Clearwater Journals

I didn’t feel like going back to my room, and I was getting hungry. I checked my watch. I had been in the library for almost five hours. Time sure flies when you’re having fun. No wonder I was hungry. Death by Chocolate can only take you so far. I walked back towards the loop and ducked into a Subway sandwich shop. For the next half hour, I sat and worked my way through a sandwich and a Diet Pepsi. As I munched and sipped, I worked methodically through the material that Ida May had copied for me. As I had expected, I had background. I still had far more questions than I did answers. I sat quietly and tried to figure out the best way to go about doing the impossible. The scene of the crime was as good a place as any. Yeah right, like three years later I was going to find out all kinds of things. What was I thinking? I should have checked to see if similar crimes, done in the same manner, had been committed subsequently. I continued writing down the things that I needed to find the answers for. As I was jotting down the things that I should do, the kid behind the sub counter asked if I wanted anything else. When I replied—No thanks—he gave me a hard look. I got the message. Scram Mac. I gathered my papers and left.

  As I walked past the Hilton Hotel, I checked my watch again and realized that I had a few hours before my meeting with Mia. I decided to head over to the marina fishing docks just along from Crabby Bill’s restaurant. Some of the all day charter boats would have returned with their catch. That would mean that there would be lots of people and activity. I needed to be a part of that for a while, but at a distance. Some hard wooden public benches had been set out along the edge of the sidewalk back from the docks. The marina benches were only one of a number of favourite basking in the sun locations the three or four Clearwater homeless guys frequented before the cops found them and drove them back across the causeway. Surely, I could find a seat somewhere there where a sandwich making kid with a rotten attitude wouldn’t bother me. I found the bench I wanted about three quarters of the way up the main dock.

  Hungry brown pelicans and herring gulls swooped around or sat on their perches waiting for fish guts and heads to be dumped from the anchored boats and cleaning tables. A number of Ring Billed Gulls strutted on the cement pier, pan handling crumbs from the tourists. Their efforts resulted in limited success. There were signs posted asking people not to feed the birds. The afternoon sky had been invaded with small, elongated puffs of white cloud. A gentle warm breeze wafted the fishing and ocean smells. I closed my eyes and listened in case the gods wanted to share any insights about how I might manage the impossible task of helping Mia get closure on the death of her sister. Apparently, the gods were out to lunch. No inspiration at all.

  And then for no particular reason at all, I wondered about Mia leaving home when she did and the attitude she had towards her stepfather. Before my promotion to the elite major crimes squad, I had made a number of fact gathering trips, usually with a female officer, to the Metro Children’s Aid Society. Invariably, as I sat listening to a crying child divulge the sordid details of an abuse done by some twisted perpetrator, I had felt sick. It was inconceivable to me how callous these guys could be in their behaviour. In many instances, the victims were their own children. The story Mia had told me of her life from the time before she left home at fifteen sounded sadly similar. Her fear of, and disgust for, her stepfather was the stereotypical attitude of the abused kid who becomes a runaway. I was almost certain that her concern for Vickie had been based upon her fears that her not so bright sister had become the target of similar abuse. It was something to think about anyway. Could I open a discussion about sexual abuse with Mia? I didn’t think so. Not yet. She had been very clear last night—“don’t ask me to go there”.

  For the next two hours, I mentally played with the problem of Mia’s history and what I should do next and how. Once again, I went over the information I had. While a few possible avenues had opened up for me, my sense of hope had not really increased at all. If the prospects for any resolution of this case were slim and nil, I would have given odds on nil.

  As I walked back along the length of the marina main dock, I exchanged a few friendly words with some of the charter owners I recognized. Then I spotted Papa Smurf and Kickstart sitting outside the marina store doing some subtle panhandling. These two guys were two thirds of the homeless contingent that I called the three stooges or the three blind mice depending upon their state of sobriety. They occasionally drifted over from the mainland to scam tourists. You could generally recognize one of them because they carried all their worldly possessions in a backpack. I carry a backpack as well. When we first met, they took me for one of them. They were well known by most of the locals and all of the police. I had talked with them a number of times before. I hadn’t seen Papa for a week or so. He had been nailed with an open container and got jail time.

  “Hi guys, where’s Larry?” I asked. Larry was the youngest and sneakiest of the three. He was also the one most prone to violent behaviour.

  “Food Guy, how ya doin’?” I was Food Guy because I gave them food instead of money.

  “Good Papa. What’s with Kickstart?”

  Kickstart looked pretty rough. He was holding his jaw. When he took his hand away to answer, I saw that he either had a Spaulding Three golf ball in his mouth or one hell of an abscessed tooth.

  Kickstart uttered gibberish for twenty seconds. I looked at Papa for a translation.

  “Larry beat the shit out of him ‘cause he said Kick fucked him over on the money we got. Kick thinks his jaw is maybe busted.”

  “Not nice, eh? You should maybe get that looked at Kick. You guys going to be here for a bit?” Duh, silly question. Their backpacks were stuffed under the bench they were sitting on. They were here until someone in authority told them to bugger off.

  Papa just nodded. I ducked into the marina’s small souvenir store and bought two packs of nuts, two Cokes and an Almond Joy and Snickers bar as well as a small tin container of Extra Strength Tylenol. At least they would have something solid in them.

  After I wished the guys good luck, I checked to see if the Frankie Donner charter had returned. It hadn’t. I was starting to feel like a Clearwater native in spite of my clearly tourist “I Love Clearwater Beach” T-shirt. I wandered down through the park with its small playground and its tribute statue for the first Greek to land in the area. I was heading to Pier 60. When I reached the loose, warm, white sand I scuffed off my flip-flops and crossed the hundred and fifty feet of loose beach sand to get to firmer cooler surface close to the surf. I then headed off south towards IHOP and Mia. I wanted to go over what I thought we should do. Give up was the best option. I could never tell her that. Maybe she wouldn’t want to spend any more time with me.

  Interdigitating