolutely right. A DNA sample, used by the right people and in the right way, could pinpoint the guilty person.”
“The police have the DNA sample of the semen found inside Dyanne’s body on file someplace,” Randy said. “All we need to do is to match it up with identical DNA.”
“All we need to do?” I sighed. “That could be a very large job.”
Punt nodded. “Big job, but not impossible. It’ll take time and effort, but…”
“But there’s a lid for every pot.” Maxine grinned. “That’s what my grandma always said—a lid for every pot. We work at the DNA thing, and we’ll find a match.”
“So how do we start?” I asked. “First things first. Maybe we can lay th
e groundwork for an investigation and make the police be responsible for collecting the DNA. How do we learn what Gus Helmer was doing on a certain night decades ago?”
“The exact night was December 24, 1982,” Randy said. “That’s the date of the murder. Christmas Eve. Hard to forget that date. I’d bought Dyanne a pair of earrings as a Christmas gift—black coral earrings a diver brought me from a deep dive off the coast of Belize. Never did get to give them to her.”
“The murder date may be a help,” Punt said. “Lots of people remember what they did on Christmas Eve, but maybe not on a Christmas Eve twenty years ago unless something very special happened that year. Test yourselves. Can any of you remember what you did on that Christmas Eve in 1982? Memories fade with time.”
“So here’s an angle,” I suggested. “If we have opportunity to question those suspects about that 1982 Christmas Eve, we should pay special attention to anyone who comes up with a glib answer. If someone asked me that question, I’d have to think a long time, recall many other Christmas Eves before I could remember exactly what I’d been doing in 1982.”
“Right,” Maxine agreed. “I only remember 1982 because of the murder.”
“That could be true of the divers, too,” Punt said. “Let’s use that fact to our advantage. I think those dive boys would remember that date with no trouble at all.”
“They’d remember the day in full detail,” Randy said. “And the guilty one would have an alibi rehearsed and memorized.”
“Let me suggest another starting point for our investigation,” Punt said. “Let’s think about Nicole Nichols, the woman who gave false testimony at your trial.”
“The bitch that lied about me,” Randy said, “who pretended to be Dyanne’s friend.”
“You said you knew her?” Punt asked.
“Yes. I knew her. Slightly. She and Dyanne lived in the same apartment house. We double dated a couple of times.”
Cold Case Killer Page 12
