Chapter 3 – Repeater

Kettleman had been stabilized at St. Vincent’s, but then immediately transferred to UF Health for surgery. The bullet had hit a rib and the split apart, going in two directions. Though both had missed vital organs, two operations were required to fish the fragments out. His left shoulder was deeply bruised, but not seriously injured. Most of the pain came from the fractured cheekbone, which made eating and speaking very difficult.

But that was a good thing because—with very little effort—Kettleman was able to play up the pain convincingly and limit detectives to a very short conversation. They got little out of him, other than permission to take Kettleman’s fingerprints and dust his hands for gunshot residue.

On the first day, anyway. But by the second day, the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office had located his sunken boat and two bodies nearby. The brief story Kettleman had given appeared to be checking out, but they weren’t letting on yet. The more senior of the two detectives, Tanya Gates, wanted to take a solid pass at him, just to see what she could rattle loose.

Gates was becoming more and more irritated, watching visitor after visitor come and go.

“Since when does JSO have to sit on its hands before talking to a suspect in a double homicide?” she growled.

“You better dial it back, right now,” warned her partner, Tommy Smith. “I just made this squad, I ain’t going back to narc.”

Gates folder her arms across her chest. “Big shot or not, if he steps even one inch off that story I’m taking him down.”

“What’s your damage?” shot Smith. “No gunshot residue on his hands. Fingerprints only on the barrel from picking it up, just like he said. Gunshot residue only on the hand of the body with blunt force to the head, just like he said.” He paused, looking up. A woman in scrubs had been pacing nearby and was now in earshot. He lowered his voice before continuing. “Both vic’s have mile long records, and this guy is squeaky clean.”

The woman in scrubs walked away.

“Too clean,” muttered Gates.

Smith shook his head. “You see monsters in the shadows, I see a guy living right.” He turned to look her in eye. “It’s simple. A couple swamp rats looking to try concussion fishing. They tell him to leave, he refuses. An altercation starts and gets out of hand. Simple. What other possible explanation could there be?”