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A Mad Mick Murphy
Mystery CHAPTER ONE The Key West Sail Club’s small Sunfish and Laser sailboats bobbed in the breeze, their masts swaying, as I eased my dinghy next to the weathered dock. The warm, salty air came in off the Gulf Steam, blown across the Florida Straits from Cuba, carrying the scent of seaweed, hinting of tropical flora and rain. I tied off the line and walked toward the clubhouse. The gate was open and Tom Hunter’s motorcycle stood in the parking lot making ticking sounds as it cooled, but I didn’t hear the radio or smell brewing coffee. An old sail bag lay crumpled in the marl and tidal mud, an odd sight for a shipshape operation. Then the bag moaned. Tom’s face was crushed raw like pulverized meat, his swollen-shut eyes seeped watery blood. I unsheathed my knife, cut the ropes that held his arms behind him to a piling, and then rested his head on a cushion I grabbed from the deck. Tom uttered a muffled cry. His bloated lips were too swollen to move. Blood bubbled out and choking sounds came from his throat. “Quit trying to talk,” I said. “We’ll get you fixed first. Then we’ll find who did this.” I gave my location and described the problem to the 911 operator who told me to stay on the line, but I clicked off my cell and called Billy Fahey, my friend, the Fire Chief, and the paramedics’ boss, to give him the identical information. Billy barked, “Got it, Mick,” and the call went dead. Blood matted Tom’s hair, his T-shirt bloody and torn, his chest a mixture of black, blue, and red welts and crusted blood. His arms lay limp by his side and small moans cried out from his unrecognizable face. “Tom, help is coming,” I whispered, and noticed his right ear was half torn from his head. The first sounds of sirens came quickly. Tom belched blood and made a sound like a word, maybe two, then passed out. A fire truck pulled into the club’s small parking lot. Pat Fraga rushed into the yard first, a large emergency medical bag clutched in his hands. He shook his head in sympathy and disgust and then went to work. Someone tapped my shoulder. Jerry Perkins wanted me out of the way so he could assist. While Jerry held Tom, Pat poured sterile water over his hair and face, trying to wash away the blood. Jerry put a large four-by-four-inch bandage against Tom’s torn ear, but blood continued to seep. He added another one and Pat used gauze to wrap it in place. Dickie Ward rushed in with a backboard as Pat put a neck brace on Tom. The three men lowered him down onto the board. Somehow, they ignored the sickening moans their actions caused, while the painful sounds echoed in my head. While they gingerly followed procedure, I found myself repeating the sound Tom had belched at me. The word gusanos took shape in my mind, the Cuban government’s favorite term for exiles in Miami. It means worm. A police car and ambulance arrived at the same time. The paramedics came running in, following the directions of the firefighters. The two paramedics and Jerry cut off Tom’s shirt; all the time he was crying in pain with soft bloody moans from his swollen lips. One of the paramedics was setting up an IV bag; I hoped it had morphine in it. As I moved out of their way – as much to give them room as to escape Tom’s cries – I saw Key West police officer Danny Smith. He looked at me, nodded, and turned back toward the paramedics. “Danny, I think you’d better call the chief.” “I need to secure this area,” he said. “Back up’s coming.” A faint drizzle began to fall. The sky darkened, promising a stronger downpour. Even the rain couldn’t wash the blood off Tom, as the paramedics worked to move him. Danny walked away, his cell phone stuck to his ear. “The Chief wants you to call him,” Danny said as he walked back. “He asked me what happened and I told him I didn’t know yet. Why did someone do that to Tom?” He wiped the dampness from his glasses. “I don’t know, Danny. We were meeting here to hold our Key West-to-Havana sailboat race meeting.” “Tom’s a tough guy, I can’t see him not putting up a fight, but it doesn’t look like he did.” “There’s no mess.” I knew from stories told during beers that Tom had done three tours of duty in Vietnam. He didn’t look like an ex-machine gunner, lying on the damp ground. “You guys are close, what do you think it’s about?” Danny’s glasses steamed over. “The person who did this didn’t just want to rob Tom, he wanted to hurt him bad.” “Hell, the only thing on land Tom has worth stealing is his motorcycle, and that’s in the parking lot.” One of the paramedics called Danny over and pointed out a two-by-four floating at the shoreline. “I’m already wet,” I said, and walked into the water to retrieve the piece of wood. As I reached for it, I could see the brown stained top. I assumed it was Tom’s blood. I picked it up carefully and handed it to Danny, who had put on latex gloves. “Blood?” I said. Danny turned it over to the side that had been in the water and stared at the faded stains. “Be my bet,” he said, and moved to the deck to find a safe place for the damp piece of wood. A crowd of curious sailors had gathered outside in the wet parking lot, and the rain became steadier. Jerry cleared the way for the paramedics to roll the gurney with Tom to the ambulance. Within minutes, siren wailing, the ambulance sped down Palm Avenue on its way to the only hospital in Key West. Danny had the cell phone to his ear and motioned me over. He closed the phone. “Detective Morales wants you to wait here.” “Damn! Why him?” “He’s the duty officer.” Luis Morales came to the States as a child in a boat from Cuba. He does not have an open mind on the subject of his native country and enjoys reporting boaters that leave Key West for Marina Hemingway to the Coast Guard. We don’t get along. “Danny, how long before Luis gets here?” “You can’t leave, Mick.” “I know, Danny. I’m wondering how long he’s gonna make me wait.” “He’s a good cop, I respect him,” Danny said. “He hates me,” I said. “Stick around, Danny, I may need a friend.” “I’m here until Morales tells me different.” I sat on a folding chair in the club’s tiki-styled clubhouse to get out of the rain, while Danny went to tell the crowd outside there would be no meeting. The sailors began to disperse as the fire trucks drove off. An unmarked city police car, with Morales driving, stopped by the gate. The rain came down harder, beating on the tin roof of the clubhouse.
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