Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (11 page)

“That we’ll find bones, you mean?”

The woman’s impatient expression told me
Of course that’s what I mean!

“In a shell mound, well . . . Yeah, it’s possible,” I said. “Last year, Loretta gave permission, and a group from the University of Florida found the teeth and jaw of a young girl near our carport, just eighteen inches under the surface.” I pointed to the house, which was yellow clapboard with a chimney poking out of the tin roof. “Just to the left of the porch—I’ll show you later. They carbon-dated one of the teeth, then put the bones back and left everything just they way they found it. That ended the dig, of course.”

Fascinated, Birdy Tupplemeyer listened a while longer, then said, “You’re shitting me!” when I told her the girl had probably died in her teens and had been buried more than eight hundred years ago. Then glared at the cement three-story again. “Okay, human bones, that’s the part I wasn’t sure about. See . . . even if they didn’t destroy an actual burial mound, there could still be burials in the stuff they hauled away. Once we locate it, we can dig around and see what’s there—contextually, the fill’s ruined anyway. If we do find bones, you can file suit, or get someone else to file, but the thing is”—the woman became thoughtful and lowered her voice—“we’ve got to leave the archaeologists out of it—for now. Even if you know some of them personally.” She looked at me. “Do you?”

“Four, probably more, they’ve been coming here for years,” I said. “I trust them. Two drove down from Gainesville when they heard about the bulldozer. And Dr. Caren—you’ll meet her, she’s great—Caren cried like a baby, she was so upset. But there was nothing they could do to stop the digging.”

The redhead camouflaged her cop cynicism with an open-minded shrug, then tested my naïvety by asking, “Did you know the Candors donated ten grand to the archaeology foundation that funds research here? That was
before
they started construction. Friends of The First People, that’s the foundation’s name.”

I felt my face coloring because I don’t like to be tested. “You did your homework, I’ll give you that,” I said, “but don’t get tricky. If you researched the foundation, you saw my name on the members’ list. Sure, I know they donated money. But hindsight is a hundred percent, and I guarantee you the board and archaeologists are embarrassed about it after what happened to the mound.”

“Just a silly mistake,” the redhead said, as if she was being dense.

“I don’t appreciate sarcasm either,” I told her. “The Candors saw it as a bribe, I don’t doubt that. But you don’t know the archaeologists. I do. The foundation’s screwup was not knowing that people like the Candors exist.”

Tupplemeyer’s expression changed. “You’ve got a temper.”

“I’ll introduce you to Dr. Williams,” I replied. “He’s the head guy. Dr. Caren, too. You’ve never met finer people, but judge for yourself.”

The deputy seemed temporarily convinced but said again, “You still can’t say a word about what we’re doing. One of the reasons I switched to law enforcement is because archaeology is so damn dependent on public funding. A ten-thousand-dollar donation? Yeah, of course they took it, I can understand that. But”—she paused to warn me about what came next—“don’t get mad again, okay?”

I replied, “If I get mad, you’ll
know
it . . . Birdy,” using her nickname to see how it felt and it felt okay once I’d said it.

“I’m convinced,” she said. “What you don’t know about academics is that making waves is the fastest way to lose funding. But, as a cop, I can actually do something—but not until someone files a complaint.”

Now she was getting down to what was actually on her mind.

“I have the name of the trucking company written somewhere,” I said, “unless you already know where they dumped the fill.”

Tupplemeyer did the thing with her hair again, but this time in a more natural way that didn’t quite fit her sly expression. “I knew you’d come through. You should have seen your face when you first told me about them bulldozing that mound. Damn, you were mad. Yeah, I’ve got it narrowed down to four or five dump spots, but, when we search, it has to be at night. Three are county-owned landfills, and my ass would be in a sling if we get caught.”

I liked the woman’s spunk but finally had to say, “Tell me something. Talking about your mother was a way of softening me up, wasn’t it?”

“No,”
she replied, offended, “I did it because my mom drives me insane. It was nice to vent to someone who . . . Well, I don’t have many female friends. And why would the guys I work with care?”

That seemed honest enough, although I was still suspicious—but about something else now. Birdy Tupplemeyer was feminine in her mannerisms and dress, but she also wore pants five days a week and carried a gun. I wanted to make my own interests clear. “I don’t have many women friends myself,” I began. “Not close anyway. The man I’m dating keeps me busy most nights. He’s a marine biologist, but he’s out of town this week. That’s probably why I’m a little on edge.”

“Really,” Birdy replied, the cop cynicism fresh in her voice. “How long you been dating?”

Three days, officially,
but that wouldn’t have gotten my message across. “Awhile,” I responded, then told her a little about my late husband, who had been drunk when he stepped into traffic but omitted the fact we had spent only one night together before he was shipped overseas. As final proof, I alluded to a gift certificate from Saks and suggested we do some shopping on her next day off.

The redhead found that all very amusing for some reason and gave a snorting sort of laugh. “Relax, for christ’s sake. I’m not gay. I’m not even bi.”

“Who cares if you are?” I shot back.

“
I
care, and I get that question a lot. You probably get it even more.” She eyed me, sizing me up. “What are you, five-ten, six-foot? Blue’s a good color for you, and I like the cargo shorts, but a woman your size who wears tools on her belt?” She was still chuckling.

“They’re
fishing pliers
,” I replied, showing her. “I had a charter this morning, but my client canceled.” I slipped the pliers back. “Your personal life is none of my business. It never crossed my mind that you’re—”

“Oh,
stop
it.” Birdy made a shushing motion, already tired of the topic, then patted the steering console of my skiff. “You’ve got the day off, huh? If I pay for the fuel, how about you take me out there?” She pointed toward the island where the remains of a western pyramid was elevated by trees.

“I’ve got to pick up clients at one and it’s nearly noon now,” I said, which was true but also a way of dodging her request—working for free is no way to run a charter business and it was the sort of offer I get a lot. Instead, I offered to show her the Marlow cruiser and explain the work needed to make the boat livable. By the time we’d finished the tour, I’d changed my mind. I liked Birdy Tupplemeyer, appreciated her high-energy way of dealing with awkward matters, so I suggested she come back tomorrow.

“I’m booked for the morning,” I explained, “but I can show you around in the afternoon. Are you off?”

She shook her head. “I’m new, so it’s Mondays/Thursdays off. But I could use a personal day.”

I rechecked my watch. “Okay, then. We’ll split the fuel. In return, maybe you can give me your opinion on a case I might be starting. It has to do with my mother, and maybe a bogus charity. Oh, and there’s something else—”

Sitting on the flybridge of the cruiser—a boat that was soon to be my home—I told the deputy what had happened to me at the Helms place and the little I knew about the murder of Dwight Helms. Despite Tupplemeyer’s energy and impatience, she was a thoughtful woman, and I soon felt comfortable enough to also share my fears about Levi Thurloe, too.

That night, when Loretta called in tears, claiming there was a man watching her from the yard, I was at the computer in my Uncle Jake’s office, a two-room CBS that adjoins a strip mall off Pondella Road. Lots of traffic and neon glare; cars with subwoofers that rattle the windows. For the last three years, I’d been living here alone and had done my best to convert the place into a homey apartment, even though I knew it would never feel like home.

Loretta called around ten. I had finished my charter at seven and arrived at the office thirty minutes later. My routine when entering the place seldom varied. I locked the door behind me and put the teakettle on while I showered. Changed into jeans and a clean blouse, then settled myself at the desk to work. Tonight, my routine changed slightly because the first thing I did was check e-mails—but still no word from Ford. More disappointing was that the two cheerful notes I’d sent him hadn’t been opened, possibly not even received in the remote Venezuelan village where he’d said he would be working.

“Shit!”
Birdy Tupplemeyer’s affection for profanity was rubbing off on me because that was my reaction. I got up, rechecked the door lock, then fussed with the heavy curtains that shielded me from outside noise and the eyes of loiterers in the parking lot next door.

Stop fretting,
I told myself, and returned to the computer, carrying a mug of mango tea. Joel Ransler had postponed our charter to investigate what he said was a murder scene. It didn’t take me long to find the few facts available. An eighty-two-year-old man, Clayton Edwards, had died of “multiple wounds” in a Sematee County mobile home park and his trailer had been ransacked. Murder-robbery was suspected.

The name Edwards is mentioned often in Florida history, so I spent another fifteen minutes searching for more information, then gave up. I had a lot to do: Fisherfolk Inc., the nonprofit organization based in Carnicero, had to have a founder, possibly even a board. What were their names? There were newspaper articles I needed to read about the Dwight Helms murder, and I also wanted to confirm what Birdy had told me about the Candors.

What kind of psychiatric research had Dr. Alice Candor conducted? Birdy hadn’t had time at the sheriff’s department to find out, or it was possible that medical journals were kept locked to all but subscribers. I also wanted to run a background check on Joel Ransler, who had confirmed by text he was meeting me at the dock in the morning. Everything about the man seemed genuine and likable, so why did I distrust him? No . . . that wasn’t fair. Truth was, I didn’t
want
to trust him because . . .
why
? Was it because I found Ransler attractive, was flattered by his interest, even though I was already in love with a good man?

Nothing wrong with that,
my conscience insisted.
Finish with the computer, then go to bed. You won’t have to sleep in an office much longer.

It was never easy for me to be alone in this building at night. Living next to a strip mall was like waiting for a traffic light to change or for a bus to arrive—some sudden transitional signal that would thrust me forward into my future. Finally, it was happening. The beautiful little Marlow cruising boat would soon be my home, which is why most of my things were already packed in boxes. The office was becoming an office again, but that didn’t change the emptiness I felt as I sat alone, trying to ignore the headlights and rumble of passing cars, the voices of faceless strangers who parked outside to use the fitness center or to buy beer at the Shop N Go.

Soon, the search engines, which debit our agency monthly, began to produce information I could not have found on my laptop, and the noise outside was silenced. One by one, I created folders labeled
Fisherfolk
,
Candors
, and
Helms Murder
, then dragged files into them as they appeared. I wanted to arrange the files chronologically before I began my reading. Because I dreaded what I might discover about the murder of Dwight Helms, I also wanted to save it for last.

I opened the Candor file first, even before the search engines had completed their work. Everything Birdy told me about the couple was true, but her words hadn’t had the impact of seeing the mug shots of Dr. Alice Candor and her husband glowering at me from clippings in the
Toledo Blade
and Cleveland
Plain Dealer
. The charges made against their company, Firelands Physicians Regional Health Care, had made headlines. Something Birdy hadn’t mentioned was their company had also managed rehab clinics for the state penal system. It was a lucrative contract that had been canceled when six inmate patients followed through on a suicide pact that, supposedly, didn’t include a note explaining why they’d killed themselves. During the scandal that followed, letters to the editor about the Candors were so venomous, it was no wonder they had fled to Florida—a state where the best of people, and the worst, come to reinvent their lives.

Raymond—
I now knew the husband’s name. I had seen him from a distance and hadn’t noticed his graying mustache or his pale, nervous eyes. A dog that fears his master’s voice and hand—the expression on the husband’s face was similar. Alice Candor’s credentials—degrees from Oberlin, Ohio State, and Johns Hopkins—suggested that she, the overachiever, was the dominant of the two. She had done research at a psychiatric hospital prior to going into private practice, then chairing Firelands Health Care, but had published in only two journals. As feared, access to both was restricted, then further restricted when I attempted to subscribe: licensed physicians, medical students, and authorized clinicians only.

Even so, I found an abstract of Dr. Candor’s first research paper, which produced a familiar chill because it suggested the doctor had done research using prison inmates as subjects:

Effects of Benzedrine on Violent Habitual Offenders Unresponsive to Standard Protocols

A two-year study that suggests clinicians can assert surrogate influence on habitually violent and criminal behavior after administering Benzedrine in dosages that avoid addiction (but exceed the accepted maximum) via media that manipulate the subject’s frontal lobes.

In high school, I got A’s in physiology and chemistry but now couldn’t remember what Benzedrine was for or remember the role our frontal lobe plays in the human brain. I knew what
assert surrogate influence
and
manipulate
meant, though, and it scared me. In this case, the assertive surrogate was Alice Candor. How she had manipulated the brains of her inmate patients, the abstract didn’t say, but she’d readied them by administering a drug in large dosages. Could
assertive influence
also be translated as
control
? Was that why six prison inmates had committed suicide?

I looked up
Human brain, frontal lobes
and found too much to digest in one night. Basically, the frontal lobe is two sections of brain that presses against our foreheads. Combined, they are responsible for our behavior, our ability to learn, and all of our voluntary movements.

Voluntary
movements—I wondered if the distinction was significant. To a man or woman in prison, I had no doubt that it was.

As I puzzled over the wording, my phone buzzed, which caused me to jump. I stood, checked the time—9:20 p.m.—then opened a text from Birdy Tupplemeyer, which read
Just leaving. Place closest me no luck. Can’t call now. How long U up?

Using two fast thumbs, I replied,
Late as you want, get out of there, be careful!
because her note could only mean one thing: she had gone alone to a dump site near her condo in South Fort Myers, one of the places we’d discussed earlier. It was a county landfill that was gated and guarded after hours but a common destination for trucks loaded with raw earth to unload.

“Crazy woman,”
I muttered but had to smile. I often meet people who talk bravely about their intentions, but Birdy, by god, was a doer, not just a talker. My respect for her had just climbed several notches.

As an afterthought, I sent a second text:
Don’t go alone again! Mean it!
And I did. I had agreed to help the redhead, why hadn’t she waited for another night? I walked around the office, expecting a response that didn’t come. After five minutes had passed, I was worried enough to consider sending a third text, but decided Tupplemeyer—a cop—didn’t need a babysitter, so I went to the bathroom, used the toilet, and washed my face to collect myself.

Assert surrogate influence.
I couldn’t get the phrase out of my head. Levi Thurloe, a huge man with a child’s brain, was working for the Candors. Had Alice, the research psychiatrist, been giving Levi drugs and then . . . what? Issuing hypnotic commands? Whispering into his ear during lunch breaks, then sending him out to intimidate people she considered to be enemies? Or even ordering them killed with an axe? It sounded like ridiculous science fiction. But the couple now owned several small Florida clinics, according to Birdy. Dr. Alice was still licensed to practice, she had worked with violent criminals in the past, and the woman still had access to lord knows what types of drugs. Maybe the scenario wasn’t so silly after all.

Enough with the Candors! Finish up and get to bed!

I returned to the computer but couldn’t make myself sit in the chair. The three new folders were the same size, but the label
Helms Murder
seemed to leap off the screen at me, so I took another thoughtful lap around the room, pausing at the door to the storage closet. My Uncle Jake hadn’t been a tidy man, so, after his death, it had taken me two weeks to sort through his personal files and belongings, which I had stored inside on shelves. Only yesterday I had unlocked this door, then traced my memory of Hoppe’s Gun Oil to Jake’s holster—an oddity that didn’t mesh with my knowledge of the bookish Dr. Marion Ford.

I stood there for a moment, telling myself my fears were imaginary, but unlocked the door and flicked on the light anyway. Two single overhead bulbs showed stacks of boxes and plastic containers, all labeled. There was also a gun safe bolted to the back wall, the inexpensive type made of sheet metal, painted brown. My fears might be imaginary, but the man who had chased me with an axe had been as real as real can be. It seemed reasonable to protect myself if it ever happened again.

I got the key to the gun safe and opened it. Jake’s empty shoulder holster was on the shelf above his old Mossberg shotgun and a .22 rifle, the first weapon I’d learned to shoot. I feel no warmth for firearms—who would?—but the memory of the days I’d spent with my sweet uncle, hiking the Everglades as a girl, created a brief nostalgia in me. But that vanished when I reached behind the holster and pulled out what appeared to be a large leather-bound book. It was the size of a family Bible and heavy; the holster made the pleasant sound of creaking leather when I looped it over my shoulder. There was a box of 9mm ammunition on the shelf, and I took that, too. I carried all three items to the desk, returned to lock the gun safe and the closet, then sat at the computer, my attention focused on the book.

NEGOTIATORS.
The title was embossed in gold on the cover. A place marker made of red ribbon added to the illusion that this was just an old book. It wasn’t. I flipped open the cover. Inside, nested in black velvet, was a small, stainless semiauto pistol, its transparent handgrip showing it contained no magazine. That didn’t prove the chamber was empty, but I found myself reluctant when I reached to check. Months ago, this pistol had saved my life, yet the sight of it now caused a feeling of revulsion inside me—revulsion not for the pistol but for events associated with it. Joel Ransler had dropped a couple of hints, but Birdy Tupplemeyer hadn’t mentioned reading about the man I’d shot and wounded, although she surely knew—a courtesy I appreciated because even though the man had brutalized other women and would have probably killed me, shooting him wasn’t something I was proud of. I had blocked the details from that awful day, but now here I was, reaching for the same pistol again, a box of 9mm hollow-points nearby, ready to be loaded and do the job they were designed to do, which was kill.

I withdrew my hand and thought about it. Did I really want to carry a gun?

No . . . I did not. I had enjoyed target shooting as a girl, but putting a bullet through the hip of a human being, then witnessing my attacker’s rage and pain, had replaced my naïve notions with the ugly reality that a bullet scars from both ends. Never again did I want to shoot another human being, so why carry a gun?

I closed the cover of the phony book, pushed it aside, and positioned the computer screen closer. To prove my resolve, I opened the folder I most dreaded and found fifteen documents related to the murder of Dwight Helms. The most repellent had been labeled by the Sematee County Sheriff’s Department
Homicide; Helms, D. W., Crime Scene Photos
,
followed by the date and the status, which was
Active
. In my current mood, it seemed required that I start there and I did.

It was a multiple PDF file. When I clicked it, sheets of thumbnail images appeared, then opened in such rapid-fire succession that I could only sit there dazed as the photographs stacked themselves on the screen. Old black-and-white shots that had been scanned into the system, each so graphic that my constant wincing soon mimicked the rhythm of a punching bag. The body of Dwight Helms had been found at night. Flashbulbs added a glossiness to the photos, turning pools of blood to silver, casting shadows that magnified each small, grisly detail.