The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) (24 page)

In the secure evidence room, Sandberg had Luke Palmer’s backpack delivered to a metal table.  A portly deputy left the knapsack with us and said, “Clothes are still in the lab.  You need them, too?”

“No,” Sandberg said.  The deputy nodded and walked away.  The backpack had been tagged.  Date in.  Contents.  Owner.  Slipping on gloves, Sandberg opened it, felt along the lining near one of the straps.  “Think I’ve got something.”  He turned the backpack over, shook it, and used gravity to help dislodge the small object.  It rolled out on the table.  Metal against metal.  Sandberg used a pair of tweezers to lift the bullet.

“Looks like a .30-.30,” I said.  “Very little fragmentation.  Must have missed most of the deer’s bones.  Tore through vital organs and lodged in muscle.”

“I’ll run ballistics on it and tell the sheriff what we found.”

“I’m betting it will match the bullet lodged in the tree near Molly and Mark’s grave.  And traces of blood on it will match the deer’s.”

Sandberg set the bullet on the table.  “It’d be nice to find the weapon.”

I held up one of the sketches.  “If you find this guy, you might find that rifle.”

“We’ll do what we can to locate him.  In the meantime, Palmer’s going to face a large bond, no doubt.  He’s not going anywhere.”

“But, right now, I am.”

“Where’s that, O’Brien?”

“Sadly, a funeral.”

COLLEGE STUDENTS, FRIENDS AND family streamed into the small church as the funeral service for Molly Monroe began.  I walked past the TV news satellite trucks where fervent reporters prepped for their live shots in contrast to somber mourners who came to pay tribute to the dead.  Mark’s funeral was scheduled for the following day.    

Elizabeth stood just inside the front door area, people hugging her and offering condolences.  Through swollen eyes, she persevered.  Her body and mind drained of everything but the command that kept her heart beating.  When she turned and saw me, she attempted to smile.  She fought back tears.  “Thank you for coming, Sean… I’m in a place in my life I never thought I’d be, and I don’t know what to do or say.  I’m numb.  No one can ever prepare a mother for the burial of her only child.”

She reached for my hand and then hooked her arm around mine as we began walking down the aisle to the front pew.  I thought of the small church I’d just visited.  Preacher Paul’s smiling eyes, the blackbird on the tombstone. 

Elizabeth almost stumbled.  I didn’t know if she would make it all the way down the aisle.  I reached over and gripped her shoulder to give her more support, ready to catch her if she fell.  She sucked in a deep breath and held her head higher.

Molly’s body was in a closed casket.  A large picture of her stood on an easel to the right of her coffin.  Flowers lined the immediate area.  I could smell hibiscus, lilies and roses as people listened to Molly’s favorite song,
We Are the World
.

The minister thanked everyone for coming, talked about the nobility of a good life and how we can’t ever make sense of a senseless murder.  He was followed by some of Molly’s friends.  Most spoke through broken sentences, tears flowing as the words about Molly reinforced what everyone who knew her must have been feeling.

A senior at the University of Florida, a petite woman who’d roomed with Molly said, “She had a way about her that was magical.  All who knew Molly know what I’m talking about.”  There was a murmur in the crowd.  “Molly was one of the most unselfish people I’ve ever met.  I remember one time a mosquito got trapped in my car.  Molly lowered her window to make sure it flew away safely.  She said everything has a purpose in life.  Molly’s life ended too soon for us to ever see all the things her purpose-driven life would produce.  We can only imagine.”

Elizabeth gently cried, her body radiating heat while she tried to hold in the emotion.

The girl looked across the congregation and said, “Molly was more than my friend.  In all the ways that mattered, she was there.  Molly had a way with people and animals that made you feel better about yourself just by being around her.  She loved horses, birds and butterflies.  She said the butterflies were little winged angels darting around the flowers.”  The girl looked at the casket, picked up long-stemmed red rose and said, “Molly, here’s a flower from all of us to you.  When we see fields of flowers, when we see birds and butterflies in the summer, we’ll always think of you, because you always thought of us.”

Elizabeth rested her head on my shoulder as the girl stepped to the casket and set the rose on top of it.  I could feel the heat, the dampness from Elizabeth’s silent tears, seep into my shirt.  Even from the back pews, the sobbing and soft sounds of people weeping carried like distant church bells on an abandoned Sunday morning.              

FIFTY-NINE

   The last car left the cemetery about forty-five minutes after they lowered Molly’s casket into the grave.  Elizabeth wanted to stay.  The cemetery workers loaded all the metal folding chairs except for the two that Elizabeth and I occupied. 

The funeral director nodded, squeezed Elizabeth on the shoulder, shook my hand, crunched a breath mint between molars, and left.  Elizabeth and I watched the backhoe operator scrape dirt into the open grave.  When he finished, another worker used a shovel to smooth the mound of dark earth.  Within minutes they had loaded their equipment and were driving down a long, winding road.  I watched them drive away, the truck and trailer kicking up dust, hazing the horizon with its setting sun and purple sky backdrop.

A soft breeze blew across the cemetery, ringing wind chimes that hung from a gray and weathered headstone adorned with faded plastic red roses.  The air smelled of damp earth, moss and orange blossoms.  Mimosa seeds floated through the trees and across the open spaces as if tiny parachutes were landing in the graveyard at dusk.  I looked at Elizabeth staring at her daughter’s grave.  She said nothing, her thoughts masked, and eyes swollen and filled with a pain, her expression as lifeless as the cemetery.  She held a yellow violet plant in her lap.

Slowly, she stood and walked to Molly’s grave.  I followed her.  A hawk called out in the distance, its cries mixing with the groan of a long-haul diesel far away.  A soft breeze caressed the music from the wind chimes.  “The violet was Molly’s favorite flower.”  She turned to me.  “Do you know why?”

I looked at the potted flower in her hand.  It was rooted in a small cup with dark soil around the base.  “Are butterflies attracted to violets?”

“Yes,” she said, kneeling down by the freshly turned earth atop the grave.  Elizabeth used her hands to scoop out some soil.  She lifted the violet from the pot and planted it near Molly’s headstone. 

I heard her gently weeping, using her palms to smooth the soil around the base of the flower, tears falling onto the freshly toiled dirt.  She stood and watched the small flower toss in the breeze.  “The florist told me it would bloom into more flowers.  Maybe they’ll attract the honeybees and butterflies.  Maybe on the long and lonely days, they’ll come around and visit with Molly.”  She choked, eyes filling.  “Sean, I can’t believe my baby… my little girl is lying under that dirt.  Dear God…
why
?”

Elizabeth buried her face against my shirt, her tears warm, breath hot and quick. Her hands clenched into small fists.  I simply held her.  There was nothing I could say to ease her pain.  I could only be there, hold her as she wept, crying at the horror, the loss and the inexplicable questions that no one could answer.  She looked up at me, and I used my thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks.  We turned and walked to the car.  The breeze kicked up a notch, and the sun churned buttery clouds in shades of gold and lavender.

I ignored the phone vibrating in my pocket.

SIXTY

I pulled my Jeep into Elizabeth’s driveway and shut off the engine.  During the drive from the cemetery, I told her about the sketch Luke Palmer had drawn, his story about why he was in the forest, the bullet in his backpack, and the search for the marijuana grove in the heart of the national forest. 

“Sean, I want to sell my home.  My business, too.”

I said nothing.

“This home was mine and Molly’s.  It’s where she grew up, learned to ride a bike.  It’s where she nursed baby birds that left the nest too early.  I bought the business so that Molly and I could
do
something together.  She’d come to the restaurant after school, do her homework, help with cleaning, and we’d be together.”

The phone vibrated in my pocket.                                                         

I reached for it and looked at the caller ID.  The window displayed:
Unknown Call
.  I answered.

“O’Brien, this is Ed Sandberg.  Sheriff Clayton said he wants to hold off releasing the sketch that Palmer drew.”

“Why?”

“He says, and I’m quoting here, in his twenty-eight years in law enforcement, he’s never seen a composite drawn by an inmate and then released to the media.  And this inmate is being held on
three
counts of murder.  The boss calls it a smokescreen, a conflict of interest, and to release it would set a precedent and break all kinds of investigative protocol.  He did say it’s good jailhouse art, though.”

“Palmer’s not been sentenced.  He’s being held in connection with his alleged involvement in the crimes.  We don’t know for sure that he did it.  I think he didn’t.   How can the sheriff call it a conflict of interest if you have an eyewitness to a crime, a man who can not only describe it, but can draw the image of the person who could have committed the murders?”

 “I’m an investigator.  He’s the sheriff.  I didn’t have to call you, but since you were a former homicide detective, as a courtesy, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Did you match the bullets
,
one from the tree and one from Palmer’s knapsack?”

“We’re using a spec scope and 3D rendering on the bullet from the tree.  It was pretty fragmented.  We might be able to do a match if they came from the same gun.”

“They did.”

  He was quiet a moment.  “We haven’t found the pot field.  The teams worked until sunset.  They’ll be back in the morning.  Later, O’Brien.”

 He hung up and Elizabeth asked, “Was that the police?”

“Detective Sandberg.  He says they haven’t found the marijuana field and the sheriff is refusing to release to the media the composite Luke Palmer drew.”

“Why?”

“He says that since Palmer is being held and charged with the killings, it’s a conflict to have a composite sketch drawn by him and released to the media.”

“What do you think?”

“Because of the intense national publicity, I think the sheriff is looking for a quick resolution.  He’s out of his comfort zone, and he’s afraid of making the slightest mistake.  He sees what he believes is more than enough evidence, and he’s ready to lock the cage.”

“Where is the drawing Palmer did?”

“Here, between the seats.”       

“May I see it?”

I reached down and lifted the file folder with the remaining copies of Palmer’s sketch.  I started to turn on the interior light for her, but thought that we’d make a good target.  “Let’s go inside.”

WE SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE.  I opened the file folder and slid out the composite sketch.  Elizabeth stared at it for a moment.  Her mouth opened slightly, a sound trapped somewhere in the back of the vocal cords.  I asked, “What is it?”

“I’ve seen that man before.”  Elizabeth stood, holding one hand to her lips.  “I feel sick.”  She turned and ran from the kitchen.      

SIXTY-ONE

Five minutes later, Elizabeth returned.  She sat back in her chair across the table from me.  “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Where did you see him?”

“At the restaurant.”

“When?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Think, Elizabeth.”

“I’m
trying
.  My daughter just died!”

“Did you see him at some point after Frank Soto was taken into custody?”

“Yes!  It was a day or two after Soto was arrested.  I remember now.  He sat alone at a corner table.  From where he sat, he could see the front door, people coming and going.  I remember he seemed to linger over his breakfast, and I asked him if everything was all right.”

“How did he respond?”

“He said the food was good, and it reminded him of the food his mother made when his family went camping.  Then he asked me if I ever went camping.  I told him not in many years, it was more my daughter’s thing.  She’s the outdoors gal in the family.   He smiled and asked where her favorite camping places were.  I told him she used to love going to Gamble Rogers State Park because of the beach.”

“Did he ask you anything else?”

“No.”

“He was trying to see what you knew.”