“No it’s not. Nearly six hundred miles, which means the car was used and moved a lot in the month after Angel went missing.”
“Somebody was using it to the tune of about twenty miles a day,” Natasha says. “Which seems like a very big risk.”
“Unless,” Nancy says, “he knew the police had the wrong tag number.”
“How could he know something like that?” Natasha asks.
“One obvious way,” Nancy says, “would be if his dad was a cop.”
17
“Yeah, my father was a cop back then,” Eric Pulsifer says. “But two things. One, I didn’t do anything, so there was nothing for him to cover up and two, he was a patrol cop. He couldn’t have done anything on one of the detectives’ investigations anyway—even if he wanted to, which he didn’t, ’cause I didn’t do anything.”
Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a buddy who was a detective who did it for him, but I don’t mention it.
It’s the afternoon of the next day. I spent the morning in meetings with Reggie at the sheriff’s department about, among other things, finding Daniel.
Unlike the awkward, unfortunate looking teenage boy he had been, Eric Puller is now an average mid-thirties man who wears expensive casual clothes and plenty of aftershave. His hair isn’t as red now and much more closely cropped, his freckles have faded some, and stubble helps define his puffy face and conceal his nearly nonexistent chin. He’s the manager of a seafood restaurant in Mexico Beach, the small coastal town between Port St. Joe and Panama City on Highway 98.
The restaurant, the Shrieking Gull, sits on the Gulf side, a huge wooden structure with a large deck and a crow’s nest bar up a narrow staircase. We’re sitting on a wooden bench behind the kitchen, facing the Gulf as we talk.
It’s offseason. The little lunch crowd is long gone, the restaurant mostly or maybe completely empty. The sun is high in the sky, the February day is bright but cool, the breeze blowing in off the water biting. Beneath the clear, cloudless sky, the green Gulf is calm, its sea foam whitecaps lining the surf like the wrinkled forehead of a furrowed brow.
“When’d you change your name?” I ask.
Something flashes in his eyes then is gone, and I’m not sure what it is—anger? pain? embarrassment? Perhaps a complex mixture of all three.
“Long time ago now,” he says, squinting his eyes, seeming to think about it. “Wow. I’ve been Puller nearly as long as I was the other.” He shakes his head slowly. “Can’t believe how quickly my life is flying by.”
It’s not lost on me that he can’t even say Pulsifer, and I wonder exactly why that is. But I don’t have to wonder for long.
“High school was hell for me,” he says. “Far worse when Angel dumped me. Most of the kids thought I was weird and I guess I was a little. But . . . really it was just a little . . . I was just a little different. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Shy. But goddamn the price they make you pay for that. The cruelty was . . . severe. I knew what they thought of me. I tried to be different, tried to fit in, but everything I did backfired, made it all worse. They called me Pussifer and Eric Pussyface and all kind of other names right in front of me. It was . . .”
“I’m very sorry,” I say.
He looks at me, the painful memories burning in his eyes. “Are you?”
I nod. “I really am.”
“Would you be just as much if I killed Angel?”
I don’t respond. Doesn’t feel like I need to—question seemed either rhetorical or intended to get a reaction.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s just . . . reliving all this shit is . . . tough.”
It’s obvious he still has a lot of unresolved pain and anger associated with the hell that was high school for him.
“You know I can count on one hand the kids who were decent to me in high school. Qwon was one of them. So was his sister—and her boyfriend. And Angel—even after we broke up. That’s it.”
“You ever talked to anyone about it?” I ask. “Or written about it? Tried processing it in any way?”
He doesn’t respond, just looks out at the Gulf and says, “I’ve made a good life for myself. Doin’ good. Got a wife who doesn’t think I’m a pussy. Got a daughter who adores me. Got a decent job and want for nothing essential. I’m happy.”
He may be happy, but just beneath it is a toxic concoction of pain and anger and regret and frustration, rot behind the walls of the partial remodeling he’s done.
“I’m glad,” I say. “That’s all great. But it’d be even better if you experienced some healing relating to the other.”
He shakes his head and waves off what I’m saying. “I’m good. The past is the past. It’s in the past.”
“Actually, it’s not.”
He lets out a harsh, mean little laugh. “Guess you’re right. Goddamn podcasts and blogs and TV shows all think I did it. Some of ’em come right out and say so. It’s like bein’ back then all over again. Except . . . my wife and daughter don’t know about it. Nor does anyone here at work. Nobody in my life knows Eric Puller used to be Eric Pulsifer and I intend to keep it that way.”
I nod.
“People say I was stalkin’ her, that I followed her around downtown that night, that she came over to confront me and I killed her. I did . . . I didn’t stalk anyone. Not like that. I was just lost. Didn’t know what to do with myself. So I always looked for Angel, knowing she’d be nice to me. But . . .”
“What do you remember about that night?” I ask.
His eyes narrow and he looks up as if trying to access memories he’s long since buried deep. “Being alone. Being lonely. Just wanting to join in and have a good time like everyone else was, but . . . I . . . when I saw Angel wasn’t at Fiesta I didn’t stay long. I heard she and some others had already gone over to Kim and Ken’s, so I decided to. When I walked out, Qwon came out too. At first I thought he was heading to Kim and Ken’s too, but when I looked back he was walking around toward the front of the building. Then Kathryn came out and yelled after him, ‘Grab my jacket too’ or something like that. I kept walkin’. When I neared Kim and Ken’s, I saw that Angel was leaving, like . . . heading straight toward me, going back toward downtown or Fiesta or whatever. I said hi but I kept walkin’ toward Kim and Ken’s. Didn’t want her thinking I was following her or anything. She walked back up Beach Drive the way I had just come. Instead of going into Kim and Ken’s I kept walkin’ up their street, made the block, and walked back into downtown the long way around—over to Cherry, then Cove and around. Took forever. By the time I got downtown I just decided to go home. So I did.”
“Anybody see you?”
“What part of lonely and alone do you not understand?”
“What about once you got home?”
“Dad was on patrol. Mom was already in bed.”
“What do you think happened to Angel?”
“I know what happened,” he says. “It’s obvious. Qwon was outside. Went to get something out of the car or whatever. Probably drugs. Angel was walking back in that direction the last time I saw her. He said something or did something and she saw it. They got into a fight and he killed her. I have no idea how or why or any of the details, but that’s what happened and that’s why Justice Witney’s testimony is true and backed up by the cellphone records. That’s why you’re wasting your time. And so is everybody else on those stupid shows and shit. And remember what I said. Qwon was nice to me. I liked him. I don’t want it to be him, but it was. Good people sometimes do very bad things.”
18
“If he did it and let Qwon take the blame for it all these years, that’s some cold shit,” Darius Turner says. “Qwon, Katie, and me were about the only ones that were nice to him.”
“He said y’all were.”
Darius Turner, Qwon’s best friend and Kathryn’s boyfriend back in high school, works for Ace Hardware and is in town to help set up the new store. He’s staying at the Dead Lakes Campground where Anna and I brought the girls on Saturday. We’re sitting in two la
wn chairs in front of his camper. He’s drinking a Bud Light. I’m sipping on an ice-cold bottle of water.
He’s a trim, muscular, mid-thirties black man with a roundish face, closely cropped, receding hair, and large eyes. He’s wearing black slacks and a red Polo shirt with the Ace Hardware logo on it.
“And Angel, of course,” he adds. He then shakes his head and frowns. “She was a good person. Had all these . . . I don’t know . . . like strong convictions about what’s right and shit. Always did the right thing as far as I ever saw. Can’t believe this happened to her.”
“Eric said she was nice to him even after she broke up with him.”
He nods. “She was. Really was. She was good people. We all were. Had a good little group. Think maybe part of it was the racial thing. Our group was somewhat diverse and we knew what it was like to suffer ignorance at the hands of bullies and haters.”
I nod.
“Tell me about your group,” I say.
“Well, it was bigger than just the four of us, but that’s who I was talking about right then. It’s funny, you’re so young back then you can’t really appreciate shit. You . . . I guess you have nothing to compare it to, but the older I get, the more people I get to know, the more relationships I have . . . I don’t know . . . I guess I just realize how good we had it. I’ve never had another friend like Qwon, never had another girlfriend as good as Katie. Sorry, Kathryn. Kathryn and I never had a cross word. Not once. We just . . . it was just so good. I think the only reason we broke up was because of what happened to Angel and Qwon. And they had a good relationship too. More turbulent than ours, but still good. Real good compared to most relationships I see these days. We were all close. Qwon and Kathryn were good friends. Made it possible for us all to be. I’m sure we had the normal teenage insecurities and angst, but we didn’t have all the anger and resentment and ulterior motives and pettiness you find in adults. Just wasn’t there. Guess maybe that’s all sort of beside the point, isn’t it?”
He pauses. I nod, encouraging him to continue, which he does.
“Going back to Eric,” he says. “I don’t think he had violence in him toward anyone, but especially us. Especially Angel. He never so much as gave a dirty look to those cruel bastards who were making fun of and bullying him back then. Don’t see him hurting anyone. Angel least of all. Don’t see him letting Qwon take the fall for him if he did it. I know guys like him sometimes just snap and go off on somebody—sometimes somebody close to them, but . . . I just don’t see it.”
“Who do you think did it?” I ask.
“I know Qwon didn’t. Know he couldn’t have. We were with him all night. If Justice didn’t do it, there’s only two other people I think it could be, but I think Justice killed her or helped someone do it or helped someone cover it up. At a minimum he’s involved.”
“Who’re the other two?”
“Well, they’re exes,” he says. “Eric, but like I said I don’t think he had it in him. Or Zelda.”
“Zelda?”
“Qwon’s ex. She was one crazy bitch. No one’s ever really mentioned her. Don’t know if the police even investigated her, but she was nuts. They weren’t even together that long—didn’t take him long to find out how crazy she was, but she acted like they were Romeo and Juliet or some shit.”
“What’s her last name? Was she in your class?”
He thinks about it. “Sager. That’s it. Zelda Sager. Think she was in our class or the one behind us at one point but she dropped out. I remember she smelled funny . . . . like she ate funky food or some shit like that. She was out there. Sort of like a hippie or a . . . that’s what—she acted like a Manson girl. Something like that. Told Qwon she’d die for him. I remember that.”
“Any idea where she is now?”
He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her since back then. And . . . look . . . I’m not accusing her or Eric. I don’t even know if she was downtown that night. Don’t remember seeing her. She just came to mind because she’s so—was so . . . weird. My money’s still on Justice.”
19
When I get home a prosecutor for the State’s Attorney’s office is waiting for me.
He’s actually outside on one of the metal yard chairs beneath the pergola, as if Anna wouldn’t let him in the house.
When I approach him, he stands and introduces himself as Denny Conroy. He’s a trim young man with pale skin and ice blue eyes beneath thick black hair.
“I’m on my way to Panama City,” he says, “and I wanted to stop by and tell you and your—whatever Ms. Rodden is to you—in person that Chris Taunton is being released. Probably be out in a week or so. Maybe sooner.”
“Do you want to come in?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Spend my life inside—offices, courtrooms, cars. Sit outside any chance I get. Y’all’ve got a nice place here. Pretty yard and lake. Nice little town. I’ve just been sitting here enjoying it.”
The side door opens and Anna comes out with Taylor on her hip.
I hug and kiss them both.
I look back at Denny. “What she is to me,” I say, “is everything.”
The expression he gives me is the restrained, polite equivalent of rolling his eyes, but I don’t care. It’s casting pearls before swine, and to say anything else would be like trying to explain poetry, so I let it go.
Anna says, “Did you talk to your boss about moving forward with the case and blaming John if it fails?”
He nods. “He wouldn’t go for it. Oh, he’s still gonna blame your—he’s gonna blame John, but . . . we’re cutting our losses now. No sense in throwing good money after bad. Sometimes . . . them’s the breaks.”
“Careful not to be too flippant,” she says. “You’re talking about the man who not only cheated on me repeatedly during our marriage but then tried to have us killed.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean any . . . I’m sorry it worked out this way. I truly am. I’s lookin’ forward to gettin’ the sorry, slick bastard in court.” He looks at Taylor and adds, “Excuse my French.”
Anna shakes her head and frowns, but it’s not over his French. “It’s a weak, dick move to not bring the case and to blame John.”
“I realize it’s not what y’all want to hear, and I’m not saying I agree with it, but . . . I’m not the boss. It’s not my call.”
Merrill pulls into the driveway then eases onto the grass on the right side so as not to block in the car with the Leon County tag on it. I had done the same thing—our driveway is long and straight and runs up the side of the house and isn’t wide enough to turn around on.
As he walks toward us I can see he’s carrying a large file folder containing the case notes he received from the Freedom of Information Act request he made in the Angel Diaz investigation.
“I know it’s something else y’all don’t want to hear,” Denny says, “but building a case isn’t easy, but it’s essential to getting a conviction. Next time . . . let professionals who aren’t involved with the suspect’s wife handle the investigation.”
Merrill shakes his head and lets out a harsh laugh as he walks up.
Denny turns toward him. “You got something to say?”
“Nothing you want to hear,” Merrill says, smiling as he uses Denny’s own phrase against him. “Just sick as shit of weak ass bastards blaming the victims. John didn’t handle the case. Didn’t ask to be hunted or have his wife abducted. These good people woke up inside a sociopath’s nightmare and not only survived but took him down. They did all you could ask them to do. Don’t stand there in our town on their property making excuses for your ballsack of a boss for not doing his small part. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . . the adults have some work to do.”
Without waiting for a response, Merrill walks inside the house.
Anna turns and follows.
“You gave me some unsolicited advice,” I say, “so I’m gonna return the favor. It’d be a good investment of your time to ask yourself if you were the boss . . . if you�
�d’ve made a different call. I appreciate you coming by to tell us in person. Shows character your boss doesn’t have. So maybe the answer is yes. I sincerely hope so. Have a good day.”
I extend my hand and he shakes it, and we leave it at that.
20
“Brought you something,” Merrill says when I walk in.
He holds up the file folder.
Our home is a late 60s ranch, and the side entrance we use leads through a small mudroom into a galley kitchen. Merrill is standing at the end of the kitchen in the eating area close to the high cypress table.
“Just what I wanted. Thank you. Have you looked at it?”
“Time or two,” he says.
“You feel like giving me your thoughts while I unload the dishwasher?”
While Anna puts Taylor to bed, I unload the dishwasher, and Merrill sits at the table, a Corona Light in hand, the file open before him, and gives me his thoughts on it.
“Be interesting to see how what’s in here compares to what’s in the defense file Kathryn gave you,” he says.
“Yes it will.”
“My guess is prosecution didn’t turn over everything to the defense. But now that the case is closed I bet we got more from the FOIA request.”
I try to place the dishes into the cabinets as gently and quietly as possible so I don’t disturb Taylor or Sam, but the plates are heavy and have a tendency to be loud.
“Oh shit,” Merrill says. “Almost forgot. Found Jessica Poole.”
“You did?”
I had asked him to see if he could find Justice’s coconspirator, who had so far eluded us.
“Changed her name to Jennifer Polk and moved to Michigan,” he says.
“Nothing suspicious about that,” I say.
“Died of a drug overdose about ten years back,” he says.
“Shit,” I say.
“Ain’t it?”
My response is nearly equal parts sadness for Jessica’s short, sad life and frustration at not being able to interview her.
Blood Betrayal (John Jordan Mysteries Book 14) Page 10