SUMMER HAVEN BEACH
SUMMER HAVEN, FLORIDA
WEDNESDAY, 12:45 AM
The salty breeze whipped through the man’s slicked-back mane of jet black hair as he stood curiously over the body of the dead woman sprawled face down on the beach. His deep-set eyes, nearly as black as his hair, traced the contours of her body against the sand, taking in every crease, every fold of cellulite pocking her naked body. Imagined the feel of her silky black hair through the gaps of his fingers. He sniffed the air, tasting the aroma of death and unexpectedly wincing as he did so.
In all his years, he’d witnessed an incalculable number of such sights. An untold number of tragic souls taken before they’d even begun to live. Each face had been ingrained into his psyche—imprinted into his memory like a carving in stone. But the blood-covered dead woman at his feet now perplexed him. She wasn’t supposed to be dead. It wasn’t her Time yet. She’d literally been taken too soon.
And the worst thing about it was that he had no idea how it had happened.
He closed his eyes in thought. The silver brilliance of the full moon burned past his eyelids, while the sound of waves crashing against the shore thrummed like a marching band’s cadence in which to collect his thoughts.
It makes no sense, he thought.
Then again, none of the others had made any sense either.
He released a long-held sigh and let his eyes graze over the murder scene again. The first thing he’d noticed upon finding the body was that the blood was off. It didn’t fit somehow, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. The woman’s back was covered in the congealing crimson. Someone, presumably the killer, had used a finger or some type of stylus to scrawl strange arcane symbols in the blood. But that wasn’t what felt wrong about the sight. It was just off somehow. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew, despite the wicked-looking ceremonial knife plunged deep into her spine, there shouldn’t be nearly as much blood as there was. Of course, for now, there was no evidence to support his theory. It was more like a hunch.
Funny. I’ve never had a hunch before. Never had any need of them. Feels kind of weird.
It wasn’t just the blood that threw his deductive equilibrium off though. It was everything else too. The position of the body. The drag marks from the road to where she now laid. And of course, the candle sticks placed in a circle around her body. From the looks of them, the candles had only burned a few minutes before being blown out from the rushing wind coming in from the ocean. They wouldn’t have burned long enough to conduct any sort of ritual they were left there to convey.
So, what else is bugging you?
He knew the answer, of course. It was the fact that the woman shouldn’t be dead in the first place. He would have thought it impossible for her to be, in fact. At least, not unless her death had been sanctioned by him. He knew for a fact that it hadn’t.
He stepped over to her left and crouched down for a closer look at the dagger. It looked Afro-Caribbean to him. The multi-colored beads—red and white—that wrapped around the handle had a distinct Kongonese flavor to it. Voodoo, maybe. Or Santeria. From the color scheme, he was favoring the latter.
It’s not very smart of the killer to leave the murder weapon. It’s handcrafted. You can’t buy something like that at your local Walmart sporting goods department. Something like that should be pretty easy to trace.
His eyes drifted back to the blood. He inhaled and took in another whiff. There was just something strange about it. The smell was wrong. He tilted his head, tracing the spatter across the small of her back.
He began to smile.
Of course.
He leaned forward and removed the knife from her flesh. A small dollop of blood bubbled up to the surface of the wound, then settled back into her body as he pulled the dagger up to his eyes.
“You’re a wily one, aren’t you?” he whispered to the blade. “Or at least, you think you are. You think you’re so, so clever.”
His smile widened. He was beginning to get a clearer picture of what happened here.
“So, I know what. Now to just figure out the ‘who’, the ‘how’, and the ‘why’.”
He stood, holding one hand under the blade to keep the blood from dripping on the body.
And with any luck, I’ll figure out more than just who the killer is. I’ll find out who’s behind it all.
There was a sudden crunch of sand from behind him.
“Stop.” The female voice behind him was stern. Confident. “Don’t move.”
The man went rigid.
“Turn around.”
He remained still.
“I said, turn around.”
“You also said not to move,” the man said. “I’m confused.”
The woman behind him sighed. “You understood what I meant.”
“Actually, I’m still trying to learn the syntax and subtleties of the English language,” he said, holding up his hands, knife still clutched in his right fist, and slowly turned to face the woman who’d so adeptly ambushed him.
She was wearing the navy-blue uniform of a police officer. The shield on her chest, as well as the pins on her lapel, were gold, designating her as someone of power within the police organization for whom she worked. She was pointing a rather large handgun—a .40 caliber Sig Sauer, if he wasn’t mistaken.
If he had to guess, he was looking at the chief of the Summer Haven Police Department, Rebecca Cole, known as Becca to everyone who knew her. He’d done some research on her before coming to this sleepy little beach community. She was good. Really good.
The chief’s eyes swept from the man to the body on the ground beside him to the knife in his hand. Two other officers could be seen trudging over the dunes, making their way toward them from the parking lot. An aurora of blue and red lit up the night sky in the distance near the beach’s public parking lot.
“We received a call about a dead body on the beach,” Chief Cole said. “Never imagined I’d find the killer standing over it when I showed up. That makes things easy for me.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “It does if you’re a lazy detective. With a little effort, you’ll find I’m the one who called you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him just as the other uniforms huffed their way up beside her. The sand near the dunes was high, making walking or running on them difficult for even people in good shape. Given the rotund girth of the two newcomers, it was a miracle they’d even made it to the scene at all.
“I assure you, I’m not lazy,” the chief said. “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Now, drop the knife.”
He obeyed and the dagger dropped blade first into the sand near his foot. He then looked up at her and grinned.
He supposed the woman was attractive. He’d never been a good judge of beauty. His station—the decisions his purpose and position forced him to take—made such trivialities of no interest to him in the past. In fact, such considerations would have been an outright hindrance. Perhaps even a disaster in the universal scope of things.
But he could see the woman was pleasant to look at. She was of average height for a female—around five feet, six inches tall—with a lean, athletic build. Her skin was tanned, but smooth and soft. Her short-cropped light brown hair was tipped at the edges with blonde highlights that helped to accentuate her large brown eyes. Yes, she was definitely an attractive woman…even though those same large brown eyes now glared at him with suspicion as she trained her weapon at his head with steady hands.
He looked down at the corpse, then back at the chief. So far, everything was going according to plan. After the last three unscheduled, unsanctioned deaths, he’d taken it upon himself to investigate. But, he was no fool. He also knew he’d need a little help. Since the death toll was rising disproportionately in this little beach town compared to anywhere else, he’d figured this was the best place to start looking for answers. And Chief Becca Cole was the perfect candidate to assist him.
“Larry,” she said to one of the overweight cops panting behind her. “Handcuff him.” She nodded in the man’s direction.
The officer named Larry reached back on his belt and removed a set of cuffs before walking over to the man. Chief Cole’s aim never let up for an instant. The gun barrel never wavered. Didn’t betray the slightest tremor of her hand.
Oh, I’m going to like this one, the man thought.
Larry stopped in tracks when he came within two feet of the man and sniffed. “Do I smell…” The fat cop shook his head, then looked over at his boss. “I swear, I smell pie or something.”
The man’s grin widened, but Chief Cole was in no mood. “Larry, just handcuff the man, please.”
“Yeah, yes, ma’am.” Larry walked around the suspect, slipped one of the handcuff bracelets over the man’s left wrist, brought his hands behind his back, and secured the other bracelet over the right with a series of clicks. The fat cop exhaled, wiped a stream of sweat from his brow, and stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
CLINK.
The sound of metal hitting the sand drew everyone’s flashlight beams behind their suspect to find the handcuffs, still closed, laying casually on the ground.
“I…I…,” Larry began to protest, his mouth agape.
“Officer O’Donnell?” Chief Cole looked reprovingly at the bewildered officer.
“I secured ‘em, Chief. I know I did.”
The man—now a suspect in a homicide investigation—offered Larry an apologetic nod. He brought his hands around and rubbed his wrists before placing them once more behind his back.
Still confused, Officer Larry stooped down, picked up the cuffs, and re-secured them around the man’s wrists. Then, he hesitated, pulled on the cuffs’ chain to ensure they were indeed secure, and stepped back once more.
The handcuffs fell to the ground again.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop it!” Chief Cole told the man.
He chuckled, brought his hands around, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry. Merely having a little fun at your officer’s expense, Chief. But the shackles are hardly necessary. I’ll be happy to accompany you to the police station for questioning. In fact, I’d welcome the opportunity.”
She looked at her other officer, then nodded over to her suspect, silently directing the second cop to handcuff him again. “Sorry, pal. Protocol says you need to be cuffed, so cuffed you’re going to be.”
The man sighed, resigned to allow them the indignity of shackling him like a common hooligan.
Once he was secure, Becca Cole told the officer to take him back to the station to await booking. As they walked past Larry and the chief, the man leaned in.
“Be mindful of the blood, Chief Cole,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I believe you’ll find that the blood will tell you a great deal about this murder.”
With that, he allowed himself to be escorted off the beach and driven to the little police station at the edge of town.