Bobby Mac would be impressed when I told him. The activity under way was as taut with suspense as any battle with a tarpon. Brilliant spotlights arranged in a square illuminated Daryl Murdoch’s resting place. Yellow tape fluttered from poles jammed into the ground. A slender man in a French-blue uniform stood on the mausoleum steps. He held a camera and slowly panned the area. Just inside the fluttering tape, a big man with grizzled black hair stared down at the body. He stood with hands jammed in the pockets of his crumpled brown suit. His hairline receded from a rounded forehead, now creased in concentration. His eyes were deep set in a heavy face with a large nose large and blunt chin. I studied him, trying to recall…Oh yes. He reminded me strongly of Broderick Crawford in All the King’s Men, the same open countenance and burly build, the same aura of power. A man to be reckoned with. A rustle sounded in the bushes. An officer stepped toward the man in the brown suit. “Hey, Chief.
