Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories

by Michael Haskins

  “Something like that,” I said and walked back to Barbara.

  Nathan showed up within a half hour and after a few minutes of hassle from Luis at the side entrance, he walked in. He’s a tall man with wavy white-blonde hair, a trimmed beard, who likes colorful shirts, linen pants, and Italian loafers.

  I introduced him to Barbara and he had me step aside until they finished talking.

  “The Chief is here?” Nathan kept his arm around Barbara’s shoulder, like a bear hugging its cub, as he motioned me to join them.

  “In the office.”

  “Remember to listen to me and do what I say.” He looked at Barbara and she nodded. “Lead the way, Mick.”

  Barbara took the final swallow of her drink, stubbed out what had to be her twentieth cigarette and, while holding my hand, walked to the Saloon’s office.

  “Why tell me?” I asked as we walked.

  “I thought you’d take me to lunch and we’d be out of here,” she whispered, her face blank of any expression. “When I knew you couldn’t, I wanted to see if you’d believe me.”

  “Did I?” We stopped outside the office.

  “I think so.” She gave me her schoolgirl smile and kissed my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered into my ear.

  I knocked on the door and opened it, without saying anything more.

  “Not now, Mick,” Richard barked.

  “Someone wants to turn herself in,” I said and pushed the door open.

  Barbara moved forward, Nathan stood behind her, and she smiled her best at the three men in the office.

  “I’m Barbara Linder.” Her sultry tone had the men stand. “And this is my attorney, Nathan Smith.” She turned to me, the little-girl-lost look locked on her face.

  Yeah, she’ll do well with a Key West jury, no matter what story she told.

  ###

  DRUMSTICK MURDER

  Footnote

  “Drumstick Murder” is another one of my stories no one wanted to buy. I have attended the Key West Songwriters Festival for years and thought of using the opening morning of the festival as the background of a story was a good idea. I don’t know, maybe after you read this you can let me know what you think. One person I know told me he thought it was about a chicken drumstick not a drummer’s stick! Maybe that’s the problem with the story, the title.

  I’ve met many Nashville songwriters at the event and put all the good and bad traits of some of them into the victim, but he’s imaginary, though there are some songwriters named Dallas.

  If you like good music, and want to hear it performed by the guys and gals that write it, the festival is the first of May and most of the shows are free throughout the island.

  I’ve been asked what the story is about. I think it’s evil Vs. evil. Doing something evil to end a worse evil. Is that right? Is it acceptable? I didn’t answer the question in this story I only asked it.

  Vampire Slayer

  Murdered in Key West

  That was the double-decked, 48-point headline of the daily Key West Citizen and probably a few other newspapers in South Florida the following day. It was a little misleading but it did its job because stories on vampires and murders sell newspapers.

  When Monroe County Sheriff’s Deputy Harry Sawyer rocked my sailboat, Fenian Bastard, and called my name, it was four in the morning and I didn’t know about the murder. When you live on a boat and someone is trying to wake you that early it usually means you’re sinking so you react fast; good news doesn’t come knocking at four A.M.

  I was outside in seconds. “What?” I yelled. It took a minute in the dark to realize it was Harry because he was out of uniform.

  “Mick, you didn’t answer the phone,” he said as if that explained why he was there. “The sheriff wants you on Stock Island.”

  Stock Island is the first island across the bridge when leaving Key West. Part of it is city property but the largest section belongs to the county.

  “Me?” I yawned and went below. The good news was my sailboat wasn’t sinking.

  Harry followed. “Yeah, he woke me at home and told me to bring you to the old mansion at the end of Fifth Street.” He stood in the hatchway. “Right away.”

  “Why?” I fumbled into a pair of cargo shorts, put on yesterday’s T-shirt and grabbed my sun-faded Boston Red Sox cap that accented my shaggy red hair and beard.

  “He hung up before saying,” Harry grinned. “But it sounded urgent.”

  Bob Pearlman is the county sheriff. We have met socially and I found it curious he’d call me out at this hour. My experiences have shown that law enforcement and journalists are as compatible as spaghetti sauce and a white shirt.

  “No ideas Harry?” I walked up the dock with him.

  “It’s my day off, Mick, so I’m not even sure what they’re working on,” he said. “Ride with me, maybe something will come over the radio.”

  • • •

  “Do you know her?” Sheriff Pearlman asked as we stood in the living room of the crumbling mansion.

  I looked down at the naked body but my eyes focused on the crude wooden stake driven into the victim’s chest. It was an attention grabber.

  “Do you?” he asked again, agitated.

  I looked at the woman’s ashen face. I saw her fogged brown eyes, heavily outlined in black, and the fear frozen in her final expression; messy shoulder length hair, black as crow’s feathers, spread out on the floor alongside her head and lips that were exaggerated by smudged red gloss. Someone had carefully crossed her arms below the wooden stake. One piercing accented the left side of her nose and multiple studs highlighted her earlobes. An open gash exposed raw flesh on her abdomen. She didn’t remind me of anyone I knew.

  “No,” I finally answered. “Should I?”

  “She’s one of yours,” Sheriff Pearlman said seriously.

  “Mine?” I didn’t know what he meant; did he think I killed her?

  “It’s Tracy Cox, the journalist,” he explained coldly.

  My name is Liam Murphy but I picked up the moniker Mad Mick Murphy in college because of crazy pranks I got involved in and my Irish heritage. I’m a journalist and live on my sailboat in Key West, Florida.

  Knowing we’re both journalists, the sheriff believed Tracy and I traveled in the same circles. We didn’t. She wrote long investigative pieces that were often published as books; I wrote when weekly newsmagazines or a Miami news service called me, otherwise I sailed.

  The Tracy Cox I knew of was not into the Gothic look, but the pile of black clothing next to the body hinted otherwise about the victim, only the wooden stake wasn’t an accessory.

  “Where’d the blood go?” I asked, curious about the lack of it.

  “Killed somewhere else and then moved here,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “There’s no such thing as vampires, if that’s what you’re thinking, though someone went to a lot of work to make it look otherwise,” he muttered harshly and frowned at me.

  I looked down again and went right to the stake, moved to her face and stared.

  “Tracy has dirty blonde hair,” I said. “I met her a long time ago at an award’s dinner. This isn’t her.”

  The Sheriff smirked. “It’s her. I met her a month ago in Miami and she had the black hair and piercings. The FBI called us rural sheriffs together and she was the guest.”

  “Guest for what?” He had piqued my curiosity.

  The sheriff led me into the next room as crime scene people began their work.

  “They wanted us yokels to be aware of a theft ring that could be moving to the countryside, maybe the Keys,” he said bitterly. “Tracy Cox told the story. She informed the FBI about it just before publishing her newspaper series and then the group went underground. She thought Florida was ripe for what they did.”

  The room might have been the mansion’s library once, but the shelves were empty and dusty and the gray light of dawn accentuated the cracked, dirty windows.

  Theft of what?” I yawned and wished I
were back in bed.

  “Body parts,” he said casually.

  “Body parts?” I was no longer sleepy.

  “Got your attention, did I?” he said coarsely.

  “Yeah.” And he told me the sordid story.

  • • •

  After-hour Gothic clubs in the big cities, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, and the like, had cliques of vampire wannabes and some of them were true believers in the messages that TV programs and cult movies profited from. The clubs didn’t advertise, or have signs outside, they didn’t need to, word-of-mouth filled them, especially on weekends.

  For the past year, bodies of young men and women were showing up in these cities, minus a kidney, liver, or heart and even eyes. Attending Gothic clubs and being young were two items that connected the victims. Missing body parts was another.

  Tracy Cox went undercover and began a series about New York clubs where vampire devotees with surgically implanted dental fangs role-played and actually drank each other’s blood. And, she discovered a mesmerizing older vampire disciple. After her story appeared in the paper the club closed, the disciple vanished, and one tabloid called her the vampire slayer. The title stuck.

  “What do you want from me?” I looked back into the room and Tracy’s body was covered with a tarp, waiting on the medical examiner.

  “People talk to you,” the sheriff said slowly, “see what you hear about a Gothic club starting up. I don’t want to find kids stuck in the mangroves missing body parts.”

  • • •

  I only know one Gothic kid and it was a presumption on my part because when I saw him at the marina he always dressed in black, had a pale complexion, piercings and if I caught him in daylight it was as we passed coming and going in the early morning. He had changed in the last few months, losing most piercings, and actually hung around the dock some afternoons.

  “Alex,” I called out his name when I spotted him in the shade of his houseboat’s overhang. “What are you reading?”

  “A book.” He smiled and gulped from his coffee cup.

  “You got a minute?”

  “Sure, come aboard.” He closed the book.

  “You going to school?” I saw a textbook, as I sat down.

  “City College,” he said. “Time to get educated.”

  You don’t ask personal questions to boat people. You know what they want you to know, so I knew little about Alex. He looked young, possibly not even twenty-one. He bought the houseboat two years ago and moved in. He was quiet and kept to himself. On occasion, he showed up at one of our infamous dock parties where the food was homemade and liquor flowed for hours. Sometimes he drank and ate, sometimes he shared a joint and other times he walked on without stopping.

  “You choose a major?” I tried to sound interested.

  “Maybe biology,” he lied.

  I have a built-in BS detector and returned his smile without saying anything.

  “If I tell you the truth you won’t laugh.” He leaned toward me. “Or tell anyone else on the dock.”

  “If it’s funny, I’m gonna laugh,” I said. “But whatever it is, it’s between us.”

  “Police science,” he muttered and sat straight up. “I signed up for the police academy and filled out the papers to be a city cop.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “What if nobody on the dock will talk to me when they see the uniform,” he frowned. He was young enough to care what others thought.

  “Or everyone will feel safer knowing a cop lives at the marina,” I said.

  He smiled his reply.

  “I’m wondering if you can help me.” I asked after an uneasy moment of silence.

  “With what?” He sat back to be more comfortable or distance himself from my request, I am not sure which.

  “Is there a Goth club in town?” I tried to say without too much of a silly grin.

  “There’s a new hangout on the water,” he said suspiciously. “Why?”

  “I’d like you to go there with me.”

  He must of thought it was funny because he burst out laughing.

  “Yeah,” he tried to say as he gulped air, “you’d fit right in, just like I would at the yacht club.”

  He had a point and when he stopped laughing, I told him, in a roundabout way, about the murder of Tracy Cox and how it was thought to be related to her series on Gothic clubs.

  “I read a few of her stories online,” he said more in control now that he had stopped laughing. “Did you know her?”

  “Yeah,” I lied and was glad he didn’t have his own BS detector. “I want to look into what happened and maybe finish her series.”

  “Mick, with red hair, a beard and a tan a tourist would kill for,” he hesitated, probably wondering if saying the word kill was in bad taste. When I didn’t reply he went on. “You’d draw more attention to yourself than a centerfold shoot on Duval Street.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted realizing he was also young enough to look at Playboy and not read the articles. “Where is this place?”

  He got us coffee and told me about an old yacht that moved off Christmas Tree Island in Key West Harbor about two months ago and hosted Gothic themed parties.

  “After midnight there’s a shuttle boat that picks you up at the Simonton Street Pier,” he said. “I’ve gone a couple of times, but, like I said, I’m moving in another direction now.”

  “How does the boat know who to pick up?’

  He gave me a quizzical look and shook his head. “It wouldn’t pick you up, that’s for sure. If you look like you belong, you can get in the boat.”

  “And you look the part?”

  “A hell of a lot more than you do.”

  “Do you know who owns the yacht?”

  “An older guy, older than you.” He finished his coffee. “I don’t mean anything negative, it’s just that everyone there is young, high school or college age. But this guy is creepy, like he believes he’s Dracula.”

  “What do you mean?” He had my full attention.

  “He’s whiter than me, has fangs and speaks with a Spanish accent,” he said. “I dated an English girl back home that wasn’t that pale. He makes his rounds of the party a few times and then disappears below deck. Maybe he keeps his coffin there,” he laughed.

  “Who runs the party then?”

  “Two hot babes,” Alex smiled. “There’s a couple of dudes off in the shadows and I think they’re security, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “I need to get on board and snoop around.” I ran my fingers across my beard. “Maybe dye my hair.”

  “And bleach your skin, look like Michael Jackson,” he shook his head and laughed. “Look, if it’s that important to you, I can put a few studs back in my ears and do your snooping.”

  I guess he really did want to be a cop. Goth to cop, go figure.

  “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll go tonight.” He was getting excited.

  I didn’t like sending someone to do my legwork, but he had a point about me standing out. There was no way I would fit into the Gothic scene. My presence could make them suspicious and possibly they’d disappear again. Or, maybe they had other ways of dealing with snooping journalists.

  • • •

  I tried to get a look at the yacht Alex mentioned from the Glass Bottom Boat dock at the end of Duval Street. The Sunset Pier at the Ocean Key Resort blocked my view, but I did see the yacht’s outline. I cut through the resort and found a good viewing spot at Mallory Square.

  My guess about the anchored yacht was it had to be 100-foot long, wooden hull and was once beautiful; a large, open aft deck, and inside there was sure to be a roomy salon with staterooms below, a galley and crews quarters, too; an engine room in the lower aft section, an enclosed bridge above the salon.

  Today, the yacht fit in with the background of Christmas Tree Island and its dissolute pine trees and landscape. Across the channel, Sunset Key and its million dollar homes sparkled in comparis
on. Once the old ship might have belonged with expensive island homes, but now it bobbed in Key West Harbor while Jet Ski riders zipped past, as if it was a forgotten stepchild. The yacht anchored far enough offshore to keep it from city jurisdiction.

  “The gates of hell,” came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Padre Thomas Collins.

  Padre Thomas is an Irish-born Jesuit missionary that walked away from his mission in Guatemala when the angels he sees and talks to told him to. Soon afterward, the rightwing junta’s soldiers massacred most of the villagers and Padre Thomas still suffers from survivor’s guilt all these years later. He’s medium height, thin as a rail, and slowly losing his hair. He gets around town on an old bicycle and chain-smokes cigarettes. He’s sixty if he’s a day. Or maybe guilt has aged him.

  “Padre Thomas,” I greeted him and waited for his explanation.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he wheezed and lit a new cigarette. “What are you going to do?”

  It is scary how he often knows what I’m doing before I do. “About what?” I said without conviction.

  Padre Thomas pointed to the yacht.

  “Beautiful old boat,” I smiled. “Why’d you call it the gates of hell?” I turned away and looked back at the water.

  “Because the devil lives there,” he sighed callously. He wasn’t joking.

  “Lucifer or one of his fallen angels?” I tried not to laugh.

  Padre Thomas moved up next to me. “Evil resides on that boat,” he whimpered.

  I looked at the old yacht and my curiosity wondered about its history. Who had sailed on her, partied, laughed and was happy? When had the gaiety of past lives turned into the gates of hell? And, if it leads to hell, why hadn’t the wooden boat burst into flames?

  I didn’t say what I was thinking. Instead, I put my arm around his bony shoulders and turned him away. “People are looking into it, Padre,” I said. “People that can do something about it, unlike you and me.”

  We headed toward the Hog’s Breath Saloon for happy hour.

  “It’s in your hands, Mick,” he said without a trace of a smile. “And time is running out.”

  • • •

  My phone rang at five A.M. the next morning.