H. Terrell Griffin - Blood Island

Miles J. Leavitt, Jr. 1946-2007

This one's for you buddy

For zeal's a dreadful termagant, That teaches saints to tear and cant

- Samuel Butler

Writing, for me, is a team sport. I have the good fortune to have a brain trust that keeps me on track, provides plot suggestions, criticisms, editing, and a prod now and then when I get lazy. Peggy Kendall, Debbie Schroeder, and Jean Griffin are the brains behind the writing. I could not do it without their help, and for that I am very grateful.

Peggy's husband, Dave Kendall, has patiently listened to my ramblings about plot and structure at the same time that he was defeating what John Wayne once called "the big C." Cancer. Dave has fought this terrible scourge with grace and humor and determination, and awed me with his courage.

John Allred, the oil man from Houston who was once a boy from Sanford, lends me his persona and his prodigious brain. My oldest buddy is still my best buddy.

Jay Davis is an idea man. One of the thoughts that bubbled to the surface of his overworked brain fueled this book. Dudley Brown, Patrick Gray, Demetra McBride, and Paul Roat are inveterate supporters of writers in general and me in particular. Thank you, my friends.

Some of my friends from college and law school days sneak into my writing at the oddest times. You know who you are, and I'm grateful for your willingness to allow me to use you.

Debby Stowell, bookseller par excellence, has been my great supporter. This book would not be in circulation without her devoted efforts on my behalf. Thank you, Deb.

Bob Gussin and Patricia Gussin gave me a chance. Thank you. Your dedication to publishing, your confidence in the written word, and your always pleasant and upbeat demeanor have given a number of writers, including me, the confidence to keep writing. Pat's ideas and help with the manuscript of this book have been invaluable.

The gang at Oceanview Publishing, particularly Susan Greger and Maryglenn McCombs, have been more accommodating than I would have imagined. You all make me a better writer. Thank you.

I trust that my Key West friends and readers will forgive me a few indiscretions with the geography of their lovely island and will not think I overstepped the bounds of literary license.

Finally, Jean Griffin, the woman who, in a lapse in judgment, married me when I was a college student so long ago. You brighten my life more than the morning sun.

The body lay on its back, nude. Its eyes and parts of its face were gone. Chunks of flesh had been torn from its torso, its genitals mutilated.

Vultures sat impassively on the limbs of the tree that grew from the center of the tall cage. They were used to humans standing around, talking, watching, eating peanuts, their kids laughing at the funny looking birds.

I dialed Vince on my cell phone. "There's a dead guy in your vulture pit," I said.

"I'm on my way."

Vince Delgado was the director of the Pelican Man's Bird Sanctuary, which clung to the edge of City Island in Sarasota, Florida. Sick and injured birds were brought in for treatment and rehabilitation. Those who were too badly compromised to return to the wild after treatment were kept in cages spread around the sanctuary.

Vince was a drinking buddy from Tiny's, a bar on Longboat Key, the island just across New Pass from City Island. The night before, I had mentioned that I'd never visited his sanctuary, and he'd invited me to come down early in the morning, before the tourists showed up.

I'd been walking idly through the area, drinking from the cup of Starbucks I'd bought on St. Armand's Circle, enjoying the early morning of a bright April day. I didn't expect to see one of our citizens turned into vulture food.

Vince was chugging up the path from the office, his short arms pumping, his pumpkin-size belly jiggling as he ran. He was a short fat guy with curly black hair and a face that was overshadowed by a huge nose. His dark eyes had a look of panic as he slid to a stop at the vulture cage.

"Oh shit," he said. "This isn't going to look good in the papers."

"Call the police, Vince."

"Yeah." He took out his cell phone and dialed 911.

"Do you know him?"

"I don't think so, but it's hard to tell with his face all chewed up. I'd better get to the front to let the cops in."

I stood there, alone with the vultures and the dead man. Nearby, gulls were screeching for their breakfast, calling to whomever fed them, demanding service. A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder as the police cruiser turned onto Ken Thompson Parkway and headed for Pelican Man's. The car skidded to a stop on the parking lot, its siren abruptly dying, leaving only the sound of agitated birds.

A Sarasota patrolman trotted up, followed closely by a winded Vince. The young cop was my height, six feet, but he probably weighed twenty pounds more than my one eighty. His uniform hugged a body that had spent many hours in a gym. He was hatless, and his close-cropped hair resembled that of a military recruit. He introduced himself. Vince was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"I'm Matt Royal," I said, shaking the officer's hand.

"Did you find the body, Mr. Royal?"

"Yes."

"What can you tell me about this?"

"Nothing. I was just strolling by and saw the dead man."

"Why are you here when the place isn't even open yet?"

"Mr. Delgado invited me."

Vince found his voice. "I asked Mr. Royal to come by before we opened so that he could get a good look at the place. I'm hoping he'll give us a chunk of money."

It was an open secret that the sanctuary was in financial trouble. It depended on donations and admission charges for the daily tours, and the just-ended winter season had not been kind to the birds. Donations had dried up.

The policeman turned back to me. Vince winked, signaling that he knew I wasn't a donor.

The cop looked closely at me, a small scowl on his face. "Did you touch anything?"

'No."

"Don't run off. The detectives will want to talk to you." He pulled his radio mic from the Velcro tab on his shoulder and called for the detectives and a crime scene unit.

Vince had regained his composure; his breathing was back to normal. "We'll be in the office," he said, and we left the policeman to wait alone for his colleagues.