Turtle Island (3 page)

Rick smiled and offered his hand. He enjoyed the firm contact
of Agent O’Neil grip through the latex glove she was wearing. She
pulled at it and snapped it off to shake Leroy's hand. Leroy
grinned like an imbecile, pleased to be one up on his friend and
partner. The first to make physical contact with her flesh. Such
little matters were all a part of a long playing game between the
two men.

‘Gentlemen, I am here from the FBI Behavioural Science Unit to
help build a profile of our perpetrator.’ She held up her hands. ‘I
am not here to tread on your toes or undermine any aspect of your
work or the investigation. I think this manner of co-operation will
best be suited to working together to achieve our common goal, i.e.
catching Charlie Madman. Any questions?’

Leroy was rubbing his nose but secretly sniffing the perfume
transferred from O’Neil’s hand during their introduction. ‘Is that
Clinique?’

Georgina looked Leroy coldly in the eye. ‘I think its rotting
dead man.’

Rick allowed a smirk to spread across his face.

‘Good, first things first, where can I get a beer and what's
the best motel in the area that falls within a $50 a night
budget?’

She was expecting the knock at the door. One beer, a shower
and a change of clothes later, Georgina O’Neil was ready for a
hectic briefing session, even though it was late in the evening she
felt it would give a good opportunity to become aquatinted with
Detectives Montoya and LaPortiere. The air conditioning unit
crackled and hummed annoyingly but it did at least alter the air
quality to something more like that of her native Virginia. She
pulled the door open and stepped in to the oven like furnace of a
Missouri summer night. LaPortiere greeted her and walked with her
to the car. Montoya was driving. She climbed into the back seat and
was surprised when LaPortiere joined her.

‘Things have been happening since this afternoon.’ Leroy said
‘It would seem our friend has already taken his next
victim.’

Rick briefly looked over his shoulder and joined the
conversation. ‘Stephen England; reported missing by his girlfriend.
He hasn't shown for work for six days. It might be co-incidence but
nothing ever happens here. Nothing and now this.’ He turned around
and settled into his seat before starting the car. The Chrysler's
tyres spun slightly on the shingle car park drive before gripping
and pulling away; moving away from Turtle Island and back onto the
mainland and Missouri.

‘This may be the break we need,’ O’Neil said ‘unless he's had
a change of heart, at some point he'll have to dump the body. So
who was the John Doe we pulled out of the river
earlier?’

‘Still a John Doe, there’s no local report of anyone else
missing.’ Rick replied, as he turned right onto the freeway. A
large bug splattered against the windscreen, a small explosion of
blood and green goo. ‘But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘The preliminary autopsy report came through the system
earlier tonight.’ Leroy fished through a black folio bag and pulled
out a folder, which he handed to Agent Georgina O’Neil.

The car sped along the highway passing thick wooded forests
and wetlands. Georgina read the document. The two men continued the
journey in silence both of them lost in concentration.

The car doors echoed as they shut in the near empty car park.
Night staff was down to a minimum and what police vehicles remained
were out on the streets patrolling. They took the lift up to the
third floor where Montoya and LaPortiere shared an
office.

Rick opened the blinds to allow the view of the city into his
office. The night sky cast deep red with a few ominous looking
clouds hovering overhead.

LaPortiere opened a small fridge. ‘Beer?’

The fridge was one of the few concessions allowed for officers
of their rank, one of the few luxuries that were always
appreciated, there were no pretences about not drinking while on
duty, the heat made it a pre-requisite. O’Neil and Montoya both
nodded acceptance. Leroy threw a can to Rick and fished through his
desk drawer for a glass for Agent O’Neil. He took out a straight
beer glass and opened the ring pull on her can.

Before he could pour, O’Neil replied ‘It'll be okay from the
can.’

Leroy smiled. ‘Right on.’ and passed her the can, which she
immediately put to her lips.

‘How do you put up with this heat, it's so ...muggy.’ She
gulped at the liquid then put the can down. ‘Right gentlemen let’s
get to work.’

The smell of fresh bread baking assaulted Charles Fleisher's
nostrils the moment he entered the house. There was the sound of
talking and laughter coming from the kitchen, homogeneity painted
in a thick syrup of emotions. Charles followed the enticing
sensations, walking down the hall and turning the corner, where he
found Narla and Harley in the kitchen

‘Hi babe, come on in.’ Narla beckoned her husband into the
kitchen. Charles smiled, walking over to his wife; he kissed her,
his usual greeting, warm, passionate, unaffected by his daughter’s
presence.

‘You’re drunk.’ Charles noticed the nearly empty bottle of
Muscadet on the worktop.

‘Very nearly,’ Narla smiled. ‘but extremely happy.’

Charles breathed in. ‘The bread smells nice.’

Narla sipped as she spoke. ‘It's one of mother’s Irish
recipes, Harley's making it, I’m...’

‘Supervising.’ Harley chipped.

‘Harley.’ Charles greeted his daughter, he moved back to his
wife, holding her by the hips.

Narla noticed a small speck of blood on Charles face. She wet
her finger and wiped it away.

‘Blood.’ She explained

‘Must have cut myself shaving.’ Charles rubbed over the area
with his finger then turned his attention back to his daughter.
‘Come here short stuff, where’s your greeting for your old
man.’

Harley ran and embraced him, wrapping her legs around his
waist and her arms over his neck. She placed a slobbery kiss on his
cheek, covering the area just cleaned by Narla.

‘So, you’re baking bread, hey?’

‘Uh-huh, Mrs Fuller set each of us a task for domestic
science, I got baking bread.’

Harley smiled one of her heart-breaking beautiful smiles;
smiles that are designed to be extinguished by adulthood. Charles
kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘You are going to be a real
heartbreaker honey, now give your old man a squeeze.’

Harley hugged her father tightly as she could, before being
lowered to the ground.

‘Better check your bread?’ Charles patted Harley’s bottom as
she walked to the cooker.

‘Mind now, it’s hot.’

‘Okay, daddy.’

‘I’m going to shower, hon, then I’ll come back down to
entertain you lovely ladies.’

Narla finished of her glass of Muscadet. ‘Don’t be long now.’
She watched her husband as he walked away.

Even though the world looks quiet and safe through your
windows, you never know what is really happening out there…in the
world. You know that there is pain and suffering but it’s easy to
ignore as long as it keeps a discreet distance, yet all the time
you fear that it is going to walk right up to you, tap you on the
shoulder and say. ‘Excuse me, but may I have this dance.’ Somewhere
a file was being transferred via a modem from a computer to another
computer miles away, via three different continents, and fifteen
servers. This file was an image, a solitary image. A photograph of
a man about to die, a man about to breathe his very last breath.
And this image was about to change everything.

Excuse me, but may I have this dance?

Firefly’s whizzed by, landing on the hollow reeds that grew
from the river’s edge, the sound of crickets vigorously rubbing
their hind legs, and the mellow scent of honey-suckle filled the
air. Narla sat with her back resting against Charles chest; She
continued drinking the wine, and was now subdued. Harley had long
since gone to bed. The two of them sat watching the evening turn to
night. Narla, unwilling or unable to move.

Charles had lit the outdoor candles that ran down the garden
to the picket gate. A dog barking somewhere across the fields from
the other side of the riverbank the only other sound apart from the
gently moving river, the quietness and tranquillity of the moment
soporific. The wine was taking its effect on Narla; Charles never
drank to excess and was as sober as ever. Narla let the evening
wash over her.

She tried to focus her thoughts, rarely had she felt so
relaxed, so tired. She lifted the glass to her lips, her arm
weighed a ton and the effort required just to lift it almost wore
her out. Narla’s eyes began to close; Charles felt her head grow
heavy against his chest, then fall gently to one side.

Charles lifted Narla and placed her over his shoulder. She
only mildly protested and felt the odd sensation of being carried
upstairs, but was too tired to care let alone protest. Charles laid
her on the bed, unzipped the cotton dress she was wearing and
gently lifting her managed to pull it off. During the summer she
never wore a bra just plain cotton briefs. He scooped her up and
held most of her weight cradled in one arm, while his other arm
pulled back the sheet. Charles lowered her to the bed. From the
bedroom window he looked out across the garden at the rising
moon.

‘It's ten thirty, I think we should call it an evening soon.’
Georgina said realising that the plane journey down from Washington
was catching up with her. ‘So let’s review before I totally flake
out. All we know about this latest character, Stephen England, is
that he went missing six days ago.’

‘Yeah, his girlfriend reported him missing earlier today.’
Leroy offered. He leaned back in his chair and supped the last of a
can of beer.

‘Seems it was not unusual for him to go walkabout a day or so,
so when he didn’t arrive home Tuesday, she didn’t think it unusual.
By Wednesday she was a little concerned, but his diary had him
driving for a meeting in Chicago. My kinda town.’ Rick cribbed the
information from his notes.

‘Has this man never heard of planes?’ Leroy was genuinely
astounded that anyone would ever want to drive the
distance.

Rick referred back to his notes said, ‘Phobia, he was scared
of flying.’

‘Needless to say he was a no show in Chicago, and then we get
a phone call from his girl.’

‘And The Bulls were playing too. Ray would have loved to have
seen that.’

‘You’re a Bulls fan?’ Georgina asked trying to catch a rare
insight in to the detective’s private life.

‘Used to live there. My wife says I spent more time watching
the Bulls than with her. I might add in my defence that, that was
only true during the season.’

‘And Ray is?’ Georgina prompted Montoya.

‘My son.’

Leroy groaned. ‘Oh my God, he’s gonna get his pictures out, I
just know it.’

Rick opened his wallet and offered Agent O’Neil a photograph
of his wife and son; she leaned across the table and took it,
pulling another photo with it. She studied the first
picture.

‘He’s a very handsome boy, you must be proud.’

‘Just like his Dad.’ Rick joked.

Leroy feigned being sick in the waste paper basket.

‘Your wife is very beautiful.’

‘She is.’ Rick said with more than a little pride. ‘She worked
for the district attorney’s office in Chicago. Now she shares a
legal practice in Springfield, on the Island.’

Georgina looked at the second photograph, another family shot
of the Montoya’s but with an extra member. ‘Oh, you have a
daughter?’

Rick leaned forward and took the pictures from her. ‘That’s
...Jordan... named her after Michael Jordan... she’s
dead.’

‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

Rick remained quiet about the details. Georgina knew not to
push.

‘Okay, let’s get on.’ O’Neil said after a suitable
break.

Rick and Leroy sat back in their chairs; they were as fatigued
as the F.B.I investigator.

The fridge was empty; each of them having consumed three cans
of lite beer, the daily allowance. An empty Pizza carton lay
discarded save for a few crumbs and two dried pieces of Pineapple
due to Leroy's dislike of the fruit.

‘Our killer is probably white; though we are not precluding
people from other ethnic origins at this stage. Male; probably
mid-twenties to mid-forties. Although the preliminary autopsy shows
anal trauma we must not assume he is homosexual. This is a man who
wants to be in charge, raping his victim is, I think, a part of
show of strength, not a sexual predilection.’

‘Is that why a rubber was used, to avoid actual contact?’
Leroy was trying to formulate a mental picture of the killer.
‘There was no trace of semen, only latex residue and
lubricant.’

‘Partially.’ O’Neil nodded. ‘We cannot assume that the anal
trauma is caused by penile penetration. This is probably the result
of a prolonged attack using foreign objects.’