J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  Jane took the second photograph, and then placed it on the bottom of the stack.

  Justin began to narrate.

  “No identification was found. No tattoos or anything else that could be used to identify him. We got a DNA sample and we’ll run it through our database, including our database of convicted felons. But the next picture is probably the only thing that could be helpful.”

  Jane put the third photograph on the bottom to reveal the final photograph. It was a close-up of a shiny piece of metal. It was the metal that had reflected the sun, and had caught the farmer’s attention.

  “It’s a belt buckle,” Justin said.

  Jane and Michael looked at it. The large buckle was silver with small turquoise stones surrounding a Mexican eagle.

  Jane looked up and pushed all the photographs away.

  “That’s Tommy.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The coroner led Michael and Jane through a maze of cubicles. It was the administrative portion of the county morgue.

  “Here we are.” The coroner pointed at a gray metal door on the back wall. He was a slight man with pointed features that were beginning to round as he neared retirement.

  “You get used to the smell, but it can be a little unsettling at first.” He smiled, and then stopped in front of the door.

  The coroner turned the knob, opened the door, and a cold plume of chemicals escaped. He let the initial burst of foul air pass, and then the coroner led Michael and Jane inside a large windowless room.

  The space looked like a combination operating room, meat locker, and 1970s elementary school gymnasium.

  “When I heard you were coming to make an identification, I set him up in the back.” The coroner pointed at a stainless steel table pressed against a green tiled wall. A metal lamp with an adjustable cord hung above the long black body bag.

  Jane and Michael stopped a few feet from the table. The coroner began to unzip the bag, but stopped.

  “I do apologize for the condition, but given the investigation, I cannot clean the body for now, only preserve it in the exact manner in which it was found. That is why some of the clothes are still on.”

  Both Michael and Jane nodded, and then the coroner finished unzipping the bag.

  Once open, the coroner carefully pulled back the edges of the bag to reveal its contents.

  He stepped away, giving Jane and Michael space.

  They each took a step forward, and looked down at the table.

  It looked like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle with a lot of missing pieces.

  The coroner had arranged the parts of the body in roughly the places where they should be – but disconnected.

  Even the parts that were there still didn’t look right. The head was simply a mass of black hair, mud and bone. The tissue and features had either decomposed or had been consumed by whatever animal dragged the body through the field. The individual body parts below the head were the same.

  “Tomorrow, after everything has been photographed and documented, we can do a little more thorough examination. I thought that such activity would be premature, however, until an identification was made and the family could be consulted.” The coroner waited for a response, but Jane and Michael continued to stare at the body in silence.

  In time, Jane looked up. She was tense. Her eyes focused hard on the coroner.

  “Did you do any bloodwork?”

  The coroner shook his head.

  “It wasn’t possible.”

  “Tommy had cancer. That would maybe show up in any bloodwork.” Jane looked back at the body parts on the table. “But I know that’s him.”

  The coroner nodded his head.

  “We could take a sample from bone marrow, the cancer might show up in that sample, but DNA is the most appropriate.”

  “I’ll get you a sample from his cousin, Roberto,” Jane said. “He’s in town. We can get that quickly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kermit was already at their table at The Box.

  Jane and Michael entered and were, once again, greeted with open arms by Tyco. Filled with freaks and fringe, Michael liked The Box because it reminded him of The Sunset. He also didn’t like The Box for the same reason.

  He missed Hut No. 7. Whenever there was a lull in conversation or a few minutes of silence, his mind often drifted back down to the Mayan Riviera in Mexico. He could hear the blue Caribbean crash on the Sunset’s pearl beach. He could feel the cool, salty air breeze pass through him, and then he thought of Andie. The thought of Andie Larone left him hollow. He felt sort of like the way Justin Kent looked.

  Michael wanted closure, but closure had never been something that came easy for him.

  “Yo, bro-ha, come back to the present.” Kermit snapped his fingers in Michael’s face. Then he got up and guided Michael the rest of the way, escorting him into the booth. Kermit then put his arm around Jane and guided her into the other side of the booth where he had been sitting.

  “Right here next to me, sexy.”

  Jane smiled. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Kermit waved over the waitress. She still walked with the weight of the world pressing down on her, but it looked like a little of the weight had been taken off.

  “What can I get for you, Kermie?” She smiled a crooked grin.

  “A round of your cheapest beer. And can I get your Juicy Lucy with a side of fries?”

  “Of course.” Her eyes sparkled.

  When she left, Michael leaned in.

  “Are you two an item now?”

  “Maybe, mi amigo.” Kermit bobbled his head. “She’s a special girl with special gifts in linguistics. She’s helping me with my new theories of advanced general semantics.”

  Michael nodded as if he understood. Advanced general semantics at least sounded a little less kooky than the teachings of Dr. Moo Yung Song. After enough time passed to be polite, he asked, “What the hell is a Juicy Lucy?”

  Kermit began to answer, but Jane interrupted.

  “It’s their specialty. Two hamburger patties melded together with a chunk of molten, melted cheddar cheese in the middle.”

  “Like a jelly doughnut,” Kermit added, “but with meat and cheese.”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders, confused. “Isn’t that just a cheeseburger?”

  Both Jane and Kermit laughed.

  “You know little, my friend. The ingredients may be the same but the process transforms it into something ethereal, heaven-like.”

  “Then we better order a few more,” Michael said. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any heaven when I’m gone.”

  ###

  Kermit’s new lady friend slapped the plates of fries and greasy Juicy Lucys down on the table. After a few bites, carefully avoiding second-degree burns from the molten cheese, Michael concluded that they lived up to the hype, although he was pretty sure a few arteries had clogged by the time his plate was clean.

  While they had eaten, Jane had filled Kermit in on their meeting with Justin Kent and their trip to the morgue.

  “That’s tough, yo. I’m sorry.” Kermit froze for a few seconds, thinking, and then pounded the remaining half of his beer. He slid the empty glass toward the table’s edge. His head twitched, and then Kermit connected his thoughts. “Today I found out some stuff. You know what I mean. I was workin’ the Guillardo magic and getting a sense of Jesser’s WIGO.”

  “WIGO?” Michael asked.

  “General semantics, mi amigo, an off-shoot of applied linguistics,” Kermit said. “It’s the first step in understanding and analyzing complex societal problems and communicating with the public.” Kermit raised his hand. “W-I-G-O,” he numbered off.“What.Is.Going.On, here? That’s what I’m doing, and that’s what you should do, too.”

  “We are doing that.” Michael finished off his own beer, and made eye contact with their waitress for more.

  “No, mi amigo,” Kermit said. “You’re approaching this situation with your own baggage, wi
th your pre-constructed framework based upon your own life experiences and assumptions. WIGO means you identify your own filters, wipe them away, and start from scratch. You listen to people. You identify their filters, and communicate at their level. It’s a basic foundational tool to obtain solutions and direction.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Fine. I’ll do that.” The waitress approached, and Michael ordered another round of beer for the table. Once the waitress left, he turned back to Kermit. “So, you want to tell me the WIGO or what?”

  “I will spare you the commentary on the socio-economic culture of exploitation that has been created here in Jesser.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said. “I’m depressed enough.”

  Kermit ignored her.

  “I learned that our friend Deputy Maus has a pretty nice side-job for Jolly Boy, and that he was the last person to see Tommy alive. As you all know, every day a van comes and picks up workers for the Jolly Boy fields. The van does a circular, going to the usual spots; the Home Depot parking lot, an apartment complex over on the edge of Fort Myers, and then the various trailers. The driver was at the one where Tommy lives, picking up the workers. They waited for Tommy for a while, but Maus waved them on. People know Tommy was sleeping in the trailer when they left. They know he was in there when Maus was knocking on the door. Nobody saw Tommy after that, though. They came back and his sleeping bag and his mat were gone.” Kermit paused.

  “We gotta watch Maus. That’s why I’m thinking of picking me up a police scanner on the B.M.”

  Michael and Jane exchanged looks, both thinking of the abbreviation for bowel movement .Jane finally asked, “B.M.?”

  “Black market.” Kermit smiled. “We could listen to the radio dispatches and track him so we can figure out his buzz patterns.”

  “And you’ve got people who’ll actually speak up, tell their story?” Michael asked, already figuring out how the testimony would be presented in court. He couldn’t turn off the lawyer part of his brain, even though there was no case and he was now a fugitive beach bum.

  “When we all went to the trailers, after talking with Roberto, that was what we were looking for, but nobody came forward,” Jane said. “Now you’re saying you have people who’ll talk.”

  Kermit smiled.

  “Of course, my lady. We’ve got a van full of them.”

  Jane shook her head.

  “I’m not so sure. From my experience, they aren’t going to testify. They’re afraid.”

  Kermit picked at the last of his fries. He found one, drowned it in ketchup, and popped it in his mouth. Then his eyes got big.

  “There’s also that one dude we saw outside the first day at your office.” Kermit snapped his fingers, remembering his name. “Miggy. He sounds promising. He’ll testify for sure. I talked to him today for a long time. He says he’s seen the dead.”

  “Miggy is crazy,” Jane said. “Miggy has been telling people for years that he’s seen the spirits.”

  “I know.” Kermit nodded. “Pretty cool.”

  Michael decided it was time to move on.

  “What else you got?”

  “Just one other thing.” Kermit raised an eyebrow. “One of Jolly Boy’s boys, well, he’s a really bad boy.”

  “Who?” Jane asked.

  “Muchacho named Dylan.” Kermit’s narrowed his eyes and touched his nose. “We got to find out more about him.”

  Jane picked up her beer.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, taking a sip, “assuming I don’t get shut down first.”

  And I don’t get arrested, Michael thought.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Michael sat at the cheap desk in his motel room. It was late. He was tired, but not tired enough to fall asleep. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out. So he sat and stared at the photograph of his namesake, the Irish revolutionary Michael John Collins.

  As a boy, his mother had three pictures hanging on the wall of their old apartment. The first two were pictures of Pope John Paul II and President John F. Kennedy. The third photograph was of Michael John Collins. After his mother died, Michael took it with him. Then he kept it when he left everything else behind for Mexico. It was one of the few things that he had kept from his former life.

  There was something about the photo that gave him strength.

  The Michael John Collins in the photograph spent most of his life on the run, fighting the British and trying to unify Ireland. After he negotiated the peace deal that split the country in two, allowing the British to keep control of Northern Ireland, he was killed by one of his own.

  Michael stared at the photograph and wondered how long he was going to last.

  Michael wasn’t a fan of Jesser, but felt himself getting sucked in. He wanted to help, but what could he really do? He wasn’t going to anonymously give money to Jane’s little non-profit. He had done that already donations almost cost him Father Stiles and Father Stiles had still almost lost his parish. His secret bailout of the Sunset had cost him Andie. He couldn’t go down that path again, not with the feds getting so close.

  It’d just turn all bad. Bad luck followed him.

  Michael looked up from the photograph. He opened the window shade a crack.

  Across the street sat the dark blue Ford Taurus with two people inside. It was the same car he had seen the first night he and Kermit checked into the motel. It was the same one he had seen down the street from Jane’s office.

  He had to get out of Jesser. He had to go home.

  Michael looked at the photograph on the desk. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  I’ll leave, he thought, just not yet. A few more days.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The view was lovely. The lawyer was late.

  Brian and Dylan McNaughten sat on the deck of the Everglade Boat and Yacht Club, overlooking Naples Bay.

  It was breakfast time at the club, which was Dylan’s favorite, but he was still in a bad mood. He ordered another Bloody Mary and headed to the omelet station where a young Hispanic woman was waiting to serve. She had 15 different ingredients to choose from. Each one – from green peppers to ham to broccoli florets – were meticulously displayed on the table in front of her.

  He looked them over, never a smile. Dylan barked an order, and then he returned to his seat.

  “I’m hung-over.” Dylan looked around. “And where’s my bloody?”

  “It’s coming.” Brian exhibited patience that only came from experience. “So I take it from the way that you’re dressed and your current condition that you are not coming in to work today.”

  “Is that a statement or question?”

  “A statement, hoping for a response.”

  But Dylan didn’t respond, and so Brian continued.

  “You know,” Brian said, “the way to avoid being hung-over is simply not to drink heavily the night before.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes.

  “Whatever.” He waved his brother off. “I do my thing and you do yours.” Dylan saw a waiter with his drink. He held out his hand, and the waiter dutifully handed the glass of vodka and tomato juice to Dylan and disappeared.

  Dylan took out the decorative stick of fruit and drank. Now satisfied with the day’s first taste of alcohol, he continued.

  “You’re not capable of doing half the stuff I do for this company, so get off my back.”

  Brian bit his tongue. He knew it was true.

  They were twins. They were connected, but different. They instinctively looked out for one another. That was how it had always been. When they were kids, their dad had been too busy running Jolly Boy to have much to do with them and their mother had been too busy with her tennis pro. So they had relied on each other growing up. Now, with their dad gone and their mother moved away, it wasn’t too different.

  Brian looked at his brother and tried another approach.

  “I appreciate what you do, but it’s getting complicated and you’re starting to get a little s
loppy.”

  Dylan shook his head. He shot his brother a dismissive look.

  “We’re fine.” Dylan threw his napkin down on the chair, and then got up to see what was taking so long with his omelet.

  When Dylan was out of earshot, Brian mumbled, “We’ll see.”

  ###

  Harrison Grant eventually arrived. Once upon a time, Jolly Boy had been the client he milked for 40 percent of his annual billables. Back then, he would’ve walked on broken glass to keep Jolly Boy as a client, despite Dylan McNaughten’s increasingly crass and erratic behavior.

  Now, however, Grant had bigger clients. He was bringing cases to trial and winning. His reputation was growing.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they fired him, Harrison thought. Things were getting tricky. Every business walks a thin line between ethics and illegality. Being unethical was fine, but breaking the law could result in everybody going to prison.

  “Where have you been?” Dylan pushed his plate of half-eaten omelet away. “I got things to do.”

  “Things?” Harrison smiled. “Like what? I thought your brother was the one with the job.” He sat down at the table.

  Brian appreciated this little jab at Dylan. He gave Harrison a pat on the back, and the attorney’s tardiness and inflated billable hours were momentarily forgiven.

  “You wanted to meet with us?”

  “I did.” Harrison directed his attention at Brian, ignoring Dylan’s tantrum. “I got word today from a contact that the do-gooder lawyer identified the body.”

  “You said they wouldn’t be able to identify it,” Brian said to Dylan accusingly.

  Dylan shook his head.

  “I said they probably wouldn’t be able to identify it. No guarantees.”

  They all sat for a moment.

  Silence.

  Nobody wanted to say anything further. Brian thought of all the spy movies and cop shows featuring tiny recording devices. Keep up the wall, Brian thought. Deny everything.

  Dylan, on the other hand, took the silence as an opportunity to finish his drink.

  Harrison raised his hand.