Seminole Killer

By hugh macnab

Seminole Killer - a Dan Weissman Crime thriller with a sepernatiral twist(

 

One by one, members of the Seminole American Indian Nation are being slaughtered by a serial killer the likes of which have never been seen before - where the killer leaves every trace a Detective could wish for at each crime scene, yet remains veiled in the shadows.

 

Dan Weissman - a Detective Sergeant with the Naples Sheriff's Office in Florida, is charged with bringing this killer to justice - but how can he find a killer who is four hundred years old? A mystery he must solve if he is to save those closest to him.

 

Tommy Blue Johns - a local Native American reporter - thought he had left the traditional ways of his people behind, yet is drawn back to defend his Nation, not just from corrupt Politics, but also evil incarnate itself.

 

Psychologist Luisa del Roy moves to Florida for a new beginning, little realising that she has a long-standing debt to pay - an ancient debt incurred by forces beyond her understanding.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: hugh macnab
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781388376451

hugh macnab

If you need an underground cable pulled in, a cocktail mixed, a Global technology plan developed, or maybe you suffer from one of many Mental Health concerns - I'm your man. Within my career, I have worked with and helped so many people with such varied and interesting backgrounds that this more than compensates for the lack of specific crime, police procedure and political experience when writing my books. Of course I should also mention that I have read thousands of books since the age of four - and am now ancient - so that's a lot of books. Along with my long-term suffering parter, we have five middle-aged children and ten grandchildren between us. For those who have not yet experienced the joy of grandchildren - yes, it is true - you can give them back after their stay! If I am not writing, you may find me on the tennis court when the aches and pains allow, or walking the golf course pretending I know what I'm doing, or putting my partner in trouble with my erratic bidding while playing Bridge. As for my guitars - they look good, although the dust is gathering.

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Copyright © 2019 Hugh Macnab

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To my late wife, Laki who started me on this journey

so many years ago

Seminole Killer

by Hugh Macnab

Copyright © 2020 Hugh Macnab

All rights reserved.

ISBN : 979-8648594340

Preface

1517 - Mound Key, Estero Bay.

When Juan Ponce de Leon first explored the islands around Mound Key, he declared Spanish ownership of the land, which was to become known in future years as Florida. He encountered the local natives, aboriginal in culture and mainly coastal living, and in common with many other adventurers of his time, he showed little consideration to these indigenous natives - and declared them Spanish subjects.

However, these ‘subjects’ - known as the Calusa Indians - had their ideas about whose subjects they were to be, and on his second visit, De Leon was to pay the ultimate price for his ill-considered presumption. On this return mission, de Leon sailed into the large bay around Mound Key just in time to see the ship they were to exchange cargo with sink below the turquoise blue waters of the Gulf coast in a blaze of fire.

Stunned, de Leon and his crew watched as the ship settled on the sandy seabed, only the topmast and one yardarm still forming a blazing crucifix marking the watery grave of so many brave men.

A shout from one of the crew overhead attracted de Leon’s attention to movement towards the mainland, and although difficult to make out against the mangrove background, de Leon thought he could make out four captives, two male and two female, being transported in a native craft formed by two dug-outs bound.

Infuriated that these natives should destroy a merchant ship commissioned by King Ferdinand, de Leon dropped anchor beside the burning cross. He immediately ordered the lowering of two ten-man skiffs, which he was to lead himself in pursuit of the marauding Calusa and their captives. This was to be the final episode in the tales of his many adventures. Injured by a Calusan arrow, de Leon was to return to his ship only to die shortly after that.

Chapter One

It'd been a bitch of a day at the garage where Eddie Sky worked. Nut-loose, a harmless simple man had dropped an axle on his foot and busted it up real good. Then Henry Goodwise had gone back home sick first thing that morning. That left Eddie and old John to handle the work for four between them. When Eddie'd called his customers up, normally they’d have understood - but not today. Today would not be a normal day, but he hadn't found that out yet.

He forced himself to stop and grab a quick pastrami on pumpernickel around five, thinking how he needed serious food, his belly complainin' as it always did when he didn't treat it right, but he'd just have sort that out later. His belly would have to wait.

It was well after nine when Eddie pulled the rusty old steel doors down on the garage front and slipped the padlock into the hasp, his gnarled well-worn fingers struggling to close the lock in place. Damn arthritis wasn't gettin' any better with the years, for sure. The good news was that Spring nights in Collier County were getting warmer and that helped, and yet that particular night the light breeze blowing in off the gulf made Eddie shiver, perhaps a premonition of what lay ahead.

Having securely locked the door, Eddie stretched his long spindly arms behind his head, tugged his faded leather cap into place, and headed across the lot for his pride-and-joy - an ’88 faded blue Chevy Silverado pickup. It wasn’t as if it was special, s'anyone would notice; it didn't look special. The good news was that the bodywork was galvanized so there was very little rust, but the not so good news was the priming sucked and the paint flaked off, but Eddy didn't care about how it looked, he just loved drivin' it. He'd replaced all the parts that were always problems, Door handles that would break, fuel pump that was real awkward to get at mounted above the fuel tank, and the air-con control panel. Then he'd stripped an re-bored that beautiful old V8 engine till it purred like a kitten with a bowl of warm milk, and when he opened her up, she would roar like the king of the jungle, although, it didn't matter what he did, it still smoked for a couple of minutes on start-up, and that was embarrassing, but hey any real enthusiast would understand. That's what an '88 does.

Eddie cut across onto the main drag of Everglades City and headed South on Copeland, which was light on traffic by this time. The few shops there were closed and dark. Eddy recalled how everything had been like this when he'd married Maris and first moved here mor'n fifty years ago. Quiet, secluded, peaceful. Now, there were tourists by the thousan' everywhere, particularly where he was headin' home. Marina's, fancy dockside eateries, bait shacks, RV sites, fisherman's paradise it may be, but it was all a pain in the butt as far'n Eddy was concerned. Fortunately, when the weather got too hot, and the humidity climbed, it suddenly resorted to quiet and peaceful again, apart from the mosquitos. When Copeland turned into Smallwood, which began the Causeway drive out onto Chokolosee Island, Eddy relaxed. This stretch of the short ten-minute drive was his favorite, although at this time of night all he could see was the navigation lights blinking out in the bay and the familiar hometown street-lamps welcoming him up ahead.

Turning Right onto Chokolosee drive, Eddy noticed how the tent park had filled up even since he'd left for work that mornin', and people were still comin' and a goin' between tents and he guessed, in some cases, heading to the one store on the island for supplies, well beer, at least.

One more turn into Calusa and he could see his front porch light like a beacon to a moth, drawing him in. When he pulled into his driveway, he stopped the truck and allowed her to idle for a few extra moments - just to enjoy the sound, before reluctantly silencing her for the night. As he sat there, he admired the home that meant so much to them. When Maris and he'd bought it, the owner had assumed they would knock it down and start again, but they hadn't. Instead, loving the character of the place, they set about rebuilding. The first chore had been replacing the roof, which had meant using Cedar preformed tiles and silicon bronze nails. After that, the cladding had taken longer, because of all the trimming required to get each piece to fit round windows and doors. After he had removed the old cladding, Eddy'd stapled up rain screen on top of the house wrap followed by the treated timber. Friends had argued for pvc cladding, but he would have none of it

Grinning at the fond memories, Eddy jumped to the ground and closed the cab door,. For the second time he felt that breeze, and an unseasonably icy-cold shiver coursed through his veins. Tugging at the neck of his shirt, to keep out the chill, and reminding himself that he'd promised to fix the washroom faucet that night, he grabbed his toolbox from the back of the truck and started towards the garage.

Eddie’s house and Sam Walking Stone's were so close together, you couldn’t spit between 'em, and as Eddie stooped to open his garage door, he couldn't help but notice that the inner door to Sammy's place was ajar. Now, where Eddy reveled in working on his house, old Sammy was just the opposite, so's the place never really looked loved, shingles missin' on the roof and the cladding cracked and rotting in places. Eddy'd offered to help with a lot of this over the years, but Sammy was a proud old coot and would never hear of it, saying that the house was no different to himself, and he was gettin' by just fine.

Leaving the toolbox on the ground for a few moments, Eddie crossed his best friend’s driveway, and as he got closer could see the damage to Sammy's mesh door, and that it was hanging listlessly to one side. The inner door was not only ajar, but splintered as someone had forced the door open.

Stepping up onto the small front porch, suddenly unsure of himself, he recalled the cold shiver of only a few moments ago and realized that he was holding his breath. ‘Sammy,' he called, surprised at how pathetically whiny his voice sounded. ‘Sammy! You in there,' he shouted a second time, louder and at least seemingly more confident. ‘You in there, Sammy?'

With every second that passed and no answer coming back, Eddie could feel his stomach churn - he had a strong feeling of somethin' not being right. In fact, somethin' being awful' wrong. Subconsciously licking dry lips, he pushed the damaged screen door aside, pulled the front door open and took a first step into the gloomy interior.

The sudden rush at his legs took him by surprise. ‘What....the ....Jesus fuck!’ he shouted, collapsing against the wall, feeling the sudden jolt of adrenalin course through him, tensing his body. ‘What the hell's got into you girl?’ he shouted after his neighbor's mottled tabby rocketing away across the double driveways. ‘What you been doin'. You hear me?’ he shouted, all the while trying to calm his breathing and settle back down. ‘Goddam friggin cat. I’ll shoot him one of these days, I swear'n I will,’ he cursed, all the while stalling the inevitable. And it was inevitable - Eddie knew it, as sure'n he knew his wife’s ass in the dark - he'd have to look around inside.

Gradually, Eddie’s eyes adjusted to the dark inside of the house and he made out the familiar kitchen table where he and old Sammy played cards and sunk countless Miller Lite's. It would be Coors at his place, but always Miller's at old Sammy’s. That was another of these little things that wouldn't mean much to no folks, but it did to them. The stale smell of cigarettes hung in the air, mixing with old Sammy's body odor - something Eddy was always on at him about. He called it old-man's smell, but Sammy didn't pay no attention, just shrugged and smiled a toothless grin.

Easing his way along the wall, Eddie reached out and nervously flicked on the light switch. Even although prepared for it, the sudden brightness blinded him and he threw up his hands defensively to shut out as much light as possible.

Peering between his fingers, but still squinting through half-closed lids, he saw no sign of his friend - nothing. Sammy was nowhere's in sight. Lowering his hands, Eddie crossed to the sitting room entrance and flicked the light on in there. Nothing. Still no Sammy.

Leaving Sammy's messy sitting room, he moved to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Sammy! You up there?’ he shouted, reluctantly starting up the heavily worn steps. I'm comin’ up.’

Climbing those steps reminded Eddie of the time he'd fallen from the roof of the house when he‘d been replacing those cedar tiles. His fall only took a few seconds, yet on the way down he'd had time to reflect on most of his life. He thought he'd been a goner, but was lucky. He should’ve been hurt more'n he was. Instead, just a busted leg and a bruised ego.

Now, feeling that same experience all over agin', he felt older by the time he reached the landing at the top of old Sammy's stairs. Older and scared shitless. Even with the hall lights burnin' bright downstairs, upstairs was masked in shadows. Eddy's breath hung in the abnormally sharp air. A sharp air that can crawl up your trouser leg and freeze your nuts off.

Eddy's fear hung round him like a shroud. There was something terribly wrong here, and he wanted to turn and run, get out of the house and as far away as possible - but he had to go on. Sammy's bedroom door faced him, and it was slightly ajar.

Eddie pushed it wide with his foot, flicked on the light, and could feel the blood drain from his face to fill his boots. Crying aloud, his knees buckled under him as he fell to the flour, retching pastrami and pumpernickel onto Sammy's faded green bedroom rug. Head down low, even only inches from his own vomit, other smells fought for his attention, the sweaty body odor from a bed that didn't get changed nearly enough, now combined with the recent stench of urine, feces and the sickly sweet metallic smell of fresh blood familiar to Eddy from his huntin' days.

Still on his knees but lifting his head to glance in Sammy’s direction one more time, Eddy retched again, this time dry but more violent, like something'd reached down his gullet and ripped his insides out, leaving him hollowed and empty.

His mind a blank, he rose, staggered from the room and stumbled down the stairs desperate to escape, just to run and keep running and never stop.

***

Deputy Eammon Tigertail was sipping coffee from a styrofoam Starbuck's cup when the dispatcher's call came through. He couldn't believe his luck. First week on patrol on his own and he was answering a Code 5 - a homicide, and the Medical examiner and forensics hadn't arrived on the scene yet. He'd been told they would be twenty minutes behind him.

Seconds later he had ditched the coffee, the alarm and strobe lights were on, and Deputy Tigertail was estimating his arrival at the address they had given him in three minutes' time to the dispatcher. This was it. This was what they had trained him for, and it was his chance to make an impression - and he really wanted to make an impression. In his own head, he was destined for greatness, and tonight was just the first step.

Pulling in next to an old blue empty Silverado. Tigertail killed the alarm and jumped from the County Sheriff's car, leaving the neighborhood flashing alternately red and blue.

A tall spindly character stumbled towards him from the house next door, eyes sunken, the skin on his face chalky white and drawn tight across the contours of the skull underneath, legs and arms kind of spindly, too long for the body, spider like.

‘Did you call the 911, Sir?’ Tigertail asked the obviously badly shaken man.

‘Yeah. Next door,’ Eddie Sky stuttered in response, pointing to the home of his once best friend.

'He’s... upstairs in the-bedroom.’

Tigertail told him to wait where he was - called for back-up and drew his gun. ‘You've been in the house?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. God help me,’ replied Eddie, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smelling the sick.

‘Is there anyone else in there?’

‘I dunno. I don't think so,’ answered Eddie. ‘Just old Sammy - or what’s left of him. Christ. Who'd do such a thing?’ he stammered. Then, with a final shudder, he said he would be inside his own house with his wife if needed, turned away and headed towards his own porch where Maris was waiting for him.

Left alone, Deputy Tigertail knew what he should do, but he'd only been out of Police Academy at Fort Myers for two-and-a-half months. During that time he'd been on patrol with a corporal who had shown him the ropes, but they'd never had a homicide. Shit! First on the scene at a homicide. He was so excited. Gone were the cautions drilled into him at the academy. The discipline of securing the scene and protecting the evidence. Instead, all he could see was his name at the top of the page on his report - first on the scene, Deputy Eammon Tigertail.

With his gun gripped firmly in front of him but pointed down, Tigertail unknowingly followed Eddie’s exact footsteps from minutes before. Kitchen. Sitting room. Hallway. Stairs…. and finally, Sammy’s bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, the contents of Eddie's stomach spilled on the floor at his feet, Tigertail's flesh crawled as his mind slowly took in the scene in front of him. No-one had told him a real homicide could be like this. It wasn't just what he could see; it was the God awful smell.

Sammy's body lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, legs together, pointing towards the doorway, hands neatly clasped together on his stomach as if saying his last prayer. Someone had carefully positioned his decapitated head at his feet, facing his body, but with a strange lack of blood.

Steeling himself as he'd been taught - and in some deep down way, still enjoying his moment of glory - he gingerly stepped around Eddie's vomit and maneuvered himself around the prone shape on the floor until he could see Sammy's face.

Although, apparently dealing well with the decapitation, when Sammy's empty bloody sockets stared wistfully up at him, he turned and as Eddie had before him, threw up on Sammy's faded green bedroom rug.

When he could finally retch no more, Tigertail wiped the drool from his chin with the back of his arm, and looked back at the corpse one more time - noticing this time that there was something that shouldn't be there, and he only had moments to do something about it.

***

Luisa del Mar was laughing aloud by the time her rescuer lowered her onto the steps at her apartment and doubled over, gasping for breath. Hopping down off his back, Luisa smiled and asked the man she only knew as TJ, if he would like a glass of cool lemonade. He was glad to accept and sat down on the steps to wait as she hobbled carefully into the building.

She'd only moved into her beach-front condo the previous day, and this had been her very first run on the beach. Stupid not to have worn her trainers, nice as the beach was, it wasn’t safe to run barefoot - the piece of glass TJ had removed from the heel of her left foot, was proof of that.

As she rummaged through one of several large packing cases in her bedroom looking for antiseptic cream, she thought how great it felt to be in her own place at last. It had only been six months since she'd moved down here from Chicago, but it had been one of the busiest periods of her life. Moving house, finding an apartment, getting some short-term work and all the while trying to put the plans together for opening her own practice. Yes, it had been a busy time.

Finding the cream, she quickly applied some to her wound, hobbled through to the kitchen and, opening the refrigerator, took a large pitcher of cold lemonade she’d made up earlier that morning and poured two tall glasses. Carrying them carefully, she hopped back down the stairs and out onto the small front porch. Handing one to TJ, she then sat down beside him. ‘Bottoms up,’ she smiled.

‘May the good spirits care for you,’ TJ replied, holding her eyes with his own as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long hard swallow.

‘I'm glad you said good Spirits,’ said Luisa. ‘I don’t want just any old spirits caring for me.’

‘Oh, I think you're safe on that count. If I say good, I mean good. And I should know. I'm something of an authority on Spirits.’

‘Yeah, I'll bet. Jack Daniel's. Bourbon..…’

TJ laughed, and Luisa realized that she liked the sound. It had been too long since she'd been with a man - ever since she'd fallen out with her boyfriend in Chicago, in fact. Or to be more precise, ever since she'd kneed him where it hurt and had given him a quick rundown on what she thought of him for cheating on her. She'd put up with a lot of crap from him over the years, but she wouldn't stand for him messing around. Anyway, that was past, and now was now.

‘My full name is Tommy Blue Johns, but everyone calls me TJ.’

‘Are you Native American?' she asked.

‘Yes. I'm a member of the Seminole tribe of Florida. I was raised mostly on the reservation, but now I live here in Naples.’

‘Where about,’ she asked, blushing a little as the question bubbled out of her before she could stop it.

‘Actually, not too far away. Over there,’ he said, pointing to a building not unlike her own, two blocks away. We're almost neighbors.’

‘Oh! I didn't realize,’ she said, pleased.

‘Well, you didn't think I would carry you all this way up the beach only to have to go back down again, did you?’ he teased her.

‘You’ve burst my illusion,’ she said, pouting. ‘I thought you were my Sir Galahad. Now I see you for what you really are. An opportunist.’

‘That's me,’ TJ smiled. ‘Someone who carried a beautiful damsel to safety, hoping to sweep her into his arms.…’

.... ‘and then into bed?’ she finished, smiling at the look of astonishment on TJ’s face. ‘Sorry, I haven’t built my bed yet! You'll have to wait.’

‘Bother,’ he said, recovering his composure. ‘And me running all the way too.'

‘Probably enough exercise for one morning anyway,’ she laughed. ‘Now, seriously. Tell me a little about yourself, Tommy Blue Johns.’

Leaning back against the porch railing. Luisa looked more carefully at her Sir Galahad as he told her a little about himself. She guessed that he was about two inches taller than herself at five-ten or eleven, probably a hundred and eighty pounds with a broad chest and powerful legs. He looked fit.

At first she hadn't thought him particularly attractive with his slightly rounded face, but now she was used to his smile, he looked good. His hair was black as the darkest of nights - almost shoulder length, and his eyes each a sightly different shade of blue.

As she was considering him, he explained that he loved to hunt, run on the beach, play guitar and also confessed to having become a bit of a techy.

‘What's a techy?' Luisa asked, tentatively pronouncing the word for the first time.

‘Oh, you know. I like all things electronic.’

‘Oh, you mean computers?’

‘Yeah. Computers, amateur radio, music, internet ...the whole thing. It's all useful in my work.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I'm a reporter with the Naples Daily News.’

‘Really!’ exclaimed Luisa. ‘That sounds interesting. What do you cover?’

‘Oh, anything to do with American Indians, mostly.’

‘Like the homicide on the front page this morning?’

‘Yeah. That’s me.’

‘Wow! I'm impressed,’ she replied, genuinely.

Then, before she could ask him more about Sammy Walking Stone's death, he deftly turned the tables, and asked Luisa about herself.

Now it was TJ’s chance to sit back and watch as Luisa told him about how she’d only been in Naples for six months, and her condo for one day. That she was doubly qualified in Psychology and Psychiatry and how she'd managed to get some part-time work at the David Lawrence centre where the County can involuntarily detain people with psychiatric problems if they are believed to be a danger to themselves or the general public.

As she told him more details, he soaked in her appearance. She was lovely, there was no doubt about it. He guessed her to be in her late thirties. Tall and slim with long legs. She had been impossible for him to miss on the beach. Her hazel brown eyes shone from within a slightly crooked smile, and her extra-short auburn hair stuck up in all directions like a US marine in need of a trim.

She'd been limping when he'd caught her up. Stopping, he asked if she had far to go, and finding that she was about a mile from home, he explained that he was heading in the same direction and asked if she might like a lift?

‘Only if I don't slow you down,’ she'd answered. Well, he lifted her, ran all the way and was never as glad to get to where he was going in his life. Fit, he may be. Herculean he was not.

‘So,’ Luisa finished. ‘Now I’ve blown all my money on this place,’ she said, indicating the condo behind her. ‘All I have left is enough for a deposit for my car.’

‘Car?' asked TJ. ‘What are you running around in just now?’

‘Would you believe - a bike?’ laughed Luisa.

‘Motor bike?’

‘Nope. A regular bicycle - made for one!’

‘You don't have a car?’ TJ asked, incredulously.

‘Nope. CAT buses and a bit of walking works fine for me. There's even a Beach bus service in the busy months. Besides, it's only been temporary while I get settled. I'm just about to buy a car.

‘What are you going to get?’ he asked.

‘Well. I've got my eye on one in the Auto-trader and I reckon I can just about afford the deposit on the car of my dreams.’

‘A corvette?’ he suggested.

‘No, a Mercedes!’

TJ whistled low. ‘Wow, you sure shoot for the best, lady.’

‘Well, not exactly.‘ Luisa corrected. ‘It's an nineteen eighty-five 380SL convertible with a hundred and twenty thousand on the clock. They want eighteen thousand for it. I can probably get them down a bit from there. I reckon after the deposit on the condo, and I get myself settled in properly. I should just about be able to afford the deposit.‘

‘Sounds nice.’

‘It will be TJ. It will be.’

Then, standing carefully, keeping the weight off her bad foot, she told TJ that for the first time in her life, things were coming together, and that she was happy.

TJ said he was pleased for her, and that maybe he would stop by sometime and check up on her foot. Then before she could answer, he stepped down off the porch and ran off down the beach in long easy strides. As she watched, he turned to give her one final wave, then disappeared up the beach.

***

Sergeant Dan Weissman moved to Collier County eight years back. It had been a relatively easy decision for him. New York had worn him down. Ground him down, more like it. Ten years he'd put in, slowly working his way up from the street to detective, and finally into homicide. Then when his Mother died, and he had nothing left to stay in life's hell hole for - he packed his bags and headed for Florida.

The Collier County under-Sheriff interviewed him, and he'd been lucky. It had been a quiet weekend. Nothing major was coming down, and the under-Sheriff turned out to be a great fan of Eric Clapton. Dan had also been a fan of Clapton since he was an impressionable fourteen-year-old and between the two of them, they spent most of their time reminiscing where they were when ‘Layla’ and ‘Sunshine of your life’ appeared in the charts. Then they laughed as the under-Sheriff remembered ‘I shot the Sheriff’ and considered this as his most likely path to promotion.

Dan had explained to the under-Sheriff that he'd hoped for a job in the Criminal Investigation Division because of his previous homicide experience, but given that there was likely not much need for a homicide detective in Collier County, he would be up for alternatives just to get a foot in the door. His priority, he explained, was to get out of New York.

The under-Sheriff then surprised him by explaining that in the previous year they had over four and a half thousand crimes committed in the County, with that working out at around thirteen victims every single day. Most of the crime related to theft, but there were also around four and a half thousand assaults, four hundred and eleven rapes and fifty-five murders. He then shared the more personal observation that although they had begun to get on top of the stats recently, the rates were up almost a hundred percent from when he started out as a green deputy ten years back, and that applied to homicides.

What he didn't expect was to be offered a Sergeant’s position in CID straight off. That was the cream on the top, and it had nothing to do with Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker.

Here he was eight years and around a hundred homicide investigations later, and still the inexplicable could happen. One of his team, albeit one of the rawest recruits, had fucked up well and truly big time. And worse still, he - the all experienced Sergeant - had covered up for him. Yes, he'd taken him aside and reamed and bored him, making damn sure that he would never disregard proper procedures again. But the damage was done. What was even worse still, they would probably never really know exactly what damage was done. Dan constantly reminded his team that everyone who enters a crime scene always leaves something and removes something. Dirt, hair, blood, prints - whatever, but always something. So boot up, suit up, or stay the hell out.

Fortunately for deputy Eammon Tigertail, Dan had been on duty the night Eddie Sky had dialed 911 and the dispatcher had given him the call. He'd arrived second at old Sammy’s, and after having well and truly bawled Tigertail out, quickly helped him secure the perimeter of the scene with yellow crime scene tape. Then between them they'd set about securing whatever evidence they could before either the Medical Examiner or the Forensic team finally arrived.

It was Tigertail's luck that Dan Weissman had a way of getting the best from his people. Sometimes stepping over the line where he thought he should and always being prepared to carry the can when necessary. Back in New York, Dan had a history of over-extending himself for others around him and this had made him a popular figure in the squad, but was also one reason he'd never made it beyond Sergeant. The higher ups didn't like him bending the rules, and called it insubordination, even although he could argue his methods delivered results, which they did. Dan could never quite get why his seniors valued his methods over his results, and that probably explained the attitude written up in his formal appraisals.

In the CID office at lunch-time the following day, Dan Weissman looked over each of the reports on Sam Walking Stone's homicide one more time. Pulling everything together into one pile, he rocked back on the seat and put his feet on his desk. He’d already read them over several times, never the less, he settled back and opened the top one yet again.

Skimming through the typed script of Deputy Eammon Tigertail, he paused on some details as he read. Name of deceased - Samuel Walking Stone. Age sixty-three. American Indian. Member of Seminole tribe. Medically retired because of chronic asthma. Lived alone, while friends and neighbors describe him as a good man. Not God-fairing in the ways of Christianity, but an honest, decent sort who always had a good word to say for folks. Survived by one son... aged twenty-three.

Just as the last time he'd looked, nothing jumped off the page at him. No particular reason someone would want to chop off his head and gouge out his eyes. No particular reason at all - but then that wasn't so unusual in these types of killings. He’d seen plenty of weirdos back in Manhattan. A few had made their mark on Dan, and it seemed like he would never forget them. Joel Rifkin, at least fifteen women dismembered; Richard D' Angelo, called the Angel of Death in the press, would inject patients with a concoction of paralytic agents, then be the one who would 'save' them. Only this didn't work out for twenty-five of his patients; Or the one Dan considered being the worst, the Iceman - Richard Kuklinski. He had been murdering, mutilating and saving corpses in an industrial cooler since he was a young teenager and by the time they arrested him forty years later, he was responsible for up to a hundred deaths.

Dropping the page on his desk, he lifted the notes he’d made from the medical examiner's examination of the body earlier that morning. Even after all this time, he still hated attending autopsies, and today's had been no exception.

During Dan's first day in the Collier County Sheriff's office, Arnie Collins - the chief medical examiner - had been one of the first people to walk into the CID office with a welcoming handshake, warm good wishes and a bag of donuts. Then, preliminaries over and without batting an eyelid, he'd immediately started straight into the details of a man they’d fished out of the canal the previous night - between mouthfuls of a chocolate glazed. Gator slashing, he'd called it - oblivious to the sprinkles he was dropping on the floor. Only when he'd noticed the puzzled look on Dan's face, did he explain that they slice the victims stomach open and replace his guts with something heavy - a swamp-buggy bumper-jack in that particular case? Then they threw the body into the canal. Arnie sure was a nice guy, but was he intense about his work!

Dan shrugged himself back to the present and refocused on the notes he'd taken that morning.

I) Time of death at approximately 7.00 - 9.00 pm. Friday night.

2) Cause of death - strangulation.

3) Victim decapitated. Eyeballs enucleated. Puncture wound in neck.

4) Severing of neck muscles and cartilage consistent with a single blow from a sharp serrated edge.5) No incidental bruising or scratches showing an apparent lack of resistance during the assault.

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the person he was looking for. Someone capable of strangling and decapitating a seventy-three-year-old infirm man in his bed. Then collecting the eyeballs as trophies. Christ, what a psycho!

Dan, hoping that they'd have more to go on when they got the full autopsy report later in the day, replaced his notes on the desk and lifted the next in the pile. The preliminary forensic report.

Opening the forensic report made him feel a little more positive about this case.

At least they'd found some hard facts they could work with. For a start, the killer hadn't bothered to avoid leaving prints and one of the office support team would already check the Nationwide fingerprint data-bases. If this person was on file, they'd soon know who he was. If nothing came back, they would go international, but Dan thought all of that would be unlikely in this case - his experience told him that this felt local. No matter, someone as careless as this would be on file somewhere, for sure.

Thinking back again to his days as a CID rookie, he remembered the work involved in running background checks on perps, a real slog. But today, even a member of the public can access much of the information as himself. The Florida corrections Network would provide details on any felony offender sentenced to State prison or supervision. Within the County, all public records were available through the Clerk of the Circuit Court. Then there was a National criminal record search program called Checkmate which claims to be one of the largest public record search services in the world