“Strictly business,” Victorino might have explained it, and the man would have been correct for once.
When I replayed the events of that night in my mind, I felt no guilt for the same reason I felt no perverse thrill or any emotional satisfaction. Even so, what had happened was on my mind constantly. So I followed the news reports.
The St. Pete Times referred to the incident as The Immokalee Slayings, which for that excellent newspaper was an understandable hedge because Immokalee was the nearest town and also because three of the seven victims resided within the city limits.
Laziro Victorino, I was not surprised to learn, had chosen upscale locations-a riverfront home in Cape Coral and a condo near Tampa.
“Police believe the homicides are gang related,” one of the stories read. “Mass killings have become commonplace in Mexico, and the ceremonial nature of the Immokalee slayings suggests that gang violence has finally arrived in South Florida. Four victims were shot execution style. The body of a fifth victim was mutilated, although authorities refuse to provide specific details.”
Because police had found steroid-manufacturing apparatus at Harris Squires’s hunting camp and also a small facility at his Red Citrus double-wide, the news reports implied what police had yet to confirm: The killings had something to do with a turf war over the sale of illegal steroids.
“Such turf wars date back to the days of Prohibition,” one newspaper editorial read. “Illegal drugs spawn murderous behavior. To members of a warring gang, killing an enemy is viewed as a right of passage.”
Six consecutive days the slayings dominated headlines, but the few known facts didn’t vary much. It wasn’t until the ninth day that some enterprising reporter hammered away at an obvious question until some unknown source provided an answer. How exactly did a teenage Guatemalan girl escape the carnage only to be found forty miles away, wandering the shrimp docks near Tomlinson’s rum bar, bayside, Fort Myers Beach?
According to a source familiar with statements made by the abductee, the reporter wrote, the girl was rescued by a person she described as a “Spanish-speaking man who drove a truck.”
Because the man wore a ski mask, the girl was unable to provide a physical description of her rescuer, although she described him as “kind and gentle” in at least two of her statements. In a third statement, the girl told investigators that the man’s truck must have been almost new because it was so quiet that she was able to fall asleep as the masked man drove.
The story continued, Although it cannot be confirmed, at least some investigators believe the man may be a member of one of the warring gangs whose conscience would not allow him to execute a young girl. A Collier County psychologist, often consulted in homicide cases, has suggested the man may be the father of a girl who is of similar age. Police are cross-referencing the information in search of the suspect, although investigators believe that most, if not all, of the warring gang members were killed on the night the incident occurred. The exception, of course, is the man who drove the girl to safety.
A Spanish-speaking masked man. Tula had found a way to effectively distance me from the case by providing her interrogators with very specific truths.
After five days, heartened by the reactions of police and the news report I read, I began to enjoy a tenuous confidence that I had manipulated the crime scene convincingly. After seven days had passed, the only cop who had bothered to contact me was my detective friend, Leroy Melinski. And the only reason he called was to congratulate me on Tula’s rescue.
Well… to congratulate Tomlinson. Not me.
“I’ve got to give your crazy hippie friend credit,” Lee had said. “All night, our guys had been staking out that trailer park, but it’s your pal who happens to find the girl wandering the streets and brings her in. ‘Psychic intuition,’ he told our guys. He claimed that’s how he knew where to find her. The first thing they did, of course, was check his vehicle for weapons and a ski mask. And he also had a very solid alibi-he’d spent the entire evening with a woman biologist that Tomlinson claims you know. So maybe there’s something to that mystic bullshit after all.”
I didn’t comment on Melinski’s reference to Emily, although I was tempted to tell him he was right about the bullshit but wrong about the rest of it.
Tomlinson’s “psychic intuition” had nothing whatsoever to do with him finding Tula.
Truth was, Tomlinson was so drunk and stoned by the time I reached him on his cell phone that I judged him incapable of driving to Red Citrus. Because I couldn’t depend on him, I hung up without mentioning that Tula was with me.
I was disappointed in the guy, of course, but I wasn’t shocked. I was shocked, however, when I dialed Emily Marston as a backup and suddenly I was talking to Tomlinson once again.
For a moment, I was confused. Had I or had I not dialed Emily’s cell phone?
Yes, I had.
“Ms. Marston is temporarily indisposed,” Tomlinson answered formally, unaware he was speaking to me. Because he tried hard to sound sober, he only sounded drunker when he added, “May I help you? Or you can wait for Emily-she’s a pretty quick little spliff roller.”
By then, Tula and I were only twenty minutes from Red Citrus. I had driven the distance with particular care for obvious reasons, and now the girl was asleep, her head in my lap. So as not to wake her, I had to move my right arm gently to get a look at my watch.
1:30 a.m.
My best friend, it turned out, was still guarding the safety of my new lover, Emily, the quick little spliff roller. The temptation was to nail Tomlinson with a very valid question: What in the hell, exactly, was going on?
Instead, I remained calm. I had to because I needed his help. Someone had to be close to Red Citrus, waiting, when I dropped off the girl. Someone I trusted. Not inside the park because cops might still be posted. If police saw the exchange, if they suspected I was the one who had driven Tula to safety, they would search my truck and correctly associate me with the murders I had just committed.
Phone to my ear, I took a slow breath and said, “Tomlinson, if you care anything about our friendship, please don’t say a word. Just listen.”
The instant he tried to respond I stopped him, saying, “I’m warning you, this is serious. And please don’t use my name-or tell Emily it’s me.”
After a reassuring silence, I told him, “I need your help. I’m counting on you.” Because it was true, I added, “You’re the only person I trust with my life.”
During another long pause, I imagined the man’s mind trying to rally. Tomlinson claims that his brain conceals what he calls “a sober lifeguard twin” who comes to his rescue in demanding situations no matter how wasted he happens to be. He claims his ever-sober twin has saved him from suspicious cops and freak storms at sea.
Because of my tone, I suspected that Tomlinson was summoning that lifeguard now.
Finally, he said, “Anything you want. You can count on me.”
As he spoke, I could hear Emily in the background, asking, “Is it for me? Why are you using my phone?” The woman, at least, sounded sober, but I wasn’t going to entrust her with what had to happen next.
As I spoke to Tomlinson, I used short sentences. I kept my directions concise. Lifeguard twin or not, the man still sounded slobbering drunk.
Half an hour later, I sat in my truck in the shadows of the boatyard that adjoins Tomlinson’s rum bar. The bar’s party lights and its underwater lights were still on, but the place was closed.
Twice, cop cars cruised past, probably changing watches at Red Citrus, I guessed. Each time, as my knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, I felt Tula pat my arm, trying to calm me.