Breakfast was coffee and a cheese sandwich. The gasoline supply was becoming critical and they discussed it as they ate. Nelson’s car had half a tank, and Bob suggested they drain most of it with a section of garden hose. Bruce and Nick confessed to having no siphoning experience, so Bob took charge and managed to withdraw about ten gallons without poisoning himself.
With that project complete, they decided that the next priority was returning Nelson’s car. Bruce checked the doors and locked the house, set the alarm with his remote, and left in his Chevy Tahoe. Bob and Nick followed in Nelson’s BMW, and it took an hour to wind their way around the devastation. Not surprisingly, there was no one at the condo—no homicide team sifting for clues, no neighbors picking up debris. No one had touched the yellow crime scene tape. Bruce lifted it and Bob returned the BMW to its spot. The three met in the garage and stared at the golf clubs, but said nothing. They closed the overhead door, walked into the kitchen, and discussed Nelson’s keys. If they left them behind, there was the chance that someone might break in, find them, and steal the car, but they agreed that this was a long shot. If they took them, the police wouldn’t know the difference and would have no trouble entering. Nick kept them in his pocket.
As they settled into the Tahoe, Bruce said, “I have an idea. We could sit around here today and tomorrow and get nothing done. I’m kinda bored with this hurricane crap. Let’s pack a bag, head to the bridge, and see what the situation is there. If we can escape, we can drive to Jacksonville, visit the crime lab, snoop around and maybe learn something, then we can drive a few hours and find a nice hotel with hot water and phones that work. Who’s in?”
“Me,” Bob said.
“Let’s go,” Nick said.
They drove to Bob’s cul-de-sac and waited for him to gather some clean underwear and a shaving kit. They weaved through heavy debris and made it to Fernando Street, where the two lanes were now passable. The shoulders, curbs, and bike lanes were piled high with debris, and small bulldozers were pushing more of it around. Dozens of utility crews worked frantically. It took another hour to get to the home of Nick’s grandparents, and to his relief it was not heavily damaged. It was half a mile from the beach and the falling limbs had missed the roof. Nick found a trash bag and filled it with perishables from the freezer and refrigerator. The meats and cheeses were already spoiling. Thankfully, his grandparents had been away for two months and there wasn’t much food in the house. He couldn’t cook and lived on cold cuts and carryout pizza. He threw some clean clothes in a backpack, locked the front door, took a photo to send to his grandparents, tossed the trash bag onto the neighbor’s porch, and jumped into the rear seat.
“Where are your grandparents?” Bob asked as they drove away.
“Idaho, last I heard. I really need to call them. I’m sure they’re worried sick.”
“As are a lot of folks,” Bruce said.
Half an hour later they parked in his driveway and hustled about. Bob turned off the generator as Nick again stuffed perishables into two large coolers. Bruce ran upstairs to pack some clothes. He was already thinking about a hot shower. They fixed a box full of sandwiches and loaded up as much food, water, beer, and wine as they could stuff into the Tahoe. They were not sure where they were headed but wanted to be prepared.
At the bridge a thousand emergency lights were flashing and uniformed officers milled around with National Guardsmen. Traffic was being waved on and there was a line of cars and trucks leaving the island. In the other lanes supply trucks, utility crews, and emergency vehicles were arriving. Bruce parked the Tahoe and walked to the crowd at the bridge. He saw a policeman he knew and pulled him aside.
He said, “We’re thinking about leaving for a day or so, but don’t want to get stranded. How can we get back on the island?”
The officer lit a cigarette and said, “Word is the bridge will open both ways at noon tomorrow, but they are discouraging folks from returning. It could be a week with no electricity.”
“Great. What’s the body count?”
“Still at eleven, as of midday.”
Bruce frowned and shook his head. “We’re headed to Jacksonville. Do they have electricity?”
“It was blacked out yesterday. Supposedly getting some power back today.”
“Are things better north or south?”
“South. Leo turned to the north and is now drenching Atlanta. I’d go south, probably as far as Orlando, if you’re looking for a room.”
They crossed the bridge without incident but were soon bumper-to-bumper on the mainland. Thousands of pine trees had been scattered like straw, and crews were working to clear the roads. The traffic lights had been blown away and state police directed traffic. They inched along, listening to the news on the radio and munching on snacks. The thirty-minute drive to Interstate 95 took two hours and the interchange was gridlocked.
According to the news, most of southern Georgia was without power as Leo stalled again near Atlanta. Record flooding was being reported from Savannah to Columbus.
They were clipping along at forty miles per hour on the Jacksonville bypass when their phones came to life. Service at last! Bruce called Noelle in Switzerland and brought her up to date. Nick called his parents in Knoxville and left a voice mail with his grandparents, wherever they were. Bob called a daughter in Texas and reported that he was fine, uninjured, and happily off the island. Bruce called Mercer, who was tucked in her apartment in Oxford and watching cable nonstop. He did not mention Nelson because he did not want a longer conversation. He would have more time later. He called Myra and Leigh, who were still in Pensacola. He called three of his employees to see where they were staying, and asked when they might return.
Nick called the crime lab to see if it was open. Bob had suggested that it had to be because the morgue had to be chilled, right? Nick was told that the lab was operating on a limited basis and expecting full electricity in a matter of hours. He pressed the receptionist for information about their buddy, Nelson Kerr, but got nowhere.
Bob’s app said the traffic south was much heavier than that to the west, so they turned onto Interstate 10. Indeed, it thinned considerably twenty miles out of Jacksonville. Nick called motel after motel in the Tallahassee area but everything was booked. So he stretched his search westward and was soon being rejected in Pensacola. Bob called his daughter again and asked her to go online and find some rooms somewhere along the interstate.
Meanwhile, Bruce poked around the crime lab with no luck. Working with a directory, he called several numbers of some officials who appeared to be important, but no one was in.
Bob’s daughter called with the good news. She had just booked three rooms at a small resort near Destin. On the beach. By the time they arrived they had been in the Tahoe for eleven hours. At the registration desk, Bruce paid for all three rooms and was informed that they could stay only two nights. They hustled to their rooms and showered.
Alone for the first time in what seemed like a week, Bruce went online and began digging for information about Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kerr in the Bay Area. A website listed four of them. Nelson was forty-three, so Bruce guessed that his parents were in their late sixties or early seventies. The first Howard Kerr he called had never heard of Nelson. But the second one knew him well. Nelson’s father sounded like a broken man who had just lost his only son and was bewildered by the things he didn’t know. Bruce filled in as many gaps as he could without mentioning the possibility of foul play. If that were established, he would call later. After a few minutes, Mr. Kerr went on the speakerphone so Mrs. Kerr could join them. Bruce carefully explained that there were some mysterious elements about the death and the authorities wanted an autopsy.
The parents were not sure they approved, but Bruce said that, as far as he knew, the police could order an autopsy whenever they wanted.
Why an autopsy? Why were the police involved?
Bruce bobbed and weaved and said that he didn’t know all the facts and details but was trying to gather information. He would know more tomorrow, hopefully, and would update them immediately. Mrs. Kerr broke down, sobbing, and left the conversation.
After an excruciating fifteen minutes, Bruce managed to end the call with a promise to talk tomorrow. He collected his thoughts, tried to shake off the emotion of talking to grieving parents, put on clean shorts and a T-shirt, and walked to the lobby to join his pals for dinner.
Mercer called late that night. The number of fatalities stood at eleven and the news stories looked and sounded awful. She had not spoken to Larry and was worried about the cottage. Bruce told her they had driven by earlier that morning but had not been able to stop. As far as he could tell it appeared to be relatively undamaged, though he’d seen only the west side. The wind and water came from the ocean. Bruce told her about Nelson, a man she had met only once, but she was shocked nonetheless. He hinted that there were strange circumstances around his death and the police were investigating.
In his opinion, the cleanup would take weeks and months. There was no real rush to reopen the bookstore. The customers were gone. The tourists wouldn’t return for a year. He suggested that she wait at least a week before returning to the island. He would check on the cottage as soon as possible and meet with Larry. There was really nothing she could do until electricity was restored.
Day Three. The Grand Surf Hotel was on a point at the southern tip of Camino Island, as far away from the destruction as possible. When it opened thirty years earlier it had been the largest and fanciest hotel on the beach, and had become instantly popular with tourists. Locals used it for weddings and parties and fancy dinners. It survived Leo with little damage. Early on the third morning its lights came on and it was open for business. The owners comped all rooms for rescue workers and utility crews, and the relief teams moved their operations to the hotel parking lot. Crates of food were hauled into the kitchen and cooks began preparing meals.
With dozens of crews working around the clock, electricity spread slowly from the Grand Surf north toward Santa Rosa. A large temporary cell tower was powered up and some phone service was restored. The first hint of normalcy returned to the devastated island.
The Santa Rosa chief of police was a veteran named Carl Logan. He and Hoppy Durden, along with the department’s only technician, a part-timer, arrived at Nelson’s condo and found it locked. They jammed the patio door, put on rubber gloves and plastic shoe coverings, and entered the kitchen. Hoppy walked Logan through the crime scenario as laid out by that kid who worked at the bookstore, and showed him the spatter stains on the wall in the den and the stains on the downstairs vanity. They photographed everything again, with better cameras, and shot a video. At Logan’s suggestion, they withdrew to the patio and decided to call in the state police.
There was no word from the crime lab about the autopsy.
After a long morning by the pool, Bruce, Bob, and Nick were bored and worried about home. It was impossible to relax with their thoughts occupied by the destruction and chaos on the island. They called friends, grandparents, insurance adjusters, employees. Bruce tried repeatedly to get Hoppy on the phone but service was not good. They were buoyed by the report that some electricity had been restored. The names of the dead had not been released. At noon, it was announced that the bridge was open to residents but they were strongly encouraged to stay away for a few more days. The temperature was in the mid-nineties and water was scarce. There was little they could do until the cleanup gained momentum.
After lunch, the three packed their small bags, filled the tank with gas, and headed east. Their phones provided comfort and they talked nonstop. Bruce badgered people at the crime lab but got nothing. Nick searched for motel rooms and found two in Lake City, an hour west of Jacksonville. The traffic grew heavier and slowed their progress considerably. Late in the day, Bruce managed to get Carl Logan on the phone, and was relieved to learn that the police were conducting an investigation, at some level. Carl said he was waiting on the state boys to send in a team. At least Hoppy wouldn’t be in charge.
They ate pizza for dinner at a roadside joint, returned to the crowded interstate, and finally made it to Lake City.
By 6:00 the following morning, Day Four, they were on the road in an attempt to beat the traffic. They drove an hour into Jacksonville and parked in the lot beside the state crime lab, and waited. At 8:30 they walked into the lobby and Bruce informed the receptionist that he had an appointment with one Dorothy Grimes, assistant to the field director. He did not, but he had spoken to her on the phone yesterday afternoon and was desperate enough to start lying. Of course, Ms. Grimes was busy at the moment. They took seats in the lobby, found coffee, opened newspapers, and gave every impression that they were there for the duration. An hour passed and Bruce spoke again to the receptionist. His tone was not quite as friendly.
The receptionist said, “Ms. Grimes does not have you on her daily calendar.”
“We spoke yesterday and agreed that I would stop by this morning. Look, this involves the death of a friend who died in the hurricane. His body is somewhere in this building awaiting an autopsy and I have some valuable information. Can we just treat this as an emergency?”
“I’ll see.”
“Thank you.” Bruce returned to his seat and she returned to her phone. Half an hour later, a robust woman of about sixty stepped off the elevator and glared at Bruce. “I’m Dorothy Grimes, assistant to the field director. What’s going on here?”
Bruce was immediately in her face with a sappy smile and a limp handshake. “Bruce Cable, from Camino Island. We survived the storm but our friend did not. Can I please have five minutes of your time? Call it a humanitarian gesture.”
She looked him over, then quickly scanned his pals. Shorts, T-shirts, sandals and sneakers. All three were unshaven, red-eyed, rather unkempt, but the poor guys had just been through a major hurricane. “Follow me.”
Nick and Bob stayed behind as Bruce disappeared into the elevator. Two floors up, he stepped off and followed Dorothy to her office. She closed the door and said, “You have five minutes.”
“Thank you. I need to see the field director, Dr. Landrum. It’s rather urgent.”
“Well, you gotta talk to me before you talk to him.”
“Okay. My friend Nelson Kerr died in the storm. He has no family here and left my name and number as his contact. His body was brought here for an autopsy. At first the police thought he had been killed by flying debris. We think otherwise, and I need to know the results of his autopsy. Please. Just a few minutes with the boss.”
“He can’t discuss an autopsy with you. Completely against protocol.”
“I get that. Nelson’s parents are in Fremont, near San Jose. They’re desperate for information and don’t have a clue about what to do next. I’m their contact here. I have to tell them something.”
She pondered this as she stared at him. “Are you suggesting foul play or something like that?”
“Yes. But the autopsy should reveal a lot. Please.”
She took a deep breath, then nodded at a chair. “Have a seat.” Bruce did as he was told and she left the office. Fifteen minutes later she returned and said, “Follow me.”
Dr. Landrum’s office was twice as large and consumed one corner of the floor. He was waiting at the door with a generous smile and a handshake. Undergrad at Florida State. PhD in forensic science from Miami. About seventy and on the fading end of a long career in public service. He waved at chairs and they gathered around his desk. Dorothy remained in the room, now armed with a notepad like a legal secretary.
“So you rode out the storm?” Landrum asked pleasantly.
“I did. Not sure how smart it was and wouldn’t recommend it. Do you know the island?”
“Oh yes. We enjoy the beaches there. It’s an easy day trip for us.”
“Ever hung out in downtown Santa Rosa?”
“Sure. Some nice restaurants.”
“And the bookstore?”
“Yes. Several times.”
“I own it. I opened Bay Books twenty-three years ago. You’ve probably seen me there.”
“You don’t say. Was it damaged?”
“It took some water but it’s okay. Nelson Kerr was a friend of mine, one of my writers, and I need to tell his parents something. He moved to the island two years ago and has no family there.”
“I see. The police chief called and we’re sending a crime scene unit to the island today, as soon as we can get across the bridge. I hear it’s rather chaotic there. I assume you think it was not an accident.”
“Depends on the autopsy, sir. Has it been performed?”
“It has. It was done yesterday. I’m not allowed to discuss it with you until I meet with our investigators.”
“I get that. I’m asking for a favor, a little breach in protocol that no one will ever know about. You see, Dr. Landrum, I have some information about the crime, if indeed it was a crime, that I cannot share with you until there is a meeting with the investigators. There is a possible witness, a possible suspect. And a possible motive.”
Landrum looked at Dorothy, who was busy scribbling on her pad. She was of no help.
“Are you sworn to secrecy?” he asked Bruce.
“Whatever you want. I need to tell his family something.”
Landrum sighed, adjusted his reading glasses, and picked up some papers. “In layman’s terms, the deceased died of multiple blows to the head, four to be exact, two of which would have been fatal. His cranium was shattered, massive bleeding around the brain. He was struck at the base of his skull with a sharp object that ruptured his spinal cord, and that alone could have been fatal.”
Bruce closed his eyes and tried to absorb it. He managed to mumble, “So he was murdered.”
“Sure looks like it but it’s too early to be certain. I suppose it’s possible that a man moving around outdoors in a catastrophic hurricane could get hit by debris more than once.”
“But unlikely.”
“I agree. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Cable.”
“Thank you. And I won’t breathe a word of this.”
“Please don’t. And you say you have additional information.”
“I do. A friend of mine, and also a friend of Nelson’s, knows something. We need to chat with your investigator as soon as possible.”
“Are you headed back to the island?”
“Yes, but we’re in no hurry. My friend is downstairs in the lobby.”
“Does he have time to talk?”
“We have plenty of time these days.”