“This man shot a rattlesnake with a bow and arrow, huh? Don’t see that every day.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Arrow’s going to the lab, that skinning knife, too.”
Billie unbuckled his belt and handed Slater the knife and arrow.
“What’s your name?” Slater asked.
“Joe Billie.”
“Got an ID, Mr. Billie?”
“You mean driver’s license?”
“That’d be a good start.”
“No.”
“It’s against the law to drive without a license.”
“Didn’t drive here.”
“Are you and Mr. O’Brien carpooling?”
Billie's face was flat, no sign of emotion. He stared at Slater for a moment then looked toward the river.
“You live around here, Mr. Billie?”
“Most of my life.”
“Where?”
“Hanging Moss Fish Camp.”
Slater glanced at my Jeep. “Hanging Moss is way upriver. How’d you get here?”
“Canoe.”
“Where’s your canoe?”
“Behind those trees.” Billie motioned toward some willows near the riverbank.
Slater turned to a deputy. “Check it out.” The deputy nodded and left
“What were my DNA results?” I asked.
“Negative,” said Detective Moore. Slater looked hard at her. She ignored him and said, “Where is this physical evidence you just mentioned?”
“About a ten minute walk from here.”
“Mitchell,” she said to Slater. “Want me to check it out?”
“Maybe you both should see this,” I said before Slater could speak. “The more eyes, the less chance something might not be seen.”
A muscle below Slater’s left eye twitched. He started to say something but was interrupted by the deputy who was returning. “There’s a canoe tied up down there.”
A deputy roped off a semi-rectangle between the scrub brush and pine trees. Detective Grant took digital photographs of the evidence and the surroundings. They collected and bagged the shoe, duct tape, bloody stick, leaves and dirt from the area.
I stood out of the way, holding Max and watching Detectives Slater, Moore and Grant work. She and Grant were thorough, organized. Slater smoked three cigarettes and looked at his watch four times in fifteen minutes. They approached us.
Detective Moore removed her gloves and petted Max. “Cute dog.”
“Thanks. Her name’s Max.”
Slater lit another cigarette and sucked a mouthful of smoke into his lungs. “Let’s cut the chitchat and get to the point. Mr. O’Brien, you are a person of interest in this investigation. Now, so is Mr. Billie. We’ll be taking Mr. Billie in for further questioning. Mr. O’Brien, we’re not done quite yet.”
I said, “You’re eloquent. I called you, remember? Now you have some hard evidence in your bag. Let’s see what you can do with it, Detective.”
He turned to Billie. “If you have no history, you’re a mystery. I solve mysteries.”
Detective Moore said, “Mr. Billie, we’d appreciate it, sir, if you could come to the department to answer a few questions. If you don’t have a car we’ll provide transportation back to your home or to your canoe.”
Billie said nothing. He looked in the direction of the river. A red-tailed hawk alighted on the top of a pine tree. The bird watched Billie being led away.
I stood there and saw the hawk fly to a cypress trees. Even with Max, I suddenly felt alone, out of sync with everything around me. The faraway sound of a train whistle beckoned down the St. Johns. It was a lonesome sound, a hymn carried by trestles crossing rivers of time to bridge the soul. In two weeks the girl would be a cold case. Forgotten. But I couldn’t forget the promise I made to her and to my wife.
A gut feeling and a heartfelt promise often don’t mix. No easier than good and evil can sleep in the same bed. My gut told me one thing while my heart spoke another. I hadn’t asked to be tossed into this ring, but some choices are already made for you.
The girl I found had no choice.
“Come on Max. We’re told her name was Angela. Let’s see if we can name her killer.”
SIXTEEN
It was Monday morning, and I rose before dawn. I sat on the outside steps by the screened porch and laced up my shoes. The sunrise broke, resembling a ship’s light in a mist over the tree line along the river.
After a mile or so at a fast pace, I stopped to catch my breath. I stood there, sweating and watching the silent St. Johns for a minute. There was the scent of damp moss, orange blossoms, and honeysuckle. A hummingbird hovered at the opening of a trumpet flower, the bird's throat glistening like a damp ruby in the morning light.
My cell rang. It’s chirp out of harmony with the birdsong in the forest. “You sound out of breath.” Ron Hamilton said.
“Trying to get back in shape. Running again.”
“There’s another killing. Similar MO. Female. Young. No ID. Raped and strangled. Could be the same perp.”
“Where’d they find the body?”
“Brevard County. Not too far from you. Two teenagers on four-wheelers found the vic. Word I hear is the feds are making a half-ass effort to look into this one. Not much is done about it until it grabs the girl next door.”
“What did you come up with on similar cases, missing or unsolved homicides?”
“Florida’s got two things more than any state. The coastline is the longest and so is the missing persons list. I tried to triangulate it into stats that would correlate with the ethnicity, age and sex of your vic, and the one found today. Went back five years. There are ninety-three reported missing. Nineteen known homicides. Out of that number, four people have been convicted. So that gives us fifteen where the perp or perps are still out there. In each case, the bodies were found in some remote spots.”
“Was the cause of death the same?”
“Looks that way. Necks broken. Raped and sexually mutilated. But because he’s not killing college coeds, like Danny Rolling or Ted Bundy did, it becomes old news fast. Look how long the Green River Killer kept killing prostitutes. The people least likely to be reported missing.”
“For every girl reported missing, I wonder what the ratio or percentage is of them found alive or dead? What’s the death quotient?”
“There are girls missing that nobody files a report on because their families live in some other country. Human trafficking. Sex slaves. All here in the good ol U.S. of A.”
“You got it, partner.”
Ron grunted. “Out of the fifteen we know about, one body was found the first year. The second year produced two. The third season, if you will, there were three killings, about one a quarter. Year number four produced four dead girls. And this last year there were five. These killings were scattered in counties from the northern part of Florida to the tip of the Everglades.”
“If all the bodies were found, and it’s the same perp, he’s killing more each year, getting bolder, or an urge can’t be satisfied for as long. What’d you get on Joe Billie?”
“The print on the arrowhead could be from Billie. There’s no record of his prints anywhere. No criminal record. Nothing in DMV. Seems he doesn’t exist. The blood on the feather you sent matches the DNA of the hair follicle you found on the cot. Came from the same man, Billie, if that’s his hair. No hit in CODIS. Why his blood is on the damn feather, I can’t help you there, bro. I’ll send the arrow back to you.”
“Did you find anything on Clayton Suskind?”
“Ph.D in anthropology from Florida State University. Suskind was arrested in last year for unauthorized digging of a national historic site, the protected Crystal River Mounds. This is probably the biggest Indian burial ground in the Southeast. He knows, or knew, where to dig. Collectors pay a lot for this stuff. The good professor is another missing person who has never been found.”