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“Can you pull up the death certificates?” I asked.
Just then, Sergeant Drummond exited his office carrying several large black binders. “Any luck?”
“We got three Paul Browns,” Johnson said. “Is there a way to access the death certificates from vital statistics, Sarge?”
“Miami, what are you, thirty years younger than me? You’re supposed to be the technologically advanced part of the team.”
The detective shook his head. “I don’t—”
“Try clicking on the name,” Drummond said.
“Oh,” Johnson said, and he clicked the first one.
The screen jumped to a PDF image of a death certificate for Paul L. Brown of Pensacola, age twenty-two. Cause of death: blunt-force trauma.
“Too young,” I said. “Try the next one.”
Johnson clicked on it. A new death certificate popped up for Paul Brown of Fort Lauderdale, age seventy-nine. Cause of death: stroke.
“Too old,” I said, now desperately wanting to find the answer behind door number three.
The third certificate fit the profile. Paul Brown, of Pahokee, Florida, age thirty-two, indigent. Cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound.
“That’s him,” I said, with a sinking feeling. “Where’s Pahokee?”
Drummond said, “Fifteen miles north of Belle Glade.”
“It’s got to be him, then,” I said, studying the certificate, oddly detached. “Which means the church is probably there. Says here the body was released to Belcher Brothers Funeral Home for interment.”
“Interment?” Johnson said. “Most indigents are cremated in Florida.”
“Not this time, apparently,” I said.
The sergeant said, “I know the guys who own that funeral home. The Belchers. They run an ambulance service there too. When I was on patrol in the west part of the county, they’d show up at all the fatalities. I’ll make a call.”
“I’d appreciate that, Sergeant Drummond.”
Drummond nodded, gestured to the books. “There’s the murders we’re working on. We’d appreciate the third eyeball if you have the time.”
The sergeant returned to his office. I started scanning the files on the deaths of the socialites Lisa Martin and Ruth Abrams and their maid Francie Letourneau. Two hours later, I was almost finished and flipping my way through the appendix of reports on the cleaning woman when Drummond returned.
“Took a bit to get in touch with him, but Ramon Belcher is working night duty and he said he’d go through the files for you,” the sergeant said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Johnson returned to the cubicle with more coffee. I waved it off, said, “Any more of that without something to eat and I’ll get an ulcer.”
Drummond said, “You find anything in there?”
“I saw a few things.”
“What do you like to eat?”
“Anything. Seafood.”
The sergeant nodded. “Got just the place down in Lake Worth. Johnson, are you in? We can talk about our case over dinner.”
“Absolutely,” Johnson said. “My wife’s pregnant. Let me just call her.”
