Authors: H. Terrell Griffin
B006JIBKIS EBOK (24 page)
As I expected, the national news on Friday evening was dominated by the turn of events for Wentworth. The governor was not available for comment, and the media was frantically trying to find him. I knew that he had been arrested by a Chicago Police lieutenant of detectives named Miles Leavitt, and that he would be transported to Chicago before the night was over.
The morning papers ran large headlines announcing that the governor had been arrested for murder and had withdrawn from the presidential race and resigned his governorship. Longboat Key was prominent among the stories, and I had my fifteen minutes of fame. It was a little unsettling, but so is life.
I called David Jarski on Saturday morning.
“I saw you on TV. I thought you were in the insurance business,” he said.
“I’m sorry about that, Dr. Jarski. I was under the impression that you might have killed Vivian, who I then thought was your wife Connie.”
“It’s not a problem, Mr. Royal. I’m glad you found Vivian’s murderer. And I appreciate your taking the time to call.”
We chatted for awhile, and I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Gibbs. He was not a man to hold a grudge, and he seemed genuinely pleased that Vivian’s murder would not go unpunished.
Sam Cox was going to be charged with the murder of Golden Joe Johnson and with conspiracy to commit murder in the Vivian Pickens case. Nobody had figured out who actually killed Vivian. Cox had an ironclad alibi for most of the time in which the murder could have occurred, since he was with Logan. No one doubted though, that Cox had put it all together.
The key was quiet on Saturday. Dottie Johanson put together a party at one of the local gin mills to welcome Logan home. All the regulars were there, including some who had probably thought Logan guilty. It was a celebration, and the key breathed a collective sigh of relief over Logan’s acquittal.
While we would never know exactly what was going on with Connie/Vivian during the last days of her life, Dallas probably came up with the best guess. “I think she must have realized that somebody was after her in Chicago, and when she found out about the real Connie’s death, she decided that was her way out. She turned herself into Connie Sanborne and started a new life.”
“But why was she so strange just before she died?” asked Dottie.
“I think Rundel’s people found her through her father. All they had to do was wait until Vivian came to the post office to get her mail, and they could follow her home. It wouldn’t take a whole lot of nosing around on this island to find out all they needed to know about Connie, or actually Vivian, and her new friends.”
“Maybe she had given up,” said Dottie. “Maybe she knew she had been found by whoever was looking for her, and was just tired of running. That last night at Moore’s, she was so quiet, and then she went to listen to Pearl. Even Logan said all that crazy sex was a surprise. Maybe she was just saying good-bye.”
I thought that was probably as close to the truth as we were likely to get.
Anne left for Miami on Sunday afternoon, and Logan, K dawg and I went fishing. It was an easy afternoon floating around Terra Ceia Bay, drinking beer, telling the same old stories, and catching a few fish. Logan told us more about his heart problems, and that he had not told anyone on the Key, because he wasn’t sure he would get a new heart. He didn’t want to be treated as if he were dying, so he kept it all to himself. During the year leading up to the transplant, a lot of the time when we all thought he was out of town on business, he was in Boston doing medical things. He thought the new heart would give him fifteen or twenty more years.
Logan left for somewhere on Monday morning, back to work. He said he had to make some money to pay his defense attorney. I told him that I didn’t need the money, and that the pizza he gave me for a retainer was payment enough. I suspected I would never be able to buy another drink when he was in the bar. Logan was a good guy.
Elizabeth called me on Monday morning and asked if I could meet her at O’Sullivans for lunch. I accepted immediately. She had been an honorable and tough adversary, and I always respected that in a lawyer.
I was at the bar talking to Glenda when Elizabeth arrived. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, with her hair in a pony tail. I stood as she approached the bar, and she gave me a hug. “You’re one hell of a lawyer, Matt Royal,” she said.
“You too, counselor,” I said.
“I’m glad it worked out for Logan, but how in the world did you get the evidence on the governor?”
We ordered lunch, and I told her the story. I had become friendly with Will Ledbetter, the probation officer, and his friend, Lieutenant Miles Leavitt, had overseen the investigation into Vivian’s beating and the murder of her friend. Leavitt had moved on to the intelligence division of the Chicago Police Department, and when I told Will of my suspicions about all the ties from Cox and Rundel to Wentworth, he passed it on to Leavitt. The police had collected semen samples from the murder scene involving Vivian, but even with the advent of better science, they had nothing to compare it to.
Leavitt went into the computers and found the similar murders in Washington and Moline. When he compared the guest lists of the three hotels where the murders occurred, he found that Wentworth had been registered at all three on the night of the murders. It was just too much of a coincidence. We figured that the DNA from the crime scene would match Wentworth’s, but there was no way we were going to get a sample from a sitting governor. That is why is was so important to put him on the stand, under oath. I was betting that at some point he would crack. I could publicly ask him for a DNA sample. No innocent man, especially one who wanted to be president, could refuse.
“That was a hell of a strategy,” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah, but it could have all crumbled if you had objected to the questioning of the governor. I was betting you wouldn’t.”
“What made you think that?”
“You’re an honorable person, Elizabeth. You want to put the bad guys away, but you care about the system. You don’t want good guys going to jail, even if you can notch another win on your belt.”
“Thanks, Matt. I’m quitting, though. I’m burned out.”
“Take a vacation, Elizabeth. You’re tired. We need good career prosecutors like you.”
“Matt, I did some things in this case that I’ve never done before. I didn’t review the medical records. I got caught out on a limb with the Medical Examiner. I just wasn’t doing my job.”
“I’ve been there, Elizabeth. Trial lawyers burn out. Usually, it just takes some time off to get your head back together. Think about it before you give up a career that makes a difference.”
“I’ve been thinking about becoming a beach bum. It seems to work for you.”
“Actually, I live on the bay.”
“I hear you, Counselor, I hear you,” she said. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll let you know what I decide.”
Summer moved on into the dog days of August. The key was hot, and the sea breezes did little to bring relief. We all looked forward to the afternoon thunderstorms, regular as sunrise, to give us relief from the heat that baked our island. Elizabeth Ferguson had taken a leave of absence from the State Attorney’s office and gone to the north Georgia mountains to try her hand at writing a book on criminal law.
John Noblin had been arrested for fraud, and the insurance companies were planning to pay Anne the money that should have gone to her brother when his plane was stolen. Anne had rented Elizabeth’s house and moved to Sarasota. She was working for a small law firm, making less money and enjoying it immensely. She was actually representing real people, handling their problems, and feeling like a real lawyer for the first time in her career. Our relationship was ongoing, but sporadic. The heat of the first days, stoked by the rigors of the trial, had cooled. We both knew that over time the physical side would play itself out, and we would end up friends.
Wentworth was going to be tried for murder in Chicago, and there were holds on him for D.C., Illinois and Florida. Cox was being prosecuted in Miami, with a trial set for the fall. Rundel had disappeared. Cox had told Miami-Dade Police that Rundel was the one who actually killed Vivian. He had followed her from Bradenton Beach marina to Anna Maria island. When she left Pearl’s piano bar, Rundel had grabbed her in the parking lot, pulled her into his car and strangled her. He then took her to Logan’s condo, while Cox and Logan drank on Bridge Street. Afterwards, Cox had driven Vivian’s car to her condo parking lot, parked it and left with Rundel.
Cox also told the police that Rundel had tampered with the propane line into Bud Dubose’s house, and disabled the gas warning alarm. Rundel had killed Bud over the million dollar investment. He could not take the chance that Bud would go to the police.
There were bulletins out for Rundel all over the country. The cops figured it would be just a matter of time before they picked him up somewhere. I wasn’t so sure. Rundel had apparently re-invented himself several times under different names, and I assumed he could do it again.
I was restless. I had tasted the adrenalin rush that trial lawyers thrive on, and it had not been bad. I thought about going back into practice, but then I remembered how tired I had been during the trial. I woke up some nights reliving the stress that had been my constant companion as I tried to save Logan’s bacon. No, the practice of law was not for me.
Our lives on the key had reverted to normal. We fished, sunned, boated, drank, and whiled away the hours. Sometimes, we would remember Connie, and laugh about her. We never did get used to calling her Vivian, and no one ever mentioned that he or she felt betrayed by her subterfuge. If anything, Connie became a much admired memory, and, of course, the stories grew bigger and better, as they always do. Life was good on that lush island, surrounded by green water and peopled with my very best friends.
On a bright August day, when the heat leeched the hydration out of my body, they came for me. I was fishing quietly, sipping a cold beer, watching the thunder heads build to the north over St. Pete Beach. It would soon be time to run south for home, and away from the lightening that always stalks ahead of the storms. The tide was low, and I could smell the mud flats near my fishing hole at the mouth of Tampa Bay; a melange of seaweed and shellfish and drying mud roasting in the sun. High overhead, a passenger jet was on final approach to Sarasota Bradenton airport, its turbines winding down as it glided toward the runway.
I thought about calling Logan to see if he wanted to have dinner with me at Moore’s, but realized I had left my cell phone at home. Oh well, he’d probably be at Moore’s anyway. Wednesday was the evening that the Longboat Key Literary Guild and Chowder Society met at Moore’s bar for book talk, clam chowder and a bit of booze. It was a group of mostly elderly widows, put together by Dottie Johansen, and when they ran out of book talk, they gossiped about the island. When I had been away for a few days, I always made those Wednesday evening get-togethers, just to catch up on the island news.
I was watching, without much interest, a go-fast boat headed my way from the Gulf. It was coming straight for me, but there was plenty of sea room and I figured the pilot would veer off as he got closer. But he didn’t. He was coming right at me at high speed, a bone in his teeth. I had left my engines on, idling softly on the flat water. As I watched the oncoming boat with rising trepidation, I saw a spit of fire leap from the side of the craft, and within a moment heard the crack of the rifle. I didn’t know who they were, but I wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
I jumped to the helm, and pushed the throttles all the way forward, heading north. My twin 150’s would not outrun the big go-fast, but I had to get some sea room between us. I knew this water intimately, and I hoped whoever was driving my pursuer did not.
I headed for Passage Key, a small island that is a bird sanctuary, surrounded by very shallow water. I darted in close to the little spit of land, running full out. The go-fast boat slowed some as the sea floor rose to meet it. That gave me a couple of minutes. I rounded the end of Passage Key and headed across the open channel to Egmont Key, a much bigger island, with places to hide and a Coast Guard station on the north end. I thought I could not make it to the far end of the island before my pursuers overtook me.
The storm was moving fast now, headed for us. The air chilled slightly as it does when the storms push the air in front of them. I could see lightening in the clouds, bright orange bolts darting toward the surface. Thunder rolled over me, louder than my outboards. I didn’t know if I was still being shot at, but I had hunkered down, making as small a target as I could.
I drove the boat in close to the island, between the beach and the large concrete formation that was once a gun emplacement, and was now about a hundred feet off the beach. The go-fast roared around the gun emplacement, planning to head me off as I came out of the small channel. I had counted on that. I turned sharply toward the beach, pulled back on the throttles, and ran straight for the shore, which was deserted on a Wednesday afternoon.
During the Spanish American war, the Army had built an outpost on the island, with large gun emplacements, buildings to house and feed the troops, and several miles of brick streets in the interior. The fort had been abandoned in the 1920’s, and the subtropical flora began to cover the depredations of man. Egmont was now a state park, accessible only by boat. There were a few park rangers, all nearing retirement, who sporadically patrolled the island in all terrain vehicles. The non-native vegetation, Australian Pines, Mellaleuca and Brazilian Pepper trees, had been taking over the island for years. There was a move afoot among some of the more enlightened individuals in state government to rid the island of the interlopers and return it to its native condition. I knew the mile and a half long island well, and hoped I could hide out and work my way north to the Coast Guard station.
I cut the engines and jumped from the boat, as the go-fast made a wide arcing turn and headed back to where I had beached. I was running flat out, and was only aware that someone was shooting at me because of the sand kicked up by near misses. It only took seconds for me to disappear into the trees, but it seemed like forever.
I heard the go-fast idle down, and then voices over the muted sound of the engines. I could not tell how many there were, but I thought I had only seen three men in the boat. I found one of the brick roads, and headed north at a steady run. I knew I could keep up the pace until I reached the Coasties and safety. I was half-way to the Station when it happened.
Egmont Key is home to a multitude of gopher tortoises and assorted birds and other animals. The tortoises burrow into the ground, leaving gopher holes at the entrance to their homes. I found one of these, as I stepped off the brick road to avoid an Australian pine that had fallen directly in my lane of travel. I heard my ankle crack at the same time I felt the instantaneous pain that told me my running was finished for the day, if not forever.
I crawled into the brush beside the road, trying not to leave a trail that could be seen from the brick street. Soon, I heard voices, and three men came trotting down the road. One had a rifle carried at port arms, and each of the other two had what appeared to be nine millimeter semi-automatic pistols. One of the men, very fat, stopped not ten feet from me, leaning on the fallen tree, wheezing and motioning to his pals to keep going. I lay still, my face in the damp earth, scarcely breathing. I knew if they got to the Coast Guard station and didn’t find me, they would start back along the road. I had no weapon and very few options. I probably could not even walk without help, and running was out of the question. I needed to get the fat guy’s gun, somehow.
His back was to me, but I knew if I moved he’d wheel around with that nine pointed right at me. I couldn’t stand without him hearing me. Movement toward him was out of the question. Maybe I could somehow lure him into the jungle like growth surrounding me. I had fought in jungles before, but I had always had an assault rifle to help. And other soldiers to back me up. Not now. I was alone, unarmed, and scared. I hadn’t felt fear in a long time, but its bitter taste was no less acrid for the passage of so many years. I had to clear my mind, think, plan, and stay alive.
My ankle was throbbing, throwing welts of pain up my leg. It was either broken or badly sprained. I lay prone, with my arms in front of my body, as if reaching for the next handhold in the soft ground. There was nothing within reach that I could use as a weapon. The fat man’s breathing was slowing, the audible wheezing less intense. I knew he would be moving on soon, and with him would go my best chance out of this mess.
Suddenly, the storm moving from the north was on us. The rain cascaded down like a jungle waterfall, loud and hard. Thunder boomed, close. The smell of ozone permeated the air. The fat man didn’t move for a moment. I moved my good leg up under me, and bringing my arms back under my chest, began to push into a standing position. The pain in my right leg was exquisite. I stifled a moan, and as quietly and quickly as I could, stood with my weight on my left leg. I was now in full view, and dead, if the hunter turned his head. The noise of the storm covered the rustle of the underbrush as I stood. There was a palm tree branch lying atop a bush next to me, fallen from one of the trees that provided me some cover. It had a jagged end where it had broken from the tree during an earlier storm. I grabbed it by the end with the prickly fronds, cutting my hands. As I lifted the branch, the fat guy turned toward me, perhaps sensing danger.
A small tableau was, for a moment, imprinted on the wind; the fat man half-turned, I with the branch in front of me like a spear, the rain falling and a bolt of lightening, like a flash bulb, spearing the dark storm ravaged spot where two men were in a dance of death. I screamed, as the Army had taught me so long ago, supposedly disconcerting my enemy. At the same instant I took a step forward on my injured leg, and screamed again with the pain. My glands were working overtime, flooding my system with adrenalin, softening the pain. I thrust the branch in front of me, as the fat guy raised his pistol. The point caught him under the chin as he fired. A bullet tore at my left shoulder as blood spurted from the severed jugular of the fat man. My momentum took me forward, falling on top of the dying man, as he fell backward onto the red brick road. He gurgled something I didn’t understand, and died.
My shoulder was burning. I reached around and found the exit wound. It was probably a clean shot that didn’t do a lot of damage, but the shoulder was pouring blood. It was beginning to hurt more, as the adrenalin rush left me. My ankle would not hold my weight any longer. I knew that the sound of the shot, infinitely louder than the storm, would bring the fat man’s friends and probably the Coast Guardsmen. I couldn’t wait to find out who would get there first, and I was pretty sure the Coasties would not be armed.
I checked the nine millimeter. There was a full clip with a round in the spout. I was ready for business, but I didn’t have the strength to pull the fat guy off the road. I sure didn’t have the ability to get back to the boat before the hunters were onto me. I hobbled and hopped north toward the Coast Guard station. There was a bend in the road about a hundred feet ahead. I thought if I could get around that bend and into the brush beside the road, I’d see my pursuers before they were alerted by the body.
I was in agony. My shoulder was bleeding, and my left arm and hand were sticky with new blood. I didn’t know if there was enough blood loss to take me out, and I wasn’t sure how far I was going to get with my ankle. As I neared the curve, I heard the clop of shoe leather on the brick road. Someone was coming my way. I was exhausted, and wasn’t going any further. The blood loss was taking its toll. I sat down in the road to await my fate, facing my enemy coming from the north, much as the Confederate soldier in the courthouse square in Bradenton.
There were two of them, huffing with exertion, coming my way at a fast clip. I raised my left knee and steadied the nine on it. They came into view, rounding the corner, skidding on the wet bricks as they saw me. The rifleman was raising his rifle, when I shot him through the heart. The other man dropped his nine, fell to his knees, raised his hands and sobbed. He knew he was dead. I had never killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill me, and now was not the time to start.
“Lay down on your stomach,” I shouted. “Use your foot and shove that pistol into the brush.” He did as he was told, still sobbing and coughing and pleading, “Don’t shoot.”
I wasn’t sure what to do now. I couldn’t move far, and I surely couldn’t walk this yahoo all the way to the Coast Guard station. It was still raining slightly, but the storm had passed on toward Anna Maria and Longboat.
Suddenly, I heard a rattling sound coming from the south. I turned in time to see a park ranger in an ATV slamming on his breaks as he saw us. “Holy shit!” he said, as I turned toward him, still pointing the pistol. He stopped right beside the dead fat guy with the palm branch still protruding from his throat. There was a lot of blood covering the bricks, and the ATV had made little tire tracks in it.
I dropped the pistol barrel and said, “Hold on, friend. I’ve got two dead here, and I’m hurt pretty bad. The guy on the ground was trying to kill me, and if I pass out, you and I are probably both dead. Call the Coasties and tell them to get here ASAP.”
The Ranger lifted his radio to his mouth and said something I couldn’t hear. “They’re on the way,” he said. “What the hell happened here?”
“Gotta save my strength. I’ll tell you when the cavalry gets here.” I was starting to fade. My gut wanted to throw out my lunch and my vision was blurring. “Ranger, take this pistol and keep both of us under guard until this is sorted out. That is the bad guy, but you can’t take any chances.” I gave the Ranger my pistol.
As I was passing into unconsciousness I heard the bad guy say, “Ranger, my name is Hale Rundel. I’m a businessman from Miami. That’s the killer right there.” I knew he was pointing at me.