P. Parrish - The Little Death

“We think we do have a serial killer,” Louis said.

“On two lousy bodies that have nothing in common?”

Louis wasn’t ready to tell him they had a third victim named Emilio Labastide or that they had already exhumed and examined the body, but he had to give Barberry something just so they would be allowed to stay in the damn room.

“They were both headless,” Louis said.

Barberry gestured to the file Hernandez was holding. “Oh, for crissakes,” he said. “This one here was probably made that way by a damn alligator.”

“Well, now, Detective,” Hernandez began. “That might not be accurate. If you’d take a look at the ME’s report, you’ll see that-”

“Shut up,” Barberry said.

“Don’t tell him to shut up,” Louis said. “Go ahead, Detective Hernandez, what were you going to say?”

Hernandez stuck out his hand. “If I could have my file, sir?”

Barberry gripped the folder tighter, but even he knew the contents belonged to Hendry County and, more specifically, to this skinny, pimple-faced cop.

“Please, sir,” Hernandez said. “Don’t make me have to exert my authority and ask my guys to come over here.”

Louis looked over Hernandez’s shoulders. Apparently, his guys were the two uniformed officers lurking near the water cooler. They were watching the discussion with interest.

“Look, we’re in a mess here,” Hernandez said. “Our sheriff died suddenly, and the undersheriff was arrested last week for taking bribes. My boss is out sick, and our two other detectives are working 24-7 on a boat theft ring. Right now, we’re looking out for each other. So, in other words, don’t fuck with me here on my turf, okay?”

Barberry looked amused at the detective’s bravado. He slapped the folder against Hernandez’s chest. “Okay, I’m a stubborn sonofabitch, but I’m not stupid,” he said. “Go ahead. Tell us what you got.”

Hernandez opened the folder and cleared his throat. “His name was Paul Wyeth. He was twenty-three years old and employed as a bartender in Palm Beach.” Hernandez looked up. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“That’s okay,” Louis said. “Go on.”

“Our Detective Cowell was assigned to the case but he passed away last year, so we won’t be able to ask him any questions,” Hernandez said. “But it looks like his theory was that the murder was drug-related.”

“What makes you believe that?” Louis asked.

“Three reasons. First, Wyeth had a minor drug charge, and second, we found more than eight grand in cash in his apartment.”

“What about his bank account?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“What’s the third reason?” Louis asked.

“Wyeth was found in an area where drug dealers have been known to dump bodies.”

“Where exactly?” Louis asked.

“In a spot called Turtle Slough. It’s just north of Billy Swamp Safari, which is in the Seminole Indian reservation. The reservation police handed the case off to us.”

“What’s a slough?” Louis asked.

“A slough is a swampy kind of river that changes in size from season to season. They run from Lake Ocheechobee down to the gulf. Sometimes a slough flows fast, and other times it’s nothing but mud.”

Louis remembered seeing a stream on his trip to the cattle pen with Burke Aubry, and he wondered if it had been Turtle Slough. He noticed a Hendry County map tacked to the wall behind Hernandez. “Can you show us where this slough is?” he asked.

Hernandez picked up a pen. “Okay, here’s us in La Belle,” he said, marking a spot on the map with an X. He traced a path from the top corner of the county to the bottom. It crossed straight through the tiny green patch on the map named Devil’s Garden.

“Where was Paul Wyeth found?” Louis asked.

Hernandez put an X on the line, just below the green box for Devil’s Garden.

“How far is it from Devil’s Garden to where Wyeth was found?” Louis asked.

Hernandez shrugged. “Maybe a mile.”

“Could the body have floated that far without being attacked?”

“Possibly,” Hernandez said. “But it wouldn’t last much longer than that. That area’s thick with gators and other critters.”

“So, was the head chewed off or not?” Barberry asked.

Hernandez opened the file. “As you know, all we found was the torso and an arm,” he said. “But according to our ME, there were marks in the neck bones that were consistent not with animal teeth but with a bladed instrument.”

“And no head was ever found, right?” Louis asked.

“If you’ve ever been out in that area, you know that would have been impossible,” Hernandez said. “Once all the meat had been eaten off it, the skull would be sucked into the muddy bowels of the Everglades, and there it would lie.”

“Was Wyeth dressed?” Louis asked.

Again, Hernandez had to look in the file. “No, the ME was ninety-nine percent sure the torso was nude when it went in the water.”

“Any sign he was whipped or tortured?” Swann asked.

This question seemed to surprise Hernandez, and he flipped through the reports. While he looked, Louis watched Barberry. He was quiet, hands shoved in his pockets, his stubbled jaw working on a wad of Big Red gum.

“No,” Hernandez said, looking up. “The ME didn’t note any whip marks or other defensive wounds. He just noted… let’s see… over three hundred claw and brush wounds.”

“Are there autopsy photos in there?” Louis asked.

“Sure.” Hernandez handed him a stack of pictures.

Louis sorted through them quickly, looking for one of Wyeth’s torso. The one he found showed a close-up of Wyeth’s bloated and ripped back. Louis knew only a doctor could tell for sure, but to his eye some of the lacerations looked similar to the ones he had seen on Durand’s back. Which left the possibility, however remote, that Wyeth had been whipped, especially if he hadn’t been wearing a shirt.

But Louis had to wonder if he himself was, as Dr. Steffel said, trying to fit the facts to an already-formed theory or letting them speak for themselves.

Still, it felt right: the M.O., the dump sites, similar victim profiles, the killer’s “signature” of torture, degradation, and extreme rage. There was no way Barberry or anyone else was going to tell him they didn’t have a serial killer on their hands.

Louis shoved the photo at Barberry. “You ready to admit you have the wrong man in jail?”

Barberry’s eyes slipped to the picture, but he quickly raised them and Louis saw no concession in his face. It amazed Louis that this man could not get by his hatred of Reggie Kent long enough to allow himself one decent action.

“I’m not buying any of this yet,” Barberry said. “Two bodies don’t make this a Ted Bundy rerun. And what kind of sicko would kill off young guys if not some psycho queer like Kent?”

Swann came out of nowhere, shoving Louis aside as he grabbed a fistful of Barberry’s shirt.

“You stop talking about Reggie like that!” Swann hissed.

Swann was an inch taller, fifteen years younger, and in far better shape than Barberry. Barberry could do nothing but push at Swann’s tightly muscled forearm.

“Let go of me!” Barberry spat.

“You’re a police officer. You treat people- all people-with respect. You hear me, Detective?”

Barberry broke Swann’s hold and stumbled away, red-faced and breathless. Hernandez had backed himself against the map, the file clutched to his chest.

Swann finally moved away, calming himself by taking deep breaths. Barberry wiped his face and for a moment, no one seemed to know what to do.

“Look, Detective Barberry,” Louis said, “you need to understand something here. We have information that will make your prosecutor look like a fool if he takes Kent to trial. And who do you think he’ll take that out on?”