Blood and Sand

by Michael Lister

  “Me three,” Derinda says.

  “I’ve been volunteering at the jail near where I live in Destin for several years now,” Charis says, “and I’ve seen firsthand how much injustice there is in our justice system.”

  “Thank you all,” I say. “I appreciate your kind words.”

  “It’s interesting to hear someone like you,” Demi says. “When it comes to faith and religious expression it seems like most everyone I encounter is at one extreme or the other—extremely religious in a rigid, rules-based way or not religious at all. You seem to be a very smart and thoughtful person who has incorporated his practice of faith into his otherwise full life.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I say. “It’s certainly what I attempt to do, but it’s a practice. One I often fail at.”

  “I used to be part of the rigid and rules-based crowd she’s talking about,” Charis says.

  “Yes, you did,” Demi says with a smile. “Every other word out of her mouth was Jesus and God and some damn Bible verse. Drove me crazy. But she was the best foster mom on the block.”

  “Sorry I was like that,” she says. “Part of the reason I became a foster mom was to be able to put into practice the love and faith I was trying to live. I heard this song when I was a teenager that said don’t tell them Jesus loves them until you’re ready to love them too—or something like that.”

  “Exactly,” Derinda says. “Those are great words to live by.”

  “And you really do,” Demi says.

  “I try to, but . . . like John said, I mostly fail too. I want my faith to be action instead of beliefs, practices instead of just words, but . . .”

  “Like organizing this great search for my grandbaby,” Derinda says.

  “Maybe, but this may have more to do with guilt than grace. I feel so bad about being resistant to Keith and Christopher. Wasn’t my finest hour. Probably still trying to make up for that. And I know a lot of people think it was just because they’re gay, but there was more to it than that. I just wanted Magdalene to have a mother.”

  “We can all understand that,” Derinda says.

  “But as I got to know Keith and Christopher, I realized a mother’s love doesn’t just come from females.”

  “That’s so true,” Demi says. “It’s obvious John has a father and a mother’s love for little Taylor.”

  I start to say something, but stop as a volunteer to my far left begins yelling. “I got something. I got something. Over here. Over here.”

  Someone to our right blows a whistle.

  “Everyone freeze,” Keith yells. “Please. Don’t move. Anyone.”

  Every volunteer stops in place.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . I think it’s her pajamas.”

  “Who is that?” Derinda asks. “Whose voice is that?”

  “Vic Frankford’s,” Demi says. “First day searching with us and he finds her pajamas. That’s not suspicious at all.”

  Day 104

  Day 104

  * * *

  I thought Henrique had abandoned us. I really did. He just vanished after what happened. No goodbye, no explanation, but now he’s back. And sadly he’s confirmed what we all have suspected for a while. He’s sick and the prognosis is not good. It’s not as tragic as if he were a young man (or a young girl who was just starting her life), but it is sad nonetheless. He’s not old-old. All of us hope to live to be older than what he is now, and despite everything I still hope that for Magdalene—and a small part of me still holds out hope that she might get to. But that part of me is shrinking by the day.

  21

  “Why’re you so certain these are hers?” Roderick Brandt asks.

  He’s a forty-something white man with pale skin and dark hair. Not fat, but far heavier and softer than I’d expect someone in his position to be. He looks more like a cell phone salesman than a cop—especially in his light blue cotton button-down that blouses above his belt and the too-long burgundy Sears and Roebuck tie around his neck.

  A few moments after Vic Frankford found the pj’s, the Walton County Sheriff’s Department was called and everyone involved in the search slowly turned and walked back out of the woods in as close to the same way we came in as we could.

  When Roderick arrived—which he did alone, no crime scene investigators or anyone else—he asked me to take him to the spot where the pj’s were discovered and were still lying.

  “Shouldn’t I take you, Detective?” Vic Frankford had said. “I was the one to find them after all.”

  His darkly dyed hair, which starts about halfway up his head, is short and fro-like and doesn’t move as he does—not even in the breeze. Beneath it his black eyes, which never quite make full contact, are hard and kind of vacant.

  “Just hang around,” Roderick had responded. “I’ll get your statement when I get back and have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  Now, Roderick and I are kneeling down next to the pajamas, black Nitrile gloves on our hands, disposable white Tyvek shoe covers on our feet.

  “I know she was supposed to be wearing a pair of these when she went missing,” he is saying, “but why are you so certain these are hers?”

  “Dolly Parton Hard Candy Apple Red Christmas nail polish,” I say.

  “Say what?”

  I explain it to him.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding, “that’s pretty damn convincing. So let’s say that you’re right and these actually are the pajamas Magdalene Dacosta was wearing when she was abducted, why do they look, apart from the polish stain, nearly brand new?”

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  “They’re not even really dirty,” he says, “let alone deteriorating. No way they’ve been out here since she’s been missing.”

  “No, they haven’t.”

  “We’re talkin’ ten months.”

  I nod.

  “And if they haven’t been out there,” he says. “Where have they been? And why aren’t they on her and why were they taken off? And as long as I’m asking . . . Where the hell is she?”

  “Her room has been left the way it was—besides what forensics did,” I say, “so we should be able to get DNA from something of hers, a hairbrush or something, and compare it to make certain these are hers. I know it was collected during the original investigation but I’d like to do it again for comparison. I’d like to do everything that we can again—as if we’re investigating this case for the first time.”

  He nods. “Absolutely,” he says. “I have no problem with that. I was just one of the investigators involved and I had some questions about the work some of the others did—especially after hearing some of their homophobic comments. But assuming they are her pajamas—and that’s what I’m assuming—we need to get the FDLE crime scene unit out here to process these and search for . . . what else might be out here.”

  I nod.

  “But we both agree that these are probably hers, right?” he says.

  I nod again. “I think there’s a good chance they are.”

  “And that they haven’t been out here for the past ten months.”

  “Right.”

  “You have any ideas on why her abductor would keep these somewhere else all this time and then dump them out here now?”

  I frown and shake my head. “Not really. Nothing that wouldn’t be wild conjecture with no evidence to support it.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t find some evidence and figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “Won’t get any arguments from me,” I say.

  “And another thing,” he says. “Look at how these are . . . I don’t know . . . displayed or whatever. Didn’t bother to hide them, did they?”

  “Somebody wanted them found.”

  “And feel that . . .” He lifts a corner of them with his gloved hand and I reach over and feel it with my gloved hand. “Bone dry,” he says. “That dry and that clean. They’re soft, not stiff at all. If they had been out here a day or more, wouldn’t
getting wet from rain or even dew and then drying out in the sun make them stiff?”

  I nod. “Almost seems like they were dropped out here today,” I say.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” he says. “And maybe by the man who was supposed to have found them.”

  Day 111

  There is no pain, no misery, no agony, no suffering like losing a child. None. Absolutely none. Nothing compares to this. Not even losing Keith would be as unbearable as this. I want to die every second of every day just to have this constant ache and heartbreak end. It’s with me every moment of every day, this unimaginable loss. There’s never a breath, never a single second that this acute agony isn’t my constant companion.

  22

  Many of the volunteers have joined Keith and Christopher, their friends and family at the Florida House. Most of the people who were in the house the night Magdalene was taken are present. Even Scott Haskew and Jodi North, who didn’t participate in the search, are here. As is Henrique Arango, whose failing health prevents him from such physical exertion. Of those who participated in the search but are now absent are Demi Gonzalez and, the man of the hour who discovered the Toy Story pajamas, Vic Frankford.

  Most everyone is in the hallway, parlor, or dining room.

  Charis had served tea and coffee as everyone arrived and is now going around offering refills. Clarence and Sarah had brought the leftovers from the search and had one of their staff members meet them here with more food—all of which, seemingly untouched, is spread out across the enormous dining table.

  When I walk in they stop talking and look at me expectantly, as if I have come to deliver the update they’ve been waiting on.

  Keith and Christopher are on one of the couches in the parlor, Derinda between them with an arm around each.

  “Are they . . . hers?” Christopher asks.

  “We can’t know for sure yet,” I say, “but based on what you’ve told me I’d say it’s at least possible. But there are many questions. We can’t be sure of anything yet. We’ll know more after they’ve been processed and a DNA comparison has been conducted. I’m very sorry, but none of it will be fast.”

  Wren Melody, who is sitting next to Brooke Wakefield on an ornate red velvet loveseat that appears to be an antique, says, “Surely you can give them more than that, pet.”

  From a folding chair across the room, Rake Sabin says, “I don’t think he was finished.”

  “FDLE is being called in,” I continue. “My guess is they will not only process the pajamas but search that area and, if the Walton County sheriff requests it, provide an investigator—maybe more than one. But it’s the sheriff’s call. It’s his department’s investigation. Not only do I have nothing to do with it, but even Roderick won’t get to make most of the decisions—and it’s his case. There will be a lot more waiting involved. Chances are nothing will happen particularly quickly, but just know that a lot will be happening—as much or more than when she first went missing.”

  “Any chance you could share with us any of the ‘many questions’ about what was found?” Henrique asks.

  He is slumped in a high-back chair near the dark, unused fireplace.

  I shake my head. “I know how frustrating it is,” I say, “and I’m sorry. There really are good reasons for withholding information in an investigation, but at this time I just don’t know anything with enough certainty to do anything but speculate.”

  “We understand,” Keith says. “Will you still keep looking into it?”

  “I can if you want me to, but you really don’t need me to now that the Walton County Sheriff’s Department and FDLE are taking a more active role.”

  “What is FDLE?” Derinda asks.

  “It stands for Florida Department of Law Enforcement,” I say. “It’s a state agency—our version of state cops. They conduct state-level investigations, but also assist smaller local law enforcement agencies in their investigations. They have specially trained investigators and a crime scene unit, and the best forensics lab in the state.”

  “And they’re taking over the case?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “They don’t take over cases. They will assist Walton County—only do what they ask them to.”

  “I’d feel better if you continued investigating it for us,” she says.

  “Me too,” Keith says.

  “Yeah,” Christopher adds. “Absolutely.”

  “I’d be happy to do what I can, but it will be in the background—like it has been, only more so. And chances are they won’t share any information with me, so I won’t know anything you won’t. And it will probably be from afar. Given this new development, I figured you’d want to postpone the other talks for this week and focus on—”

  From a dining table chair in the entryway between the dining room and the parlor, Scott Haskew clears his throat and says, “That’s probably a good idea. We could reschedule for another time—perhaps in the spring.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t conflict with our spring art series and theater camp,” Jodi North says.

  “Even if we do postpone the rest of the talks, which I hate to do,” Christopher says, “would you lead a prayer vigil for Magdalene and maybe say a few things about her?”

  I nod. “Sure,” I say. “I’d be honored.”

  “I hope this goes without saying,” Keith says, “but you and your family are more than welcome stay here as long as you like—not just while you’re giving the talks or working the case.”

  “Thank you,” I say, “that’s—”

  The buzzer sounds indicating someone is out front, and Rake Sabin tells Keith and Christopher he’ll take care of it and for them to keep their seats.

  “Maybe it’s the police with some news for us,” Derinda says.

  Not likely, I think but don’t say.

  “What the hell?” Rake says as he looks on the screen behind the check-in desk.

  “What is it?” Keith asks.

  “I can’t believe it,” Rake says. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s Hal Raphael.”

  Rake presses the button that pops the lock on the front door and a few moments later Hal Raphael walks in carrying a suitcase.

  It is surreal to see him just walk in like this, suitcase in hand. Evidently, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

  The gathered crowd considers the intruding stranger with equal parts surprise and suspicion.

  It’s as if everyone is asking themselves the same question: Is this a case of the criminal returning to the scene of crime?

  Sort of bowing as he enters the room, he says, “Hello, everyone. Keith. Christopher. I was back in the area on business and I wanted to stop in and see how you were and when I heard about the searches y’all are doing, I wanted to see if I could help. Do you happen to have a vacant room available?”

  Keith glances at me and I nod.

  “Sure,” he says. “We’ll find a place for you. And I think our investigator would like to ask you to some questions.”

  “Sure,” Raphael says. “Anything I can do. I’m here to help. I would’ve come sooner, but . . . There’s really no other way to say it but that fate prevented it. Hopefully, it’s because this will wind up being a better time for my visit.”

  23

  Back in the room, I tell Anna about the day’s developments.

  She seems uninterested and a bit bored.

  Usually, she listens attentively and asks insightful questions about the cases I’m working on, but in this moment I’m not sure she’s hearing me at all.

  “Given all that,” I say, “especially Hal being back, I don’t think it’s a good idea for Taylor to be here. Had I known more about the case from the beginning I don’t think I would’ve brought her. With what I know now and with all that is happening . . .”

  “Wait, you’ve put my daughter in danger by having us here?”

  “I just want to make sure she’s not,” I say. “Magdalene’s disappearance feels like a one-off more than part of a ser
ies being done by a compulsive criminal, but I can’t be certain.”

  She pushes herself off the bed and begins to gather things. “Then let’s go then. Help me pack our things.”

  “They’ve asked me to lead a prayer service for Magdalene,” I say. “And to continue investigating the case even though they’re going to postpone the rest of the talks until the spring.”

  “So what are you saying?” she says. “You don’t want us to go? Oh, wait, you want to just send me and Taylor away?”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

  “That’s exactly it,” she says. “You’re tryin’ to get rid of us.”

  “Anna,” I say, my voice firm. “Listen to yourself. Can you not hear how extreme and unreasonable you’re being?”

  “Oh, I’m the one being extreme and unreasonable?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “You are. I love you. I’m here for you. That’s not going to change. But you have changed. It’s like you’re someone else entirely. I want you to go have a physical and just see if—”

  “I don’t need a fuckin’ physical. Just tell me what you were sayin’ if you weren’t sayin’ you wanted to stay and send us away.”

  “My first priority is Taylor’s safety,” I say. “As much as I want to try to help find Magdalene, I’d gladly give that up to protect Taylor. If you’ll recall, I’m the one who brought this up. I was suggesting that we leave. Not just you and Taylor. All three of us. But I was letting you know that I’d like to come back to lead the prayer service for Magdalene and help with the investigation some when I can.”

  “Sure you were,” she says. “When is the prayer service thing?”

  “In the morning.”

  “And you were going to go home with us and then drive all the way back out here in the morning to do the service?”

  “That was my plan. I brought up the prayer service and continuing to help with the investigation to see if you’d have a problem with me coming back some—maybe even every day this week since I’m already off work.”