Fatal Decree A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,1

a fine day to be an auxiliaryman, and Carl was looking forward to his tour of duty.

Motes spent his weekdays as a law professor, but his weekends were dedicated to his boat. He’d once been a fierce prosecutor, so was not unaccustomed to death or even to murder. But that was far from his mind as he steered his boat north along the narrow channel. The sun was hanging low on the eastern horizon, the water calm. A commercial mullet fisherman steered his boat across the flats separating the main channel from Longboat Key, his outboard emitting a high whine as he skimmed across the surface of the water.

Carl’s first view of the body was from the periphery of his right eye, a quick impression of something out of the ordinary in the shallow water at the edge of the Intracoastal channel. He had been scanning the water off his bow, alert for any floating obstruction. The sight of the body registered on his brain after his eyes had moved on toward the middle of the channel. His head jerked back to the right, and he pulled the throttles into neutral. The boat, a thirty-foot center console with twin outboards, came off plane and settled into the water.

The manatees were migrating into the bay, searching out warmer water in which to spend the winter. They would travel south to the more temperate lagoon provided by the outfall of a power plant on the banks of the Caloosahatchee River. Sometimes they didn’t make it. They became victims of boat propellers or waited too long in the cold waters of the Gulf of Mexico and died from injuries or pneumonia.

Motes sighed and eased his boat toward the carcass, saddened by another death of a gentle creature threatened with extinction. He’d get a line on the body to secure it in place and call the dispatcher at the Cortez Coast Guard station to deal with removing it.

Carl watched his depth sounder as he moved toward the body, careful of the bottom rising as he neared the edge of the channel. The carcass was coming into focus. It was small for a manatee. Probably a baby, Carl decided.

He was about ten feet from the body when a commercial fishing boat lumbered down the channel behind him. Carl felt his boat rise as the wake crossed under it, and watched as the wave continued, rolling over the body and turning it so that a face emerged briefly from the water. This was no manatee. It was the body of a human. A woman, probably.

Carl knew better than to disturb what might be a crime scene. He picked up the microphone of his marine radio, hailed the Coast Guard station at Cortez and described what he was seeing. The Coast Guard radioman—actually a young woman on that quiet fall morning—advised that she would contact the Longboat Key police, since the body was within their jurisdiction. Motes said he would stand by.

“Don’t disturb the body,” said the voice on the radio.

“Roger that,” answered Motes.

A few minutes passed. A twenty-foot boat with four men aboard, their fishing hats pulled tight on their heads, rods and reels in their holders, passed by, slowed, noticed the uniform Carl was wearing, and heeded his signal to move on. They pulled off the channel near the southern end of Sister Key and waited, curious about the man in the uniform standing guard over something in the water.

It was quiet on the bay. A slight breeze picked up, blowing from the north, rippling the surface of the lagoon that separated Longboat Key from Sister Key. The sun was moving higher in the sky, painting the scudding clouds with orange and gold. A siren whooped in the distance, the sound coming from the south. Birds rose suddenly from their nests in the mangroves, startled by the shrill discord. Motes watched as a police boat came toward him at top speed, its bow cutting angrily through the green water of the bay, blue lights flashing. The picture of urgency.

The police boat came off plane as it approached, the officer at the helm gently easing his vessel next to Motes. “Morning, Carl.”

“Morning, Dennis. This looks bad.”

“It sure does. I’ll get the detective and a crime-scene unit out here. Can you stick around and help keep the gawkers out of the way?”

“No problem,” said Motes. “I’ll get another auxiliary boat out here to help.”

CHAPTER TWO

Detective Jennifer Diane Duncan rolled over in her bed and snuggled down a