“Nice to meet you,” she says.
Though she is taller and a little larger and about ten years younger, it’s amazing how much Nancy resembles Sam. Similar blond hair and blue eyes.
“I feel like we already have,” Anna says. “Love listening to you. Love what you bring to the show.”
“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you to say.”
“Can you stay for dinner?” Daniel asks Nancy.
“You have to,” Anna says.
“I’d love to but I need to get home to my husband. I’ve already stayed longer than I intended to.”
“It’s ready,” Anna says. “What if we eat quickly?”
Nancy smiles. “That’s so . . . sweet of you. Let me call the nurse and see how he’s doing and how long she’s willing to stay.”
It occurs to me how similar a situation Nancy and Daniel are in, and I can certainly see how helpful it is for them to have the podcast as an outlet.
Nancy lives in East Point, on the other side of Apalachicola, about a forty-five-minute drive away, so even if we eat super quick it’ll still be well over an hour before she’s able to get back.
“What about Reggie?” Anna asks Merrick. “Can she join us?”
He shakes his head. “Afraid I’ve got to go too. We have a friend’s birthday party tonight.” He looks at me. “But I was hoping to talk to you about the case. Can we get together tomorrow or sometime soon?”
I nod. “Just give me a call and we’ll figure out a time.”
“Will do,” he says. “Great show guys. See you both soon. Talk to you sooner. Anna, it’s breaking my heart to leave such a good-smelling meal.”
He leaves and we begin to set the table.
In another few moments, Nancy returns. “He’s doing okay. She’s willing to stay, but . . . I can’t leave him much longer and I don’t want you guys to rush for me.”
“Sit,” Anna says. “Eat with us. John’s never eaten slowly in his life. You won’t be rushing us at all.”
130
The four of us sit, serve our plates, and begin to eat.
Anna has made her famous spaghetti and meatballs, soft garlic-butter French bread, and salad. They all have red wine. I have water.
“You did it again,” I say. “It’s delicious.”
She smiles at me and pats my hand.
“I made extra,” she says to Daniel. “I’ll make plates you can warm up this week.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome to take some too,” she says to Nancy.
“I’d love to. It’s so good. Thanks.”
“I love the name of your podcast,” Anna says. “Appreciate that you used woman instead of girl. Is Nancy Drury your real name?”
“Yeah, well, Nancy’s my middle name, but yeah. Before the podcast I always went by Beth, but as many people call me Nancy as Beth these days.”
“Sorry to say I haven’t listened to your show yet,” Anna says. “Trying to finish In Search of Randa Raffield, but as soon as I do . . .”
“Daniel and Merrick’s show is much better than mine. I’m all over the place. Lots of different cases. Tend to ramble.”
“It’s a great show,” Daniel says. “She doesn’t ramble, doesn’t . . . It’s great. No other podcast comes close to being the victim advocate you are.”
“Stop. You’re embarrassing me.”
“Okay, but it’s true.”
Daniel and Nancy are easy to talk to, and we have a nice, relaxed conversation that flows well. We each keep an eye on Sam, though no one more than Daniel, who actually goes in to check on her occasionally.
“So tell me about Chelsea Sylvester,” I say. “I heard you guys talk about her on the show I listened to today. I’d never even heard of her.”
“It’s very sad,” Nancy says.
“It’s legit,” Daniel says. “Suspicious death. Friend of Randa. Lived on the same floor. There’s some question as to whether it was intentional or accidental, but . . . I say either way it would’ve had a big impact on Randa. She could’ve felt responsible, but even if she didn’t . . . she would’ve been upset, shaken. It’s probably why she cancelled everything, jumped in her car, and drove . . . toward her fate.”
“Maybe she didn’t just feel guilty,” Nancy says. “Maybe she was. Maybe she killed her and then couldn’t . . . kill herself. Maybe she didn’t actually kill her . . . Maybe she provided the drugs. Maybe she knew they were bad.”
“There’s talk that they had a falling out,” Daniel says. “There’s a lot we didn’t share on the show. More than one of their friends said Randa slept with Chelsea and that Chelsea broke up with her girlfriend, Brenda Young, in hopes of being with Randa.”
“I think it has something to do with what ultimately happened to Randa,” Nancy says. “Even if it was just what got her out here on the road that night, but . . . I really think it’s more than that.”
“Can’t believe the original investigation didn’t consider any of this,” I say.
“The original investigation was lacking to say the least,” Daniel says. “Some people online have posted how they think there’s a conspiracy or cover-up or that the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department is involved somehow, but . . . I just believe it was incompetence or more likely laziness.”
“Another possibility is that Brenda killed Chelsea and Randa was running from her,” Nancy says. “Pure speculation, but . . . we’re not on the air. I think it’s possible Brenda was stalking her—and could have even been following her that night and . . .”
Daniel’s phone vibrates and he picks it up from where it sits facedown by his plate and looks at it.
He then gasps as his eyes widen and all the color drains from his face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He shakes his head as if trying to jar something loose. He then shakes his phone. “Come back,” he says to it.
“What is it?” Nancy asks.
“The In Search of Randa Raffield Snapchat,” he says. “Just got a snap or a chat from Randa Raffield.”
“What?” she says.
“That’s the name that came up on the screen. It was an old picture. Only lasted a second. But it was her. She was . . . it looked like she was about to be murdered. She was tied up to a table. A man with a knife was hunched over her. Can I get it back? How do I get it to come back?”
“You can’t,” Nancy says. “Unless . . . see if it’ll let you replay it.”
“It won’t.”
“If he sends it again, screenshot it.”
“How?”
“Push the power and home buttons at the same time, but it’s got to be quick. You only have a second.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Snapchat,” Nancy says. “It’s an app for mobile devices that lets you send pictures or videos that self-destruct after between one and ten seconds—depending on how you set it.”
“So the picture was there for one second and now it’s gone and we can’t get it back?” I say.
“Right.”
“How sure are you it was her?” Anna asks.
“Positive. But . . . it was an old picture. I’d say back from when she first went missing. Oh my God. It was . . . so . . .”
“I’m assuming Snapchat wasn’t around back when Randa went missing,” I say.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“So someone . . . probably her killer . . . set up an account in her name to taunt us,” I say. “How hard would that be to do?”
“Not hard at all,” Nancy says.
“Can we trace the account?” Anna says.
“I’ll call Chris and see if he can help us,” I say.
“And it was the podcast snapchat not your personal?” Anna asks.
“I don’t have a personal. That’s why we put the show one on my phone.”
“May I take a look at it?” Nancy asks.
Daniel hands her his phone.
It starts ringing and she jumps. “Shit,” she says. “Scar
ed the shit out of me. Merrick’s calling.” She hands the phone back to Daniel.
“Hey,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, we saw it too. Well, I did. Where’d . . . oh shit.”
He pulls the phone away from his mouth and says to us, “He got the same pic on his personal account. He was driving and couldn’t screenshot it.”
I look at Nancy. “If he sent it to Merrick’s personal account and not just the show’s, he may have sent one to you too.”
Her eyes widen and she grabs her phone.
“Maybe he’ll send it again,” Daniel is saying to Merrick. “Who do you think it is?”
“Shit,” Nancy says. “Bastard. I have one too.”
“Nancy got one too,” Daniel tells Merrick.
“But . . . it’s not on my personal account. It’s on my Nancy Drury Woman Detective show account.”
“Can you screenshot it?” Anna asks.
“I’m gonna try.”
131
Nancy holds her phone out in front of her, fingers in place.
“Wait,” I say, getting up and moving over to stand behind her chair. “I want to be looking at it in case you’re not able to save it.”
“Wait,” Anna says, jumping up and joining me. “I want to see it too.”
“Okay,” Nancy says. “Ready? Here . . . goes . . . nothing.” She presses a button on the screen to open the image, then quickly starts pushing buttons on her phone.
The disturbing image is only on the screen for a second, but it’s long enough for it to sear through my eyes and into my mind.
Randa is not only bound, but she’s gagged, and true terror fills her green eyes.
“Oh my God,” Anna says, placing her hand over her mouth.
“Did you get it?” Daniel asks.
She presses a few places on her screen and brings up a group of images. The most recent one is a screenshot not of the picture of Randa, but her Snapchat contacts background.
“Damnit,” she says. “I missed it. Sorry.”
I try to remember everything I can about the image.
Not much of the background was visible—and what was, was dim—but it looked to be a basement or garage or workshop of some kind. She was tied to a table or workbench, not a bed—there was no frame or headboard. Her face was damp with both sweat and tears. Duct tape held the gag in her mouth. The man leaning over her was average, but his knife was definitely above average—a long, wide serrated blade that gleamed even in the dimness.
“Weren’t those . . .” I begin. “Her clothes. Isn’t that what she was wearing the day she disappeared?”
“That’s all I can picture now,” Daniel says.
“Me too,” Nancy says. “Don’t know if that’s what she had on or if I’m just projecting them onto her now. Sorry.”
“Merrick says it is,” Daniel says. “They are. That’s what she was wearing.”
“Wonder if he killed her right away and this is one of his trophies,” Anna says.
“And with all the renewed interest in and added attention on the case,” Nancy says, “he had to gloat, to interject himself into the case to make sure we know he did it.”
I nod. “Best thing y’all could do is ignore it, not acknowledge it on your show.”
“That has my vote,” Daniel says. “This is freaking me out. Would it make me a total pussy to admit I’m a little scared to stay here by myself tonight?”
“I think the term you mean is ball sack,” Nancy says. “They’re very fragile and tender, whereas everyone knows a pussy can really take a pounding.”
He laughs. “Point taken.”
“I like this woman,” Anna says.
“But no,” Nancy says, “it doesn’t make you a total ball sack. This is creepy, freaky shit.”
“Merrick says it does,” Daniel says.
“Remind him he’s the one out there all alone in his car on that dark, empty road,” Nancy says.
“Says he has a ball sack of steel,” Daniel says, then to Merrick, “Okay. Sounds good. We’ll talk tomorrow if any of us are still here.” He disconnects the call. “He’s gonna tell Reggie about it and let us know what she says.”
“This is the most excitement I’ve had in a very, very long time,” Nancy says, “and I really don’t want to, but I have to go. I’ve already been away from Jeff a lot longer than I should’ve been.”
“We’ll follow you,” Anna says.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. Besides, you can’t leave Daniel.”
“I’ll get a deputy to come over here and we’ll follow you,” I say.
“That’s sweet, but not necessary. It’s just a picture. Hell, it may be Photoshopped. Could be one of those nasty little trolls punkin’ us. But even if it’s Randa’s actual killer . . . doesn’t mean he’s going to do anything to us.”
“Let them follow you,” Daniel says. “I’d feel a lot better about you going.”
“John needs to work on this, not babysit me,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”
“He can work on it when we get back,” Anna says. “We insist.”
“Just as long as you insist on leaving an armed deputy here when you go,” Daniel says.
He’s smiling and partially kidding, but only partially. He suffers from panic attacks—something being alone here with Sam after what’s happened can’t be good for.
Over the years, Daniel has consulted on some pretty high-profile ritual murder cases, and even helped Sam with a couple of her more challenging and brutal investigations—one in which a compulsive killer was using fire as a weapon and another that involved kidnapped conjoined twins. He had survived but not before a significant amount of damage had been done.
Daniel gives Nancy a hug. “I know you have your own escort and everything, but call or text when you’re in safe and sound and let me know.”
We follow Nancy in her small Rav 4 SUV along 98 out of Port St. Joe, into the woods of Franklin County that leads to Tate’s Hell, through the old fishing village that is now a quaint, quiet tourist destination of Apalachicola, up on the high bridge over the bay, to her small wooden home in East Point.
“Thank y’all so much,” she says as we get out of our vehicles. “I feel bad making you drive all this way.”
“You didn’t make us,” Anna says. “We made you.”
“Mind if I look around before we go?” I ask.
“Not at all,” she says. “That’s sweet. Let me just check on Jeff and let the nurse go. I know she’s way past ready. She lives right there behind us. A few times she’s actually left a few minutes before I got back.”
I nod.
We don’t have to wait long.
“Had she already gone?” Anna asks.
Nancy shakes her head. “But she didn’t waste any time leaving once I walked in.”
I search the house while she and Anna make us coffee and snacks in the little kitchen for our drive back.
The house is small and chopped up into little rooms the way all of them used to be. Two bedrooms, a living room with a fireplace, a dining room, a den, one bathroom, and a tiny kitchen in the back. Jeff is asleep on a hospital bed surrounded by various machines in the small front bedroom. Nancy’s computer and podcast equipment is set up in the den.
Looking through this modest house and the modest life it holds for Nancy, I’m grateful again that she and Daniel have podcasting as a new outlet, and I hope we’ll be able to close the case for them—as well as for Randa and her family. Of course, if we do, what will they do then?
After everyone is gone, Daniel’s house is quiet again, and he returns to his lonely little life.
But tonight he’s not just alone and lonely, he’s frightened, and can feel a panic attack at his ragged edges, threatening to develop, to descend upon him like the merciless bird of prey it is.
He tries to distract himself by thinking about the podcast, the case, but that inevitably leads him to the horrific image on his phone and . . .
He can feel an at
tack coming on.
Heart pounding.
Head spinning.
Panic.
Pressure.
Fear.
Loss.
Stop. Breathe. Relax. You’re okay.
He had lived in fear for so long, and then Sam came along and he had found his equilibrium, his calm. She had been his equilibrium, his calm. But now she’s gone, she’s living a kind of half-life where she’s—
It’s nowhere near half a life she’s living.
Taking a deep breath, he attempts to slow the progress of the panic attack by thinking of what a badass Sam used to be—and how, with her, he was too for a little while.
She had fought the Phoenix and won. Together they had beaten the killer making burnt offerings of his victims. They had worked the Shelby Emma Summers case, not just looking but diving into the abyss, fighting monsters not fearlessly but relentlessly, never letting fear stop them.
Now look at them.
Sam is less than half alive. And he’s less than half the man he was with her.
After wiping down the counters and putting away the last of the leftovers, he goes into what should be their bedroom, but is her home hospital room.
As he does, he pictures Nancy doing the same thing, living the same half-life as him.
Each evening, after the day is done and it’s just the two of them again, he bathes and changes her. It’s the closest thing to intimacy they experience, and though he finds it infuriatingly frustrating, he nonetheless looks forward to it.
He misses Sam so much he feels it physically, feels the deep, dull ache in every single cell of his body.
He studies her scars, tracing the tumescent tissue with his fingertips.
She is more scarred and more attractive than any woman he’s ever seen. Her body is a beautiful poem of pain, of strength and healing and resiliency.
We are our scars, he thinks. Both seen and unseen. I am no less mine than she is hers.
With a soft, warm bath cloth he washes her scarred body, caressing every contour, making love to her with the basin and the towel, symbols the world over of love and service, acceptance and purification since Jesus first used them to wash his disciples’ feet.
True Crime Fiction Page 52