Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 2

  A bleary-eyed boy sat up and hugged his father. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘I'm sorry I missed your game last night.’

  Ray looked up. His brown eyes huge and forgiving. ‘I'm glad... I stank.’

  ‘I hear we have to work on your penalty shots.’

  Ray smiled, embarrassed. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ll get out in the yard at the weekend.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Rick crossed his heart with his index finger. ‘Promise.’

  The telephone rang and Jo-Lynn called her husband from the bedroom.

  ‘Gotta go champ.’

  As he walked down the hall, Rick couldn't help but feel that he had let his son down. The sad truth was that he had.

  Jo-Lynn had the phone to her ear and was talking to the caller when she saw Rick approaching. She cut her conversation and handed the phone straight to him. ‘Here he is now.’

  Rick took the phone; it was his chief, Norman Fusco.

  Within twenty minutes he was behind the wheel of his Chrysler heading for Cape Gardeau. Someone had dragged up a body while fishing.

  The roadblock and road closed sign heralded to Montoya that he was at last in the right vicinity. Murder victims cause 1.9% of traffic congestion, suicides 2.7%. The queue of cars ahead told him he was close. It was an hour’s drive from his home, so Rick was surprised to see Leroy LaPortiere’s Volkswagen parked in the temporary make shift car park, which in normal times was the picnic area.

  He parked alongside and headed out, up a hill, over toward the wetlands guided by a police officer's directions to where the body had been found.

  LaPortiere was up to his thighs in water, wearing an overlarge pair of fishermen’s waders. Rick recognised the tanned balding head that belonged to his boss, Norman Frusco. Frusco was standing on the drier bank by the marsh. Frusco waved recognition to Rick.

  Rick acknowledged Frusco before shouting to Leroy. ‘Hey, Leroy, mind the gators.’

  ‘Very funny, Rick. Why don't you get your black ass in here?'

  ‘You know I can't swim, otherwise...’ Rick's sentence trailed away, noticing that Leroy's attention was firmly on events behind him.

  Rick turned to see a young white woman, late twenties he guessed, dressed in a smart burgundy skirt and matching jacket, white blouse and Wellington boots.

  Georgina O’Neil clumped over the brow of the hill and headed straight toward Frusco.

  Her hand was outstretched to greet Frusco. Before she was within range, they made contact. Her grip was firm and the shake vigorous.

  ‘Captain Frusco.’ Georgina introduced herself. ‘Agent O’Neil. My people informed you of my arrival.’ She said as matter of fact, not debate.

  Her hair was jet black, stylishly cut but more for practicality than fashion. In the field she had learned it paid to be pragmatic rather than vain. Her eyes were blue and lit with spirit, her skin Celtic white, inherited from her Father.

  ‘Where's the body?’

  ‘Over by the bank.’ Frusco walked with Agent O’Neil down the incline. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey down here Agent O’Neil?’

  ‘To be honest, Captain, I can't stand planes they make me air sick. I would have driven but for the need to be fresh at the scene.’

  They stopped by the body, which was encased in a body bag.

  ‘I gotta warn you; fresh is not a word I would use to describe the body.’ Frusco crouched down and unzipped the bag. He leaned backwards as the aroma of decomposition wafted up.

  Agent O’Neil held her breath, and then exhaled before breathing through her mouth. Some agents used tiger balm to keep the stench of putrefaction at bay; Georgina would have too but for an allergic reaction. The pungent aroma of rotting flesh permeated in to the air. O’Neil could taste the corruption.

  ‘Where's the guy who found the body?’

  Frusco looked around, spotting the fisherman on the bank side. ‘He's over there…feeding the fish’

  O’Neil turned and saw the man spewing the contents of his stomach directly into the river.

  ‘Lucky fish.’ O’Neil watched the heaving body of a man dressed in fisherman’s garb with waders up to his chest. He wore an army camouflage jacket open to the waist, exposing a matured beer belly that strained the cotton material of his Budweiser tee shirt.

  Rick moved down the bank side to talk with Leroy, some twenty yards away from Frusco and O’Neil.

  ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘F.B.I.’ Rick looked on as Agent O’Neil crouched down joining Frusco; she hitched her skirt up slightly, allowing herself to balance effortlessly.

  She eased the body bag open.

  ‘Phew! Quite a mess.’ A bloated, swollen head greeted her, his skin was a grey, blue colour. The hair on his chest and around the genital area was matted with algae. There was a large tear in the stomach where the fisherman who found him had accidentally hooked into, but there was no blood, just loose flapping skin lying over exposed intestinal tissue.

  ‘Looks like he's been fish food for some time. Vermiculation evident.’ O’Neil scanned the body.

  ‘Teeth and tongue removed, his genitalia have trauma, though I think that's mostly Gator related. These jagged marks here?’ Her latex gloved finger probed and lifted serrated folds of skin where the victim’s lips once were. ‘These seem pre-mortem. See how uniform they are. It’s almost as though the victim’s lips have been cut off.’

  O’Neil was zipping up the bag and telling Frusco to ship the body to the morgue for an autopsy as Montoya and LaPortiere arrived.

  Divers continued to swim around the shallow marshlands; some policemen, dressed in waders like Leroy's, fished around with their hands, searching the silt bed.

  ‘Agent O’Neil, May I introduce you to my two leading investigators on this case. Detective Rick Montoya and Detective Leroy LaPortiere.’

  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 it’s 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?’

  Five

  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 acquainted 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 elevator 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 panties. 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.’