“Well,” the young trucker urged, “I’m listening.”
Snake picked up his beer and guzzled it until it was gone. “I was into a lot of bad stuff, man,” he said. When he saw that the man was listening intently he continued. “Drugs, deals, death. All kinds of bad stuff.”
The man looked surprised and more than a little doubtful. “Death?”
“Just part of the game, man,” Snake said. “That’s how I got my old lady her birthday present.”
“What’d you get her?”
“A car.” Snake motioned for the bartender to pour him another beer. “Nice little car, too.”
The young man narrowed his eyes. “You killed someone for the car?”
Snake laughed. “Now, don’t go calling me a killer, Freddy, boy. These nice respectable people wouldn’t want to serve me beer if they thought I was some kind of crazy killer, now would they?”
“Hey, man, you said it.” Fred looked uncomfortable as if he was thinking about ending the conversation and leaving the bar altogether.
“Nah.” Snake laughed again. “I said there was death involved. Someone had to die so I could get the car. You know, what with it being my wife’s birthday and all.”
“Who died.”
“Ah, just a coupla pigeons.”
“Pigeons?”
“Yeah, no big deal.”
“Who killed ’em?”
“Well, we big-time former troublemakers don’t go giving away all our secrets.” Snake chuckled.
The other trucker laughed nervously. “But someone died?”
Snake shook his finger as if he were reprimanding the younger man. “Not someone. Just a coupla pigeons.”
The other man watched as Snake began to laugh. Then, thinking that Snake must have been talking about birds and not people, Fred joined in until both men were laughing so hard they were crying.
“Just a coupla pigeons?” he asked Snake, wiping at the tears and trying to catch his breath.
“You bet,” Snake said, finishing yet another beer and slurring his words as he spoke. “Jus’ a coupla pigeons.”
CHAPTER 32
Sheriff’s homicide detective Murray Ziegler contacted Bob early Tuesday morning and listened while Bob talked about his investigation the day before. He said nothing while Bob described his search throughout the Daytona Beach docks and the old cemetery across the street from the Boot Hill Saloon.
Because he was a man who operated largely by instincts, he could understand Bob being driven to prove Spider’s stories true or false. He, too, felt strangely about Spider and believed that the man knew something about the disappearance and probably the death of the boys. There was even a possibility that some of what Spider had said regarding the boys being trapped in a tomb before their death was true.
And so that morning he agreed to go with Bob to the state attorney’s office. If this had really become a homicide investigation, they would have to talk to the state attorney before they could offer Spider any specific immunity.
They drove together to the Daytona Beach courthouse located on City Island and went immediately to State Attorney Jack Watson’s office.
Watson, a man in his mid-forties with a knack for winning cases, had been brought in by the governor two years earlier as part of the push toward eliminating crime in the area, and so far Watson was proving to be just the man for the job. He was handsome with dark blond hair and a fullback’s physique. He looked at Ziegler and Bob Brown and motioned them into his office.
“What can I do for you gentlemen this fine day?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. Behind his desk was a panoramic view of a clean stretch of sandy white beach and the vast, green-blue Atlantic Ocean. In Florida there was little or no humidity in December and that day was one of those that typically caused tourists to send for their furniture and never go home.
Watson knew Ziegler quite well, even though he’d only been working the state attorney’s position a short time. Ziegler was oftentimes the hard-hitting force behind the cases he won and the two men were friends outside of work as well.
“We got this one particular case,” Ziegler started. This was always how Ziegler presented his cases and Watson couldn’t help but smile. By the time Ziegler brought a case to his attention it was usually almost solved. Ziegler didn’t bark up many wrong trees.
“Tell me about it,” Watson said.
“Couple of Michigan teenagers come here in mid-August, make a phone call to mom and dad back home, and then disappear. Later we find people who saw one of the locals, Snake Cox, with the boys’ car. Snake’s a bad guy, wanted by the FDLE, known to be armed and dangerous.
“Then we find out that Snake’s friend, another local, Spider Smith, was also with the boys the night they disappeared. As it turns out, Spider’s sitting over at County on another charge and Mr. Brown, here, gets the chance to talk with him at length.”
“Let me guess.” Watson said. “He knows something about the boys’ disappearance.”
“Good guess. Spider tells us that the only way he’s doing any talking is if he gets a deal from us.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“Right.” Ziegler smiled. “You’re so quick, Watson.”
Watson leaned forward and straightened the papers on his desk, seeming to be deep in thought. Suddenly he looked up.
“Ziegler, between you and me and Mr. Brown, I can tell you one thing. I’ve heard about those boys. The governor’s hot on the trail and wants to take care of it personally. If Spider Smith can lead us to the boys we’ll work out something for him. But the fact is I can’t make any kind of written offer, no formal deals, until I know for sure that a crime’s been committed and that he’s involved.”
Ziegler nodded.
“Obviously the answer is yes,” Watson continued. “There was a crime and he is involved. But we need to hear it from him. Then you’ll get your deal.”
BOB BROWN AND DEPUTY ZIEGLER WERE BACK IN THE interview room, back in the company of Spider. It was late Tuesday afternoon and this time they kept the conversation short. Ziegler did most of the talking.
“This is your last chance, Smith,” Ziegler said. He did not hide the fact that he was bored with the idea of spending more time in an interview room with Spider.
“I told you everything, man,” Spider said. He had dark circles under his eyes and he looked as if he hadn’t showered in days.
“Just shut up and listen!” Ziegler barked the command and Bob forced himself to keep a straight face. He enjoyed watching Spider suffer under the intense questioning of Deputy Ziegler. Now Spider was visibly shaking in the wake of Ziegler’s opening command. It was as if he knew the detectives were through playing games and that it was finally time to come clean.
“Now, this is the way it works,” Ziegler said. His words were sharp and clipped, like a drill sergeant having a particularly bad day. “We’re ready to offer you a deal. But we need to know two things for sure. Then we’ll leave you alone.”
Ziegler moved a few steps closer to Spider until the inmate could smell the onions on Ziegler’s breath. “First,” the detective barked angrily, “you tell us if those kids were killed or not.”
He allowed a few seconds for Spider to answer. When he didn’t, Ziegler’s face grew red. “Answer me, Smith!” he shouted.
Spider jumped visibly. “Okay, man. All right. The answer is yes. They’re dead.”
Ziegler tilted his head and stared into Spider’s eyes. “Second, I need to know if you had something to do with their deaths.”
Spider thought about this a moment but then before Ziegler could yell at him again he spoke. “Yes! All right? Now you know. The answer’s yes. We killed ’em and got rid of the bodies.”
Bob felt his heart sink. There was something different about the way he was talking today, and this time Bob was certain Spider was telling the truth. Jim and Daryl were dead.
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Ziegler stood up and looked at Spider as if he was a piece of moldy food. “Now. Those two answers mean that we’ll make a deal with you. I’ll get it taken care of tomorrow morning. But just because I get the state attorney to promise you a deal doesn’t mean you’ll get one.”
“What’s that mean, man?” Spider looked suddenly betrayed.
“It means that if you don’t tell us the whole story, the deal is off. Completely.” Ziegler turned to Bob. “You got any more questions?”
Bob nodded. “Just one.” It was something that had been bothering him for a long time. Each time Spider spoke of where the boys stayed he always said it was the Thunderbird Motel. But the motel records had only shown a few visitors that week, none of them from Michigan, none of them named Jim or Daryl. Bob wanted to know for sure where the boys had stayed so he could make contact with any possible witnesses. He straightened his suit coat and looked at Spider.
“Where were the boys staying, Smith? I want the truth.”
“That’s right,” Ziegler interjected. “From this point on, don’t even bother telling us those lies from the other day. We want the truth or don’t waste our time.”
“Man, you two don’t believe me anyway,” Spider whined.
“Look, Smith, you’re not drumming up any sympathy here. Either answer the question or keep your mouth shut so we can get out of here.”
Spider shook his head as if he was being treated very poorly. “I told you. The Thunderbird Motel. Room one-oh-nine.”
“Fine.” The detectives stood up to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”
THE NEXT MORNING, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 6, BROWN joined up with Ziegler and Deputy Joe Deemer and followed them to the Thunderbird Motel. The time had come to get to the bottom of the mysterious motel records which showed the place half empty during the busiest time of the year.
This time the men bypassed the front office altogether. Instead, they walked around the perimeter of the motel searching for the maids. Most of the cleaning crews who worked the motels along the strip used people from Puerto Rico or Mexico. Bob did not speak Spanish and neither did the sheriff’s deputies. But he hoped he could find one member of the cleaning crew who might be able to clear up a little of the confusion.
Her name was Zelzah and they found her in Room 110. She looked frightened as the three men dressed in suits peered into the room at her.
“Can I help you?” she squeaked. She had brown skin and long black hair. Bob guessed she was Persian but she seemed to be able to speak English.
“Yes, I was wondering if you’ve worked here very long.” Bob asked.
The woman looked even more nervous. “Yes. Is something wrong?”
Ziegler shook his head. For all his tough-guy image, he could be especially kind when it came to talking with women. He was one of those guys who could almost always charm a member of the opposite sex into cooperating. This was no exception.
“No, there’s nothing wrong.” His voice hummed as he spoke and he smiled warmly. “We’re just trying to find someone who has a lot of experience here.”
The woman smiled proudly, no longer afraid. “Yes, I’ve been working here four years.”
“Right,” Ziegler said. “That’s just what we’re looking for. Now, can you tell us if you remember who stayed in that room next door, room 109, back in the middle of August?” Ziegler pulled two pictures from his pocket of Jim and Daryl and showed them to the woman.
She stared at the photographs and wrinkled her nose daintily. “I can’t remember,” she said. It was obvious that she was trying to be helpful. “The boys don’t look familiar.”
Ziegler nodded. “That’s okay. But tell me something. Did your boss cut your hours that month?”
The woman laughed. “No, of course not.”
“Well . . .” Ziegler was still moving gently through the area he wanted to cover. “We understand half the rooms were empty that month.” Ziegler sounded sympathetic. “Must have been pretty slow.”
Now the woman laughed out loud. “You must have heard wrong, sir,” she said.
“Why’s that, ma’am?”
“August? We were filled every day.”
“Every room?”
“Every room.”
Just at that moment, the motel manager, Stanley Robinson, entered the room. When he recognized Bob and saw that he and the men with him were questioning his cleaning woman, he became furious.
Robinson stood staring at the men, his eyes wide with rage. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “This is private property!”
“Sir, we just had a few questions for your cleaning woman, here,” Bob said.
“Well, you men are trespassing and that’s a crime,” Robinson said. “I’m calling the police.”
“Sir,” Deemer interrupted, pulling out his badge. “We are the police.”
“Yes,” Ziegler added, whipping out his badge and waving it in Robinson’s face. “But don’t worry about us. We’re leaving. Of course, you may expect a little telephone call from the IRS, Mr. Robinson. And that’s a phone call you have every right to worry about.”
CHAPTER 33
The call came into Bob’s office early Thursday morning.
“Hello?” Bob’s primary assistant, Mike Black, answered the telephone on the first ring.
“Yeah, uh, listen.” The man at the other end seemed to be nervous and he spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
“Who is this?” Mike reached for a pen and some paper.
“Well, see, I don’t really want to give my name. Not yet. Let’s just say I’m Dolphin, all right?”
Mike rolled his eyes. He was used to people like this who called the office with what they believed was a hot tip. They tended to get caught up in the idea that Bob was a private investigator and even when it wasn’t necessary they sometimes talked in codes. “Go ahead, Dolphin,” he said, casually doodling on the paper.
“Well, I think I found the boys.”
Mike sat up straighter and began paying attention. “What boys?”
“You know,” he whispered. “The boys. On the poster. The missing kids from Metamora, Michigan.”
“Okay, Dolphin. I’m listening,” Mike said. “Tell me where they are?”
“Well, I only saw one of ’em. Saw a man that looked exactly like that Daryl Barber.”
“Where’d you see him?” Mike began writing notes. They hadn’t had a call on the Barber-Boucher case in a few days and this man sounded very serious.
“At the Texan Motel. Right there in Daytona Beach.” He paused a moment. “Man, I’m sure it was him.”
“Listen, Dolphin, let me get your number and I’ll check this out. Anything comes of it I’ll call you back.”
“Hey, I don’t even care about the money, man. But there was some kind of weird-looking guy following this kid, Barber. Looked like he might be a hostage. Something like that.”
“Gotcha’ Dolphin.”
“Hey, I don’t want no trouble or nothing. Just thought someone should know.”
“You bet. We’ll be in touch.”
Mike had planned to work on other cases that day. But this was a lead worth checking into. Usually, he would let Bob know before checking into such a lead. But if, by some miracle, the boys really were alive and being held hostage at a Daytona Beach motel, there was no time to waste. Besides, by now Bob would be at the courthouse and he could be tied up there for hours.
ZIEGLER MET BROWN AT THE CITY ISLAND COURTHOUSE at nine o’clock that morning. Armed with Spider’s admission that, yes, there had been a crime committed involving the boys, and, yes, he had been involved, they were now ready to obtain formal immunity from State Attorney Jack Watson.
Of course, there was obviously much more to the story and both detectives were convinced that Spider knew more than he was saying. But perhaps when they presented him with the official document promising immunity in exchange for the enti
re truth, he would talk. Then they might finally have the facts as they really were and enough information to find the boys.
Bob was feeling almost festive as they walked into the courthouse. This had been the biggest, most important case of his career and they were closer than ever to solving it. The way Bob saw it, the Michigan teenagers had been guilty of one thing: they were too naive. And now, if Spider was telling the truth, they were dead. The idea of getting the truth and seeing the responsible parties punished for such a ruthless crime would be something akin to a celebration as far as Bob was concerned.
“You know, Ziegler,” he said, “this is going to be a good day. I can feel it.”
Ziegler cast him a wary eye. “You think so, huh?”
“When Spider sees that official paper he’s going to open up his mouth, and you know what’s going to come out?”
“What?”
“The entire story. Beginning to end.”
“What if he doesn’t talk?”
Bob thought a moment. “We offer immunity to Snake instead.”
Ziegler smiled. “You’re mighty optimistic, Mr. Private Eye.”
“What do you mean?”
“First we have to find Snake.”
Watson’s door was open and they walked in.
“You’re back.” Watson looked up from a file he was reading and smiled warmly. “Find what you needed?”
Ziegler looked proud of himself. “Did you doubt us?”
Watson laughed and motioned for the men to sit down. “Well, let’s have it. What’d he say?”
Bob kept quiet while Ziegler pulled out the interview notes from the previous day. “Seems our friend Spider Smith knows for certain that the boys are dead. That takes care of the first criteria. Right?”
“Right. A crime’s been committed.”
“Next, he tells us he was involved in the murder. And that’s the second issue.”
Suddenly Watson’s face grew worried. “Involved?”
“Yeah, involved. Why?”
Watson sighed loudly and stood up from his desk. He turned around, staring out his window at the ocean. “Well, boys, that presents a problem.”