Not entirely. I had already told him and the detectives about the old horse trail that led through the mangroves to Sulfur Wells but mentioned it again.
“I’d like to see it,” Joel said.
“We’ll need more mosquito spray,” I told him, “and we should have brought a machete.”
“I don’t mind bugs. But first, there’s something you should know. I wanted to be sure of the details before I said anything.”
In his hand was a crime scene map. Finally, the special prosecutor told me that Dwight Helms had been murdered with an axe. Then asked a question my Internet research hadn’t prepared me for.
“You ever hear any rumors about who found Helms’s body? The department never released the names to the public.”
I remembered a newspaper story crediting an unnamed informant, but that’s all, so I shook my head.
Ransler was serious now. “There were actually two people who reported the body, both men. Do you remember anyone around named Arnold?-that was his first name. The dispatcher either didn’t get his last name or he refused to give it.”
“Arnold,” I repeated. “We were taught to call adults by their last names, mister or missus, so I seldom knew an adult’s whole name.” I mulled it over. “Arnold. It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why. So far, no one comes to mind.”
“That was a long time ago, I know-more than twenty years, but there’s a reason I’m asking, Hannah.” He paused. “Or.. maybe you know the reason.”
The way Joel said it put me on guard. I sensed a trap. “If you have something to say, say it,” I told him. Then stared at him for a moment before taking a guess. “Was my Uncle Jake one of the men who found Mr. Helms?”
“Yes,” Joel said. “He was the first to call it in-a little after midnight, according to the report. I assumed you knew.”
“Jake?”
“Captain Jacob Hansen Smith. That’s him, right? I was hoping you could help me with the name of the second man.”
When I turned away to collect myself, Joel reached as if to put a hand on my shoulder but stopped when he saw me flinch. “Your uncle was never a suspect, I wasn’t lying about that. He still isn’t, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Jake never said a word about finding a body-but I was only eight or nine at the time, so-”
“That’s right,” Ransler cut in as if he hadn’t thought it through. “You were only a kid. Of course he wouldn’t have said anything. Even later, why bring it up? I’m such an idiot sometimes.”
The special prosecutor shook his head, disappointed with himself, and continued to apologize. My mind was already on something else. I was picturing how it had been for my uncle the night he found the body, used my eyes to match crime scene photos with the area around the dock.
Twenty feet away was a huge buttonwood. Dwight Helms had lost part of his hand near the base of a large tree-possibly the same tree. They had found his ankle and foot, his boot still tied, near the diesel engine that was now red with rust, but, on a night twenty years ago, had glistened beneath flashbulbs. Helms had curled himself in a fetal position beneath the derrick. He had died there, his head crushed by several blows. Jake, or a man named Arnold, had been the first to find the carnage-the first to report it, anyway, which gave the murder a new importance.
Arnold… Arnold. The name continued to bounce around in my head. It was familiar, I felt sure of it, yet my memory couldn’t attach the name to an adult who had lived on the island.
Then it hit me. Arnold-or Arnie for short! It was the name of Loretta’s secret lover. I had never discovered the man’s last name because I didn’t want to know it. A nickname didn’t prove her old boyfriend was a murderer, of course, or even that he was the same Arnie, but it was a startling connection. Suddenly, I wanted to know more about Arnie-especially now that the reputation of my late uncle might be involved through association.
“Hannah… are you okay? I wasn’t trying to be graphic.” Joel was touching my elbow, I realized. It took me a moment to understand I had missed something he’d said, something important, apparently.
I took a full breath and forced a smile. “Fine, fine-my attention wanders sometimes. What were you saying?”
The special prosecutor had been easing into the facts about the murder. “The way Helms died was so brutal, I see only three possible options. I’m not going to bother you with details. I’m projecting from the killer’s point of view.”
“Options?” I asked.
“Motives, I mean. It was a crime of passion or a revenge killing or… a message, like a warning to other smugglers. That’s my read. The murder was so brutal, it scared people, so they avoided the subject by telling outsiders that Helms had been shot. After a while, the lie became accepted as fact. We both know that a lot of islanders went into drug running. If the killer was sending a message, it worked in one way: the murder scared them. The question is, what was the message the killer-or killers-was sending?”
I nodded as if I agreed but was trying to recall more about Loretta’s lover. The relationship had gone on for a decade. I suspected I had seen the man on more than one occasion-in church, most likely-yet had no idea who he was or what he’d looked like. Loretta had guarded the secret carefully, but it was my own distaste for the truth that had provided the strongest shield.
Now Joel was saying, “I didn’t come here to trap you. More than anything, I was trying to help. The way Helms was killed isn’t related to what happened to you Friday night. My theory hasn’t changed. You surprised a burglar-some local crackhead, most likely-hoping to find money or drugs. He probably heard the dogs, too, and grabbed the first weapon he saw-an axe. It was a coincidence.” The man sighed. “Instead of making you feel better, I screwed up by assuming you knew more than you did. Sorry, Hannah. Like I said, I’m in an ugly business. Sometimes I forget there are still people you can be open and honest with.”
This time I let the prosecutor place a hand on my shoulder-but as a comfort to him, not to me. His regret seemed genuine, and I soften easily when touched by the upset of others. “Joel,” I said, “I believe you, okay? So let’s drop the subject.”
“Rance,” he corrected, then squared himself so both hands were on my shoulders, holding me as if to reassure me of his support. He had done the same thing the night I was attacked.
“Rance,” I conceded, then joked, “I usually don’t tolerate pushy clients.”
Sundance Kid from the movie, yes, Joel had the same jaw-flexing smile as we stood face-to-face, joined by the warmth of his hands. Smart gray eyes, too, with a glint-boyish, but in a devilish way. For a moment, I felt comfortable standing close to this good-looking attorney who was trying so hard to win my approval… but then the look in his eyes struck me as more devilish than boyish and I began to doubt my own judgment. Two of my aunts had died because they had misread the intentions of charming men. I knew nothing about Joel Ransler, had yet to even run a background check, yet here we were alone, just the two of us.
“Hang on a second,” I said, then ducked under his arms and walked toward my skiff.
“Where you going?” He sounded hopeful when he added, “The thermos of margaritas in the cooler-we could probably both use a drink.”
I replied, “I’m getting bug spray. If you want to see the horse trail, we need to go. I’ve got to be back by noon and the tide’s falling fast.”