Turtle Island (27 page)

‘What about yourself...Korjca? Was she...’

‘She was someone I liked, who I never got the chance to know.
I rang her on the night she was murdered.’ Georgina breathed in,
the memory still painful. ‘I...I don’t make friends easy. Too
cynical I guess, but Korjca and I ...I don’t know, we kind of
bonded but as usual I nerved out and left it until it was too
late.’

‘She came here on a few occasions to mass. I always remember a
new face at congregation. Such a shame. And the Montoya’s…a
dreadful thing.’ Reagan looked heaven bound as though searching for
answers from a higher deity.

The first of the mourners began to arrive, just before ten
o’clock. Leroy fiddled with the camera, checking the auto focus by
firing off a test shot from his vantage point upstairs. Father
Reagan informed Georgina that there was going to be a short
service. He didn’t expect many mourners. Korjca’s mother was flying
in from Poland and would return with her daughter’s
ashes.

Georgina watched a broken woman as she was helped out of out
of a car, flanked by a funeral director and a younger woman. The
younger woman was Korjca’s sister, Anna.

The sight of the television vehicles came as no surprise to
Georgina. They appeared an hour before the start of the funeral and
set up. Georgina watched from the car.

‘Jackals’

Barbara Dace was there, her cameraman John Keller in tow.
There was every chance that the funeral was going to be a big media
circus now that Dace had reported Rick Montoya and his family’s
abduction. Georgina sat trying to read case notes, trying to
concentrate but all the time the word ‘Jackals’ ran through her
head as she grew angrier at the infringement on the privacy and
grief of Korjca Piekarska family. Georgina watched Anna Piekarska
and her mother enter the church, followed by three cameras from
rival television networks.

Anna Piekarska genuflected in front of the altar, years of
conditioning pushing aside personal grief for the briefest of
moments. Korjca's coffin, now sealed, was resting on two trestles
in front of the altar. Both Anna and her mother had taken time
alone with Korjca, just as Georgina had done earlier, now was the
formal part of the ceremony. The part Anna dreaded most.

Korjca's mother, ‘Ditta’, sobbed continually. Ever since the
phone call three days earlier. For Anna, her grief was different,
it came in waves, unpredictably and uncontrollable when it washed
over her, but her mourning was tidal, it ebbed and flowed. At times
she felt as though she was in control. Anna looked at her mother
knowing that she was not as strong, nor had the youth to comprehend
or cope with the tragedy. Her mother had visibly aged in those
three long days. Everything was so strange, so alien. There were
many faces but neither Anna nor her Mother knew them. People she
had never met, sat and cried at the loss of her sister, people who
didn't even know who Anna or her mother was. One of them sat in the
front row, discretely at the end of the bench by the aisle near the
east wall. Soft daylight filtered down through the stained glass
windows some twenty feet above. Anna sat staring at the stranger,
who seemed to be using the shadows as a cloak of anonymity. The
stranger stared ahead seemingly unaware of the scrutiny being
forced on her but glanced sideways briefly to acknowledge Anna's
presence. Anna guided her frail mother on to the pew. The older
woman collapsed onto the seat, gravity having a wearing effect on
her frailty. Anna glanced once more at the young woman at the end
of the row. Her pale skin and dark hair were features she was more
accustomed to seeing in Europe. She clutched a book in her hand, a
bible, prayer book or hymnbook. The ringing of a bell, its short
resonance echoing through the air, broke the silence, announcing
the beginning of the ceremony.

Father Reagan entered the church from one of the small rooms
at the rear. He led a small group of choirboys, who sang the
opening verse of ‘Walk with me, oh my Lord’. They walked slowly to
the altar, incense burning and being wafted through the musty dull
air. Plumes of blue smoke hung frozen in the quiet stillness of the
church, captured by candlelight. The only other sound was the
crying wail of grief escaping from Ditta as Anna pulled her close,
hugging her and at the same time stifling her own sobs. The
procession of choirboys dressed in brilliant white smocks with
round red collars continued to sing as they found their seats by
the altar. A discreet organ played softly, seeming only to pick out
certain notes to keep the choir on key. Father Reagan blessed his
bible and kissed the foot of a stone statue of Jesus.

Leroy sat back and placed the camera into the small grey
holdall. Every single member of the congregation including the
choirboys were now silver halide images, captured on three rolls of
film, though he sensed that it was a waste of time. The funeral had
high media coverage and any killer or kidnapper would have to be
madder than mad to show. Especially when it was being beamed live
through the cable in to every house, flat or river house in
Missouri. In fact he could have saved time by sitting at work and
capturing the images off the videotape using an editing suite. He
zipped the camera bag and made his way down the stairs. With luck
the films would be processed before the end of the ceremony. There
wasn't a single face that stood out, no one that appeared to be
acting in a manner likely to cause concern, no one Leroy recognised
from the past. Leroy left the church. He threw the camera bag on to
the back seat of the car, the films secure deep inside his pocket.
There was a photographic lab in the police station but Leroy wanted
the photos fast so he could run a check against the records. Karl
Frost on Turtle Island had a small photographic business. Leroy had
used him on many other occasions and knew him to be reliable and
discreet. He had processed many other films with much more
sensitive material than a few mourners at a funeral. Leroy could
have the prints within an hour and be on the way back to the
station to cross check.

The shop was three doors away from Fleisher's real estate
business. Leroy could not ignore a sense of certain paths crossing.
He parked outside the glass-fronted shop. Family portraits adorned
the display, advertising Frost's trade. A yellow gelatine sun
filter was drawn across the window, protecting the photographs from
the worst of the morning sun, which generally beamed directly onto
the glass. Though the chance of much damage being sustained today
was remote.

Leroy pushed the slight, wooden framed door open. A bell
sounded deep within the premises. The shop was open planned with a
few directors seats scattered and a coffee table with black
portfolio's adorning them, containing samples of Karl's art. More
pictures lined the walls displaying the range of the Photographer's
skill. Advertising shots, industrial photography, weddings. A lone
glamour shot, soft focused, a young black woman with startling
electric blue eyes.

'Contacts', Leroy thought, though retouching or electronic
manipulation was another option. She was sitting in a field of
wheat, dressed in a near transparent white cotton dress. Water had
been sprayed on her body to simulate perspiration, which had the
effect of drawing her skin to the material. One leg was drawn up,
allowing the short dress to expose the full length of her legs. A
mill was spinning in the background, the blades blurred but she was
in perfect focus. Leroy guessed it was a long exposure with her
remaining perfectly still for the duration.

‘How is she?’ The voice broke Leroy's thoughts. He didn't hear
Karl appear from the darkroom at the back of the shop.

Karl was a throwback to a lost generation. Though his hair was
cut in a short contemporary style he was still pure hippy. His
accent had a deeper southern twang to it than Leroy's. Karl
originated from Arkan, a small town near Georgia. He like many
other inhabitants was drawn to Turtle Island during the early
seventies, the lure of the utopian lifestyle and the well-known
freedom concerning various drugs being the siren that enticed
him.

‘Gone.’

‘Hey, brutal…I'm real sorry.’ The photographer stood beside
Leroy. ‘She's sure beautiful.’

The picture was now nearly seven years old. Lia was only
eighteen when the picture was taken and had her heart set on a
modelling career.

‘Yeah.’ Leroy sighed. He didn't want to explain the
circumstances nor tell the photographer of his hopeful reunion.
Tearing his eyes from the photograph Leroy placed the three films
on the counter. ‘I need these processed quickly, Karl.’

‘You working on the nanny killing.’

Leroy nodded. An acidic smell began to filter through from the
darkroom. Karl turned and pulled the door too. ‘Been in the trade
all my life, still can't stand the smell of fixer.’ He fumbled
behind the counter and returned holding a hand rolled cigarette.
The moment he lit up, Leroy detected the sweet scent of marijuana.
‘Want one, pure Moroccan, none of that chinky shit.’

Karl was a racist where the Chinese and Vietnamese were
concerned. His experiences in Saigon tainted his life beyond
reason. He had an American bald eagle tattooed on his back, wings
spread against a back drop of the stars and stripes, an indulgence
of an extremely young and naive 17-year-old going to fight against
the threat of communism. He had bought the whole MacArthur ticket,
much to his embarrassment. After six months of creeping around the
jungle trying to avoid the Vietcong followed by another six months
of land mines, snipers, child suicide bombers and general shit,
Karl changed his mind on virtually every aspect of his politics
except his loathing of any one east of Florida or west of LA, if
you fell within these boundaries you were okay.

Leroy declined, not that he didn't indulge in the odd joint or
two, his approach to cannabis was as relaxed as Karl would be
minutes after lighting the fat joint in his hands. Karl wrote out a
ticket for the three films, his writing neat and precise, far
neater than expectation would allow. He handed the docket to
Leroy.

‘Be a little over an hour. Guess you’re in a
hurry?’

‘Fine, I'll pick em up on the way back through. So how's
business?’

Karl dragged on the illegal joint. ‘A little slow now the
summer's over. Have to keep searching for new avenues to exploit.
Nothing changes much.’ He let the smoke fill his lungs, permeating
through his bloodstream and interacting with the receptors in his
brain. Karl began to mellow. Behind him the door to his studio
opened sharply. An agitated looking young white girl, wrapped in a
peach coloured shiny dressing gown, stood impatiently.

‘Hurry up Karl, I'm freezing my little titties off in here.’
The girl did not seem embarrassed by the presence of anyone who
might have been in the shop. The gown gaped at the front; exposing
a flat boyish chest with little or no cleavage at all Her hand
gathered the gown at her stomach retaining what little modesty she
had. She did not bother to wait for a reply, turning and
disappearing in to the inner sanctum of the studio.

‘I hope she's not under-age, Karl?’

‘She's seventeen, seen her birth certificate.’ Karl exhaled.
‘Seen her ass too. You know who she is?’

Leroy shrugged.

‘Jessica Femoy.’ Karl said her name as though it would be the
key answer to all of Leroy's unasked questions. He looked at the
detective hopefully.

Leroy shrugged again, still looking equally
unimpressed.

‘The Coulstan Milk girl. You seen her on the telly, man. She's
the babe laying in the big bath full of milk.’

‘Must have passed me by.’

Karl looked astounded. ‘She's the biggest name on Turtle
Island at the moment. Got a contract with Coulstan for three
hundred thousand dollars. Agents spotted her when she was in the
cheerleaders for the high school. Signed her up while she was only
fifteen...’ Karl waited to see if there was any sign of
recognition. ‘Anyway I'm doing her portfolio.’

‘Oh. Do you want me to gasp or something?’

‘You know, sarcasm is unattractive no matter who it comes
from.’

Jessica called from the studio. ‘C'mon, Karl, I am getting
frostbite back here.’

‘Okay, okay. Keep your panties on…for now.’ Karl added as he
opened the door back to the studio. ‘Don't worry Leroy, your films
will be ready.’ Karl looked at his watch.

‘Call back at around 12-30. Gotta go.’ Karl disappeared behind
the door to his studio.

On the way out Leroy glanced at the photograph of Lia once
more.

He had lit the fuse. A signal had been sent out and was now
broadcasting to the world, quite literally to the world, and the
media would want to put a piece of Turtle Island into the homes of
everyone that had a radio or television or computer or who ever
bought a newspaper or magazine. The list was endless.

‘Agent O’Neil...Agent O’Neil.’ Barbara Dace called after the
detective as she walked from the church.

Georgina slowed, allowing the reporter to catch up with her.
She turned to see Barbara Dace jogging toward her holding a
videotape.

‘Save you a journey.’ She held the tape out, passing it on
like a baton in the relay. Her breath came hard, the result of
smoking too many cigarettes.