MURDER RITES: THE JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERY SERIES (JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Ronald Yarosh

  "Maybe you could get me in with the FDLE."

  "Me? What makes you think I have any sway with them?"

  "When the State AG calls me and suddenly you show up, I start to put two and two together. Are you working for the Governor, the AG, or the FDLE?"

  "None of the above. Like I said before, it’s a private matter."

  "After all these years you're going to hide behind the old confidentiality excuse?"

  "If you were a private client, wouldn’t you want it that way?"

  "Touché, my friend."

  We got to his office. Claire was at her desk. We exchanged hellos. She told me her husband Ricky was overjoyed with the cigar I gave him. The Chief nodded at her. She smiled at him. He went in. I went in. I closed the door.

  Jake walked to his desk. He picked up a cigar from his ashtray. It wasn’t a Corona Gorda. He lit it with a silver Zippo lighter. He expelled blue smoke to his left. The odor reminded me of burning rubbish.

  I sat across from him. I shook my head.

  "What?" he said.

  "Will you ever give up those cheap nasty things? They stink to high heaven."

  "All right already, I’m working on it. I have to get through the cheapos first, and then I’ll enjoy the Coronas you gave me. Have a cup of coffee and calm down."

  I walked over to his coffee maker and made a cup of high test. It only took a few seconds. Those single cup coffee makers are fantastic. I added a generous amount of half and half from Jake’s refrigerator. I sat down.

  "So what’s happening? How’s the investigation going?" He made air quotes when he said the word investigation.

  "All right, so far. I just interviewed Ann Forrester, Lupe Perez’s daughter." I took a sip of coffee.

  He took another puff of the stogie. "The daughter? Why not the mother? I know the daughter accompanied her when the old lady was interviewed, but you should have talked to Perez. You know better than that."

  "Perez died shortly after the murder. It seems she had a stroke."

  "Oh, sorry for jumping on you. I should have known better, Mr. F-B-I Man. Anyway, from what I recall, she was quite old. Strokes aren’t that unusual for people her age. Hell, my doctor keeps telling me I should take it easy, or I’ll end up stroking out."

  "Forrester told me her mother was in perfect health. She wasn’t taking any medication. She just had a complete checkup."

  "You know the old story of the guy who goes to his doctor and ––"

  "Yeah, yeah. I already thought of that."

  "So what are you saying? You think the old lady was murdered? You’re not thinking of having her body exhumed are you?"

  "It’s too late for that. She was cremated."

  "She was?"

  "A priest who helps out at de Sales, was with her when she collapsed. Later, while the priest was in the hospital visiting Perez, he told Forrester that her mother wanted to be cremated. So, the daughter complied even though her mother had always said she wanted to be buried next to her dead husband. And, they already had the double grave site bought and paid for."

  "That is odd. Why buy a double gravesite and not use it? Oh well. A lot of folks are going the way of the fire these days. But, it’s good old dirt for us Jews. Twenty-fours later were sleeping in a pine box with an open invitation to the worms."

  "I know. I was at Finestein’s funeral last year."

  "Anyway. Good luck proving Perez was murdered. If …and that’s a big if, she was murdered. On the other hand, it’s none of your concern. You're working on the Watson homicide. What have you discovered in that regard?"

  "Nothing really. There was a back door to the confessional room where Watson was getting ready to hear confessions. The door had a touch pad combination lock on the outside. Guess what the combination was?"

  "Hell, I don’t know. Tell me."

  "The numbers one through five. The numbers that came with the lock from the factory. Nobody had changed the combination. It’s the same one today. Anyone working or volunteering there could’ve gotten in the Reconciliation Room that day, and killed Watson. And, none of our people at the scene even noticed the lock. The perp may have left prints or blood on the keypad. But, it’s too late now."

  "Geez. They missed that?"

  "It certainly looks that way."

  "Too bad. Have you talked to Sands or Horowitz about it?"

  "Yes. They admitted they overlooked that detail."

  He shook his head. "What else have you done?"

  "I had a long talk with Father Bart Small who was at the scene. I also talked to the Deacon and some kids who were there. And, I had a short interview with a Father Preston. His name kept popping up. He's the one who suggested Perez be cremated. He got a little tight when I pressed him on his alibi for the day of the murder. He said Bernard Flowers was the guy to look at. In that regard, a young girl I spoke with said she ––"

  "Wait a minute," Jake said. He furrowed his brow. "Preston. Preston. That wouldn’t be Father James Preston from San Sebastian Monastery would it?"

  "None other than. Why?"

  "Before you came to work here, Preston was a suspect in the murder of a young boy from some Catholic church in the area. I think it was Saint Jerome."

  "I seem to recall that case." I didn’t want to tell Jake I had found out about the murder through my CI. Some things are better left unsaid. "It was Saint Jerome Parish all right."

  "From what I recall," Jake said. "Preston was as a soccer coach at St. Jerome. One of the players, a twelve-year-old boy, went missing one afternoon after soccer practice. The kid’s name was Justin Price. The boy's mother was frantic. The FBI came in on the case for a while until the boy’s body was found. A hunter spotted the child in a swampy area of Indian Springs Lake a week after the murder. The body was badly decomposed. And, if that wasn’t enough, the ME said the boy was most likely chewed up by gators. Outside of what was left of the kid’s body, there was no evidence to collect. It was a closed casket viewing. The family was inconsolable. The African-American Community was outraged."

  "I would be outraged too."

  "It was a mess. From what we could determine, Preston was the last person to see the kid alive. But, the boy came from a rough area of town. Anyone from his neighborhood could’ve done it. We went through the drill and talked to all the kids who were at practice that day. We talked to his friends, neighbors and relatives. There were no problems in the family. We got nothing. We had no evidence. We threw every resource we had into the case. Anyway, we brought Preston in for questioning. I personally grilled him for five hours. He was cool as a proverbial cucumber. Then all of a sudden, the good people at San Sebastian got him a lawyer. That was it."

  "He never asked for an attorney on his own?"

  "No. The Abbott at the time got word of what was going on and sent one over. They probably did it to protect The Franciscans from a lawsuit and bad publicity. Anyway, with the body’s decomposition and all, the ME couldn’t determine a cause of death. Preston claimed he was at the St. Jerome Rectory after soccer practice preparing for a Boy Scout meeting. Preston was an Assistant Scoutmaster at the time. The housekeeper verified he was there but she couldn’t give us an exact time. We had nothing to go on. Preston was clean. Not even a traffic ticket. He passed a polygraph exam. We had no evidence. The case went cold. He was later reassigned back to the monastery. As far as I know, he is still there today."

  "He is, but he sometimes helps out at de Sales. He didn’t get nervous at first when I talk to him about Watson’s death. But, he did get pissed off when I pushed him a little."

  "He was that way with us. Anyway, I have to agree with Preston. I think Bernard Flowers is the guy you should be looking at. He’s the one with the missing knife. It’s the kind of knife that was probably used to kill Watson. It was well known that Flowers was a knife collector. He brought his knives to Boy Scout meetings at de Sales. Several scouts said Flowers used to brag about his war escapades, including the slaying of twelve Viet Cong soldi
ers, with just his knife alone. I figured it was just a lot of BS to impress the kids. Anyway, being former military and his ability to kill someone, we put him at the top of the suspect list. When we searched his home, we found that one of his knives was missing. He claimed someone stole it while he was participating at a knife and gun show in Orlando. He said he filed a police report. That checked out. But, we couldn’t nail the creep. We never found the murder weapon. He had a motive. It was the missing money from the church. You heard about that, right?"

  "Yes. I heard all about it."

  "Flowers probably had the opportunity, but we didn’t have any solid evidence to back that up. He clammed up and got a good lawyer. As a result, he walked. Besides all that, he’s kind of flaky. I’d concentrate on Flowers if I were you. He’s your man."

  "And, there’s more about Flowers you may not know."

  "What’s that? Did we miss something else?"

  "I talked to one of the altar servers who was near the church on the day of the murder at about 4:30 that afternoon. Apparently no one ever talked to her."

  "So, what about her?"

  "She said she saw Flowers running from the church as she was arriving. His face, hands, and shoes were stained dark red. He was carrying a paper bag. It could have held the murder weapon and/or other evidence."

  "Is she sure it was Flowers?"

  "Dead sure. He even gave her and her girlfriend the finger. She also knows him from the church."

  Jake sighed. "We didn’t know about that. I guess no one noticed the girl, so she wasn’t interviewed. In any case, we didn’t find blood stained clothes, a paper bag or a bloody knife in Flowers’ home."

  "Flowers probably got rid of any incriminating evidence before the search team arrived."

  "That's a good possibility."

  "It won’t do much good to do another search now," I said.

  "Probably not. If we had just known that the girls had seen Flowers, we could have nailed him. Everyone involved told me it was chaos at the scene. You and I weren’t there, remember?"

  "I remember. Everybody around here keeps reminding me of that."

  "So, what’s next?"

  "I’m going to try to talk to Flowers tomorrow. Hopefully, he won’t ask for a lawyer. If he does, I’ll convince him that I’m just a private investigator."

  "You want me to come along?"

  "I don’t think so. You might spook him. I’ll try to charm him. Maybe he'll do a little talking."

  "It will be your word against his?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. In any case, I think I should wear a wire."

  "Yes, good idea. I’ll call Judge James and get the okay."

  "That sounds like a plan, Jake."

  "I’ll call you tomorrow morning, Johnny. We can go from there."

  "Great."

  It was 5:45. Time to go home and relax. Although at that point, I felt like relaxation would be a battle. I left his office.

  It was in the low seventies, but the humidity was still awake and annoying. Traffic was light. I made it to my place in twenty-five minutes. I hit the bathroom. I washed my face, and then changed into something more comfortable.

  I threw myself on the couch. I turned on the TV. The "All Cops" channel was on. I watched it for a while, then decided to turn in. The day’s events were poking at my brain.

  In order to refresh my memory before the interview the next day, I decided to take another look at the data I got from Ms. X regarding Bernard Flowers.

  Afterwards, I boned up on some information I thought I might need in order to warm up to him, should he be hostile or uncooperative.

  16

  I awoke at seven the next morning. I wanted to do a little more review and cramming on what I needed to know before I talked to Bernard. While I was doing the research, my cell phone rang. It was Jake. "Hello, Jake. What’s up?"

  "I got the court order. Stop by the office and pick up the unit before you see Flowers. I won’t be in my office. I’ve got to go to the gun range. Claire will show you in. It’s a new recording unit, so read the instructions. It is simple to use, but we can’t mess this up."

  "Me? Mess things up?"

  "I know, I know. I just had to say that, more for myself than you. Let me know how things work out."

  "I will."

  He hung up. I did my research and cramming. I was ready for the interview. I hoped that Flowers would be home.

  I had a quick breakfast consisting of a bagel with cream cheese, and a coffee. I got dressed, gathered my things, and then left.

  The sky was clear, and the temperature was cool. It took me twenty minutes to reach Flowers’ home. It was a modest, single story cement block home painted yellow with a beige shingled roof. A new, cedar fence surrounded the sides and rear of the home. I could see a red, utility shed situated in the back yard. It sat among similar styled homes in the Bluebird subdivision.

  I pulled my car into his driveway. There was a red, 1965 Ford Mustang convertible parked there. It had "For Sale" signs in the front and rear windows. He was asking $27,500 for it. The vehicle was pristine. I parked behind it, and then tested my hidden pen microphone. The recording device in my car responded perfectly. I was ready.

  I walked to the front door. I noticed a couple of decals on the window. One was from, The Vietnam Veterans Association. The other advertised, The Wounded Warrior Program. I rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. I rang again. Still no answer. I tried it once more. A tall, slender, red-haired man answered the door. It was Flowers. His face was flushed. He was dressed in a red t-shirt, well-worn, black jersey sweatpants and a black hat with a Vietnam Veteran patch on the front. The hat also contained several Vietnam War related pins and an Army, Staff Sergeant pin. He was barefoot.

  "Didn’t you read the sign?" He said, in a voice which sounded like sandpaper on cement. "Soliciting isn’t allowed in this neighborhood."

  "I’m not soliciting, sir."

  "Well, whatever it is you’re doing, I don’t want any." He slammed the door.

  I rang the bell again. He opened it quickly. He yelled, "I told you I’m not interested."

  "I’d like to talk you about the Mustang." I figured that might keep the door open.

  He rolled his eyes. His demeanor changed. He spoke civilly. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. The Mustang. I only show it by appointment." He began to close the door.

  "I noticed that on the sign, but I was driving by and it caught my eye. I’d really like to discuss it with you, if you have the time."

  "Hold on. Let me get my shoes …and the keys." He turned around mumbling under his breath.

  He came out of the house wearing an old pair of unlaced tennis shoes. He limped, favoring his right leg. I followed him to the car. Two squirrels in a nearby pine tree were chattering away as their tails bobbed up and down.

  "Like it says on the sign," he said. "It’s a 65. I’m the second owner. It’s been garaged for most of its life. I hardly run it. I had planned to start a collection of vintage cars, but my wife got sick and I used most of our money for hospital bills. She’s gone now. So these days, I mostly spend my time collecting knives. They’re not as expensive and they’re easier to maintain. I live on my Social Security benefits and Veteran’s Disability money because of Agent Orange. I have diabetes from that damned chemical."

  "Sorry about your wife, and the Agent Orange problems."

  He looked at me and weakly smiled. "I was an Army Ranger in the Vietnam war. I was a Staff Sergeant. I was also a sniper. Being with the Rangers, I took an interest in knives. A kid in a Vietnamese village shot me in my right leg."

  I decided to lie about a bullet wound I got while on military duty. I never served in the military. "I got shot during Desert Storm just two weeks before I was due to come back to the world. I think it was sniper who shot me. It was just a flesh wound."

  "He couldn’t have been a very good sniper if you just got a flesh wound. You’re lucky to be alive. Maybe some kid took a shot at you."

  "Ma
ybe so. You say you have a knife collection?"

  "Yes. I’ve been collecting knives since the end of what I call, My War. The Vietnam War. When I was an Army Ranger, they came in handy from time to time, if you know what I mean. By the way, my name is Bernie Flowers, and you?"

  "Johnny Sundance." I held out my hand. He gave me a weak shake. "Small world, Mr. Flowers. I collect knives myself." I really didn’t collect knives. I was hoping my earlier research would get me by.

  He looked me over. His face was scrunched. He put his hand to his chin. "Are you some kind of, what do they call you people nowadays, Native-Americans or something like that?"

  "Yes. Native-American. I’m a Seminole. My father taught me all about knives. He collected them too. I have his knife collection now."

  "You live around here? You in any kind of hurry?"

  "I’m not in any hurry. Why do you ask?"

  "Would you like to come in and see my collection? You can check out the car later."

  "Okay."

  There was Mexican tile in the foyer area along with a rattan coat rack which held an Army field jacket with Staff Sergeant stripes, a military cap and a cartridge belt.

  The living room was decorated with a woman’s touch. A flowered couch sat next to a light pink wall. A dark pinewood coffee table took a prominent place in front of the couch. There was a selection of Guns & Ammo, and Blade magazines on the table.

  There was a tan, Lazy Boy rocking chair alongside a table. A partial bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Straight Whiskey sat on the table next to a half-full glass.

  I also saw a glass-enclosed cabinet containing a selection of knives including a Rambo First Blood, Part Two, Limited Signature Edition Bowie, and a Rambo III, 25th Anniversary Edition Bowie. Other collectible knives surrounded those two.

  There were two modern copies of Japanese samurai swords on another wall. A long table next to that wall held about 50 more knives. Another wall held both an American and a Vietnamese flag. Below the flags were two weapons pointing muzzle to muzzle. One was an M-16, the other was an Armalite AR-50 sniper rifle. I examined the array of weaponry.