leaves was a piece of gray duct tape.
I stared at the tape and felt my chest tighten. My palms were moist. I touched it with the end of a pencil. I could see a dark hair stuck to one corner of the tape.
At the river’s edge, I could smell the odor of dead fish and honeysuckles. A half eaten catfish, probably ripped from a trotline by a gator, had washed ashore.
“Here,” I pointed to the spot I found her, “she was on her back here.”
He looked around the area, lifting a dead leaf or a broken twig, eyes moving like a bird of prey. “When I came upriver I was over on the far bank with my canoe. That’s Dickensen Point. I crossed to this bank about another hundred yards down. Pulled the canoe onto a sandbar and walked in the shallows until I came to your dock.”
Max looked toward the east and uttered a low growl.
Joe Billie smiled. “I’m startin’ to gain more respect for that little dog.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she knows somebody’s coming.”
FIFTEEN
Within three minutes, Detective Slater arrived with a posse. Two unmarked cars and two Volusia County sheriffs’ cruisers pulled up, lights flashing, dust trailing. Max barked at the detectives and deputies spilling out of their cars at once.
Detective Leslie Moore wore her hair pinned up. Her partner, Detective Dan Grant, followed her. Slater took his time, staying in his car, cell phone pressed to his ear, eyes on me. He waited for the others to almost encircle us before he appeared.
“So, what do we have here?” Slater asked. “O’Brien and the crocodile hunter?”
Billie ignored the comment. Slater continued, “We have a man with a bow and arrow and a hunting knife. What are you hunting?”
“Artifacts. Spear and arrowheads.” Billie said.
“You won’t find arrowheads here unless the victim was stabbed with an arrow.”
I said, “Detective, we’ve found a couple of things that may have slipped through your first investigation. Between here and the road, less than a quarter mile, you’ll find a woman’s shoe, a bloodied stick and a piece of duct tape. The tape looks like it has a hair stuck to it. I’ll show you where we found them.” I wasn’t going to tell Slater about the thread or the dirt I’d taken from the shoe.
Slater turned to Billie. “I’d like to take a look at that arrow.” Billie handed him the arrow. Slater removed his sunglasses and studied it. “I see tiny pieces of something between the stone and wood. We’ll run DNA on it.”
“Unless you’re storing rattlesnake DNA in your database you won’t get a hit,” I said. “He saved my dog’s life when a rattlesnake was about to strike her.”
“This man shot a rattlesnake with a bow and arrow, huh? Don’t see that every day.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Arrow’s going to the lab, that skinning knife, too.”
Billie unbuckled his belt and handed Slater the knife and arrow.
“What’s your name?” Slater asked.
“Joe Billie.”
“Got an ID, Mr. Billie?”
“You mean driver’s license?”
“That’d be a good start.”
“No.”
“It’s against the law to drive without a license.”
“Didn’t drive here.”
“Are you and Mr. O’Brien carpooling?”
Billie's face was flat, no sign of emotion. He stared at Slater for a moment then looked toward the river.
“You live around here, Mr. Billie?”
“Most of my life.”
“Where?”
“Hanging Moss Fish Camp.”
Slater glanced at my Jeep. “Hanging Moss is way upriver. How’d you get here?”
“Canoe.”
“Where’s your canoe?”
“Behind those trees.” Billie motioned toward some willows near the riverbank.
Slater turned to a deputy. “Check it out.” The deputy nodded and left
“What were my DNA results?” I asked.
“Negative,” said Detective Moore. Slater looked hard at her. She ignored him and said, “Where is
I stared at the tape and felt my chest tighten. My palms were moist. I touched it with the end of a pencil. I could see a dark hair stuck to one corner of the tape.
At the river’s edge, I could smell the odor of dead fish and honeysuckles. A half eaten catfish, probably ripped from a trotline by a gator, had washed ashore.
“Here,” I pointed to the spot I found her, “she was on her back here.”
He looked around the area, lifting a dead leaf or a broken twig, eyes moving like a bird of prey. “When I came upriver I was over on the far bank with my canoe. That’s Dickensen Point. I crossed to this bank about another hundred yards down. Pulled the canoe onto a sandbar and walked in the shallows until I came to your dock.”
Max looked toward the east and uttered a low growl.
Joe Billie smiled. “I’m startin’ to gain more respect for that little dog.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she knows somebody’s coming.”
FIFTEEN
Within three minutes, Detective Slater arrived with a posse. Two unmarked cars and two Volusia County sheriffs’ cruisers pulled up, lights flashing, dust trailing. Max barked at the detectives and deputies spilling out of their cars at once.
Detective Leslie Moore wore her hair pinned up. Her partner, Detective Dan Grant, followed her. Slater took his time, staying in his car, cell phone pressed to his ear, eyes on me. He waited for the others to almost encircle us before he appeared.
“So, what do we have here?” Slater asked. “O’Brien and the crocodile hunter?”
Billie ignored the comment. Slater continued, “We have a man with a bow and arrow and a hunting knife. What are you hunting?”
“Artifacts. Spear and arrowheads.” Billie said.
“You won’t find arrowheads here unless the victim was stabbed with an arrow.”
I said, “Detective, we’ve found a couple of things that may have slipped through your first investigation. Between here and the road, less than a quarter mile, you’ll find a woman’s shoe, a bloodied stick and a piece of duct tape. The tape looks like it has a hair stuck to it. I’ll show you where we found them.” I wasn’t going to tell Slater about the thread or the dirt I’d taken from the shoe.
Slater turned to Billie. “I’d like to take a look at that arrow.” Billie handed him the arrow. Slater removed his sunglasses and studied it. “I see tiny pieces of something between the stone and wood. We’ll run DNA on it.”
“Unless you’re storing rattlesnake DNA in your database you won’t get a hit,” I said. “He saved my dog’s life when a rattlesnake was about to strike her.”
“This man shot a rattlesnake with a bow and arrow, huh? Don’t see that every day.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Arrow’s going to the lab, that skinning knife, too.”
Billie unbuckled his belt and handed Slater the knife and arrow.
“What’s your name?” Slater asked.
“Joe Billie.”
“Got an ID, Mr. Billie?”
“You mean driver’s license?”
“That’d be a good start.”
“No.”
“It’s against the law to drive without a license.”
“Didn’t drive here.”
“Are you and Mr. O’Brien carpooling?”
Billie's face was flat, no sign of emotion. He stared at Slater for a moment then looked toward the river.
“You live around here, Mr. Billie?”
“Most of my life.”
“Where?”
“Hanging Moss Fish Camp.”
Slater glanced at my Jeep. “Hanging Moss is way upriver. How’d you get here?”
“Canoe.”
“Where’s your canoe?”
“Behind those trees.” Billie motioned toward some willows near the riverbank.
Slater turned to a deputy. “Check it out.” The deputy nodded and left
“What were my DNA results?” I asked.
“Negative,” said Detective Moore. Slater looked hard at her. She ignored him and said, “Where is
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