SAVANNAH GONE (20 page)

“Yes, of course.” He rose from his desk and said, “Follow me.”

We retraced our steps back to the anteroom, then followed Jenkins down the opposite hall to Claire’s office. Jenkins flicked on the light switch and gestured us inside. Caroline said to him, “Thanks. We’ll stop in and see you when we finish going through Claire’s things.”

Jenkins nodded and scurried out of sight.

Caroline and I spent the better part of an hour giving Claire’s office a good toss. We sifted through countless files, then pawed the insides of her desk drawers. We flipped through countless books and trade journals, hoping something would slip out. I even pulled pictures off the walls in case something was hidden behind them. When we finished, I turned off the overhead lights and closed the door.

I said to Caroline, “You need to get one of your department guys to do a number on Claire’s work computer.”

She nodded but didn’t reply.

We made our way back down the hall to Jenkins office, and Caroline poked her head inside. “We want to have a look inside Claire’s apartment. Is there someone who can let us in?”

Jenkins replied, “Trevor Hopkins is our maintenance man. He has keys to all the apartments. Let me see if I can get him for you.” He picked up his desk phone and punched in some numbers. “Trevor, this is Tim. There’s a Savannah police detective in my office that would like to take a look at Claire’s apartment. Can you please let her in?” He hung up and said to us, “Trevor will meet you in front of our building in five minutes.” He looked at both of us and said, “I know I speak for everyone who works at the institute when I say, I hope you catch whoever did this.”

“I hope so too Mr. Jenkins,” Caroline replied, producing a business card from inside her jacket. “If you think of anything that might help, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, please give me a call. My cell number is on the card. Thanks for your time.” We shook hands again. Caroline said, “We’ll see ourselves out.”

~ ~ ~

Back outside, we waited for the maintenance guy to let us into Claire’s apartment. The clouds from this morning had burnt off. Caroline turned to me. “That was a big zero. Maybe we’ll learn more after we see her apartment.”

“Let’s hope so,” I replied. “This isn’t Animal Planet. We didn’t come all this way to hear about mud and microbes.” I checked my phone for messages, but all was clear on the Fontaine front.

I pocketed my phone. Moments later, a heavyset fellow with a balding fringe of white hair rounded the corner of the building. He held a large circular key ring in his hand. Rather than wait, we strode toward him and met him half way. “Mr. Hopkins, I’m Detective Ross with the Savannah Police Department. We’d like to take a look at Claire Robertson’s apartment.”

He looked from Caroline to me, then said, “Right this way.”

We followed him to a single-story outbuilding made of the same terra cotta stucco. There were four wooden doors marked A, B, C, and D. He walked up to unit B, inserted a key, and opened the door. Caroline asked him, “Has anyone been in here since last Friday?”

“Yes, I was,” Hopkins replied. “When Claire didn’t show up for work on Monday, Tim asked me to check Claire’s apartment. I came in and briefly looked around.”

“What about anyone else?” Caroline asked.

“No. Other than Claire, I’m the only person with a key.”

Caroline held out her hand. “I’d like that key Mr. Hopkins.” He hesitated, then slid it off the ring and handed it to her. Caroline pocketed the key.

We stood just outside the door and spent a good fifteen minutes quizzing Trevor Hopkins about Claire. Unlike Tim Jenkins, who seemed to notice nothing above the sub-atomic particle level, Hopkins had seen Claire and Hutchins together on several occasions, including one-time holding hands while walking on the beach.

After we finished putting him through his paces, Caroline said, “Thanks, Mister Hopkins. We greatly appreciate your time. We would also appreciate it if you didn’t mention this interview to anyone. Thanks again...that’ll be all.”

He nodded, then quietly walked away.

When he was gone, Caroline pulled two pairs of blue latex gloves from her purse. She handed a pair to me. “Put these on Fontaine. If we need to dust Claire’s place for prints, yours and mine won’t have to be excluded.”

I pulled on the gloves, stepped inside, and let my eyes take a walk around the apartment. It couldn’t have been more than three hundred square feet. The postage sized living room contained a loveseat, a built-in desk and chair, and a flat screen television attached to the wall. Off to the side was a kitchenette with a stove and a small sized fridge. I rounded the corner, and the bedroom had barely enough room for a double bed, two nightstands, and a dresser. A closet in the bedroom held Claire’s clothes. The bathroom had a stand-up shower, a pedestal sink, and a toilet. I wasn’t expecting Trump Towers, but this was downright Spartan.

“Not exactly the lap of luxury,” I said. “You take the bedroom. I’ll start right here in the living room.”

Caroline nodded, then slipped around the corner toward the rear of the apartment.

We took our time, going methodically through the place. I removed the cushions from the love seat, then tipped it over and checked beneath it. Next I went to the desk. Starting from the top, I pulled out each drawer and rifled through the contents. When I finished, I ran my hand along the bottom of the drawers, in case anything had been taped there.

I could hear Caroline going through Claire’s dresser. I went to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. Inside was a stale carton of orange juice, a half dozen eggs, a container of low-fat milk, a bowl of strawberries, some wilting salad greens, and some cottage cheese. In the freezer, I found a frozen pizza, a tray of ice cubes, a half-eaten carton of peach ice cream, and a bottle Gray Goose vodka. Beneath the sink, there was nothing but the usual cadre of cleaning supplies. I pulled everything out of the kitchen cabinets. Next I unscrewed the light switch and power outlet covers and looked inside. I didn’t find anything.

I joined Caroline in the bedroom and searched Claire’s closet. I shook out every piece of clothing, checked inside pockets, and flitted my fingers inside seams. We flipped the mattress over. I got down on my hands and knees and checked beneath the bed.

We turned the place upside down, but in the end we found nothing of value that could assist us in the investigation. In fact, other than her clothes, Claire had very few personal effects inside the small apartment: two pairs of earrings, a couple of novels on the nightstand, and some family photos of her and her parents on the dresser. That was it.

We finished searching in about forty-five minutes. Caroline looked at me from across the bedroom. “There’s nothing here for us to find Fontaine. Let’s go.”

We stepped outside. I pulled the door shut, twisted the knob to make sure it was locked, then peeled off the gloves. Calendar be damned, summer arrives early in the lowcountry, and the day was growing hot.

On our way back to the Trooper, Caroline said, “Let’s see if we can track down the archeologist. What’s the name of that plantation where he’s digging?”

“It’s called Chocolate,” I replied. “When we get out there how do you want to handle him?”

“What do you mean how do I want to handle him?”

“Well,” I said, recalling the last time I’d questioned Hutchins, “let’s say we’re playing poker. It never hurts if the guy on the other side of the table thinks you’re dumber than they are.”

I saw the faint lines of a smile at the corners of Caroline’s mouth. “Alright Fontaine,” she said, not missing a beat. “We’ll do it your way. You’ve got my expressed permission to act as dumb as you want.”

We took the Autobahn north, then traveled west on Dock Road for a couple hundred yards. When it intersected with West Perimeter Road, I slowed, then hung a right. We were now on the far western side of the island, bordering the edge of the marsh. Ten minutes later, we arrived at a small graveyard full of modest headstones.

I pulled to the side of the road and looked out my window. Caroline consulted the map. “This is Behavior Cemetery,” she informed me. “It’s where the slaves buried their dead. There’s a sign up ahead. Let’s see what it says.”

I put it in first, and we bumped along for another thirty yards or so. I parked next to the sign, which was embedded into a tabby monument. Tabby, an early building material of the coastal residents, is a combination of oyster shells, sand, lime, and water. It’s sort of crude, rough-hewn version of concrete. The sign told us that this was indeed Behavior Cemetery, established in 1805.

We sat there for a moment, looking at modest headstones. The island’s sad past seeped into me like a slow poison. I glanced at Caroline. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed, whispering silent prayers for the dead.

I pulled out, and Caroline checked the map. “It looks like we’ve got another five or six miles to go before we reach Chocolate Plantation. Let’s hit it, Fontaine.”

I nodded and motored along. A mile or so later, we arrived at a two-story building that contained the Sapelo Post Office, as well as the DNR’s administrative offices. Caroline said, “There’s Joe McCoy’s office.” She glanced at the map. “The building is known as Long Tabby. It was a plantation era sugar mill. Apparently it’s the oldest building left standing on the island.”

Rather than beleaguer the point that the DNR’s administrative building wasn't located very far from the Marine Institute, I just kept driving past Puny Pickle’s office.

I let a few minutes pass, then looked at Caroline and asked, “What do you call a woman who likes a small penis?”

“You’re gonna tell me whether I want you to or not,” Caroline said, shaking her head. “So hurry up and get it over with Fontaine....what do you call a woman who likes a small penis?”

I smiled. “Joe McCoy’s girlfriend.”

~ ~ ~

Soon after passing Long Tabby, the island vegetation to the west thinned out. Out my window, I caught glimpses of enormous pieces of driftwood that had washed up along the banks of the tidal river that ran along Sapelo’s western edge. Weathered by the sun, the silver gray driftwood stood out in bold relief against the green marsh grass.

We crossed over another road that was little more than a trail. “There’s supposed to be a research dock up ahead,” Caroline said, turning my way with an arm slung over the seat. “Take the next left.” I drove until we arrived at a smattering of small buildings interspersed among the trees. Caroline looked at the map. “This is called Moses Hammock. It looks like we’re now in the Reynolds Wildlife Management Area McCoy mentioned this morning. I think this is where people camp out when they come out here to hunt.”

I recalled McCoy’s comment about rattlesnakes, wild boar, and alligators on the island. I patted the gun on my hip. Though I doubted we’d see any deadly critters, I was glad I’d brought my piece.

Just ahead, I saw the road Caroline mentioned. I slowed and hung a left. Twenty yards later the road petered out at the edge of the marsh. I parked the Trooper next to a palm tree and killed the engine. We climbed out, walked down to the edge of the river, and then up onto the dock.

There was a boat tethered to one of the wooden pylons. It was a decent size cabin cruiser, thirty five-feet in length, with the words I can Dig It painted on the hull.

Clearly, I Can Dig It was archeologist Jack Hutchins’ boat. It must have cost a king’s ransom. I don’t know what the pay rate for a professor is these days, but there was no way in hell Hutchins could afford this boat on his salary. And even if he could, why didn’t he sell it and catch up on his house payments? The synapses were percolating once again.

I walked up to the boat and rapped my knuckles on the side of it. No response. I climbed on board. Behind me, Caroline said, “What the hell are you doing?”

I waved her off. “Just taking a quick peek.”

“Don’t forget what I told you about doing this by the book,” she said, sounding more than a little perturbed. “You need a search warrant before you board a man’s boat.”

“I’m not searching,” I said, peering below deck. “Why don’t you go back to the Trooper for five minutes? I think I hear your phone ringing.” I wanted to take the boat apart while Hutchins was out doing his thing.

“My phone’s right here in my pocket,” Caroline informed me. “Off the boat Fontaine...now.”

I heard the low rumble of an approaching vehicle. I jumped down onto the dock, wheeled around, and looked past Caroline. A tan Dodge pickup pulled in and parked next to the Trooper. The driver side door opened, and Joe McCoy stepped out.

I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand

Chinese Proverb

McCoy hitched his thumbs through his belt loops and leaned his tailbone against the truck’s front bumper. “I saw you drive past the office,” he said, striking a casual, ‘aw-shucks pose.’ “Thought I’d stop by and see if you needed any assistance.”

“I think we’ve got it under control,” Caroline said, beaming a smile at him. “But we appreciate you thinking about us.”

I took a long hard look at nature boy and tried to figure his endgame. “I think I spotted Bigfoot wrestling with an alligator about a mile back,” I told him. “You should go check it out.” And get the fuck out of here.

Still leaning, McCoy pawed the earth with the toe of his boot. “You may think it’s a joke,” he said, narrowing his eyes, giving me the dagger stare, “but we trapped a ten-foot gator near Bourbon Field two weeks ago. Nothing you could handle Fontaine. That I can promise you.” His words hung in the thick island air, calling me out.

I wanted to plant his ass in the marsh. “We’re not here for some kind of wildlife adventure,” I said, taking a few steps in his direction. “This is a murder investigation. Unless you have some kind of credible evidence, I suggest you get back in your fucking truck—.”

“How much further is Chocolate?” Caroline asked, stepping between us.

“Two, maybe three miles at the most. Just keep heading north on West Perimeter Road. You’ll run right into it.”