• • •
Light rain wet one side of Caroline Street, as I rode my bike toward Simonton Street, where I turned and then again on Fleming Street, going against the one-way traffic. The rain stayed at the waterfront. I locked my bike in front of Island Books.
Books, shelved and in stacks, filled the narrow store. Books about Key West, its history, and its characters ran along the right wall; and there were signed books by Key West authors on a display as you first came into the shop. New books, used books, picture books filled the store. In the next room, the condition was the same, books, and more books.
I saw Mitch’s head through the open door to his small office in the back, he was working at his computer. There was no one at the register and two customers wandered through the store.
“You’re here early,” Mitch said. He must have had eyes in the back of his head.
“Have you heard about the two murders?”
He turned in his book-cramped office and stared at me. “In Key West?” Classical music played lightly from his computer speakers.
“Yeah, in Key West.”
“Tell me.” He pushed his glasses up on his noise and waited.
I told him and he listened quietly.
“Any suspects? I mean, besides you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ve done in the last few hours, maybe they do, maybe they don’t.”
“Are you hiding out?” he twisted in his chair.
“When they call me to come in for questioning I’ll go in.”
“Really? Take an attorney.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Famous last words. Look it, if they’ve got no one else, then it has to be you. I beg your pardon, but that’s how it works.”
“I don’t think so, Mitch. I have witnesses, there’s no physical evidence …”
“Coincidence, Mick,” he pushed his glasses back in place and stood up. “Take my advice and don’t go to the police station without legal representation, coincidence has put others in jail.”
Outside, I lit another cigar and decided to walk along Duval Street toward the Hog’s Breath. I could see the rain clouds hovering at Lower Duval. Cars and scooters rushed in both directions and the sidewalks were busy with tourists. Outside Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville Restaurant, people were lined up for lunch seating. At Fat Tuesday’s early revelers enjoyed the toxic frozen drinks they served and across Caroline Street Fogerty’s had its first lunch group seated. The island was busy for mid-week. Rain was a block away.
The two hundred block of Duval was the party area, be it spring break or Fantasy Fest or any day of the week with a D in it. The Tree Bar, Angelina’s Pizza, and Rick’s were open and busy. Across the street, the Lazy Gecko, Sloppy Joe’s Bar, and Irish Kevin’s were just as busy. This block of Key West sold a good time by the glass and there was no shortage of takers. Rain drizzled across Greene Street, like a beaded curtain.
The bank’s parking lot was full and the afternoon entertainment had begun at the Hog’s Breath. Joel Nelson sat on the rain-protected stage and played for a half-full bar. We nodded at each other as I walked in. The bloodstains on the broken cement floor had been washed away and all the bar stools were upright. Kevin tended the raw bar and Irish Bob was alone behind the big bar.
“Interesting morning,” Irish Bob said as I passed.
“How long have you been open?”
“About an hour,” he smiled. “You gonna tell me about it?”
“Later, I need to go to the office,” and I kept walking.
Tracy was alone.
“You owe me,” she smiled, and put down what she was working on. “Hold on.”
I closed the door as she walked into the back room. She came back holding a manila envelope.
“What’s in it?” she handed it to me.
I opened the envelope and six audiotapes and a note from Tony slid out. I put them back.
“Thanks, Tracy. I’ll let you know as soon as I listen to them. You okay?”
“Are you okay?” she sat down. “Morales had a lot of questions about you. I told him what I did, called you, and that was it. The son of a bitch doesn’t believe me.”
“His job is to be suspicious. Don’t let him get to you.”
“I had to sign my statement.”
“Consider yourself lucky, I have to go to the station to give mine.”
I stuffed the envelope against my back and walked out into the rain.
• • •
Tony’s note echoed what Shawn had said about the book having better prospects of being a mystery novel rather than a memoir. The afternoon rain pounded the deck on my sailboat, the Fenian Bastard, as I pulled my small tape recorder from storage and played the tapes. I poured some Jameson over ice and sipped the drink as I listened.
The three treasure hunters had sat with Tony and told their stories; each cutting in on the other to make corrections, because they never seemed to agree. The most interesting parts were about smuggling marijuana and who had financed their frequent trips. They even named some of the Mexican boaters on the mother ship, as well as local backers, but again, they argued about that. Much of the information had been rumored for years around the island, so there was little new in the tapes.
It was almost humorous when they talked about discovering the treasure. They were diving, illegally, for local lobsters when they discovered the first few artifacts. It took them weeks of scrapping the bottom by hand to find more and then they took it to Shawn. They each respected Shawn for his years of support and always considered him their business partner.
I put a blank tape in my recorder, put my Glock, with a round in the chamber, in the pocket of my foul-weather jacket with the recorder, and called Chief Dowley. I told him where to meet me and left as the rain turned to drizzle. I had a good idea of who the killer was, but it didn’t make any sense. Then again, murder rarely does.
• • •
Lightening flashed and thunder boomed, as I walked into the plush empty outer office. The inside door was open and classic music played from hidden speakers. I unzipped my jacket and turned the tape recorder on, as I walked through the open office door and closed it. Shawn sat at his clear glass-topped desk; a coke spoon in his hand came down empty from his nose. A small bag of white powder and a revolver sat on the desk.
“Do you want some?” His eyes stared hard at me, but he smiled.
“No Shawn, I have a hard enough time being a drunk.”
“This is better than booze.” He filled the small coke spoon and inhaled it through one nostril. “You have the tapes?”
“Yeah, I have them.”
“The crazy bastards,” he growled, “I didn’t think they’d turn on me.”
“They didn’t.”
He looked puzzled for a moment and then smiled again. “What do you mean?”
“You were right, Shawn,” I moved away from the desk. “Mostly they argued on the tapes. Talked about their smuggling and joked about finding the treasure.”
“They lied about me and my family, I know they did.” He was becoming agitated.
“No they didn’t, Shawn,” I tried to say calmly. “There are more rumors out on the street about how Key West families got their money from square groupers, than are on the tapes.”
“That’s what Tony said. I didn’t believe him, either.”
“He told you that before you killed him?”
“Yeah,” he growled again. “Now you’re saying he told me the truth?”
“He wasn’t going to write the memoir, he wanted to use the information for a mystery novel,” I moved another step back.
“That’s good news, but it’s a little late.” His laugh sounded like an animal’s howl. “Of course, it’s not good news for you, is it? You know the truth,” he inhaled another spoonful of cocaine. “I have to kill you, and then this will go away.”
“Are you going to run me through with a pirate sword, too?” I stood still and pu
t my hand on the Glock.
“No, the swords are gone,” he smiled. “Wizard had two of them and Tony made me so angry I just picked one up and drove it through him as he went to sit down.”
“You took the other one with you to kill Lucky?” I wanted it all on tape.
“Tony told me Lucky was taking the tapes to you, so I went after him,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize I had the other sword with me until I got to my car. I drove around and saw Lucky walk into the Hog and I parked around on Front Street,” his hand was shaking so much he couldn’t hold the coke spoon. “I waited for him by the parking lot and when he came down stairs, I confronted him and I still had the sword. He wouldn’t go back for the tapes. Damn fool, he didn’t think I’d do it, even after I stabbed him a few times.”
“Shawn, it has to stop. You’re connected enough to cop a manslaughter plea,” I said for the tape recorder. “Turn yourself in.”
He howled again and stood up, the revolver in his quivering hand. “It stops when you disappear, no sword, no body.”
“It will be messy in here, Shawn, blood and noise.”
“Let me worry about that,” he said and stepped away from the desk. “Where are the tapes?”
“On my boat. You gonna go get them?” I watched his gun hand tremble.
“Unless you want to take me there,” he laughed cruelly, his eyes wide.
I backed up. I wanted distance between us.
“You were wrong to worry about the book, Shawn, and wrong about me, too.”
“Wrong about you, how?” He moved back toward a file cabinet, but held the gun aimed at me.
“I can kill, Shawn,” I said calmly. “I can’t run a sword through an innocent man, like you did, but I can kill to protect myself.”
“Yeah? But I have the gun.”
“Wrong again, Shawn.” I kept calm and smiled. “I have a gun in my pocket and it’s aimed at you.”
“Show it to me,” he challenged me angrily. “I don’t believe you.”
“Put the gun down, Shawn, and we’ll both be alive when the police arrive.”
“I still don’t believe you,” and he fired one shot that went past my left shoulder, his hand trembled. “Damn you!” He fired again and missed.
The two shots echoed and the room smelled of burnt cordite.
I fired the Glock and hit him square in the chest. The cocaine rush kept him standing, but he looked down at the growing bloodstain on his flowery shirt and then back at me. He raised his arm up, ready to fire again. I had the gun out of my pocket and pointed at him. I shook my head.
“No Shawn, drop it.” He didn’t and I shot him again, and my ears rang from the noise.
He fell against the file cabinet and slid to the floor. The door behind me crashed against the office wall as Chief Dowley rushed in, gun in hand. He looked at me and then at Shawn, who died with a cocaine smile.
“Damn, Mick, I hope you’re right,” he said. “You just killed an important guy.”
I pulled the tape recorder out of my pocket and handed it to him. I heard sirens from outside. “Yeah, in self-defense and I solved two murders for you.”
He took my Glock, put it on a chair, and then rewound the tape. Two uniformed officers came in, guns drawn.
“Call the paramedics,” he told them and led me into the outer office. “He confesses on this?”
“And fired first, it’s all there.”
He placed the recorder next to his ear and played the tape. He smiled. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I hoped I was wrong.”
“So why call me to meet you here?”
“If I was wrong I was gonna buy you a beer.”
He put the recorder in his pocket and talked to the uniformed officer at the door. Chief Dowley waved me over and led me outside.
“Let me buy you a drink, after all, this is Key West, not Miami and you ain’t goin’ anywhere. Hell, Mick, it’s been one long day,” he put his arm around my shoulder, “and I can use a beer. Then we have to go see Luis for your statement.”
“The guy hates me, Chief,” I allowed him to tug me toward the street.
“Yeah, but I still love you.”
“What about my gun?”
“It’s in an evidence bag,” he said and we walked away in the rain.
###
MURDER IN KEY WEST
Footnote
Two interesting things around “Murder in Key West.” My friend writer Jerry Healy liked it and passed it along to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. The day I received the contract in the mail for the short story, I also received a contract from Five Star for “Chasin’ the Wind.” Talk about walking on cloud nine!
When I came to Key West in the mid ‘90s, there were many of the old treasure hunters still around, telling their stories in bars. I also heard rumors of how some of the wealthy families made fortunes smuggling ‘square grouper’ in the heyday of smugglers in the Keys.
I missed that time in the Keys, but never missed listening to the stories and it never mattered what the truth was, because the stories were colorful.
From the stories by the treasure hunters and smugglers and attorneys on the island that I met and talked to, I came up with “Murder in Key West.”
What really surprised me is how many of them have approached me thinking the story was about them!
I knew a journalist in Puerto Rico, a long time ago, named Tony Whyte and he always stressed the ‘y’ in his name. He has passed away, but remained an active journalist until the end. He would’ve loved Key West.
THE FLOATER
Some days just seem to begin right, to hold promise. The day began that way. I stood barefoot, shirtless, wearing cutoff shorts on the deck of my 40-foot sloop, the Fenian Bastard, and I had a cup of freshly brewed coffee and the daily paper. The morning sun had begun to inch its way over Key West, and the summer breeze carried scents of tropical flora and almost tasted salty. Cotton-ball-like clouds moved across the dark blue sky. The temperature was in the low-80s and by noon, it would be closer to 90. I loved it. It looked like another perfect hurricane-free day in Paradise.
The morning held promise, that is, until a naked body floated face down less than ten feet from the Fenian Bastard and then all promises quickly dissolved.
Key West has more than its share of quirky characters, so seeing a naked person in the bight wasn’t shocking. I stared, expecting to see movement, but instead I saw a head angled strangely in the water.
“Hey,” I yelled, but received nothing back.
I jumped down to the finger dock, still hoping to see movement. When I didn’t, I dove in and swam to the body. Long dark hair danced in the warm current around the half -submerged head. I reached out and touched an arm. It felt cold, even in water that was about 78 degrees. I grabbed a hand, its fingers pinched and wrinkled white from being in the water, and swam with the body back toward the dock.
My name is Liam Murphy, but friends call me Mad Mick Murphy. Mad, like in crazy, because of the stunts I pulled in college and Mick because of my Irish heritage. I live in Key West, Florida, and work, when I have to, as a freelance journalist. I’d rather be sailing, than doing anything on land.
The body was a young Latina’s, maybe early 30s, and as I turned her face up, I saw she had been attractive, but in the last few hours death had stolen her life and beauty. Her mouth was slightly ajar, as if she was ready to scream, and her large brown eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets and stared into a dimension I couldn’t see and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Raw bruises scared her neck.
There were no fish nibbling discolorations or marine life visible on her body, so she hadn’t been in the water long. I pulled myself onto the dock and wondered what to do. I couldn’t pull her out of the water without doing more injury to the body. As a journalist that had covered murder trials, I knew moving a body often tainted evidence.
I rushed to the deck of the Fenian Bastard, took my cell phone from the cockpit, and grabbed a po
le hook. She began to float away, as I jumped to the dock, so I entangled her long hair in the hook, and mumbled a prayer of apology. I dialed 911 and told them where the floater was and disconnected, as they asked me to stay on the line.
I called Richard Dowley next, the chief of police, a friend for the past eight years. I told him about the floater and he said to keep hold of her. It was eerie as the tide’s incoming current tugged at the body. I didn’t want to hurt her, but realized it was too late for that.
The sirens wailed. First the fire truck, then a police car and finally the paramedics. The main fire and police stations were a long block away, but, as I stood holding the body in place, it seemed to be forever before anyone arrived.
Two firefighters, in jeans and gray Key West Fire Department T-shirts, ran down the dock. I whistled to get their attention. They looked at the body. One mumbled in surprise, while the other used a two-way radio to talk to Pat Epps in the truck. I knew Pat, he was part of the fire department’s dive team.
The young firefighter who mumbled asked for the pole hook and I gave it willingly. Two Key West Police officers walked down the dock with Pat, he carried a small scuba tank and dive bag. Another firefighter came down behind them with a rolled up SKED, a collapsible hard orange plastic backboard with straps. Its main use is for removing an injured person or body from the water.
Pat nodded and looked down into the water. “She float face up?”
“No, I turned her.”
He put the tank and dive bag on the dock. “Why?”
“To see if she was alive.”
He knelt down and touched her arm. “She’s already cold.”
“Yeah, but the body’s clean. She hasn’t been in the water long.”
“You after my job,” the voice came from behind me. “Or are you watching too many CSI shows?”
Sherlock Corcoran, the police department’s crime scene investigator, stood there with an impatient expression etched on his face. The nickname came with the job. He rested his crime scene box on the dock, opened it, and removed a camera. He took photos of the body in the water, adjusting the lens from wide angle to close up, without looking at me.
Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories Page 4
