“What are you thinking about, Sean?”
“Dan Grant said he found some records indicating Courtney Burke has spent some time in a psych ward. I don’t know the details.”
“Could have been by court order. Her family could have institutionalized her. Regardless, it indicates some kind of mental instability.”
“Not always. Why was she locked in an asylum? We know the effect, but what was the cause. You were trained in understanding human breaking points, how to accelerate reaching them. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it’s mental. It’s still pain, in the case of repeated sexual assaults, it’s layered pain. In my book, years of sexual abuse is physical and mental. It’s encrusted like a hot branding iron on different sections of the victim’s soul. The pain may dull, but the mark to your psyche is like a bad tattoo that blurs through time.”
“Let’s take a walk down the dock.” I turned to Max who napped on the salon sofa. “Hold down the fort. If ole Joe the cat comes near, try not to be too inhospitable.”
I could hear the Friday night entertainment at the Tiki Bar before Dave and I reached the end of L dock and opened the locked gate leading away from the boats. We walked around a deserted fish-cleaning station that featured a weathered and knife-scarred wooden table, stainless steel sink, and a thatched roof made from dried palm fronds tarnished in splashes of black and white pelican poop. The smell of fish scales and dried blood mixed with the drifting scent of deep-fried hushpuppies and blackened grouper coming from the bar grill.
The Tiki Bar was filling up with salty regulars and sunburned tourists, a combination that created a culture club of opposites. A solo singer wearing a Panama hat and a surfer’s shirt sat on a stool in a corner, guitar in one hand, the crowd in the other as he led them in a rousing chorus of Irish ballads and Jimmy Buffett songs. After a few drinks and sing-along songs, the drawbridges of class distinctions lowered and the yellow brick road to Margaritaville, by way of Dublin, became a festive group journey. The fishing captains swapped stories of great catches and beating storms in open waters. One middle-aged vacationer grinned and admitted how he’d love to trade places away from the predictable, the office politics — the mundane, to fish for a life of adventure. “We have half-day and full-day rates to get you started,” bellowed a gray-bearded charter captain, lifting a bottle of beer in a toast to the promise of a personal quest.
The entertainer told the crowd he was taking a short break. Kim Davis finished pouring a tall glass of dark beer and handed it to a shiny, red-faced customer wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Kim turned toward Dave as we sat down at the only two open bar stools. “Dave, did you have to round up a posse to find Sean? Nick has been more anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time.”
Dave grunted. “Sean had his phone turned down.”
“Where’s Nick?” I asked.
She glanced over my right shoulder. “Looks like he’s returning from a bathroom break.”
Nick approached the bar, shaking his head, his dark eyes animated. “Kim, can you send a Corona my way?” He turned to me. “Sean, man, I’m glad Dave found you. I was sitting at a table in the corner, doing my monthly accounting, when I overheard these two half-drunk dudes at another table, talkin’ about someone dying — a murder.” Nick took a long pull from an icy bottle, his face blooming in color, the center of his moustache wet from beer foam.
“Are they still here?” I asked.
“No. They left when the music started.”
“Describe them.”
“Hell, Sean, they looked like most of the deck hands around here. Like they’d been sleepin’ in their clothes. Kinda like I look after I have been at sea for a couple of weeks. One guy was about twenty, I guess. Blond. Tryin’ to grow whiskers. Wore a Yankees’ hat backwards and a blue Orlando Magic jersey. The other due was older, maybe forty. Heavyset fella. He was wearin’ a black T-shirt with the words Harley-Davidson on the front. He had a tattoo of a naked mermaid on his arm. Big damn tits—” He cut his eyes over to Kim. “Sorry, Kimberly.” She smiled and Nick said, “Both left with barbecue sauce in the corners of their mouths ‘cause they must have eaten a few dozen wings between them. The older guy called the younger one Smitty.”
Dave nodded. “Your powers of observation are improving. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent quality time with Sean.”
“Nick, what exactly did you hear?” I asked.
“They were goin’ through a few pitchers of Miller Beer during the happy hour. Before they left, I overheard some crazy shit. Stuff like how the dead guy at the fair got what was comin’ to him ‘cause he was markin’ the deck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kim asked. “A payback for a cheating a poker bet?”
“Could mean just about anything,” I said. “Sounds like he was taking a cut of some kind of action.”
Dave nodded. “Carnivals can be a backdrop, true moveable feasts, for crime and those who commit crimes.”
Nick looked around the bar for a moment. “Sean, maybe this means the girl didn’t kill the guy, unless she does hits for hire.”
“It means that the police need to question these two. I’ll put in a call to Detective Grant. Nick, tell him what you told us. Describe the men to him.” I punched in Grant’s number. Nick flexed both hands into fists, relieving tension. Thirty seconds later, Grant answered. “Sean O’Brien. I’m glad you called. Did the girl, Courtney Burke, happen to return to your boat?”
“No, why?”
“Because now a warrant’s been issued for her arrest. Forensics matched. Blood. Prints on ice pick. Her story of a hooded assailant is iffy at best. A witness came forth and said he’d heard them arguing. Seems like Ms. Burke is the jealous type. Sounds like a typical case of hell has no fury like—”
“Sounds like supposition to me, Dan. Listen, I’m standing here at the Tiki Bar at the marina. A friend of mine overheard two men talking. Carnival workers, most likely. They were drinking heavily, and one was telling the other that the murder was a hit — a payback or revenge killing for something.”
“Can your friend ID these men?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but before I speak with your friend, unless the men he overheard were eye witnesses to a murder, most likely they’ll deny having said anything in the bar, and it’ll be circumstantial at best.”
“Dan, just listen to what Nick has to say.”
I handed the phone to Nick, who took a long swallow from the bottle, blew out a breath and said, “Hello.” He placed one hand over his open ear and stepped out on the dock to tell his story.
I turned toward Kim. “Can you remember what these men looked like?”
“Nothing beyond what Nick said. Judy was the server. She left as the night servers came to work.”
“How’d they pay the bill, cash or credit?”
“Hold on, I’ll look at Judy’s tickets.” Kim licked her thumb and leafed through a few dozen receipts. “Looks like this is it. Three platters of wings and four pitchers of beer, table fourteen. Paid half with a credit card, the other half in cash.”
“What’s the guy’s name on the card?”
“Randal Barnes.”
Nick returned. He handed the phone to me. “He wants to speak to you.”
Detective Grant said, “Sean, I’m heading back to the fair. If you hear from Ms. Burke, let me know. Three killings at three fairs, that spells serial.”
“Can you place her at each of the carnivals?”
“Don’t know yet. Shouldn’t be hard to find out.”
“Dan, I have a name for one of the carnies who Nick overheard. The name on the charge receipt is Randal Barnes.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’d find that quickly? Maybe you still have cop in your DNA, or maybe you just give a damn more than most do.”