The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

  * * *

  “Did you know Jenny Lakota?” asked Zeke.

  “Sure, I knew her to see her. I used to babysit her a little, quite a while back. But when she got older, Jenny ran in a whole different circle than I do.”

  “Your sister’s death had some similarities to Jenny Lakota’s murder.”

  She exhaled, a big smoky breath. “Casey. Yeah, from what I’ve heard, it sure did.”

  “How did she die?” asked Zeke.

  “She was stabbed.”

  “Did they find the weapon?” asked Zeke.

  Cheryl shook her head. “No. They said the wounds looked like she was stabbed with a flat bladed knife. When I heard about Jenny, well, you know…” she shivered.

  “Your sister was found up north. The Evans Site?” Zeke prompted.

  The woman was nodding. “Worst day of my life. One day we were working together, and the next she was gone. And up north, there’s no reason she went up there.”

  “You worked together?” asked Zeke.

  “Yeah, we both worked for the Town. She was in Administration and I have a job in Public Works. A desk job. She got it for me.”

  Zeke nodded and waited.

  “Was anyone ever charged with the murder?” he asked.

  “No. They never accused anyone.” She took a long drag from the cigarette. “Said they were working on it, but after a while it just sort of fizzled out.”

  “What about trace evidence? DNA?”

  “No, they said the body was soaked in bleach…no, it was Oxiclean. Said after that, they couldn’t match the DNA.”

  “Sodium carbonate peroxyhydrate,” said Zeke. “Destroys all the blood DNA. They used the same thing on Jenny’s body.”

  Cheryl nodded blankly and took another puff.

  “Did the police have suspects?” asked Zeke.

  “They were looking at our family pretty hard. Said it looked like a crime of passion. Somebody had to be pretty emotional to go to all that trouble.”

  “She had a husband? Or boyfriend?” asked Zeke.

  “Casey was, well, she was a free spirit. I used to call her a weekend hippy.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She wasn’t like other people. Sure, she worked for the government, but those are the best jobs. Benefits and paid vacation and insurance…”

  “OK.”

  “But she loved to travel. She loved to go to yoga retreats. And she always went to Bike Week in Sturgis, every year.”

  “She rode a motorcycle?” asked Zeke.

  “Sure. She’d ride it over to Interstate 85, just west of here, then it’s a straight shot down to Sturgis. She’d ride with her friends. About a five-hour drive.”

  Cheryl paused. “And she had her causes.”

  Zeke said, “Causes?”

  “Sure. She was always spoiling for a fight. A protest. Demonstrating about some unfair thing or another. Protesting. She said it was our duty.”

  “Who were her friends?” asked Zeke.

  “Mostly people she grew up with from High School. She was pretty social, stayed in touch with her friends for years,” Cheryl said. “But truth be told, everybody liked Casey. She always had a lot of friends.”

  “But no husband?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be Casey.”

  “Why do you think she was killed?” asked Zeke.

  “I dunno. She was sweet to most everyone.”

  Zeke nodded.

  “We’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I just don’t know why someone would do that to her.”

  “We’re looking into the Jenny Lakota murder,” said Zeke. “We’ll let you know if we find anything that might be connected to your sister’s death.”

  “I know, it just seems too weird. Both of them killed almost the same way.”

  Chapter 15

  “I’m back,” said Zeke. He was standing in the doorway of the Monroe County Police Information Management room, talking to Susie again. Her blonde hair was still frizzy, and today she wore pink shorts and a t-shirt with “Changes in Latitudes” lettered across the back.

  Susie turned in her seat and looked at Zeke. Her lack of expression is a huge contrast with her sharp mind, he thought.

  “Pete Blazen let you come back here without him?” she asked. “He must like you.”

  With a dose of false modesty, Zeke joked, “What’s not to like?”

  “Well, it’s OK with me,” she said.

  “Thank you. I flew back down this morning. We’re chasing down a lead on that boat explosion,” said Zeke.

  “Your parents’ boat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d you fly in from?” asked Susie.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” said Zeke.

  “Try me.”

  “Williston, North Dakota,” Zeke said.

  “You’re right. I don’t believe you. So, how can I help with the explosion?” asked Susie.

  “We picked up a man about an hour before the explosion, I think. He’d run aground and couldn’t get his fishing boat off the reef. I think he threw an anchor out and rode back to the marina with us.”

  “You think?” asked Susie.

  “I’m pretty sure. But that was a long time ago. I suppose I could be remembering it wrong…”

  “Do you remember the name of the boat?” she asked.

  “No, not really. It was a workboat, the kind you use for raising and lowering lobster traps, and for serious commercial fishing. Boxy and worn and professional. And it had the winches and pulleys and stuff attached.”

  “You’re looking for a single boat in the Keys?” asked Susie. “There’re over 930,000 boats registered in Florida alone.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s crazy.”

  “Did anyone radio in the location of the boat? Where it had run aground?” she asked.

  “That’s something my dad would have done. He was pretty meticulous about that kind of thing,” said Zeke.

  “So what was the date of the explosion?” asked Susie. She turned her chair back to her computer terminal, fingers ready, waiting.

  It was May 12, 1989,” said Zeke.

  “How old were you then?”

  “I was eight, almost nine. We lived aboard the West Wind, sailed all around these waters.”

  Susie was nodding, but her attention was on the screen in front of her.

  “You said it was called in that afternoon?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure.”

  “We have access to the Coast Guard radio reports for vessels in our waters. Monroe County, that is. These radio logs would have been scanned into our system with a lot of others. After the Mariel Boat Lift in 1980, the Coast Guard got big on redundancy, and they used our computers and our files to keep duplicate copies of most everything in Monroe County. Let’s see…”

  Susie clicked some keys, read her screen and clicked some more.

  “How about that,” she said. “Here’s a radio call from the West Wind to the Coast Guard on that day, reporting a fishing boat that ran aground on a sandbar next to the channel that runs under Seven Mile Bridge. That’s not far from Boot Key, either.”

  “That sounds like it was us,” said Zeke. “Can you get me a copy of that?”

  “Sure, I’ll print it for you,” said Susie. “Says here that the name of the boat was the Ellen Sue. Fishermen are notorious for naming their workboats for women. Usually it’s a wife or girlfriend. Sometimes it’s their mom.”

  * * *

  “How could I check its registration?” asked Zeke. “See who owned the Ellen Sue.”

  “Wow, that’s a big ask,” Susie said. “Thirty years ago.”

  “Sure,” said Zeke.

  “There’s no guarantee that this boat was even registered in Monroe County, or even in Florida, for that matter.”

  Zeke waited.

  Susie, still looking at the radio log, said, “There is a registration number here, though. We could run that.”

  “It was rad
ioed in?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, when the boat was reported as stranded, the name and the number were reported.”

  “Good,” said Zeke. “What’s the number?”

  Susie said, “FL-4533-ZW. Let me cross reference that with…” With her attention focused, she stopped talking as she typed quickly.

  Then she said, “Monroe County. You’re in luck.”

  Zeke said, “Happens sometimes…”

  “It’s a retired number. Inactive registration.”

  “Makes sense. The boat’s probably about 50 years old by now. Maybe older,” said Zeke. “Do you have the last owner’s name and address?”

  More rapid clacking of the keys. “It was registered to an Owen Parks,” Susie said. “Want his address?”

  * * *

  Zeke pulled up to the rusty iron gate set in coral rock pillars on both sides of the driveway. The house beyond the gate was a conch house, built from Dade County Pine, a wood impervious to termites. There were many such cottages here. Zeke thought, Most of these were built well over fifty years ago when the Keys were quite different.

  Through his windshield, Zeke saw a heavy steel chain covered with surface rust and locked with a large padlock. It, too, was covered with rust.

  It appeared that the cottage was empty. There was an old blue F-150 truck in the small driveway but no sign of life in the yard or through the glass windows. The yard was overgrown, and beyond the house Zeke saw the ground fall off gradually about three feet to reach sea level. The ocean behind the house was bright blue and calm.

  Zeke shut off the car, exited and tried the padlock. It was locked. There was a deep ditch on either side of the gate, probably dug to discourage intruders and door-to-door salesmen years ago.

  He looked in the mailbox, a rusted old structure mounted on a fencepost. Nothing inside.

  “No time like the present,” he said to himself, and he stepped down into the overgrown ditch, quickly bounding up on the opposite side. His car was parked squarely in front of the gate, which should prevent an escape if someone was so inclined.

  With no care in the world, Zeke strolled to the cottage, his Beretta tightly concealed at the small of his back under his Pier House t-shirt. Nothing happened.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun was low on the horizon. It cast stark shadows across the yard of the overgrown palm fronds and the gumbo limbo trees. The air smelled of stagnant heat. Zeke walked to the door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  After a minute, Zeke stepped down off the stairs and circled the house, watching the windows carefully as he went. He saw no lights, heard no air conditioning, and smelled nothing out of the ordinary. He continued, cautious as he approached the back wall of the house, moving in and tight against the side wall.

  Suddenly, an orchestra of sounds lit up the area as the Giant Florida katydids, in unison, screamed their righteous song from the mangroves.

  Zeke paused at the corner of the house, peeked around the corner, then stepped out into the back. The entire rear of the small cottage was a screened porch that overlooked the back yard, the bay and an old wooden boat dock, a few deck boards missing in several places.

  Zeke looked at the house for a moment, feeling for any presence. The entire place seemed empty and abandoned.

  Zeke walked to the dock and scanned the horizon. The clear, bright water, translucent in places, calmly covered the coral and rock that made up the shallow bottom.

  There were signs of a boat. White plastic fenders, stained yellow by the sun, lined the dock. A fish table, strapped to a pylon, was rigged with a green garden hose feeding its rusty spigot. The top of the table was bone dry. Next to it sat a red gas can, the one-gallon size, with “Diesel” written on the side in marker. Zeke picked it up and sloshed its contents. Then he set it back down.

  Tracing his steps back toward the house, Zeke let himself in through the screen door, then opened the back door. It was unlocked and he slipped inside.

  The cottage was one open area comprised of a small kitchen, a living area that looked out at the water, a bedroom with a closet, and a small bathroom. The couch was folded out into a bed. A shower was out back.

  Won’t take long to see what’s here, he thought. He checked the front door and found it unlocked. There’s my escape route.

  It was hot and muggy in the cottage, but he didn’t turn on the small air conditioning unit. Within two minutes he felt the sweat forming on his skin and dampening his shirt. In five minutes he was sweating profusely. The hot air made breathing hard.

  He tossed the place in less than fifteen minutes, one eye watching and both ears listening for the returning boat. In all, he found some bills piled on the kitchen shelf addressed to Owen Parks, a flour canister on a kitchen shelf with $765 in currency in it, a box half filled with nine millimeter cartridges, but no gun, and some men’s clothing in a stinky pile on the floor of the closet. In the bedroom, the bed was used but unmade. There were two dirty coffee cups in the single sink. In the refrigerator, he found four beer cans still connected by their plastic holder, and some hot sauce. The freezer was filled with ice and wrapped white packages labeled “fish” with a dull sharpie.

  Zeke found the sharpie and the white paper a minute later in one of the kitchen drawers.

  The county records that Susie had accessed showed that this property was owned by Owen Parks and had been built in the mid-1960s. There had been no transfer of ownership since then, and the records showed that the real estate taxes were paid and current.

  “If Owen Parks is the same fisherman we rescued,” Zeke had told Susie, “he looked to be around forty back then. So he’s got to be in his seventies. Or older.”

  Susie had clacked some more keys on her keyboard and said, “It looks like he’s still alive. He’s got a boat registered in his name, and a truck, an old F-150. Taxes are current on them, too. Let’s see…he’s seventy-three this year.”

  The rest of his search revealed nothing of interest. Zeke stepped out on the screened porch and listened for a minute. He heard the humming of an inboard motor becoming louder and stronger.

  Time to vanish, he thought.

  Zeke circled to the front of the house, crossed the ditch and slid into the front seat of his car. Air conditioning blasting, he pointed the BMW back toward U.S. Highway 1.

  * * *

  “I’ve found him,” said Zeke. He’d returned to his cottage and called Kimmy in D.C. to share the news.

  “That’s great, Zeke,” Kimmy said. “Did you talk with him?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “It was a sort of a B&E, and I didn’t want to take a chance and lose the advantage. Plus, the guy, Owen Parks, it looks like he’s seventy-three.”

  “You mean he could have lost his memory? Dementia?”

  “Or he could pretend to have lost it. No, there’s too much wiggle room. Plus, he might call the Sheriff’s office, 911.”

  “You don’t want to do this with the Sheriff?”

  “No, I may have to do some things the Sheriff doesn’t agree with…”

  “Got it. What did you find out when you were there?” she asked.

  Zeke hesitated. “I’ll tell you, but it’ll take a while. First, can you make time to come down here and help me with this?”

  “Hmm. Funny, I was just thinking about a vacation…”

  “Well, it is the Keys,” said Zeke, innocently.

  “It is that. Yeah, I can break away for a few days.”

  “Great,” said Zeke.

  “Tracy told me you’ve got a sweet setup down there,” Kimmy continued.

  “You talked to Tracy? About us?” asked Zeke.

  “You know how I am with boundaries, Zeke.”

  He ignored the comment. “How soon can you be here?”

  “Tomorrow. I can fly into Key West tomorrow noon, and drive up to Marathon…”

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport. We can talk on the way back to the cottage.”

  “OK. Will I need heavy
equipment for this trip?” she asked.

  “Just bring your Jericho,” said Zeke, referring to Kimmy’s favorite handgun. “It should be enough.”

  * * *

  “So, what’s the plan?” Kimmy asked after they’d cleared Stock Island and were heading north on another pristine day. The azure sky was cloudless, and the bright blue water glistened on both sides of the narrow highway.

  “It looks to me as if the old man lives with someone else, possibly a relative. It’s a small place. We need to visit with them and find out what he knows about the explosion.”

  “Do we have any leverage?” asked Kimmy. She was bouncing lightly in her seat, a tune obviously playing in her head. Her lime green shorts and white bikini top showed off her pale, fit body.

  “We need some. I’ve been thinking about that,” said Zeke.

  “More than a gun to his head, I guess,” Kimmy said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What’s the setup?” she asked.

  “It’s a small house, private, with a boat dock behind it and a gated entrance. Oversized lot, and a lot of foliage blocking out the neighbors on both sides. It’s old, and the house isn’t more than 900 square feet at most,” said Zeke.

  “Private. Good. Once we’re in, we won’t be disturbed.”

  “Well, this isn’t wet work,” Zeke said, referring to Kimmy’s experience in Mossad.

  “Ah, but Owen Parks doesn’t know that,” she said.

  * * *

  They parked the rental car in the driveway of an empty house with an overgrown front yard hosting a tattered, blue and white “For Sale” sign, and walked a block to the gate embedded in the coral rock in front of Owen Parks’ house. Kimmy had pulled a black hoodie over her bikini top and strapped her Jericho to her lower back. They both had traded their sandals for gum-soled shoes.

  “Black’s the hottest color, you know,” said Kimmy.

  “Actually, black isn’t a color. It’s the absence of all color,” said Zeke.

  Kimmy nodded to herself and hummed as they walked.

  The leverage, they’d decided, would be a push/pull approach, an act with Kimmy trying to talk Zeke out of doing bodily damage to the fisherman. The script would be ad libbed.