Sand City Murders Read online

  It was a cold morning, a lingering winter day… Where the hell is spring? It’s mid March, I thought, and cursed the groundhog again. I stopped at the Cove Diner for a cup of coffee along the way to Boxtop Beach. The Cove was a local joint, almost always open and the coffee was adequate, hot at least, though I’m sure it was spiked with chicory or something. It always left a funny taste at the back of my mouth.

  Boxtop Beach. An odd name. No one could say why it was called that, or offer up any explanation at all. Why Boxtop? Not a very marketable name. No one could design a clever logo that summed the place up or made it alluring. Alluring it was though: a beautiful stretch of low sandy dunes that wrapped itself around the gently curving bay. Lots of tidal pools and lots of space to spread out your towel and an umbrella. Eleanor Woods wanted me to do a feature on the name, and despite a lot of research, I could never find a satisfactory answer. Even the folks at the Historical Society didn’t have a clue.

  I had already done the Airline exposé: The ritzy development south of town centered around Airline Drive, and the streets had names like Tower Lane, Stewardess Avenue, Landing Street, Taxi Road. What, did some errant pilot settle there and set up shop? No. It turned out that Airline came from an old map. The first person to draw up the place some fifty years ago wrote down Airline. That proved to be an old surveyor’s term, the line they drew in the air to make the first road. Years later when they started construction on Baxter Estates, some clever real estate developer added the other cutesy names.

  I pulled up into an empty parking lot next to two police cruisers and Detective Durbin’s dark gray Charger, a muscle car with heavily-tinted, matching windows. He met me on the bike path just at the edge of the boardwalk. It wasn’t really a boardwalk at all, just a path up to the beach from some cottages that happened to be made of old wooden planks. It was a bleak morning, the tidal flats were covered in a low mist, and the tufts of dune grass scattered everywhere barely looked alive. Up on the beach I could see the evenly spaced lifeguard chairs, all sitting empty, some tossed to their side by last weekend’s storm.

  “Durbin, what’s up?”

  “Well, you are now,” he said and laughed, though it was a grim chuckle. “Looks like we got a murder on our hands.”

  “That’s the second one, in what, two weeks?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Sand City did have the infrequent murder, but they were easily solved; routine, mundane even, if murder could be termed that way. They were usually the result of a drug deal gone bad or a domestic dispute. Maybe routine isn’t the right word.

  “Did you talk to the chief?”

  “Not yet. Too early.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Too early in the morning.”

  “Don’t I know it... And where the hell is spring?”

  “Got me on that one.” Durbin cast his head up to inspect the low swirling sky. “Listen Patrick, help me out on this one, huh? Nick’s on vacation.”

  “Nick?”

  “Powell, our crime scene photographer. I need you to take the pictures,” he said, “before it starts to rain.”

  “Right.” I looked up at the menacing clouds. “But I’m a reporter, not a photographer, remember?”

  “Yeah well, there’s a story here too. Anything you shoot has got to be better than my cell phone.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Nora, walking her dog.”

  “Nora?”

  “From the bakery.”

  “Oh, that Nora. Not a suspect?”

  Durbin laughed. “No.”

  “So, another murder. Are we talking serial killer?”

  “Whoa, way too early to say that.” He walked along the boardwalk, closer to the scene. The Sand City Police Department was not your largest, maybe a dozen members in the off season. They had put up some yellow tape around the low dunes and had two uniforms watching for trouble, but that was it. “Still waiting on the coroner and the techs,” Durbin said.

  “Calling in the county? The stateys, the feds?”

  “Always jumping the gun, Jardel. This is my turf for now. You’re just gonna take a couple of pictures and well… you know, lend an extra pair of eyes.”

  “Sure.”

  Durbin led me under the tape. I didn’t have to show my press pass. I knew the uniform, Officer Adams. I nodded and grumbled a good morning.

  “This is what I see so far.” Detective Durbin gestured to the sand. “One set of shoe prints, a male, and I’d guess, dress shoes. They lead that way,” he said and pointed up the beach. “They’re pretty deep, heavy.”

  “Heavy is right. I’d guess he weighed about three hundred pounds, or he was carrying something, like a body.” I looked around. “Wait? Did this guy just drop out of the sky? I don’t see any tire marks.”

  “Yeah, nice catch. Maybe he jumped from the boardwalk.”

  “What, like twenty feet? Nobody can jump that far.”

  “I’m thinking helicopter.”

  “Are you kidding?” He probably was. Police humor.

  “Got a better explanation?”

  He had a point. I looked again and it did seem like someone had popped out of thin air and landed in the sand.

  “Take some shots of that, okay?”

  “Maybe he dragged one of those lifeguard chairs over and then jumped off?” I started to theorize. I put my camera down and glanced at the detective.

  Durbin looked at me and screwed up his face. “What?”

  “The lifeguard—”

  “Yeah, I heard you, Jardel… that’s why I’m a cop and you’re a reporter.” He laughed slightly and flashed his squinty grin. “So he lugged a chair over, took a big jump, dumped the body, and then dragged the chair back to the beach?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Funny you said that though…”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll show you later… She’s over here.” Durbin pointed again. We followed the footprints in parallel, staying well clear of them. They led up to the shore between the dune grass; the wet sand preserved everything perfectly for now. Clearly, the killer had hauled his victim along this path.

  “You saw these, right?” I asked Durbin while pointing to some small circular indentations, about the size of a quarter. They seemed to be intermittent among the footprints.

  “Yeah… also found at the other scene. Same shoe prints too, I’m guessing. Can you get me some good close-ups on those?” Durbin paused and reached into his jacket pocket. “Hang on a sec, let’s do this right.” He fished out a small calibration ruler, white plastic, printed in black with inches and millimeters. Durbin placed it near one of the circular marks.

  “So it’s one killer?” I asked and photographed.

  “I’m going to say yes to that.”

  “What, a cane, a walking stick?”

  “Could be.” Durbin was noncommittal. “The sand up at North Hollow is a lot coarser. It didn’t preserve as much.” He drew my attention to more footprints, signs of a struggle or a deadly pas de deux. He also pointed out Nora’s tentative steps. It seems she never got closer than ten yards to the body, but her dog had. There was a trail of paw prints leading right up to the corpse. The victim was now under a black plastic sheet.

  “Sure you can do this, Jardel?” Durbin asked and squatted down by the tarp.

  I nodded and hooked up my flash unit.

  He looked up. “Ready?”

  I nodded again and he pulled back the plastic. I’d never seen an actual dead body before… not in real life, just in the movies, on TV, or in a video game… I felt revulsion, an automatic nausea. I hid behind the camera lens for safety. Somehow though, I detached myself, got on with the task and tried my best to keep a level head. But there was something serene here. I don’t know how I might react if there was gore or violence. I took aim and started shooting. This is not my usual job.

  It wasn’t really as gruesome as you might expect. The girl was probably about twenty, and quite p
retty, a knockout even. She was blond and had heavy swept back cheekbones, a petite chin and high arching eyebrows. A wet tangle of hair fell across her forehead, and sand stuck to one side of her face. But it was her expression that got to me. I’d never seen anything like it. All at once, it held a mixture of shock, awe and tranquility, frozen like that. If I didn’t know better, maybe she was just sleeping. Her eyes were closed.

  It appeared that she lay where she fell, sprawled out in a track suit, and I’m no fashionista, but I’d say it was very retro or just downright tacky. Another odd thing: she was barefoot.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Waiting on Doc Hackney.”

  “Doc who?”

  “The coroner… you probably never met him. He’s the county medical examiner, sort of on loan to us. A local GP from Fairhaven.”

  “Never had the pleasure, happy to say.”

  “Doubt you’ll get the chance. He’s gonna retire in a couple of months…” Durbin paused to look down at the body. “Anyhow, can’t say for sure… but I’m guessing it happened this morning, very early. I don’t see an obvious cause of death… no sex stuff here, I’d say…” his voice trailed off.

  “Who is she? A local?”

  “No ID.” Durbin gave a pained face. “Left her right at the high tide mark.”

  “Crying shame... such a pretty girl.”

  “Looks like he dumped the body and took off this way,” the detective said and started in the same direction. “Take some shots, will ya?”

  I followed and snapped as I walked. Durbin stopped and pointed out a few more cane marks. After about fifty yards the single line of footprints came to a lifeguard chair and just stopped. It seemed like someone had climbed up. If the footprints were right, he should still be sitting there. No sign that he had jumped down again. “Okay, you don’t think this is weird?” I asked.

  “I do... make sure you get lots of pictures.” Durbin turned to me with a grin. “I figure high tide washed the rest of the prints away.”

  I had to concede the point, still, there was something eerie about the tracks just ending like that. I looked out over the water. It was calm, smooth like glass though grey and cold. Along the beach to the south I could just make out the boxy edges of the Commodore, the Grande, and Hotel California, cutting through the fog that rolled off the bay.

  “Well, what do you think, Patrick?”

  “Not much… but I see similarities to the other girl.”

  “At North Hollow?”

  “Sure. They’re dead ringers for starters. Both blond—”

  “Blond? I’ll wait on the coroner to confirm that,” Durbin said doubtfully.

  I continued, “pretty, well-built, fit… and both barefoot.”

  “So?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “C’mon Durbin, what do you mean, so?”

  “Okay… just don’t say the barefoot killer.”

  “What?”

  “Your headline, no Barefoot Killer, okay?”

  “Right.” I smiled to myself. I’m sure my editor, Eleanor Woods, would never let that headline fly. “How about a purse, cell phone?”

  “Nope… nothing, nada, just like Jane Doe number one. We did find this though... in her pocket.” Durbin held up a plastic bag. Inside was a car key on a rabbit’s foot. A rabbit’s foot, really? Who uses those any more? Durbin dangled it near my face. “It’s an old key, or the key for an old car.”

  “A Camaro, I’d guess.”

  “You want to put a ten spot on that?” Durbin asked.

  “A ten spot? What do you know that I don’t?”

  “It says Pontiac on the key.”

  We said little more and carefully retraced our steps to the boardwalk. The sky opened up and big raindrops started to plunk down, thudding gently into the sand.

  “Should I follow you back?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The photographs… how do you want them?”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re on the memory card. I can download them to your computer.”

  “I’ve got to wait on Doc Hackney. Can you drop ’em off to Manuel? He knows how to download stuff.”

  “Sure… talk to you later, I guess.”

  “And Jardel, don’t mention any of this yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s under wraps for now.”

  “For how long?”

  “Let me talk to the chief. I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours and let you know.”

  Durbin tried to smile but the corners of his mouth barely turned upwards. I realized he was under some pressure. Two killings in as many weeks. These crimes would have to be solved before the season hit, or he’d never hear the end of it. Murder in a resort town was positively bad for business.

  chapter 3

  the office

  I work for the Chronicle, Sand City’s only newspaper. I am a reporter plus. I do all the main news stories, hard news, if you could call it that, oh and some of the photography. Everyone on the staff takes pictures, it’s a requirement, and there is no easier way to fill a paper. I have an op ed piece every week, a couple of features, and I even scribble the odd editorial cartoon once in a while, in my minimalist, cramped drawing style. Though not named on the masthead, I guess I’m the assistant editor.

  The Chronicle, founded 1873. Speaking of the masthead, there’s the Editor-in-Chief, and Publisher, Eleanor Woods, who I mentioned before. I’d say remarkably spry for a woman of her age. Clearly though, she should be long since retired or even dead. Neither was the case— still hard as nails and a holy terror with her blue mark-up pen. Eleanor did not inherit the paper from her late husband Caesar. He was a Moriches. She was a Woods from an old Sand City clan, and she kept her maiden name since it still carried a fair bit of sway in town. The newspaper was hers from the start as well, a long-standing family business, but to her credit, she did keep it alive. No easy task these days. Of course the paper had undergone many changes over the years, from a daily to a weekly; from a broadsheet to a tabloid, from gray to color, and from paper to pixels.

  Eleanor was one tough cookie, but she was easy to work for. Blunt, honest, and she only had one hard, fast rule: Making fun of Great Caesar’s Ghost was strictly forbidden. That was the running joke in the office. I never really understood why. There was an unspoken rule too. Eleanor had a daughter who had died tragically many years ago. Her picture was on the old desk, but no one ever talked about it— an old portrait-studio shot, all air-brushed and posed, and in soft focus. She was a plain looking girl with sad misty eyes, probably in her mid-twenties, and sitting in front of a very large piano. I think her name was Helen.

  The Chronicle, not the Sentinel, founded in 1873 by Valmont Dubois. He was perhaps a distant relation to Eleanor, at least by marriage. Dubois, however, was best known as a crazy botanist who settled in Sand City about a hundred and fifty years ago. It wasn’t called that back then, like I mentioned. Not only did he bring the newspaper to town, but a bunch of foreign plants from all over the world. Weird bushes and ornamental flowering trees, such is his legacy. It still gives Sand City a distinct character, almost a Disneyland thing… like the small bamboo patch that had spread invasively and was now a virtual jungle along parts of the bay. There was the rhododendron grove too, up at Sunset Park. Willows all over Bayview, even a few cypress trees, though most of those had died out long ago. Flowering shrubs, jasmine, eucalyptus, Dubois had planted them all. Orchard trees, Japanese maples, white, red, yellow and blue ones, well maybe not blue ones. I’m not really up on my plants. And the woodlands, a patch of forest still existent, sprinkled with beech trees and flowering dogwoods. Their white bark could be seen for miles. Not to mention acres of thorny rose hips, holly, brambles and heather. I did a nice page three feature on him once.

  But I was talking about Eleanor, wasn’t I? Well, she was savvy. She saw the writing on the wall thirty years ago. Back then, just when I was born, she had embraced the new technology as soon as it
came out in the mid-1980s. She didn’t buy some crappy Atex machines, but went right for the Macs that had just hit the market. We’re talking Pagemaker one point two. And it had paid off. We could layout the paper and get it to the printer in a single evening. When color got cheap and available, the Chronicle was first to splash it across the front page, even before the Fairhaven Times. And when the world wide web hit, Eleanor was on top of that as well, though she embraced it with a little less enthusiasm. Browser was a derogatory term. Text was not a verb, and I sincerely doubt that she would ever utter the words tweet or twitter unless she was referring to something in the National Audubon Society newsletter.

  Dragged kicking and screaming into the land of email, Eleanor actually hated computers. There was one on her desk, marginally, tucked away in the corner— a small screen and a keyboard. It was idle most of the time. She only used it to look at pictures nowadays. Eleanor was not a screen reader. She insisted on print outs. Everything had to hit paper, just so she could mark it up and give it back. Just like a teacher grading homework. There was a framed sign behind her desk. It read: We are not measured by words but by deeds. Only deeds was crossed out and column inches was written over top with a little carrot mark. Editor humor. Eleanor also held on to the archaic practice of pasting up the paper every Thursday in the back room… like in the days of hot type.