Deadly Catch Read online

  Published 2013 by Seventh Street Books

  Deadly Catch. Copyright © 2013 by E. Michael Helms. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover illustration © 2013 Media Bakery

  Cover design by Grace Conti-Zilsberger

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  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Helms, E. Michael.

  Deadly catch : a Mac McClellan mystery / E. Michael Helms.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-61614-867-6 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-61614-868-3 (ebook)

  1. Retired military personnel—Fiction. 2. Marines—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Drug traffic—Fiction. 5. Florida Panhandle (Fla.)—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Mac McClellan mystery.

  PS3608.E4653D43 2013

  813’.6—dc23

  2013024952

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Karen

  The first cast of the day turned my dream vacation into a nightmare.

  A quick flick of the wrist and the lure flashed in the rising sun, arched thirty or so yards alongside the grass flats and landed with a quiet splash barely a foot from the edge. Bull’s-eye! During my week of fishing the waters of St. George Bay I’d developed a nice touch for casting, especially for someone who’d hardly wet a line the past twenty years. I closed the bail, gave the rod tip a couple of light twitches, and waited.

  I’d hooked and landed some fine speckled trout the past few days, but I still hadn’t nailed a bragging-size “gator” trout despite a crash course in speck fishing from Lamar Randall. Lamar is the mechanic and part-time fishing guide who keeps the rental boats at Gillman’s Marina in tiptop condition. When I first met him he was wearing an eye patch, and with his goatee and longish hair he bore an uncanny resemblance to a classic Hollywood pirate. He’d recently suffered an injury while working on a boat he was building at home and would have to wear the protective patch for several more weeks.

  Lamar is also known as one of the best trout and redfish anglers along the Florida Panhandle. When I’d asked why he was turning wrenches instead of guiding rich tourists full-time to his favorite honey-holes, he laughed.

  “I got three kids and a wife to feed. Throw in bad weather, the slow winters, well, you get the picture. Now if I was still single . . .”

  After a minute I gave the rod tip another twitch and began a slow retrieve. The lure wiggled and skirted the grassy edge for ten or fifteen feet when I felt resistance. My pulse raced as I yanked back on the rod to set the hook and started reeling. The rod bent against the heavy weight, and I got psyched for the fight of my angling life. Seconds later disappointment doused my adrenaline rush. Gator trout, my ass. I was hung up.

  I lowered the rod, pointed the tip at whatever I’d snagged, and pulled, hoping to free the lure. No such luck. I tried again with the same results. Well, damned if I was going to give it up without a fight. I’d paid six ninety-five plus tax for that MirrOlure at the marina shop last evening. I lived just fine on my military retirement, but seven bucks was seven bucks. If it came down to it I’d swim for that lure.

  After a few more tries I gave up trying to free the lure. It was stuck fast. The thought of getting wet this early in the morning didn’t thrill me, but moving the boat closer to the grass flats would be more likely to spook whatever fish might be lurking around than my wading. Decision made, I released the bail to give the line some slack and leaned the spinning outfit against the gunnels. The clear water looked shallow enough, but just to be sure I grabbed the paddle from its rack. The handle slipped beneath the surface, and the water rose past my elbow before the blade struck bottom. With luck my head and neck would be above water.

  I shed my shirt, kicked off my new leather deck shoes, emptied my pockets, and unclipped the cell phone from my belt. There wasn’t much wind to speak of, but I knew that could change without warning. So, I crawled onto the bow, unfastened the anchor, slipped the rope through the bow guide and lowered it to the bottom. I gave the anchor line a few feet of slack and wrapped it fast to a cleat. I tugged on the 12-pound test monofilament again to relocate my target. Satisfied of my bearings, I braced my hands on the gunnels and hopped over the side.

  The bay was chilly even though June was just a few days away. I stood there a minute getting used to the water, which topped out just below my shoulders. Then I headed for the grass flats using the “stingray shuffle” that Kate, the attractive saleslady at Gillman’s, had demonstrated for me should I decide for whatever reason to go wading in these waters. A trip to the local emergency room to remove a stingray barb wasn’t high on my vacation agenda.

  I found the fishing line, held it loosely in my right hand, and eased along. I kept my eyes focused on where I thought the lure was, making as little motion as possible. About halfway to the target a light breeze rose and drifted my way. That’s when the stench hit, almost gagging me. Iraq flashed through my mind, bodies rotting in the alleys and rubble of Fallujah. Whatever the hell I’d snagged had to be sizeable to raise that much stink. A dolphin or sea turtle, maybe a shark. Lamar had mentioned that this area of the bay was a prime breeding ground for certain species of sharks. Well, if this was a shark I smelled, it was in no condition to attack me.

  I covered my mouth and nose with my free hand and kept going, breathing as little and shallow as possible. Just a few feet from my objective I lifted the line out of the water and gave it a light pull. Five feet away, the surface exploded. Hundreds of small fish and blue crabs darted and scurried in every direction. I tripped backward and nearly went under before I somehow regained my footing. My heart was racing, and despite the foul air I grabbed several deep breaths to calm myself. Then I saw it—my lure, embedded in the bleached-white underbelly of a large fish sticking halfway out of the grass.

  “You chickenshit,” I muttered, glad no fishing buddies were along to witness my brave reaction to a bunch of scavengers feasting on a dead fish. I turned my head and took another deep breath and covered the few remaining feet as fast as possible. Pulling the line tight, I reached for the lure. My hand froze in midair and I stumbled back again, heart pounding. Christ on a crutch, this was no dead fish! It was a leg—a human leg!

  I don’t recall much about getting back to the boat, but you can bet your ass the stingray shuffle had no part in it. I grabbed the gunnels and heaved myself back aboard. I found a towel, dried my face, and ran it through my hair while I tried to calm down and think. Okay, I’d hooked a dead body. I needed to call . . . who? The sheriff’s office, St. George police? I didn’t have either number. 911? But this was no real emergency. Whatever—whoever—I’d snagged was way past needing medical attention.

  Gillman’s. I had the marina’s number programmed in my phone in case I broke down or ran into some other kind of trouble. Well, this sure as hell qualified. I punched in the number and fished a beer from the ice chest.

  “Gillman’s Marina. How may I help you?”

  I recognized the chatty voice. I swallowed a mouthful of beer and took a breath. “Kate, it’s Mac McClellan.”

  “Morning, Mac. Having any luck?”

  I took another swig. “Yeah, all bad.
I—”

  “Oh? Well, dang. Maybe we should’ve gone with the gold instead of—”

  “No, it’s not the lure.”

  “Motor trouble? Lamar just went through that motor a few weeks ago.”

  “No, listen. I was fishing the grass flats just off the island back of the Trade Winds Lodge a few minutes ago, and I . . . I hooked a body.”

  There was a pause. “A what?”

  “A body. A dead human body.”

  “You sure?” Kate’s voice had lost its chattiness. “I mean, you’re sure it’s not a dolphin or something?”

  “It’s a body.”

  There was another pause, longer this time. “Mac, I’m putting you on hold for a minute, okay? Don’t hang up.”

  I’d finished my beer and was well into my second when Kate came back on the line. “Mac?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I contacted Fish and Wildlife. They should have a boat there in a half hour or so. They said to stay put and don’t touch anything.”

  I almost laughed out loud. “Tell ’em not to worry.”

  I switched on my portable radio and tried to pass the time watching a small flock of terns diving on a school of minnows while waiting for Fish and Wildlife to show up. But the music and bird watching weren’t much help, and I’d damned near polished off a six-pack when I spotted a boat approaching from the mainland. This one was heading straight for me. Earlier, I’d seen a couple of others heading southwest, probably for fishing spots of their own. I’d been tempted to flag them down. I could’ve used the company but decided against it. Not much sense in screwing up their day with my troubles.

  I took a quick glance over my shoulder again. The crabs had returned, and if I hadn’t known what was out there, I wouldn’t have a clue. I thought about the fried soft-shell crabs I’d had for dinner a few nights ago and felt my gut twist. Thank god for the wind change.

  I turned my head and stared northeast at the approaching boat. I could barely make out the throaty hum of the outboard now. I finished my beer, crushed the can, and tossed it in the ice chest. I decided against popping another one. I didn’t need a DUI or whatever the hell they call it for being inebriated on the water. But that was small potatoes compared to what was lying up in that grass.

  I fished a roll of breath mints from my pocket and popped a couple in my mouth. It was warm now, and I’d dried out. Everything was back in place except for my shoes and sanity. How the hell could this be happening? I was on vacation, for christsake, a month out of the Marine Corps and looking forward to a long R&R before deciding what to do with the rest of my life. And now this. For the first time since my discharge I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t re-upped for one more hitch with the Corps. Twenty-four years had been enough, I’d thought, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  When the boat was about fifty yards away I heard the motor throttle back. The bow dipped and swayed with the drop in power, then the boat straightened and approached at a no-wake speed. I recognized the Fish and Wildlife emblem on the hull. I returned the officer’s wave and watched as he slid the gear handle into neutral. A second later he switched off the motor, his boat maybe ten yards astern and drifting closer.

  “Morning,” he called, leaving the steering station and stepping toward the bow. “Are you Mr. McClellan?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said to a trim, dark-haired officer I judged to be eight or ten years my junior—my formality a product of ingrained military habit I’d yet to shake. The gray and green uniform and nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his waist didn’t help matters.

  He stood just back of the bow, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. “Kate at Gillman’s says we’ve got some trouble here.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.” I pointed behind me. “There’s a body about thirty yards back there.”

  His boat drifted alongside mine. I grabbed hold of the bow and watched as he squinted in the general direction I’d pointed. “The crabs?”

  “Yeah,” I said, damned impressed with his eye for detail. I’d never noticed the crabs before they’d bolted, nearly scaring the life out of me.

  “Okay then,” he said, still staring ahead, “climb aboard. “Let’s go take a look.”

  “Call me Mac,” I said, after he’d identified himself as Officer Dave Reilly, Florida Fish and Wildlife. I sat on the starboard bow of the twenty-foot Mako while Dave stood portside and used a long pole he’d grabbed from a rack to push us toward the target. Damned if I wanted any part of messing with that body. I’d seen more than enough already. As a First Sergeant in the Marines with a sleeve full of lifer stripes, I’d been used to ordering shave-tail lieutenants around. But I was a civilian now and more than happy to let Officer Reilly handle things from here on out.

  “Tell me again exactly what you saw,” Dave said, when we were about halfway to the corpse.

  I repeated how I’d made my cast, how I thought I’d hooked a big speck, realized I was hung up, and then what I’d found when I tried to retrieve my lure.

  “And you’re positive it’s a body, not some fish or animal.”

  I exhaled sharply. First Kate, now this guy. “Look, I fought in Desert Storm and did two combat tours during Iraqi Freedom. I’ve seen more dead than I care to remember. I’m positive.”

  Dave nodded, kept his eyes focused ahead and pushed on. “Sorry, Mac. It’s just that I’ve been in on a few too many drowning recoveries and I’m not looking forward to this.”

  “Join the crowd,” I said, as the wind shifted and the stench hit us full in the face.

  Dave coughed, almost gagged. “God.”

  My gut flipped in agreement. “Yeah, it’s a ripe one.”

  He stopped the boat, then eased the pole toward the body until the scavengers scattered. From my perch on the bow I could make out both legs and the buttocks of a body, badly swollen and partially eaten. The upper half was entangled and covered by the grass, though patches of bleached-white flesh showed through here and there.

  Dave coughed and spit, then started poling fast toward the beach. Only when we were well past and upwind of the body did he slow down. “I’ll call this in when we get ashore. There’s nothing we can do back there. Headquarters will send out a team and the medical examiner, if he’s available. This is outside St. George’s jurisdiction, so the county’s got to be called in on this, too.”

  I assumed he meant the Palmetto County Sheriff’s Department whose headquarters was in Parkersville, the county seat, about six miles by land west of St. George. “What about my boat?”

  Dave glanced my way. “I’ll get you back to your boat, but they’ll have to search the area and recover the body first,” he said, poling through a channel that cut through the grass flats twenty yards from shore. “And they’re going to want to question you, of course. That body was naked. I doubt it’s a routine drowning.”

  “Yeah, so I noticed,” I said, wondering if Officer Reilly had ever heard of skinny dipping. I’d sobered up quickly, but right then I could’ve used another beer or two. “What’ll they want with me? I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  I lurched forward as the boat scraped bottom. Dave dropped the pole, grabbed a coiled anchor line, swung it like a grappling hook, and tossed it onto the beach. He turned to me, hands resting on hips.

  “As far as I know, there haven’t been any reports of missing persons around here for a while.” He pointed toward the body. “An unclothed floater that’s been in the water for several days, I’d estimate, and you found the body, Mac. Until we know better, my guess is the sheriff will treat this as a crime scene.”

  “So, what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Kate said you’ve been in the area for the past week. Knowing Sheriff Pickron, I’d say there’s a good chance he’ll find that an interesting coincidence.”

  The natives of Palmetto County differ as to how Five-Mile Island got its name. It lies roughly five miles off the coast of the Florida Panhandle. It also happen
s to be approximately five miles long. Take your pick. Running east to west, it forms a natural barrier that protects the fishing-turned-artsy-village of St. George, and the bay’s rich oyster and scallop beds many of the locals still depend upon for their livelihood. The pork chop–shaped island is about a hundred yards wide at its eastern juncture where it joins a bridge and causeway leading to the mainland. It widens gradually as you travel west, the last two-mile stretch being Five-Mile Island State Park, a beautiful area of wide sugar-white beaches and towering dunes on the Gulf of Mexico. Inland, bent, and weathered stands of scrub oak give way to native longleaf pines that, a mile later, surrender to small dunes and a narrow beach that skirts the fertile waters of St. George Bay.

  There are a hundred or so seasonal or full-time residences strung out from the causeway to the park entrance, a convenience store/gas station, a couple of mom-and-pop motels, and the Trade Winds Lodge. The Trade Winds is the gem of the island, consisting of a turn-of-the-twentieth-century two-story wooden hotel overlooking the gulf, a dozen rental cabins along the bay, a gift shop, and a decent restaurant. I’d stayed at the lodge a couple of nights when I first arrived in the area, but when I decided to hang around a while and try my luck fishing, I’d rented a camping space at Gulf Pines Campground in St. George. Twenty-five bucks a night beat a hundred-fifty all day long, despite the sacrifice in comfort. Besides, my twenty-two-foot Grey Wolf camping trailer was plenty swanky for me. I’d spent too many nights in foxholes to complain about any lack of luxury.

  After the Fish and Wildlife team showed up to secure the scene, Dave and I waited inside the restaurant with a couple of Cokes escaping the noon heat. Twenty minutes later Sheriff Pickron pulled into the parking lot in a white, unmarked Jeep SUV. Two green-and-white county squad cars quickly followed, along with a utility van marked Palmetto County Dive & Rescue. Through the window I saw the sheriff climb out of the SUV, point to the bay, and mouth orders to several deputies. They scrambled to gather dive gear and other equipment from the van, and then disappeared down the path leading to the cabins.