by Tripp Ellis
She was silent for a moment. Then the waterworks started.
"One day,” she sobbed. “He just had to make it one more day. I was so nervous for the last two weeks. I just had this terrible feeling, but I bit my tongue and told myself I was just being paranoid."
"There's nothing you could have done to change this," I said.
"I could have stopped him from going to work." Her head fell into her hands, and she sobbed, her chest jerking.
It's terrible to watch someone in pain, knowing there's nothing you can do for them.
She cried it out for a moment, blew her nose, wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue, and took a deep breath. "Look at me, I'm falling apart. And I promised myself I'd keep it together."
“You gotta let it out when it needs to come out,” I said. “Holding it back is the worst thing you can do."
"I know,” she sniffled. "I can hear Chuck now, telling me to stop, saying that crying ain't gonna bring him back."
“Again, my deepest condolences,” I said. “If there is anything you need, don't hesitate to call. Anytime. Day or night. We're gonna do everything we can to find out who did this. If you can think of anything…"
"I'll let you know." She forced a grim smile. "Thank you for stopping by. Chuck was really fond of you both.”
We said our goodbyes and showed ourselves out. We ambled down the walkway and pushed through the gate.
“That’s just gut-wrenching,” JD said as he slipped behind the wheel.
He cranked up the engine, and Brenda called as we pulled away from the curb.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” I said.
“I do.”
12
"This is pretty messed up," Brenda said. Messed up was par for the course in Coconut Key. "The girl in the barrel was approximately 16 to 17 years old."
I winced.
"That's not all. She wasn't alone."
There certainly weren’t two adults in that barrel. “She was pregnant?"
"Bingo."
I cringed again.
"From what I can tell, this type of barrel was manufactured during the ‘70s and ‘80s. That specific barrel isn't manufactured anymore."
"So this is a cold case?"
"Looks that way. From what I can tell, there are no recent missing persons that match this victim in this area. Doesn't mean she wasn't killed somewhere else and transported down here. Who knows where she came from. I talked to the chemical company listed on the barrel, and they are looking through their database. Since the barrel is so old, those records are not on their computer, so someone is flipping through a file cabinet as we speak. Hopefully, those records haven’t been tossed out."
“What about the identity of the girl?”
"I'm working on that, but I need somewhere to start first. The bad news is that the sodium hydroxide dissolved all the flesh and fibrous materials. Good news is that some of the acrylic fibers and thermoplastics remained intact."
“So, there were other items in the barrel with her?”
“Yes. She had a bookbag with her. Most of the bag and its contents were destroyed. But one of the textbooks had a cover that was coated with a thermoplastic resin. It's pretty faded and damaged, but with a spectroscope, I might be able to pick out some details of the cover, hopefully the title and edition number. I might be able to track down when and where that book was used.”
"Fingers crossed."
“Also, I didn’t find any evidence of a cell phone. At least some of the components would have survived the sodium hydroxide. That tells me we could be dealing with a very old case. How many teenagers do you know that are separated from their phone? Again, nothing conclusive. The girl’s killer could have disposed of that somewhere else.”
"Keep me posted."
"Will do,” she said before ending the call.
JD drove to the station, and we hopped out and pushed inside. The office bustled with activity. JD and I poured ourselves a cup of coffee, then found Denise at her desk.
"Do me a favor, would you?" I asked.
"Depends on the favor," she sassed.
"Start sifting through all of Chuck's recent arrests. Let's start putting together a list of potential suspects who may have had a vendetta."
“I’m already on it,” she said with a smile.
I grinned.
Daniels stepped out of his office and marched toward us. "Mendoza just pulled over a silver sedan with plates that match the stolen vehicle. He’s at the 400 block of Pompano Drive. Get over there and see what you can find out. I'm sending a forensics team to go over the vehicle with a fine-toothed comb.
We hustled out of the station and ran across the parking lot to the Porsche. We hopped in the car and sped over to the scene.
The lights on Mendoza's patrol car flickered behind the silver sedan that was pulled to the shoulder near a self-storage unit. A brunette woman in her late 20s stood by the trunk of the vehicle with Mendoza. We parked behind the patrol car and hopped out.
Mendoza shook his head as we approached. "No dice. This isn’t the car. Somebody swapped the plates. The VIN doesn't match.”
"I didn't even notice," the woman said. "I swear, I didn't shoot a cop. I don't even own a gun."
Her name was April McGee. She said she worked at a daycare for special needs children. She didn't quite fit the profile of a cop killer. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a pretty face, and wore a plain sundress. Mendoza had run a background check on her, and she had no criminal history. No outstanding warrants. Not so much as a speeding ticket.
"Where were you last night around 10 PM?" I asked.
"I was at home,” April said. “I go to sleep pretty early. I’m usually out by 10 or 10:30 PM.”
"What about your car?"
"It was parked on the street last night."
"You didn't happen to see anyone switch the plates, did you?”
She shook her head, then thought for a moment. "But I do have a video doorbell. It goes off every time somebody on the street passes by. I've been meaning to turn the sensitivity down.”
I exchanged an optimistic glance with JD.
April pulled her phone from her purse and launched the monitoring app. She scrolled through the history and scanned several clips. Most of them were cars passing by, people walking on the streets, kids riding bicycles. Around dusk, there was a clip of a kid who rode his bike up to the car with a license plate in his hand. He unscrewed the plate from April’s car and swapped it out, then rode away.
"Can you export that clip and send it to me?" I asked.
She nodded and did so.
The video file buzzed my phone a moment later. I replayed it again and zoomed in, but it became pixelated with magnification.
"Do you recognize this kid?"
She nodded. "I don't know his name, but I see him playing with the kid down the street, Ben.” Her face crinkled. “Why would he swap plates?”
13
"Swapping plates with your car makes it less likely that the perps get pulled over since the cars look the same and your car hasn't been reported stolen,” I said.
"Makes sense," she replied.
"Can you tell me where Ben lives?"
"Sure thing. He's just down the street from me." She gave me the address. "What do I do about the license plates?"
"You need to get new plates,” Mendoza said. “You can’t drive the car without them."
The forensics team arrived, removed the stolen plates from the vehicle, and dusted them for fingerprints.
We left the scene and headed to Ben's house. He lived a few blocks away on Parnell Street in a teal, two-story house. There was a low concrete wall around the front yard with a wrought-iron gate. There were various types of palm trees in the yard.
We parked at the curb, hopped out, and pushed through the gate. We banged on the white double doors.
"Who is it?” a female voice asked through the door.
"Coconut County, ma'am." I held up my badge as she
peered through a side window.
She pulled open the door with a curious look on her face. She was in her late 30s and had wavy brown hair that hung to her shoulders.
"We're looking for a boy that lives in the neighborhood. He's friends with your son, Ben.” I showed her a screengrab of the suspect’s image. "You recognize this kid?"
"I can't be totally sure, but that looks like Jared. What's he done?"
I filled her in on the situation.
She looked mortified. “You don't think Ben had anything to do with this, do you?"
"Hard to say, ma’am. My guess is that someone got the kid to swap out the plates. How old is your son?"
"Ben is 12, and I think Jared is either 12 or 13."
“Do you know where Jared lives?”
"He lives in a duplex around the corner, but I'm not sure of the exact address. I can give you his mother's phone number if you need it.”
“That would be helpful.”
She texted it to me after I gave her my number.
“What’s Jared’s last name?"
"Landis."
"Thank you. Do me a favor and keep this between us until we have a chance to talk to Jared. Please don't contact his mother."
She nodded.
I thanked her for the information and headed back down the walkway. We pushed through the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. I called Denise at the station and asked her to pull up background information on Jared Landis. The kid was a student at the middle school. He didn't have a juvenile record, but his brother did.
Trevor was 17 and had quite an impressive start. He was about to turn 18 in a few days. His budding career included burglary, assault, and possession. Two of his recent arrests were made by Deputy Chuck Atwood.
The dots were starting to connect.
We hopped into the car and zipped around the corner to the duplex.
"Coconut County," I shouted when I banged on the door.
According to the records, Jared and his brother lived with their mother, Janice. The duplex was a small white house with two red doors and red shutters. A white picket fence surrounded the lawn, but oddly there were no trees. It looked barren compared to the surrounding lawns.
Janice pulled open the door with a tight face and annoyed eyes. "Which one are you here for?"
"Both," I said.
She stifled a groan.
Janice had short dark hair, brown eyes, and a narrow face. She was mid to late 30s and had a petite figure.
"What did they do now?"
I showed her the video footage.
She cringed.
"Is that your son?"
I could see the torment in her eyes. "That image is really grainy. It's difficult to say."
I gave her a flat stare. "Come on, Mrs. Landis. It's Jared."
"What's this about?"
"One of our deputies was shot and killed. The suspects were driving a stolen car. We believe the plates of the stolen car were swapped with a vehicle owned by April McGee. We don't think Jared was involved in the shooting. But we want to know why he swapped the plates and who else was involved."
Concern bathed her eyes.
A yellow school bus squealed to a stop nearby. The brakes hissed, and the flashing red lights flickered. School kids flooded off the bus, wearing backpacks and carrying books, eager to indulge in an afternoon of play.
It was a bunch of middle school kids, and it didn't take long for Jared to emerge from the crowd. He marched toward the duplex and hesitated when he caught sight of us at the front door. We all stared in his direction.
He contemplated taking off and running. He knew he was in some kind of trouble. After a moment’s pause, he kept marching forward. Jared stepped onto the porch and gave us a curious look. "Who are you?"
"These two deputies would like to talk to you," Janice said in a stern tone.
Jared's suspicious eyes flicked to us. "You don’t look like cops."
I flashed my badge.
"Am I supposed to be scared?"
"You got something to be scared about?"
"Nope."
"Is this you?" I said, showing him the image on my phone.
He studied it briefly. "Nope."
I lifted an incredulous brow. "Really?"
“Nope.”
I played the full video for him. "That's not you exchanging the plates on the car."
He shook his head. "Nope. That ain't me. Doesn't even look like me."
"It looks an awful lot like you."
"I don't know what to tell you."
"You could tell me who asked you to swap the plates."
"I told you. That ain't me."
"Did your brother ask you to do it?"
Jared shook his head.
"Where is Trevor?" I asked Janice.
She looked at her watch. "He should be getting home from school any minute now. If he bothered to go."
"Jared, you’re not gonna get in any trouble if you cooperate with us,” I said. “We just need to know who asked you to swap the plates."
Maybe I was being naïve, but I didn't figure a 12-year-old kid would gun down a deputy sheriff. Then again, we were living in strange times.
"I want to talk to my attorney," Jared said.
"You're not under arrest," I said.
A car full of kids pulled to the curb in front of the duplex. I recognized Trevor from his mug shot as he hopped out of the backseat. The car drove away, and he walked to the door with caution.
"Don't say anything, Trevor,” Jared shouted. “They’re cops."
His eyes rounded, and his face tensed. He froze in his tracks.
"We just need to have a few words with you,” I said.
14
"You better not have done anything!” Janice snapped. "I'm still trying to pay off the last trouble you got into."
"I didn't do nothing," Trevor said.
"Did you have your little brother swap license plates on April McGee's car?" I asked.
His face crinkled. "No. I don't know what you’re talking about."
"Where were you last night around 10 PM?" I asked.
"He was here with me," Janice said. “It was a school night. I don't let the boys out on a school night."
I knew she didn't want to see her kids get in trouble. I wasn't sure if she was just covering for them or if they really were at home like she said.
“I think we’ve said all we’re going to say,” Janice said. “You need anything else, come back with a warrant.” Her stern gaze snapped to her kids. “Get inside now! Both of you.”
They slumped and shuffled into the duplex.
Janice frowned at us and slammed the door. She yelled at both of them once they were inside. “What the hell did you get into this time?”
We stood on the porch and eavesdropped as she berated them.
"I didn't do nothing," Trevor protested.
"You’re both grounded."
The kids groaned.
“What for?" Trevor moaned.
"I don't know. But I'm sure you did something to deserve it. Both of you get to your rooms and do your homework.
"I don't have any homework," Jared said.
"Neither do I," Trevor replied.
"I know you’re lying now."
We left the porch and walked back to the Porsche.
"Think Trevor is our shooter?" JD asked.
"At this point, I'm not ruling anyone out."
JD frowned and shook his head in disgust. He cranked up the engine and pulled away from the curb. We headed back to the station, filled out paperwork, then talked to Denise.
“I found some interesting leads,” she said. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, and a mugshot appeared on the display. “A pimp named Angel Moreno. Chuck arrested him. He’s out on bail. Looks like there’s some plea deal in the works. He’s got a few assaults under his belt. Pimping, pandering. A possession charge.”
“Possible.” I wasn’t sold on the suspect.
“The
re’s another guy Chuck arrested. Isaac Norwood. ” Her fingers danced again. “Routine traffic stop. Chuck found 2 kilos of cocaine in the trunk. He was with a guy named Kashton Epps. Looks like they both got off with a non-prosecution agreement and a fine payable to the Coconut Forward Fund."
“Arrested with 2 kilos and they get off with a fine?" I asked in disbelief.
Denise shrugged.
"If they’re getting off that light, not much incentive for revenge. What else have you got?"
Her fingers raced across the keyboard again. A mugshot and background information appeared on the screen. “This guy just got out of prison last week. He took an Alford plea. Did 15 years for the rape and murder of Darcy Klien. The guy’s name is Felix Yates. Defense claimed the arresting officer planted evidence. Prosecutors got worried he might win the appeal and gave him a deal for time served. He took it.”
I exchanged a glance with JD.
“No way Chuck would fabricate evidence,” I said, mostly certain of the statement.
Denise shrugged. “The guy had been positively ID’d by two other women that alleged he attacked and assaulted them in the months prior, but prosecutors couldn’t make the cases stick, and he walked. Maybe Chuck didn’t want to see this guy get off a third time?”
I grimaced. I didn’t want to believe Chuck would do something like that.
"I don't know about you," JD said, "but if I got locked up for 15 years for something I didn't do, I'd be pretty pissed off."
“If this is true, Felix Yates had a motive for revenge,” I said.
"Yeah, but after 15 years in the can, I wouldn’t want to risk going back," Denise said.
“Some people don’t think too clearly in the heat of the moment,” I said. "Where do we find Felix?"
"He's living at Phoenix House. It’s run by a non-profit that assists former inmates with re-integration. According to the records, he's a sacker at the Oceanside Grocery."
"I say we go talk to Felix," JD said.
15
We swung by Phoenix House. Felix wasn't there. We finally caught up with him at the Oceanside Grocery, and he wasn't too thrilled to see us. As soon as we flashed our badges, his eyes filled with scorn.
