“So your ease and respect for women isn’t the result of just one thing. Okay, so name a few for me. Please.”
“Part of it is innate. How I arrived. Part of it’s my concept of the divine.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard you call God she and mother. Was going to ask you about that too one day.”
“It’s just the conception that the divine is no more male than female, but encompasses both masculinity and femininity. It’s a very simple concept. First the natural then the spiritual. Nature is the pattern.”
She nods and seems to think about it. “What else?”
“My relationship with my grandmothers, my sister Nancy, my friend Merrill’s mom, and Anna. Anna’s a huge part of it—and has been since childhood. And before she died—and even since—I’ve worked through some of the shit with my mom.”
“Thank you. Thanks for sharing that with me. And thanks for the way you respect me. A lot of people respect you, they watch you, they see how you treat me. It helps.”
“You’re welcome.”
“More men like you, and our next president would be female,” she says.
We are in the height of a contentious and heated presidential election campaign between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.
“She’s ahead in all the polls,” I say.
“No way she wins,” she says. “No way. And not just because of her failings as a candidate, the decades-long smear campaign she’s been subjected to, or the fact that she’s the establishment candidate in a change election year. It’s that she’s a woman. If there’s one thing we are more than racist, it’s sexist.”
If she’s right and the first female nominee of a major party running for president loses, it won’t just be because she’s a woman. There will be a million different factors, but she’s right that ingrained and internalized sexism will be one of them—a big one.
“I’d say you were right if she were running against anyone else. He’s . . . he’s already disqualified himself in dozens of different ways.”
“We’ll see. Okay, so, yes. Let’s reopen the Randa Raffield case and solve the thing this time. Can’t have a couple of amateurs solving our cases—even if one of them is my . . . whatever he is.”
110
After leaving the place where Randa disappeared, I drive down 98, turn on Overstreet, and head to Wewa and Gulf Correctional Institution, listening to another episode of In Search of Randa Raffield as I do.
“On this episode we’re going to talk about the various theories floating out there,” Daniel says. “But before we do that we have a short segment with a very special guest on the phone.”
“Yes, we do,” Merrick says. “We’re very excited to bring you Ashley Gaines. Ashley was a friend and classmate of Randa’s at the University of West Florida, and has some important reminders we need to hear.”
“She does,” Daniel says, “and while we’re on the subject of reminders, let me add that Merrick and I are not in law enforcement. Interestingly, we’re both with women who are. My wife’s an FDLE agent and his is a sheriff. But we’re not detectives—private or otherwise.”
“We’ve both done a fair amount of investigating,” Merrick says. “Me as a journalist and Daniel as a profiler and consultant in crimes with ritualistic or religious elements. But we’re not cops and we’re not doing this show as anything but interested and concerned citizens.”
“And we’re doing it to share important information and uncover new evidence if we can,” Daniel says. “To make sure no one forgets that Randa is still missing and her family and friends have no peace yet.”
“With that in mind, let’s welcome Ashley Gaines to the show,” Merrick says. “Welcome Ashley. Thanks for being with us today.”
“Thank you, Merrick, Daniel. I appreciate what you’re doing and I thought this was the place to share what I have to share. Other shows have asked me to be on—other blogs and documentaries and news shows have tried to interview me, but I’ve said no to everyone but you guys.”
“And why is that?” Merrick asks.
“Your sincerity, your respect for Randa. You’re not treating this like light entertainment like so many are.”
“And that’s part of what you wanted to share, isn’t it?” Daniel says.
“It is,” she says. “Randa was a real person. A beautiful person. And not just outwardly with that shiny auburn hair, perfect porcelain skin, and those magnificent green eyes, but inwardly too. She had a truly beautiful soul. What happened to her—whatever it was—is real and tragic and heartbreaking and devastating to those of us who knew and loved her. Randa was a good person. Liked. Respected. She was a loving daughter. A good friend. Good student and athlete. She was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and she had a very strong moral code. And some of the awful and bizarre things being said about her are just . . . un . . . conscionable. She deserves better than that. Her death is not cheap entertainment. It’s not a soap opera. It’s—”
“So you believe Randa is dead?” Merrick says.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” she says. “I think someone attacked her, took her, but she would have fought—she’s strong, she’s fierce. No way she’d be held captive. She would’ve fought him and . . . Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say . . . that Randa was a good and loyal friend, a really good person, and she needs to be treated as such.”
“Absolutely,” Daniel says. “She—”
Ashley disconnects the call.
“Ashley?” Merrick says. “I guess she’s gone. We had a few more questions, but . . . maybe we can do those at a later time.”
“I think today she just wanted to make her statement,” Daniel says. “Give everyone that important reminder. And it is important to remember that everyone we talk about on this show are real people. Randa is real. And while true crime and unsolved mysteries can have an element of entertainment in them, we’re not doing this for entertainment. We’re trying to find Randa. Find out what happened to her. Get her some justice and her family some peace. So . . . should we talk about the theories of what happened to her?”
“Theories of what happened to Randa,” Merrick says. “And there are lots and lots of them.”
“There are, but if you boil them all down to just the essentials,” Daniel says, “you only have a few possibilities. I mean in terms of broad categories.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“There are tons of theories on how and why and who, but if we set those aside for a moment and just look at the broad categories, this is what we have: Randa could have run away. That’s what she could have been doing anyway—so far from where she’s supposed to be, on her own—and when she wrecked her car, she kept going, just on foot.”
“Okay.”
“Or hitched a ride with someone. Either way, she could have run away.”
“So number one is she could have left on her own,” Merrick says.
“Yes. Number two is she could have been taken. Someone came along and took her, forcibly, against her will. She didn’t want to go, but . . . she was forced to.”
“Okay, so are you saying those are the two main categories of what could have happened?”
“Actually, I think there are four—again, in the broadest sense. Homicide, suicide, accident, or she went into hiding,” Daniel says. “We’ve seen things in her background, in the days and months leading up to her disappearance, that seem to point to the possibility of each one of those—and we’ll get into her background later, in a future episode. But for now let’s just say that all four are possibilities and I wanted to start as broad as we can and then narrow down from there.”
“While we’re staying broad,” Merrick says, “take us through each of the four possibilities.”
“Let’s start with homicide,” Daniel says. “Randa was murdered by someone—someone with her, someone following her, or someone who happened along.”
“And we should say that we don’t know if anyone was with her or following her or if
anyone other than the two men we’ve already mentioned happened along—but there’s evidence to suggest each one of these possibilities should at least be considered.”
“Right.”
Of course there’s evidence to support all the theories. There always is. The problem with evidence is usually not how much or how little, but how it’s interpreted. Evidence can be made to say nearly anything—unless it’s allowed to speak for itself.
As I drive down Overstreet listening, my mind is on fire with the mystery of Randa Raffield. I want to hear more evidence, want to go over all the evidence, want to explore all the possibilities.
“We’ll get into the odds of a murderer happening along within that narrow window of time,” Daniel is saying.
“Seven minutes,” Merrick says. “Or less. Could a killer have come along within those seven minutes and killed Randa?”
“And if he did, where is the body? Where is the evidence of a violent crime?”
“If she was murdered, it’s far more likely that it was by someone with her or following her than someone who happened upon her, but we have to consider all three.”
“And when we say following her,” Daniel adds, “it doesn’t have to be someone who followed her all the way from her dorm or from Pensacola. He could have seen her at one of her stops and started following her then.”
“We know she stopped for gas and liquor not too far from where she wrecked and disappeared.”
“Yes,” Daniel says, “we have receipts and eyewitness statements and it’s rumored the police have surveillance video footage, though we’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Again,” Merrick says, “we’ll get into all of this later, but . . . maybe Randa wrecked because someone saw her at the gas station or liquor store and did something to her car and followed her, waiting for her to break down or wreck, and then attacked her.”
“Okay,” Merrick says, “that’s homicide. How about suicide?”
“Let’s say that was her plan all along,” Daniel says. “She’s hundreds of miles from where she’s supposed to be because she was planning to do herself harm. And when she wrecked, she abandoned her car for some reason but didn’t abandon her plan to kill herself.”
“She could have walked through the woods and the Windmark Beach subdivision and into the bay and drowned herself. She could have walked into the woods on the other side and into Panther Swamp and slit her wrists or . . . harmed herself in some other way.”
“But in either case,” Daniel says, “we’d expect to find a body—in the bay or in the swamp—and no remains have ever been found.”
“There was a massive search for Randa right when this happened,” Merrick says, “and some of her friends and family are still searching, still showing up every so often to walk through the woods or boat across the bay to look for her.”
“And nothing was ever found, has ever been found, in all that time.”
“Were there things in Randa’s background that would indicate she was suicidal?” Merrick asks.
“Possibly,” Daniel says. “And we’ll get into them later. Nothing overt or obvious, but maybe some things that hint at it.”
“Okay. That’s homicide and suicide. How about accident?”
“Same as some of the scenarios we’ve already mentioned,” Daniel says, “but instead of someone intentionally killing her or her killing herself, it happens accidentally. Let’s say the reason she left her car was that she was drinking and didn’t want to get a DUI. People who are drinking and get into an accident often do this. They get away from the vehicle so when the cops come they’re not there and can’t get charged with a DUI. Later, they can come pick up the car at the impound lot and pay the fines or whatever and say that the car was stolen. Something like that. So say she left the car. And started walking. And steps out in front of a vehicle and is hit. She’d still be killed but by accident, but the driver doesn’t want to deal with all that goes along with it, with even an accident, so buries her body. Or she walks into the woods and gets bitten by a cottonmouth moccasin. Or she decides to sober up by swimming in the bay and drowns.”
“But in those last scenarios where is the body?” Merrick says.
“Exactly. Maybe just not found yet, but . . .”
“And that is possible. It’s a huge, huge swamp. No way every inch of it has been searched—and even if it has, the body could have been missed and now the remains are such that they’d be even harder to find.”
“Way harder. Not to mention animals could have scattered her remains.”
“Exactly,” Merrick says, “so we can’t rule out any of those possibilities yet.”
“Not yet, no.”
“Okay, but let’s say it wasn’t murder or suicide or accident. What else could it have been?”
“Maybe she staged the whole thing and ran away. She could’ve had someone following her and they left together or she hitches a ride and never looks back. She could have taken a boat to Cuba or continued around the Gulf States and down into Mexico.”
“It would explain why there’s no body,” Merrick says. “But again, we have to ask . . . were there things in Randa’s background that would suggest she might do something like this, that she would even be capable? What do you think, Daniel?”
“Based on what we’ve seen, I’d say that every scenario we’ve discussed is at least a possibility, which is what makes this case so . . . interesting, compelling, maddening—take your pick.”
“All of the above,” Merrick says. “So, that’s gonna do it for today. But keep tuning in because we’re just getting started and we haven’t even begun to delve deep into this riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”
“In future episodes of In Search of Randa Raffield,” Daniel says, “we’ll let you know all about her car—what was in it, what had been done to it, what happened to it, and where it is now. We’ll examine Randa’s background and any signs and clues that can shed light on what might have really happened to her. We’ll interview people connected to the case—family, friends, cops, suspects.”
“And,” Merrick adds, “we’ll take a closer look at her boyfriend and the rumor that she may have been stepping out on him even though they got engaged as the ball was dropping on New Year’s Eve.”
As the outro music begins to fade in, Daniel says, “All that and much more, coming up on In Search of Randa Raffield.”
111
Nearing Gulf Correctional Institution where I am a senior chaplain, I pull onto the shoulder of the empty rural road, put my car in Park, pop my trunk, place my weapon inside, and change into my clerical collar.
Firearms aren’t permitted on state prison property. Other law enforcement officials arriving at the institution are required to check their weapons at the control room. Because I’m both employed here as a chaplain and at the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department as an investigator, I obtained special permission from the warden and the secretary of the department of corrections to store my sheriff department–issued .40 caliber Glock and the small frame 9 mm I wear in an ankle holster in my trunk while on duty here.
Transition complete, I get back into my car and drive into the prison’s employee parking lot.
I am in the odd and unique position, for me, of having two full-time jobs, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up.
Over the course of my life, I’ve been officially a cop and unofficially a minister or officially a minister and unofficially an investigator, but now, for the first time, I am officially both. Though it seems to mostly be working, I constantly feel the tension between the two, the push and pull of each, and the squeeze of personal life and family time on both.
I find performing both jobs fulfilling, each rewarding in a way the other is not, each providing me with opportunities I feel called to, and doing both gives Anna the opportunity to stay home with Taylor—and Johanna when we have her—but I can’t see being able to continue both for much longer.
I’ve talked t
o Anna about it—not only because of the toll it’s exacting on me, but because I’m not sure I’m giving either job what it requires and deserves.
I enter the institution to the friendly greeting of “Chaplain” from my coworkers and the inmates in our care and custody, and think what a stark contrast from how I’m most often treated as a cop.
Of course, not every inmate is always happy to see me. I can’t imagine the one I’m headed to see right now will show me anything but contempt and animosity.
I find Don Wynn behind the food services building, smoking the cheap, acrid tobacco sold in the canteen.
He’s tall and thin with pale pasty skin and hair so closely cropped it’s barely there.
Unlike many of the other neo-Nazis housed at GCI, the neck of Wynn’s white skin holds no swastikas, eagles, lighting bolts, or Hitler heads, and there are no black or green teardrops at the corners of his bright blue eyes. He’s too subtle for that, but he’s one of the most committed, most true-believing, most vile racists and fascists on the compound.
He’s alone among the empty cardboard boxes, food crates, trashcan casters, brooms, and mops, and nods at me when I walk up. “Chaplain.”
I nod to him.
“What brings you back behind the slop shed?” he says.
“Looking for you.”
“Found me.”
His tone is light and insincere, indifferent, dismissive, and he doesn’t really look at me so much as in my direction.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He becomes wary. “About?”
“The Randa Raffield case.”
He nods and seems to think about it, scratching the stubble on his chin with a too-long thumbnail.
“Tell you what . . .” he says. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer a few of mine.”
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