The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) (19 page)

He lay on his side, breathing hard as the sheriff approached.  Bo Watson held the dogs back at a safe distance.  I came down from the embankment and watched.  “Read him his rights, Barry,” the sheriff said.  After rights were read, the sheriff grunted. “What’s your name?”

“Luke Palmer,” the man said, through a hoarse whisper.

“Mr. Palmer, you’re one lucky fella.  You came seconds from being ripped apart by two big gators in the middle of the river.  Nobody would have ever found your body unless they looked for your smallest, indigestible bones in gator shit up on the bank somewhere.  That man over there, Mr. O’Brien, saved you life.”

Palmer said nothing.  He looked at me and then at the sheriff.

The sheriff glanced across the river then down at Palmer.  “So since we saved your life, I’d say you owe us one, big time.  Now why don’t you go on and tell us how you happened to kill those college kids.  I know things happen, things come up and people act accordingly.  Maybe there were extenuating circumstances in their deaths, self-defense.  We’d like to hear it, like to hear it from your point-of-view.”

Palmer sat up on his knees.  He slowly stood.  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

“We have a water jug found near the bodies.  We have some of your clothing here on the bank.  Looks like dried blood to me.  And we have that spear thing you’ve apparently been toting.  They’ll tell us the rest of the story.”

Palmer said nothing, his breathing still heavy.  Detective Sandberg stepped up to Palmer.  “The St. Johns River has a way of settling debts.  Like the sheriff said, you’re a lucky man.  I remember driving across the State Road 44 Bridge, which crosses this very river not too far from here.  From top of that bridge, about a month ago, saw a deer trying to swim across.  Made it half way before a gator took him under.”

Palmer slowly looked up, his dark eyes locking on the detective’s face.  

“I only mention this because you buried the deer on top of those kids.  Why’d you do it?  Thought it’d hide the smell of decomposing human bodies, huh?  Did you kill Mark first and then rape Molly before killing her?”

“I didn’t kill or rape nobody.”

“Then why’d you run from us?”

“I saw who did shoot those kids, but I figured the law wouldn’t believe me.  Heard the dogs and helicopters, and thought I’d move on.”

Sandberg’s eyebrows rose.  “Okay, then, who killed them?”

Palmer took a deep breath, water dripping from his hair and down his face.  A white heron flew low across the river.  “I can recognize him if I see him.  Dark skinned dude, a little guy.  Sharp dresser.  Smoked a cigar.  He was with two others.  They had their backs toward me, but the one guy’s face I did see.  And, if I see it again, I’ll recognize it.  I saw him in the backseat of a car that comes and goes in here.”

“Comes and goes where?” asked the sheriff.

“I’ve seen it on a back dirt road between that bombing range and Juniper Springs.  A black Ford SUV, usually three men.  The one always in the backseat was the shooter.”

“You say his skin is dark, a black man?” asked the sheriff.

“No, like the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in some of the gangs.”

Sandberg said.  “You mean prison gangs, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“How long were you in for?”

“Forty years.  San Quentin.”

“Why?”

Palmer hesitated, his eyes scanning the officers in the background.  “I killed a man in self-defense.”

“Maybe that’s what happened here, with the college kids.  Maybe one of ‘em came at you with a knife, again self-defense.  Where’s the gun you used?”

“I didn’t kill them.  I don’t own a gun.  Couldn’t buy one if I wanted to.”   

The sheriff sighed.  “Makes no sense to run unless you have something to hide.  We’ll find it, whatever it is.”

Palmer shook his head.  “Cops, your type never changes.  Far as I’m concerned you all can—”

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, handing the rifle to a deputy.  “The first death, the girl with the fairy wings.  Did you know her?”  The sheriff leveled a hard look to me.

 “I didn’t really know her.  I’d met her.”

“And was it some kind of festive celebration?”

“There was a big bon fire, lots of hippie kids hootin’ and dancing.”

“Wait a minute, O’Brien,” the sheriff began.

I said, “Mr. Palmer, did you see anyone at that celebration that may have resembled any of the three men who killed the college kids?”

“Maybe, now that you mention it.  There was one dude that night, looked out of place.  It was dark, but under the moon and light from the bon fire, I saw his face, and saw what he was wearing that night.  Red T-shirt… the words Sloppy Joe’s - Key West on it.”

“O’Brien!” snapped the sheriff.

“Bear with me, please, Sheriff.  Mr. Palmer, what did the girl in the fairy wings say to you that night?”

“She said her name was Evening Star, and she said she’d call me Night Raven.”

“What else?”  I stepped closer, centered on his eyes.

He blew a long breath from deep within his lungs, looked at the dogs, his eyes meeting mine.  “She gave me a hug… and…”

“And?”

“And said I was… she said I was loved.”

“That’s sweet,” said the sheriff.  “Did you bury her in that grave?”

“Hell no, but I found her there when I was hunting for… artifacts.  Saw fresh turned earth and thought someone was following me, digging where I was digging.  I vomited my guts out in the bushes and just got away from there.”

I said, “That’s understood.  Did you see the man in the red T-shirt again?”

Detective Sandberg cleared his throat.  “Enough, O’Brien.  You’re not in a position to question a suspect further.”

I smiled.  “Don’t need to.”

“Why’s that?” the sheriff asked.

“Because he said all I need to know.”  Luke Palmer looked over at me, guarded, but with something I felt he hadn’t seen in years.

Hope.   

FORTY-SIX

After Luke Palmer was hauled from the river and delivered to the command center, deputies carefully labeled and packaged his belongings.  The sheriff turned to me. “He’s guilty.  No doubt in my mind.  How’d you get two shots off so fast it sounded like one, huh?”

“Lots of practice.”

The sheriff fished for a cigarette.  “You don’t think he killed ‘em kids, do you?”

“No.  This man described the killer.  I think Frank Soto works for the killer.”

Detective Sandberg said, “You’re wrong O’Brien.  Evidence will bear it out.  There’s no doubt in my mind.”

I smiled and said, “The red T-shirt he was describing, he mentioned Sloppy Joes was on it.  That’s the same T-shirt Soto wore the morning he tried to abduct Molly and Elizabeth Monroe.  That wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the media, and this guy’s been out here so long, chances are if news media mentioned it, he wouldn’t have seen it.”

“How do we really know how long he’s been out here?” Sandberg asked.

“Because he fits the description of the guy that ranger Ed Crews mentioned seeing, not once, but twice.  Look at his stuff left here on the bank, small tent, backpack and the steel rod.  He’s not staying at a hotel.  He’s been living out here, looking for something.  I think he found the body of Nicole Davenport and saw Molly and Mark get killed.”

”Maybe,” said the sheriff, lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke though his nostrils.  “Odds are strong that Palmer’s our killer.  Why else would an ex-con swim across the most alligator-infested river in America rather than face us.”

“If he’d spent forty years in San Quentin prison, recently released, he probably has little knowledge of alligators in rivers.  Gators aren’t found in the wild in California.  When the adrenaline’s pumping, and you’re faced with a potential return to prison, maybe a long swim across a flat and calm river seems the best alternative.”

The sheriff shook his head, took a final drag from the cigarette.  “Come on,” he said to Detective Sandberg.

As they were walking away, I said, “Sheriff, I’ll need a ride back to the command post.  I volunteered my Jeep to help get Deputy Rodriguez to a medical team.”

“Okay, but now I’ve got to face the media, and I don’t want you in the vicinity.  Understand?  I recognize your concern, and we appreciate your help.  You probably were a good detective in your day, but you don’t work for me.”

AT THAT COMMAND CENTER, Luke Palmer was transferred from a four-wheel-drive Land Rover to a cruiser.  A half dozen deputies and investigators coordinated the move.    Palmer looked at the mob of reporters, each one jockeying for a better camera position.  Not too much different from the gangs in the yard, he thought.  Better dressed, maybe.

While they escorted him to a waiting cruiser, through the flashing lights, he spotted a lone woman.  She stepped out from an open tent and stared at him.  To Palmer it felt like the progression of time stopped in its tracks for a few seconds.  All sound, the hum of diesels, the crackle of police radios faded as her eyes meet his.  She folded her arms across her breasts.  It looked like she had been crying.  There was something familiar about her.  Who was she?

“Did you kill those college kids?” shouted one reporter, microphone extended.

The media crowded as close as reporters and photographers could get.

Palmer said nothing.

“How long have you been out here?” another reporter asked.

“Stand back!” ordered one of the deputies escorting Palmer.  A sweating deputy placed his hand on Palmer’s head and guided him into the backseat of the cruiser. 

“Stand away from the vehicle!” shouted an officer.

“Rolling…” said a cameraman, holding a video camera on his shoulder.

A blond reporter stood with her back to the sheriff’s cars, microphone gripped in her manicured hand.  “Police say that Luke Palmer, released from San Quentin prison, is a drifter.  The two bodies found today bring the total to three.  If Palmer’s convicted of three murders, he’ll then be compared to serial killer Aileen Wuornos, another killer who used the Ocala National Forest to dispose of bodies.  Now back to you in the studio.”

TV camera operators flanked both sides of the car, lens touching the glass windshields.  Palmer stared straight ahead.  He was an ex con now back in a police car, a ride he took more than forty years ago.  And now images of his face were beaming from a national forest to a national audience.

FORTY-SEVEN

I walked over to Elizabeth while Detective Sandberg and the sheriff stood in front of the media to answer more questions.  The patrol car transporting Palmer pulled away.  It was preceded and followed by two other cruisers with flashing lights.  Three news cars joined the end of the parade, Palmer now heading to Ocala to be questioned further and booked on murder charges.

One reporter fired a question, “Do you think Palmer is responsible for the death of Nicole Davenport, the teen found in the grave earlier?”

“We’ll compare forensics,” said the sheriff.  “The answer to that question will come pending further analysis.”

“What is the condition of the deputy bitten by a snake?” asked another reporter.

“He’s been taken to the hospital.  We’re praying for a full recovery.”

I went to Elizabeth where she stood by herself under a tall pine tree and watched the news conference.  I told her what happened as a single tear spilled from her eyes.  She used her palm to wipe it away.  “Why… why did he kill Molly and Mark?”

“He says he didn’t do it.”

She looked at me through swollen, bloodshot eyes.  “Do you believe him?”

“He said that there were three men.  One of the three shot Molly and Mark.”

“You didn’t answer me, Sean.  Do
you
believe him?”  Another tear trickled down her cheek.

“I believe there’s a possibility he didn’t do it.”

“
Why
would you say that?”

“Because I’ve made the mistake of letting physical evidence speak louder than my gut or conscience and people have paid the price for it.”

“He’s evil and he has no conscience.  He’s a cold-blooded killer.”

I said nothing.

“He’s a psychopath!  Can’t you see that?  This man, a person who gunned down my daughter and her boyfriend, has been running around the woods like a rabid animal.  And like a sick animal, he needs to be put down.  How in God’s name did he get out of prison?  Why is he free?  Can
anybody
answer that for me?”  Her fists balled.

“He served his time, but I don’t think he’s free.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He didn’t try to kidnap you and Molly.  And now he believes he’s heading back to spend the rest of his life in prison.  But he’s not in California anymore, and the man behind the black curtain in Florida is a state-sanctioned executioner.”