The Alligator Man (13 page)

C
arlisle liked to take out the big boat, the Grady-White, to go deep-sea fishing on the open water at least once a week. It helped him sort things out in his head.

He usually headed for the Dry Tortugas. It took him several hours, but it was a great trip and he always planned on staying a day or two. Like his father, he enjoyed the world out there that wasn’t filled with people.

The waters around the Tortugas were mostly deserted except for the area immediately surrounding Fort Jefferson, the historical coastal fort, which was now a national park and tourist attraction. There were usually some commercial boats and some luxury boats fishing the waters, but that was it. The luxury boats were owned by wealthy weekend warriors who liked to get away for a few days to go after the big grouper and mullet snapper and then return to their fast-paced lives. There was no better place for that kind of fishing than the Tortugas.

Carlisle was particularly intrigued by one boat that he had seen over the course of a month. It was a sleek-looking Sea Ray about sixty feet in length and it was always moored in the same little cove. He wasn’t usually attracted to the slick, modern boats, especially the big ones, but the lines on this one were beautiful. He’d seen it before but he couldn’t remember where. Sometime during each day that he was out there, he’d drive by and try to catch the attention of somebody on board so he could make small talk and maybe get an invitation to come aboard and look around, but he never saw anybody fishing. Eventually, he concluded that it wasn’t a fishing boat at all so he kept his distance. There were still drug smugglers in the area and you didn’t want to get too close to a drug smuggler’s boat unannounced. It could be fatal.

He always brought fish back to Rosie so she could put it on special and Rosie was delighted.

“I’m going to tell everybody who comes in here what a good fisherman you are. Before long you’ll have more work than you can imagine,” she told him after he’d quit his job with the sheriff.

Carlisle just smiled.

Rosie couldn’t let him go with just a compliment, though. She needed to know more. Perhaps it was her mothering instincts or maybe she was just nosy.

“You didn’t bring Mrs. Johnson out there with you by any chance, did you?”

“No, Rosie. That’s over. She dropped me like a hotcake after I told her I quit the sheriff.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Carlisle. I really am.”

“Thanks, Rosie. I’m okay. She was just using me for information, that’s all.”

K
evin called his father after his dinner with Jeanette to fill him in on what he had learned.

“Sounds like they have a pretty solid circumstantial evidence case,” Tom replied. His voice was strong.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how to attack it yet.”

“If you can’t attack their facts, you’ve got to come up with another reasonable explanation for this murder. You don’t have to prove it, though.”

As soon as he said the words, Tom wanted to take them back. Kevin was an experienced criminal trial lawyer. He didn’t need a lecture from his father on the basics. His son handled it well.

“Yeah, I know, Dad. Create a reasonable doubt. I’m going to go to Gladestown tomorrow and at least get started on that process.”

Tom had to fight to retain his composure on the other end of the line. It was just a word in a conversation but it was a word Kevin had not used before—
Dad
.

“I’ve already started doing some things here. Roy Johnson had an estate lawyer here in town, Greg Harris. He’s an old friend of mine. I checked with him just to find out if the young wife had anything to gain if Roy were removed from the picture. That looks like a dead end. She had a prenuptial that paid her a million dollars, which was already in a separate account in her name. Roy simply replenished it every month. She also got the house, but that’s it.

“I asked about the adult children too. They all had trust funds set up for them and their children. I don’t know what’s in those trust funds and Greg said it’s almost impossible to find out. However, all that money was already transferred before Johnson died so there doesn’t seem to be any motive for the kids either. Greg says that because of all this planning there’s no estate. It’s confusing because there’s no way to find out where all the money went.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“If I can’t be in the trenches with you, I want to do as much as I can. I found some other interesting things about Gladestown that we can discuss when you get back.”

“One other thing, if they keep Billy, they can only hold him for ninety days, which means they will probably want a quick trial. What are your thoughts about that?”

“I always want to push the State,” Tom replied. “As a rule, the less time they have, the less prepared they are.”

“I’m with you,” Kevin replied.

O
n Saturday morning, Kevin drove the sixty miles from Verona to Gladestown and stopped at Rosie’s Café for breakfast since it was the only place in town. It was midmorning and Rosie was alone.

“Come on in and sit down,” she said to Kevin, who was dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. “What can I get for you?”

“Well, I’d like a little coffee and some scrambled eggs and sausage and maybe a little conversation.”

Rosie smiled at him. “You’re my kind of man,” she said. “I just wish I was a few years younger. Give me a minute.”

It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Rosie to cook his breakfast. She gave him a little time after that to eat, but after she freshened his coffee for the third time, she sat right down.

“So, where are you from?”

“Miami mostly. My name’s Kevin, Kevin Wylie.”

He extended his hand and Rosie shook it.

“My name’s Rosie. As you can see, I run this place. I’ve heard your name mentioned recently,” she said. “Can’t remember where, though.”

Kevin smiled. Rosie was funny and sweet. “I’m representing William Fuller, the man accused of killing Roy Johnson.”

Rosie’s sweet disposition changed at the mention of Roy Johnson.

“Well, if you ask me, your client did the world a favor. If anybody deserved to die, it was Roy Johnson.”

Kevin wished he could sneak Rosie onto the jury pool. It didn’t matter if she was selected as a juror or not. She’d turn the whole crowd against Roy Johnson in ten seconds. It was time to make his pitch.

“I’m looking for a guide. Somebody who can take me on the water and maybe give me a feel for what could have happened to Roy Johnson.”

“I’ve got just the right person for you. His name’s Carlisle Buchanan and he is a master guide.”

“Now you’ve got me going. It seems like I’ve heard that name before.”

“You have. Carlisle was the sheriff’s man here in Gladestown. He did most of the initial investigation into Roy Johnson’s disappearance. He quit the sheriff’s department, though.”

“What happened?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s like me and most everybody else in this town. He thinks Roy Johnson deserved to die. He wasn’t cut out for law enforcement anyway. I’m sure Scotch started rolling around in his grave the day Carlisle took the job.”

“I’m not following you,” Kevin told her.

“I’m sorry. Can I get you some more coffee?”

“No, I’m good. Tell me about Scotch.”

“Don’t tell me you never heard of Scotch Buchanan. Are you sure you’re from Miami?”

“Yes. I think I’ve heard the name but I can’t remember the details.”

“Well, Scotch was Carlisle’s father and one of the most remarkable characters you would ever meet. He’s famous because he was probably the best hunter and fisherman ever to come out of these parts. Scotch was the original Alligator Man. He trapped them, hunted them, and when it became illegal, poached them. That’s why he started rolling in his grave the day Carlisle went to work for the sheriff. He was quite the ladies’ man too.”

Kevin saw the smile come across Rosie’s face when she said those words. She was a younger woman behind that smile. Perhaps she and Scotch Buchanan had been more than just friends.

“So I take it Carlisle is not like his dad?”

“He’s as good on the water and in the woods as his dad. But Carlisle has stayed within the law so far and he doesn’t have the rogue in him. At least not yet.”

“What happened to Scotch?”

“He died two years ago. He’d gone out night fishing and they found him dead in the water. The coroner ruled it accidental, saying Scotch probably slipped in the boat, hit his head, and fell overboard and drowned. I’ve never said anything to Carlisle, but I don’t believe that story for a minute. Scotch Buchanan would never die like that. Never.”

She appeared a little upset and excused herself and headed to the kitchen. She was back in a few minutes with the coffeepot. There were still no new customers in the restaurant.

“Can I fill you up one more time, Counselor?”

“Sure. Do you think I could get Carlisle to take me out on the water today?”

“I could almost guarantee it. He needs the money. I’ll call him for you.”

She disappeared into the kitchen again but not for long.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes. Said he’d take you out all day if you want. I’d say, give him a couple hundred dollars for the day.” That was Rosie, looking out for her people.

C
arlisle showed up fifteen minutes later, a smile on his face, raring to go. Rosie made the introductions.

“Carlisle, this is Kevin Wylie. He represents that man who is charged with killing Roy Johnson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wylie.”

“Kevin. Call me Kevin.”

“Sure.”

Rosie left them alone to talk business.

“Carlisle, do you have a problem taking me out on the water and showing me where you found the pieces of clothing? Before you answer, let me say this to you—you’re going to be on that witness stand in this trial testifying for the State and I’m going to be cross-examining you. And I’ll use anything I can to help my client.”

Carlisle looked hard at Kevin. He had cold blue eyes to go with his brown hair. His tanned face was smooth and pleasant and strong like the rest of him.

“I don’t have a problem, Kevin, because what I tell you and show you is exactly what I’ve told and showed the sheriff. Ain’t no difference at all. The truth is the truth. Now when do you want to go?”

“Right now.”

“Fine. You can follow me or we can just jump on my motorbike. I’ll bring you back here when we’re finished.”

“Let’s do that.”

Down at the dock it was sunny and hot. There were two boats tied up alongside each other: the Grady-White, which Kevin estimated to be about thirty-five feet long, and the airboat. It took a little time for Carlisle to get the airboat set up.

Kevin was familiar with airboats. He had a friend in Homestead who had one and they would go out riding from time to time on Sunday mornings. He wasn’t surprised when Carlisle handed him the ear cups. The ritual with Scotch, the great blue heron, was another matter, however.

“Mornin’, Scotch,” Carlisle said to the bird that stood in the middle of the entrance to the canal. “This is Kevin. I’m taking him out on the water today. We’ll bring you back some food so let us pass, okay?”

He started up the boat and the big bird took off into the trees. Kevin figured it was the noise from the airboat engine that caused Scotch to take off, not Carlisle’s words.

Kevin’s friend in Homestead could not hold a torch to Carlisle as an airboat operator. The man was an artist, gliding over the dry areas and weaving through the mangrove corridors like a Jedi warrior. They rode south to the open water before turning east. There were numerous little islands out there before the open expanse of the Gulf of Mexico and Carlisle gave him a little tour. They even stopped at an out island that had a little cabin on it.

“This is where the freshwater of Florida Bay meets the salt water of the Gulf of Mexico,” Carlisle told him. As Kevin would soon find out, it was the beginning of his Everglades tutorial with Professor Carlisle Buchanan.

After they left the island, Carlisle headed into the mangroves again and about a half hour later they arrived at their destination. Carlisle pulled the boat next to a cluster of bushes and cut the engine. For a moment, there was total silence—not one chirp. Then the background music started up again.

“This is where I found the black cloth,” Carlisle said, pointing to the mangrove next to him. “Farther in there,” he said, pointing deeper into the swamp, “is where I found the white silk cloth and, later, the wallet.”

“Can we wade in there?”

“Sure. Let me just tie the boat here. Try and stay on or close to the roots. It can get deep in places.”

They both stepped out of the boat and walked along the mangrove roots. They got soaked in the process but the water felt refreshing in the heat. Carlisle came to a stop.

“This is it. This is where I found the pieces of clothing and wallet.”

Kevin studied the area intensely, not knowing what he was looking for.

“Do gators actually get in here?”

“Sure. It’s not usually where you see them. They’re usually in the canals but they can go anywhere. They own this part of the world.”

As they stood there, Carlisle told him about the delicate ecosystem of the Everglades and the significant role the gator played in that ecosystem. Kevin had earlier marveled at this man’s strength and ability to handle a boat. Now he was even more impressed by Carlisle the naturalist.

“During a drought, they dig these gator holes and that’s where all the animals in the ecosystem feed.”

“And you think that’s where the remains of Roy Johnson are—in those gator holes?”

“Probably. And probably scattered far and wide.”

“How would that work?”

“Well, you know we had a drought. In fact, it’s still going on. They’re all hungry, including the gators. It was probably a feeding frenzy. Every gator took a piece. They ripped his arms and legs off and scattered.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little unusual that there is just one piece of black cloth hanging on a mangrove branch out there and then these other two items in here? I mean, the wallet was probably in his back pocket. Where’s the rest of his pants?”

“It’s all explainable. If one gator got the whole thigh, for instance, you might find these remains. The rest of his pants are just somewhere else.”

They were so focused on the issue they were discussing, neither man was aware of the grotesque nature of the conversation.

“But there are no bones?”

“I don’t think that’s unusual either. There’s something we haven’t talked about.”

“What’s that?”

“The Burmese python. It’s not native to the Everglades but there are thousands of them here now, maybe hundreds of thousands.”

“I think I remember seeing that picture in the paper of the python swallowing the gator.”

“Exactly. The python is like the vacuum cleaner of the Everglades. If an arm or a leg or even the torso of Roy Johnson surfaced, a python could swallow it whole. You’re not likely to find any remains.”