Death Among the Mangroves (11 page)

Troy stopped and then laughed. “Now I'm lecturing. You already get enough of that from stuffed-shirt adults, day in and day out. Sorry. I have good news for you; life actually gets better after high school. And college is a blast if you go for that. Now, was there anything else or can we all get out of here early and go home?”

The kids were smart enough to sit on their hands, the ones not using their hands to text and tweet. But Dr. Duell stood and walked to the podium. “Last July you totally blew the town's budget with overtime for your department. I trust that you have since learned fiscal responsibility. If not, I shall have to vote at the upcoming town council meeting against making your appointment permanent.”

Troy turned and answered. “You're running for reelection to the town council. I don't get involved in that. Last July we had a hurricane and a murder. Am I supposed to not bother to protect and serve the community because it might cost some overtime? You—the town council—have a reserve set aside for emergencies. You know that. We didn't come close to exhausting the reserve…”

“Still, fiscal responsibility….”

“Be quiet. I was talking. The reserve
is
fiscal responsibility. Now, stop politicking among the students. You're embarrassing yourself.”

He walked to one of the exit doors and on out. Duell was saying something but Troy didn't stop to listen. He found himself outside, facing Oyster Bay across the school football field and some bleachers, and on the wrong side of the building from his car. But once you have made a dramatic exit, you don't go back. He walked around the outside of the school, got into his car, and drove off.

Chapter 16

Monday, December 23

Troy drove from the high school on Barron Key over to the Temple of God's Lightning on Snake Key. This was a single-wide mobile home cleared out inside to make a church. Troy found the Reverend Heth Summerall in a double-wide behind the church and which Summerall apparently lived in. Summerall was five-seven, with long moussed hair carefully combed up to add to his height, wearing a dark blue silk suit, and lifts in his shoes to make him two inches taller.

Summerall insisted they walk back to the church and Troy followed him. The church had a small chapel with a half-dozen folding chairs and a folding card table in front to serve as an altar. The only hint inside the trailer that this was a church was a foot-tall white plastic cross standing on the table. Half the trailer was an office and Summerall went into the office and sat behind a desk. There were no other chairs in the office, so Troy stood in front of Summerall.
The things people do to try to feel more important
, Troy thought, amused.

“What can we do for you, Chief,” Summerall said. “We are about to prepare our sermon for next Sunday.” He pointed at the computer on his desk. “We are a very busy man. Very busy indeed.”

Troy looked around. “Is there someone else here besides you and me?”

“We have no idea what you mean.”

Troy looked at Summerall. The man seemed dead serious. “My mistake,” Troy said. “I'm just curious. How many, er,
parishioners
do you have?”

“That would be confidential information.”

“I didn't see any sign outside showing the times and days you have services. Most churches have that posted.”

“Our services are held on an…irregular…schedule. As needed.”

“Aha. Well, I'll see if I can be quick,” Troy said. “You are collecting the rent on a home on 19th Street. You moved in the Martinez family, Eduardo and Rosa and their kids.”

“We may have. In addition to our pastoral duties we have many commercial interests, real estate management among them.” Summerall smiled and he had very large, square, perfect teeth. Troy suspected laminates.

“I see,” Troy said. “Problem is, that's not your house. It belongs to a Mark Johnson, who lives in Miami and who is trying to sell it. The Martinez's appear to be living there unlawfully. You appear to have shown them the house and then rented to them something that wasn't yours to rent. How would you explain that to, say, a law enforcement officer?”

“My good man, we would direct you to Florida Statute 95.18 that permits ‘adverse possession' of abandoned property. We took possession in accordance with that law. What we do with it—live in it or rent it out—is our business, not yours.”

“Odd business for a man of the cloth,” Troy said. “I believe it includes burglary, trespassing, fraud and grand theft. Probably more charges in there but I would have to read more law books, which I find stupefying. You do understand that the house not only belongs to someone else but that he's trying to sell it. Hard to sell a house that has squatters living in it.”

“We have done nothing wrong. We act always within the law. Besides, we're a minister.”

“Right. Some minister. You would have needed a bolt cutter to get that realtor's lockbox off the front doorknob. But my guess is that you hacksawed the entire doorknob off. Since almost nobody ever replaces a hacksaw blade, yours will still have microscopic bits of metal in the teeth that will match the metal in the doorknob.” Troy was blowing smoke; he didn't even have the doorknob to test, even if what he said was true, and he didn't know that it was. He was trying to rattle the good minister.

Summerall shook his head. “We have followed the law precisely. We filed an adverse possession notice at the property appraiser's office. They, in turn, mailed a notice to the homeowner of our intent to establish adverse possession. Apparently he never responded to that notice. We are sure that, had the homeowner only asked the tenants to leave, they would have immediately packed.”

“That's hard to imagine, since they think they have rented the house legally, and from you. I've spoken to them. You're saying that Eduardo and Rosa Martinez know that you stole the house you're renting to them?”

“Whoever they are. We would need to look at our paperwork to see if that is to whom we rented the property.”

“Well?” Troy waved at the office walls. “We're in your office. Where's the paperwork?”

Summerall looked at Troy a long moment, thinking about it. He shook his head. “We are not disposed to take the trouble to find that information for you at this time. Do you have some kind of warrant for it?”

“No. But my guess is that you have no paperwork. You grab a first month, last month and damage deposit, in cash, and run away, leaving the tenants to hold the bag.”

“Bah. We reiterate, we did not ‘steal' the house. We are doing nothing illegal.”

“So, no, the Martinez's do not know they're living in a stolen house.”

“Stop saying that. If this is so illegal, why did no one stop us and say, ‘You can be put in jail, be called a criminal, be charged with grand theft?' At no time during our filing, or while talking to the people at the property appraiser's office, were we told this.”

“Perhaps they were confused by your pronouns. Or maybe the other part of ‘we' has the paperwork.”

“What do you expect us to do? What are you going to do about it?”

“I'm not sure,” Troy said. “But I'm going to find out.”

Outside, Troy was opening his car door when his department cell phone rang. “Mark Stider was a student at Stetson,” Bust Prado said. “Gulfport campus. They kicked him out a few weeks ago.”

“Bad grades?”

“That and bad behavior. They didn't even let him into the law school at UF because they knew him. I also called the Gulfport police. They would love to be able to pin a couple rapes and an assault charge on the kid but nobody wants to testify. Apparently, the kid's dad buys him out of trouble. All the vics were paid off and are keeping their mouths shut. The school told me the dad is a judge down in your neck of the woods.”

“That he is.”

“And you're on this kid for a homicide? You better have your ducks lined up.”

“I don't yet. I'm working the problem.”

“I will say this for you. You're one hell of a digger and guesser. You always were the best at that. But guessing doesn't count, long-term. Digging does.”

“Thanks for the help…” Troy started to say but Bust had hung up.

Chapter 17

Monday, December 23

Since Troy was already on Snake Key it was a short drive to Sasha Thompson's house. She sat on a worn sofa and apologized for the furniture. “I'm renting it furnished,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“You're not renting from a fellow named Heth Summerall, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“Never mind. Nothing wrong with renting. I rent a place too. I wanted to ask you a few questions. First, I suppose, why did you come to Mangrove Bayou? I know that you're a nurse and work in the town medical clinic. In fact, you're just a few steps from my own office at the other end of the town hall building. But do you have relatives or friends here?”

“I'm a nurse, yes. It's a portable job and I thought this would be a nice place to live. I was wrong. I have no relatives here, and so far as I can see there aren't a lot of black people in town to be my friends.”

“There are a few. I'm one, sort of. And people don't have to be black to be your friends.”
Got a redheaded Irish lover,
Troy thought.
I really fell into the tub of chocolate when I came to Mangrove Bayou.

“So you say. I come from a small town in Mississippi. I never saw the white person I could trust.”

“Doctor Vollmer is white. He hired you. I was hired by three white guys.” Troy didn't mention that only two people had applied for the job and the other one was wall-eyed and one-toothed and probably incompetent, and the town council still almost picked him over Troy.

“You come by just to tell me to climb to the mountaintop?” Thompson said. “Start judging people by the content of their character, not the color of their skins?”

“That wouldn't hurt. But I came by to find out more about why that man shot your dogs.”

“Don't you already know?”

“No.”

“Look at my skin. You're—something—black or Indian or something. You know what racism feels like. Don't tell me you haven't seen the letters, the reports?”

“I have not. What letters? What reports?”

“Jesus! Don't you people talk to each other?” Thompson went to a shoebox on a table in the corner of the small living room and brought it to Troy. He dug through it. There were letters threatening Thompson. “
The residents of Snake Key will, in full compliance with the law, not allow your presence to alter our peaceful, respectful quiet neighborhood,
” one said. The others were not so polite, and several promised violent physical harm.

There was more. Thompson had been visited in the past six months by, among others, the Florida Department of Children and Families, by the Collier County Environmental Protection Commission and by the Collier County Animal Services. All had received anonymous calls reporting her alleged misdeeds. All had investigated. None had found anything wrong.

Troy looked up from the box. “You don't even have a child, do you?”

She shook her head. “No children. You would not believe how hard it was to convince that woman from DCF of that. And those other people. One wanted to see my septic tank. I'm on the town system, nobody around here has a septic tank. The animal people complimented me on how I take care of my dogs. Or on how I
did
take care of them.”

“I've seen this sort of thing before, in my previous job,” Troy said, pointing at the box. “Some state agencies are duty-bound to investigate even anonymous complaints. And there is little or no attempt at punishing people for false reports, even if they know who made them. People take advantage of that, fire those agencies at their enemies like so many guided missiles. Why didn't you call us when all this was going on? Especially the hate mail.”

“Well, I assumed they would tell you people. But also, look at me. You think I needed a bunch of white redneck cops showing up and hassling me even more?”

“Look at
me
, Sasha. Am I a white redneck cop?”
Or Jeremiah; he's got a black neck but you can't tell where his neck stops and his head begins. I should send him over here. He's a gentle soul and might talk her around better than I'm doing.

“Well, I didn't know you. How do I know what sort of cop will show up?”

“Sasha, you could have walked from the medical clinic, through the town hall, and into my office in thirty seconds and without even leaving the building. How has not asking for help worked out for you so far?”

She started crying, still looking straight at him and making no attempt to wipe off her face. Troy took several deep breaths.

“We have the jerk who shot your dogs. We sent Gerry Whyte up to the county jail, and I think I can make some charges stick. I want to take these letters with me. You can keep the official stuff, but I want to try to get any useful fingerprints off the hate mail. You didn't happen to keep the envelopes, did you?”

Thompson shook her head. “No. Why would I do that?”

“DNA. People lick envelopes. But I'll do what I can with the letters themselves.”

“All right. Take them. But it's no good here. I'm not some sort of hero. If these horrible people hate me so much, I'll just leave. I can be a nurse just about any place.”

“That would be our loss,” Troy said. “Why don't you give me a chance to show you a better side of Mangrove Bayou.”