Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (18 page)

“Archie’s out with Pamela tonight,” he began. “He’s having to tell her a load of nonsense just to eliminate her as a suspect. I hope she falls for it, otherwise it could get ugly and I think he really likes her. He insisted that he be the one to tell her and not me.”

“That was good of him. He’d better be a good actor, though. She’s as smart as a whip and you’re right; I don’t like to even think of the fall-out if she guesses she’s under suspicion. She’ll be mightily offended. You’re a little worried about him? Archie’s a real friend, isn’t he? How long have you known each other?”

“Ever since he came to Bermuda. He’s been here about five years now. We got along immediately. He’s such a straight arrow and such a lot of fun. My grandmother thinks he can do no wrong. If she only knew some of the antics he gets up to! I
am
worried about him. I think he’s really fallen for Pamela; she’s a really good police officer – there’s nothing she can’t find out on the computer - and a wonderful person with a great future in the police. If things don’t work out, it could damage morale in the department. You know what these office romances can be like and I’d sure hate to lose either one of them from my department.”

“Well, to be honest, I can’t tell you what office romances are like. In my experience, people who work in the morgue tend not to get together. I guess we need to get away from all the blood and guts so we all date people with ‘normal’ jobs – not that your job is particularly normal either!”

Burgess cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer. “I wish I could tell you something earth shattering but it’s really quite mundane. I always loved a puzzle. As a little kid I used to read the Hardy Boys and any mystery novels I could find at the library. My grandmother was a teacher so she always encouraged me to read.”

“Yes, I noticed in your apartment a lot of books quite a few of them murder mystery novels. Don’t you get kind of tired of murder and mayhem. After all, it’s your job?”

“Not at all. I even watch murder mysteries on TV when I get a chance. When I was over in England for training I would always watch the different detective series they had on TV. Let me see, there was Inspector Morse. That was set in Oxford, then Wycliffe, filmed in Devon, I seem to remember. Oh, and there was one of my favourites, Taggart. That was set in Glasgow in Scotland. He had such a strong accent it took me weeks to understand what he was on about! They all had great story lines, some of the plots were quite ingenious, and each detective so different in his approach to a case. I’m always on the look out for tips.

And, when I watch those English period detective series like Foyle’s War, which is set in England during World War II, and Sherlock Holmes and Poirot which go back to the Victorian era and late 1920’s, it’s amazing to me that they ever caught anyone before computers and forensics. Those detectives had to be so switched on to details and then prove their cases without all the knowledge and lab equipment we have today. Forensic science has sure made our job easier.” He stopped, took a breath and then continued smoothly. “Speaking of forensics, what made you decide to become a pathologist?” Burgess was quite proud of how he managed to segue into the question that he had been waiting to pose for so long.

Her face clouded for a moment as she twisted a strand of her hair between her fingers. He noticed how slender they were with the tips manicured in the French way so as to look natural. He could see she was deliberating whether to give him the full story or the abbreviated version. He felt that it was a reasonable question, given that she had just asked him the same thing, so he allowed the silence between them to grow.

“My parents met at college in Georgia and married and lived there. When I was twelve, my mother was mugged on the way to the MARTA train station and later died. It was only thanks to a dedicated lady medical examiner that they found - and were able to convict the killer; would you believe a thirteen year old crack head? From then on, I decided that was what I wanted to do. I cannot tell you how important it was for me to have closure… to know that my mother’s murderer was not at large and enjoying life while she was dead and we were all so… stunned; so unbelievably sad. My father never got over it and died shortly afterwards, weak heart apparently. My uncle became my guardian and made sure I got through college and medical school. He has a plumbing business here which does very well.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I can understand how you feel. I see the effect that crime has on families every day. You have the physical victims and then those that are left behind – the emotional victims. It’s brutal to see families torn apart by violent crime. Take the parents of Rhonda Mayberry, for example. I know that they feel a terrible loss, but at least they know we have the murderer in captivity. That has got to help. Now we’ve got to secure a conviction. I always feel that the police are on trial when they try and trip us up on technicalities and all. Anyway, with you on board and Jan and her team assisting our forensics guys, I think we have a pretty airtight case... Here I go, talking about the job again!”

“Okay, let’s deliberately change the subject. What movies have you seen lately?”

Glad for a chance to talk light-heartedly, they launched into a lively debate about recent movies, their likes and dislikes, the Bermuda International Film Festival and music. Burgess was pleased to hear that Jacintha liked to run in the mornings and they set a date to run together once a week. She lived in Devonshire, about ten minutes from Burgess, so it would be easy to get together. He was also fascinated to hear that she had once run in the Boston marathon, having first tested her mettle in the Peach Tree Road Race in Atlanta… evidently a woman of true grit. He had often run in the May 24
^th
race in Bermuda and found that gruelling enough.

“Running is a way for me to alleviate the stress of my job,” she told him. “Until this recent spate of deaths, I have to admit though, I haven’t been that busy.”

“I know what you mean. When you think of the past few days, it’s like all hell has broken loose. I can’t help thinking that we are missing something. I’m not sure that this ‘Captain’ guy is where it all ends. I’m sure that sooner or later we’ll find him and I don’t believe that any drug baron worth his salt would be that easy to apprehend. In my experience, they generally have several layers of insulation in terms of middlemen so that they’re not easily, if ever, caught. Usually, we can arrest the bottom feeders and on up. You know what I’m saying?”

“I’m with you all the way. I think you’re on to something. For an operation this big, there has to be somebody much higher up the food chain running the show. Maybe they’re not even in Bermuda. Do you think the island’s been infiltrated by a cartel? Who can tell?”

“One of the things I think we need to do is get Narcotics to shake down the boys on Court Street. This Frenchie guy. He seems to be the Bermuda connection. I wonder where the Captain fits in. You know, sometimes, they even “invent” a person higher up than themselves so that they look like small fry when really they’re the ones in charge. It seems to me that Frenchie is at the heart of all the dealing around here, so I hope that Inspector Dill’s men can get to the bottom of things with that crowd. Here we go again, talking about the case. Sorry, Jacintha. I guess it’s really on my mind.”

“My fault, I started it.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Okay, let’s change the subject again. Tell me about your parents. You mentioned once that they had retired to Costa Rica?”

“Yes, to Guanacaste, an area in the north near the border with Nicaragua. It’s really very lovely. I visited them there and they love it. Dad even has a hammock strung between two trees. My mother complains he spends way too much time there! He always said when he retired he wanted to lie in a hammock with a long beer … or was it a
strong
beer?” He chuckled and rubbed the corner of his eye with his index finger. “I remember how green it was and the fields of maize with flocks of bright green parakeets flying around. They’re really noisy but it all seemed so exotic. They’re big into eco-tourism over there, you know, so you can go into the jungle and see all sorts of creatures and they have wires set up in the trees so you can swing through the jungle canopy like Tarzan. It’s awesome. Oh, and in Guanacaste the beaches all have that black volcanic sand except for two, Playa Flamingo and Playa Conchal. For some reason they have white sand. It’s quite amazing to see.”

“Sounds wonderful. I had heard that it’s a very popular tourist destination. I know one or two people who have bought retirement homes over there.”

Burgess began to finally relax in Jacintha’s company and the worries of the day began to dissipate as the food and drink took effect. He realized, however, that he was exhausted. He had been running on adrenaline for several days and the relaxing of the tension was actually leaving him drained. Almost as if to the rescue, the Maître d’ came along.

“Sir,” he said as he put a dessert menu in front of them both. “We have just been watching you on TV in the bar. You have become quite the local hero. Thank goodness you were able to catch that criminal so quickly. The Manager wants to let you know that your dinner is on the house tonight. Sorry I wasn’t able to persuade the chef about the potato; maybe if you could catch whoever stole his bike two years ago!”

They all laughed and Burgess asked him to thank the manager. They both decided to forego the offer of dessert, opting for an early night instead. As they made their way out of the restaurant, several patrons in the bar began to clap. Burgess was embarrassed at all the attention. Jacintha, however, held her head high. She was proud as hell to be in the company of this singular man.

Chapter 36

As Jacintha and Burgess were leaving the restaurant, four men sat around a table, cards tightly held, cigarettes clamped between teeth. Each one was an accomplished poker player and sometimes the stakes could get pretty high. Already there was a pall of smoke over the dining table which had been thoughtfully covered with a green felt cloth by the host’s wife who had left early for an evening at the movies with a neighbour. Judging by the amount of doilies on couch armrests and under china ornaments, she was also an aficionado of crocheting. An electric fan had been set up on a side table and at intervals dispersed the smoke around the room. On the sideboard next to the dining table, she had laid out plates of cheese, crackers, salami, ham and potato salad for them to graze on during the game. A bottle of vodka and another of whisky lay open next to the food. A red and white plastic beach cooler filled with ice, sat next to the host’s chair and housed several different brands of bottled beer. All in all, they could reach food and drink without even having to lift their bottoms off their chairs. Perfect.

They had been playing for some time with much banter and laughter as money was won and lost. Furbert noticed, however, that they were careful not to give him a hard time when he lost. Instead of feeling grateful, he felt patronized. The stigma of constantly losing was eating away at his self-confidence whilst increasing his frustration. The tension in the room had begun to rise as more money came into play. Furbert recognized all the signs of yet another bad evening and he forced himself not to lick the beads of sweat from his top lip. Every now and then, complaining about the hot evening, he would take out his handkerchief and, in a show of wiping his entire face and neck, would wipe them away. He was quite certain the others were not fooled and sensed his growing anxiety, but in this way, he at least felt like he was saving face. For three weeks now he had been on a losing streak and incapable of making up his losses. He was just as experienced as his fellow players however, one in particular, a lawyer, was especially good; one of the best on the island. Furbert had always enjoyed these evenings and until the past three weeks or so, had managed to hold his own; but lately nothing had been going his way. His pal, Butterfield, who was a bartender at the Police Recreation Club was a good bluffer and always appeared flush with cash. He had borrowed money from Butterfield on several occasions. They had become quite good friends and Furbert often found himself unloading to him after work over at the Club. Perhaps being sympathetic and a good listener really was part of the job and Butterfield always seemed to have a word of encouragement. Furbert was now in debt to him for about three grand but luckily he hadn’t asked for it back yet. Tonight Furbert knew he would need to win it back, or at least some of it, so he could square things with him… if he could just get a decent break. He found it hard to concentrate. His mind was paralysed with “what ifs”.
What if he kept on losing? What if he had to stop before having a chance to make it up? What if this next game helped to get him back on his feet?
He found himself only half listening to the others as, inevitably, the conversation got on to the murders and drug deaths. After all, it was the talk of the whole island and these men were all connected in some way to the fraternity committed to upholding law and order.

The lawyer seemed to have a lot of inside information and between rounds was filling them all in.

“I hear from a friend who works over at the prison that this Jamaican guy is not as tough as he makes out. Seems he’s afraid to stay in Southwall and wants to cut a deal; go back to Jamaica.”

“I’m not surprised,” commented their host. “There’s probably not a lot of love lost between the Jamaican and Bermudian prisoners, especially if one is in for killing a Bermudian.”