The Little Death (28 page)

Barberry looked amused at the detective’s bravado. He slapped the folder against Hernandez’s chest. “Okay, I’m a stubborn sonofabitch, but I’m not stupid,” he said. “Go ahead. Tell us what you got.”

Hernandez opened the folder and cleared his throat. “His name was Paul Wyeth. He was twenty-three years old and employed as a bartender in Palm Beach.” Hernandez looked up. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“That’s okay,” Louis said. “Go on.”

“Our Detective Cowell was assigned to the case but he passed away last year, so we won’t be able to ask him any questions,” Hernandez said. “But it looks like his theory was that the murder was drug-related.”

“What makes you believe that?” Louis asked.

“Three reasons. First, Wyeth had a minor drug charge, and second, we found more than eight grand in cash in his apartment.”

“What about his bank account?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“What’s the third reason?” Louis asked.

“Wyeth was found in an area where drug dealers have been known to dump bodies.”

“Where exactly?” Louis asked.

“In a spot called Turtle Slough. It’s just north of Billy Swamp Safari, which is in the Seminole Indian reservation. The reservation police handed the case off to us.”

“What’s a slough?” Louis asked.

“A slough is a swampy kind of river that changes in size from season to season. They run from Lake Ocheechobee down to the gulf. Sometimes a slough flows fast, and other times it’s nothing but mud.”

Louis remembered seeing a stream on his trip to the cattle pen with Burke Aubry, and he wondered if it had been Turtle Slough. He noticed a Hendry County map tacked to the wall behind Hernandez. “Can you show us where this slough is?” he asked.

Hernandez picked up a pen. “Okay, here’s us in La Belle,” he said, marking a spot on the map with an X. He traced a path from the top corner of the county to the bottom. It crossed straight through the tiny green patch on the map named Devil’s Garden.

“Where was Paul Wyeth found?” Louis asked.

Hernandez put an X on the line, just below the green box for Devil’s Garden.

“How far is it from Devil’s Garden to where Wyeth was found?” Louis asked.

Hernandez shrugged. “Maybe a mile.”

“Could the body have floated that far without being attacked?”

“Possibly,” Hernandez said. “But it wouldn’t last much longer than that. That area’s thick with gators and other critters.”

“So, was the head chewed off or not?” Barberry asked.

Hernandez opened the file. “As you know, all we found was the torso and an arm,” he said. “But according to our ME, there were marks in the neck bones that were consistent not with animal teeth but with a bladed instrument.”

“And no head was ever found, right?” Louis asked.

“If you’ve ever been out in that area, you know that would have been impossible,” Hernandez said. “Once all the meat had been eaten off it, the skull would be sucked into the muddy bowels of the Everglades, and there it would lie.”

“Was Wyeth dressed?” Louis asked.

Again, Hernandez had to look in the file. “No, the ME was ninety-nine percent sure the torso was nude when it went in the water.”

“Any sign he was whipped or tortured?” Swann asked.

This question seemed to surprise Hernandez, and he flipped through the reports. While he looked, Louis watched Barberry. He was quiet, hands shoved in his pockets, his stubbled jaw working on a wad of Big Red gum.

“No,” Hernandez said, looking up. “The ME didn’t note any whip marks or other defensive wounds. He just noted… let’s see… over three hundred claw and brush wounds.”

“Are there autopsy photos in there?” Louis asked.

“Sure.” Hernandez handed him a stack of pictures.

Louis sorted through them quickly, looking for one of Wyeth’s torso. The one he found showed a close-up of
Wyeth’s bloated and ripped back. Louis knew only a doctor could tell for sure, but to his eye some of the lacerations looked similar to the ones he had seen on Durand’s back. Which left the possibility, however remote, that Wyeth had been whipped, especially if he hadn’t been wearing a shirt.

But Louis had to wonder if he himself was, as Dr. Steffel said, trying to fit the facts to an already-formed theory or letting them speak for themselves.

Still, it felt right: the M.O., the dump sites, similar victim profiles, the killer’s “signature” of torture, degradation, and extreme rage. There was no way Barberry or anyone else was going to tell him they didn’t have a serial killer on their hands.

Louis shoved the photo at Barberry. “You ready to admit you have the wrong man in jail?”

Barberry’s eyes slipped to the picture, but he quickly raised them and Louis saw no concession in his face. It amazed Louis that this man could not get by his hatred of Reggie Kent long enough to allow himself one decent action.

“I’m not buying any of this yet,” Barberry said. “Two bodies don’t make this a Ted Bundy rerun. And what kind of sicko would kill off young guys if not some psycho queer like Kent?”

Swann came out of nowhere, shoving Louis aside as he grabbed a fistful of Barberry’s shirt.

“You stop talking about Reggie like that!” Swann hissed.

Swann was an inch taller, fifteen years younger, and in far better shape than Barberry. Barberry could do nothing but push at Swann’s tightly muscled forearm.

“Let go of me!” Barberry spat.

“You’re a police officer. You treat people—
all
people—with respect. You hear me, Detective?”

Barberry broke Swann’s hold and stumbled away, red-faced and breathless. Hernandez had backed himself against the map, the file clutched to his chest.

Swann finally moved away, calming himself by taking deep breaths. Barberry wiped his face and for a moment, no one seemed to know what to do.

“Look, Detective Barberry,” Louis said, “you need to understand something here. We have information that will make your prosecutor look like a fool if he takes Kent to trial. And who do you think he’ll take that out on?”

“What else you got besides this half-eaten corpse and a half-baked theory?” Barberry asked.

Louis didn’t want to share things here, nor did he trust Barberry to strike a bargain in exchange for other information. He knew he’d have to cooperate at some level with this jerk, but there were a few things he wanted from him first.

“We’ll tell you what we have if you’ll tell us what the forensics are on the boots and sword and anything else you took from Kent’s house,” Louis said.

Barberry snorted. “No, you first or I’m not wasting one more minute talking to you. I don’t need you. You need me.”

Barberry wasn’t right about many things but Louis couldn’t argue with that.

“We have a third body,” Louis said. “Same sex, same approximate age, same general appearance, same evidence of torture and decapitation, plus a connection to Palm Beach.”

Barberry’s bushy black eyebrows arched up. “Three, eh?”

“Your turn,” Louis said.

“The boots we took from Kent’s house are an exact match to footprints in the cattle pen,” Barberry said. “The tread is really weird, so there’s no mistake. And they aren’t just any old boots. They’re ostrich leather, some special things with air bubbles in the soles. Cost about six hundred bucks.”

“What’s the brand of boots?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Barberry said. “Kangaroo Bobs or something like that. Some kind of fancy hunting boot.”

Louis looked back to the county map, thinking. The fact that the boots found in Reggie’s home were a match worked against Reggie, but it wasn’t the final nail in the prosecutorial coffin. It could also reinforce Louis’s idea that the killer might be a jealous husband, but he wasn’t going to share that information with Barberry— yet.

“What about the sword?” Louis asked.

Barberry scratched his jaw, eyeing Swann. His loathing for Swann’s professional betrayal was obvious. “Doc Steffel says the sword didn’t match,” he said. “Too thick, too dull, and it’s double-edged. She says, in her opinion, the weapon was a single-edged sharp blade.”

“Did she have any other ideas?” Louis asked.

“She’s still researching,” Barberry said. “Now it’s your turn, Kincaid. Who is this third body and where was he found?”

“One more thing first,” Louis said. “Give us your word you won’t rat Andrew out to his chief. He’s just trying
to do the right thing for Kent, and you know how hard that can be when you have a politically sensitive boss.”

Barberry snorted. “Deal. Now talk.”

Louis gave Barberry a brief rundown on Emilio Labastide, explaining that the three men shared a similar victim profile. When he added that he believed none of the victims had been gay but that there still appeared to be a sexual element to the murders, Barberry’s eyes glazed over with skepticism.

“Okay,” Barberry said. “Even if I give you the fact that you might—and I say might—have a serial killer here, why is he running around killing straight guys? Don’t serial killers target women?”

“We think he could be a jealous husband with a sadistic sense of retaliation.”

It took Barberry at least fifteen seconds before he connected the dots. “So, these young studs were porking rich broads?” he asked.

Louis was silent, letting Barberry’s mind chew on the possibility of such a motive and the nasty, invasive investigation that would ensue if it was true.

“You got suspects?” Barberry asked.

Barberry wasn’t getting everything. “Not yet,” Louis said, “but we’re close.”

“Give me what you got,” Barberry said.

“No,” Louis said. “You go back to your prosecutor and you convince him you were wrong about Reggie Kent and get him to dismiss the charges. I want Kent released. Then we’ll talk.”

“I could charge you with obstruction,” Barberry said.

“Give me a break,” Louis said. “Nobody does that anymore.”

Barberry ignored him and held out his hand to Hernandez. “I’ll take that case file, Detective,” he said. “Looks like I’m a one-man serial-killer task force here.”

Hernandez clutched the file tighter. “No disrespect, sir,” he said, “but due to our current staffing issues here, I’ve been authorized to relinquish jurisdiction to any other agency that has a credible interest or jurisdiction in the case.”

“And that’s me,” Barberry said.

Hernandez held up a finger. “But Lieutenant Swann here also represents a legitimate law enforcement agency, and seeing as how he was much kinder to me, I think I’ll give the file to him.”

Swann threw up a hand. “Thanks, Hernandez, but I can’t take over your case,” he said. “My agency doesn’t have even the remotest jurisdiction over any of these crimes.”

“Plus, you don’t want to get your ass handed to you by your boss,” Barberry added.

Hernandez sighed. “Then I guess it’s yours, Detective Barberry,” he said.
“Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono.”

Barberry grinned and took the file. “Well,
gracias
there, Hernandez, to whatever you said. I’ll make sure you get a mention when the collar’s made.”

Barberry walked away. The cops near the water cooler waited until he left the squad room, then disbursed.

Louis thanked Hernandez and followed Swann outside. It was not yet noon and the morning was unusually
warm for December. Not a cloud in the sky or a breeze in the air.

“Hey, Swann,” Louis said, “what did Hernandez say to Barberry when he gave him the file?”

“He said, ‘You’re uglier than a monkey’s ass.’”

Louis laughed but Swann walked on toward the parking lot. He seemed lost in thought, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

“You going to be okay, Andrew?” Louis asked.

Swann shrugged as he stopped at his BMW to unlock the driver’s door. “What can I do? I’ll just have to wait and see if Barberry keeps his word.”

They drove out of La Belle, heading back east on US-80. Swann was quiet, and Louis was worried about him. He suspected that any pride Swann felt over finding Paul Wyeth had been replaced by concern that he would lose his badge. Louis knew what that felt like. He had felt it himself years ago, standing in front of a state investigator, listening to him say that Louis would never work as a cop in Michigan again. Louis hadn’t been guilty of any crime. But he hadn’t stayed around to fight. And when the call came from an old friend to take a case in Florida, he had gone south. It took him two years to get the PI license. Like so many here, he had tried to reinvent himself.

He looked over at Swann. Maybe Swann would have to do the same. But Louis wondered if he’d be able to make it. He knew how a few ounces of tin was sometimes the only thing keeping you grounded.

They were almost back to Clewiston when Louis spotted the sign for the airstrip.

“Swann, do you have to get back to Palm Beach right now?” Louis asked.

“No, why?”

“The road to Devil’s Garden is just ahead. I thought we could take another look at the crime scene. I could really use another cop’s opinion.”

Swann glanced over at him. Louis couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but Swann was smiling.

Chapter Twenty-four
 

Swann walked slowly around the cattle pen. His eyes lingered on the shred of yellow crime-scene tape that hung from one of the gray planks.