GIVE THE MAN A HAND
BY J.A. JENSEN
BLACKWATER MARINA, MILTON, FLORIDA
The stench punched me in the nose and made my eyes water.
Living in Florida, I’m used to the smell of death. Thanks to the heat and humidity, everything down here’s in a state of decomposition. During the summer, I keep my car windows up and the AC blasting, for the chill, and also to bypass the smell of roadkill simmering in the sun.
Climbing down from the dock and onto the deck of my boat that late afternoon, I knew something had crawled inside the cabin below and died. I just hoped it wasn’t anyone I knew.
Well, it was, and it wasn’t.
“Matilda,” I asked. “What the hell did you drag in here?”
She backed further into the shadows, curled her tail to protect her prize, and hissed.
“Knock it off,” I said as I reached into the small fridge and pulled out a raw chicken leg.
Matilda lifted her nose and sniffed in my direction. Although she still held some dead thing tucked away, her favorite snack tempted her.
“Trade you.” I shook the leg.
She looked down at her spoil and back up to me. With a sudden lurch, she scuttled my way.
“Good girl,” I said as I backed out onto the deck.
Matilda followed and grunted deep in her throat. I backed up to the railing and dangled the meat over the side. She charged and made a clumsy leap into the air. I let go of the chicken and it plopped into the olive green below. It sank out of sight with Matilda fast behind.
For a caiman, Matilda was quick.
Back inside, I pulled my shirt over my nose to filter a little of the stink as I checked out Matilda’s find. A dying summer sun backed down behind the pines that bordered the marina and hid this part of the cabin in shadow.
I tapped an app on my phone and the room glowed to life. On the floor by the kitchen table sat a human hand.
“Damn,” I muttered through my shirt.
At that moment, my phone blasted out The Kinks singing, “Paranoia” and it dropped to the deck. Of course, it slid across the smooth teak wood and up against the hand. Thanks to the momentum of the phone, the hand lifted like it was waving and landed square onto the “answer” button.
It looked like “Thing” from The Addams Family decided to make a call.
“Hello?” a tinny voice called out. “Fix? Are you there?”
Using a towel from the sink, I eased the phone from under the hand and pushed “speaker”.
“Not a good time, Lisa,” I said.
Her exasperated sigh echoed off the walls.
“It never is with you,” she said. “But never mind that. I need your help.”
I sprayed some Windex on the phone and scrubbed the screen.
“Fix, are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, you need my help,” I said as I inspected the phone for death prints. “Does Camille need more school supplies?”
“Summer break,” she said.
“Oh, right.” I thumped my forehead. “So, what’s up?”
She paused. That worried me. Lisa plowed head-first into things. If she paused, it was serious.
“You remember Commander Nelson?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He was your CO at Al Udeid.”
She paused again.
“His daughter, Megan, is missing,” she said.
I tried to remember the details about Nelson. We’d been to a couple of barbecues at his place in Gulf Breeze before we broke up last year.
“What do you mean missing?” I asked. “Was she kidnapped or did she run away?”
Military kids have a hard lot. With parents that could be transferred at the whim of a president who wanted to lift his leg on some little twig of a country, they often had little time to establish real friendships.
“He doesn’t know,” she said. “They had an argument two days ago, and she stormed off.”
“Jesus, two days ago?” I said.
Her sigh puffed out of the phone.
“It’s summer,” she explained. “He just thought she went to her friend’s house to cool off.”
“But she didn’t,” I said.
Another pause.
“No,” she said. “Her friend’s missing too.”
“So call the police,” I said.
I heard a bark in the background, my dog. Lisa kept him when I moved out. She said Camille needed it to sleep.
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “Chet said he’s been receiving threatening emails lately.”
“What kind?” I asked.
“Nothing specific,” she said. “Just Google photos of his house and screenshots of his daughter’s Instagram account.”
Kids today had to broadcast their every waking hour. Some people called it narcissism. I think it’s just a way of saying, “I’m here, I exist”. Maybe it’s a modern version of “Kilroy Was Here”.
“What makes that threatening?” I asked.
“They’re coming from an IP address that’s been associated with Al Qaeda,” she said.
Not good.
“Just photos?” I asked. “No written threats?”
“No,” she said.
“So it may not have any connection,” I said.
Again the pause.
“There’s blood on the windowsill,” she said.
Getting worse.
“Give me a couple of hours to wrap up things here,” I said. “I’ll meet you at Nelson’s house at 7.”
“Fine,” she said and ended the call before I could say goodbye.
Tempted to call her back, I opened the contacts app and tapped on a number. I had more pressing issues to deal with right then.
Twenty minutes later, my buddy, Corporal Dennis Butte held a freezer bag containing the hand up to the overhead light.
“It’s got some crab nibbles, but it looks like it was cut off,” he said.
I opened two bottles of Guinness and handed him one. A private investigator always needs to be in good with the local police. It helped that I’ve known Dennis since grade school.
“Sounds like something from a bad mob movie,” I said.
“Naw.” He pointed to the cut. “It’s a clean slice. Bad guys usually just hack it off.”
“Serial killer?” I suggested.
He shrugged.
“Anything’s possible,” he said. “Won’t know until the ME takes a look.”
I handed Dennis a small bait cooler, and he dropped the hand inside. We sat down at the table and worked on our stouts.
“You know you’re causing me a buttload of paperwork,” he said after shooting the breeze for a while.
“We’re even,” I shot back. “The CSI creeps will be crawling all over my boat tonight.”
He thought about it and smiled.
“So, that damn gator of yours dragged it in?” He asked.
I held in a beer burp and my eyes watered as it went up my sinuses.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s no telling where she got it.”
Butte shook his head.
“You better watch your ass now that the gator’s got a taste for human flesh.”
“Matilda’s a caiman, not a gator,” I said. “She only likes chicken and mullet.”
“Well, your hair is getting a little long in the back.”
He laughed and took a long draw on the bottle.
“Well, it’s been fun, but I’ve got to split.” I said as I got up and threw the bottle into the recycling bin.
His smile disappeared.
“Hell Fix, you know you can’t go anywhere,” he complained. “The detectives gotta take your statement.”
I put on my ball cap and grabbed my keys.
“You’ve got my statement,” I said. “You know everything I do.”
I didn’t wait for him to argue.
I pulled up to the bayside home of Commander Chet Nelson a little after 8:30. While most of the beach homes around him had immaculate deep green lawns, Nelson appeared to like the natural look of sugar white dunes and sea oats. Painted a sky blue that allowed it to almost blend with the horizon, the two-story home stood on sturdy stilts 20 feet above the crushed shell driveway.
“You’re late,” Lisa called down from the top of the stairs.
“I was giving the sheriff’s department a hand,” I said as I struggled up the stairs.
Nelson greeted me at the door with a crushing handshake. A day’s growth of gray whiskers underscored dark bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. He wore a green flight suit that bore the wrinkles of two days of worry.
“Thanks for coming, Fix,” he said.
Inside, Nelson went over the info that Lisa has already told me. He added little to the overall picture except that there had been no ransom call or email yet.
The living room could have been from a model unit. Other than a few family photos, little else among the modern IKEA style furniture revealed anything about the family that lived there. I chalked it down as the result of too many duty station moves. I also guessed that Nelson, being a widower, contributed to the lack of personality.
“Can I see Megan’s Room?” I asked.
Nelson led me down a hall lined with photos of the family. Each one presented the trio in various backgrounds, the result of many duty stations. Amongst the family shots were a few gaudily framed souvenir photos from various rides at Disneylands around the world. I saw a castle photo from Disneyland Paris, a pirate ship from Disneyland Shanghai, an EPCOT Dome shot from Disney World, and log ride plummet at Disneyland.
The theme park photos did not show the mother.
“It’s just as she left it,” Nelson said as he opened the door to his daughter’s bedroom.
The garish Disney Princess style of the bedroom decor assaulted my senses. Posters of Frozen, Tangled and Brave flanked one wall while the opposite wall displayed The Princess and the Frog, Moana, and Cinderella.
“Holy crap,” I muttered a little too loud.
Walking over to a pink canopy bed, I smoothed out a stray wrinkle. Other than that, the bed looked undisturbed.
“There’s no sign of a struggle,” I said to Nelson.
The father walked over to the window and pulled aside the billowy pink chiffon curtains.
“Except for this.” Nelson pointed to a rust-colored palm print on the sill.
I walked over and examined the print. It did look like blood and measured about the size of a teenager’s hand.
“And it wasn’t here before she went missing?” I asked.
Nelson hesitated.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t go in here often. She likes her privacy. “
Leaning closer to the stains, I saw a tiny glint shimmer from within. I pulled out my dad’s old pen knife and scratched a corner of the color. Holding it on an angle to the light, I sniffed.
“It’s not blood,” I said as I wiped the knife on my pants. “It’s makeup.”
Nelson scoffed.
“Megan doesn’t wear makeup,” he said.
“Not that you know of,” I said as I walked over to a white desk and flipped open the lid of a laptop.
“What’s her password?” I asked.
The father shrugged.
“How the hell should I know?” He replied, face reddening.
Shaking my head, I turned back to the laptop screen.
“I know my daughter’s password for her phone, laptop, and Netflix account,” I said as I tried a few obvious passwords. “From my phone, I can see where she’s at 24-7.”
From his sigh, I knew I’d pushed too far. The poor bastard just lost his daughter and some wise-ass was telling him what a better father he was. I’m sure Lisa could put me in a different light.
“Listen,” I said, closing the laptop. “I have some stuff at my place that can get into Megan’s computer. Hopefully, she has it paired with her phone.”
Nelson’s face registered hope.
“You think you can find her then?” He asked.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to give false hope. But he needed something to cling to.
“As long as her phone’s paired, and she’s got it turned on,” I said as I tucked the laptop under my arm. “There’s a decent chance.”
I got his phone number and email address and then Lisa walked me to the car.
“What do you think?” She asked.
Climbing into my 66’ Mustang, I adjusted the pedal extensions.
“Too early to say,” I closed the door. “I’ll let you know once I get her laptop online.”
She leaned in the window and kissed my cheek.
“Thanks for this Fix,” she said and went back upstairs.
I watched her climb the stairs in the reflection of the rear view mirror and wondered for the millionth time what went wrong. Starting the engine, I put the car in gear. I left the windows down as dark rows of pines sped by along the long road home. The air was still heavy but had a tinge of freshness. Maybe a storm was coming.
Back at my boat, I was relieved to see the CSI guys had cleaned up after their investigation. I’d have to send Dennis a bottle of Makers Mark as a thanks. Booting up my laptop, I connected it to Megan’s computer. I opened a program I got from an associate I know. I’m not sure of the magic behind it. But it’s great at digging out passwords and even key strokes. It’s far from legal. But I’m a PI, not a cop.
While the program ran its wonders, I grabbed a couple of slices of cold pizza and an iced tea. Taking them and my iPad outside, I settled into a chair at the aft of my boat. I tore the crust off of one slice and threw it onto the slatted teak platform of the transom. It’s Matilda’s favorite sleeping spot, and she loved pizza crust.
“Netflix and chill it is,” I said as I opened the movie app.
An hour later, my iPad clunked to the deck and startled me awake. Blinking, I saw yellow eyes reflecting from the water. The crust still sat on the slats.
“Go ahead girl,” I coaxed. “It’s stuffed crust, your favorite.”
She raised her snout a little higher and tested the air. Something was in her mouth.
“Aw, crap,” I said.
Slowly getting to my feet, I quietly eased backwards and into the cabin. Returning aft, I held another raw chicken leg high enough for Matilda to smell and see it. Again, we conducted our morbid exchange. This time, I gained a foot.
Wasting another freezer bag, I called Dennis. He picked up on the eighth ring.
“Damn it, Fix,” he muttered. “Some of us have regular work hours and need to sleep.”
“I found a foot,” I said.
Silence.
“Dennis?” I looked at the phone to see if I’d lost the connection.
A sigh.
“I’m sure as hell not coming out there at this time of night,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, you found it tomorrow morning.”
It was my turn to sigh.
“What am I supposed to do with it until then?” I asked. “You still have my bait cooler.”
I could hear him grunt as he moved around in bed.
“No need to ice it,” he said. “The ME report came back, and the hand had traces of embalming fluid in the skin.”
“Embalming fluid?” I asked. “Funeral homes don’t cut up bodies, do they?”
Dennis yawned.
“I’ve no idea and don’t care,” he said. “Until a missing persons report pops up, it’s just going to be another piece of evidence in the coroner’s freezer.”
I looked down at the foot.
“But, a second body part showing up might open a full case on it,” I said.
He moaned.
“I swear to sweet Baby Jesus that you’d better wait until after 10 AM tomorrow to call me about that foot,” he said.
“I hope I never go missing when you’re off the clock,” I said.
“Goodnight Fix.” And Dennis clicked off.
Leaving the foot out where Matilda might find it didn’t seem like a good idea. I tossed it into the bait well built into the boat and went back inside.
Surprisingly, the program still processed away at Megan’s laptop. She must have used a complicated password app instead of using something simple like her favorite band or birthdate. Tossing the iced tea bottle in recycling, I peeled off my clothes and climbed into bed. A shower could wait until morning.
As I drifted towards sleep, I heard a distant rumble of thunder. My AC hummed away, and I drifted off to the sounds of the river sloshing by in the night.
A loud “PING” woke me.
Picking my phone off its charger, the screen displayed 7 AM. Glancing over to the table, my laptop screen showed the program had completed. Megan’s computer came to life and its desktop icons glowed in the cabin.
“I guess it’s time to go to work,” I said as I stretched and heard my knees crack.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I hobbled over to the kitchen counter and pushed the button on my Keurig to get the water hot. I tossed a breakfast burrito into the microwave and sat down at the table.
“Let’s hope you’re more tech savvy than your old man,” I said as I opened the “Find iPhone” app on her laptop.
A compass briefly popped up. Then, a map of Florida appeared on the screen. Under a blinking icon labeled, “Megan’s MacBook Air” the location indicated my boat mooring. Another blinking icon caught my attention. Displaying the name, “Megan’s iPhone”, it hovered over Central Florida.
“Gotcha,” I said as I zoomed in on the map area.
As the image grew, Orlando appeared on the map. Lake Buena Vista appeared as I further enlarged the screen. Last, the icon pulsed over one name.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as the name, “Magic Kingdom Park” came into focus. “She’s at Disney World.”
Clicking on the “Photos” app, I brought up her photo album. At least 100 photos of two teenage girls with Minnie Mouse tiaras showed them in various poses throughout the park. In each, they were laughing and hamming it up for the camera. I clicked on the latest photo. It displayed a night scene of the castle, bathed in the sparkles of fireworks. The time stamp on the photo was 9:15 PM last night.
“No freakin’ way,” I said as I punched the Instagram app.
Sure enough, the same photos popped up. However, below one photo of the Monorail terminal, Megan had posted a caption.
“Applying for our dream jobs tomorrow, bitches!” It said with three smilie emojis.
Too pissed at the girls to make a calm call, I made copies of all the posts and emailed them to Nelson and cc’d Lisa. Maybe the eight-hour drive home from Orlando would give the guy some time to become a better part of his daughter’s life.
In the meantime, I had no room to talk. Besides, I had other problems afoot.
Unplugging my laptop from Megan’s, I brought up Google Maps and typed “mortuaries” into the search. Red pins popped up over the nearest ones to me. Only one, Bry Brothers Funeral Home, sat near the river. I sent the directions to my phone and headed out.
Sitting well back from the road, the Bry Brother’s Funeral Home occupied a two-story Victorian style home that had been built in the 20s by shrimp boat captain. There had been a write up on it in a recent article about the local historic homes tour.
I followed the circular drive and parked under a canvas canopy. The place appeared closed.
As soon I opened the door, my sunglasses fogged from the growing heat of the morning. Walking around the side of the main building, I saw a large warehouse-sized aluminum structure that ended in a raised boat dock. A large commercial chimney stack rose about twenty feet above the roof.
“Let see what we can see,” I said to myself as I walked over to the pier.
Looking over the end, I saw a ladder that lowered onto a small aluminum bass boat. Two filthy blue plastic bags lay over the bench seats.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to see a tall, spray-tanned guy walking towards me. Instead of the stereotypical black funeral director’s suit, he was dressed in a light blue seersucker outfit. The combination was part country lawyer and part used car salesman.
“My name’s Butch Larson,” I said as I held out my hand. “But most people call me Fix.”
The man took my hand and placed his other one on top. I call it the concerned sandwich grip.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Larson,” he said with a pasted smile. “Beau Bry at your service.”
I gestured towards the end of the dock.
“I was admiring your view of the river,” I said.
Bry held an open hand towards the house.
“Oh, you should see it from the chapel room in the house.” He took a step in that direction with his gaze still on me. “It’s positioned to give the grieving a peaceful scene to compliment the service.”
Ignoring his offer, I walked back towards the edge.
“When business is slow, do you fish much?” I asked.
He lowered his hand but still stayed half facing the home.
“No,” he said as his smile faded a little. “That boat belongs to my brother, Bobby.”
“What’s this building here?” I said, pointing to the warehouse.
Bry walked to the front of a large sliding door.
“It’s mainly for inventory storage,” he said. “And it also houses our crematorium.”
“Storage?” I asked.
“Coffins.”
I nodded and felt a little flutter in my stomach. Coffins give me the creeps. Walking over to the door, I placed a hand on the aluminum slats.
“Sounds interesting,” I said. “Could I see?”
His smile disappeared.
“Just what is your business here today, Mr. Larson?”
I handed him one of my cards.
“Have you had any burglaries lately?” I asked.
Bry held the card like it was a dirty diaper.
“We have nothing of value to steal,” he said. “So, no.”
I took a few steps back and looked up at the chimney. No smoke today. I guess no Pope was elected.
“Do you get many John Doe’s or is every body that you receive claimed before they’re buried?” I asked.
Bry gave up trying to get me up to the house and folded his arms.
“If you mean do we have a Potter’s field, then no,” he said. “However, we do have a contract with the county to cremate any unclaimed remains. That includes the State Prison.”
We both jumped a little when we heard the whir of a motor and the huge garage door slowly opened. A sweaty bald guy of about forty walked out with his head down. He was grunting under the weight of two full plastic bags. They were identical to the ones in the boat.
He looked up and dropped the bags.
“Holy crap,” he said as he walked up to me. “You look that Tyrion guy from Game of Thrones.”
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he raised his hand level with his chest.
“You know,” he said. “That m-”
“Before you continue with that “M” word.” I took a step towards him. “It would do well for you to note that my fist is perfectly aligned with your testicles.”
He backed up and absently placed a hand on his crotch.
“Bobby,” Bry said as he stepped between us. “Take the trash to the boat and get going.”
Bobby looked from his brother to me. His expression betrayed the confusion whether to listen to his brother or try to pick a fight with me.
“Bobby,” Bry’s tone rose a pitch.
Bobby jerked up the two sacks and brushed by me.
“Peter Dinklage is 4’4”,” I said as he walked towards the end of the dock. “I’m 4’6”.”
The bag in his right-hand split. A grey human torso and two legs thumped onto the wood planks.
I pulled out my phone and speed dialed Dennis.
“Wait, Mr. Larson,” Bry stammered as he waved his arms. “I can explain everything. Just hang up the phone.”
Dennis picked up.
“Come out to the Bry Brothers Funeral Home, now,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“You’ve got a hell of a lot of paperwork ahead of you,” I said.
“Damn it, Fix,” he said and hung up.
I heard Bobby sneaking up behind me. I pulled a collapsable baton out of a holster on my belt and flicked it out.
“Just sit yourself down, dumbass,” I said as I pointed at him.
“Mr. Larson, Fix, let me explain.” Bry was nearly blubbering. “Our crematorium oven broke down. We would lose our contract if the county found out.”
I swung the baton around to point at him.
“So you were just going to feed the parts to the gators?” I asked.
Bry shook his head and sweat peppered the air.
“It was just until the end of the month until a new part came in,” he pleaded. “They’re just John Doe’s. They belong to nobody.”
It was too much for me to comprehend.
“What the hell have you been sending the county for burial?” I asked.
Bry lowered his head and mumbled something.
“What?” I asked.
“We used ash from Phil’s BBQ joint down in town,” Bobby spoke up.
Dennis arrived several minutes later with his lights and sirens blazing. Two other sheriff’s cars skidded to a stop behind him. It must be a slow crime day and everyone wanted in on some action.
After filling him in on everything, I jumped in my Mustang and headed home. I pulled up Springsteen’s “Born to Run” album on my phone and rolled down my window as the scratchy tones of The Boss blared out of my speakers.
Later that evening, I was kicking back on the aft end of my boat. A crescent moon rose above the pine trees and a light breeze played at the Florida Seminoles flag flying on the jack-staff.
“Permission to come aboard,” Lisa called out from the dock.
I jumped up and saw her climbing down with Camille close behind. My daughter had two pizza boxes while Lisa carried a six-pack of Mexican Cokes.
“I thought you deserved a victory dinner,” Lisa said.
For a rare moment, I was speechless.
“Thanks for all you did, Fix,” Lisa said as she set the boxes on a table.
“You’re welcome,” was all I could manage.
Camille broke the awkwardness.
“I’ll go get some plates and napkins,” she said.
Lisa sat down beside me and we both stared out at the water. Time and worries flowed away for a moment.
“Nelson found out who emailed the threats,” Lisa said.
I leaned forward and grabbed two bottles.
“I’m betting it wasn’t Al Qaeda,” I said as I handed her one.
“No.” she said as she sat back and crossed her legs. “An old shipmate who Nelson had brought up on sexual harassment changes did it. They kicked the guy out of the Navy with a dishonorable discharge, and he held a huge grudge.”
That made more sense than the terrorism scenario. If Al Qaeda wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have sent a warning.
A comfortable silence settled again.
Lisa sat up and pointed.
“What are those yellow eyes?” She asked.
I sat back and opened a Coke.
“That’s Matilda,” I said. “Just make sure you save her the crust.”
###
