Bobby Akart - First Strike

Hank interjected, “We’ve always seemed to respect the concept of mutually assured destruction, right?”

Erin hesitated. “Yes, once upon a time, anyway. Nuclear capabilities have changed over the last thirty years. Quick, precision strikes are now available to all the major powers. We no longer have to launch ballistic missiles from silos in the Northern Rockies. We have ships and submarines that can do it as well. Hell, our intelligence agencies believe both Iran and North Korea have nuclear warheads sailing over our heads, attached to satellites. The Pentagon refers to them as the Axis of Evil.”

Hank leaned forward and looked toward the incredibly blue skies. “Really?”

“Really,” she replied before shifting the conversation. “Here’s the thing, Hank. And please understand, this is just my opinion as an American with more knowledge than the political outsiders. Iran and Israel have been staring each other down for longer than you and I have been alive. Despite the provocation, our government has never believed that Israel would be the first to pull the nuclear trigger in the Middle East. Iran, however, is another matter.”

“Are they that stupid? And how do they justify it? Israel has completely denied any involvement in that killing spree a couple of weeks ago.”

Erin chuckled. “Nobody believes that, especially the Iranians. The Israeli government has demanded that Iran stop its nuclear weapons program before they actually had them. Now, the speed of their proliferation is mind-boggling. I don’t blame the Israelis for taking action.”

“Well, it seems all they did was kick the hornet’s nest. You know, when you stir up a hornet’s nest, you’re gonna get stung.”

Erin took a deep breath and exhaled. “The question is how big of a stinger will they use?”

Saturday, October 19

Key West, Florida

The Monroe County Sheriff’s Department had a dozen detectives, and only one, Mike, was assigned to homicides full time. When you averaged one to two murders a year, a lot of warm bodies weren’t required to investigate murders on a regular basis. The county had one cold case from more than ten years ago, and Mike had reached nothing but dead ends in trying to solve it. Most of his time was spent looking at accidental deaths in order to rule them out as homicides. The current cases were handled much differently.

“Okay. Okay. Please settle down, everyone,” said Mike as the complete detective contingent for the sheriff’s department gathered in the large conference room at the administration building in Key West. “We’re joined today by a couple of familiar faces for those who were involved in the cruise ship slaying a few years ago. Rodriguez and Lively with the Forensic Science Program within the FDLE have come down to lend an assist.”

The detectives acknowledged the two scientists, and Mike returned to the lectern. He’d powered up the wall-mounted monitors that flanked him. The second victim’s image filled the screens. He explained what he knew so far.

“Dade county provided us this mug shot of Mr. Marty Kantor during a slightly better time. Through some pretty good detective work by uniformed deputies, one of the severed fingers was found in the hammocks. Kantor was apparently a heavy meth user and an infrequent visitor of the dentist, so dental records weren’t much help. However, the discovery of an abandoned car together with the single print enabled us to make the positive ID.”

“The mother’s car?” asked one of the detectives who’d reviewed the file.

“Yes. Mrs. Kantor apparently died of a drug overdose in her home many weeks ago. I drove up to Hialeah to join Dade County detectives as they entered the Kantor home. We found her decaying body wrapped in her bedding on the floor. I suspect Marty was collecting his mother’s welfare checks to buy drugs.”

Another detective raised his hand. “Any indication of why he came to the Keys? Key West, in particular?”

“Unknown,” replied Mike. “We’re going to assign some of you to liaison with Dade County to canvass Kantor’s neighborhood in Hialeah. You’ll also be responsible for scouring the internet, social media sites, etc.”

“He doesn’t look like an Instagram influencer,” quipped one of the detectives, drawing a laugh. Mike wasn’t amused. Granted, Kantor was likely a piece of crap. However, he was a human being and a murder victim.

“You never know what leads a person to be the victim of a brutal murder,” he said in a disdainful tone. “He is now our second vic in as many weeks, and the MOs are closely matched other than the actual murder weapon. The coroner was able to extract the knife blade from his sternum. It’s part of a spring-assisted knife made by SOG. I did a little checking and found it is sold in Walmart. We’ll need someone to run down that lead.”

“Are we going to publish his image in the paper? See if anyone recognizes him?”

“Yes, tomorrow. In the meantime, we’re gonna hit the streets in the area where his car was found. Try hotels and hostels. Bars and restaurants. Public places first before we go door to door. We don’t have the manpower to hit all possible locations at once, and if we truly have a serial killer on our hands, he might be planning to kill again in the next week or so.”

“Just as Fantasy Fest ramps up,” lamented one of the detectives.

Fantasy Fest was by far the wildest gathering of partiers in the Florida Keys. The last two weeks of October attracted thousands of revelers for a hedonistic warm-up to Halloween. Originally developed to draw travelers during the slower tourist period between Labor Day and Christmas, Fantasy Fest drew over a hundred thousand people from around the world. Events included the Royal Coronation Ball where two locals are crowned Conch King and Queen, a street fair, pet masquerade contests, and the selection of the Fantasy Fest drag queen.

“Here’s why we have to hit the streets running,” said Mike. “Fantasy Fest will bring more and more people into the Keys who weren’t here at the time of the first two murders. It expands the number of people we have to question unnecessarily. It also gives the murderer lots of options to choose from for his next vic.”

“What about a profiler?”

Mike bristled at the question and the subtle insinuation. Despite the fact that he’d been the lead homicide detective for the MCSD for more than a decade, obviously some within the ranks didn’t think he was up to the task.

“Let’s gather some evidence and hunt down these leads. That will help this department and any others who are called upon to help. If there’s nothing else, you all have your assignments. Let’s find this guy before he kills again.”

Saturday, October 19

Home of Peter Albright

Falls Church, Virginia

Peter lived in a modest condominium in Falls Church, Virginia, about ten miles from the Harry S. Truman Building, where the State Department was located. The Washington Times offices were another ten miles past the Capitol grounds in northeast Washington. He went there once in a while, mainly during those rare periods of time that the secretary of state remained in DC.

Peter wasn’t interested in living inside the beltway like many of his counterparts. He grew up in the quiet and serenity of Driftwood Key. There was nothing comparable in the area unless he could find a place that happened to be on the Potomac River, which he wouldn’t be able to afford.

He didn’t need a fancy place to hang his hat. He was rarely home thanks to being attached to one of the most prolific travelers to occupy the leadership position in the State Department in many administrations. His place was small but quiet. His refrigerator remained empty except for a handful of condiments and lots of Hurricane Reef beer that he ordered online from their brewery near Miami. It was a little taste of the Keys to go with his dinner of choice, a BBQ chicken pizza made by California Pizza Kitchen.