Death of the Innocent

by Karl Tutt

  Next on my list was Chris, a man I’d called my best friend for the last year. He’d spent hours working with me on KAMALA. We’d shared cruises, cold beer, and trusted our hearts to each other. But he was a liar. His obsession with women was obvious and he liked them young. He’d been arrested for rape. He’d been spotted near the scene of the crime. He had no firm alibi. Beamon had matched his blood type, found the photograph, and the bloody knife on his boat. The magazine had all of the information on ritual voodoo sacrifice. Maybe he had planned the scene as diversion to draw attention away from the real killer, himself.

  I thought he was controlling his drinking, but I didn’t know anything about the drugs. Booze is a disease. Mix it with drugs and you get crazy. Chris said he didn’t know where he went the night of the crime. Still, he was a regular at the bars in Key West. Someone should have seen him.

  But I couldn’t believe he was capable of murder. I’d seen him with Alexis. It was like magic. My best instincts told me he was harmless. But then I thought the same thing about O.J. Simpson.

  That brought me to Malachi Strait. Could the clown who wasn’t a clown be a murderer? Someone in Key West was dealing child pornography, probably in a big way. Why not him? No doubt he had the contacts. It was the bucks. He’d said so himself. Maybe someone had found out about Uncle Malachi and had to be silenced. But the kid?

  The photocopy flashed in my mind. The demonic grin on the child’s face, her hands clutching the hard veined flesh. I was sure the horror was all over the net, being sucked up by sick bastards all over the mainland. Yeah, there was money and maybe Mr. Strait was stuffing his pockets with it.

  But what about the speech, the “special place” Malachi Strait had for kids? All a charade for a naïve washed-out college professor?

  His reaction when I asked about child pornography seemed real. He was genuinely proud of Tracy and she wasn’t much more than a kid herself. We all draw lines. We convince ourselves that as long as we don’t step over them, we remain clean and honorable. They’re in different places for different people. I hoped Strait had drawn his short of violating little girls. He said if he knew about it, he’d have to do something. I wondered what that might be. I couldn’t cross him off of the list.

  I looked over my notes. It wasn’t much. They were too short and there was too little hard information. I didn’t know it, but the list was about to shrink by one.

  Chapter 25

  I had nothing pressing for the rest of the day. Sometimes a bit of boat maintenance will force your mind into your body and allow you to breathe. I went over KAMALA’s topsides, then started some long overdue work on the teak trim. I scrubbed it with cleaner, then rinsed and let the sun bake it dry. A couple of coats of Cetol and it glowed like Spanish doubloons.

  There’s always a reason to put it off. Too damp, too much sun, too messy. But boat owners are like small children and bristol teak is like an additional present under the tree on Christmas morning. My back ached and my hands cramped, but it sure beat switches and coal.

  Sunny was working. After a gourmet dinner of sardines, saltines, peanut butter and an apple, I read some Elmore Leonard and turned in early. There were no dreams.

  The sun was creeping over the horizon. It glimmered like fresh varnish over the water. I could hear the engines revving on charter boats packed with tourists. All in pursuit of the big one that would cost them several hundred dollars a pound.

  Then another sound, a thumping in cadence with the small swells in the basin. I listened for a moment, but it didn’t go. I thought maybe a crab buoy had broken loose and drifted into the basin. I tried to ignore it, but it hung on like a northern winter. Finally, still half-asleep, I stumbled out of the v-berth and into the cockpit. I grabbed the docking pole on deck, but it was too large to be a crab pot. Maybe part of a rotten piling. But as I came closer, I could see it was too long and had too much dark hair. Malachi Strait was prostrate, partially submerged in the orange water, bobbing up and down in a hellish rhythm.

  Frank Beamon arrived within twenty minutes. Two divers fished Strait out of the water and laid him carefully on the dock. He was fully clothed in the silk suit he had worn the day before. His throat was slit. After the coroner gave the body a cursory examination, they slipped him into a black bag and zipped it up.

  I tried to explain to Frank how I had discovered the corpse, but I was in near shock. I didn’t even know Strait, but yesterday I had been in his office admiring Picasso and listening to him dodge my questions. He was breathing, talking, playing with a paper clip. Now he was headed for the Monroe County Morgue, destined for a cold slab and a tag on his toe. Frank knew I wouldn’t be much help in the state I was in.

  “Have some coffee, T.K. Get a shower, then come on down to the office.”

  He checked to make sure we were out of earshot of the rest of the officers.

  “Maybe it’s time for us to trade some information,” he said quietly.

  The coffee was bitter and the shower was too cold. I was still shaky, but now my brain was working. Or at least, I thought so.

  Frank was on the phone when I got to the station. He motioned me to sit. While I waited, I took a quick inventory of his office. There was a framed diploma from Florida State, B.A. in political science, Cum Laude, 1994. Beneath it was a montage of photos and clippings from the sports pages of several newspapers. There was even a glossy from SPORTS ILLUSTRATED. Frank had been a potential first-round pick before he tore up his knee. I wondered how it felt to see several million dollars disappear on the operating table.

  On his desk was a framed snapshot of a lovely woman and two laughing children. A boy and a girl, probably ten and twelve. There was an impressive collection of citations for bravery and meritorious service. The desk was a briar patch of hand written notes, dog-eared files, and jumbled reports. He put the receiver in the cradle, looked toward the open door and scowled. His voice was harsh and much too loud.

  “Mr. Fleming. I know all about the little interviews you’ve been conducting around town. Durant, Foster, Strait. For the record, you’ve stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong. This is police business. We’re talking about a murder investigation. Now two of them, maybe related. You don’t know what the hell you’re getting into, but you may be looking at a charge of Obstruction of Justice. It could even be quite dangerous. So I am telling you officially to back off and let us handle it. Is that quite clear?”

  I gave him a humble nod. He got up and slammed the door.

  “Okay, T.K. Now that you’ve heard the party line, let’s get to the serious business. Strait’s body wasn’t bloated much, hadn’t been in the water long. Three, four hours, tops. Lucky you found him before he made a breakfast buffet for the fish and crabs. You saw his throat was slashed. Very sharp blade, might have been a filet knife. Forensics will determine if it was the same knife used on the child. His wallet was gone, jewelry, watch. It was a Rolex. We know he usually carried large amounts of cash. Could have been a simple mugging gone wrong, but not much evidence of a struggle. We don’t know why he would have been down on the dock at that hour of the morning. Got a sister up in Tampa, but no known relatives in the area except for the niece, Tracy. She’s been notified, but we couldn’t question her. Heavy sedation. That’s all I’ve got at the moment. Now it’s your turn.”

  He knew I’d been to see Strait the previous morning. I told him about the photocopy I’d received in the mail. Then the article scam I’d used to question him. He did the church steeple thing with his fingers and touched them to his lips as he listened. He never took his eyes off me.

  “Do you have the photocopy? We know there is a copier in his office. Might be able to get a match.”

  I slipped it out my pocket and handed it to him. He looked at it in stony silence. I saw his upper lip curl. He took a couple of shallow breaths.

  “She was about the age of my daughter,” he said through clenched teeth, “makes me want to throw up.” He took another breath, th
is one deeper. “So tell me about Durant and Foster. What did you learn from those two solid citizens?”

  I told him everything I could remember about conversations with each of them. He asked a few questions, didn’t seem surprised by any of the answers. Again he listened through folded hands. His eyes had a laser-like intensity. I could almost hear the gears grinding through the bones in his skull. He was very still for a moment. Then he swiveled in his chair and put his feet on the edge of the desk.

  “A couple of things that should interest you,” he said. “Those voodoo types use a powder in their ceremonies. Weird combination. Usually some dried hummingbird flesh, herbs, cemetery dirt, even the ground up bones of the dead. The Tontons are very meticulous about the contents. Stuff we found on the body of the child? Mostly talcum powder. Makes you wonder. Durant would know how to mix the stuff. Couldn’t be him, you think. But the Reverend is smart. Maybe he’s feeding us a nice plate of red herring. We don’t know.”

  “Have you met Joseph?” I asked

  “Yeah. One Joseph Alfred Fontaine. Haitian immigrant, now an American citizen. No record, no visible means of support. Sticks to the Reverend like a slug. That’s all we could dig up. We questioned both of them. A regular mutual admiration society. Presents some interesting possibilities.”

  “Anything else on Chris?” I asked reluctantly.

  “We’re not ready to count him out, but he’s not on the “A List” at the moment. I did some more checking. Even talked to a couple of his paramours, if you can call them that. Drinks too much, can’t keep it in his pants, but nothing violent or kinky that we can nail down.

  Frank smothered a little laugh. I gave him a puzzled look. He pointed at the snapshot on his desk.

  “Might have been a good description of me before I met Felice.”

  I was relieved, but not enough. I wanted Frank to confess that he had been wrong about Chris. That he was just a harmless guy who wasn’t ready to give up the fun and games. But Frank was a cop and that would have been too easy. Over the years I’d learned that “easy” was often the handmaiden of trouble. Sometimes it just waited around until you were a bit too comfortable, self-satisfied, until you knew you had it all figured out. Then it hit you like a bad case of the flu. First you get a little queasy, then the chills and fever. Finally your brain screams, “It’s the real world, asshole. Deal with it.”

  I had that flu and the only cure was to find Alexis’ killer. I had given Frank everything I knew, except the dreams.

  He wouldn’t understand. He’d think I was going over, smoking those funny cigarettes, or I’d just been in the sun too long. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Sunny. But it was gnawing the marrow of my bones. I’d held it as long as I could. I had to talk to someone who would listen with an open mind. Someone who wouldn’t think I was crazy. I knew who that person was.

  Chapter 26

  I twisted the knob and the tarnished brass door bell jingled. The porch light flickered to life as she peered through the beads that blocked the window of the door. I heard the leaden sound of the dead-bolt sliding open. It was warm, but she was wearing a black turtleneck. A necklace of silver medallions hung around her neck and a turquoise pendant hung loosely between her breasts. Tights the color of rubies clung to her hips and legs. Her dark hair was bound with a tortoise shell clip. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted with a silvery polish.

  She led me through a paneled foyer into a small sitting room. I felt like a bit player in one of those bad movies made in the 60’s. A lava lamp stood on the mantle undulating in a crimson glow. Posters of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Janis Joplin papered the walls. On the trunk she used as a coffee table, there was an ashtray full of roaches and a brass clip. A battered copy of The Kama Sutra and a Buddhist primer by Sylvia Boorstein finished the effect. The smell of weed hung in the room like a sweet curtain. She nestled into the corner of a paisley sofa, her legs tucked up under her thighs.

  I fumbled for words, not sure how to begin. But she interrupted.

  “You need not tell me why you’re here. I’ve expected you for days. It’s the child. She cannot rest, nor can you.”

  Her dark eyes focused on mine. I shook my head and spoke quietly, “So you know about the dreams?”

  “Dreams? A bit provincial, isn’t it, T.K.? You may call them what you like, but there is an alternative reality that you may find difficult to recognize. The body is lifeless, the spirit remains. It is there, suspended, searching. She does not speak to me, but I wouldn’t expect it. It is you she wants. I’ve had awareness for some time that you would be her conduit.”

  “I don’t understand. I was just one of the many people on the dock who loved her. I didn’t think I was special in any way.”

  “I think you are correct,” she said. “It wasn’t you that was special, but something you gave her. The verse. “Annabel Lee.” She was a child. She was learning. Her soul was expanding. I believe it was the words, the music, and the rhymes that permeated her being. It was your gift that lifted her. Placed your relationship on a plane that rose above the others.”

  I tried to absorb it, but I wasn’t very good at this. I liked Miss Julianne and respected her power. Still I fought the feeling that the whole damned scene was utterly ridiculous. It sounded too much like the mumbo jumbo I’d heard from Count Shockula at the Saturday Afternoon Scarefest. But I had mentioned the dreams to no one, not even Sunny. How could she know? I wracked my mind for plausible explanations, but nothing worked.

  Regardless of my skepticism, there was something compelling about Miss Julianne. She was an attractive woman, even sexy in her Bohemian way. But it wasn’t physical. It was more an aura. I had experienced it before, but it was subliminal. I had almost dismissed it. Now it became a force that dominated and commanded my consciousness.

  “You called me a conduit. I don’t understand.”

  “I believe the child searches for a source to channel some kind of information. She comes to you in a vision. She has no words, but she speaks. It’s in her appearance, her gestures. They are significant in the smallest detail. You must listen and perceive, not with your ears and eyes but with the essence of your being. You must open your mind and your soul and accept what she offers.”

  “But I don’t . . . “

  “T.K., you worship at the altar of knowledge. You are a man of books. You like a specific thesis that you can verify or reject through research and investigation. I feel your resistance, your cynicism. You wear it like an ill fitting suit of clothes. It is the natural selection of the scholar. You must overcome it, but perhaps it is too much to ask. These are things I cannot control. But I implore you. If you would help Billy and Monique, if you would avenge the death of the innocent sprite, if you long for justice, you must render all things possible. Otherwise you will fail.”

  I tried to let the words sink in. Dreams? Visions? Visits from a child I had seen drowned in her own lifeblood? It made no difference. Miss Julianne was right. I had to grasp any possibility with my mind, but also with my spirit. My own intuition had to figure into the equation.

  I stood up and tried to smile, but I only felt sheepish. She remained on the cushions, a bright glow in her eyes. I thanked her. She rose and put her lips to my ear, “Be watchful. There is danger,” she whispered. I heard the beads clicking as I closed the door.

  Chapter 27

  I didn’t know where I was going. I walked. Duval Street was lit up like little Las Vegas. Nothing unusual. Every night was New Year’s Eve in Key West. The rental scooters dashed through the streets puffing and vibrating, wide-eyed tourists laughing astride the black vinyl seats.

  I stopped at the window of one of the galleries to admire a lithograph of a tall ship. Its taut sails strained proudly against the wind and the sea. The clouds were iron-like as the foam washed over the deck threatening to take the tired sailors to a watery grave. This was something I could understand. The storm, the darkness, the uncertainty that the ship would ever make port.
It was something real. I wanted it, but I was close enough to another of storm, one borne of witchcraft and violence. My neck tingled. For moment, a sense of dread seemed to haunt me. I imagined something stalking me. I shuddered and walked on.

  The beer joints were all full. Jimmy Buffett’s Magaritaville was brimming with tourists eager for a cold beer and a cheeseburger in paradise. Sloppy Joe’s was even louder than usual, a rockabilly band shaking the lamp post on the corner. I saw the crowd outside Captain Tony’s and wondered if one of the more frisky ladies had added her bra to the collection stapled to the ceiling. Some teenaged kids passed a cigarette among them and they camped on the steps of St. Paul’s. Disheveled hair, tattoos, skateboards, and mismatched clothes that looked much too large or much too tight. The next generation. They looked bored and vaguely lost. Was there any poetry that could save them? Would Alexis have joined them if she’d lived a bit longer? I didn’t need to know.

  I walked down to Mallory Square and looked over the water. The cruise ships were lit up, but the square was black and lifeless. No Cat man, no human statues, no hawkers, no itinerant musicians with open guitar cases. I was lonely, but I didn’t need company. I needed to know who had taken this child so beautiful and innocent, who had defiled her, then left her bleeding body on a dirty wooden floor.

  I had no answers and I wasn’t sure I even understood the questions. I sat on the wharf and listened to the cacophony of music and voices that drifted from the town. The black swells washed against the concrete. The emptiness expanded and smothered me like an oil slick.

  The morning came. It was bright and dewy. The sunrise and the southwest breeze made promises they would keep. I felt awkward calling on Tracy. I knew Frank would have talked to her by now. I didn’t know her that well, but I liked her. I was sorry she’d been bludgeoned by that kind of agony. I hadn’t liked Malachi Strait or the way he made his money. I’ve got a healthy list of complaints against those who can rationalize or ignore their contribution to the degradation of the human race. They think that if it fills their pockets, it must be all right. But we don’t speak ill of the dead. So I had to shut up.