Gold on the Glades - A Palm Beach Yarn

Chapter 1

A GLEAM OF AVARICE

Blood from the victim's slashed throat had been there long enough to warp the bare chip-board floor and to feed a swarm of flies and other Florida insects.

The buildup of heat in the surveyor's trailer, left without an operating air-conditioning unit once the gas supply to the Troy generator ran out, could not be dispersed until the crime scene team examined the site. Heavy duty fans stood at the foot of the free-standing steel mesh steps at the only door. Broken glass reflected stark blue-cold fluorescent lights suspended from the water-stained asbestos tiles.  They matched the shattered doors of a barrister five-shelf portable bureau alongside an angled hollow core plywood door atop a two-by-four frame. Blue-prints of the condo project and grounds, along with scattered yellow legal-pads, lay akimbo on the desk.

Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Department Detective Captain Doug Pederson clutched the linen handkerchief, which normally adorned the top pocket of his navy-blue blazer, close to his nostrils against the stench. He nodded toward the paperwork.

Keep your eyes off that -  no pilfering! His muffled instruction and warning followed earlier lectures to his light-fingered Sergeant whose guyabya pockets bulged with pens, pencils and notebook, liberated from previous crime scenes.

Gottit, boss.

Captain, dammit. How many times does it take before it sinks in? Pederson’s nasal New York accent contrasted with the sing-song Spanglish of his portly aide. "Go round up a plastic sheet to cover this table, and some duct-tape. C’mon, andale, andale!"

Alfonsfo Gomez nodded, mouth smiling white teeth against glowing tanned chubby cheeks before turning his back. Then his eyes burned beneath the dark lids, concealing the anger his gringo superior in rank and attitude aroused. He might as well still be working for Batista's haughty thugs.

BRIAN KEMP WATCHED the scurrying crime-scene figures through binoculars which would just not settle down, despite arms being braced against a sturdy pine branch across the narrow lagoon which separated him from the mayhem.

His hands still shook, his throat was sore from throwing up and his bowels felt like discarded surgeon's gloves.

The winter intern job at Reddit & Baum Surveyors-Architects-Builders Ltd. Co. had seemed like a good idea. But the envisioned elongated party, pool and surf break, from the harsh stark black and white campus of Bowling Green, Ohio, spun out of control into one of deadly chaos. Brian’s mentor Rod Jenkins, and sometime drinking partner, was dead. And the campus kid owed his continued existence only due to a weak bladder and his slender frame which had allowed him to slip through the bathroom awning window and escape in a kayak.

Brian desperately wanted a toke to settle his nerves. But paranoia of the smoke drifting into the nostrils of the cops, or crooks, kept the weed and papers in the plastic baggie in his key-fob jeans pocket. Instead, he furiously chewed on the remnants of a piece of bubblegum, which had long ago lost its flavor. He resisted the temptation to blow, then pop, a bubble.

Concealed high between the creepers and canopy of a sprawling ficus tree, on the western back of the Intracoastal Waterway, Brian could observe the comings and goings of any vehicles along the Atlantic Ocean barrier island highway. He saw Pederson and the Cuban,  the guy with a medical bag talking at the doorway, examining something.

He could see any movement on the lagoon and atop the remaining mound of seashells, with flapping ribbobs on survey sticks. Behind him the vast wasteland, with a few settlements and ranches along the railway, streams and two-lane highways, was a wide open avenue of escape Brian could melt into. His Kentucky roots lay not too deep below the veneer of college kid. He had no fear of the wilderness. Scarier were the humans who roamed the civilized jungle he inhabited. Their motivation of greed seemingly more powerful than fight or flight.

PEDERSON SNIFFED THE air before venturing back into the trailer after the forensic team packed up. Coroner Richard ‘Rick’ Richards, referred to up and down the Gold Coast as the 'Rolls-Royce of examiners’ based on the high society victims, expertise and initials, scowled on his way out the door.

That plastic hindered my investigation, the coroner complained.Couldn't complete my blood spatter pattern analysis.

Take it from a pro, Doc, he was slashed from behind by an open razor. Seen it in the city all the time. How about a time of death? Pederson pressed.

About this time last night.  The coroner snapped.

High wispy cirrus clouds began to show twinges of red from the lowering sun rays streaming below the  window awnings. Sun beams reflected off shattered bureau doors illuminating the western wall with its framed testimonials and professional awards of the deceased.

A brief glitter on the floor, unlike the sparkles from glass-shards on the rough surface, caught Pederson's attention.

It was yellow.

It reminded him of his ex-wife's trinkets which glittered on the dresser-table while she applied her war-paint, eyelashes and a slash of crimson lipstick. That was her M.O. before she ventured into public, even if it was only to greet the slobby Super to  respond to her many complaints about their apartment.

Move, move, he half-hauled Richards out of the doorway, eyes focused on the source of the glimmer, before he dropped to a crouch and waddled, duck-like, donned horn-rimmed glassed and placed his wetted finger on the spec.

What have you got there? .

You tell me!

Pederson lifted his finger close to his nose and peered cross-eyed at it.

Gold? The gasped whisper close to his ear was part statement and part awe.

They glanced at each other in wonderment. A tiny chip of gold. What was it doing there at a murder scene at a site in the boondocks where Palm Beach and Martin County border met.  It was close to Camp Murphy, site of a World War II military base and secret radar camp, which later became Johnathon Dickinson State Park.

The heavy step of Gomez, returning from scouring the work site inventorying equipment from generator to drills, vehicles and craft disturbed the multiple images the world stimulated.

Not a word, okay. Pederson murmured.

Richards nodded.

Hey boss, the barge is here but the kayak's gone, Gomez pointed to a black and white thumb-tacked photo showing the victim and a young guy next to two vessels.

Good catch, Pederson nodded.

The killer?

Could be the killer, the intern, or both. Pederson implied the missing youth was high on his suspect list.

Check his shoes, when you find him. Richards rose from a crouched position, watching enviously while the detective flicked the grain into a plain, windowed, white envelope he withdrew from his blazer inner pocket and replaced it. "Someone stepped into a blood splatter. None of us, and neither of you two. I checked.:

He smiled when both men automatically examined their boot clad feet. 

Together, the detectives loosened the duct tape and carefully lifted the plastic sheet from the makeshift drawing-board table. Pederson cast a cursory glance across the exposed papers strewn or pinned to its surface. There were no blood spots or spray he could see.

Ok. Looking, with our eyes only – maybe you should keep your hands in your pockets – lets see if there are any lists, charts or references to recent soil-samples, locations, log numbers. Check notes of appointments yesterday, including names and numbers.

How am I gonna make notes? Gomez pouted.

Just sing it out if you spot something. Pederson had begun at one end, letting his eyes move up and down while he inched his way left to right. Gomez started at the other end. The trailer squeaked and swayed slightly under their weight like a boat tied to a mooring.

B – Cap'n... Gomez caught himself,  frozen in place except for the agitated movements of a beaming face. His nose pointed and bobbed toward the table like a Blue Jay pecking seed from a feeder.

What've you got there. Pederson placed a black-leather notebook under the last  typed line of a letter he was scanning.

A manifest list of core sample sites, depths, time, composition and...Gomez gasped. Mostly just mud, sand, coquina and limestone. But get a load of this one, sir, he added.

In his excitement he withdrew one hand and his pudgy brown fore-finger jabbed toward the document.

DON'T touch,Pederson roared.

The offending digit froze, hovering agitatedly, a macro-inch off contact.

There might be fingerprints,Pederson's voice lowered and his face ebbed from red to pale again."He craned forward following the direction of the offending finger. 'Oyster shell, mud, sand, wood, metal, wood, gold, wood, metal, wood, sand, coquina.' Pederson recited the litany of items.

Gold!

They said it aloud in unison and exchanged looks of wonderment.

What was the date. And location? Pederson shoved forward to read across the spreadsheet.

What the -?

The page was roughly torn where the columns containing that data should have been included.

Pederson clenched his New York capped teeth in frustration, then smiled. Gomez mouth was still flapping a stream of Cuban cuss words, his arms flailing like a windmill in a hurricane.

At least now we've got a motive, Pederson purred.

ooOoo

Chapter 2

WRAITHS IN THE WOODS

The white boy in a tree was the last thing Billy Panther expected to spot when his trek through the wilderness brought him to his favorite snook spot on the west bank of the lagoon.

Pine-needles deadened his light footsteps. He was able to move toward the intruder on tribal land, as the elders called it, unseen and unheard. They seemed to be of a similar age. Brian, the white one, wiry and tall while Billy tended toward stockier and more compact. Chunky, like many of his fellow Seminole brothers. His eyes followed the direction the binoculars were pointed.

On the barrier island separating the ocean from the lagoon he saw the yellow and black wooden barriers assembled at the entrance to a rough roadway etched through the undergrowth and sand-hill from the shell rock highway. The distinctive green and white sheriff's department cruiser near the barrier, housing a uniformed deputy in a pointed-crown Stetson, guarded the entrance. A black sedan, unmarked with the darkened dome of a flashing light seated on the dashboard, indicated a plainclothes unit, probably in the trailer under binocular scrutiny.

Billy’s boyish pranks made him well aware of lawmen by the time the few wisps of hair draped from his bronzed  face, appeared.

Stealthily, he scouted the area occupied by the boy. The canvas and wood  kayak, double-ended paddle and mushroom anchor pulled ashore and concealed behind bushes, was not visible from the water. No camping supplies aboard so no extended stay in the woods, planned. The tear in the green tartan flannel shirt and nervous movements, indicated someone on the run.

Billy could smell and sense the fear from the fugitive. But from what and who he could not guess. Not his business. No threat to him. He eased himself back into the brush, determined to continue toward the snook.

Hey, injun boy, what do you want? Where you goin' ? Brian Kemp's Kentucky twang, soft but penetrating, startled Billy. He froze in place.

The boy in the tree lowered the binoculars and turned to look through smoked sun glasses, directly at the crouched figure,

Saw you in the reflection. A lopsided smile and shoulder shrug explained. He removed the shades, placed a hand on one side and the sky was replaced by a reflection of greenery on the ground.

Billy sensed a kindred, mischievous spirit. He smiled back and relaxed a mite.

The cloud cover assumed a pink tinge and darkness descended within the woods.

Follow me, if you want to eat. Billy waved the gig and line. Quick, before the light dies. Pine needles and bark shards fell and reached the ground before Brian tumbled down. The binoculars  bounced on his chest before he grasped them firmly and trailed along.

They did not travel far before Billy held up his hand, the universal sign to stop. He wagged a finger for silence, then stealthily moved toward a slight dent in the shoreline, concealed by a bush overhanging the lagoon. He eased himself to the water's edge where insects swarmed barely above the surface. A swirl and gap in the water followed by the snout of a snook lunging into the evening air for the hovering mini-meal was interrupted by the flash of the barbed gig which pierced the water inches behind the exposed silver snout.

Billy pushed hard with both hands then clasped the line which followed the thrashing, submerging shaft which was firmly lodged in the slender, striped body of the young snook struggling for its life.

THE ONSHORE NIGHT BREEZE swept smoke from the campfire westward and low to the tree-line, out of sight from any watchers who might still linger on the scantily occupied barrier island.

Billy had cleaned his catch in the lagoon waters, recycling the waste back to scavengers who rose to surface for the unexpected feast. The white boy watched the Florida native’s skillful, practiced movements, whittling a branch with Brian’s Swiss Army knife of many gadgets. It had blades, a corkscrew and scissors but he primarily used it for pencil sharpening.

What's the stick for? Brian asked.

The fish. Billy said. Two of us. One fish. It’s enough. No waste, eh? Billy's toothy smile and explanation took the sting out of any rebuke.

Brian shrugged, rounded up his loose gear and followed the native Floridian  who gripped the trophy through its gills. The green stick found a place as a bowed spit holding the four-pounder above the heated embers. Rustling in the undergrowth, a chorus of cicada clicks and the rhythmic warbling of frogs increased with the darkness. The boys were not the only ones eating in the woods.

Brian discarded any table manners his mom may have drummed into him, greedily scooping the tender, flaky flesh from the surface of the broad mangrove leaf  into his mouth with less than sanitary fingers. The dinky fork within the gadget-pack, was too finniky for a hungry man. It was only after they had both swilled fresh water from their spring-filled flasks, they addressed the issue which had crossed their paths.

"What were you