Designed to Kill (4 page)
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“Right. Engineers are practical application guys who get their kicks attaching Part A to Part B. Architects are concept types who like to think in the abstract. Anyway, by the time he got his degrees, a couple of his classmates had gotten him all fired up with this idea of being a naval aviator. Of course, he had lived on Air Force bases and been around airplanes most of his life. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was always a determined kid.”
“I believe he told me he was stationed at
Pensacola
for a while,” I said.
“Right. He ended up a flight instructor down there. That’s a demanding assignment, but not one with much glamour. I think it helped him decide to end his Navy career and get back into engineering. He worked for a consulting firm in
Nashville
for a few years, qualifying for his professional engineer’s license along the way. Then he apprenticed with an older architect, got his license in that field and went into practice.”
“When did he start his own business?”
“About five years ago. He’s a...” Sam hesitated, realizing he had slipped into the present tense. “He was a good organizer, a good people person. He knew how to get the best out of his employees. The business was a success from the start.”
As I looked out the window, sipping on my coffee, I saw Tom, the oldest boy, kicking slowly through the clutter of brown leaves in the yard. He reminded me of his father. Tom was polite and soft-spoken, with the same dark hair and slightly bemused expression. At least that’s the way he had been. Now he walked with head down, hands jammed into his pockets. It was enough to bring tears to a hardass like me. It also reminded me of something Tim had mentioned. I turned to Sam.
“When I gave Tim the condo key a few days ago, I got the impression he was concerned about the amount of time The Sand Castle project had taken him away from his family.”
Sam nodded. “It was definitely troubling. Particularly that he didn’t have time to take the boys fishing back in the summer. That may have contributed to the change in him I had noticed. But he was completely wrapped up in that condominium project. I’ve never seen him more determined. That’s one reason I can’t believe he would have shot himself.”
“Did the cop say anything about a suicide note?”
“No.” Sam gripped his hands and rubbed them in a gesture of helplessness.
Listening to Sam, I was persuaded there were sufficient grounds for questioning whether Tim had committed suicide. I decided it might be useful to look into the matter a little deeper for Sam’s benefit as well as my own. “Would you like me to call this Sergeant Payne and see what I can find out?”
His face brightened. “Would you? You know a lot more about this sort of thing than I do.”
Sam knew my background included experience as a deputy sheriff in
St. Louis County
,
Missouri
after finishing college. My original plan to join the Air Force was put on hold when my parents died in an airliner crash on the way to my graduation. An uncle who was chief of deputies steered me into the job with the sheriff. But after enjoying four years of knocking heads with a variety of lawbreakers, I tired of the politics involved and followed my initial instincts, going into the service.
Five minutes later, using a portable phone, I had the deputy on the line. His name, I learned, was Sgt. J. W. Payne. Sam listened in on an extension that hung on the wall beside the refrigerator.
“This is Gregory McKenzie in
Nashville
,
Tennessee
,” I said. “I’m a close friend of Sam Gannon, whose son Tim was found in his car at the National Seashore this morning.”
“Did you get my message?” the sergeant asked in a deep voice that carried authority.
I frowned, confused. “What message?”
“I’ve been calling your house. Left a message on your machine.”
“What about?”
“I was told that Timothy Gannon was staying at your condo down here.”
“That’s right.”
“The Gulf Sands office gave me your number. I’d like permission to go inside your apartment and look for a suicide note.”
That answered my question. They had found nothing in Tim’s car. “I have no objection, Sergeant. The people at the condo office can let you in. I should think a superficial search is all you’d need to do.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. McKenzie. We won’t be going through your personal belongings.”
“Frankly, I don’t think you’ll find anything, Sergeant. Neither his dad nor I can believe he committed suicide. He was a young man with a great future ahead of him.”
“Are you aware of what happened here last night?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The penthouse balcony gave way at The Sand Castle. It was in the midst of a big party thrown by the developer. Two people got killed and several more were injured. What Mr. Gannon had ahead of him, if you ask me, was a bunch of hefty lawsuits. If you’d’ve seen the look on his face last night, you could believe suicide.”
4
Sam and I had just returned to the living room to explain what we had learned from Sergeant Payne when the door chimes rang. As we watched,
Tara
greeted a man with a full head of sandy hair and a short, chunky build. He was dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket. His smudged boots made him look like a hunter or a fisherman just in from the wild. But something about him, probably the prominent nose and receding chin, reminded me of a big fat weasel with horn-rimmmed glasses. He hugged
Tara
, then followed her into the room. Ted, her middle son, darted toward him with the anguished cry, “Uncle Walt.”
The man bent down to hug young Ted, then turned to
Tara
. “I was out on the lake when you called. I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You know Tim’s mom and dad. This is their close friends Greg and Jill McKenzie.” She looked across at me. “Mr. McKenzie, meet Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s right-hand man at New Horizons.”
He hurried over to shake my hand, then nodded at Jill. When he spoke, he rushed the words like a man short on patience. “Nice to meet both of you. I’m still in shock. What happened?”
“Greg just talked with a sergeant from the sheriff’s office in
Pensacola
,” Sam said. “I’ll let him fill you in.”
I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m no good at sugarcoating a tasteless dish. When I had finished with what Sergeant Payne told me, Sturdivant’s eyes widened.
“The penthouse balcony? No way.” He pulled a gnarled pipe from his pocket and pointed its dark wood stem for emphasis. “That building was designed to withstand a major hurricane. I’m a mechanical, not a structural, engineer. But I went over every feature of that building with Tim. The balcony was a cantilever design, loaded with heavy rebars. Unless the contractor screwed up, nothing like that could have happened.”
“Could the contractor have goofed?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s possible. I was down there a few times. Never when they were pouring concrete. If there was a problem, though, the inspector should have caught it. He’s required to be there for every pour. Even takes backup photographs.”
“The sergeant talked like Tim felt he was responsible for those people dying,” Sam said.
Sturdivant shook his head, stuck the pipe between his teeth and spoke around it. “He shouldn’t have.”
Sam dropped down onto the sofa, his face drawn. “Well, even if he had...if he had somehow felt responsibility for what happened, he wouldn’t have shot himself. He would have faced the consequences like a man.”
Sam looked around at Wilma. “Remember when he was in the Navy and they accused him of causing a serious auto accident on base? He didn’t try to run or make excuses. He accepted the consequences and made the best of it.”
———
During the next hour, the phone was seldom idle.
Tara
talked with our minister, arranging the funeral for early Monday morning—the deputy had said Tim’s body should be released by the Medical Examiner later today. Sam phoned a few friends and relatives and Sturdivant contacted employees of New Horizons Architects & Engineers. It was around ten when Sergeant Payne called back and asked for me.
“We didn’t find anything of interest in your condo, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “I was careful not to disturb any of your things. There was a laptop computer on the bedroom desk, but I didn’t know if it was yours or his.”
Actually, it was Tim’s, but I let it go. “So we were right—no suicide note.”
He reminded me of something I already knew. “That doesn’t rule out suicide. Most of them don’t leave notes. We checked on the gun, incidentally. It was a Colt .38 Special, registered to Timothy Gannon in
Nashville
.”
“I believe he had a permit to carry it, Sergeant.
Florida
has reciprocity with
Tennessee
.” I knew. I had checked before bringing my 9mm Beretta down the first time. It was a chopped version of the weapon I had used on active duty. I didn’t find it necessary to carry all the time, but I usually kept it close by.
“Weapons are not allowed in parks, state or federal,” Payne said.
Touché.
“Did you check it for fingerprints?”
“His were the only ones.”
“What about the round?”
“It was a .38, same as the gun. We found it in the back seat. It had struck the door post and wound up on the floor.”
“Have you heard from the ME’s office?”
“No, sir. But they’re working on the autopsy now.”
“Who found the body, Sergeant?”
“A couple of fishermen. They had just brought their boat in.”
“What time?”
“Around
”
“Did they open the car door?”
“No. It was locked. They saw him through the window and called star-five-five on their cell phone.”
“The emergency number for the Park Service,” I said. I recalled the sign on the National Seashore road at the entrance to
Johnson
Beach
.
“Yes, sir. The parks dispatcher notified the law enforcement ranger. After he checked it out, he called me.”
“I presume the ranger took measures to protect the scene?”
There was a pause before he asked, “Are you a police officer, Mr. McKenzie?”
“No, Sergeant. I’m a retired special agent in charge with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I also worked as an investigator with the DA’s office in
Nashville
.”