A False Dawn

SIXTEEN

It was Monday morning, and I rose before dawn. I sat on the outside steps by the screened porch and laced up my shoes. The sunrise broke, resembling a ship’s light in a mist over the tree line along the river.

After a mile or so at a fast pace, I stopped to catch my breath. I stood there, sweating and watching the silent St. Johns for a minute. There was the scent of damp moss, orange blossoms, and honeysuckle. A hummingbird hovered at the opening of a trumpet flower, the bird's throat glistening like a damp ruby in the morning light.

My cell rang. It’s chirp out of harmony with the birdsong in the forest. “You sound out of breath.” Ron Hamilton said.

“Trying to get back in shape. Running again.”

“There’s another killing. Similar MO. Female. Young. No ID. Raped and strangled. Could be the same perp.”

“Where’d they find the body?”

“Brevard County. Not too far from you. Two teenagers on four-wheelers found the vic. Word I hear is the feds are making a half-ass effort to look into this one. Not much is done about it until it grabs the girl next door.”

“What did you come up with on similar cases, missing or unsolved homicides?”

“Florida’s got two things more than any state. The coastline is the longest and so is the missing persons list. I tried to triangulate it into stats that would correlate with the ethnicity, age and sex of your vic, and the one found today. Went back five years. There are ninety-three reported missing. Nineteen known homicides. Out of that number, four people have been convicted. So that gives us fifteen where the perp or perps are still out there. In each case, the bodies were found in some remote spots.”

“Was the cause of death the same?”

“Looks that way. Necks broken. Raped and sexually mutilated. But because he’s not killing college coeds, like Danny Rolling or Ted Bundy did, it becomes old news fast. Look how long the Green River Killer kept killing prostitutes. The people least likely to be reported missing.”

“For every girl reported missing, I wonder what the ratio or percentage is of them found alive or dead? What’s the death quotient?”

“There are girls missing that nobody files a report on because their families live in some other country. Human trafficking. Sex slaves. All here in the good ol U.S. of A.”

“You got it, partner.”

Ron grunted. “Out of the fifteen we know about, one body was found the first year. The second year produced two. The third season, if you will, there were three killings, about one a quarter. Year number four produced four dead girls. And this last year there were five. These killings were scattered in counties from the northern part of Florida to the tip of the Everglades.”

“If all the bodies were found, and it’s the same perp, he’s killing more each year, getting bolder, or an urge can’t be satisfied for as long. What’d you get on Joe Billie?”

“The print on the arrowhead could be from Billie. There’s no record of his prints anywhere. No criminal record. Nothing in DMV. Seems he doesn’t exist. The blood on the feather you sent matches the DNA of the hair follicle you found on the cot. Came from the same man, Billie, if that’s his hair. No hit in CODIS. Why his blood is on the damn feather, I can’t help you there, bro. I’ll send the arrow back to you.”

“Did you find anything on Clayton Suskind?”

“Ph.D in anthropology from Florida State University. Suskind was arrested in last year for unauthorized digging of a national historic site, the protected Crystal River Mounds. This is probably the biggest Indian burial ground in the Southeast. He knows, or knew, where to dig. Collectors pay a lot for this stuff. The good professor is another missing person who has never been found.”

“Check with the University of Arizona. See if he’s on staff.”

Back at my house, I dialed the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office. I asked to speak to Detective Slater. “There was a killing in Brevard County. Maybe the same MO.”

“We’re on it. You’re not a cop anymore, O’Brien.”

“Do you know where I can find Joe Billie?”

“Why?”

“He left something with me. I’d like to return it. Have you charged him?”

“Not yet. He’s probably lying low on the Seminole reservation. Sovereignty and all that shit. We’re watching him. Just like we’re watching you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Did you come up with an ID on the victim?”

“That’s not your immediate concern.”

“I haven’t figured out your attitude yet, maybe it’s a turf thing, Detective, but your incompetence made it my business. I assume you haven’t got an ID. Maybe the killing in Brevard is related. It might be a way to help ID the girl I found.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“I think you haven’t come up with an ID yet or a real suspect.”

“This isn’t CSI Miami, O’Brien. Push me, I push back. Promise you that.”

“Here’s a promise: if you don’t find out who killed the girl, I will.”

He slammed the phone. I gripped the receiver hard, my knuckles like cotton.

I looked out at the stillness of the river and thought about my conversation with Ron. A second murder. Was it the same perp? Atlacatl imix cuanmiztli I heard her garbled words through the whisper of air from her punctured lung.

The room suddenly seemed cold.

There was a noise near my driveway. I picked up my Glock, looked out the window, and saw a car parked under the live oaks at the far end of my drive. By the time I got to the front door, the car was gone.