EIGHTEEN
“On the day Dyanne died I had worked an eight hour shift at Sloppy’s and I had to sub that night for a barmaid who’d gone up north to celebrate Christmas with her family. I envied her for having a family that cared about her. But if it hadn’t been for that extra duty, Dyanne and I probably would have double-dated as we sometimes did. Me with Slone. Her with Randy.
“At that time, Dyanne was my closest friend. We had no family that cared a hoot about us. Her stepfather lived somewhere in Michigan near the boundary waters. My alcoholic mother lived somewhere in Alaska—Homer, I think. Dyanne and I were on our own. There’s a saying around here: If you’re lucky enough to live in the Florida Keys, you’re lucky enough. Dyanne’s luck ran out. I guess we chose to live in Key West because we couldn’t go any farther. A local poet—Shel somebody—wrote that Key West’s where the sidewalk ends. It was where life would end for Dyanne.”
I’d turned on my mini tape recorder, but I turned off my ears when Nicole repeated highlights of Dyanne Darby’s murder that we already knew. When she finished talking, Punt was generous in his thanks.
“You’ve been kind to admit us to your home and talk to us, Nicole. We appreciate that. We hope you’ll keep us and our quest in mind. Think about the day of Dyanne’s death—about the minute details. It’s hard to remember exact happenings from so long ago, but if any once-forgotten events pop back into your mind, please give me a call at my office. We need to find the person who murdered your friend.”
“I’ll phone you if I recall anything I think might be of value.” We all thanked Nicole as we left the house. Even Randy muttered a thank-you. Once back in Maxine’s car, nobody spoke until we reached Punt’s office and sat again before his desk.
“Guess we wasted our time talking to that bitch,” Randy said. “So she made a mistake—one big mistake that cost me twenty years.” He rose and stormed toward Punt’s desk, shaking his finger in Punt’s face. “You let her off far too easy.”
“I didn’t go there to harass her,” Punt said. “If you’ll remember, that wasn’t the point of our trip. I think we got everything we went for. She promised to help us find Dyanne’s killer if there’s any way she can do so. I think she’ll do that. I think she’s feeling guilt-ridden over her mistake. You never know what she may remember that could help us once she starts some in-depth thinking about that murder again.”
“Some memory she has!” Randy spit the words.
“I told you that talking to her was a starting place—only a start.”
“So now maybe it’s time you listened to me—to ex-con Randy Jackson who’s been there, done that. I know and we know that DNA evidence from Dyanne’s body’s on file in police records. That evidence freed me. What we need now is a DNA specimen that matches that filed specimen. And I’m going to find it. When we have that DNA, we’ll have the killer.”
Randy turned, gave his chair a kick, and started for the door.
“Hold on, Randy,” Punt said. “The first thing to do, the smart thing to do, is to convince the police we can offer them the names of viable suspects. We have to convince them to reopen the case. They may balk. But if they agree to reopen, then it’s time to ask the police to collect the DNA. They’ll do it right and there’ll be no mistakes. If we do the DNA collecting, there’s a chance we’ll make an error that’ll cause the police to ignore our samples.”
“And forget about reopening the case,” I added.
“I’m not going to make a mistake,” Randy countered. “Nails, hair, skin, body fluids. I can get that stuff from the guys I suspect and present it to the police on a silver platter. Then they’ll have to listen to me.”
“Sit down a minute, Randy,” Punt said. “Let’s go about this investigation with logic and lots of forethought. Of course you can ask any or all of your suspects for a sample of his hair or his saliva. What if he refuses your request?”
“I’ll find a way to get what I need.”
“Perhaps so,” Punt said. “But what will you do with it once you have it?”
“Give it to the authorities,” Randy said. “What else?”
“DNA specimens have to be carefully collected and handled. There must be no guesswork as to the identity of the person who has supplied the specimen.” When Punt turned his back to open a file drawer, Randy headed for the door again.
“Wait.” Punt spoke softly, but there was no mistaking the command. “I want to show you one sure way to collect DNA—a way that conforms to police procedures.”
Punt set a paper cup with a paper cover on his desk, a box of Q-tips, some envelopes, some tape. Taking one Q-tip, he stuck it into his mouth, rolling it against his cheek. Then, without touching the cotton portion of the swab, he poked it through the cover on the cup.
“We’ll let it dry. That’ll take a few minutes.”
I thought Randy might bolt for the door, but he sat and remained seated. Reaching into his file drawer again, Punt removed brochures about DNA fingerprinting and gave us each a copy. Maxine and I began reading the information, but Randy sat staring at the cup and the Q-tip.
When Punt felt sure the saliva on the cotton swab had dried, he opened an envelope and without touching the cotton, he dropped the Q-tip inside.
“Please note that I’m not licking the envelope to seal it. If I did that, my own DNA would be on the envelope and two DNA samples in or on the same envelope might cause a problem to analysts later.”
Punt sealed the envelope with tape. “If the police were to use this sample, they’d want the donor’s name and the date the sample was collected written on the envelope. Randy, after reading the brochure and watching my demonstration, I hope you realize that there are specific procedures that must be followed. If a DNA specimen the police collected and the DNA sample at the crime scene are identical—you have a match. You’ve found the guilty person.”
Without speaking, Randy stood, urged Maxine to her feet, and headed for the door.
“Randy, wait.” Maxine held back, but Randy took her wrist and pulled her through the doorway and outside. Then turning, he gave us a scathing glare.
“I’m doing this my way,” he shouted. “I’m collecting the DNA first and then telling the police where they’ll find the suspects. It’ll save everybody a lot of time—time that s.o.b. killer could be spending behind bars instead of walking free.”
The door slammed, but in moments, Maxine reappeared in the office, gripping Randy’s hand as she pulled him along behind her.
“My Randy, he agree to ask the Reverend Soto’s advice before he begins his DNA collecting.”
“Good plan, Randy,” Punt said. “I remember Soto’s name on your suspect list.”
“Low on the list,” Randy said, much more subdued that he’d been a few minutes ago. “I put him on my list only because he was one of Fisher’s divers. Soto helped me out of prison. Ma’s right. I need to talk to him before I go on the DNA search alone.”
“Good thinking, Randy,” I said, doubting my opinion mattered to him.
“I tell my Randy that it’s too late tonight to be talking to Soto. We’ll wait until morning when we have fresh minds and cooler thinking “
Punt and I nodded, and this time Punt walked with Maxine and Randy to the door and to their car where he opened the door for Maxine and helped her inside.
When he returned to his office, we both heaved sighs of relief.
“We’re working with a loose cannon, Keely. We’ve got to stop him before he does something that’ll cause his arrest. We’ve got to get him away from Key West for a few days. Maybe if we tell Soto all that’s transpired, he’ll help us.”
“Think he could get Randy on another TV show in New York? Or maybe some other distant city?”
“That’s a big order. But if Soto can’t help, maybe we could get Shelley Hubble working for Randy again. She’s a reputable attorney and the police would listen to her. What’s even more important, Randy might listen to her, too. Maybe we, working along
with Hubble and Soto could help him find a job. A job would at least slow down his DNA collecting activities—might even stop them long enough for us to get a better plan going for us—and for him.”
“You heard what he’s said, Punt. I believe him when he says he’s tried for a job, tried and failed time after time. And we can’t blame employers for not hiring an ex-convict with a hair-trigger temper and no special skills. Would you like to have Randy working for you?”
Punt shook his head. “And Maxine told me he smokes pot. Not a lot, but now and then. Maybe just enough to entice him to wanting something more upscale. I know how that goes, Keely. A guy starts with a little and ends up frantic to have a lot. People never know what a druggie might do. They’re unpredictable. A guy needing a fix is one desperate person. I know from experience.”
“Maybe we need to talk to the Reverend Soto—tonight, Punt, even if it’s late. Tonight, before Randy and Maxine talk to him tomorrow.”
“I have another idea. Just thought of it—an idea I’d like to try before we talk to anyone else.”
“I’m listening.”
Punt tapped his wristwatch. “It’s late, Keely, but we have a whole lot of evening ahead of us, and I have a friend living on Big Pine who owes me a favor.”
“First you have a useful friend in the police department. Now another good buddy on Big Pine. You going to call in all your markers on Randy’s behalf?”
“Not so. Maybe on behalf of Keely Moreno. Maybe on behalf of Maxine. Maybe on behalf of the Fotopolus and Ashford Agency.”
“Okay. Okay yet. So who’s the guy on Big Pine and what makes you think he’d give Randy a job?”
“His name’s Shrimp Snerl and oddly enough, his name fits his occupation. He’s captain of a shrimp boat.”
“Sounds like a logical nickname for a shrimper.”
“There’s another logical reason for the nickname. You’ll see when you meet him. His boat’s the Midnight Moon out of Big Pine Key.”
“A romantic name for a shrimp boat.” I smiled, thinking of the unromantic shrimp boats I’d observed at the Key West docks.
“A few years ago during our beach bum days, Shrimp dreamed of owning a shrimp boat. Not many of the guys hanging out on the beach thought of having a dream, but I remembered some of my own dreams, unfulfilled, of course. Anyway, I persuaded Beau to lend Snerl the money to make a down payment on Midnight Moon.”
“And it worked out, right?”
“In many ways, yes. It worked out. When Dad lends money, he kisses it goodbye—calls it a gift rather than a loan. Says it keeps him from getting down on people who may stiff him. Anyway Dad lent Shrimp the money to buy the boat and Shrimp cut down on his beach time and readied the craft for action. He had trouble hiring on a crew, so I volunteered to go out on his first run. We had great luck—filled the trawl nets night after night before we docked at Key West to sell the catch.”
“I suppose he paid off his debt then and there.”
“No. But he made payments on the loan, and today he owns his boat free and clear. Let’s drive to Big Pine and talk with him. He usually leaves on a Saturday and stays out five or six days. If he’d give Randy a job, just this once, it’d get Randy out of our hair until we set some plans in place for helping him in a logical way.”
“Shouldn’t you call Shrimp Snerl first? We might make the drive to Big Pine for nothing if he’s already out on a run.”
“He told me he usually leaves on a Saturday afternoon. But I suppose shrimping schedules aren’t set in stone. I’ll give him a call and see what he’s doing.”
Punt searched in his Rolodex until he found the number he needed, punched it on his phone pad, and waited. After six rings, I’d started to congratulate myself on suggesting the call when a woman answered and Punt activated a conference call.
“Punt Ashford here, Ma’am. May I speak to Shrimp Snerl, please?”
“Shrimp ain’t here right now.”
“Do you know when he’ll be in?”
“Ha! It’s Friday night at the Moose Hall. Big cash drawing. If’n Shrimp should happen to win the pot, he could be there all night—or until the cops bring him home.”
“Thanks for the information,” Punt said. “If he comes in, will you tell him Punt Ashford’s on his way to the Moose Hall to talk to him?”
“Will do.”
Punt replaced the receiver. “Let’s roll, Keely. Need to stop by home first?”
“No, but I’ll call Gram. She’ll want to know where I am and who I’m with.”
Punt pulled me toward him as I keyed in Gram’s number, told her of our plans. After I replaced the receiver, Punt gave me a long kiss that might, under different circumstances, have altered our plans for the evening had not our need to find temporary employment for Randy loomed so great in our thinking.
After closing and locking his office, Punt took my hand as we walked the few steps to the Karmann Ghia. I looked forward to this evening off Key West and away from the person who wanted to see me dead. As we drove along, I kept a lookout for any car that might appear to be following us, but I saw none.
“Relax, Keely. I’m watching, too. If anyone’s tailing us, I’ll demand an explanation.” Punt reached for my hand and his fingers squeezed mine.
I love the Karmann Ghia, love the looks of it, the feel of its smooth ride in spite of all the gear shifting. The one thing I dislike about the car is the bucket seats. They allow little opportunity for snuggling, but Punt always assures me that will come later in the evening. And it does.
Right now we were driving along the highway leading to Big Pine Key, and the moon looked like a Halloween pumpkin rising from the horizon. A full moon. I hoped it was a good omen as we lessened the distance between us and Shrimp Snerl. Shrimp Snerl. Certainly an unromantic name. But I looked forward to our meeting.
NINETEEN
Peering into the rearview mirror, I thought I saw a tan Acura tailing us. I nudged Punt, but the Acura zipped around us in a no-passing zone, streaking toward the Boca Chica Bridge. After another ten miles of peering over my shoulder, I relaxed. Nobody was following us, and we drove on following the car ahead of us as many wise drivers do when they travel Highway One. We went with the flow.
We’d almost reached Ramrod Key when flares lit the sky and we heard shouting.
“What’s going on over there?” I peered to our left, expecting to see a police car.
“This must be a contest night—ride the mechanical bull contest.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No.” Punt laughed. “I value my back.”
Punt slowed down as much as he could without drawing the ire of those behind us. Others must have been gawking, too. Nobody honked at us. We watched a man in a baseball cap and jeans riding on the back of the mechanical bull. Someone manipulating levers in the background controlled the speed of the ride, but we couldn’t see that person.
“Guy who sticks on longest wins a prize,” Punt said. “Don’t know what the prize is, but whatever it is, it’s probably mousemilk—not worth the bother if you want to keep your spinal disks intact.”
“Maxine said Randy won a hundred dollars one night.” I wished Punt hadn’t reminded me of the threat note. Mousemilk, indeed! I started watching over my shoulder again.
“Relax, Keely. Nobody’s tailing us. I’ m watching in the rearview mirror.”
“So, if you’re watching, you must think there’s a possibility we’re being followed.” Punt didn’t reply, but the warmth of his fingers against mine helped me relax.
After we passed the Torch Keys and entered the Niles Channel Bridge, Punt slowed to thirty-five miles per hour.
“Do you think such a radical speed limit really saves Key deer lives?”
“Nobody can prove one way or the other. Sometimes I think posting a special speed limit just makes the deer refuge workers feel needed. Sure gripes lots of drivers.”
“Wonder where the Moose Hall is?” I peered at every building we passed. Se
a Center Marina. Shady Pines Court. Post office. “Punt, why not use your cell phone? We could call the Moose and ask directions.”
“We’ll find it.”
We reached the stop light—the only one between Boca Chica and Marathon—and still no Moose Hall. Punt turned left onto Key Deer Boulevard. Here the traffic moved at thirty miles per hour. I saw no deer.
Methodist church. Road prison. Watson Field. Blue Hole. We drove over eight miles. Didn’t know Big Pine covered that much land.
“There it is to our right.” Punt slowed down. Wow! What a crowd. We searched for a few moments before we found a parking place some distance away and off in a palm thicket. “You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?”
“Sure. No way am I sitting here alone. I read about the Brandt case—serial murderer. Lived right here on Big Pine before he killed his wife and his cousin, dismembered their bodies, and then hung himself up north around Orlando.”
Punt raised the top and locked the convertible before we approached the doorway of a large building. I didn’t need to tell Punt we were at the wrong place. The sign outside read LION’S CLUB. Another sign on the door said BINGO EVERY FRIDAY. We stayed only long enough for Punt to get directions to the Moose Hall.
We’d passed our intended destination on the way to the Lion’s Club without noticing it in spite of the many cars parked nearby. We found a place to leave, as in abandon, the Karmann Ghia and Punt took my hand as we stumbled over rough ground to the door. Of course Punt had no membership card, so he had to ask the doorman to page Shrimp Snerl. A kind official standing behind the doorman invited us inside to wait. The hall smelled like a dirty ashtray and smoke stung my nose and throat and made my eyes water. The high-decibel level of voices made conversation impractical.
Jeans and T-shirts were the costume du jour, and men and women majoring in having a good time shouting at each other sat at tables that ringed a main floor. People without seats huddled on the sidelines like gulls in a storm. Crowds make me nervous. There’s always the danger a crowd will turn into a mob.
Cold Case Killer Page 14
