Wild Crown

by Tripp Ellis

  The text message from Sheriff Daniels read: [The drug dealer you chased down is dead. Succumbed to his injuries.]

  My face twisted with regret. [I hoped he’d pull through.]

  [I guess he took a turn for the worse. Brenda will do an autopsy and make a full report. Just thought you'd like to know.]

  [Thanks.]

  I frowned and set the phone on the nightstand. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible. If I hadn't been chasing the kid, he wouldn't have gotten hit by the car. But if he weren't dealing drugs, I wouldn't have been chasing him in the first place. For all I knew, he was a murderer?

  Still, it was sad to see someone that age go in an unnecessary way.

  I peeled off my clothes and crawled into bed. Buddy curled beside me.

  With Pure gone, finding out who killed Skylar Van Doorn just got a lot harder.

  33

  It was still dark when my alarm went off in the morning. I yawned and stretched, and Buddy licked my face. My hand fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, and when I looked at the screen, there weren't any messages.

  I was a little surprised.

  Scarlett probably chickened out and didn't tell Jack. Part of me wanted to text her and follow up, but I decided to stay out of the drama. I'd see Jack soon enough.

  I climbed out of bed, showered, got dressed, and fixed breakfast.

  After I took Buddy for a walk, and loaded up the bowls with food and water, I caught a cab to the airport.

  Jack met me there.

  He didn't want to leave his car in the parking lot. Jack was a little protective of his baby. I didn’t blame him. Anything could happen in an airport parking lot.

  The plan was to be back by the afternoon.

  Jack didn’t say a word about Scarlett, so I assumed she still hadn’t told him.

  I saw no need to travel with my pistol. We’d have to surrender our weapons at the prison anyway, and I didn't anticipate any trouble along the way. It just made things easier. No baggage to collect. No hassles with the TSA. We were flying commercial on the county's nickel. No private jets this time.

  The flight to Jacksonville was three hours. We arrived at 10:15 AM, then took a rental car to the prison. By 11:15 AM, we pulled into the parking lot.

  We had to sign a waiver before entering the prison, absolving the Department of Corrections of any liability in case of death or dismemberment.

  The correctional officer asked us to surrender any personal belongings, including cell phones. "We've had a real problem with contraband lately. The inmates are getting cell phones and using them to coordinate drug smuggling, extortion, even murder."

  I looked surprised.

  "We estimate 1 in 6 inmates has an illegal phone."

  After we had moved through the security checkpoint, another officer escorted us to a visitation room.

  The sounds of prison life echoed through the hallways. The prison had an oppressive feel. The air seemed heavy, and the walls closed in on you. I could leave anytime, and I still felt trapped. I couldn't imagine a lifetime in this dungeon.

  We took a seat and waited for Darrell Casey. A few minutes later, correctional officers escorted the inmate into the room.

  He was shackled around the wrists and ankles and shuffled toward a chair with a short stride. He took a seat across the table from us. He lifted his cuffs, wanting to be released.

  The guards just shook their heads.

  Darrell had long dark hair that hung down to his shoulders. It was streaked with gray, as was his mustache and goatee. He had a hard face that was lined with wrinkles. He was 56 years old and had spent the majority of his adult life institutionalized. His arms were covered with faded tattoos, and he had a scar above his brow and around his cheek from jailhouse brawling. His brown eyes were almost black—soulless and unemotional.

  I gave a nod to the correctional officers, and they stepped outside.

  "Call for us when you are ready," one of them said on the way out. He pulled the door shut and locked it.

  "What the fuck do you two dicks want?" Casey had a slight southern drawl to his voice.

  "We'd like to talk to you about the murder of Samantha Baxter," I said.

  I made the introductions and identified us as deputies with the Coconut County Sheriff's Department.

  He snorted a laugh, then shook his head. "That's a blast from the past. You still trying to pin that shit on me?"

  "We're not trying to pin it on anybody," I said. "We just want some answers."

  "You don't want answers. You want a scapegoat. Somebody you can point to and say that's the bad guy. He did it. Then you get your promotion."

  I chuckled. "If you knew us, you'd know we're not in line for any promotions."

  Darrell's cold eyes surveyed us.

  "DNA from a cigarette butt places you at the scene of the crime," I said.

  "So fucking what? I've been through all this shit before. I was arrested in Coconut Key when it first happened. Never charged. You jackasses asked me all kinds of questions. I told the deputies everything I knew. Even told them who did it. Nobody wanted to listen to me."

  "You know who did it?" I asked.

  "Goddamn right I do. Saw it with my own eyes."

  JD and I exchanged a glance.

  "Are you admitting guilt?" JD asked.

  Darrell scowled at him. "Fuck you. See, you're just like the others. They didn't want to hear the truth either. This conversation is over."

  "Hang on a minute," I said. "I'll listen to what you have to say."

  "Why should I tell you anything? It's not gonna do me any good. It's not like I'll get out early for good behavior. This is my home until I'm in the dirt."

  "Give us something useful, and I'll talk to the warden. Maybe I can arrange for extra privileges."

  He scoffed. "Take out the word maybe. I don't like bullshit wiggle words like maybe, possibly, hopefully. That's all bullshit. And don't say I'll see what I can do. That's another phrase you cocksuckers like to use. I can't stand that."

  "Shoot straight with me, I'll shoot straight with you," I said.

  "I want a thousand dollars in my commissary," Darrell demanded.

  "I'm not in the business of paying prisoners for information."

  "Bullshit. You people pay confidential informants all the time."

  I exchanged another glance with JD.

  My eyes flicked back to the demon in the orange jumpsuit. "Fine. You give me something that leads to a conviction, I'll put $2000 in your commissary—out of my own personal money."

  Darrell lifted a curious eyebrow. "How do I know I can trust you?"

  "I give you my word," I said.

  "Your word doesn't mean shit to me."

  I pushed away from the table. "Come on, Jack. He doesn't know anything."

  As I started to stand, Darrell said, "Now hold on a minute." His cold eyes surveyed the two of us again. "I think we can do business. Besides, I have connections on the outside. Don't think I don't. It would be a shame if you didn't live up to your end of the deal."

  "Are you threatening us?" I asked.

  Darrell grinned. "I'm not stupid enough to do something like that. I'm just saying… You hold to your end of the deal, and we won't have any problems."

  I didn't doubt that he could arrange for a hit on the outside.

  I smiled at him. "Like I said, give me something that leads to an arrest and conviction, and you'll get your commissary money."

  He hesitated for a long moment. "I'm gonna tell you exactly what I told the deputies all those years ago. Maybe this time you’ll listen?"

  34

  To Darrell Casey, all cops were the extension of the same person. We were all the institution that had conspired against him for his entire adult life.

  I took everything he said with a grain of salt. This was his entertainment for the day. What else did he have to do? It got him out of his cell and made him feel important and powerful for a moment. I knew all of these things, but still
, I listened.

  "I had been drinking most of the day," Darrell said. "I know that's probably not the best way to start this story. Calls into question my reliability. I know how you people think. I had been at the bars on Oyster Avenue, trying to see what I could drum up."

  "Like what?" I asked.

  He gave me a look like I was an idiot. "What do you think?"

  "A little female companionship? Drugs?"

  "All of the above," Darrell said. "Let's just say I struck out. I remember walking down to the beach, and I passed out on the sand. Can't remember how long I was out. I woke up, lit a cigarette, and smoked it on the beach, gazing at the surf. That's when I saw what happened under the pier."

  He let that hang in the air for a moment, bringing JD and I to the edge of our seats. He was playing us like a fiddle, and he knew it.

  "Go on," I said.

  "I don't know what the beach is like now, but at the time, there were wooden steps that lead down from the sidewalk to the sand. There was a trash can at the base of the steps, and a sign that said… shit, I don't remember what it said. Anyway, I was sitting on the steps when I saw the murder. Watched a guy stab her. Jammed the blade right into her neck a few times. She bled out on the sand. I hid behind the trash can and watched."

  "Why didn't you do anything?" I asked.

  Darrell shrugged. "What the hell was I supposed to do? I'm not really the good Samaritan type."

  "Continue," I said, trying to hide my disdain for the convict.

  "It was obvious to me, the guy had fucked her under the pier before he killed her. When it was all done, he got off her, pulled up his pants, and put on his coat. That's when I realized who he was."

  "And who was he?" I asked.

  A mischievous grin curled on Darrell's lips. "One of your own. He was a deputy sheriff."

  Jack's face twisted, incredulous. "Bullshit!"

  Darrell laughed. "See. I knew you wouldn't believe me. Your boys didn't at the time. Tried to pin that shit on me, but they couldn't make it stick."

  "Seems like it stuck three months later in Miami," I said, flatly.

  Darrell's eyes narrowed at me. "I didn't do that shit neither."

  "DNA evidence says you did."

  "The sex was consensual."

  Darrell was getting irritated, and I didn't want to go down a line of questioning that would antagonize him. That would be counterproductive. "How far away where you from the pier when you saw the deputy kill Samantha Baxter?"

  Darrell thought about it. He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe 50 yards?"

  "Do you wear glasses or contact lenses?" I asked.

  "Nope. I've got perfect vision."

  "Can you describe the deputy?"

  "Sure. Tall. Big guy." He puffed out his arms and flexed to demonstrate. "Bald head. Mustache."

  "How old would you say he was at the time?" I asked.

  "Late 30s, early 40s, if I had to guess."

  "Did he see you?"

  "I don't think so."

  "What happened afterward?"

  "He got the hell out of there as fast as he could. He gave a glance around the beach, but like I said, I was hiding behind the trash can. He didn't notice me," Darrell said. "The deputy scurried away, got into his patrol car, and drove off."

  "How did your cigarette butt get next to the body," I asked.

  "I wanted a closer look. I stood up from the steps, staggered across the sand, then took a look at the man's handiwork." Darrell grinned. "See, I didn't know shit about DNA at the time. I didn't think twice about finishing my cigarette and flicking it to the sand. I didn't do anything wrong, so I didn't think anything would come back to me."

  "Why didn't you report it?"

  He lifted his brow as he thought for a moment. "Like I said, I'm not really the good Samaritan type. I didn't have a feeling about it one way or the other. She was a dead girl, and I had never seen a dead body up close and personal like that."

  "How did that make you feel?" I asked.

  "She was a pretty girl. It made me feel like I wanted to find a pretty girl of my own."

  "Did you touch the body?"

  "I'm not a sicko. I like my women warm and willing, Deputy Wild." Darrell flashed a thin smile.

  “Did you ever see the deputy in question after that night?"

  “Nope."

  “You wouldn’t happen to know his name, would you?"

  35

  "That bastard is jerking our chain," Jack said as we left the prison.

  "Why? What's in it for him?" I asked.

  "Entertainment. He gets to send us on a wild goose chase."

  "He's already doing life. Why not just admit to the crime if he did it?" I said, playing devil's advocate.

  "Somehow, he managed to finagle a life sentence. This is a capital murder case, and Florida still has the death penalty. Maybe he likes the cozy little life he's built for himself at Raiford?" Jack snarked.

  We got into the tiny silver rental car. It was a four-door, four-cylinder import that got good gas mileage, but didn't inspire thrills.

  Jack mashed the pedal when we pulled onto the highway. The tiny engine whined, and the car barely accelerated. We almost got rear-ended by a diesel super-duty truck because Jack didn't anticipate just how slow the car was compared to his speedster.

  The super-duty driver behind us honked his horn, pulled alongside us, and flipped us off before speeding away.

  "Maybe you should let me drive," I said.

  Jack's face twisted into a scowl. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. I got this."

  The car rocked from gusts of wind every time a larger vehicle passed us. Jack had the pedal stomped to the floor, trying to get the car up to 80 miles an hour. Let's just say, this thing didn't have the stability of the Porsche at high speed.

  "If Darrell is telling the truth, that would put our deputy in his 70s now. Should be easy enough to look through the records and see if there are any recent retirees from the department that fit the description."

  "If you want to waste your time, go ahead," Jack said. "But I think that cat is full of shit."

  We made it back to the airport by 1:30 PM and dropped off the rental car. It took another 45 minutes to get through security and the plane departed at 3:05 PM. We touched down in Coconut Key a little after 6 PM. Plenty of time to get back to the boat, change clothes, and make it to the pageant by 7:30 PM.

  My phone dinged with several texts and messages once we landed and I switched it out of airplane mode.

  There was a voicemail from Denise. "So, I started searching on the Internet. I found an article from a few years ago: Teen charged with manslaughter after DUI accident. The article doesn't list Skylar Van Doorn by name, but it does say the teen is the daughter of a prominent local family and a teen beauty pageant winner. It has to be Skylar. So, I looked into her background… Skylar Van Doorn has a sealed juvenile record. It should be available to law enforcement, but it doesn't exist. There is an indication that charges were filed, then later dismissed, but it doesn't say what those charges were. I've checked the physical files around the office, and there is nothing here. Now for the crazy part. You're never going to believe who the victim was that was killed in the accident. Call me."

  I dialed Denise's number as we strolled through the terminal. "Hey, we're back in town. Just got your message. Give me a call as soon as you get this."

  I ended the call, and we continued through the terminal. People scurried in all directions. Travelers munched on chow in fast-food restaurants. People downed drinks in the sky bars.

  "I think Denise may be onto something," I said to Jack, filling him in on the details.

  I caught a cab back to the Vivere and told Jack to pick me up at 7 PM. I took Buddy for a quick walk, got dressed, and prepared for the evening. I still hadn't heard back, so I called Denise again while I waited for JD.

  She usually got back with me pretty quickly.

  I left another message on her voicemail, then I called Sheriff
Daniels. "Have you heard from Denise?"

  "She left earlier to go to the pageant, I think. When is this thing going to be over? I need her full attention back on her job, if that's not too much to ask?"

  "I'm getting worried about her. She hasn't called me back."

  "Well, maybe you're not as important to her as you think you are?"

  I rolled my eyes. "It sounded like she had learned something relevant to the Van Doorn case. Has she talked to you about it?"

  "No."

  "If you hear from her, tell her to call me. I'm heading over to the pageant now."

  "What am I? Your personal answering service?"

  I ended the call and slipped the phone into my suit pocket. Jack would be arriving soon, so I ambled toward the parking lot.

  The roar of the flat six announced itself as JD pulled in to the lot. The lizard-green Porsche pulled alongside the dock, and I climbed into the passenger seat. I pulled the door shut with a thunk.

  "It's so good to be back in my own car," Jack said.

  I buckled my safety harness as he peeled out of the lot and zipped across town to the Seven Seas.

  It was hard to find a parking space. The lot was full, and crowds filtered into the hotel. I felt relieved when I saw Denise's banana yellow SUV in a space near the entrance to the hotel.

  We finally found a tiny spot, but it gave Jack concern. He was worried about getting door dings from the tight space, especially parking in between two beaters. Both cars combined cost less than a set of tires on Jack's car.

  We made our way through the throngs of people in the lobby, moving past the line of attendees flowing into the ballroom. We ambled backstage, looking for Denise, but she was nowhere to be found.

  Now I was really starting to get worried.

  I saw Brooklyn and marched to her. "Have you seen Denise?"

  A worried look crinkled on her brow. "No, I haven't. I tried calling her, but she didn't pick up. We are moments away from going on stage."

  "Her car is here."

  Brooklyn's face twisted. "That's weird. I hope she's okay?"