Miami, It's Murder (15 page)

Whimpering, I resisted the urge to jump out of the car and run. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment, then steeled myself to look at what was in the back seat.

I opened the door, slid out, and pulled the front seat forward for a closer inspection. My first instinct was to hurl it away from my car and drive off, but that would be stupid. Queasy and trembling, I got back in and started the car. At first I intended to drive straight to police headquarters, but then I considered taking it to my Aunt Odalys. This was more her bailiwick. I tried to think clearly. I could not swear it had not been in my car when I left the construction site. But if not, then it was placed there during the few minutes I was in the store.

I had a pretty good idea who was responsible, and that scared me. I regretted that my gun was at home and not in the glove compartment. Finally I stopped at a roadside telephone booth and called the city crime lab, while nervously scanning passing traffic. He was out there, somewhere, watching. Of that I was sure.

Thankfully, Warren was in. “Hi, Britt, ready to do that story about the scientific detectives? You should see the case I'm working on now—”

“Warren, can you meet me in ten minutes, in the parking lot behind the station? It's important. Bring rubber gloves.”

He sounded doubtful but agreed. I got there in five. He was waiting.

“It's Santería,” I said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Looks like somebody's little magic spell, and I'm betting it's not intended to help you win the lottery.” He gingerly removed it from the car with both gloved hands, a red ribbon trailing. The bloodied item, tied with ribbon, was the severed tongue of a cow. Now I saw that it had been slit open and the two halves pierced by a metal nail. Something was sandwiched in between. The inserts, skewered by the nail, were messy but recognizable. A story with my byline, clipped from the newspaper, and a small photograph. The story, of course, was about the manhunt for the Downtown Rapist. The photograph was me, the one that had been on my old police-issued press ID card. I had never liked it. The smart-aleck police photographer had snapped the picture when my mouth was open and my eyes half closed, then refused to shoot another. The cards are only valid for a year, and I had been happy when it expired and a new one, with a more presentable photo, was issued.

“Where'd he get it?” Warren said, scrutinizing me from behind the lenses of his glasses.

I racked my brain. I didn't know where I had seen the card last. I might have tossed it into the trash at the office or at home, which chilled my bones even more. My mind raced. Could it have been in my unlocked glove compartment or in the all-purpose drawer in my kitchen? Could it have been taken from my apartment?

I shivered in the hot sun, my skin as cold as ice.

“Was your car broken into?”

“No, I've been leaving the windows down because the air conditioner doesn't work.”

His expression said I was not the smartest person in the world. I already knew that. “Look,” I said, “I'm on deadline with another story. I've got to get back to the office.”

“This didn't happen in our jurisdiction,” he said. “It's the county's, but it may relate to our case. We have to make a report, Britt, and notify the county.”

“I don't want a fuss.”

“You know we have to make a report. We'll process this, and I have to call Harry.”

“Well, okay,” I snapped. “Do what you have to do, but I have to get back.”

“He'll want to talk to you.”

“He knows where to find me,” I said. I got back in the car and slammed the door.

“Britt, if the guy did this, he knows what you look like, he knows your car—maybe he even knows where you live. Talk to Harry.”

“Later,” I said, and turned the key in the ignition.

The message was clear. The rapist was into Santería, which meant I was now the recipient, thank you very much, of some evil hex he had cooked up with his Santero. Swell.

The specter of animal sacrifice and Santería worship stirred vague and shadowy memories of a dark night in my childhood. No time to think about that, I told myself, hurrying into the newsroom. I had a story to write. Deadlines leave no time for panic and have preserved my sanity more than once. I willed myself to focus only on the Sam Farrington story. There would be more stories, more deadlines later. What a blessing that newspapers are published seven days a week.

I called Onnie in the library, requesting anything we had on Farrington. “There may be business side stories. He was a contractor.”

“What's the matter?” she said. “You don't sound right.”

“Nothing. Well, it is something, but I'm on deadline and I'll tell you later. See what you can find on this guy.”

I dialed the number for the medical examiner and caught the chief in his office.

Farrington had arrived, he said, and was still aboard the flatbed truck in the receiving area. He would remain there for the time being.

“You haven't weighed him yet?”

“Not unless they stopped at a truck weighing station along the way,” the chief said.

A pathologist was supervising an investigator and an attendant, who were wielding hand-held chisels and two- and three-pound hammers to free the body. The receiving area was the perfect location for the job; it is a huge space like an enclosed hangar, where even plane wreckage can be brought intact from crash scenes. Wrecked vans or cars occupied by murder victims can be processed under bright lights, in comfortable air-conditioning, sheltered from the weather, and out of the sight of gaping or unruly crowds.

“I guess you've never had a body encased in cement before,” I said with certainty.

“Just once,” he said quietly.

“When was that?” Funny, I didn't remember one. But the chief has been in charge for almost as long as I have been alive.

“Eighteen years ago,” he said, his voice placid. “The victim was a young woman apparently murdered by her husband, who disposed of her body by cementing it into a stairwell that he built himself.” He paused. “She was this gentleman's wife, in fact.”

“He killed her? Farrington killed his wife?”

“That's right.”

“Did he go to jail?” I felt shocked by a sudden elusive thought I could not quite fathom. “Whose case was it?”

“He was never convicted—never tried, in fact—a fluke in the law,” he said, responding first to my initial question. “Statute of limitations. I believe it was investigated by the city. The file's been pulled, but I haven't reviewed it yet.”

“There is no statute of limitations on murder,” I argued, never knowing the chief to be mistaken but wanting to protest, trying to grasp the reason for my sense of apprehension.

“There was a statute of limitations in this case. A fluke in the law. Check your newspaper's old stories. As I recall, the case received a lot of coverage.”

I hung up the phone, heart pounding, as Onnie appeared at my shoulder and dropped a fat blue number-eleven envelope on my desk.

“Jackpot,” she said with a smile. “A whole file full of stories on this guy. You know he killed his wife?”

“I just heard,” I murmured, focused on the neatly folded clippings in the envelope.

She waited a moment, then retreated. “I know what you're like on deadline. Call me later,” she sang out and returned to the library.

I didn't answer. I was scanning the clips. They were arranged by date and began more than twenty years ago with small, short items from the business section. His young company had been involved in several modest building projects. He had started out building single-family homes.

Then a missing persons story. His estranged wife had disappeared during a bitter divorce battle. Both had moved out of their home, which was to be sold and the proceeds divided. The wife had the keys, and she and her husband were to meet a real estate agent at the house at four o'clock one long-ago afternoon.

The agent arrived on time. Mrs. Farrington's car stood in the drive, but no one answered the doorbell. The agent persisted, rapping on the back door as well and peering in windows. The house appeared empty and she eventually left.

Alice Farrington remained missing for seven years.

Immediately after she vanished, her mother and friends had insisted that her estranged husband was responsible. He had abused and terrified her, they said. He denied it, saying he had also arrived for the appointment, either shortly before or after the agent, had seen no one, and left. Since his wife was not present to object, he moved back into the house and made a number of improvements.

When the woman's frantic family insisted that police search the premises, Farrington allowed them access. They found no evidence of foul play but did note a newly poured cement staircase, landing, and stairwell.

Fearing the worst, her family begged police to go in and knock it down. But, as the police pointed out, they could not just begin demolishing a house without proof a crime had been committed. And no one had proof. Farrington even claimed to receive occasional taunting phone calls from his wife. He said she refused to say where she was.

A highly publicized fluke in the law occurred at this time. The Florida legislature abolished capital punishment. Six months later it was restored, by popular demand.

But the wording of the original order had abolished “capital” offenses in Florida during those six months, and the law clearly stated that all felonies, except capital crimes, were subject to a statute of limitations. Since, technically, there was no such thing as a capital crime for six months, first-degree murders committed during that period were no longer considered such and therefore became subject to the statute of limitations. Once the clock ran out, killers could shout confessions from the courthouse steps with no fear of prosecution. There were a dozen such cases in Dade County. Free murders, on the house. Those who got away with it for seven years got away with it forever and could thumb their noses at the system.

Farrington held on to his house for seven years, then sold it to buy a luxurious Bay Point home more in keeping with his enhanced status as a successful contractor. He had maintained the old house well, probably never dreaming that the new owners would remodel. They found Alice Farrington in the stairwell where she had been all along, but it was too late for her husband to be charged with her murder.

Farrington had won, but he was no longer thumbing his nose at the system. He was dead.

Dan called as I was finishing the story.

“Remember Sam Farrington?” I asked.

“A pillar of the community, I hear.”

“That's not funny.”

“I always try to make you smile. You look pretty when you smile, and life's too short not to.”

“How did you know what happened?” I blurted. “They haven't released his name, not till they confirm ID and notify next of kin.”

“Ken McDonald knew it was my old case. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.”

“I thought you'd feel that way.” I remembered the scene at the construction site and what followed.

“What's the matter, Britt? You sound edgy.”

“I am.” The friendly note in his voice caught me off guard and my eyes flooded. “I had a problem today.”

“Gimme his name and I'll pay him a visit.”

“The Downtown Rapist, and if you can find him, a lot of people will be very grateful, especially me.”

I told him about the cow's tongue.

“Jesus Christ, Britt. Is the city taking this seriously? Are they giving you any protection?”

“I can take care of myself,” I muttered.

“Listen, nobody's better at surveillance than an old cop. I can come sit on your place tonight.”

“No, thanks, Dan. It just bothers the hell out of me that he knows me and my car. I thought I was pretty alert, but I never even saw the son of a bitch. Just like no one's ever seen him roaming the office buildings where he's hit. I swear the man's invisible.”

“You've got a gun, don't ya?”

“Yeah,” I said, realizing that my voice sounded doubtful.

“Where is it?”

“Home, in my bedroom.”

“A helluva lotta good it's gonna do you there. This guy ain't never hit anybody at home that we know of.”

“I know.”

“Keep it loaded, keep it with you, and, Britt, don't leave it in the car and don't hesitate to use it if the SOB makes a move on you. If you have to shoot 'im, don't just fire once. Empty it. That's what I always told the rookies. You have to shoot somebody, you wanna make sure you kill 'em. Then there's only one tale to tell, and that's yours.”

“That's right, Dan,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “Make me so nervous I wind up blowing away the UPS man.”

“First thing ya gotta do is get the hell outa that apartment. Take somebody with you, pack up a few things, and check into a hotel, or better yet crash with a friend. Hey, you can stay here. I got plenty of room.” His voice softened. “You can use my daughter's room. I'm not the world's greatest housekeeper, but you're welcome aboard for as long as you like.”

I shook my head. “I don't need you to fuss over me,” I said, then began to think it might not be such a bad idea. Dan could fend off the rapist while I snooped in his stuff and kept an eye on him.

I laughed hysterically and shook my head, as if to clear it of the craziness that seemed to be spinning and multiplying. This entire day had left me punchy.

“It ain't funny, Britt.”

“I know, I know. If I didn't laugh, I'd cry.”

I begged off and promised to check in with him later.

“Make sure you show no set pattern coming and going,” he growled. “You should probably switch to another car, and don't go home if you think you're being followed.” He lowered his voice, but it became more passionate. “Remember, Britt, I don't have to tell you. It's us against them. Use the gun.”

I shook my head. Dan made it sound like we were draftees in all-out war, as though we should barricade the doors and practice our fast draws. He has got to get out more, I thought, and mingle with ordinary people, not just cops. But somehow I couldn't imagine him playing cards or bingo at the local retirement center.

I finished the Farrington story, then took a cup of water, some soap, and paper towels out to the parking lot to scrub the back seat of the T-Bird. Then I stopped and asked security to try to keep an eye on the car.

Ron Sadler, the
News
political writer, drifted over to my desk as I sat down. “Hear you might be leaving us, Britt.” His voice was low and confidential.

“What?” I stared at him. A trim and studious-looking man in his thirties, Ron has an uncanny insight into politics on all levels and has covered both state and nationwide campaigns.

His intelligent brown eyes looked cagey behind the owlish glasses. “You can level with me. I won't say anything.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I snapped. “And if this is a joke, forget it. I'm in no mood for games right now.”

He leaned over the desk. “The Fielding campaign is asking questions about you.” His voice was a near whisper.

He mistook the concern in my face. “Don't worry, don't worry.” He smiled reassuringly. “I told them nothing but good. How thorough and tenacious you are, and how persistent, how you never give up on anything.”

“Ron,” I protested with a growing sense of dismay, “I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

He looked puzzled, tugging at his lower lip with a thumb and an index finger. “I assumed you're under consideration for a job in Fielding's administration. Seems he's a shoo-in for governor and is already putting together his staff. You say you haven't applied for anything?”

“I would never work for a politician, particularly Fielding,” I said.

“Well, you should expect an offer. They're really interested in you, Britt, hot to know all about you.”

“Such as?” I asked, fighting feelings of dread.

“Oh, everything, your reputation, style, habits, where you live.”

“Goddammit!” I said. What the hell was this? The only retaliation I had feared from my confrontational elevator encounter with the candidate was a possible complaint to
News
management.

He stepped back. “I told them everything I could, Britt. I thought I was helping you.”

“Ron, if I needed your help I'd have asked for it. How could you give out information about me without asking first? You know the paper never gives out personal information about reporters.”

“I'm sorry. But you weren't here and I thought it was important to you. They were being very discreet, and this wasn't some loony citizen with a beef asking about you, it was the next governor, or at least somebody in his camp.” Ron looked perturbed, but not as perturbed as I felt. What was going on?

“I know you didn't realize,” I grimly acknowledged. “Who precisely was asking?”

“Martin Mowry, Fielding's security chief.” Ron looked uncomfortable. “He's ex-military, the big guy you always see in the background, escorting the candidate.”

“Oh, swell,” I said.

“What's going on? You don't think they're going to offer you a job?”

“No. Don't say anything about this, okay, Ron? I'll explain later, when I have more time.”

I called Fielding's local campaign office and left a message for Mowry to call me. It didn't sound like the woman who took the call recognized my name, but I couldn't be sure. By now, I told myself, I probably am paranoid.

Then I called the library and asked Onnie to meet Lottie and me back in photo. We sat around an empty desk as Lottie plugged in her electric kettle to boil water for tea.