Neither of us had cell phone reception this far into the woods, so we ran quickly back to my cart, still parked on Beach Road. Julie answered on the first ring and said she and her team would meet us at the site in under forty minutes. She didn’t ask a lot of questions after she heard the two key pieces of information: a found cart and a possible bloodstain.
I sat behind the steering wheel, with my legs dangling over the cart’s side.
Barb paced along the side of the road, debating aloud. “You know, it might not be Carl’s. A lot of carts disappear, especially the rental ones. You said it yourself, a lot of carts look identical to each other.”
A moment later, she said, “Also, who knows how long it has been there? It could have been there for days, weeks, we don’t know.”
I let her talk and pace. Finally, she leaned against the metal frame and I said, “Barb, I think we have to accept the fact that this could be Carl’s cart and we might be one step closer to the truth. This is what we want, right? We want to find out the truth. We want this behind us, right?”
“You’re right, I know. Regardless of whether this is Carl’s cart or not, he is still dead and someone needs to be held accountable. I know that sounds awful, but it is true. We want that person off this island if he or she is still here. You’re right,” Barb responded, took several deeper breaths, and closed her eyes.
We remained just like that, in the silence of true friends. No more words were necessary or spoken.
True to her promise, Julie and a whole calvary of experts arrived. The familiar black Tahoe kicked up dust as it drove toward us. We did not see the smaller white Chevy Blazer following in its path until it pulled up in front of us. Doors opened, people piled out, and the liftgate doors were raised. In a matter of minutes, supplies were grabbed, teams were suited up, and the professionals got to work. Barb and I quickly led them to the area and then stepped back to let them gather evidence.
Barb and I were walking back to my cart when I heard Julie’s voice calling my name: “Carr, hold up!” She jogged over to us. “We will be here for hours, and we are a long way from knowing anything definitive, but we found a windbreaker underneath the cart. Chances are it was on the front seat when the cart tipped over. It’s navy blue and has the Mongin Island lighthouse logo on the front, right side. Could belong to anyone—maybe someone bought it in the gift shop, I know. But I wanted you to have that piece of information.”
Julie looked solemnly at us. Barb and I both understood what she was telling us, and Julie gave us a minute to absorb it. This was very likely where Carl was either seriously injured or where he was killed. I appreciated her breaking this news to us gently.
I decided to share some of what I had found. “Julie, according to the county records, this land is owned by a limited liability corporation called Mongin Properties 17 LLC. It was incorporated in Delaware but is registered here, in South Carolina. The agent of record is an attorney in Charleston. When I was researching this morning, that’s as far as I could get. I could call this attorney. I am not sure if he will speak to me, but I can do that if you want.”
“Yes, if you will take the first pass, that would be great. When we finish here, I will give you a call and we can see where we both end up. Thank you both for your help today and please, keep this as quiet as possible. I will be moving our vehicles up to the first clearing. Don’t want or need a crowd traipsing around on any potential evidence.”
She jogged down to the Blazer, climbed in, and started it. We returned to my cart and sat quietly for a few minutes as Julie repositioned her vehicles.
Barb spoke first. “I have to say, I guess, I didn’t really think it was a possibility. I just never expected to be at the exact spot where someone—a person—I mean, Carl, died. I just never thought about it.”
“That makes two of us,” I said. “I thought we were going to walk around these parcels and get some kind of a feeling, telling us which was the best match. I thought we would be out here for thirty minutes, maybe an hour at most, and then we would be on our way, armed with knowing what Carl saw in a potential trade. Poor Carl, seeing the blood and the branches, the grass, the land all disturbed—his last minutes must have been terrifying and painful.”
“But how did Carl’s body end up at Governor's Point?” Barb asked.
“And why did he end up at Governor’s Point? What is the connection?” I mused.
“Let’s swing by my house, I can call the attorney from there and we can regroup,” I said. Barb nodded.
A few minutes later we were in my kitchen. I poured us each a tall glass of sweet tea while Barb went to splash cool water on her face. I grabbed my notebook and we sat at my kitchen table to dial the contact number listed online for the LLC.
“Here goes nothing and everything,” I said to Barb as the phone rang.
My call was answered by a friendly, female voice who told me Mr. Parker Taylor was currently unavailable. Fortunately, Mr. Taylor had a brief window for returning calls in approximately thirty minutes. Would that work for my schedule? I politely agreed. Barb and I waited at the table as the minutes passed by, marked by the steady ticking of my pendulum wall clock. Its rhythm filled our silence and competed with the noise of the thoughts in our heads.
We tossed around a few strategies for my approach to Taylor. Should I be cagey with the reason for my call and only provide the most basic information? Should I tell him everything going on here on the island and break the news that those involved with his LLC will be answering questions about a newly discovered crime scene? Our third option was to invent some fictitious ruse, like potentially being interested in purchasing a nearby parcel and wanting to know more about the neighbors. There was no clear winner. We quickly agreed Mr. Taylor, as an attorney, was likely very skilled in gathering information without providing any to us. We decided we would share enough of what was happening here in the hope he would be curious for more details. Then I would ask about the parties who set up the limited liability corporation and hopefully he would answer because he would want the rest of our story. We would offer a verbal quid pro quo, so to speak.
And, of course, we kept returning to the scene of the crime. At one point, Barb asked, “How did you even see those couple of inches of white sticking over the ledge?”
“It was just something in the corner of my eye. Maybe I was just meant to see it.”
“And now—” Barb said, “Now we have to figure out how Carl got from Beach Road to Governor’s Point and also, how did this happen without anyone else seeing it?”
“Well, I think we can rule out Carl being transported in a truck or car because I didn’t see any tire tracks. We would have seen those as we climbed into the clearing today. I didn’t see any—unless I missed them. I think we should go back and look more closely at Governor’s Point, see if we can find tracks and maybe footprints. I know Julie’s team took tire casts and pictures. But I think we should see it again, with fresh eyes. Maybe that will help us figure out how Carl got there and what the connection is.”
I hadn’t realized I felt so strongly about it until I made this declaration. “I think we should go today,” I said.
Before Barb could answer, my cell phone rang. I answered on the second ring. “Hello, Mr. Taylor?”
“Yes, hello, apologies for the delay in getting to you. How can I help you? The note I have indicates an interest in a limited liability corporation. Tell me about your business and how I can help.”
Our carefully laid plan went along well until the point when I asked for his client’s name.
“Am I to understand there has potentially been a crime committed on the property in question? And to be clear, we are speaking about the approximately twenty acres located on Beach Road? Let me get the property ID number here from the deed, hold on please.”
After listening to his keyboard clicking, he read the same long number I pulled from the county website. I confirmed the number. He said nothing. I held my breath and waited for him.
The silence was broken, “So essentially, you want to find out who is behind this LLC? Unfortunately, you will have to register with the South Carolina Secretary of State and request the registration documents directly from them. Those documents will include the articles of incorporation. You can also try the Delaware Secretary of State as you likely know that is where this particular entity was formed. Same deal there. There is a small fee for the documents, wherever you request them, but nothing onerous. In the meantime, I will advise my client to answer questions asked in an official capacity by law enforcement.”
Clearly, by that, he meant: Not us.
“I understand,” I said, “but this request is obviously time sensitive and frankly, a matter of public safety.”
“Bring me a court order and I will happily comply,” he said. There was a smugness in his tone. Ever so slightly, I heard the tone of a small victory. “Until then, I assume, this conversation has concluded, unless, of course, there is another matter on which I can be of assistance.”
Another matter? I almost snapped: How about this matter? Instead, I thanked him for doing basically nothing, and our call ended.
“Well, that was equal parts a waste of time and infuriating,” I said to Barb, as I placed the phone on the table. “But I have an idea—let’s see if I am right.” I turned to my laptop and logged into the data vault containing Carl’s files.
“We probably should have gone with the fake neighbor story.” Barb half smiled. As I tapped on my laptop, she asked, “Are you thinking that Carl already has a history with this property? Before he was approached about the potential swap?” She scooted her chair closer to mine so she could see my screen.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Everyone has said Carl was often on both sides of a sale and that he sold some properties multiple times. Maybe this is also one of those deals, right? I don’t know why I didn’t dig into these files first.”
It took only a few minutes to navigate to Carl’s historical records. “Bless his heart, he was organized!” With a couple of taps, I found the correct transaction year and searched the spreadsheet for the property ID. “Well, Mr. Parker Taylor, it turns out we don’t need you after all.”
With wide eyes, I looked at Barb and asked hopefully, “Do you happen to know an Amelia Burke?”