Blood of Cain

10

Two Volusia County sheriff's deputies walked down the dock next to a detective. As the three men approached Jupiter, Courtney and I were standing in the cockpit waiting for them.

“Here, Courtney, take this.”

“What is it?”

“My business card.” I handed it to her. “It says Sean O’Brien … fishing charters. I’m not very good at it, that’s why I teach part-time. Job changed, but the phone number’s the same.”

“Thank you.” She slid the card in the back pocket of her jeans.

The police officers were coming closer. I recognized the detective. Dan Grant, skin the color of coffee with a shot of cream, mid-forties, wide shoulders, dressed in a tan sports coat, pressed jeans, and no tie. He walked with a straightforward pace, hands slipping into his jean pockets and shaking his head when he stepped up to Jupiter's stern.

“Well, well,” he said. “Why am I not surprised to see Sean O'Brien standing here with a person wanted for questioning in a murder?”

“Hello, Dan. It's been a while.”

“I'm sure you both have great explanations as to why we're all gathered here today. But let's start with the basics.” He cut his eyes to Courtney and stepped closer. Max wagged her tail. “Are you Courtney Burke?” Grant asked.

She nodded her head. “Yes.”

“Miss Burke, we'd like to talk to you about your relationship with Lonnie Ebert.”

“Okay.”

“But before we do, I'd want to hear how you got to this marina and this boat.” He sighed and took out a small notepad. “Sean, let's start with you. How'd she get on your boat?”

I told him how I found her and added, “That's when we were visited by two gents with a lot of fur and gang rape on their dull minds. That would have happened to her after they split my skull.”

Grant slid the pencil behind his ear. He looked over to a charter boat that was coming into the marina, the whiff of diesel exhaust in the wind. “So, that was you who did some damage. Those bad boys are gonna be out of work for a long time.” He turned toward Courtney. “And that's how you got here. Sort of took your time hitchhiking through the Ocala National Forest after leaving a murder scene. Why'd you leave in such a hurry?”

“I was scared. I didn’t kill Lonnie. You gotta believe me.”

Grant studied her a few seconds in silence, probably trying to read eyes that were unreadable. Two sea gulls flew above the masts of moored sailboats, their staccato cries like mocking laughter across the harbor. Grant said, “Miss Burke, I'm going to take you downtown to talk about this murder. At any time you can have an attorney present.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, but we need to talk. I want to hear your story.” He nodded to the two deputies who boarded Jupiter. “These officers will escort you to their patrol car. We'll all reconvene in a little while. Sean, if you can think of anything else you may have seen or heard, you know where to find me. Let's go.”

Max barked once and followed Courtney to the steps leading over the transom to the dock. A deputy sheriff walked on either side of her. As they took her away, she turned toward me, her eyes wide, frightened, and now pleading, terrified eyes that would forever be padlocked deep in my mind.

Four hours later, Dave Collins ambled across the dock and boarded Jupiter. He stuck his head in the open salon and said, “Well, the arrest of that young woman is the talk of the marina, especially down at the Tiki Bar, and you're nowhere to be seen.”

I looked up from the bilge housing where I was storing some new belts and filters I'd bought. “She wasn't arrested, Dave. They took her in for questioning.” I stood, closed the hatch, and used paper towels to wipe some oil from my hands. “How'd they track Courtney here? You're probably the only one who picked out my voice on that 911 call.”

“I walked down to the Tiki Bar for ice. Kim said she recognized Courtney when the girl stopped in and asked for directions to your boat.”

“Did Kim call the police?”

“No. She said Captain Bill, you know the guy, retired charter captain with too much time on his hands, overheard the conversation and dialed 911.” Dave stepped to the small bar that divided the salon from the galley. He sat and blew out a deep breath, his forehead creased in thought. “So what do you think, Sean? Did the girl murder that guy? Is she a killer?”

“A killer? I don't know, maybe. Did she kill the man found dead at the carnival? I don't believe she did.” I told Dave everything Courtney had said to me and added, “Dan Grant is a good detective. He'll be fair with her. Unfortunately, fairness, integrity, and circumstantial evidence don't always balance the scale of justice. It'll depend on the physical evidence, apparent motive, and whether the prosecutor thinks he has enough on her to get a conviction.” I walked to the galley, pulled two very cold Coronas from the refrigerator, sliced fresh limes for each one, and handed a bottle to Dave.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a short sip and setting the bottle on the bar. “I've never seen eyes on anyone quite like the eye color I saw in Courtney's eyes. I saw something else, too.”

“What's that?”

“I don't know, exactly. But for a kid like her, it’s the oxymoronic combination of a saddened wisdom of the ages, and an old, recycled soul, if you will — cluttered with the outlying hope of real trust. It's as if she's a war refugee, a young woman with normal dreams buried inside some Old World culture.”

“When anyone's raped, especially a kid, the physical pain will fade with the passage of time. The torment of the spirit never completely heals. That will give a child an old soul before her time. It's horrible and a damned shame.”

Dave started to respond as my phone buzzed from where I’d set it on the table. It was Detective Dan Grant on the line. He said, “Sean, we cut the girl loose a couple of hours ago.”

“Good.”

“Maybe not so good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m telling you this for two reasons: one is because we have a history together. You helped with a couple of cases. But then I remember why you helped. It was because, in one way or the other, you either knew the victim, or as a former detective, you’d crossed paths with the perps.”

“I told you why she came to see me at the marina.”

“Back away from this one, Sean. I’m still gathering information, but I have enough to push my suspicion meter way up. Courtney Burke is a nut case. I’ve got a report that tells me she’s been in two different mental institutions, diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic.”

I said nothing, watching the condensation roll down the Corona bottle.

Dan said, “The FBI will be checking into this one, no doubt.”

“Why?”

“The murder at the carnival’s on their radar because it’s apparently not isolated. Feds are reporting the deaths of two other people, all men in their mid-twenties. All carny workers who were killed in the last six months. Each victim worked at a different carnival. If the perp is Courtney Burke, the county has a serious problem on its hands.”

For a brief moment, I remembered the look on Courtney’s face when the two men in the pickup truck rolled their windows down. I saw chipped red polish on her fingernails, her cotton white knuckles, her eyes looking back at me as she was led away by the deputies. I said, “She may have issues, but I don’t believe she’s a serial killer.”

“Maybe not. But I’m betting the dried blood on her T-shirt will match the vic’s blood. And I know she claims she got it on her hands trying to help the vic. But then she fled the scene and did nothing to call help, no dialing 911. The carnival is at the county fairgrounds for a week. I’d wager I’ll have a confession from her before the week’s up.”

“And I’m betting there is another reason why you’re telling me this. You think she’s coming back to the marina, don’t you?”

“She came to you once. She might return. Female serial killers are rare, but not rare enough for me. If she contacts you, let me know everything she says. I’d hate for you to wind up with an ice pick through your heart.”