Murder in the Magic City

by G. P. Sorrells

  Controversy has followed her as well, though that is to be expected when you have a wild mammal living inside an enclosure deemed far too small for them to experience anything resembling well-being. The negative press had little negative impact on park attendance. It certainly didn’t force the park to end the attraction part of Lolita’s existence. Quite the contrary, as they kept her at the forefront of their promotional materials. Of course, an integral part of any attraction at parks anywhere in the world is maintenance.

  That’s where Micah’s current target came into play. Oliver Christensen served as an aquarist at the oceanarium. He had studied marine biology while enrolled at the University of Miami. Once he gained citizenship in the United States, he accepted a job at the Miami Seaquarium and quickly rose through the ranks. That he stepped on some toes and rubbed some people wrong along the way had never much mattered to him. He simply had an end goal in mind of becoming the director of the oceanarium, and there was no plan in place to let anyone stop him from reaching his destiny. Never once did he consider that his actions outside of work could have ramifications that stretched into the one place where he felt untouchable.

  Micah turned the car off and stepped out. He stretched his arms wide, letting out a grunt as if his bones were aching from an abnormally long drive. The oceanarium was dimly lit, its last patrons having left the facility hours before. There wasn’t a soul visible from where Micah stood, but he hardly felt as though waltzing through the front door was a viable move. A quick survey of the surrounding area revealed a partition in the wall near some shrubbery where one could slip through unseen.

  As he got closer, Micah saw with clarity the skeleton of a construction site which would one day become an expansion to the existing gift shop. One last stop for guests to part ways with their hard-earned cash before leaving the grounds. It didn’t look like much in the moment, just an amalgamation of rebar and plaster, molded into a shape which vaguely resembled some buildings nearby. It seemed likely to be larger upon completion, though it was hard to be certain. Extraordinarily little light made its way to the interior of the structure, and the security lights outside seemed focused at the key point of entry.

  Micah waded through the mess, careful not to touch anything. He eventually came upon a doorway secured only by a tarp. Though he wasn’t certain where it led, the area was dark and so he felt more at ease exiting out of it than out the actual door on the opposite side of the room. Back outside, Micah wiped his brow and looked around when…

  Snap!

  “Aw, what the hell, man?”

  Micah couldn’t see where the voice had come from, but he quickly rushed over to an employee break area and tucked himself behind a nearby bench. Crouched, but ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, he waited. The voice was close, but there was still some distance between them.

  “How many goddamn times do I have to tell those idiots to keep their messes contained to the construction site?” The voice was closer. Clearly male. And embroiled in a bit of a power complex.

  Micah’s thoughts were stifled when he heard the squawk of a radio. He peered slightly over the top of the bench and saw a security guard standing a mere eight feet away. The man’s back was to him as he grabbed hold of the radio.

  “Yo, Doug,” the security guard barked into the radio holstered next to a flashlight on his utility belt.

  “What’s going on, Mitchell?” The voice at the other end squawked, as with most radio transmissions, but still somewhat discernible.

  “We need to do something about these assholes that’s been doing construction…”

  The man’s voice trailed off as Micah peered about, curious to see if there was the chance to escape unseen. A mammoth structure rose from the ground about a hundred feet in front of him. Off to his left was more construction comingling with the average backstage props. A large hedge blocked the view on his right. He couldn’t tell what was on the other side, but if the structure in front of him was what he suspected it to be, the only way to go was forward.

  “… this shit. I’m tired of them acting like they run this place because they know how to hammer a piece of plywood. It’s like, motherfucker, I’ve seen videos on YouTube too. It ain’t that tough!”

  Micah stood up from his hiding spot and approached the security guard. The gap between them shrank to three feet, and Micah absentmindedly reached back for his pistol. He had it drawn and aimed at the security guard’s head when the man turned around. Micah held a finger to his mouth. Though the guard liked to act tough, and had the frame to back it up, he had never stared down the barrel of a loaded gun. He didn’t like the visual, and his bladder immediately drained.

  “You might want to clean that up,” Micah said.

  “Look, man,” the security guard muttered, “I don’t want any trouble, man. Just, just let me know what you need. I can get you money.”

  “That’s nice, but I’m not here for that. How many of you are there?”

  “What, guards?”

  “No, ballerinas. If I had to guess, you’ve got a whole troupe here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Micah felt a brief temptation to pistol whip the guard, but he still needed to make use of the man. “Obviously, I want to know how many guards are here. How dense could you possibly be?”

  “Hey, man, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

  “I don’t give two shits about what you appreciate,” Micah said. He stepped closer and put the barrel of the gun a mere foot away from the guard’s forehead. A single pull of the trigger, and everything the man had ever known would disappear into the ether. “Look, if you have any desire to walk away from here, you need to do exactly as I say. Understand?”

  “Uh, yes,” the man answered feebly. Whatever confidence he had mustered after wetting himself had escaped just as quickly.

  “Good. First, I need to know how many of you are on the grounds right now. Who’s patrolling this giant middle finger to PETA besides you and Doug?”

  The guard stared at Micah, dumbfounded. He hadn’t the foggiest how the man could have heard enough of his conversation to know his coworker’s name without betraying his presence. “No, no one. It’s just us.”

  “Bullshit,” Micah said, stepping closer and pressing the cold steel against the guard’s head.

  “I swear, man! Please, you gotta believe me. It’s not how it usually is, we’ve just been having payroll cuts across the park, so they got us running on minimum coverage during the slow days.

  Micah stared at the man. It was ingrained in him not to trust anything said by a party he didn’t know, but the man’s performance appeared to be genuine. Why the hell would they leave this much money in the hands of just these two bozos? He considered his options briefly before zeroing in on the path of least resistance. “Look, I want you to tell Doug that you heard a strange noise coming from one of the parking lots. Tell him you want to investigate it, but that you don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Let him know you’ll radio in once you’re back.”

  “You’re not gonna kill me?”

  “Do it,” Micah snarled. “Before I change my mind.”

  “Dou… yo, Doug.”

  The silence between radio transmissions lasted longer than the first time around. “Everything all right, Mitchell?”

  “Yea, of course. I just heard something by the cars over in Lot A. Didn’t see anything, but I’m going to check it out.”

  “Need some backup?”

  “Nah, man. I got this,” Mitchell said. He looked up at Micah, hoping to get approval that he was following through as expected. Micah nodded. “Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just some trash from one of the construction sites rolling around.”

  “Ok then, partner,” Doug said. “Just let me know what you find.”

  “For sure. I’ll radio you once I get back. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Micah introduced the butt of his pistol to the side
of Mitchell’s head the moment the man’s finger released its grip on the radio. He dragged the unconscious body into the nearby worksite and walked toward the gigantic structure in the distance.

  Chapter 24

  Osteen rolled his squad car to a halt in a spot behind the office of the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner. He had never been a fan of the place. Or morgues. It wasn’t the dead bodies; he had seen enough of those for a lifetime. You come across one or two, get the unmistakable stench ingrained in your nose, and before long you find yourself a bit desensitized to the whole charade. Something about being surrounded by a multitude of corpses was unpleasant enough. To take things a step further and actively cut into them, like a frog in biology class–it was enough to make him shiver just thinking about it.

  It was with measured reluctance that he strolled through the front door, flashed his badge, and followed the M.E. to a room near the back of the building. The room was lacking in the space department, but it was cozy. Cabinets full of various medical supplies lined the walls. A pair of tables were secured to the floor in center of the room with a large spotlight hanging directly above. It had a way of forcing the eyes of all who entered to whatever lay beneath. On this day, it was a pair of bodies. Light blue tarps shrouded both, but there was no mistaking what lie underneath.

  “Thank you for joining me today, Detective,” said Dr. Frank Orson. He was the Chief Medical Examiner in the county. Orson grew up in Miami. Upon earning his Doctorate in Medicine, he joined the Medical Examiner’s office to give back to his community. Though it was a job with little in the way of fanfare, its role often embellished in popular crime television, it was still an integral part of the murder solving apparatus. He had hoped that by doing his part to bring violent perpetrators to justice, some local families may come to know peace following their loss.

  “Yea, uh, anytime, Doc,” Osteen replied uneasily. He followed Orson into the examination room and felt a chill run down his spine, as though the deceased were reaching out to tell him something in a language only he could understand.

  “I’m surprised your partner didn’t join you today.”

  “Ms. Jackson wasn’t feeling too hot. Took a personal day.”

  “Ah, I see,” Orson replied. His face was devoid of emotion, but his voice betrayed a mild touch of concern. “I trust you’ve heard that I’ve made my determination.”

  “I did.” Osteen’s gaze drifted away from Orson, and down toward the pair of bodies on the tables in the center of the room. Cagney and his mistress. He hoped in vain that the tarps would remain in place. The last thing he wanted to see in that moment was a cracked rib cage. He wasn’t sure his lunch would stay down through such a sight. “To be honest, I thought it was odd you asked me to come down here.”

  “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

  As uncomfortable as he may have been, those words sparked a fire within Osteen, like a match ripping across the striker. He was instantly on edge. “I appreciate that, Frank.”

  “Well, we’ve been working together for some time now, Dan,” Orson said, removing his glasses and wiping them off with his lab coat. “I feel it’s only right I let you know that there are some things which are better left to the imagination. If you catch my drift.”

  “Still a murder-suicide?”

  “Yes, that it what the evidence suggests. You’ve seen the notes. Deceased male, Mr. Cagney, sustains a gunshot wound, first in the abdomen. A struggle likely ensued. The distance from their bodies is consistent with that notion. This likely ended with the second gunshot wound to the deceased male, this time to his cranium. That she pulled off such a shot in one attempt is nothing short of a miracle, but it’s not unheard of. Finally, we have the self-inflicted gunshot wound to the cranium of the deceased female, Ms. Ortiz. Nothing much to see there.”

  “I’m supposed to believe Ms. Ortiz had the wherewithal to not only thrust this larger man across the room, but to raise and fire a perfectly placed shot to his head immediately after? On her first try, no less. I can understand why she might turn the gun on herself at that point, but that’s hardly the craziest thing at play here.”

  “You’re not required to believe the evidence. But this is what it suggests. I’ve made the same report available to your superiors. That is the professional courtesy in question today, Dan. Far be it from me to order you around, but chasing dead ends like these screams of career suicide.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Osteen replied curtly. “All the same to you, I know how to do my job just fine. How about you stick to yours?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, Osteen flung the door open and marched out.

  Orson watched the detective storm out of his office, a bit of remorse as the two had a mutually respectful relationship to that point. His job was more important than any relationships that existed because of it, however, and that led to him grabbing the telephone from a nearby receiver shortly after his colleague exited the room. The dial tone came on as he punched in a few numbers. He waited a moment. “It’s done. He suspects something, but I believe he’s intelligent enough not to make this into something it’s not.”

  Chapter 25

  The little stunt with security guard number one had likely bought Micah some time to meander about the grounds unnoticed. But it wouldn’t last forever. At some point, Doug would wonder why Mitchell was taking so long to radio back in. He may assume the worst. He may also be just as dense as his counterpart. No matter the reality, Micah figured it likely the man would eventually leave his post and go searching for his partner. The probability of his partner functioning before that took place was nil. With any luck, Micah would be long gone before either scenario took place.

  An odd mixture of honks and grunts emanated from somewhere off to the right. Micah wasn’t sure what caused the noise, though part of him thought it sounded a bit like a flamboyance of flamingos. Whether the sound escaped the bill of a flamingo, or something else entirely, one thing seemed obvious: it didn’t sound dangerous enough to warrant further investigation. The truth of the matter was, he had more important matters to attend to.

  The lighting in the backstage area of the oceanarium was spotty. Much of that likely had to do with a combination of the time of day and the current members of staff on the premises. There was a plethora of lights on the opposite side of the large hedge. One in every four appeared to have power, though their light didn’t travel far. Within the backstage area, the lighting was even more sparse. A single lamppost for every thirty feet. It created an odd sense of unease within Micah. A feeling that he wasn’t quite as in control as he was used to. He briefly regretted not taking Mitchell’s flashlight before dumping his body.

  Rather than dwell on the past, Micah pushed forward toward the massive structure in the distance. The closer he got, the smaller he felt. It was almost as if he were watching the walls stretch out in real time. He found it momentarily disorienting, but shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. The part of the building he could see appeared to be one curved edge, part of a much larger whole.

  “Guess you’ve got to ask yourself one question,” Micah muttered in a half-assed Clint Eastwood impression. “Do I feel lucky?”

  He picked up the pace, rolling toward the left side of the building. Away from the major thoroughfare and toward the employee’s entrance. The oval-shaped wall broke apart, an absurdly long tarp-like sign hung across the expanse between the curves. Underneath the fabric were a few stairs, which seemed to lead up to the greater structure. Between them were a large box container, and a storage shed. They were both branded with the Miami Seaquarium logo, but neither appeared to be integral to the overnight goings on within the oceanarium.

  Micah stopped in front of the shed, grabbed hold of a padlock securing the door, and prepared to pick the lock. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard whistling from above. A second tune followed shortly after. The first whistle was feint, and hard to place, coming through like a light breeze on a
scorching summer day. The sound that came after had an almost alien quality to it. High pitched, the tone increasing and decreasing in frequency as though it were an attempt to relay information rather than simply recall a song. The clarity also appeared to be a bit off, like it was playing through a speaker.

  “What the hell is going on up there?” Micah wondered aloud. He slowly released the padlock and approached the stairs. The whistling continued. It was almost like listening in on a couple of lovebirds amid courting. He crept up the stairs, eyes locked toward the whistles. On the next level, he saw a man standing in front of a large glass window. On the other side was dark blue water, the kind that engulfs you in an overwhelming, somewhat unpleasant sense of dread. It felt to Micah like staring into the abyss. A feeling he knew all too well.

  The man before him was balding and had a gut that suggested a proclivity for unhealthy food. He wasn’t young, but a bit of regular exercise could go a long way toward adding years to his life. He stowed a rolling cart against the glass next to him. It had many tubes and beakers scattered across the top. The lower level was a collection of manilla folders and seemingly random documents. It appeared the man was studying something. Micah watched the communication between man and sea mammal for a few more moments before deciding he’d had enough.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything here,” Micah said. He had to try hard not to chuckle.

  The man turned around, a look of irritation on his face. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Just a concerned citizen, out for a stroll.” Micah took a step forward and picked up a beaker, turning it around slowly in his hands in mock examination. “Are you Christensen?”

  “Please, put that down this instant,” the man said, flushed. He removed the beaker from Micah’s hand and stood as a barrier between the cart and his uninvited visitor. “As to your question, that depends on who’s asking.”