The Butterfly Forest

FORTY-TWO

Sheriff Roger Clayton was in his element, firing orders as his deputies readied to track down a killer. “Let’s move!” he yelled, jumping in a pickup truck and leading his growing posse back into the forest. They fanned out, moving east, radios popping with quick directives. A police helicopter hovered in the distance.

A few minutes later, a third television news satellite truck came down the dirt road into the forest, the branches screeching, like nails on a chalkboard, against the sides of the truck. I watched from the shade of the canvas as volunteers and a few curiosity seekers stood by, waiting for word from the search party. Three officers manned the makeshift headquarters. One, a tall man, had just arrived. They called him in from vacation. I heard an officer say that the man was the best sharpshooter on the sheriff’s SWAT team.

The media set up tripods and cameras, and began stringing wire to trucks rumbling with generators, the pungent odor of burning diesel fuel drifting across the clearing.

Elizabeth rose from the chair, her eyes vacant. A warm breeze teased her hair as she looked at the media, saw volunteers and officers averting their eyes when she turned her head in their direction. News of the double murders had a visible affect on everyone out here. The sheriff had contacted Seminole County S.O. and asked that they deliver the news to Mark Stewart’s family.

“Take me home, Sean,” Elizabeth said. “When can I bring Molly home? I want to lay her to rest.” She squeezed her upper arms, tips of her fingers like cotton, her eyes scanning the trees beyond the clearing. “She needs to be removed from this place.”

“We’ll get her back soon. In a homicide, they have to do autopsies.”

She stared at me, her mouth slightly open. I said, “It’ll help us know exactly how Molly and Mark died, and it will strengthen the case against whoever is arrested.”

Elizabeth said nothing. She used her left hand to hold on to one of the aluminum poles that supported the canvas. We could hear a sheriff’s helicopter flying low over trees to the northeast, the area where I knew the dogs and deputies were heading.

A television reporter, blond, slender frame, the runway stride of a former beauty queen, approached us. She held a wireless microphone in one hand by her side as she walked, her cameraman staying a few feet behind her. “Excuse me… Miss Monroe… my name is Jayne Fox from News Center Seven. I’m so sorry to learn of your loss. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

Elizabeth’s hand slid down the pole, her head turning toward the reporter, her mind struggling with the request for an interview. “There is nothing I can say right now.”

The reporter smiled. “I understand… maybe I can ask you about a past incident when a man tried to abduct you and your daughter in a parking lot. Police say it was Frank Soto. As you know, he’s been on the loose since killing a guard… do you think he did this horrible thing to Molly and her boyfriend?”

“Please, I have nothing to say.”

I watched the other reporters start toward us. Soon, I knew, it would be a feeding frenzy as they battled to get crumbs before their news deadlines. I said, “Miss Monroe will give you a statement when it’s appropriate. So, please, give her some time and space until we know more.” Other reporters formed a semi-circle around us, cameras rolling.

A tall man, unshaven, sunken dark eyes, camera hanging from his neck, pen and notepad in a hand with long fingernails, pursed his lips and said, “Understood, maybe we can get some details of the last few days to help us piece the story together. Had either you or your daughter been followed, maybe stalked is a better word.”

“Right now silence is the better word,” I said, holding both palms out.

“Who are you?” asked another reporter.

“Sean O’Brien.”

“Are you an attorney?”

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“What led them to the area where the bodies were discovered? Can you tell us what led police to the gravesite?”

“A butterfly,” I said, reaching for Elizabeth’s arm and signaling for a deputy who was speaking into a radio microphone on his shoulder. He walked over to us while the media peppered more questions. I heard the sounds of cameras firing. I leaned toward the deputy and whispered, “Miss Monroe’s daughter is in a body bag headed for the medical examiner’s table… can you can do something to stop this?”

He nodded and said to the media, “Okay, everybody, back behind the yellow tape. Give this lady some privacy because, right now, we are still questioning her. So you people will have to wait your turns, whenever that is. Everybody understand?”

“Who’s a spokesman for the sheriff’s office?” came one question.

“That’s Detective Sandberg, and he’s in the field with the sheriff. So when he returns, I’m sure he, along with Sheriff Clayton, will be briefing everyone.”

The media broke away, some walking back to their air-conditioned cars and trucks, others interviewing volunteers searching for any eyewitness information. I heard a call come in on the radio hanging from the deputy’s belt. “Subject is headed for the river! We need a sharpshooter down here immediately. Better bring a four-wheel-drive.”

A tall deputy, who’d recently arrived, still dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt said, “That would be me.”