Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [19]
“He’s been out there three weeks,” Appel said. “He died the same way as the Colombian: thirty-two semiautomatic in the back of the head.” The medical examiner zipped the bag up. “You know what’s interesting, though, is that this one got beat up first.”
“Was it a robbery?”
“Don’t think so. Beat up, as in tortured. Broken ribs, some kidney damage. They really did a job on him.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell what he used to look like,” Meadows said.
“Oh, we got an ID on this one.” Appel handed the architect a clipboard. The police report was on top. Meadows read it all, fascinated, but feeling like a voyeur.
The dead man’s name was Ruis Juan González. Age: twenty-six. Single. Address: 1721 Brickell Avenue. Meadows knew the building, an ugly condominium two blocks off Biscayne Bay.
Appel pointed to a line in the police report. “This is the best part,” he said.
In the space marked Occupation the cops had written: “Import-export business.”
“That’s from his sister,” Appel explained. “She said her brother was very big into coffee tables from Colombia. Sold them in a shop down on Flagler Street.”
“But he really was a smuggler.”
Appel laughed. “Yeah. He really was a smuggler.” He watched Meadows closely. The architect was examining the homicide report as if it were one of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Appel sat down at his desk. Meadows noted, with astonishment, that the doctor’s coffee cup was fashioned from what seemed to be a human skull. Appel noticed Meadows’s discomfort and chuckled. “Want some Sanka?”
Meadows shook his head.
“Do you know much about the dope business?” Appel asked.
“Just what’s in the papers,” Meadows said. “I talked to Nelson after the shooting. After the murders. He said it was probably just a rip-off, that was all, and everyone started shooting.”
Appel fingered his sideburns, flecked with gray. A bit premature, Meadows thought. The doctor couldn’t be more than thirty-five, thirty-six.
“There’s a small war going on,” Appel said evenly. “They’re killing each other left and right. We get at least one a week in here, just like I showed you. Colombians, Cubans, a few stupid Anglos. It started about a year ago, and at the time it was all very neat because it was fratricide. Dopers killing dopers. Nobody seemed to care. Then some innocent people started getting in the way.”
“Like…”
“Like your friend and her little girl.” Appel lit his pipe and didn’t say anything for a while. Meadows looked at the room full of bodies. He counted nine.
“Oh, most of these are naturals,” Appel said, waving at the tables. “Routine stuff. Some old lady on the beach is insisting I do a post on her husband. He was seventy-four. Now I know he died of congestive heart failure; I know it. But she’s convinced he got poisoned by the boysenberry pancakes at this cafeteria downtown. She’s already hired a lawyer, for Chrissakes! Pancakes.”
Appel and Meadows laughed together.
“I could never do this sort of work,” the architect muttered.
“No, probably not,” Appel said, not unkindly. He thought of Sandra Fay Tilden. He didn’t tell Chris Meadows that he himself had done the autopsy.
“I’ve been down here five years, and I’ve never seen it so bad,” Appel said. “They brought in one of these jokers the other day and I counted eleven machine-gun holes. Machine guns…think about that.”
“Why a war?”
“Greed,” Appel said. “The money is beyond imagination, probably even more than doctors and architects make.” The coroner grinned. “Coke,” he said.
“Cocaine?”
“That’s it. That’s why these assholes get killed. That’s why your friend got killed. She got between the salesman and the merchandise and never knew it.”
Meadows stood up to leave. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t find one of the killers here today.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Appel said sardonically. “Most of these murders are never solved. No one talks.” He pointed at the dead Colombian. “That’s the price you pay if you do.”
“Did Nelson say if they had any more leads?”
“Didn’t say.” Appel shook Meadows’s hand. “It was