Inside were six names.
Harold Benton.
Louise Parker.
Clifford Ames.
Barbara Wynn.
Samuel Pope.
Margaret Dillon.
All elderly.
All lived in communities patrolled by Palmetto.
All had died during or shortly after encounters involving Palmetto employees.
I looked at Raymond.
“Are you saying they killed six people?”
“No.”
Good answer.
He continued.
“I’m saying six deaths involved encounters nobody seriously examined.”
Some might have been natural.
One man had severe heart disease.
Another woman fell during a struggle but died weeks later.
Records were incomplete.
What mattered was the pattern of missing questions.
Witnesses mentioned restraints.
Tasers.
Physical force.
Yet some medical paperwork barely mentioned security personnel at all.
Three reports carried the signature of Dr. Thomas Mercer.
Grant Mercer’s older brother.
I looked at Raymond.
“How long have you had this?”
“Almost two years.”
“Why didn’t you push harder?”
He stared toward the yard.
“I was scared.”
No shame in that.
Fear is information.
I called Teresa.
The Bureau did not declare six murders.
Nobody stormed into Palmetto headquarters waving the file.
Investigators opened a separate track.
Medical records.
Witness interviews.
Original reports.
Family statements.
Conflict-of-interest review.
Forensic consultation.
Some cases went nowhere.
Others raised serious questions.
Meanwhile, Palmetto kept coming after me.
Saturday morning arrived warm and bright.
Kayla was staying with family.
Denise understood what investigators were doing and remained in direct contact with them.
Nobody placed her in danger for the sake of building a case.
I stayed home because it was my home.
At 7:50, I rolled my old International Scout into the driveway and lifted the hood.
A mockingbird called from the live oak.
Humidity already hung heavy enough to make my shirt stick to my back.
I had a socket wrench in my right hand.
At 8:04, a Palmetto golf cart turned onto Bayou Drive.
Four men.
Navy uniforms.
One clipboard.
Batons visible.
They drove directly onto my property.
The leader stepped out.
His name was Curtis Vale.
“Mr. Avery.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“Palmetto Community Enforcement.”
“The shirts give it away.”
He held up the clipboard.
“We are here to execute compliance order twenty-two.”
“You have no authority to enter my property.”
“Bayou Pines Article 12.7.”
“That provision does not exist.”
His expression changed.
“Step away from the vehicle.”
I put the wrench down.
Slowly.
Then stepped back with my hands visible.
“I am asking you to leave my property.”
The other three men moved forward.
Two carried batons.
One placed a hand on his Taser.
Curtis looked at me.
“Marcus Avery, you are now under HOA arrest for obstruction of community enforcement.”
I stared at him.
“Say that again.”
“You are under arrest.”
“By whom?”
“Palmetto.”
“There is no HOA arrest.”