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This week’s chapter:
Title: The Myakka Murders: A Florida Mystery
Author: Doug Sahlin
Genre: Mystery
Chapter 1 - Gator Bait
The phone call came at quarter till four on a Sunday afternoon. Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office Deputy Janet Brown called. “Hey, babe. Got a body at Myakka. You need to be here.” She ended the call before I responded and left me wondering why she needed me at a crime scene.
The call came at a most inopportune time. I was sitting on my deck, watching my next-door neighbor’s girlfriend do sun salutations in the nude. Downward Dog never looked so good. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
I pulled on a clean tee-shirt, tattered jeans and my favorite pair of running shoes, grabbed my car keys, and in a few minutes, I was driving down Gulf of Mexico Drive toward the City of Sarasota. After driving into town, I turned onto Fruitville Road, headed toward the interstate. Traffic was light as I drove past the endless strip centers that sold everything from computers to greasy burgers. But it still took forty minutes to get to the main gate at Myakka River State Park. A deputy from the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office stepped in front of my car and put his hand up.
“Park’s closed, sir.”
I flashed my ID and told him my presence had been requested. He turned away from me, picked up his radio, and started talking. A short while later, he waved me through.
It had been a long time since I’d visited the park. My last trip was when I was a homicide detective for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office investigating two murders and a suicide. I drove down the familiar road with the top down, marveling at the canopy of live oak trees dappling the road with patches of sunlight and shade. Gazed right and left, saw flashing lights, turned off the main road, and parked. I locked the car and started walking to the yellow crime scene tape. Janet and another cop were crouched down next to a body. Janet noticed me, stood up, and walked toward me.
“Hey, babe. What’s up?”
“Tourists saw a body in the river. North Carolina driver’s license IDs the victim as Yale Augustus Larsson.”
I said nothing. My gut clenched, and I looked at the ground.
“Victim looks enough like you to be your dad. I’m so sorry.”
She ran her fingers through her hair. Then she hugged me. Janet is a tall blond with legs that go clear to next week. She’s my on and off again significant other. That week we were on.
“I’m okay, Janet. I barely knew the man.”
“You up to making a positive ID?” She pointed toward the body.
“Sure.”
I followed her down a trail carpeted with dead leaves. Ducking under a tree, I stood up and introduced myself to the crime scene investigator. He snapped a latex glove off his right hand and shook mine. “Bill Livingston. So sorry for your loss.” He was wearing a tattered brown suit with patches on the sleeves. His complexion was florid, and he had a bad comb-over.
He pointed at the corpse. “This your old man?”
I nodded. Yale Senior was looking decidedly second hand. His right arm was missing just below the shoulder. He was wearing a pair of frayed denim cargo shorts and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt. Barefoot. I closed my eyes, and in my mind’s eye, played the video of the last time I saw him at St. Pete Beach many, many years ago.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. His green eyes were open with the thousand-yard stare to nowhere. I closed them and gazed at Livingston. “Cause of death?”
“Not sure. Won’t know till we do an autopsy.”
“Who found the body?”
Livingston pointed to a couple sitting on a park bench. “Carolyn and Ray McDonald. Snowbirds from Lansing, Michigan.”
Carolyn McDonald was fanning herself with a piece of paper that looked like a park map. Her skin was red, the color of cooked lobster. She was wearing beige cargo pants and a pink shirt, a straw hat with a pink ribbon covered her wispy gray hair. A pink point and shoot camera on a pink cord dangled around her neck like an albatross. Color-coordinated tech gear, the latest fashion statement for senior tourists. Ray wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a white Guayaberas shirt. I nodded. He nodded.
I walked to the park bench. “What happened?”
Ray pointed to Carolyn. “The missus thought she seen an albino otter. She walked closer to get a picture and fainted dead away. I revived her and parked her on the bench. Then I hightailed it to the park entrance, and they sent a park ranger who cleared the area, except for us. Then the pretty officer came.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned. “I’m the pretty officer,” said Janet. “I dragged the body from the river and watched two huge gators swim away. Livingston rolled the body over and grabbed his wallet. When I saw the name, I called you. Know it’s against regulations, but thought you should be here.”
I took a deep breath and clasped her hand; grateful I still had some friends on the force. “Thank you.”
Ray McDonald stood up and coughed. “You got all you need from us?”
Janet shrugged her shoulders, then looked at her notepad. “Just a few more questions, sir.”
The tourist nodded, sat beside his wife, and put his arm around her shoulder. I thanked the sunburned snowbirds and started walking back to my car. As I ducked under a tree that arched over the trail, I spotted a redheaded lady holding a camera with a long white lens attached. Looked like a Canon camera. She was wearing faded jeans, hiking boots, and a blue and red checkered flannel shirt. I smiled and walked toward her. She picked up her camera, pointed it at a tree, and pressed the shutter button. The camera made clicking noises, and then she trekked closer to the river.
“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”
She turned and met my gaze. “Why?”
“Crime scene investigation.”
“Oh.” She looked in the general direction of my father’s body and pointed her camera at it. Zoom lens. “He looks familiar.”
I cupped my hands and shouted, “Janet.”
She turned, looked at me, and started walking. Dead leaves crunched under her feet.
“This young lady thinks she’s seen the victim before.”
Janet pulled a pad from her hip pocket, clicked a pen, and looked at the photographer. “And your name is?”
“Laurie. Laurie Fisher.”
Janet wrote the name on her pad, then asked for her address and phone number. She jotted the information down. “Where do you know the victim from?”
“Here. I’ve seen him in the park several times.” She flicked an errant strand of hair away from her blue eyes.
“You’re positive.”
“I’d be more positive if I got a closer look.”
“It’s not pretty.”
“I’m an OR nurse at Sarasota Memorial. I’ve assisted many open-heart surgeries and, unfortunately, have seen patients die.”
“Okay. Follow me.”
Janet and Laurie walked down the path. I pulled a pad from my pocket—I never leave home without one—and jotted Laurie’s information down for future reference. Janet was scribbling on her notepad as the redheaded photographer answered her questions. She talked with her hands. A few minutes later, I heard the squeal of brakes and turned to see a white and orange EMT van back up to the curb. A salt and pepper team got out of the vehicle. The black guy opened the back door and pulled out a stretcher.
“Shit. The trail is dried leaves, and it’s a guy. We’ll have to carry the stretcher back.”
The white guy shrugged his shoulders. “Tough. Put your big boy pants on and deal with it, Lawrence.”
Lawrence and the white guy went past me. They zipped open a black body bag, picked daddy dearest up, put him on the gurney, and zipped the bag closed. I saw Janet put her pad in her pocket and shake Laurie’s hand. The redheaded photographer started down the path, followed closely by the salt and pepper EMT guys who were huffing and puffing. Lawrence cussed at the white guy. The white guy returned the favor.
Laurie walked slowly, looking all around. She stopped and snapped a couple of pictures. When she got closer to me, I coughed to get her attention. She gazed at me and placed the camera by her side.
“How’d you happen to be in the area?” I asked. “I thought they cleared the scene when they found the body.”
“They probably did, but I was way out on the trail. I heard nothing except the wind whistling through the trees and the screech of a red-shouldered hawk.”
“Birder?”
She smiled.
“I’m a photographer as well. I also use Canon gear.”
She nodded. There was a rustling sound in a nearby tree. She turned, aimed her camera, and shot a couple of pictures. She walked toward the parking lot, turned around, and looked at me. “Why are you out here?”
“The Sheriff’s Office called me to make an ID. The victim is my father.”
Her mouth opened, but she was silent for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry—Er. I don’t know your name.”
“Yale. Yale Larsson. Thank you for your sympathy, but I barely knew the man. We had a very estranged relationship.”
She nodded and fiddled with the controls on her camera. The EMT guys cussed, grunted, and groaned as they stumbled past, holding the stretcher on each side so the wheels wouldn’t sink into the carpet of decaying leaves. An owl hooted.
“I’ve never shot out here. Beautiful place. You come out here often?”
“Yup. This place is my spiritual home. Shoot here on my days off, rain or shine.”
“Must be good shooting.”
She smiled. “Yup.”
“Maybe you could show me around sometime?”
The smile was still on her face after I asked the question, which I took as a good sign. I grinned, reached into my pocket, and handed her my card.
She looked at it. “Private Investigator. You going to investigate your father’s death?”
“Probably not. I’ll leave that to the sheriff’s office.”
She reached into her camera bag and pulled out a card. The front was a photograph of a bald eagle perched in a tree. Wildlife Photographer was written on the back of the card in bold print above her name and phone number. I put it in my pocket.
“One more question, Laurie. You said you saw him out here several times. How often and where?”
She frowned and held my gaze. “Hmmm. Thought you weren’t investigating.”
“I was born with an inquiring mind.”
She laughed. “I saw your father at the weir and the bird walk. He was always with the same guy. Young dude with dark hair and a scraggly beard. I rented a cabin here last month. He and your dad were my next-door neighbors. They drank a lot of beer.”
A heron squawked. Laurie raised her camera and took a picture. “One night, I was shooting time exposures around midnight. A car pulled up. Bright headlights ruined one of my shots. The lights went out, and I heard two car doors slam. They talked first, then there was shouting.”
“October?” I pulled out my pad. “Remember what cabin number you were in?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Naturally curious. Cabin 7.”
“Thank you. That’s good to know.” I jotted the info on my pad. “If it’s okay, I’d like to call you and set up a shoot.”
She smiled. “Sure.” She walked toward a white Toyota van. She shot a few more pictures on the way, got in her van, and drove off.
Janet and Bill Livingston walked past. Janet stopped, stared at me, and frowned. “You two seemed awful chummy.”
“She’s a nice person. And a photographer. She tell you she’d seen my old man out here frequently?”
“Yes.” Janet turned and walked away.
When I got to my car, I saw a park ranger leaning over it, glancing inside. He turned, looked at me, and smiled. “Nice ride. ‘63 Jag XKE?”
I nodded.
“British Racing Green, perfect color for a Jag.” He moved aside and I stepped into the car. Turned the key, and the engine burbled into life.
“I call her, Lady.” I reversed out of the parking space, drove down the main road, and left the park.
It was a beautiful day. Chamber of Commerce weather. Chilly air, cobalt blue sky. A perfect fall day except in Florida, the leaves don’t turn different colors with the change of seasons. Fall and winter are the reasons Florida natives and transplants put up with the brutal August heat. Ah, the joys of living in a sub-tropical paradise. But I could see some dark clouds brewing to the west. A storm was coming.
As I guided my car onto the interstate, I thought about the last time I’d seen my father. He came to Florida to visit his mother-in-law. I was a grown man then. The time before that was when my parents got divorced. I was five years old when they split. He gave me some toys. It was our last Christmas together. When he visited his mother-in-law, we met at a small restaurant in St. Pete Beach. My sister Heather Gallo was with me. He strolled in with two boys: my half-brothers, Jayson and Craig. Heather and I are towheads. Our half-brothers had dark brown hair, greasy skin, and pimples, probably their mother’s genes at work. We had lunch. It was the only time I saw my half-brothers and the last time I saw my old man alive.
Dark clouds were scudding in from the Gulf as I drove across the causeway. I pulled over and put the top up. The first fat drops of rain splattered Lady’s canvas roof as I drove past the Columbia Restaurant. The wind picked up and lifted the skirts of the wealthy tourists and trophy wives shopping at St. Armands Circle.
It was raining buckets when I neared my home. I pulled into my carport, locked the car, and rushed up the stairs. Marlowe the Cat, an orange, white, and black calico, greeted me by running figure-eights between my legs when I opened the door. I grabbed a cold Warsteiner from the fridge, went into my office, and sat down in front of my computer. I called Mom, who lives in Bradenton, and my sister Heather, a doctor who lives with her second husband Jack in Denver, Colorado, and told them the news. Mom exhibited no grief or remorse, but I could tell Heather was sad by the tone of her voice. I finished the beer and started fixing this evening’s feast: steak, corn on the cob, and a baked potato. As I slathered barbecue sauce on the steak, I pondered the events of the day and wondered if I could ever forgive my father for ignoring his firstborn. As I savored my meal, I couldn’t help but wonder who killed my old man. And why?
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