by Jeff Siebold
“It’s possible,” said Zeke. “I’m heading back to Marathon tomorrow. The FBI’s running the money laundry project at their own pace, and I’m waiting for the forensics team to finalize their report in North Dakota. It’ll probably be another few days before their analysis is completed.”
“On the dead girl,” said Tracy. “That’s just horrible.”
“I know,” said Zeke.
Tracy was quiet for a moment, and then she mentally shook it off. “I’ll meet you in the Keys then. Day after tomorrow. I can get away for a long weekend.”
“That would be great!” said Zeke. “Bring your flip-flops and your sunglasses…”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Nope. That's all you'll need.”
* * *
“You’re kidding, right?” asked the uniformed man.
“No, we’re serious,” said Tracy, and she smiled a dazzling smile at him from across the counter.
He noticed.
“You want to see records from thirty years ago? Sheriff’s files and the Fire Inspector’s records?” he continued, his ample belly lapping his belt and jiggling when he talked.
Zeke and Tracy were in the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department building, a one-story concrete block building on High Point Road in Tavernier. They were looking for any records or files from the explosion that had killed Zeke’s parents.
“Was there a crime committed?” the officer continued. “Blazen” was stitched over his left breast pocket.
“It was ruled to be an accident,” said Zeke. “But I remember several Deputies interviewing people at the marina. And the Fire Inspector was around, looking for signs of arson or a bomb, I guess. He interviewed me several times.”
“Back then, Billy Forester was the Sheriff,” said Deputy Blazen. “We had computers, but it wasn’t anything like it is today. I’m not sure those records survived.”
“If they had,” said Zeke, “where would they be?”
“In storage, no doubt,” said Blazen, thinking. “But they could have been thrown out. Especially if they determined that there was no crime committed.”
“And storage is…?” asked Tracy.
“Off site, for that far back,” the cop said. He paused. “Wait, though, we went through a transition in the ‘90s. A lot got scanned into electronic storage. What you’re looking for might be in the computers now.”
“That’s good news,” said Tracy. “How can we take a look?”
“Can I see your badge again?” asked Blazen, picking up the business card Tracy had given him. “Secret Service, huh?”
She showed him her credentials, her badge and I.D. He took the wallet in his hand and held it at arm’s length, squinting. He read her badge number, moving his lips, and handed it back to her and jotted the number on a scrap of paper.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said. “Professional courtesy.”
* * *
A short phone call later, Deputy Blazen stepped from behind the counter and said, “Follow me.”
Zeke and Tracy followed the large man through long, narrow halls with vinyl tile flooring and walls painted a shade of sea foam green. After several turns, they entered a large room with eight-foot tables supporting multiple workstations. The sign on the door read, “Information Management”.
“Susie, this is Zeke Traynor and Tracy Johnson. They have permission to check our files for a 1980s cold case. Can you help?”
A short blonde woman with long frizzy hair wearing jean shorts and a Margaritaville t-shirt said, “Sure, Pete.”
“I’ll leave you with Susie,” said the Deputy. “Susie Franklin. If it’s in the system, she’ll find it.”
She flashed him a smile and said, “Thanks, Pete. You’re sweet.” She turned to Tracy, “What are we looking for?”
“It was in May 1989. There was an explosion at Boot Key Marina, down in Marathon. A boat, the West Wind, was destroyed,” Tracy said. “Two adults, the Traynors, were killed.”
“Faulty gas pump?” asked Susie.
“They thought so. Or possibly a leak in the fuel line. But we’d like to double-check,” said Tracy.
“Sure. Let’s see what we’ve got in here,” Susie said, shifting focus to her computer screen.
* * *
“Well, that was worth the visit,” said Tracy as she and Zeke left the building. The sun was intense on the asphalt pavement and its heat radiated through the soles of Tracy’s sandals. She stepped quickly to Zeke’s BMW.
The car was a blue vintage M3 convertible, a 2006 model with a 338 hp engine and a six-speed manual transmission. He’d had it delivered from Boston via train, picking it up in Miami and driving it the last 100 plus miles to Marathon.
Parked in a shady spot beneath a gumbo limbo tree, the upholstery was warm but not hot as Tracy slipped into the passenger’s seat. Zeke started the car and headed south.
“The accident seems suspicious,” said Tracy, looking at her notes as they drove. “They were pumping fuel; they’d just started, apparently, and then there was the huge explosion.” She paused.
“How long were you off the boat before the explosion?” she asked Zeke.
“I jumped off the boat at the dock and secured the lines. I got the stern lines, and the dockhand got the bow lines. Then as soon as the lines were secure, I ran down to the dock store. That’s maybe a hundred yards away, so maybe forty-five seconds? Maybe a minute, tops, including the time at the cash register,” said Zeke. “I was thirsty.”
“And then it just blew up?” asked Tracy.
“Yes,” said Zeke. “It was horrific. The explosion was devastating.”
“Was there enough time for fuel fumes to accumulate?” asked Tracy. “Inside the hull?”
“I don’t know,” said Zeke. “Good question. What did the Fire Inspector say?”
Tracy looked through the papers in her lap, while Zeke pulled the car into a parking lot. Susie had found the fire department file on the West Wind explosion and had printed out a copy for Zeke and Tracy.
“Says here that the cause of the fire was determined to be a faulty valve in the gas pump. It says a spark must have ignited the fuel,” Tracy said.
“Hmm,” said Zeke. “A spark would ignite gas fumes, which could cause an explosion. But I doubt there was enough time for the fumes to collect. My dad had just started pumping after I ran to the store…”
“So the fumes had to already be in the boat, in the hull?” asked Tracy.
“Possibly, but I think we would have smelled them.”
“Or it wasn’t the gas fumes igniting at all. Maybe the explosion had another source,” she continued.
“Could be. I guess I’ve just been too close to it. Never thought it was anything but an accident.”
“Of course not. Plus the emotional trauma. That’s too much for a child to wrap their head around.”
“Let’s go back home and read through this, and compare notes,” said Zeke. “Maybe the file notes will jog my memory.”
“Your memory’s just fine,” said Tracy. “But we can spend some time on it together. Break it down, ask each other questions…”
“OK. I’ll put it all out of my head, and we’ll start from zero. You ask questions, and I’ll try to put it together in my mind. Good.”
Zeke pulled the BMW under the house he was renting and shut it off. Tracy, her right hand on the door latch, leaned over and gave Zeke a gentle kiss.
“This has got to be so difficult,” she started.
“It is,” he said. “And I could use some sympathy…” He kissed her back.
Tracy moved a bit, upright in the seat. “Sympathy. Yeah, lets call it that,” she said with a broad smile.
Zeke nodded and said, “Bring the file in. We’ll get to it in a little bit.”
* * *
“It actually worked out better,” said Zeke, hanging up the phone.
Tracy gave him a wide-eyed, questioning look. Her short, light robe was loose on her, showing of
f her long legs and even tan.
“It looks like I’ll be heading to D.C. tomorrow. We have new information from the M.E. in North Dakota. Clive says it’s surprising.”
“Yes…?”
“So it’s better that you can’t stay this weekend.”
“Oh, really?” asked Tracy. “Better for who?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be fair if you were here, looking at the ocean and sitting in the sun, while I was working in D.C. or North Dakota or someplace equally un-sunny.”
“No, it wouldn’t be fair,” she repeated. Then she sighed. “When do you have to leave?”
“Flying out of Miami tomorrow, late morning. Let’s see if we can book the same flight to Atlanta, and I’ll see you off there.”
“Does this mean another night of wild, uncontrolled love and debauchery?”
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It better,” she said.
Chapter 8
“It was extremely sharp,” said Dr. Dale Adams. “I’d say surgically sharp.”
She was on the speakerphone, talking with Zeke and Clive in their D.C. office. Dr. Adams was in Stanley, North Dakota, reporting the final results of the autopsy and the results of the forensic analysis of Jenny Lakota’s body.
“What type of a tool was it?” asked Clive.
“It was small bladed. The cuts to her skin were round and symmetrical. Little round cuts, like if you were skinning an apple, but with a very small knife,” she continued.
“Like a surgeon’s knife,” said Zeke. “That may be why the pieces of her skin were so small. Tiny cuts, resulting in skin pieces maybe an inch or two in diameter.”
“Sounds like it must have taken a while to do all that,” said Clive.
“Yes, to work over her entire body…that would take several hours, I’d guess.”
“Like skinning an apple,” repeated Clive.
“How about the lab results?” asked Zeke.
“She had alcohol in her system,” said the doctor. “And barbiturates, enough to incapacitate her. Xylazine. Horse tranquilizers.”
“Must have done,” said Zeke. “That would have stopped her from screaming.”
“The quantity we found would have disenabled her. But it wasn’t enough to knock her out completely. I’m pretty sure she was awake for most of it. Just couldn’t move or scream…until she died,” said Dr. Adams.
“So this was probably personal,” said Zeke, slowly. “Vindictive.”
“It seems so,” said Dr. Adams.
“Doctor, what did you find in her stomach?” asked Clive.
“Besides the Xylazine? Beer. Sperm. And what was probably her dinner, partially digested. It turns out that it was Chinese food. Probably from China Delight. The restaurant is located a couple doors down from the Salty Dog.”
“I remember seeing it,” said Zeke, absently. “Tell me more about the Xylazine.”
“Sure. As well as being the M.E., I’m also the vet, remember?” said Dr. Adams.
Clive chuckled.
“Xylazine is a powerful drug. It’s used to sedate horses and as an anesthesia for large animals. It’s a muscle relaxer, a central nervous system depressant. An overdose, which our victim definitely had, would slow her heart rate until she died.”
“Hmm,” said Zeke. “Alcohol plus Xylazine. Probably a bad mix. Anything more about the, ah, skinning?”
“Very sharp knife. Very slow work. I don’t know for sure how long she lived, but she was definitely dead before it was over.”
* * *
Zeke’s mobile phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Agent Cord.
“Tillman Cord, hello,” said Zeke.
“Hello to you,” said Cord. “Thought you’d want to know. The FBI made an arrest in the Jenny Lakota case.” Cord paused for effect.
“And…” asked Zeke.
“We arrested Sam Bearcat this afternoon.”
* * *
Zeke stuck his head in Clive’s office.
“Now that we have the forensics, we have better questions to ask. I think I’d better head back to North Dakota tomorrow,” said Zeke. “I’ll call ahead and ask the Tribal Officers to set up an interview with Randy Cunningham, the guy who found the body. And another session with Sam Bearcat.”
“What about the man from the Salty Dog?” asked Clive. “The one Jenny Lakota was flirting with.”
“The bartender, Sandy, may know who he is. And maybe the Tribal Officers will know by now. I’ll follow up on that, too,” said Zeke.
* * *
Zeke rented a jeep at Sloulin Field International Airport in Williston and drove the hour and a half southeast to New Town. As he approached he turned right, away from town, and crossed the Little Missouri River. At the end of the bridge he pulled off into the Four Bears Casino and Lodge.
The front desk clerk seemed genuinely happy to see him. She was a tall, thin woman with an eager face and quick movements that belied her age, which Zeke guessed to be about fifty-five.
“Welcome to Four Bears,” she said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I do,” said Zeke, and he gave her the details. Ten minutes later, he was in a third floor King Suite with a middle-distance view of the steel-blue river.
Zeke’s cellphone rang, and when he answered, Officer Bruce Doekiller said, “You get settled OK?”
“I’m in,” said Zeke. “Do we still have time to interview Randy Cunningham this afternoon?”
“Sure,” said Doekiller. “I’ll come by and pick you up in ten minutes. Four Bears, right?”
* * *
Bruce Doekiller was driving the same maroon, black-walled Crown Vic as he had before, and spots of dirt still muddied the windows. He parked it and Zeke met him inside the casino entrance. A bus full of senior citizens was discharging its passengers.
“They’re here for the slots and buffet,” said Doekiller. “The bus runs every day, brings them in from the senior center down in Bismarck. They bring rolls of quarters with them.”
Zeke nodded. “And I’m guessing the bus is full right after the first of the month,” he said. “Social Security checks arrive.”
“Like clockwork,” said Doekiller. “Where’s your partner?”
“Cord said the FBI won’t pursue it any further. Now that they’ve arrested Sam Bearcat, I guess that’s enough for them,” said Zeke.
Doekiller nodded. “Then Cunningham first?”
“Yes,” said Zeke. “He works at the casino. Is he around?”
“He typically works the night shift,” said Doekiller. “But I called him and asked him to meet us here. He said he’d come in early.”
“Where?” asked Zeke.
Doekiller signaled for Zeke to follow him as he walked into the casino and headed for a back-office door marked “Security.” He knocked on the door. A moment later they heard it being unlocked, and the solid metal door swung open.
“Hey, Bruce,” said an average sized man, obviously of Native American heritage. His face showed little expression, and his voice was a high monotone. He ignored Zeke and said to the Tribal Officer, “Come in.”
Inside, the room was about four times larger than Zeke had anticipated, with one full wall supporting an array of large screen TV’s, and numerous tables and desks arranged symmetrically. Three other people, two men and a woman, each wearing a red vest marked “Security” were in attendance. Each seemed preoccupied with the action on the TV screens.
“Did Mr. Cunningham make it in yet?” asked Doekiller.
“Yeah, we put him in the office over there,” the man said, waving to the back of the room.
Doekiller glanced at Zeke, nodded, and walked to the closed office door. Inside was a desk and chair, occupied by a scarecrow of a man with long, loose limbs and what looked like a Dutch Boy haircut.
“Mr. Cunningham, hello,” said Zeke, as he held out his hand.
Cunningham stood and shook Zeke’s hand, then offered his hand to the Tribal Officer. Doekiller shook an
d sat down across the table from him.
Cunningham looked at them and shivered involuntarily. “It was just horrible.”
“I know,” said Doekiller. “I saw it, too.”
Zeke nodded slowly and said, “That’s a pretty ugly thing to come across.”
“I can’t make the images go away.”
“We have a few more questions, Mr. Cunningham,” said Zeke. “Mainly questions that came up because of the autopsy and the forensic analysis.”
“OK,” said Cunningham.
“When you came across the body, did you see anyone else? Anybody in the area, near the tracks or on the street?
“I didn’t,” said Cunningham. “But the light was pretty bad. Some of the streetlights were out, so it was tough to see anything.”
“But you saw the figure on the tracks,” said Zeke.
Cunningham nodded. “At first it looked like a big bag, maybe a gray or silver bag of debris. Like you use for yard work.”
Zeke nodded.
“But then I thought, ‘Maybe it’s a drunk or a homeless person.’ Whatever it was, it was on the tracks, which is part of the reason I stopped. To be sure the person was OK. The trains come through there…”
“You found the body and called the police?” asked Zeke.
Cunningham nodded, suddenly pale. He covered his mouth with his fist.
“Did the body move at all, or make any sound that you remember?” asked Zeke.
“No, nothing like that. It was all slumped over, no real shape.”
“Did you touch it? Move the body at all?” asked Zeke.
“No, no way. As soon as I realized what it was, that it didn’t have any skin, well, I got sick.”
“How close did you get to the body?” asked Zeke.
“Oh,” said Cunningham, thinking. “Maybe from here to over there,” he said, signaling a distance of about five feet. “Remember, it was dark out there.”
