Dead Silence

11

Bern Heller’s body had washed ashore. There was a story about it in the regional newspaper, the News-Press. That’s why Tomlinson expected the police to show up with a search warrant.

Sections of paper were scattered beneath the man’s beach chair, where he was still stretched out sunning himself. The front page of the local section was folded open.

When I saw the headlines, I felt a constricting anxiety and thought, I’ve got to get out of here. EX-NFL PLAYER FOUND POLICE TO PROBE DROWNING OF CONVICTED MURDERER, RAPIST

It explained Tomlinson’s fears about a search warrant. A lot of people had reason to hate the man, yet my pal sounded convinced that I was the killer.

Why?

He had placed a book on the newspaper because of a breeze freshening off the bay. Wind roiled the water, whitecaps flashing near the oyster bar where pelicans and cormorants perched, leeward side, heavy in the rubbery mangroves.

I removed the book- Shadow Country by Peter Matthiessen-and placed it on the deck before grabbing the newspaper. The front section was still in the plastic baggie untouched.

To demonstrate I wasn’t worried and wasn’t in a hurry, I ignored the local section, with its headlines about Bern Heller, and read the front-page national section.

The lead story was about the attempted abduction of Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento and the missing boy. Only a dozen paragraphs had made this early island edition, but there was a photo of Barbara and a photo of one of the entrances to the Explorers Club. There was also a sidebar about the murdered limo driver.

The boy, Will Chaser, wasn’t named. An “unidentified pedestrian” was credited with detaining one of the kidnappers.

I asked Tomlinson, “You didn’t read the national section?”

“Never made it that far.” He motioned vaguely to the deck beneath his chair. “No need to play it cool with me. I can tell you’re worried shitless. Take a look at the story about Heller, you’ll understand.”

As I knelt to retrieve the local pages, he added, “You don’t have to worry about me narcing you to the cops. I’m no Judas.”

“It’s unusual for you to make biblical references on a Friday. Getting a jump on the weekend guilts?”

“In your e-mail, isn’t that why you mentioned Tenth Man? Thirty pieces of silver-hell, they could offer me thirty blotters of Frisco ’68, I still wouldn’t blabber.”

I said, “Here’s a concept: Some people ask questions because they want an answer. Me, for instance.”

“That’s my answer: Judas was the Tenth Man, the tenth disciple. You sent the e-mail, worried I was going to rat you out to the cops. That’s the way I interpreted it.”

Had Choirboy said Tenth Man or Tinman? Interesting distinction. It offered an entirely different meaning, but I was concentrating on the newspaper now. The body of a man found floating off Naples Pier, has been identified as former NFL lineman Bern Heller, 38, of Indian Harbour. Heller was sentenced to life in prison for murder but released from Florida State Penitentiary, Raiford, last month pending a hearing. Heller, who was principal owner of Indian Harbour Marina, was found guilty of second-degree murder seven months ago and was awaiting trial for additional charges that included murder, kidnapping and multiple rapes. Heller was reported missing from his live-aboard yacht at Indian Harbour six days ago by a friend and occasional roommate, Tripper Oswald of Fort Myers. The marina is in the final stages of foreclosure. Only Heller was living on the property, according to Citi Management Corporation, the mortgage holder. A Wisconsin native, Heller was convicted of the shooting death of Capt. Javier Castillo, a popular local fishing guide. Capt. Castillo’s widow and two children have been the benefactors of recent charity functions sponsored by Dinkin’s Bay Marina on Sanibel. Heller’s arrest made national headlines, and his testimony may have contributed to investigations into the effects of steroid rage associated with crimes committed by professional athletes. According to the Lee County Medical Examiner’s Office, the cause of death will not be released until police finish their investigation. According to a statement issued yesterday by Heller’s attorney, there are “sufficient anomalies” to suggest the former football star was a victim of foul play. Oswald and members of Heller’s family have retained a private investigator. According to the sheriff’s department, the investigation into the former star’s death is continuing…

I had tuned out Tomlinson but now looked up from the paper after he banged me on the shoulder, asking, “Are you listening to me? This is serious shit, man.”

I said, “Heller’s dead. Good. I don’t see what that has to do with me.” I folded the paper and carried it to the railing. My shark pen was below: a rectangle of net and wire kept afloat by basketball-sized buoys at each corner.

Sharks are delicate, complex animals. The bull shark, Carcharhinus Leucas, is one of my primary interests as a researcher. Leucas is known by several names worldwide, including Zambezi River shark and Lake Nicaragua shark. It swims hundreds of miles up rivers to feed and possibly reproduce in freshwater lakes. The shark is also responsible for more attacks on humans than great whites or tiger sharks.

Because I had been traveling, the pen was empty. A five-hundred-pound shark is not the invincible killer portrayed in films. The animal requires constant care and is fussy about what it eats in captivity. I no longer take risks with the sharks I use for research. I would rather release a dozen of them than return home after a trip to find one dead.

Through the clear water, I saw a school of mullet daisy-chaining, stirring detritus clouds with their tails. Angel-striped spadefish flashed in slow arcs near pilings. Where water deepened, snook were stacked in shadows, muscled densities orderly as rungs.

Tomlinson was still talking. “That investigator the paper mentions, I met him. He was nosing around the marina last night, asking questions at Sanibel Marina, and Tween Waters, too. Seedy little gumshoe of a guy, you ask me.”

I nodded: Good.

“The county fuzz, that’s who you need to worry about. They showed up last night, the lead detective in an unmarked Chevy. Her name’s Palmer, Detective Palmer, an interesting-looking woman. She’s got the typical hard-ass attitude, but there’s some wisdom in her face. Palmer’s smart. She’s also ambitious.”

I shrugged: Bad?

I was scanning the rest of the story, hoping to see a mention of the watch Heller was wearing, as Tomlinson said, “Detective Palmer was interested in the Cheesehead’s wristwatch,” breaking into my thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like that.

I played it straight. “What’s his watch have to do with anything?”

“When they found him, Heller was wearing a cheap rubber watch. Not waterproof. They figure it stopped the day he drowned. Like in the movies, you know, the broken watch determines the time of death. The paper says he’s been missing since”-because Tomlinson was reaching, I handed him the newspaper-“Heller was reported missing six days ago. It was also the day the watch stopped. So the date would have been… Saturday, January seventeenth?”

I said, “The detective told you all this?”

“Yeah… I mean, no. Yes, it was the seventeenth. No, Palmer didn’t tell me. I pieced it together from the questions she asked the fishing guides.”

He rattled the paper for emphasis, then stuffed it under the chair. “You flew to New York last Friday, the sixteenth, right, Doc?”

Tomlinson was staring at me now. I stared back. “You know I did. Apparently, I left the day before Heller died. Which means you’re wrong. Police have no reason to come after me.”

“I’m not an expert on watches, but couldn’t a killer click the date ahead, then break the thing on purpose? A really shrewd person, I’m talking about.”

I said, “With saltwater drowning, it’s not easy to pinpoint the time of death. Because fish and crabs and things aren’t fussy about what they eat. A smart killer wouldn’t bother planting a broken watch. And a dumb killer wouldn’t think of it. That makes the watch gambit unlikely.”

Tomlinson got up, nodding. I watched him go into the lab, giving me a look, before he let the screen door swing closed, his expression saying Okay, okay, if that’s the way you want to play it…

I went downstairs to double-check my boat. Heller’s family was pushing police to look for his killer? I had a lot to do.

A few minutes later, I heard a screen door swing closed. Tomlinson came down the steps, wearing faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt that read RELIGION IS A COMPASS, NOT A HARNESS.

He was carrying an antique bag, once called a Gladstone, leather and brass.

I was coiling a water hose. Before leaving for New York, I had double-scrubbed the boat’s deck. An extra shot of water and half a bottle of degreaser couldn’t hurt. DNA can be as stubborn as any stain.

“Going somewhere?” I asked him.

As Tomlinson said, “That’s up to you, man,” the cell phone Barbara Hayes-Sorrento gave me began to buzz. I wiped my hands on a towel and fished the thing from my pocket. The senator had sent a text message.

Tomlinson said, “Doc, there’re a couple things you should know. First is, Detective Palmer told one of the guides Heller hated rubber watches. She was asking around about a gold Rolex. I remember good ol’ Bern wearing a gold Rolex when he showed up at the marina party last week and also the day he slugged you. Loud and gaudy, a watch just like him. Remember that day?”

“If I didn’t, the headaches would remind me,” I said, studying the phone. I was squinting at the menu, trying to figure out how to retrieve Barbara’s message.

“There’s something else. It hasn’t made the news.” Because Tomlinson paused, wanting me look at him, I intentionally did not look away from the phone.

“Heller had a girl aboard his boat that night-the night before you left for New York.”

Now I looked. A shocker. I tried not to show it but the man knew me too well.

“It’s such a bummer, I didn’t even want to tell you,” he said, sounding worried. “There’s a witness, Doc. Nothing we can do about it. You don’t need a compass to know when karma turns south. And sometimes I wish we were all born with an anchor hooked to our ass. A way to stop the negative flow, I’m talking about?”

“A witness to what?” I said, thinking back, trying to picture the interior of Heller’s boat. The place had been a pigsty, but I’d seen no signs of a female guest.

Tomlinson said, “She claims Heller abducted her and was trying to rape her. He’d torn off most of her clothes but stopped when a man knocked at the cabin door. It was late: two a.m. or later. She told police it was a big guy, clean-shaven. He wore his glasses strung around his neck with fishing line.”

“How do you know this?” I had opened Barbara’s message but was now giving Tomlinson my full attention.

“Someone involved in law enforcement told me. That’s all I can say.”

“A reliable source?”

“Better than just reliable. And no more questions, okay?”

“There are a lot of boaters who use fishing line to secure their glasses,” I offered, then realized I was doing what guilty people always do, trying to impeach the facts.

Tomlinson said, “No need to convince me. But I’m worried you might have to try and convince a jury. If you’d spent your life abusing drugs, like a normal person, your skills as a liar would be more highly evolved. As it is, I think your ass is on the line, pal. The witness got a good, long look at the killer, my friend in law enforcement says.”

I didn’t want to risk mentioning that there was no moon that night so I kept it safe, asking, “What did she see exactly?”

“Heller and the guy started fighting, the woman told police. She was in the forward stateroom, they were in the salon. She grabbed what was left of her clothes and climbed out the front hatch to get away. She lay there and listened to the whole thing. Saw some of it.

“She said the fighting stopped after a minute or two. Then, she says, the guy wearing glasses tied up Heller and swam off, towing him like a wagon. Heller kicked and splashed, but the guy kept swimming. He had to have been one hell of a strong swimmer to haul a tub like that mutant.”

Tomlinson let the sun bake his face for a moment, letting me think about that, before saying, “Your daily workouts are about as public as it gets, compadre. You either jog to the pool and swim laps there or you run a couple miles on the beach, then swim to the NO WAKE markers off the Island Inn. How many miles a week are you doing now, five or six? I’ve never seen you in better shape in your life. And the way you do it, so public and all, it won’t be hard to find witnesses.”

I said, “There’s nothing illegal about working out. You were telling me about the girl Heller tried to rape.”

“Oh… well… she grabbed her stuff and got the hell off that boat, while you… while the guy wearing glasses… swam Heller out beyond the lights. She says she ran to the main road, and called her sister.

“Because she was afraid, or maybe embarrassed, she didn’t tell anyone what happened until three days ago, when she finally went to a doctor. But she chose a private clinic in Miami for some reason. And she tried to use a fake name.”

I said, “Hmm,” not sure what that was supposed to mean. Miami was across the Everglades on the Atlantic Coast.

Tomlinson said, “The doctor didn’t buy her story so he contacted social services. They’re the ones who called police. Amazing story, huh?”

I said, “Lucky timing. I’m glad for her,” and meant it.

“There’s nothing lucky about Universal Mind and divine intervention.”

“If you say so.”

“The girl thinks Heller would have killed her. He’d already beaten her pretty bad, which is why the sister made her get X-rays. The guy wearing glasses saved her life.”

I caught myself as I reached to straighten my glasses and instead looked at my watch. “I hope she’s okay. But if Heller was still alive the last time she saw him, it doesn’t prove anything.”

Tomlinson agreed. “He was struggling, splashing, definitely alive, from what my law enforcement friend told me. But isn’t a dead Cheesehead in the water a little like a trout in the milk? Considering who you are, I mean, and what that asshole mutant did to Javier?”

“Cheesehead,” I said. “I get it, Heller’s from Wisconsin. Who’s the cop?”

“You know him. He’s one of the few I trust.”

I was impressed that Tomlinson wouldn’t compromise the guy by using his name. My friend’s contempt for the police borders on pathology. But there are a few he likes: the head sheriff ’s deputy on Captiva and a surfing pal from Naples. And there were rumors that the island’s marshal might have been his distant relative.

I said, “He didn’t tell you the girl’s name?”

“No. She’s in some sort of profession but young. Smart, too, from the way she handled herself. Smart enough to know her guardian angel dropped everything else that night to save her. She saw what she saw, though.”

I started up the steps that led to my house and lab, saying, “The girl was in shock, that’s the way it sounds to me. People in shock imagine all sorts of things.”

At the door, I added, “I’ve got to pack a few things, then button up the place and get going… with your permission, of course.”

Now was not the time to press for the meaning of Ten Man, or Tenth Man. I couldn’t stay on Sanibel. The investigation into Heller’s death was just getting started. Most serious crimes are solved within the first seventy-two hours or not at all. I didn’t want to be around when the investigation peaked.

Inside the house, I checked the message on my new phone. It was from Harrington, not Barbara.

Return New York fastest possible means. Subject may have escaped, possibly hiding. More info when airborne.

Subject: He was referring to Will Chaser.

The boy had escaped? Well… possibly, he’d escaped. Even so, it was good news, and a relief to have something to smile about. Maybe the kid wasn’t a typical teen after all. I’d put off contacting his foster guardians but was now eager to talk to them and learn what sort of boy the kidnappers were dealing with.

I found the SAT pilot’s card in my wallet and dialed his number. He’d told me a smaller aircraft was available out of nearby Naples if I wasn’t carrying “unconventional” personal items. He also said that his plane would be at Fort Myers Municipal, refueled and ready, by two. I chose Fort Myers, adding that I would call to confirm.

I had a little more than an hour to collect my things and get to the airport.

In the lab, I checked the aquaria, reconfirmed I was still in possession of a few small, important ancillary items, a passive-electronic fish tag among them, and left a note for Janet Nichols, who takes care of the place when I’m away.

I also put out a new gadget: a bulk feeder loaded with food for Crunch amp; Des, a black cat who has granted me intermittent ownership obligations. I try to keep the cat happy because otherwise he’ll omit the lab from his rounds for weeks if I miss a single day’s feeding.

Finally, I pushed my bed aside and opened the hidden compartment under it built flush into the floor. It contained items I couldn’t risk leaving for the cops to find.

When I looked in the fireproof compartment, though, I was suddenly no longer smiling.

Tomlinson was waiting at the bottom of the steps when I exited a few minutes later, my briefcase several pounds heavier than when I had arrived.

Glaring down at the man, I said, “Where is it?” I reached for the key ring inside the breezeway, preparing to lock the doors.

He didn’t reply.

I said, “You know what I’m talking about. No one but you could’ve figured it out.”

As I flipped through keys, Tomlinson said, “I swept the lab for evidence, I already told you, but not just my stash. I called your hotel last night and there was no answer. It was an emergency. Doc, I had to do something. My cop friend had just told me about the witness.”

I said, “Rooting through my private property is going way too far, pal.” I hung the key ring in its regular place and turned, adding, “But thanks, I guess. I can see your point.”

I could also see something else, too. Dangling from Tomlinson’s index finger was Bern Heller’s gold Rolex.

He smiled, “Your prints aren’t on it, just mine. I made sure of that.”

“Masterful,” I told him. “When you talk about astrology, I do my best not to listen, but aren’t you a Gemini? I’m trying to decide which twin to slap.”

Tomlinson liked that. “Twins would’ve gone schizoid, man, dealing with the crap I’ve got going on. I’ve got a full-time staff. Are you mad?”

“For trying to save my butt? No. But it won’t work even if I went along with it, which I won’t. You were out of the state, staying with your rich Long Island friends, the week of the sixteenth.”

“Sort of, sort of not,” he countered. “I was in Sag Harbor, which is more like a foreign country, not just a different state. Out there, people like me are considered entertainment, not houseguests. My name won’t be on any lists. Plus, the superrich don’t talk to cops. The cops go straight to their attorneys, don’t even bother trying.”

I said, “That doesn’t give you much of an alibi.”

“So what, man? If it wasn’t for thin ice, I never would’ve learned to skate. If the cops question me, I’ll have a clear conscience for the first time. A new experience: It’s what I live for.”

He was twirling the watch on his finger now. I sighed as I took a look around. In the distance, tourists milled on docks at the marina. JoAnn Smallwood and Kathleen Rhodes, both looking good in beach wraps, were swaying toward the Red Pelican carrying what looked like covered dishes for the weekend party.

Reading my mind again, Tomlinson said, “I hate it, too, missing another Friday night at the marina.” He curled his bony fingers around the watch. “Doc? I called your hotel at least ten times last night. I don’t want you to think I make a habit of snooping through your private stuff. This is his, isn’t it?” He meant the watch.

I said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of doing what you’ve just implied. I don’t believe in revenge.”

Tomlinson was listening, his eyes serious, but he was still keeping it light. “Cool, I can relate. Why even the score when the objective is to win?”

I said, “You took it the wrong way. For me to do something so.. . so extreme, I would give it a whole lot of thought. Benefits would have to outweigh risks. I would need a credible motive-intellectually credible, not some emotional rationalization. Pyromania is to arson what homicide is to getting rid of a predator like Bern Heller.”

Tomlinson said, “You’re not a part-timer looking for a hobby, in other words.”

I held out my hand for the Rolex. “I’m not a murderer.”

“Is a murderer different than a killer?”

I wasn’t going to answer that. I shook my head.

Tomlinson said, “Well, amigo, it doesn’t matter, because I’m no saint.” I watched him bounce the watch in the air and catch it. “If it had been me knocking at Heller’s door that night, a woman would have been raped and killed. Because it wasn’t me-because it was someone else, a man with a whole different set of moral convictions-she’s alive. Maybe that’s the thin line between murder and killing. Cowardice, in some form. Proactive or passive, it’s still the same as murder. It’s a crime.”

I said, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at and I’m not sure I want to.”

“For the first time in my life,” Tomlinson replied, “I’m struggling with the concept of nonviolence as a form of violence.”

I said, “A facilitator anyway.”

“No, violence, the real deal. The woman would have died if I’d been there that night. Just because I wasn’t at the cabin door doesn’t make it any less valid. I would’ve chosen passive resistance-maybe out of conviction, but also maybe from being a coward. Either way, Heller would have brutalized her and she would now be dead.”

The man was serious.

He was still bouncing the Rolex in his hand as I said, “Your fingerprints on Heller’s watch won’t ease your guilt or help my case. What worries me is, you’ll have a few shots of rum at some bar after smoking a joint and want to talk philosophy with someone who-”

“A doobie mixed with demon rum is God’s own truth serum,” he interrupted. “I get talkative. Hey, I admit it. Which is why”-he bounced the watch twice before lobbing it to me-“I’ve decided we should disappear for a few days. I’m thinking Pensacola. It’s Key West without the cruise ships or bondage crowd. An easy four-day sail.” He lifted his antique bag. “Boat’s ready, I’m packed. Want to come along as crew?”

I said, “I love Pensacola, but it’s got to be New York. I’m looking for the boy they kidnapped.” Because of my special clearance, a friend could travel with me on the SAT flight, so I added, “Interested?”

Tomlinson stood, folded his chair and stacked the pie pans. “New York-perfect,” he said, unaware I had a plane waiting. “Screw the Intracoastal, we’ll sail offshore. It’ll be spring before we raise the Statue of Liberty, but that’s okay. I don’t own any winter clothes.”