The Little Death (16 page)

“We could call Barberry and ask him to research his database of John Does.”

Louis shook his head. “I don’t want to let that asshole know what direction we’re looking. I’ll call Dr. Steffel
and see what she can dig up. If Labastide was murdered, it’s likely he was dumped in Palm Beach County.”

“If that doesn’t work,” Mel said, “we may have to resort to begging favors from Lance Mobley.”

Louis sighed. Mobley was the Lee County sheriff on the western side of the state, their home territory. Sometimes friend, sometimes adversary, but always a man looking for a microphone and a camera. Also one who did not know the meaning of the word
discretion
.

But if they had to play nice with Mobley, then so be it. There was no way to make a connection to Durand or Palm Beach until they knew what happened to Labastide.

Even if the cases turned out not to be related and Labastide had met some other kind of tragic end, Louis had still made a promise to Rosa Díaz. He said he would come back. And he didn’t intend to do that until he had something to tell her.

O’Sullivan’s was a cop bar. Conveniently located within walking distance of the Fort Myers police station, it had become, over the years, much like a married guy’s cherished den. Stale, smoky air, cigarette burns on the tabletops, shelves of softball and bowling trophies, a floor of crushed peanut shells, and a big-screen TV permanently turned to ESPN.

And like all primitive habitats, it had a pecking order.

City detectives had staked claim to the back end of the bar; county detectives, out of legendary necessity, owned the three tables near the men’s-room door. The slew of small round tables arranged down the center of the bar belonged to the rank-and-file officers, usually two
kinds: those who dropped in only long enough to feed their egos by telling embellished stories of near-death experiences and those who had nothing else to go home to but dried-up cartons of Chinese takeout and an empty bed.

Lance Mobley, Lee County sheriff, sat in the back booth on his throne of tattered green vinyl, a vision of leonine golden hair, golfer’s tan, and an oppressively starched white uniform shirt. With one arm across the back of the seat and a booted ankle on his knee, he looked like a sultan surveying his realm.

As Louis and Mel had feared, Dr. Steffel had not turned up any medical examiner’s records for an Emilio Labastide, nor could she find any John Does matching the physical description. Late yesterday afternoon, Louis had resorted to calling Mobley. Louis gave him Labastide’s general information and, to reel him in, added something to whet the sheriff’s investigative appetite: “See if you have any decapitated corpses.”

It had taken Mobley less than two hours to call back and tell them he didn’t have a deceased person by that name, but he did have a young, headless John Doe, found about thirty miles east of Fort Myers, just this side of the Lee/Hendry county line.

When Louis pressed him for details on the cause of death, Mobley told him he would have to come back to Fort Myers and buy him a drink. That was Mobley’s way of saying,
I got what you need, and I want a piece of this.

Mobley spotted them and waved them over. He didn’t rise when they got to the table.

“If it isn’t the Lone Ranger and Tonto,” Mobley said.

“Nice to see you again, too, Dudley,” Mel said.

Mobley grabbed a chair from the nearby table for Mel. Louis sat down across from Mobley, taking note of a thin manila folder on the table between them.

Mobley saw Louis’s gaze and slapped a protective hand down on the folder. “So, what’s this case all about?” he asked.

“Just a routine homicide, Lance,” Louis said. “Missing man with suspicious circumstances.”

“Nothing is routine in Palm Beach, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “Tell me the truth. Who is this Labastide? A Spanish count or just some piece of Euro trash who OD’d in The Breakers and was dumped out in the middle of nowhere to cover it up?”

Louis smiled. “Labastide was a twenty-five-year-old immigrant gardener.”

The glint in Lance’s eyes dimmed. “But you told me this guy was from Palm Beach.”

“I told you he might have disappeared from Palm Beach,” Louis said.

Mobley sat back and crossed his arms. “I can’t believe I had guys digging around in our records room for a fuckin’ Mexican.”

“Jesus Christ, Lance,” Mel said, “clean up your mouth. You’re a public servant, for crissake.”

“Fuck you, Landeta,” Mobley said. “You don’t like the talk in here, don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Louis said, reaching across the table to grab the folder. He didn’t care about the reports. He wanted to see the fingerprint card. Every unidentified body was fingerprinted before it was buried. The card was usually stapled to the inside cover. And it wasn’t here.

“Lance, where’s the print card?” Louis asked.

“It’s not there?” Mobley said.

“No. Where is it?”

Mobley shrugged. “Looks like the ME forgot to do one.” He stood up. “I’m getting another cup of coffee,” he said, pushing from the booth. “You want anything, asshole?”

“Coke,” Mel said.

Louis flipped through the folder’s contents. It was pretty thin, but it said the body had been found November 3, which matched Rosa’s memory. The autopsy report revealed the John Doe was between eighteen and thirty-five, weight 170, height six-one.

“Read it to me, man,” Mel said.

“Same height and weight that was listed on Labastide’s Palm Beach ID card,” Louis said. “Manner of death was seven stab wounds to the chest, one right to the heart.”

“Any signs he was tortured or beaten? Any whip marks?”

“Nope.”

“Clothed?” Mel asked.

“Yeah, jeans and a T-shirt. Pockets rifled, probably to remove money or his identification. Here’s something interesting. His hands and nails were clean and trim. I wouldn’t expect that of a guy who did lawn work.”

“Maybe the women he was screwing expected it,” Mel said.

Louis nodded and read on. “The ME didn’t offer much on the weapon used to sever the head, just that it was consistent with a large blade.” His eyes dipped to the name on the autopsy. It was signed by somebody named T. Cartwright. It had to be the ME who ran the Lee County office before Vince Carissimi took over.
His friend Vince would have never neglected printing a body.

“Got any pictures?” Mel asked.

Louis shifted through the crime-scene photos. There were just four showing the headless body from different angles. None of the corpse taken in the autopsy room. Sloppy work all around.

“How long had he been out there before they found him?” Mel asked.

“He was found Nov. 3,” Louis said. “Rosa told me Emilio disappeared on Halloween.”

“That area out near the county line is all state land, right?” Mel asked.

Louis started to nod again, then stopped when he saw a short note written by the responding officer to the dead-body call. The John Doe was discovered by a guy who worked for Archer Ranch.

Archer…

Where had he heard that name before?

He remembered. There had been a sign out at Devil’s Garden near the cattle pen where Durand had been found. Something about state land and a preserve.

Mobley slid back in the booth, sloshing coffee as he set a can of Sprite in front of Mel.

“I asked for a Coke,” Mel said.

“That’s all they had.”

“What kind of bar runs out of Coke?”

“Tell it to the owner.”

“Lance,” Louis said. “Do you know a family named Archer that lives out near Hendry County or Lake Okeechobee?”

“No, why?”

Louis didn’t want to tell him that there was another headless body dumped in the same general area. The idea of a decapitating serial killer operating in Mobley’s backyard was not something that needed to be pinballing around in the sheriff’s brain. Right now, Mobley had no interest in the John Doe, and it was better for everyone if it was left that way.

“No reason,” Louis said. “Just thought I recognized the name.”

“Did the head ever turn up?” Mel asked.

“Not in my county.” Mobley’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, then back at Louis. “If you don’t need anything else from me, then clear out,” he said. “I got a couple of DAs coming by in five minutes. Got that triple murder case on the burner next week.”

Louis closed the folder and slid it back to Mobley. “Any chance we can dig this John Doe up and try to ID him?”

“Not on my dime,” Mobley said.

“What if we can get some TV cameras out there to film you pushing the casket into the hearse?” Mel asked.

“Get out of my bar,” Mobley said. “Both of you.”

Louis and Mel rose together and paused outside. It was only a few minutes after noon, and the sun was high and warm. Louis pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket.

“Why’d you ask about the print card?” Mel asked. “What good would that do us?”

“I forgot to tell you something. You know those ID cards I told you about, the ones Swann kept on the workers? They had fingerprints.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Mel said.

Louis put on his sunglasses. “It would have been nice and easy just to match up two sets of prints.”

“What was that stuff about Archer?” Mel asked.

“Mobley’s John Doe was found by a guy who worked for the Archer Ranch,” Louis said. “That’s the same name I saw on a sign near the cattle pen.”

“But the Hendry County line and the cattle pen are at least thirty miles apart.”

“I know,” Louis said. “Which makes the coincidence too big to ignore. You up for a trip to a ranch?”

“As long as I don’t have to ride a frickin’ horse,” Mel said.

Chapter Thirteen
 

It didn’t take much effort to find the Archer Ranch. Louis and Mel had stopped off at the bar in the old Clewiston Inn to grab a burger. The bartender, overhearing them talking about the case, lingered after he brought them their beers.

“What you two want with the Archers?” he asked.

“We’re with the
Florida Livestock Journal,
” Mel said. “They sent me to do a story.” He jerked a thumb at Louis. “This is my photog.”

Louis gave a nod.

“You know anything about the Archer Ranch?” Mel asked.

“Sure. Everybody around here knows the Archers,” the bartender said. “They own half of Hendry County.”

By the time they finished their burgers, Louis and Mel had found out that the Archer family had been raising cattle on their four thousand acres out near Devil’s Garden for three generations. They were the only ranchers operating south of Lake Okeechobee, and, like the sugar barons, they were regarded as royalty in the towns that rimmed the lake.

As Louis paid the bill, his eyes traveled over the murals that decorated the bar’s walls. Paintings of Everglades scenes with egrets in flight, marshlands with Seminole Indians and alligators. And over in one corner, a cowboy on a horse leading cattle across grasslands. The murals had a softly faded quality, like old Polaroids.

Outside, they paused under the inn’s white portico for Mel to light a cigarette.

“
Florida Livestock Journal
?” Louis asked.

Mel shrugged as he pocketed the Zippo. “It was either that or Publishers Clearing House.”

They headed south out of Clewiston, retracing their route to Devil’s Garden. The bartender had said the family home was on a road heading west off the main one. He said to watch for a “big AR arch.” The arch was easy to spot. It spanned the width of the road, an impressive iron thing with
AR
spelled out between cutouts of steers.

There was no gate, so Louis swung the Mustang into the drive. Live oaks bordered neatly fenced pastures dotted with horses. It reminded Louis of the tunnel-tree entrances to the historic antebellum homes in southern Mississippi. After a final bend, a large two-story white house came into view. The plain house was old but well maintained, with wood siding, a peaked metal roof, and a wide veranda complete with rocking chairs. It was a
style Louis had heard someone once call “Florida plantation cracker.”

A new Ford pickup and an old canvas-top Jeep with no windows were parked in the coquina-shell driveway. Two saddled horses were tethered to a post in the shade, their long tails swatting flies.

As they pulled up next to the Jeep, a man came out onto the porch. He was a barrel-chested guy in jeans and denim shirt. His face was hidden below the wide brim of his cowboy hat.

“Can I help you fellas?”

The man’s deep voice carried in the quiet. Louis waited until Mel had gotten out of the Mustang and then approached the porch.

“Mr. Archer?”

“Nope. Who are you?”

Mel had come up beside him. “We’re investigating the homicide of the man found on your land.”

“That so?”

Louis had a better view of the man’s face now. Skin like old leather, a scraggly gray mustache bracketing a hard mouth. No way to read the eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. The man was probably in his sixties, but he was huge, at least six-five and solid. He was standing with legs apart, hands held out from his sides, like a bear guarding his den.

“Can we speak to Mr. Archer, please?” Louis asked.