Floater on the Reef

By Joe Race

Naked Teenager Floating on the Reef:



College student and part-time prostitute, Julie Larsen, is found floating facedown on the coral reef. The local police write it off as a simple drowning while the girl was fishing, even though she has deep lacerations and bruises on his upper body and her clothes, gear and truck are missing. She has had numerous, violent arguments with her stepfather, and several ugly incidents with two of her navy clients.



The girl 's wealthy grandfather is dissatisfied with the police report and hires the Saipan International Investigations Agency, owned and operated by retired police sergeant Tom Parker and Chamorro warrior Carlos Montano, to investigate the incident. The agency is overwhelmed with other work and bring aboard stateside retired Detectives Trish Friedrich and Dalmacio DeJesus Dalton (3D), along with polygraph expert Daniel Delgado, to help out. The crew soon agrees with the grandfather about the shoddy, false report and their quest for the truth take them as far away as the Philippines and Guam, USA. A key witness turns out to be Jungle Jesus, a hermit living deep inside the tropical forest, who knows probably what happened to the young victim.



The striking denouement concludes with astonishing connections between the murdered amateur prostitute, her family, the island social and government structures and the corrupt cops. As a coordinated effort, the private investigators are determined to see Julie 's murderer brought to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 22, 2008
• ISBN: 9781426943836

Joe Race

Joe Race is a retired police officer/deputy sheriff with 45 years of law enforcement service. He now writes fulltime and teaches law enforcement classes at the nearby Saipan community college. His heroes have always been cowboys: some real like Bat Masterson, Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, and Wyatt Earp; some Hollywood versions of brave, stalwart men like Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Lash LaRue, John Wayne, and Eddy Dean. He loved Dale Evans and the other cowgirls, and all the four-legged friends like Bullet, Champion and Trigger. After twelve years in Micronesia, Joe is "almost" an islander and an official beachologist. During his trip to the big island of Hawaii, Joe was fascinated by the early days of the Parker Ranch and learning about the island cowboys, the paniolos. They were real and still are. This book is about them. Aloha and mahalo! This is his fourth novel.

Book preview

FLOATER  

 ON THE REEF

A VICIOUS MURDER

IN THE ISLANDS

BY JOE RACE

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© Copyright 2008 Joe Race Photography by Griz Miradora Painting by Greg Elliott All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada at www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN: 978-1-4251-7964-9

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4383-6 (ebook)

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE CALL FROM PARADISE

HOT AND HUMID

COPS AND DONUTS

SAIPAN TOUR

SING AND SONG

CUTE TAIKO HAS CONCERNS

HOTEL MANAGERS AND JULIE

MAGDALENA FROM MACTAN

LAWYERS AND NAMES

TRISH JOINS THE TEAM

ABBY SPILLS THE NAMES

CLIFF SENT TO HELL

MAGDALENA FOR DESSERT

REGGIE EXPLAINS CRAB HUNTING

LYDIA OPENS UP

TRISH GOES TO WORK

TRISH AND MONTE CHECK IN

THE US NAVY INVESTIGATORS

OFF TO THE PHILIPPINES

THE SAILORS ON THE USS RUSSELL

EDDIE’S LYING AND DENYING

BACK TO SAIPAN

WE FIND JESUS

EDDIE GARZA IS DELIVERED

POLYGRAPH TIME

SURPRISING RESULTS

ASSAULTS AND PLEA BARGAINING

THE JUSTICE OF THE CAGE

THE FINAL COURT PROCEEDINGS

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

DEDICATION

Bud and Donna White

Best Friends and Champion Beachcombers

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Muchas gracias and salamat po to all who were there to spur me on during this little story. When I slide off into those sneaky writing blocks, the importance of doing errands takes on exponential significance, important chores like organizing my tax file for next year, checking the fluid levels on the truck, making sure my t-shirts are ready for the gym, and so on. You writers and other prognosticating types know what I mean. I thank one and all for your ideas and suggestions, and correcting the spelling and punctuation.

The usual crew was there with me: Juanita Mendoza, Bud and Donna White, Jeff Williams, Cassie Hamman, Patricia Friedrich, Fran Castro, Urbano Duenas, Cassandra Nelson, Danny Banjo-Man Hocking, Nancy Nielsen, Ed Propst, Frank Gibson, Donna Liwag, Johnny Bowe, Robert Holm, and my maganda wife, Salve’, plus our Saipan mob, Gresil, Paila, George, Mary and Katrina. Paila still makes the perfect pot of tea and Katrina remains the grilled-cheese sandwich champion of the entire Pacific Basin. George has learned to make a sizzling hot boonie pepper sauce, a second burn special.

I’ve been asked a dozen times if this is a true story. Firstly, it is a novel and therefore fiction. But if you need a reference, a young girl was found floating on the Saipan reef a few years back, obviously murdered, and the case has never been solved. As with any homicide, the first few days are important if you expect to identify and arrest the killer. In this tragedy, no one in law enforcement ever got around to doing an effective investigation, ever.

Read and enjoy a trip to our islands-easy to find at 15 degrees 10’ 51 N, 145 degrees 45’ 21 E, or look for a tiny dot on your globe in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Saipan is 184 square kilometers / 74 square miles of pristine beaches and thick jungles with millions of gorgeous flowers. It is every ocean lover’s fantasy to be close to the kaleidoscope of colors on a tropical reef, to breathe in clean air with that special ocean smell, to walk along the seashore jungle and take in the fragrances of frangipani or jasmine, or to just find a quiet place for meditation and romance. Come enjoy the experience-you will never regret the visit. Mahalo and Mabuhay!

I

THE CALL FROM PARADISE

When the phone call came, I was sitting on the concrete strand in Southern California, precisely Hermosa Beach, soaking up the rays and drinking an ice cold Mexican Corona with my feet sticking in the warm sand. I had just finished a five-mile run along the beach and was mighty thirsty. I had retired from the LA Sheriffs for all of two weeks prior and was still decompressing from the constant bullshit of too much crime and too many asshole politicians. It still felt strange that I didn’t have to daily organize the tools of my trade, guns, ammo, handcuffs and a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest, and be ready for another shift of ducking bullets and being careful of what I said to the media at major crime scenes. Now my days were filled with decisions like either go to the gym or take a leisurely run along the beach, or limiting my intake of cerveza, or smoking a handmade Honduras Don Mateo cigar before or after sunset. I was handling all this quite well, and even got back to listening to Bach and Beethoven and reading a few of the classics. I was considering doing some artsy-fartsy classes and maybe taking a ceramics class at the local community college.

But when the call came from Tom Parker, an ole partner from the glory days when we were young deputies in South-Central, my internal sparks started criss-crossing and jumpstarting all the internal buttons. Tom had settled in Saipan out in the Pacific and bought an old run-down hotel, found a beautiful Filipina bride and even started a private investigations agency with his Chamorro warrior partner, Carlos Montano. Tom had stayed in touch and had invited me out to see the islands a dozen times.

Tom said, Okay, retired Detective Sergeant Dalmacio DeJesus Dalton, or should I still say 3D, here’s your chance to get off your butt. We’ve got fresh fish, plenty of fruit and veggies and a pristine beach where you can run undisturbed for miles. Got some gorgeous women here, too! I loved that song and the women that went with it.

I answered, Damn, it’s good to talk to you, Tom. You know you can call me 3D, or ‘Hey, You,’ but just don’t call me ‘Late for Dinner.’ You know I’ll never pass up a free dinner or a taste of adventure or a chance to dance with a feisty feline.

Then I’ve got what you want.

Bring it on. I’m still not using a cane or rolling around in an electric wheelchair…yet.

Tom laughed and said, I can never imagine you anything but healthy and fit. You’re always working out. He continued, I’ve got a big nasty homicide case that I need some help on. I’m busier than a one-legged man at a barn dance, trying to manage my hotel, doing the day-to-day stuff with the investigations agency, and trying to keep track of my three teenagers, plus working through my wife Cocina’s ‘honey-do list.’ It’s getting tougher to get away for an afternoon of windsurfing or fishing. This murder case is a real ‘who-dun-it’ and will take lots of time and effort. You’ll really enjoy this one.

How about financing?

Tom said, The victim is a nineteen-year-old girl, and her grandfather is not satisfied with the police report. He’s got tons of money. The local cops wrote it off as an accident. The report said that she was gathering ocean crabs for dinner, and a giant wave knocked her off the rocks and she drowned. Of course, with this big ocean, tourists and fishermen are always being swept off the rocks and ending up as shark bait. So there is a possible likelihood that the report is correct.

I asked, Did they find her right away?

Ah, the plot thickens. Her mother and step-father didn’t even report her missing for almost two days, and she lived with them. Hard to imagine that the parents wouldn’t notice a teenager missing. From the condition of the body and bouncing around on the reef, the Medical Examiner figures that she was in the water for three to four days. She was naked-no jewelry. The ME concluded that she had drowned but during the autopsy, noted several deep bruises and laceration wounds on her neck and chest. But the reef also left her with lots of open wounds and plenty of fish and crab bites on the body.

What about her personal gear where she supposedly went into the water? How about a vehicle and tire tracks? What about her clothes?

Tom answered, Nada on all counts. Her clothes, fishing bag, cell phone, and purse are still missing. Remember we had floaters before at Malibu and they always seemed to have some item of clothing left on, like socks or underwear. Also, her little pick-up truck was found abandoned at the library, about ten miles from where the body was found. No word that she had car-pooled to the fishing spot. No fishing gear or personal belongings were inside and the interior had been wiped clean of prints. Considering that she drove the truck everyday, there weren’t even any of her prints inside.

There’d be plenty of interviewing. Again, who can pay for all the hours of legwork?

The girl’s grandfather, Rufus Larsen, has done quite well in the stock market. He also has invested heavily in gold which just went over one thousand dollars an ounce. The money is there. He’s a crusty old bastard, and was one of the marines that stormed the beach in 1944 right here on Saipan. His son Sven, the girl’s natural father, died in a solo motorcycle accident in Nevada when the girl was twelve. The mother married a retired military guy and they moved to Saipan. She knew the military guy when she was still married to the son, but there doesn’t seem to be a connection to the son’s death. But who knows? I haven’t looked at the motorcycle accident report.

I said, Sounds like an intriguing case.

Tom asked, Well, are you in or out? My warrior partner, Carlos Montano, can work with you and show you around, and help you with the culture and language.

I inquired, Tell me about Carlos. A reliable guy to work with?

He’s good cop, experienced and educated. I really like working with him. He’s from the old school of fists, guns and muscles which he blends very well with academia. Shit, we know that sometimes the bad guys haven’t read the books on interfacing communications and warm group hugs, so we have to control the streets and remind the gangsters that we have a duty as police to protect and serve the community. Carlos tries to talk calmly and intellectually, and when the ‘silver tongue’ fails, he’s competent mentally and is in good shape physically by working out, and practicing regularly with his semi-auto pistol. He does what he has to do. He’s superman strong and usually carries a big hickory baseball bat everywhere he goes. He likes to swing it around for exercise. He saved me with it one time.

Some of the bedwetters and far-out liberals probably call him a Neanderthal!

Tom grinned and said, Yeah even here. Some folks like to call the cops bad names, until they need one. Whole different story then.

Laughing, I said, Well, I don’t know about coming out to Saipan. I added, I have to choose between Bach and ceramics, or a dynamite homicide case on a paradise island. It’s a tough choice for an old cop.

Tom said, I should take it as a ‘yes’?

Hell yes! Give me about a week to close up my apartment, and to say goodbye to all my beautiful California beach bunnies. They’ll be very sad about me leaving.

You’ve got a lady other than the job?

I answered, I used to, but the last one left slamming doors and uttering something about my parentage.

Tom said, Send an email with the travel details. Carlos and I will find you at the airport. Just watch for colorful aloha shirts-Carlos is the guy with the darker, tawny tan. You can’t miss us.

2

HOT AND HUMID

I found a storage locker for most of my personal belongings, and for things I didn’t need, I dropped off at the Salvation Army. The landlord bought up all my large items like furniture and appliances and I could see that she was happy because I was checking out and she could rent my apartment at a higher weekly rate all summer long. I booked my flight on Northwest Airlines, two weeks hence.

I made a series of visits to my present and past lady friends. Most of them almost seemed elated that I was leaving. One of my favorites, Stella, who had fallen in love with a firefighter and gotten married, managed to pop over to my apartment for a few hours while her husband was out saving lives. Of course, we did our thing, and promised one another everlasting friendship and wished only success and love for the future. She was a little spitfire always to be remembered.

I called Trish Friedrich in Tucson to let her on the news. She had given up her police job because she started making too much money in Arizona real estate, but I knew she missed the challenge of catching crooks and the camaraderie that exists between cops. We had worked several mutual investigations that involved dopers from Mexico crossing through Arizona into California. Some of our busts involved the vicious Los Zetas Gang, aka as the Mexican Drug Cartel Army. The gang has killed thousands of fellow drug dealers, including high ranking government officials and innocent citizens that got in the way of hundreds of machine gun bullets. They particularly targeted cops and judges, and of course, social crusaders such as newspaper editors and investigative reporters. The criminals killed an unknown number of prostitutes along the border for fun and thrills. New bodies were dug up every day.

Trish had been involved in sending a home-grown pack of the thugs to prison on the American side. Fortunately, she had never been targeted by their hit men.

Trish and I socialized a few times but the relationship never got past the obligatory goodnight kiss. Each of us seemed to have a SO (significant other) most of the time. I asked her to join the case with Tom on Saipan, and she said, I just might. I’ve got some vacation time coming. Just let me know when and where. I took that as a good sign. We might need her powers as an extremely competent interviewer. I had watched her work the Mutt and Jeff and the Good Cop-Bad Cop routines, and always appreciated her artistry and variety.

I had a few drinks with an old comrade, Daniel Delgado, from our uniform days, when we were young naïve deputies, fighting gangs, fires, dope dealers, riots and serial killers, not necessarily in that order. He was now recognized as one of the outstanding polygraph operators in the US. Daniel was due to retire in a month and he said that he might drift out to Saipan to do a little surfing and fishing. He said that if Tom or I needed some help, he’d be glad to pitch in. He was federally certified in the polygraph, which comes in handy on any investigation. Plus being a divorced man, he showed a definite interest in the islands when I mentioned that I had been told that there were beautiful, tanned ladies wearing sarong kebeyas and little else.

The trip to Hawaii from California was the usual five to six hours. But I soon discovered that my continuing island hopper journey was going to last an entire day, and give me landings and takeoffs from Johnston Island, Kwajalein, Majuro, Kosrae, Pohnpei and Chuuk and then finally Guam; and Saipan wasn’t in sight yet. After clearing Immigration and Customs, the flight crew walked me out to a puddle-jumper prop plane, that would take me on the last fifty minute ride to Saipan. The takeoff was smooth enough but the updrafts bounced us around like we were helium balloons flying across the open sea. When we reached the edges of Saipan, I looked down and saw the World War II invasion beaches, the battlefield boonies and the coastline fringed with ironwood and flaming red Royal Poinciana trees. The pristine lagoon was a thousand different shades of blue and green.

When we finally landed, my legs were rubbery, my skin an off-shade, but once I felt the tierra firma, I was back to my