Backwater Key

by Steven Becker

  “Plural?” Justine asked.

  “We found a square grouper in the water. It’s on the boat.”

  “Body first,” she said, leading the other two techs into the lighthouse.

  “I’d like to have a look at what you have aboard,” Pierce said.

  Ray followed us to the boat. Like mine, this was his personal vessel as well. I had fishing poles aboard; there was no telling what he had.

  “Found it around the back of the island,” I said as we hopped down to the deck. I wasn’t ready to tell him about following the crab boat yesterday.

  He carefully opened the duffel bag and reached inside. Removing the package, he gently laid it on the deck. “Mind?” he asked, pulling a pocketknife from his pocket and opening the blade.

  “Guess there’s not much for forensics after being in the water.” I wanted to say the words for the record.

  “You’re probably right there.” He opened the blade, inserted it into the package, and made a two-inch slit. Removing the knife, he touched the tip to his tongue. “Heroin.”

  “Let me get one of the techs and we’ll bag and tag it.” I hopped onto the dock, leaving Ray and Ron staring at each other. I was glad that Ray remained with the FBI agent. He wouldn’t try anything with Ray watching.

  Walking back to the lighthouse, I thought about what had happened. It seemed pretty straightforward. The lost package was supposed to have been placed on the island for a pickup this morning. It wasn’t there, and when the meet took place, the buyer must have taken out the rival gang member assigned to collect the money. Business was business, and there was no trust among these groups.

  I looked up at the lighthouse, noticing that the body had been removed from the rail. I walked around the blood pool on the concrete walkway, now ringed with crime scene tape, and heard voices echoing off the concrete block walls when I entered.

  “Agent, can you give us a hand here?” Vance called from the steps.

  They were trying to haul the body bag down the circular stairs. The six-foot-long corpse was already stiff and not cooperating. There was no way to do this as a group. I moved to the body, grasped one end, and motioned to one of the deputies to get the other end. Together we did the best we could to move it down the stairs without causing any further damage. The victim was a heavy man and I barely made it out the door at the bottom before my legs caved in and I dumped my end of the bag on the ground. The deputy and I stood on either end, bent over at the waist for several minutes with our hands on our hips, struggling to catch our breath.

  “Nice, Hercules. Wonder if the government will still be paying your insurance while they’re closed?” Justine asked.

  She said it with sass, but it was actually a good question. “Wait ’til you see what’s on the boat.” I started walking to the dock. She was at my side in seconds. There wasn’t much she liked better than a dead body, but the unknown hooked her. “Anything up there?”

  “Body, blood, concrete. DNA and concrete don’t get along. Might be something under the vic’s fingernails if he fought, but that’s probably all we’re going to get.”

  “He’s definitely gang.”

  “Yup.”

  We reached the dock and I was about to hop down to the deck of the boat when I heard the sound of a twin engine outboard. The Miami-Dade Contender entered the marina but it slowed too late and its wake slammed against the boats tied to the concrete seawall. I had been forced to ride with the captain and crew before and didn’t like them, but when the man standing behind the leaning post turned, I liked him less. On the front deck was Grace Herrera with a line in her hand. She was the only chance I had of making this civil.

  “Oh great, Ranger Rick and the Feds,” Grace’s partner called out.

  He, along with several of his buddies, had taken to using the nickname Justine had given me. There was no question it held a different meaning for them. I bit my tongue and waited for Grace.

  “I just got the call, guess the Feds beat me to it when they heard the victim was inked up.”

  I shrugged, not understanding who had what to say about anything here. To make matters worse, Martinez had not called back. He was apparently taking the furlough seriously. I was on my own. “Vance has the body ready to go back.” I thought just stating the facts would pacify them.

  “You got no jurisdiction here, Pierce,” Dick Tracy said, turning from me to the Fed.

  Grace’s partner and I were hardly on good terms. I didn’t know if he was protective of her or maybe jealous. Having been given the name of the cartoon detective probably didn’t help either—he didn’t need a nickname.

  Pierce stayed above the fray and looked away, but Tracy remained undeterred and walked toward the boat. I saw Ron try and push the duffel out of sight with his foot, but Tracy had seen it as well.

  “What’cha got there, Mr. Fed?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer and climbed down to the deck.

  “This is a federal matter. RICO Act takes precedence,” Pierce said.

  “Right, when it’s convenient. I get it. If you’re on a case, you’re not furloughed.” Tracy moved to the duffel and kicked it to the side. “Grace,” he called out. “It’s Christmas.”

  6

  Government shutdown day one, and already we had a dead body, a pile of heroin, and two turf wars about to break out. The one between Miami-Dade and the FBI would be resolved by some bureaucrat. The gang war would likely only be resolved with more blood. Dick Tracy and Ron Pierce had already squared off and were ready for a fight as we stared at the package on the deck of the boat.

  “All of you off,” Justine called down. “I don’t care who has jurisdiction; I want a look at it before y’all bugger up the evidence.”

  The two men looked at my girl standing on the dock with her hands on her hips. They glanced at each other, and the only thing left to resolve was who would disembark first. Ron proved to be the bigger man, and also the closest. Tracy followed him.

  “You, too, Special Agent,” Justine said, as she lowered herself to the deck and reached behind her for her case.

  The three of us stood on the dock watching Justine as she worked. It was hard not to watch her.

  “A little help here,” Vance called out.

  The two other techs, Vance, and the deputy were still struggling with the body. There was no gurney aboard the boat and the body bag was proving hard to maneuver between land and sea, forcing them to use a backboard. The deceased had been a heavy man. Adding the weight of the body bag, the load was probably over three hundred pounds. Pierce and I went over to help, pausing to look back at Dick Tracy. He got the message and joined us.

  The Miami-Dade crew stood waiting aboard. They hadn’t left the boat, probably knowing their superiority would end on land. The techs retreated to the lighthouse with some muttered excuse that they weren’t done processing the scene. The four of us carried the litter to the boat, slid it over the seawall, and placed it on the deck of the Miami-Dade Contender.

  Then we stood there looking at each other. “We need to figure this out now. The gang thing is FBI territory.” I looked over at Tracy and he nodded. No one in their right mind would want that one. Pierce nodded his assent—the FBI wasn’t in their right mind. “For right now, let’s leave the drugs with you guys,” I said, looking at Tracy. Pierce was about to say something and I headed him off. “You’ll share whatever evidence you find with the Feds.” I had brokered a truce, but there was no telling how long it would last. “I’ll handle the murder.”

  Wrapping up the crime scene was all procedure now. Justine had finished with the duffel, which was now placed inside a large bag to protect it and stowed on the Contender along with the body. Vance, Grace, and Tracy got aboard with the deputy. Glad to see them go, we released the lines and watched as they idled out of the harbor.

  “You good?” I asked Justine.

  “You know where to find me,” she smiled.

  Her boat idled away and I smiled to myself. “
Get a ride back with you?” I asked Ray.

  “Not right off. These dang bloodstains ain’t going to wait for federal funding. Got to clean it up now.”

  That kind of thinking was just one of the reasons why Ray was indispensable. The barrier islands were constantly under assault from the elements. He knew what had to be done and when. “I’ll give you a hand,” I said. “Maybe we can fish tomorrow.” With what we had just found, that was wishful thinking. As I helped him clean up the crime scene, I realized the blood would have never come off if we’d let the sun bake it.

  We had finished the cleanup to his satisfaction and stepped down to the boat. With the lines tossed off, we idled out of the harbor. “You have a look at the body?” I asked.

  Ray had gone back to the observation deck to have a look before the techs bagged the body.

  “Yup. Outlaws for sure. Couldn’t tell the rank from what was left. This ain’t good, Kurt.”

  He didn’t have to tell me what a gang war in the park would do. “So, the Outlaws lost the package they were either supposed to deliver or sell and the other gang killed one of their men in retribution, or you think there’s more?”

  “Could go like that,” he said, pulling into a small cove off Elliot Key. “Got about an hour left on the tide. Seen some cobia cruising in here last week. You okay if we make a stop?

  “Why not,” I said. “It’s not like we’re on the clock.” On top of that, with Martinez probably out playing some second-rate golf course, there was no one in his office to monitor my position. He had fine-tuned the art of surveilling his employees. Between the GPS trackers on the boat and truck, cameras at headquarters, three monitors on his desk, and the Cloud at his command, he knew where I was most of the time. But right now, there was really nothing else to do until the autopsy and forensics reports were in.

  We cruised to a spot on the outside of Elliot Key I had never fished before. He dropped the anchor and let the boat drift back toward the mangroves. When it was about ten feet away, he snubbed the line.

  We used the spinning rods he had already set up and stored in the console. He tied on white paddle-tail lures and after a brief explanation of how to fish them, we started casting toward the shore. On his first cast, Ray’s rod bent over and he started to fight the fish. I could see the shadow running below the water as he turned the fish’s head and guided it toward the boat. Once alongside, he reached down for the leader, hauled the thirty-inch fish over the gunwale, and with a smile tossed it into the cooler.

  We tossed lures for the better part of an hour before he decided the tide was finished. Ray had pulled in another fish and I’d had one good hit that broke off in the mangroves. My attention had started to wane after the first few casts, and I was glad when he pulled the anchor. Ray was happy, but I was troubled.

  I started to think about the gangs’ presence in the park again on the way back to Adams Key. Murders are like jigsaw puzzles, with the corners being the motive, means, opportunity, added to some kind of an emotional or physical trigger. In many cases all three cornerstones exist before the perpetrator, and in many cases the victim of some wrongdoing, is pushed over the edge and actually kills. In this case, I had to throw it all out the window and come up with something else. Motive was simple; retribution, revenge, or just a cold-blooded killing. With gangs it really didn’t matter. The location could cover both means and opportunity, though I had a feeling whoever had committed the murder had chosen the lighthouse to make a statement. The only reason to light the fire had been to attract attention. They were telling the government that they were now in charge.

  That was as far as I had gotten when Ray pulled up to the dock at Adams Key. There was a handmade sign posted there, stating that the day use area was closed, and I suspected that Becky was taking some liberties with the shutdown in order to get some quiet. Zero came barreling down the dock like a bowling ball as Ray slid the boat against the dock. He reached into the cooler, grabbed the two fish we had kept by the gills and carried them to a concrete fish cleaning station off to the side, leaving me with the smaller mackerel. Zero followed him and sat at attention, hoping for some scraps. I offered to help and together we made short work of it. Then I went back to my house with four heavy Baggies to try and figure out my next move.

  The clues were few: the duffel of drugs and the partially burnt colors of the dead man. Thinking of the deceased, I dialed the medical examiner’s number. If it were my case, I would have to attend the autopsy. I thought that would be pretty cut and dry, and hoped Vance would, too.

  “Hey, Kurt,” he answered.

  “What are you looking at for the autopsy?”

  “I’m on my way out. I was going to give it to Sid to do tonight. I’ll leave him a note to call you when he gets to it.”

  “Cool. What are you thinking?”

  “We’ve had a whole lot of these gang-type killings lately. Cause of death doesn’t really matter. Trying to find out who pulled the trigger, or in this case the knife, is the hard part. Those guys are good at covering for each other.”

  I thanked him. “Looks like I’ll have some time on my hands with this shutdown. If you want to get out later this week, give a yell.”

  Relieved the autopsy was delayed, I hoped I could sway Sid to let me have a pass, though I knew the almost retired Jersey ME enjoyed my discomfort. Justine had the rest of the evidence, and I’d much rather see her anyway. Hoping my plan would work, I texted her and hopped in the shower.

  Justine answered in the affirmative and an hour after Ray and I had pulled up to the dock, I was heading down the stairs from my stilt house. Ray, Becky, Jamie, and Zero were all gathered around a concrete grill beside their house and I smelled the butter and barbecue sauce mix that they used. Ray offered me a plate and I sat with them for a few minutes before I said a quick good-bye and headed to my boat.

  Walking down the concrete walkway to the concrete dock, I thought about the blood-stained sidewalk and wondered what the park service fixation with the material was. Saltwater and concrete were not always a good mix. The steel rebar needed to reinforce the concrete rusted quickly when exposed to the marine environment, causing structural failure. The park service was known for overbuilding on the front end and being cheap on maintenance. The powers-that-be thought of the concrete as permanent and cost effective, and ignored the problems. It was just one of those things that I came in contact with every day that irritated me, but would probably survive the shutdown.

  Going to meet Justine is a bit more complicated when there are seven miles of water between you and the park service headquarters in Homestead. Though technically off-duty, and dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt instead of my park service khakis, I still kept an eye on the boat traffic, hoping no one else would be taking advantage of the shutdown. It ended up being a typically quiet Monday, and I arrived at my slip twenty minutes after departing Adams Key.

  After tying off, I walked past the building and thought about making a face at the security camera that was piped directly to Martinez’s empty office. I restrained myself, knowing he’d spend the first few days back reviewing everything that had happened while he was gone. It was one of those ways he stayed on top of things and proved he was vital.

  It was also a typical Monday on the highways of Dade County, and the traffic came to a halt several times due to the never-ending road construction. It wasn’t too upsetting that the delays caused me to reach the crime lab just after five. The day crew had gone and I hoped Justine was by herself as I approached the entrance to the newly remodeled lab. Back in the day, I would have been able to watch her from the window in the hall of the old lab, until she inevitably sensed I was there. Now, I had to search her out.

  “Hey!” I called out.

  “Over here,” she yelled back.

  I followed her voice, passing banks of LED indicator lights on the latest in forensics equipment. I had no idea what most were used for. I found her and the first thing I noticed were the headphones she a
lways listened to music with were gone. I knew this change was not good for her.

  She had the denim vest laid out on a table and was scanning it with what looked like some kind of UV light.

  “Lot of blood on this sucker.”

  “You think the perp’s blood is there, too?” Knives were messy and often nicked the user as well as the victim.

  “It’s gonna take some time, but I’ll run the DNA.”

  I moved closer, noticing immediately that she was uneasy when I pressed my hip against hers. This new lab was going to take some getting used to. I stepped back and watched as she scraped the burnt parts away from the sewn-on insignia. Parts had resisted the fire and before long I started to make out the lettering.

  7

  Gangs were a problem in Miami. Chicago and LA grabbed most of the headlines, but South Florida was in the top five worst areas, especially Dade County. The multi-cultured county had its share of neighborhood-related violence, but for the rest of us it was off our radar. Not so for the police who, along with the Feds, kept databases on members, tattoos, and anything else they could document. The Feds were especially good about this. Already known for being paper pushers, they excelled in collecting the documentation needed to prosecute under the RICO Act. If I wanted more information, I would need the help of Ron Pierce. Remembering he had given me a card, I found it in my pocket.

  “Pierce,” he answered.

  I had figured him for an answer-the-phone guy. With every LEO officer having a smartphone, it had become prevalent to either text or use voicemail. Like everywhere else in our society, technology was pushing out human interaction. “Hey, it’s Kurt Hunter. We got something on the colors from the lighthouse.”

  “They were burned pretty bad. Your tech must be good.”

  I stopped myself from saying she was the best. “Yeah, anyway, the colors are from the Outlaws.”