little with a stick, enough to see it was a foot, and then phoned Sheriff Boggis when he got to Bonita Springs. Boggis took a look, and then he called me out there to see if it was a missin' Haitian. And it was."
"How'd you know? Not just because he was black."
"He had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. Le Chat, with a couple of pointed ears below the words. The tattoo had been carved in, probably with a razor blade. Haitians, as you probably know, eat cats."
"No, I didn't know. These so-called ears, could they be little V's?"
"I guess you could say that. Why?"
"Nothing. I was thinking about another case. Go ahead."
"They eat cats because they think it'll make 'em invisible. It's a folk myth, because no one's ever become invisible by eatin' a cat. But they hear about it, believe it, and then get a cat and try it, you see. If you go to Port-au-Prince, you won't see any cats at all. Dogs, yes, but no cats. Man owns himself a cat he locks it up inside his house, or someone'll grab it and eat it. This Haitian cat eater had this tattoo on his arm to prove it. The little ears were put there to show that the rest of the cat was invisible and inside the man.
"So he was a Haitian, Sergeant. Afro-Americans don't tattoo French words on their hands. Besides, his feet and hands were calloused, and he'd been a field worker all his life."
"How was he killed?"
"The ME wasn't positive. He'd been badly beaten around his head, and the ME didn't know whether he was dead or just unconscious when he was buried, so he marked it down as 'Death by Misadventure.'"
"That's pretty damned vague, especially if the man was buried alive."
"The ME couldn't say for sure. He'd been in the ground too long."
Hoke nodded. "So all you have to do now is find the man--or woman--who buried him and see if he's buried a few more somewhere."
"Yeah," Brownley said. "That's what we want you to do."
"Me?" Hoke shook his head. "Collier County's a little far out of our jurisdiction, isn't it, Willie? We can't--"
"I know, but this is a special case, Hoke. I told Mel I'd help him out. And we've got something to go on. It's something you could check out in a couple of days. The ME dug some dirt out from under the corpse's fingernails and toenails, and it didn't match the loam where he was buried. It matched the dirt in a grower's farmyard this side of Immokalee. A man named Harold Bock, nicknamed Tiny Bock. That name ring a bell? Tiny Bock?"
Hoke shook his head. "I don't know the name."
"There was a feature article on him a few years back in the -Miami News-. He was an old-time alligator poacher, born in Chokoloskee. Then, when the state cracked down on poachers, and they couldn't sell the skins up North any longer, he bought up farmland in Lee and Collier counties and became a grower. His property's scattered, but he's got about two thousand acres, all in two- and three-hundred-acre parcels. He usually runs three or four gangs of workers, and he grows all kinds of shit. But the farmhouse he lives in is on the Immokalee road between Carnestown and Immokalee. Mel got this sample of soil from his farmyard, and it matched the dirt under the dead man's nails. I had it checked out at the University of Miami by Dr. Fred Cussler, the forensic geologist."
"I met Dr. Cussler once," Hoke said. "White-haired guy, supposedly the world's authority on oolite. But most of the soil in South Florida's about the same, isn't it?"
"In a way--coquina stone, shale, gravel, sand, oolite. But you give Cussler a sample, and he'll tell you where it came from in Dade County. Besides, this Tiny Bock beat a slavery rap three years ago, you see. He had a bunch of winos living in a trailer and was charging 'em more for their food and rent than he was paying 'em. He wouldn't let anyone leave until they paid what they owed, and they couldn't get even. He also gave 'em free wine."
"So how'd he beat the rap?"
"One of the winos escaped and told the sheriff about the other men out there.
"How'd you know? Not just because he was black."
"He had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. Le Chat, with a couple of pointed ears below the words. The tattoo had been carved in, probably with a razor blade. Haitians, as you probably know, eat cats."
"No, I didn't know. These so-called ears, could they be little V's?"
"I guess you could say that. Why?"
"Nothing. I was thinking about another case. Go ahead."
"They eat cats because they think it'll make 'em invisible. It's a folk myth, because no one's ever become invisible by eatin' a cat. But they hear about it, believe it, and then get a cat and try it, you see. If you go to Port-au-Prince, you won't see any cats at all. Dogs, yes, but no cats. Man owns himself a cat he locks it up inside his house, or someone'll grab it and eat it. This Haitian cat eater had this tattoo on his arm to prove it. The little ears were put there to show that the rest of the cat was invisible and inside the man.
"So he was a Haitian, Sergeant. Afro-Americans don't tattoo French words on their hands. Besides, his feet and hands were calloused, and he'd been a field worker all his life."
"How was he killed?"
"The ME wasn't positive. He'd been badly beaten around his head, and the ME didn't know whether he was dead or just unconscious when he was buried, so he marked it down as 'Death by Misadventure.'"
"That's pretty damned vague, especially if the man was buried alive."
"The ME couldn't say for sure. He'd been in the ground too long."
Hoke nodded. "So all you have to do now is find the man--or woman--who buried him and see if he's buried a few more somewhere."
"Yeah," Brownley said. "That's what we want you to do."
"Me?" Hoke shook his head. "Collier County's a little far out of our jurisdiction, isn't it, Willie? We can't--"
"I know, but this is a special case, Hoke. I told Mel I'd help him out. And we've got something to go on. It's something you could check out in a couple of days. The ME dug some dirt out from under the corpse's fingernails and toenails, and it didn't match the loam where he was buried. It matched the dirt in a grower's farmyard this side of Immokalee. A man named Harold Bock, nicknamed Tiny Bock. That name ring a bell? Tiny Bock?"
Hoke shook his head. "I don't know the name."
"There was a feature article on him a few years back in the -Miami News-. He was an old-time alligator poacher, born in Chokoloskee. Then, when the state cracked down on poachers, and they couldn't sell the skins up North any longer, he bought up farmland in Lee and Collier counties and became a grower. His property's scattered, but he's got about two thousand acres, all in two- and three-hundred-acre parcels. He usually runs three or four gangs of workers, and he grows all kinds of shit. But the farmhouse he lives in is on the Immokalee road between Carnestown and Immokalee. Mel got this sample of soil from his farmyard, and it matched the dirt under the dead man's nails. I had it checked out at the University of Miami by Dr. Fred Cussler, the forensic geologist."
"I met Dr. Cussler once," Hoke said. "White-haired guy, supposedly the world's authority on oolite. But most of the soil in South Florida's about the same, isn't it?"
"In a way--coquina stone, shale, gravel, sand, oolite. But you give Cussler a sample, and he'll tell you where it came from in Dade County. Besides, this Tiny Bock beat a slavery rap three years ago, you see. He had a bunch of winos living in a trailer and was charging 'em more for their food and rent than he was paying 'em. He wouldn't let anyone leave until they paid what they owed, and they couldn't get even. He also gave 'em free wine."
"So how'd he beat the rap?"
"One of the winos escaped and told the sheriff about the other men out there.
Similar Books
