Randy White - Deceived

Had the special prosecutor just implied something?

To communicate disapproval, I cleared my throat before saying, “If you did background checks, you know Jake was a highly decorated detective, Tampa police force. Wounded while saving the lives of at least two other deputies, maybe more. If you’re asking questions because you suspect Jake of murdering Mr. Helms, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

Joel Ransler flexed his jaw and smiled at the same time, giving me his handsome Sundance Kid look. “No, you’re wrong. The reason I’m interested in your family is because”-he laced his hands together and flexed his jaw again-“well, there are a couple of reasons, and I’ll just be up front. You’re an unusual woman. I find you attractive, Hannah. Didn’t I already say that?”

“It wouldn’t matter if you had,” I replied, trying not to sound flustered. “I’m in a serious relationship. If that’s why you offered to hire me as an investigator, though-”

“Hold on a second,” he said. “I’m trying to explain something.” He stopped, reconsidered, then switched gears. “Does that mean you decided to take the job?”

“If someone’s trying to rob my mother and some of her friends, sure, I’d like the chance. But not if it’s because you’re interested in me personally.”

“Two entirely separate things,” he responded. “But I do like you. You’re not glib, you don’t chatter, and you don’t act like you have to prove yourself. Something in your background made you different. So I’m curious about the people who raised you-on a personal level. But my interest is professional, too. Is that so offensive?”

No, but neither could I respond sensibly, so I blocked the subject by asking, “Do you want to tie up or is this close enough?” I had swung my skiff parallel to the dock and shifted to neutral.

“Let’s get out and look around,” Ransler said, amused. “Want me to take the bowline?”

I seldom accept help docking but the man had proven he was competent, so I replied, “When you step out, watch that decking. It looks bad.”

JOEL WAS GOINGthrough his briefcase while I roamed the dock, checking the shallows for fish, but also imagining the murder that had occurred here. As he searched folders, he surprised me by asking, “Are you mad at me for some reason? Something’s bothering you.”

I wasn’t going to bring up the crime scene photos, so I reminded him, “I was attacked by dogs and someone with an axe not a hundred yards from here. And Mrs. Helms died somewhere over there”-I motioned toward the trail-“a woman I knew my whole life. You can’t blame me for thinking the place is a little spooky.”

Ransler glanced around us, willing to be supportive. “Yeah… it is, isn’t it?” Then tested his heel on the dock but not hard because the planks were rotten. “And her husband died where we’re standing. Drug smuggling and violence. There is a weird vibe, I agree.”

“That’s another thing,” I said. “I still don’t know why you wanted to come here. Are you looking for new evidence about the murder? Or…” What I wanted to ask was Or a quiet place to drink margaritas, just the two of us? but didn’t. Couldn’t bring myself to be mean to a man who, thus far, had only been thoughtful and complimentary.

Joel was perceptive, though. He got the message and became more businesslike. “A twenty-year-old murder isn’t the reason. Not the main reason anyway. I wanted to confirm something.” He looked at the bay for emphasis. “You just proved that if your attacker came by boat, he has to be a local. And not just any local, he’s probably a commercial fisherman-or someone who learned the channel smuggling drugs. Make sense?”

Not entirely. I had already told him and the detectives about the old horse trail that led through the mangroves to Sulfur Wells but mentioned it again.

“I’d like to see it,” Joel said.

“We’ll need more mosquito spray,” I told him, “and we should have brought a machete.”

“I don’t mind bugs. But first, there’s something you should know. I wanted to be sure of the details before I said anything.”

In his hand was a crime scene map. Finally, the special prosecutor told me that Dwight Helms had been murdered with an axe. Then asked a question my Internet research hadn’t prepared me for.

“You ever hear any rumors about who found Helms’s body? The department never released the names to the public.”

I remembered a newspaper story crediting an unnamed informant , but that’s all, so I shook my head.

Ransler was serious now. “There were actually two people who reported the body, both men. Do you remember anyone around named Arnold?-that was his first name. The dispatcher either didn’t get his last name or he refused to give it.”

“Arnold,” I repeated. “We were taught to call adults by their last names, mister or missus, so I seldom knew an adult’s whole name.” I mulled it over. “ Arnold. It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why. So far, no one comes to mind.”

“That was a long time ago, I know-more than twenty years, but there’s a reason I’m asking, Hannah.” He paused. “Or.. maybe you know the reason.”

The way Joel said it put me on guard. I sensed a trap. “If you have something to say, say it,” I told him. Then stared at him for a moment before taking a guess. “Was my Uncle Jake one of the men who found Mr. Helms?”

“Yes,” Joel said. “He was the first to call it in-a little after midnight, according to the report. I assumed you knew.”

“Jake?”

“Captain Jacob Hansen Smith. That’s him, right? I was hoping you could help me with the name of the second man.”

When I turned away to collect myself, Joel reached as if to put a hand on my shoulder but stopped when he saw me flinch. “Your uncle was never a suspect, I wasn’t lying about that. He still isn’t, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Jake never said a word about finding a body-but I was only eight or nine at the time, so-”

“That’s right,” Ransler cut in as if he hadn’t thought it through. “You were only a kid. Of course he wouldn’t have said anything. Even later, why bring it up? I’m such an idiot sometimes.”

The special prosecutor shook his head, disappointed with himself, and continued to apologize. My mind was already on something else. I was picturing how it had been for my uncle the night he found the body, used my eyes to match crime scene photos with the area around the dock.

Twenty feet away was a huge buttonwood. Dwight Helms had lost part of his hand near the base of a large tree-possibly the same tree. They had found his ankle and foot, his boot still tied, near the diesel engine that was now red with rust, but, on a night twenty years ago, had glistened beneath flashbulbs. Helms had curled himself in a fetal position beneath the derrick. He had died there, his head crushed by several blows. Jake, or a man named Arnold, had been the first to find the carnage-the first to report it, anyway, which gave the murder a new importance.

Arnold… Arnold. The name continued to bounce around in my head. It was familiar, I felt sure of it, yet my memory couldn’t attach the name to an adult who had lived on the island.

Then it hit me. Arnold-or Arnie for short! It was the name of Loretta’s secret lover. I had never discovered the man’s last name because I didn’t want to know it. A nickname didn’t prove her old boyfriend was a murderer, of course, or even that he was the same Arnie, but it was a startling connection. Suddenly, I wanted to know more about Arnie-especially now that the reputation of my late uncle might be involved through association.