The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) (22 page)

There was a small cemetery to the left of the church.  I got out of the Jeep and stood under a bough of the old oak.  A blackbird flew from the tree to a cedar near the church.  Speckled light flickered across the small graveyard.  Some of the old headstones tipped to the right under pressure of the huge oak’s hidden roots. 

I thought about Elizabeth’s voice message, a plea really, for me to attend Molly’s funeral.  I started to get back in the Jeep, but I found myself walking around it up two wooden steps leading to the church door.  I touched the door handle.  The faded brass was cool in my hand, the sun’s hot breath on my neck.  I looked to my left and caught the blackbird quietly staring at me from the top of the cedar tree.  Spanish moss was motionless in a morning with air that felt dense and somehow trapped.   

I turned the handle.  The door opened, slowly yawning wide, almost as if it inhaled the humid air outside.  I stepped in, wondering if the door would slam behind me.  The old church smelled of age, the hidden scent of worn Bibles, faded flowers and starched clothes.

There were about a dozen wooden pews separated by an aisle that led to the pulpit.  Hanging from the dais was a satin white cloth with the image of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak.  Behind the podium was a stained glass window displaying an image of a man in a river, his hair wet, eyes wide, and his hand locked in the hand of Jesus.

I remembered how Luke Palmer looked as the deputies pulled his exhausted body out of the river.  I sat in the first pew, immersed in silence, and simply stared at the imagery in the stained glass.  The sunlight and breeze moving through the trees gave the colors a suggestion of motion.  

I thought of my wife, Sherri.  I could almost see her face somewhere through the painted glass, and I could just about feel her presence on the pew beside me.  I wanted to reach out and take her hand, to hold it like I’d done on too few Sundays in church.  I looked beside me, expecting to see her and to somehow hold her hand for one more stolen moment in time.

There was nothing, only a long, empty pew supporting a lone Bible.  A bookmark in the shape of an angel protruded from the center of the Bible.  I opened it to the marked spot, the twenty-third chapter of Psalms.  After a minute, I got up and walked to the door.  It was closed, and I remembered that I did not shut it.  But why didn’t I hear it close?

I’d left my Glock between the seats of my unlocked Jeep.  Had someone taken my gun?  Were they standing on the other side of the church door? 
Careless,
I thought. There were no windows facing that section of the church.  I moved to one side of the door and jerked it open.  I could feel the warm breeze entering.  From where I stood, I saw my Jeep.  There was no one around it.  I stepped outside.  A man with a head full of cotton-white hair stood on the small porch.  His beard came down to the first opened button on his sweat-stained, blue jean shirt.  His eyes were bright as the blue river in the stained glass window.  He reached out his hand.  “Mornin,’ glad you could stop in our little church.  I’m Paul Goodard.  I double as the groundskeeper most days and the minister most Sundays.  They call me Preacher Paul.  What do they call you?”

“Sean O’Brien, nice to meet you.  I was just leaving.”

 He had a firm grip.  Releasing my hand, he said, “Saw you in there and thought I’d close the door to give you some privacy.”

“Guess I was in deep thought.  Didn’t even hear you close the door.”

“Keep the hinges well oiled.”

“Noticed that when I opened it.”

“We’d love to have you join our church family.”

“Thanks, Preacher Paul, but I’m just passing through.”

He studied me for a moment.  I nodded and stepped around him.

“We’re all passing through, you know.  I hope you got what you came for.”  His beard parted in a wide smile.

I turned back to him.  “Thank you.”

“Is there anything that you might want to talk about?”

“No thanks.”

“Please forgive my forwardness, but you seem deeply troubled.  Maybe I could help.”

I nodded.  “I’m fine.  Need to be going.”

“Going from something, Mr. O’Brien, or going into something.”

“In a way, I suppose, it’s a little of both.  And, I imagine we’re all in that boat from time to time.”  I turned to leave.

“We are.  But I suspect you find yourself on those troubled waters more frequent than most.”

I didn’t turn around.  I heard the blackbird cry out from the cedar tree as the old preacher said, “God walks with you.  You may not see his footprints, but He’s with you if you let Him join you.  You’ll find He makes an excellent traveling companion.  Doesn’t need food or water.  All He asks is that you let him walk the walk with you.  You do that, Mr. O’Brien, and he’ll lead you through the valley of death.”

I stopped at the Jeep door and turned around.  Preacher Paul had gone.  The church door was closed.  The blackbird flew from the cedar and alighted on a tall tombstone that was pushed over by an invisible root hidden beneath the dark earth.            

FIFTY-THREE

Detective Ed Sandberg was waiting in Sheriff Clayton’s office when the receptionist said Clayton would see me.  The sheriff sat behind a large wooden desk.  Neatly stacked piles of paper and case folders covering half the desk.  Behind him were framed certificates and photos of members of congress, a former governor, a Florida Supreme Court judge and former President George W. Bush.

Detective Sandberg was seated to the left of the sheriff’s desk.

“What do you have O’Brien?” the sheriff asked, his voice clipped.  “News media are crawling all over this damn building.  I’m meeting with the DA at 1:30.”

“These came from Molly Monroe’s camera, the week she and her boyfriend were scouting the forest for a place to release butterflies.  The images were shot before Frank Soto jumped Molly and her mother in the Walmart lot.”  I opened my folder and spread the photos in front of the sheriff.  He put on glasses and studied each one, grunting once as he passed the pictures to Detective Sandberg.

I said, “That’s Frank Soto to the right.  I don’t have an ID on the guy near him.”

“It could be Palmer,” Detective Sandberg said.

“Don’t think so.  Here’s why.”  I slid the close-up photo of the man’s mid-section.  “The guy in the picture is wearing a wedding band and a wristwatch.  Palmer certainly isn’t married, and he has no watch.”

“How do you know?” the sheriff asked.

“I remember looking at his hands when he came out of the river.”

“Is that right?”

“Sheriff, look behind the men in the photo next to you.  See the marijuana plants I told you about on the phone?  I think that’s the reason Molly and Mark were killed.  The perps thought she’d snapped pictures of their pot operation.  They wanted to stop her.”

Sandberg nodded.  “Major pot farmers don’t play around.  They usually have the grunts tending the crops while they’re away in some penthouse.  These guys will do anything to protect a big field, including setting booby traps and, of course, murder.”

The sheriff turned to Sandberg.  “Get a chopper in the sky.  Do recon aerials over the forest.  See if we can spot this field.  Take a ground crew and fan out in all directions from where we found the bodies.  Okay, O’Brien, we’ll give it a go.  See what we can find, but I’m
telling
you that Palmer is involved in all this.  He’s bad news.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“It’s a damn
probably
.  Look, we found the deer blood on Palmer’s clothes.  Matches the blood from the deer in the grave.  If he didn’t shoot them, he buried them.”

“In questioning, how did he say the blood got on his clothes?”

The sheriff stood, picked at a hangnail, his eyes distant.  “Palmer tells us he heard shots.  A few minutes later says he saw a wounded deer deep in the woods.  Said he was going to slip up on the deer, slit its throat and cook some of the meat.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“Why should we?  Look at the physical evidence.  With his connection to the first murder, I believe he was involved in the last two.”

“When you dug the bullet out of the tree, what did you find?”

Detective Sandberg said, “.30-.30 caliber.”

“Did you find a bullet in the deer?”

“No.  It’s the same with Molly and Mark because the bullets had exited them.”

“But did it exit the deer?”

The sheriff folded his arms.  “I see what you’re driving at, O’Brien.  The ME did thorough autopsies on the college kids.  He also looked at the deer carcass.”

“And he couldn’t find the bullet.”

“No,” said Detective Sandberg.

Sheriff Clayton’s chest swelled.  He pursed his dry lips.  “Ed, go on and hit the forest with a team.  Lemme know if you find something.  I’ll keep my 1:30 with the DA.   Palmer will get a hearing, but I’m sure he’ll never make bond.  Bet after all those years in prison, he doesn’t have too many friends who’d help him.”

I said, “When do you expect DNA results on the cigar found in the grave?”

“We have an extreme rush on it,” said Sandberg.

“Sheriff, I’d like to see speak with Palmer.”

“I understand you worked homicide at one time, O’Brien, but Ed and a half dozen other detectives have spent hours with that guy.  What’s the point?”

“I’m about to attend Molly Monroe’s funeral.  I’d like to know if the man you believe buried her with a deer carcass is responsible for putting her in that grave.”     

FIFTY-FOUR

Luke Palmer tossed and turned on the thin mattress that separated his back from the metal bed in the cell.  Two months of freedom, a couple of weeks of sleeping under the stars had opened his pores, opened his mind and soul to something he’d lost four decades ago, freedom. 

Now he was back in a cage.

He had no idea if it was day or night.  His cell was sequestered in the bowels of the county lock-up.  He thought it might be morning.  But there were no windows.  He missed the sunrises in the forest, missed the chill of the morning, the open campfire, the squirrels scampering around him, and he missed the flowers and butterflies.

He’d been kept awake in a state, somewhere between a listless sleep and consciousness, by sporadic screaming.  From somewhere down the corridor of steel and concrete, came sardonic chants, yells—the nightmare language of the criminally insane. 

Palmer thought about his bad luck.  Years ago accused of first-degree murder when all degrees of the truth were ignored.  He had to defend himself or die.  It had been that simple.  Now he, again, was accused of committing a crime that he had not done.  Never did the cops ask him about a murder weapon.  How would an ex con get a high-powered rifle?  Why would someone in his shoes shoot and kill a young man and woman?  Why do the cops believe he killed the girl that he found buried?

He thought about his niece, Caroline.  Had her kidneys completely shut down?  Would she be on dialysis the rest of her life?  

He heard guards approaching.  Turning to face the cell door, he saw that one was heavyset and had a thick neck and shaved head.  His breathing sounded as if he was exhaling into a paper bag.  The other one was tall, droopy faced, with a matchstick in one corner of his mouth.  He didn’t remove the match to speak.  “You got a visitor.”

“Visitor?  Who?  What time is it?”

“Little past eight.  Guy’s name is Sean O’Brien.  Sheriff says you can have a half hour with him in the receiving area.  You’ll speak through the phone receptacle and have visual communications behind the glass.”

“Who the hell’s this guy O’Brien?  Is he an attorney?”

The larger guard said, “I heard some of the guys on the SWAT team say he might be the best marksman in the state.  He was the dude that saved your ass when you were about to become gator bites.”

FIFTY-FIVE

I watched as two guards escorted Luke Palmer into the receiving area.  He walked with the same body language I’d seen on so many hard-timers.  Head down.  Eyes focused on the floor directly in front of him.  His physical periphery subtly spoke a body language that was rough but understood.  He might have well worn it along with his orange prisoner’s clothes.  It said back off.

He slowly sat in front of me, the thick glass partition separating us.  I picked up the phone and waited for him to do the same.  He did, holding a look that didn’t waiver. 

“My name’s O’Brien.”

“Suppose I owe you a thank you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“All the same, much obliged.”

“I heard what you told the detectives about the shooting.”

“Lot a good that did.”

“I brought something to show you.”  I opened a file folder and lifted out one of the photographs I printed from Molly’s camera.  It was a close shot of Frank Soto.  I watched Palmer’s eyes as I held the picture to the glass.  “Do you recognize this man?”