When I asked Diaz what Sims had said and why they considered him a suspect, he stared into the passing lane and said: "Anonymous tip." When he refused to offer more, I put my elbow on the passenger's side armrest, matched his reticence, and tried to smooth the rock on my own.
If someone had dropped a dime on Sims, what could they have said to make Hammonds take it seriously? His team must have listened to hundreds, maybe thousands of crank tips and useless accusations by now. If the information was legitimate, it still didn't make sense. Would some environmentalist get so caught up in his cause that he would turn to violence? And how the hell would a guy like that slip in and out of neighborhoods and into a place like my river shack without leaving a trace?
From my quick encounter at the Loop Road bar, Sims seemed the least likely in the group to be scuttling through the swamp. It wasn't in his eyes. Killing children wasn't like picketing the EPA or marching on the White House. A brain would have to fester some time to find enough motivation for what this guy was doing. Sims didn't have the smell of it. But what had he told Hammonds about me?
When we finally pulled into the administration building lot, Diaz took three turns searching the rows for a spot under the withering shade trees. He finally gave up and took a slot in a middle row with the other unfortunates sizzling under the sun. The entire sky seemed white hot. When we got out, Diaz strode across the parking area like a man avoiding a downpour.
"I hate the summer," he said, more to himself than to me as we went through a side door and then into an elevator obviously not for public use.
The doors opened onto a room of cubicles and I was lost until we came through another door that led into the same half- glassed office of files and desks where I'd been caught staring at Richards' legs.
This time it was busier. A long folding table had been brought in and was stacked with new phones and laptop computers and half-empty Styrofoam cups. Three young men wearing the same careful haircuts and cinched ties were working the phones, all of them standing but bent to the task of typing in notes. Diaz gave the secretary outside the high sign and she picked up her own phone. None of the federal agents looked at us when she signaled back and we went into Hammonds' office.
This time the government had made no attempt to cover its encroachment into Hammonds' space. In front of his bookcases was a South Florida map showing the vast Everglades and the color-coded counties and municipalities along the east coast. There were plastic pushpins jammed into the map board in a variety of places. The red ones I recognized as the spots were the first four bodies had been found. There was one stuck in my river. There was also a yellow pin downstream at the location of my shack. Along one wall the office furniture had been shoved out of the way and the space was now occupied by a table with two laptops, an exterior modem, a zip drive and a spaghetti pile of wire dripping down the back. Hammonds still had his chair, but I could tell that even that was in jeopardy.
Two FBI types were in the room, gathering up files, logging off one of the computers and looking unusually put out for FBI types. Hammonds sat behind his now cluttered desk, his fingers steepled, waiting. Richards was also there, half sitting, half leaning on the edge of the computer table. She was again dressed in a business suit of light gray material with a white blouse that had a prim, close collar. She had her legs crossed at the ankle and I noticed a thin gold bracelet there. I moved my eyes to the floor until the government boys were gone, then looked up at Hammonds when the door clicked shut. His eyes were closed.
"Let's be up front, Mr. Freeman," he started, his voice trying to reach a tone of authority that he was maybe beginning to lose. "You may not have been much of a cop in Philadelphia, according to your record, but you're smart enough to know the drill."
I silently agreed on both points.
"Proximity made you a suspect in the Gainey child's homicide. We never found anyone near the others. Your psychologicals from Philadelphia made you as unstable. There was the shooting incident up there with the minor involved."
I had to force myself to stay locked onto his eyes, which were now open and painful-looking in their swollen tiredness.
"When you came across with the GPS and the canoe tag we tried to reassess. Your input the other night at the scene was an acquiescence." He pushed himself away from the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.
"But dammit, Freeman. Your name keeps coming up in this godforsaken mess and I do not like that coincidence."
So I was wrong about the voice of authority.
"What do you want to know?" I said. If they were actually going to lay their cards out, it was probably time for both of us to play straight.
"How do you know this Rory Sims?"
I told them about the Loop Road meeting, arranged by Gunther, whom they had obviously interviewed at the hospital after the plane crash.
"You must have asked Gunther enough questions about me to make them assume I was trustworthy, in a suspect sort of way," I said.
"Loop Road's a tough place to have conversations for an outsider," Diaz cut in from behind. "We never get shit out there but nasty looks and Cracker drawl."
I didn't bother looking around.
"Who was at this meeting?" Hammonds resumed.
I gave them the names.
"Blackman we know about," Richards finally said. "He's a disgruntled guide who has a few minors, mostly tiffs with clients. But he's never been vocal or threatening to residents that we know of. But you actually talked with Nate Brown?"
The amazement in her voice made me turn around. For the first time she looked at me as if I was a human being instead of somebody in a lineup.
"Yeah," I said. "Crusty old guy who didn't say much but was obviously the man behind the meeting."
Richards filled in the others on Brown's criminal and military history, adding that he had been suspected by the DEA for using his knowledge of the Glades to help marijuana smugglers dropping loads in the wilderness areas in the late 1970s.
"But he's been off the books for years. Everybody thought he'd died."
I was impressed, and watched her looking from face to face in the room.
"So what about this Ashley?" Hammonds said. "What's his story?"
Richards shook her head. I had nothing more to offer.
"Let's get on that," Hammonds said. "One of you two."
Diaz scribbled on his pad. Richards just nodded. Hammonds cleared his throat and looked at me. It was his turn to share.
"We got Sims in here on an anonymous tip this morning. One of the FBI guys took the call. The voice was obviously distorted, but they weren't taping a random call anyway.
"When the agent told the caller a name alone didn't mean much, he dumped a reference to a herpetologist down in south Dade County. Said Sims knew where to get rattlesnake venom and hung up.
"Only the interior investigators are supposed to know that the first child was killed by snake venom. I know enough about information leaks in a high-profile case not to be too optimistic, but it was enough to get Sims in here."
"We'd already talked to the snake guy at the University of Miami. We got back to him and he and Sims go back. They share a lot of data on snake movements and Sims does some tracking for him after they stick these transmitters into the captured ones," Diaz said.
"Point is, we get him in here and he denies any involvement and then he brings your name up like you can vouch for him," Hammonds said.
"So is he still here? I'll talk to him. Let him explain it himself."
Hammonds turned away.
"Had to cut him loose. We had no corroboration. Plus he had a damn good alibi for the other night when the Alvarez girl was taken. His lawyers would have had him out in a couple of hours anyway. But what I want to know is, why you, Freeman? Why you and this crew of swampers?"