Medina watched Santos’s headless body slump over the side of the airboat. Half of it seemed to want to dive into the water after its lost extremity, while the other half was content to hold on to the ice-cold Coors. Medina decided easily and tossed the body into the murky water. He wasn’t one to pay any attention to the plethora of signs begging park goers not to feed the wildlife. Even the prehistoric beasts deserved a treat occasionally.
Chapter 10
Osteen and Vivian were driving in their squad car down A1A when Stairway to Heaven abruptly broke the silence. Osteen pressed a button on the steering wheel and the magical sound of guitars being strummed ceased to exist.
“Osteen.”
“Detective,” replied the timid voice at the other end of the phone. “This is Gertrude Wooden over at Cr… Crandon Park.”
“How can I help you, ma’am?”
“I think I’ve found something that may interest you.”
“What might that be?” Osteen wondered aloud, tensing slightly in his seat.
“Video of the park from the night that Edgar Jennings was stabbed,” Wooden answered.
“When the hell did you guys get cameras? There wasn’t anything on record stating you had any near the scene of the crime.”
“There were some kids a while back who thought it would be a hoot to spray paint our restroom pavilions. The county kept denying our requests for funds, so we pooled our money together and picked up a few low-grade security cameras to hide near the pavilions. We had hoped to find out who the culprits were, but they stopped their shenanigans not long after we put the cameras in place.”
“Why wasn’t this mentioned when we were there? It would have made this entire process considerably easier on both our parts.”
“Few people knew about it, likely less than half of our staff,” Wooden said. “If you’d like, you can swing by the office and see the footage for yourself. I’ll be here for another hour.”
“I’m on my way.”
-#-
The video was grainy, and the lighting was less than ideal, but there wasn’t much Osteen thought he could reasonably expect from such a cheap surveillance system. They had watched the tape five times from each vantage point, but there was little to go on. The members of the staff at Crandon Park bothered enough by the graffiti to pool their money for some surveillance equipment, installed six total cameras. Of that small collection, only three were in the vicinity of the murder scene.
They had installed one camera in a vent on the restroom pavilion. Though its view was of a patch of land to the west of the building, the installation took place after park hours because the staff members didn’t want to risk blowback on their sting operation because of an unrelated lawsuit.
On the camera in question, Osteen and Vivian saw a man sitting on a bench. He had something in his right hand. It wasn’t immediately obvious what he was holding–it looked like a light brown blob. He brought it up to his mouth every so often, like a diver who was snorkeling and needed air now and again.
Vivian assumed it was a beer, but neither detective was all that interested in the contents of the blob to devote much deductive work to solving the mystery. After a few minutes, Jennings appeared on the screen, jogging toward the beach. He quickly made his way past the bench and disappeared from the camera’s view. Oddly enough, the man who had been sitting on the bench stood up a few seconds later and walked directly south, into a lightly wooded area. He left the mysterious brown blob behind to fend for itself.
Camera number two sat in the upper crevice of the first “A” in the Crandon Park sign out in front of the welcome center. It pointed down toward the parking lot. This camera was of better quality than the first, if only because it offered a slightly wider field of view. They could see the man from the bench walking around the Mercedes, pre-char, apparently trying to devise a way to get inside. Shortly after the mystery man’s arrival, Jennings appeared on screen. The lights on his car flashed and the man from the bench immediately crouched.
They watched as Jennings approached the car. Though they couldn’t see clearly enough to make out his facial expressions, it seemed he thought himself alone in that moment. As if on cue, the man from the bench reached behind his waist and fumbled around for something, never relinquishing his gaze. As Jennings grabbed hold of the door handle, the man slithered behind and rushed him. In an instant, the man raised his right arm, an odd shape in its entirety, and struck Jennings in the throat. It was impossible to see the man from the bench with any sense of clarity, or what he introduced to Jennings’s neck, but they could only assume it was the knife.
The third camera rested on the back of the mailbox at the front of the park. It faced outgoing traffic and had a pleasant view of a recently restored lifeguard shack off in the distance. The interested park employees had hoped it was to be the ultimate piece of an elaborate trap to catch the vandals that continued to plague their park. They caught no one spray painting after they put the cameras up, which only produced more questions, but it eventually fell farther down the totem pole of importance.
After several minutes of absolutely nothing outside of a random varmint, the Mercedes appeared on screen. It vanished almost as quickly as it had materialized. Vivian rewound the video and paused at the exact moment the camera saw into the car. They could see what looked to be the man from the bench sitting calmly in the driver’s seat. Sunglasses covered his eyes, but it was still possible to get a rough idea of his facial features since he passed significantly closer to this camera. Brown hair cut short, a precisely trimmed beard, chiseled cheekbones that would make the knees of most women tremble, and an unnervingly distant look of indifference.
“We’re going to need a copy of those recordings,” Osteen informed Wooden.
Chapter 11
The scariest dreams are those that feel so real while you’re in them you would swear they were reality once the light forces your eyes to part, and your brain to focus on the actual world. Some people attempt to clarify this phenomenon by classifying various items or events in the dream as matters of importance. They equate one scene within the dream to something taking place in their life at that point in time. Pure coincidence is impossible in the realm of understanding the tales of one’s slumbers. Therefore, there must exist a reason for every experience.
It’s said that the subconscious mind is trying to tell the person something their waking mind won’t allow them to see. Perhaps the truth is not so complex as all those assertions. Maybe the mind is simply trying to remember a point in its past that exists only as a gray area. A point that may have happened, but for which there is no explanation. Then again, it could be nothing at all.
Micah jolted up from his bed in a cold sweat. His sheets drenched, causing him to wonder momentarily if he had slept soundly enough to not realize the urge to relieve himself before it was too late. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “What was that?”
The moment that followed was full of confusion as Micah stepped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. He turned the knob on the tub faucet to a setting near the middle. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Goldilocks would be proud. Warm water flowed from the shower head to the tub as he tossed his boxers into the empty hanger stationed nearby. Micah stepped inside, hoping the water would wash away the strange feeling that had overcome him. This daily ritual usually created within him a sense of calm, but his mind was working overload, trying desperately to come to grips with the dream he had just escaped from.
-#-
The sound of the morning news filled the room as Micah rummaged through the cabinets in his kitchen for something resembling a filling breakfast. He wasn’t having much luck outside of a bowl of Frosted Flakes. A blond reporter was whispering about something that took place the night before in their sunny paradise. Micah grabbed the remote and cranked the volume.
“Dirk, I’m standing in front of what many of our viewers may know to have onc
e been home to Giuseppe’s Pizzeria. According to officers on the scene, there is no foul play suspected in the apparent accident that resulted in the loss of the once successful restaurant. Investigators on the scene have hinted at the possibility of an electrical short as the cause of the fire, but we must wait for the Fire Marshall’s official report before we know for certain.”
-#-
The living room of the Medina household didn’t quite live up to the illustrious standards expected of a home on Fisher Island. It was massive, yet the only furniture inside was an oversized sectional sofa in a vibrant Seafoam green, a couple of scattered leather chairs, and a comically large mahogany coffee table. A seventy-inch flat screen television rested on the wall directly above the sofa. It looked like a piece of modern art, quite at home with the other odds and ends. Large bay windows on the right side of the room allowed the sun’s rays to sneak in and provide warmth to anyone resting nearby.
Carlos Medina was a man who, although in his fifties, still had the physique of someone two decades his junior. Not a gray hair on his head and a stocky build that gave him the ability to intimidate even the largest of men. Rumors of his brutality only reinforced the image that often accompanied his legend.
“This is the guy I was telling you about, boss,” Castillo said as he pointed at the screen. Fire crews were examining the scene of a restaurant fire that had taken place the night before. “I want to bring him aboard. I had Victor check everything he could about this guy, and it all came back clear.”
Medina was silent for a moment. He took a moment to reflect on the request and properly determine its merit. Castillo had been with him for a long time. A good earner, and someone whose judgment he trusted without question. Truth was, he had already decided which move to make, but he loved to drag things on when possible. “He does excellent work. However, before I can offer my approval, tell me this,” Medina said, leaning forward to retrieve a Cohiba from its resting place on a plain gold ashtray. “What is it you see him doing for us? It’s rare we need the services of an arsonist.”
Castillo smirked before responding. “That was just a test. He’s already done the type of job I see him doing more of with us.”
“That would be?”
“Taking care of the trash.”
“What makes you so confident he can take on any garbage removal we may deem necessary? As you’re aware, my friend, our trash has a certain stench to it.”
“Remember that guy Jennings?”
Medina nodded.
“He’s the one who paid him a final visit,” Castillo said.
“Interesting.” Medina knew the intricacies of that job all too well. As with nearly everything that went on with his flock, he had ordered it. That police were still with no viable leads so long after the hit meant that the man who pulled it off had at least some idea how to do his job effectively. That, or he was a lucky schmuck. “It appears he has some skill.”
“No kidding. I want to have him work one more job for us before I can say for sure that he belongs. We’ll have to pay him this time, though.”
Medina smiled. He always appreciated the respect Castillo had for the traditions in their world. There was a certain way to go about one’s business, and often the young guns thought they could forego it all, that they exist on nothing more than unadulterated machismo. Not Castillo. He could be hotheaded, letting his emotions get the best of him from time to time, but he believed in doing the important things properly. It was hard to argue with his track record. “Who did you have in mind?”
“Dirk Cagney,” Castillo answered, nodding his head toward the television. “Some of my boys had a deal with him on a few kilos and the son of a bitch tried to set them up. He chose the meeting place and, when they showed up to the spot, he had a squad of pigs with him.”
“I see.” Medina was mildly uncomfortable with the idea of revenge killing a man previously in cahoots with local law enforcement, but he kept it to himself. If this new guy were worth his weight, and every sign was that he would be, he wouldn’t leave a trail. Besides, it was apparent that Castillo had devoted some consideration to the job at hand, and a recommendation from him didn’t come lightly. Castillo knew Medina would associate the former’s own reputation with whoever he brought on, so he chose new bodies with the scrutiny often reserved for determining how to divvy up retirement funds. “Speak with your boy about the job. If he can gain your approval, he’s in. If he fucks up, the blame rests on his shoulders.”
“Of course, boss.”
-#-
The shower had been good for Micah. Hot water had a way of soothing even the most aggravating of sore muscles. He stepped out and grabbed a towel but, without even being given the chance to dry off, his phone sprang to life from its perch on the counter.
“What’s up?”
“Nice work last night.” The voice sounded distorted, but it could only have been one person. “I’ve got another job for you. Meet me at the spot at two.”
As was apparently customary when speaking with Castillo on the telephone, the line clicked dead before Micah had so much as a chance to thank him for the kind words.
Chapter 12
Osteen and Vivian sat before a table with a collage of stills from the surveillance video they retrieved as evidence. Each still from the dinky cameras scattered about Crandon Park had a timestamp on it. They could dissect individual moments of the crime as it took place without being forced to rewind countless times. Thanks to the wonder of computers, the photographs had been cleaned up a bit and were noticeably clearer than they had appeared in the recording.
In one still, the pair could see Jennings walking to his car. He had a look that gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world. He surely didn’t think he was living out his last moments on Earth. The next still showed their perp sitting on a bench. He had done a superb job of passing off as a vagrant, wasting away what few would consider a life, but his actions later that evening weren’t capable of being perpetrated by someone who had so recently been under the influence of alcohol. At least, not in the coordinated effort in which the act took place. The third still showed the perp after he had stood up from the bench. Ready to make a move, the camera had caught him during the tossing of the brown paper bag onto his faux domicile.
Osteen had ordered a tech to retrieve the bag and take it to the crime scene laboratory for further testing after their initial search revealed nothing meaningful. They were still awaiting the results. Frame number four depicted the end of the life of Edgar Jennings. In the photograph, they could see the perp holding Jennings just so as he introduced the deceased’s body to the knife. Jennings’s body appeared tense, perhaps surprised that a foreign object was being forced into it.
“The more I look at this,” Osteen said, motioning toward the photographs, “the more I’m convinced our mystery man premeditated this. If you’re out to steal the guy’s car, why stalk him on the run? Just take the damn thing the moment he leaves its vicinity.”
“Also, why bring that knife? Jennings doesn’t strike me as the type of man who would’ve put up much of a fight,” Vivian said. “Not physically, anyway. He seems like the type to whip out a checkbook and attempt to pay the pain away.”
“It’s reasonable to assume he suspected there were cameras on site. That said, I don’t think it’s nearly as likely he guessed the quality of the tape.”
“Don’t think he would’ve dressed up for the occasion if that were the case,” Vivian chided.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” Osteen agreed, chuckling. “I think it’s safe to say he chose the knife both because of the color and an assumption how it might appear to any cameras.”
“Like he had some sort of deformity on his arm.”
“Exactly. It’s also reasonable to assume he didn’t think it would take much for law enforcement to put two and two together to realize what had taken place; especially considering he left the murder weapon at the scene
.”
“Probably just hoped it would get scooped up by someone willing to approach the case as more of the ‘open and shut’ variety than the ‘more to it than it seems’ thing we got going on.”
The last still offered the one good look at the killer. They could even construe it as his one mistake in an otherwise flawless murder. Vivian had already run the picture through their database, and that of every available law enforcement agency, and come up empty. Although it was difficult to discern who he was, exactly, with sunglasses covering his eyes at night, his facial features were significant enough that there should have been a match somewhere if he’d ever entered the system. Which it appeared he hadn’t.
“How does someone who has never been on the wrong side of the law pull off a premeditated murder like this, leaving no usable trace of evidence?”
“He must have had had some training,” Vivian offered. “Military, perhaps.”
“Something should have pulled up on the search if that were the case.”
“Unless he’s not American. Or involved in something with a classified level above our pay grade.”
“Ugh,” Osteen rested his forehead on the palm of his left hand. He was getting too old for this. The last thing he needed was to have the Feds take over his investigation. It’s not that he was prideful. Far from it. He just had a complete lack of desire to answer to anyone other than his direct superiors. Although, maybe it was for the best. He didn’t need to waste his remaining years as a detective trying to crack a case with no end in sight. His thoughts vanished as the sound of footsteps crept closer behind them.
“The results are back, detectives,” the tech said as he handed a few sheets of paper to Osteen, who leafed through them at lightning speed.
“Nothing? You guys couldn’t find a damn thing on the bag?” Osteen was beside himself. “How the hell is that even possible?”
Murder in the Magic City Page 5
