by Lowe, Tom
There were about a dozen wooden pews separated by an aisle that led to the pulpit. Hanging from the dais was a satin white cloth with the image of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak. Behind the podium was a stained glass window displaying an image of a man in a river, his hair wet, eyes wide, and his hand locked in the hand of Jesus.
I remembered how Luke Palmer looked as the deputies pulled his exhausted body out of the river. I sat in the first pew, immersed in silence, and simply stared at the imagery in the stained glass. The sunlight and breeze moving through the trees gave the colors a suggestion of motion.
I thought of my wife, Sherri. I could almost see her face somewhere through the painted glass, and I could just about feel her presence on the pew beside me. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, to hold it like I’d done on too few Sundays in church. I looked beside me, expecting to see her and to somehow hold her hand for one more stolen moment in time.
There was nothing, only a long, empty pew supporting a lone Bible. A bookmark in the shape of an angel protruded from the center of the Bible. I opened it to the marked spot, the twenty-third chapter of Psalms. After a minute, I got up and walked to the door. It was closed, and I remembered that I did not shut it. But why didn’t I hear it close?
I’d left my Glock between the seats of my unlocked Jeep. Had someone taken my gun? Were they standing on the other side of the church door? Careless, I thought. There were no windows facing that section of the church. I moved to one side of the door and jerked it open. I could feel the warm breeze entering. From where I stood, I saw my Jeep. There was no one around it. I stepped outside. A man with a head full of cotton-white hair stood on the small porch. His beard came down to the first opened button on his sweat-stained, blue jean shirt. His eyes were bright as the blue river in the stained glass window. He reached out his hand. “Mornin,’ glad you could stop in our little church. I’m Paul Goodard. I double as the groundskeeper most days and the minister most Sundays. They call me Preacher Paul. What do they call you?”
“Sean O’Brien, nice to meet you. I was just leaving.”
He had a firm grip. Releasing my hand, he said, “Saw you in there and thought I’d close the door to give you some privacy.”
“Guess I was in deep thought. Didn’t even hear you close the door.”
“Keep the hinges well oiled.”
“Noticed that when I opened it.”
“We’d love to have you join our church family.”
“Thanks, Preacher Paul, but I’m just passing through.”
He studied me for a moment. I nodded and stepped around him.
“We’re all passing through, you know. I hope you got what you came for.” His beard parted in a wide smile.
I turned back to him. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything that you might want to talk about?”
“No thanks.”
“Please forgive my forwardness, but you seem deeply troubled. Maybe I could help.”
I nodded. “I’m fine. Need to be going.”
“Going from something, Mr. O’Brien, or going into something.”
“In a way, I suppose, it’s a little of both. And, I imagine we’re all in that boat from time to time.” I turned to leave.
“We are. But I suspect you find yourself on those troubled waters more frequent than most.”
I didn’t turn around. I heard the blackbird cry out from the cedar tree as the old preacher said, “God walks with you. You may not see his footprints, but He’s with you if you let Him join you. You’ll find He makes an excellent traveling companion. Doesn’t need food or water. All He asks is that you let him walk the walk with you. You do that, Mr. O’Brien, and he’ll lead you through the valley of death.”
I stopped at the Jeep door and turned around. Preacher Paul had gone. The church door was closed. The blackbird flew from the cedar and alighted on a tall tombstone that was pushed over by an invisible root hidden beneath the dark earth.
FIFTY-THREE
Detective Ed Sandberg was waiting in Sheriff Clayton’s office when the receptionist said Clayton would see me. The sheriff sat behind a large wooden desk. Neatly stacked piles of paper and case folders covering half the desk. Behind him were framed certificates and photos of members of congress, a former governor, a Florida Supreme Court judge and former President George W. Bush.
Detective Sandberg was seated to the left of the sheriff’s desk.
“What do you have O’Brien?” the sheriff asked, his voice clipped. “News media are crawling all over this damn building. I’m meeting with the DA at 1:30.”
“These came from Molly Monroe’s camera, the week she and her boyfriend were scouting the forest for a place to release butterflies. The images were shot before Frank Soto jumped Molly and her mother in the Walmart lot.” I opened my folder and spread the photos in front of the sheriff. He put on glasses and studied each one, grunting once as he passed the pictures to Detective Sandberg.
I said, “That’s Frank Soto to the right. I don’t have an ID on the guy near him.”
“It could be Palmer,” Detective Sandberg said.
“Don’t think so. Here’s why.” I slid the close-up photo of the man’s mid-section. “The guy in the picture is wearing a wedding band and a wristwatch. Palmer certainly isn’t married, and he has no watch.”
“How do you know?” the sheriff asked.
“I remember looking at his hands when he came out of the river.”
“Is that right?”
“Sheriff, look behind the men in the photo next to you. See the marijuana plants I told you about on the phone? I think that’s the reason Molly and Mark were killed. The perps thought she’d snapped pictures of their pot operation. They wanted to stop her.”
Sandberg nodded. “Major pot farmers don’t play around. They usually have the grunts tending the crops while they’re away in some penthouse. These guys will do anything to protect a big field, including setting booby traps and, of course, murder.”
The sheriff turned to Sandberg. “Get a chopper in the sky. Do recon aerials over the forest. See if we can spot this field. Take a ground crew and fan out in all directions from where we found the bodies. Okay, O’Brien, we’ll give it a go. See what we can find, but I’m telling you that Palmer is involved in all this. He’s bad news.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“It’s a damn probably. Look, we found the deer blood on Palmer’s clothes. Matches the blood from the deer in the grave. If he didn’t shoot them, he buried them.”
“In questioning, how did he say the blood got on his clothes?”
The sheriff stood, picked at a hangnail, his eyes distant. “Palmer tells us he heard shots. A few minutes later says he saw a wounded deer deep in the woods. Said he was going to slip up on the deer, slit its throat and cook some of the meat.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Why should we? Look at the physical evidence. With his connection to the first murder, I believe he was involved in the last two.”
“When you dug the bullet out of the tree, what did you find?”
Detective Sandberg said, “.30-.30 caliber.”
“Did you find a bullet in the deer?”
“No. It’s the same with Molly and Mark because the bullets had exited them.”
“But did it exit the deer?”
The sheriff folded his arms. “I see what you’re driving at, O’Brien. The ME did thorough autopsies on the college kids. He also looked at the deer carcass.”
“And he couldn’t find the bullet.”
“No,” said Detective Sandberg.
Sheriff Clayton’s chest swelled. He pursed his dry lips. “Ed, go on and hit the forest with a team. Lemme know if you find something. I’ll keep my 1:30 with the DA. Palmer will get a hearing, but I’m sure he’ll never make bond. Bet after all those years in prison, he doesn’t have too many friends who’d help him.”
I said, “When do you expect DNA results on the c
igar found in the grave?”
“We have an extreme rush on it,” said Sandberg.
“Sheriff, I’d like to see speak with Palmer.”
“I understand you worked homicide at one time, O’Brien, but Ed and a half dozen other detectives have spent hours with that guy. What’s the point?”
“I’m about to attend Molly Monroe’s funeral. I’d like to know if the man you believe buried her with a deer carcass is responsible for putting her in that grave.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Luke Palmer tossed and turned on the thin mattress that separated his back from the metal bed in the cell. Two months of freedom, a couple of weeks of sleeping under the stars had opened his pores, opened his mind and soul to something he’d lost four decades ago, freedom.
Now he was back in a cage.
He had no idea if it was day or night. His cell was sequestered in the bowels of the county lock-up. He thought it might be morning. But there were no windows. He missed the sunrises in the forest, missed the chill of the morning, the open campfire, the squirrels scampering around him, and he missed the flowers and butterflies.
He’d been kept awake in a state, somewhere between a listless sleep and consciousness, by sporadic screaming. From somewhere down the corridor of steel and concrete, came sardonic chants, yells—the nightmare language of the criminally insane.
Palmer thought about his bad luck. Years ago accused of first-degree murder when all degrees of the truth were ignored. He had to defend himself or die. It had been that simple. Now he, again, was accused of committing a crime that he had not done. Never did the cops ask him about a murder weapon. How would an ex con get a high-powered rifle? Why would someone in his shoes shoot and kill a young man and woman? Why do the cops believe he killed the girl that he found buried?
He thought about his niece, Caroline. Had her kidneys completely shut down? Would she be on dialysis the rest of her life?
He heard guards approaching. Turning to face the cell door, he saw that one was heavyset and had a thick neck and shaved head. His breathing sounded as if he was exhaling into a paper bag. The other one was tall, droopy faced, with a matchstick in one corner of his mouth. He didn’t remove the match to speak. “You got a visitor.”
“Visitor? Who? What time is it?”
“Little past eight. Guy’s name is Sean O’Brien. Sheriff says you can have a half hour with him in the receiving area. You’ll speak through the phone receptacle and have visual communications behind the glass.”
“Who the hell’s this guy O’Brien? Is he an attorney?”
The larger guard said, “I heard some of the guys on the SWAT team say he might be the best marksman in the state. He was the dude that saved your ass when you were about to become gator bites.”
FIFTY-FIVE
I watched as two guards escorted Luke Palmer into the receiving area. He walked with the same body language I’d seen on so many hard-timers. Head down. Eyes focused on the floor directly in front of him. His physical periphery subtly spoke a body language that was rough but understood. He might have well worn it along with his orange prisoner’s clothes. It said back off.
He slowly sat in front of me, the thick glass partition separating us. I picked up the phone and waited for him to do the same. He did, holding a look that didn’t waiver.
“My name’s O’Brien.”
“Suppose I owe you a thank you.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“All the same, much obliged.”
“I heard what you told the detectives about the shooting.”
“Lot a good that did.”
“I brought something to show you.” I opened a file folder and lifted out one of the photographs I printed from Molly’s camera. It was a close shot of Frank Soto. I watched Palmer’s eyes as I held the picture to the glass. “Do you recognize this man?”
Palmer studied the image for a few seconds. “Yeah, that’s the guy I saw that night when the hippies were at the bonfire.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I remember faces. I mess around with charcoal, pencil and some pen ‘n ink. I had an old con teach me how to draw people. I always drew as a kid. I sorta got a way of seeing a face and spitting it out on paper. And I can do it pretty fast.”
“You’re an artist?”
“I’m not a con artist. Seen plenty of them in prison. I guess I’m just a guy who’s always liked to draw.” Palmer smiled. “One time I drew the faces of almost all the men in the cellblock. Did it for practice.”
“You said you saw the face of the man who shot Molly and Mark?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you draw that face?”
“Suppose I could, if I had a pencil and some paper.”
“How long would it take you?”
“About ten minutes.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. I had twenty minutes left with Palmer. “Wait there a second.” I dropped the phone and stepped to a guard. “I need a piece of paper and a pencil.”
“What for?”
I told him and he said, “Pencil could be considered a weapon.”
“Palmer is going to sketch a quick picture for us. He’ll hand the pencil back to you when he’s done. You can watch him the entire time.”
“I don’t know—”
“The drawing he does could help us find a guy who killed three people and probably will kill at least one more.”
“I’m going to watch him like a hawk.”
“I think he’s used to that.”
The guard went into another room, came back with a pencil and a piece of 8 1/2 by 11-inch white paper. He placed the material in front of Palmer.
“Were you in a position to have seen any identifying features?” I asked Palmer.
“Close enough. One thing you learn in a prison yard is how to look for identifying features, like the way a man carries himself. What he’s hiding.”
Palmer closed his eyes for a moment, his face reflective. Then he looked down at the paper and began drawing. He was fast. Sketching the general outline of the face, working in the hair, and then beginning with the details of eyes, nose and mouth. I said, “You could have easily been a police sketch artist.”
“Or a tattoo artist.”
I thought about the tattoo on Soto’s arm. “Tell me about everything you’ve seen in the forest since you’ve been out there.”
He grinned. “I just came from a place full of mean sons-a-bitches. You expect to find badness in prison. You don’t expect to find it in a forest, at least I didn’t. And, boy, was I was wrong.”
FIFTY-SIX
Palmer sketched for a moment in silence. He worked in detail on the angular face, and then he raised his eyes to me. “All right, I’ll go over most everything I can remember. I’ve already told the detectives this. They listen but hear what they want to hear. Look man, I know evil. I’ve lived with it in cellblocks most of my life. But in those woods, in that forest, there’s more weird shit that you can ever imagine. I’ve seen everything from hard asses running meth labs, to fuckin’ devil worshipers sacrificing goats and acting like they wanted to cut a girl’s throat. You taking notes? Want me to go slow, or just let it out?”
“I’m taking notes in my head. Just let it all out, tell me everything.”
He nodded and, for the next fifteen minutes, I listened to Palmer as he began his observations the first day he entered the Ocala National Forest. He spoke, stopped, sketched, and began speaking again. I didn’t interrupt. He concluded by saying, “And this dude I’m drawing, when he shot those kids, that wasn’t the first time I saw him.”
“When was the first time?”
He looked up from the sketch. “It was when he lowered the back window of a car he was in. He was a passenger. There were two other men. This guy lowered the window and tossed a half smoked cigar out. It caught the dry brush and almost started a forest fire. I put out the fire, and I buried the damn cigar.”
“You told me what
you’ve seen in there. But you haven’t said why you were there.”
“I told the others, the detectives.”
“Now, why don’t you tell me the truth?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe you were hunting for Civil War relics.”
“What do you believe?”
“You’re on some kind of mission. Someone either sent you into that forest, or there is a compelling reason you’d go there on your own. I think you are on your own. It’s all about you.”
He looked down at his drawing, and then glanced away. His eyes distance, face filled with concern. “That’s impressive, Mr. O’Brien. But it’s not all about me. Okay, here’s the story. What the hell. A few years back, I ran across a guy in prison, and old dude, who said he was a gang member back in the thirties, the Barker Gang. You know, the one where the FBI finally shot the old woman and one of her boys, Fred.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I saved Al Karpis’ life once. He told me he’d been there, in the Ocala National Forest when Fred Barker buried money they’d taken in bank robberies, a half-mil. The banks they stole it from don’t exist anymore. Karpis said he was gonna die of cancer before he walked. He gave me a map and said it was mine if I could find it.”
“Did you find it?”
He was silent a few seconds. “I did, but I put it back in the hole when I heard all the shooting. O’Brien, I’m not some greedy guy who wants the dough just for me. I haven’t had money in forty years. But I do have a chance to help my sick niece, Caroline. She has kidney disease. She’s in Houston, Texas. The money would get her treatment… might save her life.”
As he worked on the sketch, he told me about his niece. He told me about the first time he saw Mark and Molly in the forest. “They just looked to me like two kids, kinda scared. It was getting darker, and I think they were in a hurry to get outta there. I saw them lookin’ over their shoulder like they thought they were being followed. I didn’t see anybody comin’ after them, I did see rangers stop and give them a ride.”
