He was only about twenty feet from the cabin when he spotted a small, rectangular mound of earth piled a few feet from the base of an oak tree. Alarm bells sounded in Sergeant Andrews’s head, because he had just stumbled upon what looked to be a freshly dug grave.
“Oh, Jesus,” the sergeant said, stopping dead in his tracks. The grave was small, measuring no more than four and a half feet by two and a half feet. Much too small to be the grave of an adult, but it was the perfect size for a child.
Sergeant Andrews knew he might be looking at a crime scene, so it was time to call in the experts. Keeping an eye on the cabin, he thumbed the microphone on his radio and called his supervisor. After waiting for the day-shift supervisor to respond, he said, “Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Andrews. Sir, I think I may have found something.”
“What do you have?” asked the lieutenant.
“I’m here on the edge of the river, about a mile south of the fish camp, on the opposite side of the water. I’ve come across a small wooden cabin, and what looks to be a freshly dug grave.”
“Roger, Andrews,” responded the lieutenant. “I’ll get some men down there to you. In the meantime, I want you to secure the area the best you can. Have you looked inside the cabin?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
There was a pause. “You might want to hold off until help arrives. It’s your call. Just be careful.”
“Ten four,” said the sergeant. “Out.”
He released the microphone and turned his attention back to the grave. He didn’t have any barrier tape with him, so there was really nothing he could do to secure the scene for the investigators, other than to make sure that no one walked through the area. It would take a little while for the others to reach him; in the meantime, he was going to see what else he could find.
The sergeant turned his attention back to the cabin. He probably should wait for backup, but he would look like a fool if it turned out he was afraid to check an empty shack by himself. And if it turned out the little girl was sleeping inside, then he would look like an even bigger fool for guarding the shack and not being the one to actually find her. Someone else would grab all the credit out from under him, leaving him standing stupid on the sidelines.
“Screw that,” the sergeant said, wiping a hand across his face. He looked back down at the grave. What if the little girl wasn’t sleeping peacefully in the cabin?. What if she was sleeping a more permanent sleep? If the grave did contain her body, then it meant that she had been murdered. Perhaps raped, tortured, and murdered. The cabin might truly be a crime scene.
He swallowed hard as a hideous image came to mind. He saw the interior of the cabin as it must have looked last night, slivery moonlight filtering in through cracks in the walls. A blond-haired little girl lay naked atop a wooden bench, tied and gagged. Her eyes were wide and filled with fright; her terrified screams muffled by the gag she wore. On the walls around her hung rusted tools--pliers, hammers, saws--that were being used as implements of torture....
He shook his head, forcing the image from his mind’s eye. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to Krissy Patterson, dared not imagine that the grave he stood over belonged to her. He had no proof that she was dead, and was not about to think such thoughts if he didn’t have to. He had to think positive, had to act positive, and not let the darkness of his thoughts turn his stomach and stop him from doing his job.
Again he turned his attention to the tiny cabin. He should wait for the others, but he had to know if what he imagined could possibly be true. He had to look inside, otherwise the dreadful images would again float up from the darkness of his imagination.
He pulled his pistol and approached the cabin from the side, quickly slipping around to the front of the building. He now stood to the right of a faded, red, wooden door. There wasn’t a padlock. There was only a brass knob, the metal tarnished with age.
Sergeant Andrews stepped forward and tried the knob with his left hand. The door was locked. A chill shot through him. The door was locked, but there wasn’t a keyhole. That meant the door was locked from the inside.
There’s someone inside the shack.
The sergeant had to make a quick decision: either wait for backup to arrive, knock on the door to see if he got an answer, or kick it open. Knowing that procedures had to be followed, even at a time like this, he stuck the door twice with the palm of his left hand and called out, “Sheriff’s department. Open up.”
There was no response to his knock. Not wanting to wait for the others, he kicked the door just below the knob. The wood cracked and splintered, but the door did not open. He was about to kick it again, when the door was flung open by somebody on the inside.
“Look what you did to my door!” A dark skinned man stood in the doorway. He was thin and muscular, his long black hair falling loosely over his shoulders. The man looked to be Indian, or maybe Mexican. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
Sergeant Andrews was taken by surprise, and it took him a few moments to recover. Realizing he was still aiming a loaded weapon at an unarmed man, he quickly lowered his pistol. “Sheriff’s department. I knocked.”
“You knocked?” said the man, angry. “How many times? Once? And when I didn’t answer you thought it was okay to kick my door down?”
“I didn’t know anyone lived here. I thought it was a storage shed.”
The Indian frowned. “If that’s true, then why did you knock?” He looked down at his door. “You broke my lock. Who’s going to pay for this?”
Recovering from the sudden surprise, Sergeant Andrews reholstered his gun but left the thumb strap off. “Do you live here?”
“I said this was my door. Didn’t I? You do the math.”
The sergeant tried to look past the Indian to see what was inside, but the man blocked his view. “I thought this land belonged to the state.”
“Check your history books, this land belonged to my people long before it belonged to the state. I’m Seminole. We’re the only tribe that never surrendered to the government. Technically, we’re still at war with you.” The Indian grinned. “What are you doing out here anyway? Did you get lost?”
“No. I’m not lost,” Sergeant Andrews answered, feeling his face flush with anger. “I’m looking for a missing girl: ten years old, blonde hair. Have you seen her?”
The Indian rubbed his chin in thought. “Ten years old? Blonde hair? White girl?” He lowered his hand and grinned. “Nope. I haven’t seen her.”
“Well, then Mister....”
“Cypress. Jimmy Cypress.”
“Mr. Cypress. You wouldn’t mind if I came inside and looked around. Would you?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“Not exactly,” Sergeant Andrews answered, very much not liking the Indian.
Jimmy’s grin widened. “Then you’re not exactly coming inside. Not unless you’ve got yourself a warrant.”
“I can go get one,” threatened the sergeant.
“Good. Go get one. I’ll wait here.”
“No problem. But when I come back with a search warrant, I’ll probably have to tear this place apart. I may have to even tear it down. After all, we’re still at war. Right?”
Jimmy’s grin faded. He opened the door. “Go ahead. Look around. See for yourself. I’m not hiding a little girl in here.”
Sergeant Andrews stepped past the Indian and entered the cabin, astonished at how different the inside was from the outside. On the outside the building was in serious need of paint and repair and looked like it was falling down, but the inside was neat and well maintained, damn-near spotless.
The cabin only had one room, which housed a sofa, a folding card table and chair, and a wood-burning stove. There was no refrigerator, or electrical appliances; no sink, bathroom fixtures, or anything to indicate that the cabin was equipped with running water. An old manual typewriter and several candles sat atop the folding card table; two more candles were sitting on an old
orange crate in front of the sofa that served as a coffee table.
What looked like new paneling covered the walls, with a set of purple lace curtains hanging over the windows. The two windows offered a spectacular view of the Wekiva River as it flowed slowly past the cabin.
On both sides of the windows were homemade bookcases holding hundreds of books. The sergeant glanced at some of the titles, surprised to find dozens of books on religion, philosophy, and American history. A book on the Civil War lay open on the orange crate. Beside it was a pair of reading glasses.
Apparently, Jimmy Cypress was well-read, and maybe not quite the bum Sergeant Andrews first thought him to be. Perhaps he was only poor, a member of the ever-growing army of the unemployed. Maybe he was just a hermit, hiding out in the woods to escape society.
One thing for sure, the missing little girl was not in the cabin. Nor was there any indication that she had ever been there. But what about the grave outside the cabin? Was it a grave, or was it something else?
The sergeant turned away from the bookcase. The Indian still stood in the doorway, watching him. If he had done something wrong, then he was very cool about it. There was no fear in his eyes, nothing to indicate that he was nervous about the law being in his home.
“Are you satisfied, officer?” Jimmy Cypress asked, a half smile on his face. “Or would you like to stay awhile, maybe move in? I could bake cookies.”
Sergeant Andrews was not amused with the Indian’s sarcasm. “I’ll be satisfied when you tell me what you have buried beside your cabin.”
Jimmy’s smile faded. “Buried?”
“I saw a grave. It looks fresh.”
“And you think I dug it?”
“It’s next to your cabin, that would make you the most likely person to dig it.”
Jimmy smiled again. “I’m a heavy sleeper. Maybe someone else dug it.”
Sergeant Andrews knew the Indian was lying to him, perhaps trying to hide something. He also had a feeling that Jimmy was about to take off running, so he slowly moved closer to him. From outside the cabin came the sound of voices, which meant the other officers were already descending on the area. There was no place now for Jimmy Cypress to run if he tried to get away.
Jimmy Cypress turned his head and looked outside, seeing the other deputies arriving on the scene. “Backup? For little old me? Do you really think you need to call in the cavalry for one unarmed Indian?”
The sergeant started to reply when he spotted something lying on the folding card table. It was another book, but it seemed strangely out of place with the rest of the collection. It was a children’s book, a Dr. Suess story entitled Green Eggs and Ham.
Curious, Sergeant Andrews reached down and opened the book. On the inside cover, printed neatly in the careful handwriting of a child, was Krissy Patterson’s name and address.
Jimmy Cypress turned back around and saw the children’s book in the sergeant’s hands. His eyes went wide. Sergeant Andrews pulled his pistol from his holster, pointing it at the Seminole. “I think you have some explaining to do. Where did you get this book?”
“I found it in the woods.”
The sergeant didn’t believe that, not for one minute. Keeping his gun aimed at Jimmy Cypress, he set the book back on the card table and thumbed his microphone. “This is Sergeant Andrews. I’m inside the cabin. I have a possible suspect here with me. I need backup.”
No sooner had he made the request for backup, than two more deputies appeared in the doorway behind Jimmy Cypress. “What have you got, Chris?” asked one of the deputies.
“I’ve got a book here that belongs to the missing girl, and what looks to be a grave outside. Put the cuffs on this guy, because he just became a suspect.”
“What am I suspected of doing?” Jimmy Cypress asked.
“Kidnapping. Maybe murder.”
The two deputies handcuffed Jimmy and took him outside, reading him his rights. While they were doing that Sergeant Andrews took a closer look around the inside of the cabin, searching for more clues. Other than the book, he found nothing to indicate that the missing girl was ever inside the cabin. A few minutes later the day-shift supervisor appeared on the scene.
A team of investigators spent hours searching through the cabin of Jimmy Cypress. Several other officers dug up the grave beside the cabin. It was a grave all right, but it did not contain the body of a little girl. Instead the grave contained the body of a black Labrador, still wearing the eye patch that had given the dog his name.
The lieutenant looked at the dog for a moment, then shook his head. “I think I know that dog. The owners of the fish camp said their dog was missing. They said he wore a black eye patch because he only had one eye. There can’t be that many one-eyed dogs around here. This must be him. From the funny way his head is laying, I would say his neck is broken. Looks like we have ourselves a dog murderer.”
“What about the little girl, and the book I found?” asked Sergeant Andrews.
The lieutenant was about to answer him, when his cell phone rang. He answered the call, listening carefully to what was being said to him. Hanging up, he turned back to Sergeant Andrews.
“It looks like you get the prize, sergeant. One of the deputies just spoke to the Patterson’s. It seems Robert Patterson was threatened the other day by an Indian fitting Jimmy Cypress’s description. The Indian warned Robert to stay out of the forest, otherwise something bad was going to happen to him.
“A murdered dog, a book belonging to a missing girl, a death threat against the little girl’s father. It looks like we have ourselves a possible suspect. Good job, sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sergeant Andrews responded, smiling.
The lieutenant patted the sergeant on the arm, then started walking toward Jimmy Cypress and the deputies who guarded him. “All right, boys, let’s take him in. Our friend here has a lot of questions he needs to answer, and I’d rather he answer them back at the station.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jimmy Cypress was taken to the Palmetto County Sheriff’s Office, in the nearby town of Abina. The sheriff’s office was a two-story, gray, concrete-block building that sat on the corner of Main Street and Elm Avenue, directly across from several law offices and a gun shop. Palm trees and bushes had been planted in front of the building to enhance its appearance, but it was still a depressing looking structure. The row of barred windows on the second floor only added to the gloomy atmosphere.
The Indian had ridden in silence from his home to the sheriff’s office, despite the talkative nature of the two deputies in the front seat of the patrol car. They had tried to engage him in conversation, but Jimmy had remained silent knowing that anything he said, even in casual conversation, could be used against him at a later date.
Not that he had anything to hide. Jimmy was completely innocent when it came to the disappearance of the little girl they were looking for. He had not even known that a child was missing until the police showed up knocking at his front door. Correction, they had showed up kicking, nearly breaking down the wooden door of his cabin. It was obvious the police thought him guilty of a crime; finding a book in his home that belonged to the girl had not helped the situation. Now they had a reason to consider him a suspect.
He had tried to tell the police that he had found the book in the forest, but they would not listen to him. No surprise there. Jimmy was a poor Indian, so, in the eyes of the law, he just had to be guilty of a crime. Innocent until proven guilty was a rule that applied only to the rich. Everyone else was automatically guilty until proven otherwise.
Jimmy was not too worried about being blamed for the little girl’s disappearance, because he knew they could not convict him in a court of law until they had sufficient proof. Finding a book in his home did not make him a kidnapper, despite what the arresting officers might think. Sooner or later they would have to let him go. But he was worried that a child had disappeared. Had the girl wandered off, had she actually been kidnapped by someone, o
r had she become a victim of the evil that dwelled in a patch of forest along the Wekiva River?
Krissy Patterson was not the first child to vanish in that forest. Two boys and a girl had also disappeared. The authorities had looked for those kids for weeks, finally giving up in frustration. They never did find out what happened to them, but Jimmy suspected their bodies could be found in the lagoon, buried beneath sediment and black mud. He could never tell anyone what he believed, not without becoming a murder suspect.
The little girl they were now looking for might also be dead, her body buried in the lagoon. She too might be a victim to the evil of Mansa Du Paul. But somehow he felt that Krissy Patterson was still alive. In the past couple of days he had felt the darkness growing, spreading slowly outward from the lagoon. The feeling had puzzled him, but now he understood what he felt. The spirit of Mansa Du Paul was attempting to reenter the world of the living, and he was using the girl to help him. He had not killed her, and probably would not until he was done using her. But time was running out for Krissy Patterson.
The patrol car pulled into a parking space behind the sheriff’s office, the two deputies in the front getting out and unlocking Jimmy’s door. Ushering him out of the car, they led him into the building by way of a back entrance. Once inside, he was taken down a narrow hallway to a room that was apparently used for questioning suspects.
A wooden table sat in the middle of the room. Two wooden chairs sat on opposite sides of the table, facing each other. The only other item of interest inside the room was the large mirror that covered most of one wall. It was obviously a two way mirror, allowing officers in the next room to watch, and perhaps record, the question and answer session.
Entering the room, Jimmy was instructed to have a seat on one of the chairs. The two deputies then left, closing the door behind them. Jimmy sat in the chair and stared at the mirror. He could see only his own reflection, but knew that someone was probably in the next room watching him. Having been arrested before, during his militant days, he knew that police officers liked to size up their suspects before questioning them. He also knew that they liked to make people wait. Their theory was that the guilty would grow increasingly nervous the longer they waited. Jimmy was not guilty of anything, so he was not particularly nervous. To pass the time, he sat and made funny faces at the mirror.
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