The Butterfly Forest

FORTY-SIX

After Luke Palmer was hauled from the river and delivered to the command center, deputies carefully labeled and packaged his belongings. The sheriff turned to me. “He’s guilty. No doubt in my mind. How’d you get two shots off so fast it sounded like one, huh?”

“Lots of practice.”

The sheriff fished for a cigarette. “You don’t think he killed ‘em kids, do you?”

“No. This man described the killer. I think Frank Soto works for the killer.”

Detective Sandberg said, “You’re wrong O’Brien. Evidence will bear it out. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

I smiled and said, “The red T-shirt he was describing, he mentioned Sloppy Joes was on it. That’s the same T-shirt Soto wore the morning he tried to abduct Molly and Elizabeth Monroe. That wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the media, and this guy’s been out here so long, chances are if news media mentioned it, he wouldn’t have seen it.”

“How do we really know how long he’s been out here?” Sandberg asked.

“Because he fits the description of the guy that ranger Ed Crews mentioned seeing, not once, but twice. Look at his stuff left here on the bank, small tent, backpack and the steel rod. He’s not staying at a hotel. He’s been living out here, looking for something. I think he found the body of Nicole Davenport and saw Molly and Mark get killed.”

”Maybe,” said the sheriff, lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke though his nostrils. “Odds are strong that Palmer’s our killer. Why else would an ex-con swim across the most alligator-infested river in America rather than face us.”

“If he’d spent forty years in San Quentin prison, recently released, he probably has little knowledge of alligators in rivers. Gators aren’t found in the wild in California. When the adrenaline’s pumping, and you’re faced with a potential return to prison, maybe a long swim across a flat and calm river seems the best alternative.”

The sheriff shook his head, took a final drag from the cigarette. “Come on,” he said to Detective Sandberg.

As they were walking away, I said, “Sheriff, I’ll need a ride back to the command post. I volunteered my Jeep to help get Deputy Rodriguez to a medical team.”

“Okay, but now I’ve got to face the media, and I don’t want you in the vicinity. Understand? I recognize your concern, and we appreciate your help. You probably were a good detective in your day, but you don’t work for me.”

At that command center, Luke Palmer was transferred from a four-wheel-drive Land Rover to a cruiser. A half dozen deputies and investigators coordinated the move. Palmer looked at the mob of reporters, each one jockeying for a better camera position. Not too much different from the gangs in the yard, he thought. Better dressed, maybe.

While they escorted him to a waiting cruiser, through the flashing lights, he spotted a lone woman. She stepped out from an open tent and stared at him. To Palmer it felt like the progression of time stopped in its tracks for a few seconds. All sound, the hum of diesels, the crackle of police radios faded as her eyes meet his. She folded her arms across her breasts. It looked like she had been crying. There was something familiar about her. Who was she?

“Did you kill those college kids?” shouted one reporter, microphone extended.

The media crowded as close as reporters and photographers could get.

Palmer said nothing.

“How long have you been out here?” another reporter asked.

“Stand back!” ordered one of the deputies escorting Palmer. A sweating deputy placed his hand on Palmer’s head and guided him into the backseat of the cruiser.

“Stand away from the vehicle!” shouted an officer.

“Rolling…” said a cameraman, holding a video camera on his shoulder.

A blond reporter stood with her back to the sheriff’s cars, microphone gripped in her manicured hand. “Police say that Luke Palmer, released from San Quentin prison, is a drifter. The two bodies found today bring the total to three. If Palmer’s convicted of three murders, he’ll then be compared to serial killer Aileen Wuornos, another killer who used the Ocala National Forest to dispose of bodies. Now back to you in the studio.”

TV camera operators flanked both sides of the car, lens touching the glass windshields. Palmer stared straight ahead. He was an ex con now back in a police car, a ride he took more than forty years ago. And now images of his face were beaming from a national forest to a national audience.