Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (3 page)

Burgess placed the phone carefully in its cradle, wiped his forehead once more and breathed a long sigh.
When will they just let me get on with my job?
The truth was he was worried. Three dead bodies in two days was highly unusual for Bermuda and he hoped he would have the resources to handle the cases. If they took too long, Scotland Yard would be called in to help. Sometimes that could be more of a hindrance than a help, depending on whom they sent over. The local police knew how to handle the Bermudians and had a grip on the criminal element on the island. They could also work the informants. Other times, however, it worked better if a stranger came in with a fresh approach and no fear of reprisals. They didn’t have family to worry about and were like Teflon when it came to those kinds of threats. The phone rang. Burgess picked it up.

“Sir, I think we may have something.”

Chapter 5

In a house in Spanish Point voices were raised and accusations levelled. Profanity hung in the air along with the pungent scent of marijuana.

“Why the fuck you had to kill her, bro’? Now it’s all over the news.” The speaker was a skinny, brown skinned youth in his early twenties. A sweat-stained blue bandana tied around his forehead accentuated his short corn rows, making them stick up almost jauntily over the fabric giving him that popular “pineapple head” look.

They had been hanging out, smoking weed and drinking beer when the news had come on. The unidentified dead girl was still top story. Despite the fact it was early afternoon, they were both drunk and the news had only served to wind them up further.

“I had to, mon. She coulda fingered us,” rebutted the other, a tall, heavily muscled, dark-skinned Jamaican. He was rapidly growing tired of the Bermudian but he thought it best to lie low for a few days and this was the best place. The house was hidden in plain sight in a noisy neighbourhood, yet the way it was set back against the cliff wall, you could see who was coming and escape out the back window and over the cliffs in seconds. There was always so much activity in the neighbourhood that nobody would notice an extra bike in the yard.

“You screwed everything up, Ja’von.” Pineapple Head was not letting this one go. “This job was sweet. Now it’s a mess.”

There was no love lost between the two men. The Jamaican was always bossing the younger man around and making him feel stupid. Pineapple Head knew that killing the girl would not go down well with the powers-that-be who were paying them to pick up dope. Mr. “High and Mighty” here had made a huge mistake and he was going to enjoy every moment of rubbing it in. It was payback time.

“Shut the fuck up. You gettin’ on my nerves. You worry too much. Just shut up.” Ja’von was clearly agitated. His body was shiny with sweat and the snake tattoo that wound up the side of his neck undulated as the vein in his neck throbbed. He was clenching and unclenching his fists while the pitch of his voice rose. It infuriated him that this skinny runt was gloating over his discomfort.

Under normal circumstances, Pineapple Head would have known better than to continue… but he was drunk and stoned and too far gone to know when to stop.

“Now we’re gonna have the fuckin’ po-lice all over us.” Pineapple Head’s voice rose to an accusatory wail. “You should’na killed her”. He was too stoned to read the signs that the Jamaican was close to losing control. “What you
do
that for?”

“Shut up, shut up… just… shut
up,
” screamed Ja’von his hand at his belt, fingering the quick-release lock to the sheath of his diving knife. “You don’t shut up and I’ll give you a reason to whine.”

Pineapple Head was unfazed. “Um not whinin’. Um just tellin’ you…
You
can take the rap. I didn’t do nothin’. Um gonna tell the boss that I had nothin’ to do with this. You fucked this all up. It was a sweet job… You can take the rap.”

Ja’von was beside himself with fury partly fuelled by booze and partly by guilt. He knew, but would never admit, that the boy was right. He had acted without thinking and screwed everything up. It enraged him, however, that the boy was not showing more respect. He was used to people fearing him.

“You stop dissin’ me.”

“Um not dissin’ you, um tellin’ you like it is.”

Had Pineapple Head been looking straight at Ja’von when he said this, he might have been able to avoid the first swing. Instead, the knife connected with the side of his neck with a searing burst of pain. He screamed in horror, one hand held against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the spray of blood from his severed artery, the other hand outstretched in front of him to ward off more blows. But Ja’von was in the heat of it now. This felt good. This was power. He was back in control. He’d teach this kid a lesson. Swinging blindly at the source of all his aggravation, he struck again. “Shut
up,
” he cried in rhythm with each slash. Blood spattered up the wall and into Ja’von’s eyes. More blood and sweat ran in rivulets down Ja’von’s elbows. He kept stabbing and slashing until Pineapple Head lay against the wall, unrecognisable, a bib of blood rapidly staining the front of his t-shirt. The Jamaican stood over him, shaking and gasping for breath. Slowly through the fog of anger, dope and booze, realization set in and he knew he had to distance himself fast from all of this.

He steadied himself with another few swigs of beer, noting the blood all over his hands. He ran to the sink and washed off as much as he could then went into the bedroom and grabbed a sheet from the bed. Spreading it on the living room floor, he rolled Pineapple Head on to one end and then kept rolling until he was completely wound up in it, only his feet protruding. Ja’von noticed that the sheet was quickly turning red; time to move.

Looking first outside to make sure it was still quiet, he dragged the body to the door. He had an idea. Grabbing the keys to Pineapple Head’s truck, he went outside and backed it up to the front door. He could load Pineapple Head into the back of the truck and drive it towards the cliffs. That way, he would not have to drag or carry him too far. Glancing into the back of the truck, he saw several large plastic containers of paint from Pineapple Head’s weekend job as a roof painter. What a stroke of luck! He lifted several of them and noted that they were full… and heavy. He also noticed some rope under a piece of tarpaulin. This gave him another idea. Going back to the house, he grasped the bundled body in the middle and tried to get it over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
Shit but he
’
s heavy. Who would have thought such a skinny kid could weigh so much?
Ja’von struggled with the body and finally managed to lever it over his shoulder and on to the truck. Pineapple Head’s skull hit the bed of the truck with a resounding thud.
Well, I bet that didn
’
t hurt.
Ja’von chuckled in a release of tension.

Firing up the engine, he carefully slid forward towards the back of the house where the cliffs began. Satisfied he was not being watched, he wrapped the body in the tarpaulin and then spent the next ten minutes tying the paint cans to the rope and then winding the rope around the body.
This is a new version of cement shoes.
Ja’von felt almost light-hearted.
I can get away with this. Nobody
’
s going to find him!
He dumped the body over the cliff and heard it hit the water below. He watched as the body sank like a stone, white paint seeping like a cloud from some of the cans whose lids had evidently not been put back on properly.

Now, to get out of there. He was covered in blood again and knew he needed to get rid of the knife. He drove the truck and re-parked it just as before and went back into the house. Struggling into his wind breaker and tucking the knife back into its sheath on his belt, he left the house, hood up. Stepping on the gas, he roared away on his motorcycle, hoping that nobody would notice the blood on his clothes.
I
’
ve kept the weapon
.
They won
’
t be able to trace me to the crime.
As he sobered up, he began to panic about what evidence he had left behind to connect him to what was now, in the space a few days, his second murder. He was pretty certain Pineapple Head had not survived the attack… not the way he looked when he’d rolled him in that sheet and, if he wasn’t dead before he hit the water, he was fish bait now.

How to get rid of the knife and bloodstained clothes? He prayed he could get home in time to clean up before anybody noticed him. It was at this moment, with a lurch of his stomach, he realized he was riding without a helmet. If the police saw him, they would immediately pull him over. His heart pounded as if it would burst in his chest. Just get home. Just get home, he breathed.

This was crazy. Without his helmet and with blood everywhere, he didn’t stand a chance. He turned his bike around and headed for a cove where he knew he could wash up and bury the knife, wind breaker and his t-shirt. If they pulled him aside, at least he would be clean and he could claim he was drunk and high. That part, at least, would be true.

He parked his bike on a sandy track and ran into the water with his clothes on, knife now clutched tightly beneath his jacket. The water was warm and, as he looked down, he could see the blood leaching from his clothes like red smoke. His body began to react from the booze, dope and adrenaline. Hands shaking, he rinsed off the knife, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. Paranoia was setting in. This was as good a place to bury it as anywhere. He swirled his hands in the water to disburse the blood and began to feel more in control. He’d killed twice in as many days and the truth was, he liked how it made him feel. Now to dispose of the rest of the evidence… He knew he had to go back to the house and retrieve his helmet and get rid of the bottles he had touched. DNA was a killer to a killer.

Chapter 6

D.I. Burgess’s pulse quickened at the sound of the voice on the telephone. It was one of his officers canvassing the Shaw Park area.

“We found a house on the point with lights on and front door unlocked. The neighbours live quite far away but they said the owners’ dog came over to their house yesterday morning and they’ve been feeding him ever since. They tried calling but no answer. They’re really upset that they didn’t bother to walk over to check on things. The girl’s wallet and a suitcase are here. I imagine she may have been house-sitting while the owners are away. Apparently she’s not their daughter and, with the suitcase and all…”

“No, that’s the funny part. The house doesn’t look disturbed at all. As I said, the lights were on when we got here. Maybe she had gone out.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t she have locked the door? Why don’t you go and take a look at the dog and see if he has any injuries. We may get some clues off him. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all we have right now.”

D.I. Burgess’s mind was working overtime. Where was the girl killed? A spear gun had to produce a lot of blood. They had to find the initial crime scene before too much time went by. Any police officer knew that the first few hours were crucial. With every passing day, clues would be lost - especially if she was killed outside - and memories would begin to dim. Thank God it hadn’t rained. The sooner they had a break in the case, the better. He did not look forward to reporting back to the police superintendent. The superintendent would really put the pressure on to run a tight case on this. With all the expatriates from all over the world, why did she have to come from Canada?

He called over to his colleague, a young female junior detective sitting across the hall. “Pamela, can you do me a favour? Call Immigration and see where a Rhonda Mayberry worked. We may get some more information about her from her colleagues.”

“Certainly, Detective Inspector.”

The phone rang again.

At the sound of
this
voice, he was all attention.

“D.I. Burgess, it’s Jacintha Brangman over at King Edward’s. Would you like to come on down? I may have something for you.”

“Of course. I hope it’s good news.”

“I’m not sure. It might be significant. I can’t be sure until you see it. Also, I managed to remove the arrow and have sent it to forensics for fingerprinting and further analysis.”

Chapter 7

For some reason Burgess always enjoyed the hospital. It was a bustling hive of activity and you could always be sure to see several friends or acquaintances there for one reason or another. Half of Nana’s friends were either in the hospital or visiting friends from Church. The chatter was always noisy with lots of “How ya doon?” or “Wass happenin’” from the young people to the very formal “Good morning” or “Good ah-fternoon” from the older folk. He loved his island and the sense of community he felt with its people.