“God, I wish you would.”
“I will.”
He nods and looks away, his gaze coming to rest on a picture of Randa hanging on the wall behind his desk.
“She was so . . . such a good, strong person . . . in spite of what happened to her. She was damaged, wounded . . . but she never gave up—on getting better or having the life she wanted.”
He begins to cry softly.
“It’s been almost twelve years,” he says. “It could be twenty or fifty or a hundred . . . You never get over the death of a child. Never. I will never get over the . . . her absence in my life, in the world.”
“What . . . do you think happened to her?” I ask.
“I think for a lot of reasons . . . she just got . . . it all got to be too much for her to . . . that she finally had enough and . . . did what she had to do to stop the . . . all of it.”
121
The soft white sand leads down to the glasslike green Gulf, beyond which the horizon is a patchy modern painting of pastel pink, orange, and purple.
The tranquil beach at sunset is mostly empty, mostly quiet, completely transcendent.
“I think my daughter committed suicide and I think it’s my fault,” Jerry says.
We are looking at the beach from his backyard, which is so close as to be part of it.
Not far down from us the rooftop bar of Bud and Alley’s, the restaurant named after Seaside’s founder’s dog and the restaurant’s owner’s cat, is loud with laughter, conversation, drinking, and people generally having a good time.
I wonder if it’s difficult for Jerry to live here in this picturesque place of perpetual vacation. How dissonant the idyllic surroundings of paradise must be to a broken, sad, guilt-ridden, daughterless father.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Something new I was trying at the time,” he says, still gazing out at the sun sinking into the Gulf. “Tough love. I was taking a new approach with her. Confronting her about some of her risky behaviors, saying no to some of her requests, insisting that she get back in counseling. I think I pushed too hard. Or changed too abruptly. I think I drove her to . . . whatever she was doing, whatever she ultimately did.”
If she killed herself, where is the body?
I make a mental note to ask Reggie about us organizing another search of Panther Swamp.
“You really think your attempts at helping her pushed her over the edge?” I ask. “Was she that close to the edge to begin with?”
He shrugs. “Obviously I didn’t think so.”
“If you step back and look at it as a psychologist and not a father,” I say, “do you reach the same conclusion?”
He still doesn’t look away from the western horizon, just wipes tears from his eyes.
“Not sure. Probably not.”
If I am able to find out what happened to Randa, depending on what that is exactly, the burden of Jerry’s guilt might be lifted a bit.
We are quiet a while.
“And you can’t think of anywhere she might have been headed?” I ask. “Family member or friend who lives down that way—or even as far as Apalach, Carrabelle, or Tallahassee?”
He shakes his head.
“Maybe somewhere she read about, some place y’all vacationed when she was a kid.”
“I’ve thought and thought,” he says, continuing to shake his head. “Just can’t come up with anything.”
“What if she didn’t harm herself,” I say, “what if a very bad man didn’t happen by just at the right moment, what would you think happened to her? Would she have run away? Vanished to restart her life somewhere in anonymity?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, looking at me again. “She didn’t really have a flight response, only fight. And I really, really don’t think she’d do that to her mom or me.”
“Then what?” I ask. “If she didn’t harm herself, if she didn’t intentionally disappear on her own, and if she wasn’t happened upon by a killer of some sort, then what?”
“I always liked her boyfriend,” he says. “Thought he was . . . extremely patient and understanding with Randa.”
“Yeah?”
“But . . . I don’t know . . . things have come out since she . . . disappeared. I don’t know . . . I’m . . . I’ve been rethinking some things about him.”
“We’ll definitely be looking at him again,” I say.
“He proposed on New Year’s Eve at a big event in Pensacola. Local news captured it. I’m sure you’ve seen it. Every time her case is reported on, they show that same clip over and over. She said yes at the time, but one of her friends said it was just to keep from causing a scene or embarrassing him, that she had no intention of marrying him. What if she told him shortly before she went missing? Or what if he found out about the other guys she was sleeping with? I don’t know. I’m not trying to point the finger at him. I know what that’s like. So many crazies online say I killed her. Or me and her mom, that we’re secretly still together, but live separately to throw everyone off the scent of our murderous guilt. There’s been . . . so much craziness . . . I don’t want to add to it, but . . . you asked what else might have happened to her. I wouldn’t say this to anybody else—not the media or friends and family. Just the police.”
I nod. “I understand. Thanks.”
We are quiet again as the day turns to dusk.
“I wanted to ask you about the life insurance policy on Randa and what happened with petitioning the court to declare her dead.”
He shakes his head. “What an unbelievable mess. There are people online who think I killed my daughter for insurance money. They say us having a policy on her is suspicious, but . . . my nephew was new in the insurance business and we bought policies for all three of us. It was as simple and innocent as that. They were set up as automatic withdrawals from one of our old accounts. I had forgotten we even had it. I didn’t want the damn money. And I wasn’t going to declare my daughter dead. We either find her or she’s still alive to me, or the hope of her being alive is—at least in some small way. Lynn, my ex-wife, and I don’t really talk, but I’m sure she feels the same way. It was her nutjob, narcissistic sister whose actions led to Randa being so traumatized in the first place who petitioned the court. She’s always borrowing money from Lynn—or was. She thought she was going to get her hands on that money, but . . . after she did what she did, Lynn cut her off for good. Hasn’t spoken to her since, as far as I know. Lynn and I both agreed to put up every dime of the insurance money as a reward for whoever finds our Randa.”
122
When I get home I find Anna on our back porch, glass of wine in hand, listening to the night, looking at the moon and the stars.
Her face lights up when she sees me—and then again when she sees the bags in my hand.
“You brought me something from Sundog?” she says.
“And Central Square Records.”
“You coming home to me was gift enough. This is like Christmas.”
I hand her the bags and she tears into them while I pull up one of the old wooden Adirondack chairs and sit down beside her.
She holds up J. D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis. “I’ve been wanting to read this. Thank you so much.”
“Figured you might read it to us while we’re in the car together chasing down leads on this case.”
“I’d love to.”
“Our friend at Sundog says it’s in the same vein as Deer Hunting with Jesus and will explain many of the dynamics of the election.”
“It will be a nice break from the shit I’m encountering online,” she says. “You should see what the evil little internet trolls write about Randa, her family, her boyfriend, her friends, even Merrick and Daniel and the other bloggers and podcasters. It’s vile. Makes you lose what little faith in humanity you have left.”
I frown and shake my head.
“They say the most outlandish and outrageous things, trash people’s entire lives—with not a s
ingle shred of evidence. It’s just crazy thoughts they have, random bullshit ideas with no basis in fact or reality—and they post it with impunity, with no regard for civility or decency or reality.”
“That’s the catchphrase of the moment, isn’t it? We’re living in a post-facts, post-truth world.”
She shakes her head and looks as sad as I’ve seen her lately. “It’s the very worst parts of humanity, and it’s not just tolerated, it’s celebrated. And there’s so much of it. How can so many people be batshit crazy?”
“I don’t have an answer for that, but to quote my favorite Midwest folk poet Mr. John Mellencamp, ‘to say that we’re doomed is just an obvious remark, it don’t make you right just keeps you in the dark.’”
“Do you really think we are?” she asks.
“Doomed? No. I don’t. Well, I guess sometimes I do. And in some ways we are. But for every narcissistic, egotistical politician, for every racist and sexist and bigot, and for every sad little internet troll, there are decent people doing good. Doesn’t get as much attention or coverage, isn’t as flashy or reacted to, but the good is there, quietly relieving suffering, continually making the world a better place.”
“You give me hope, John Jordan,” she says.
“You give me hope, Anna Rodden,” I say.
Saying her last name reminds me we have to pick a date and plan a wedding.
“Love conquers all,” she says.
“Only if she’s allowed to,” I say. “She works by invitation only. Love is simultaneously the weakest and strongest force in the universe. Now, open your other gift so we can give some expression to this great love we have.”
She smiles and opens the Central Square Records bag. And squeals when she sees it’s Boz Scaggs Hits! on the old original Columbia Records vinyl.
“You found it,” she says. “We have to dance to our song right now.”
“Yes, we do.”
I stand and take her hand and lead her back into our living room.
As she turns off all the lights but a small one in the kitchen, I pull the old record out of its sleeve, place it on our new turntable, and find the very first song we ever danced to in junior high.
By the time the keyboard begins the familiar refrain, we are in each other’s arms in the middle of our dark living room. By the time the strings begin, we are slow dancing like we did that first time. By the time Boz Scaggs begins to sing “Look What You’ve Done to Me,” we are transported back to the commons area of Potter High School on a cool fall night following a home football game, when the world was still new to us and the possibilities it presented seemed to open up in an infinite and incomprehensible expanse.
“Best first dance song ever,” she whispers.
I nod and thank God again for this gift.
Our bodies conform to each other’s contours as we turn rhythmically round and round like the earth spinning beneath us, our own gravitational force pulling us toward each other as it has our entire lives.
And the mad world of American politics and true crime internet trolls and everything else that is inane and insane dims and fades away, and for this present, perfect moment there is only us, only love.
123
Over the next few days, I become even more obsessed with Randa Raffield, her life, her disappearance.
I continue to work the case.
Each night I go to bed with Merrick and Daniel in my ear feeding my obsession. Each morning I wake up thinking about it.
I attempt to set up interviews with Roger Lamott and Randa’s mom and boyfriend, but meet with resistance and delays.
I meet with Reggie. She approves a new search and we organize and train volunteers to search Panther Swamp for Randa’s remains.
Anna uncovers more and more information online—some of it useful, much of it not—all of it instructive.
We help Daniel and Sam move into a friend’s empty unit at Barefoot Cottages, and Merrick and Daniel convert the guest room into their podcast studio.
Johanna comes for the weekend. Having her here with us makes our family complete, and I want her here all the time. Taking her back to her mom is extremely difficult for me to do.
Dad is undergoing treatment for chronic lymphocytic leukemia, and I’m both taking him to his treatments and trying to spend as much time with him as I can in between working two jobs and being with Anna and the girls.
Chris, Anna’s ex-husband, continues to create and cause problems for us—or attempts to. At best, he’s a severe irritant, like a stone stuck in the passageway of our lives. At worst, he’s a spreading, incurable disease. And all of this is just a precursor of what’s to come.
On the following Monday morning I drive out to the place on 98 where Randa’s car was found, now the base of operations for the new search taking place.
Among the many volunteers, I discover Jerry Raffield. He’s giving a short speech before the workers return to the woods.
“My family and I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing,” he’s saying. “More than anything in this world, we want Randa returned safely to us . . . but . . . if that’s not possible at this point, we want to know where she is and what happened to her. Now, I know you good people aren’t doing it for this reason, but . . . there is a substantial reward for the person who finds her, so . . .”
Local TV stations have news crews videoing his speech. Nearby local newspaper reporters take notes.
When he’s finished with his remarks, the reporters gather around him and ask a series of questions, which he patiently answers. He then looks directly into the cameras and makes a tearful plea—first to Randa to come home, then to whoever took her for mercy, then to the public for information to help locate her.
While he’s talking to the media, I step over and speak to Gary Adams, the deputy organizing and overseeing the search operation.
He’s a middle-aged thick black man with huge hands, a big head, and a quiet, no-nonsense manner.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Wasn’t expecting all the reporters,” he says with a frown, “but . . . maybe it’ll help. We got a pretty good turnout. More older people than I’d like. The thought of them traipsing through the swamp makes my sphincter pucker, but . . . we’ll use what we’ve got.”
I nod.
“I’ve told ’em if they find anything not to touch it, but you know they will,” he says. “Trying to use the various emergency services folk we have to keep a close eye on the citizen volunteers, but . . . it ain’t gonna be easy.”
“I appreciate all you’re doing.”
“I took some special training on this and have a consultant friend I don’t mind asking for help,” he says. “She out here . . . we gonna find her.”
“I have no doubt.”
“’Course . . . she out here . . . she . . . bones. So . . . not tellin’ the public, but we got cadaver dogs coming in later in the week.”
I nod. “Thanks again. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”
As I finish with Gary, a reporter for the Port St. Joe paper the Star approaches me. She is a young Hispanic woman who looks to be barely out of her teens. My guess is she’s an intern still in college or this is her first job after graduating.
“I’m Sofia Garcia,” she says. “With the Star. Can I speak to you for a minute? You’re the lead investigator on the Randa Raffield case, right? What can you tell me about why this renewed interest in it? Is it because of the popularity of the In Search of Randa Raffield podcast?”
“Sheriff Summers encourages her department to continually pull out older case files and go through them with fresh eyes, keeping in mind recent DNA and other forensic advances.”
“Isn’t her boyfriend the one doing the show? Did he talk her into reopening the case?”
“There are a lot of citizens looking into this case,” I say. “And we hope they may discover information that will help us—we always need the public to contact us with information, it’s how cases are
solved—but, and this is very important to remember, the official investigation into the case by the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department is not connected with or influenced by any outside, amateur, or private investigations.”
She presses—like any good young journalist should, but that’s all I give her, and eventually she moves on.
When Jerry is finished with his interviews, he steps over to where I am, not far from the search command center tent.
“Hello, John. How are you? Thank you so much for all you’re doing to help find my Randa.”
“I was surprised to see you here today,” I say.
“I’ve come out here searching so many times,” he says. “I couldn’t let others volunteer to do it without me being here to help, support, and appreciate them.”
I nod. “How’d you even hear about it?”
He shrugs. “Not sure. Guess it was from one of the news stations wanting a comment or interview. Well, I better get out there and join in the search . . . I just wanted to thank you again for all you’re doing. I feel more hopeful about finding her than I have in a very long time.”
124
While everyone is searching on the north side of the street toward Panther Swamp, I walk across the highway and look around on the south side.
Walking along the soft, sandy shoulder of the road, I make my way over to the entrance of Windmark Beach, the St. Joe Company’s coastal resort community on St. Joseph Bay.
Had Randa come this way? It’s possible.
Windmark Beach is still largely a ghost town, its marketplace and community buildings mostly empty, the majority of its lots still vacant, but in 2005 when Randa disappeared there was even less. Far less. Mostly construction.
I pull out my phone and call Anna.
“Could you see if you can find out what was in Windmark in January of 2005?” I ask. “What was already built. What was under construction.”
“Sure. Are you there now? I can go ahead and do it.”
True Crime Fiction Page 49