THE CARBON STEEL CARESS Read online

  Lowcountry sun filtered through the deep jade foliage of Moultrie Bay's tree lined streets; May temperature and humidity was already at mid-summer intensity. Some people were already bitching about the 'stifling' climate. Not Donal, he loved the heat. Even loved the humidity that hung out for at least three fourths of the year. He loved everything about the Lowcountry.

  He loved the sea islands and their surrounding estuaries and salt marshes. He was hooked on life on the water, fishing, shrimping, crabbing.

  He was immune to the swarming no-see-ums, the hypodermic mosquitoes, and flesh chewing deer flies. Simply didn't notice them.

  He loved the clear blue Carolina skies. The Gulf Stream warmed climate. The lazy days spent in his McKee Craft split console. The peace of being alone on the boat in the ACE basin.

  Donal wouldn't live anywhere else. Others might find fault with the Lowcountry. Might bitch about the climate. Might call Moultrie Bay a backwater. But not Johnny Donal. No bitchin' from him. No way. Never. The Lowcountry was home.

  Tourists, men-women-kids- in logo tees and Day-Glo Crocs passed Donal in either direction. Engrossed with his thoughts Donal nearly crashed into a fast walking pale face woman in an 'I (heart) NY' tee shirt and satiny red shorts. He mumbled an unnecessary apology and the sun starved tourist, her face to the sky, flashed a toothy smile and without breaking stride waved off his Southern manners.

  Donal continued on past the white painted, red roofed antebellum homes of the Old Point section of town for several blocks. He left the residential section, emerging on Front street. He walked down to the city marina and killed some time looking over berthed yachts.

  Leaving the marina he walked the length of the waterfront park. Back on Front Street he passed by upscale clothing stores and art galleries housed mostly in early twentieth century buildings. He browsed the window of the Front Street Trader, a book store that occupied one of several antebellum buildings. The window displayed copies of the latest New York Times best seller, SHAG DANCING, written by Virgil Potts, a Moultrie Bay native. The book, a six hundred page paean to coming of age in the Lowcountry. The author’s poetic handling of the English language was sumptious and covered the fact that the protagonist and his entourage of supporting characters were followed from adolescence through their fifth decade without having noticeably matured. It was a literary failing overlooked by most of the book's vast readership and one that amused Donal.

  Inside Papa’s Tavern, an upscale bar-restaurant, Donal gave his name to the hostess. “I'm to meeting with a Dr. Summerville.”

  “She arrived moments ago, sir. This way please.”

  Donal followed the mini skirted hostess to a table in the lounge section of the restaurant. Victoria Summerville rose to greet him.

  Whoa! This couldn't be the same woman he had helped on the highway. Then she had been plain Jane in a sedate suit and horn rimmed glasses, hair pinned severely back. This woman was bang on gorgeous. Slender, with woman curves precisely where woman curves should be. A soft silk dress skimmed her lovely figure. Legs that wouldn't quit; perfect from her ankles to her neat little bottom. Honey blond hair that spilled below her shoulders. And laughing eyes, lovely, sparkling, deep blue laughing eyes.

  She insisted that she pay for their drinks. He insisted that he take her to dinner.

  By the end of the evening they had discovered that they shared several interests. By the end of the week they shared a bed.

  ***

  The cat followed Donal outside and down the length of the dock's walkway to the pier head. There the critter toyed with an empty crab shell apparently dropped by a passing heron or perhaps a brown pelican. Donal stood and stared out at the winking lights of the New Point development on Lady Caroline Island across the water of the Intracoastal from, and attempting to mirror, the Old Point section of the town of Moultrie Bay. The clear Carolina night sky showed a billion stars. A line of barges pushed by a light festooned tug slipped southward on the wide water. The wake from the passing tug and barges came in and rocked the dock's floater and with it Donal's McKee that was tied alongside. Donal stood and marveled at the sheer beauty and peace of his little corner of the Lowcountry.

  He remained standing on the pier head, watching the barge’s southward progress, thinking about Victoria, missing her. Considering Hook's advice. Trying to ignore the voice that told him commitment, marriage, and all that it entails wasn't for him. Wasn't his style.

  Donal shrugged. Maybe, maybe not. He didn't know.

  The cat bumped against Donal's leg and meowed. Donal reached down and patted her furry head. He turned and walked back to the house. The cat followed. They went inside and they both went to bed.

  Donal dreamed, tossing and turning; the cat slept like a rock.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saint Catherine's Island,

  Moultrie County, SC

  May 18, early A.M.

  A.J. Hook drove from Donal's home through the rain to the Bay Point area of Saint Catherine's Island. His time stained cypress cottage, not much more than a shack, on the Port Royal Sound was a far cry from Donal's home on Moultrie Bay's 'Old Point', but the place suited Hook. Living space was sufficient and at Hook’s back door a weathered dock gave access to marsh creeks and salt flats, and, beyond, breakers that crashed over sandbars, the ocean, the fishing reefs, and the gulf stream.

  Hook parked under the raised cottage and climbed the steps to the kitchen, mentally reviewing the nimble fingered knots that he had watched Donal tie. Trying to figure why the flies that he tied looked like what they were, a mess of tangled line and mangy bird feathers.

  Inside the cottage Hook sat before his vise and magnifying glass, a copy of Elementary Fly Tying Techniques open before him. An hour of trying to duplicate Donal's dexterous knot tying ended in fumble fingered frustration. “Dammit,” he said to himself. “I'm going to figure out how to do this.” Despite his protestations that he didn't need custom made flies he was determined to duplicate Donal's skills. He was going to learn to do it if he had to retire and spend all his days at it. He was going to become a fly tier par excellence like his friend.

  Eventually he gave up for the night and tossed the fly tying manual back on the bookshelf and went to bed.

  At three fifteen a.m. the ringing telephone shattered A.J. Hook's sleep. At three twenty a.m. he was showered, dressed, and in his police car on the way to the crime scene on Lady Caroline Island.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Interstate Highway 20 between

  Columbia and Moultrie Bay, SC

  May 18

  Brad Ellerby, Director of Special Agents for the State of South Carolina Law Enforcement Directorate, uniformed in navy blazer, pinpoint oxford button down, rep tie, beige chinos, and Weejuns, occupied the passenger seat of the plain white Ford Ltd. Supervisory SLED agent Jack Faulkner drove the unmarked car.

  Ellerby stroked his pale blond mustache. “Well?”

  “It’s a mistake but it's done. He' off the payroll.”

  Ellerby, pink, scrubbed, baby faced, unless one were to look at the hard cop eyes, smiled at his reflection mirrored in the police car's window. “What trouble can he cause?”

  “None. I made sure.”

  “How?”

  “I let him believe that we'll bring him back aboard when things cool down. And we might. He's a fucking good operative.” Faulkner exhaled smoke, looking at the butt in his tobacco stained fingers. “ He won't do anything that might jeopardize his chance to work with us again.”

  Faulkner's boss snorted. “He's a fuckin’ psycho, Jack. The INTERPOL report we got says he tortured and mutilated the Gutierrez woman. She was alive when he worked her over.” Ellerby paused, a dramatic habit born of conviction that his words carried weight; that he always impressed and influenced his listeners. He continued. “The report is the goriest goddamn thing I ever read. He sliced Carmen Gutierrez from vagina to sternum. A pathologist documented sperm in the wounds.”

  Faulkner stubbed a cigarette in
the car's ashtray and lit another. He shrugged, with a palm up gesture. “I've seen lots of reports. Paper won't refuse ink.”

  “You're saying you don't credit INTERPOL.”

  “They can be used.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Dammit, Brad, I know him. He says the report is bullshit that the Mexicans put out to discredit the Agency. He says they were pissed about operations in Puerto Vallarta without clearance. He claims the woman was dead when he got there. He swears that Hector Estavez killed Gutierrez before clearing out. I believe him.”

  “So why did the Feds get rid of him.”

  Faulkner shrugged. “Politics. Things got hot and somebody had to fall. He was expendable.”

  “That's too facile by far, Jack. I'm figure he had to go because they believed INTERPOL. They knew that they had whack job on the payroll. Now, we know the same thing.”

  “The report's a pile of crap and so was the Agency's decision to fire him. He's as sane as you or me. I hired him for SLED because I knew what he could do. I was his Army C.O. He's a hell of an operative. A pro.”

  Faulkner lit another cigarette from the glowing stub of the one he had been smoking and crushed the stub in the ashtray. “Ought to quit this filthy habit.” He crumpled the empty red Pall Mall pack and stuffed it in his blazer's pocket. “I hope if I ever need to use him I can get him back.”

  “There's no fuckin’ way. Never. The Director read the report and briefed the Governor. Governor damn near pissed his pants. Your guy is too hot for SLED.”

  “We're fools to dump our best undercover operative because of a lying report. He does what we ask and he does it right. He infiltrated the Greenville Klan. Shut down those church torching bastards.”

  Ellerby shrugged, “The Greenville problem is history.”

  “Yeah, and we're never gonna have race trouble in this State again, are we?”

  “That's not the point. This Directorate needs investigators not assassins. We can't have a nutcase on SLED books.”

  “He's not nuts. He's the best we have. He's too good to throwaway.”

  “Your opinion, Jack, but he's still gone. And you make sure that any record that he ever worked with us is destroyed.”

  “You believe that he may be a psycho killer and you're willing to bury that.”

  “Damn right. Word got out we had a whack job on the payroll you and I, both, could kiss our careers good-by. Deep six the records. And make sure you don't give anything to these Moultrie Bay yokels that will come back on us.”

  The 'fuck you Ellerby’ on the tip of Faulkner's tongue remained unarticulated. Faulkner’s agent was a hard ass bastard, as a good operative needed to be, but he wasn't crazy. Faulkner believed that. He had to. Ellerby's assessment was off the deep end. But, Faulkner would do what he had to do.

  Faulkner would bury the records and he'd stonewall the Moultrie Bay homicide cops. It was that or his job and he knew it. At forty six he wasn't about to job hunt again. And, though he wasn't comfortable with the self-knowledge, he was realist enough to recognize that at the core he was no better than his boss, Ellerby.

  “Yeah, Brad, I'll dump him,” Faulkner said. Faulkner opened a fresh package of Pall Mall cigarettes one handed and lit one, his third in less than fifteen minutes. He drove on toward Moultrie County and their scheduled late morning meeting with the County's Homicide Chief, A.J. Hook. He seethed with anger but said nothing more, keeping his counsel.

  ***

  Moultrie Bay, SC

  May 18

  Haggard from a long night at the Lady Caroline Island murder scene, Hook, at eight a.m., parked his vehicle in his reserved space in the county complex parking lot. He wanted coffee and a cigarette even though he'd held himself to an occasional cigar -no cigarettes- for more than fifteen years. He entered the buff stucco Moultrie County Administration building hating the idea of the meetings that awaited him. He went straight to the County Executive's office.

  Drucilla Parsons and the Sheriff were waiting. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee, A.J.,” the County Executive said, gesturing with a graceful, manicured hand toward the silver service. “You look like the world's been clubbing you.”

  “Feel worse. I've been at the Echols place since a little after three thirty this morning and I have to get on back there.”

  “What do you have, A.J.”, Sheriff McBride asked?

  Hook lowered himself into a chair, grunting. “Stabbed to death. Her bedroom safe was open and empty. We contacted her former husband in Atlanta. He told us she kept 26 diamonds worth more than a million.

  “Was it the razor killer again.”

  “No. It was murder during the course of a burglary. She was killed with a knife not a razor. We figure she probably waked while the burglar was in her bedroom and he did her. But, other than that we have nothing. Place is clean as a whistle. The forensic team has been through it stem to stern, not a shred of evidence to point to the killer.”

  “What about this morning's meeting? Do you think the MUSC psychiatrists can help any?”

  “Cancel the damn meeting. This wasn't our serial killer and trying to deal with shrinks at this juncture is gonna be counter-productive.”

  “You're the expert, A.J.,” the County Executive said, “but the press conference stands.”

  “There’s nothing that I can give the press, ma'am. I need more time to investigate.”

  “Sheriff McBride and I will handle the press,” the County Executive said. “It'll be tough going. Up until now the press has cooperated with us and hasn't hyped of multiple murder theme. But, after last night, my guess is cooperation is over.”

  “You got that right Ma’am. Mrs. Echols was a South Carolina blue blood. Her great, great Grandfather, Thaddeus Butler, was a signer of the Declaration of Independence and his son was instrumental in drawing up the Articles of Secession. Her family carries weight. The press is going to link her to the razor psycho true or not. We’re gonna get ripped to pieces.”

  “More reason for you to nail her killer. And quick.” The County Executive stirred sugar into her coffee and looked from Hook to McBride, her brow knitting, black eyes glowering. “I'm already getting a lot of pressure from colleagues and citizen's groups. When the press takes the gloves off you can be sure the public's reaction will be rabid. They'll need a scapegoat and by damn it won’t be me. There's the election coming up in November. I intend to win and I want this mess over and done with long before then. I want the Echols killer and I want the razor killer.”

  Sheriff Kevin McBride turned to face the County Executive, “I assure you that we're doing all we can.”

  Drucilla Parsons, the first woman and the first Black Moultrie County Executive, looked at the Sheriff, her face expressionless. “Not enough. It has been suggested to me that perhaps a change of command at the top of the Sheriff's Department might be beneficial. The party could decide not to back your re-election bid.” The county Exec raised narrow, graceful hands, “Not that I agree. But you understand, gentlemen, these cases must be solved.”

  Hook cleared his throat, “Your Honor, I asked Johnny Donal to sit in later this morning when we meet with SLED. He’s a former State homicide detective and he's been involved successfully in psycho cases in the past. The guy is top notch.”

  “A.J., I know Donal and have all the respect in the world for his investigative ability, but no, he can't sit in.”

  “Your Honor,” Hook started and was immediately cut off.

  “Give me credit for knowing what I'm doing.” The County Executive shifted in her chair and looked directly at the Sheriff. “If I allow Donal in it would look like we didn't trust SLED. They don't like anybody looking over their shoulders. And they have ways for getting even with people who irritate them.

  “Furthermore, bringing in Donal would make us look as if we couldn't conduct our own investigations. The SLED guys would make sure my political opposition would make that an issue. No Johnny Donal.”

  CHAPTER FOUR


  Saint Catherine's Island

  Moultrie County, SC

  May 19

  A.J. Hook packed redfish on ice, put his rod up in the gunnel storage compartment, and started moving the center console Boston Whaler through the tall cordgrass that lined the sides of the salt marsh creek.

  “Fish fought like hell,” Donal said.

  “Say that again. But the boogers are iced down now. Mouth waterin’, thinking about marinating redfish fillets with a little olive oil and garlic and grilling them over charcoal. Mmmmm.”

  Hook, as he had been doing all day, got off the subject of fish and back to his murder investigations. He said, “Dammit, Johnny, I hated calling you to cancel yesterday. Drucilla screwed up not signing you on. We need help. We've been through the Echols murder scene and the lab work again and again. Crime techs drew a blank. I've had a crack team on overtime with carte blanche. Anything they need they get . Still, we’re drawin’ a fat effin' zero. Drucilla's going nuts and taking the Sheriff with her. It ain't helping that the press is starting to raise hell about the razor killer.”

  “Cynthia Echols wasn't a razor kill.”

  “You know that; I know that. Try convincing the press and the politicos, much less the citizenry. Besides, I'm not sure having two killers is better than one.”

  “I hear you on that,” Donal said. He went on, speaking from experience, “the serial killer is overdue.”

  “Yeah, and I'm prayin' we get a break before he strikes. But, for all I know he could be doing someone while we're sittin’ here yacking.”

  “Shitty spot you're in, A.J..”

  Hook shrugged. “I don't have much more time. I break something soon or I'm out on my ass. Maybe I'd better quit. Pull the pin and let one of the hungry young dudes have a go at wrapping this bitch up.” He steered the Whaler toward his dock. “Could spend my days in this little beauty. Fish the wrecks and the gulf stream. Set some crab pots. Throw the cast net when shrimp baitin' is on. With my work schedule I don't get to use the boat as much as I'd like. Sometimes quitting beckons.”