True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

I shake my head. “But that’s all it is. Just an instinct.”

  “Mine says the same thing. Either way, I hope Chris can—”

  My phone starts vibrating again. It’s Chris.

  “It’s the same person who sent the email to the dad—Randa’s dad. Same guy. And I’ve got a location on him.”

  143

  “Fuck,” Chris says.

  “What?” I say. “What is it?”

  “Spoke too soon. Don’t have them. Thought I did. Sorry. I’ll keep working on it. Think I’m close.”

  I want to throw my phone across the room, but find the strength to refrain.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just keep at it. Let me know when you have something.”

  “Hopefully it won’t be long.”

  “Anything stand out to you about the video?” I ask. “Or how it was posted or—”

  “Just that there are two of them,” he says.

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “Huh? Two people. To make the video. It’s very subtle but . . . at the very end . . . there’s the slightest . . . the camera moves. Someone is holding it.”

  “I watched it twice and missed that,” I say.

  When I’m off the call, Reggie and I watch the video again.

  “There it is,” she says when the camera moves right before the video ends. “How’d we miss that? Well, I know how you did. You need some sleep. But how did I miss that?”

  “I should’ve seen it,” I say.

  “Go home and get some sleep,” she says. “That’s an order.”

  “But—”

  “It’s an order. Don’t so much as think about the case. Think about other things. Turn your phone off and sleep. Sleep a long time, then call me when you get up.”

  I try to do as I’m told—with the exception of turning off my phone—but as tired as I am, when I lie down I am unable to fall asleep.

  The house is empty and quiet.

  Dad had a doctor’s appointment and Anna and Taylor went with him and Verna.

  The shades are drawn, the curtains closed. The room is dark. The fan is on. All the conditions are right, but I can’t fall asleep.

  When I close my eyes I see Randa. In vivid detail—her young, muscular swimmer’s body, her silky, auburn-tinted hair. Her huge, sparkling green eyes and the complexity of the person behind them they reveal.

  I toss and turn, roll onto my right side, then my back, then my left. I pull Anna’s pillow to me and hold it the way I hold her when we spoon to fall asleep. Nothing works.

  Sleep eludes me.

  Eventually I give up, grab my phone, and turn the In Search of Randa Raffield podcast back on.

  “As we’ve mentioned before,” Daniel is saying, “Merrick is working on a book about this case. He’s a former reporter and a very good writer and we know it’s going to be a good book you’ll want to read when it comes out. But that means that Merrick is under deadline so he can’t be with us today. Nancy is here. Say hi Nancy.”

  “Hi Nancy,” she says.

  “And we’re joined by a special guest today,” Daniel adds. “Roger Lamott. You’ll remember Roger is the only witness. He saw Randa after her accident and called the police. Welcome, Roger.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for being on the show,” Nancy says. “We really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  I press Pause and call Daniel.

  “Are y’all doing a show right now?” I ask.

  “No. Why? What’s up? Everything okay. You sound—”

  “When’d you do the show with Roger Lamott?”

  “Week, week and a half ago. Why?”

  “How’d you get him?”

  “Merrick did. Took a while. Just kept trying. Finally he agreed to do it. Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to him. Feel like he’s been avoiding me. Won’t answer my calls. Won’t return my messages.”

  “Oh, shit, wish we’d’ve known. We would’ve let you know.”

  “Did he come and record with y’all in person or call in?”

  “Called in. I’ve never seen the guy. He was awkward to interview. Weird. Acted like he didn’t want to be doing it. Had to pull every word out of him. I don’t know. Have you listened to the interview?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “He came on the show to clear his name. He’s very hostile to local law enforcement. I think that’s the real reason Merrick wasn’t on the show. Think he thought he’d have to say something to defend Reggie and . . . Anyway, Lamott said he’s lived under a cloud of suspicion for twelve years now because of leaks, lies, and innuendos from investigators.”

  “Even if that’s true, and I really don’t think it is, there’s a new sheriff and a new investigation—all new investigators.”

  “I pointed that out, but . . . I don’t know. Didn’t seem to do any good. Want me to call him, see if he’ll answer for me, see if I can get him to meet with you? I think we had a pretty good rapport by the time the show ended.”

  “Would you? I’d really appreciate that. Thanks.”

  After ending the call I start the podcast again, but am distracted by thoughts of Roger Lamott and his motive for avoiding me and saying what he did on the show.

  I pause the podcast.

  Had Lamott had a bad experience with one of the previous sheriffs? Was there talk around town about him being the killer? Or was he going on the offensive as a way of disguising his defensiveness?

  I decide I can ask him myself when my phone starts vibrating a moment later and I see that it’s him.

  144

  “Hear you’re lookin’ for me,” he says.

  “You heard right.”

  “I ain’t avoiding you or nothin’,” he says. “I just ain’t got nothin’ to say. Nothin’ to add. All I did was see her on the highway, stop and ask if she needed help, and call the cops as I pulled away. That’s it. And for that, for happening to be on that road at that time and for trying to do the right thing . . . I get suspected for the rest of my damn life. It ain’t right. And I’m sick of it.”

  “I genuinely don’t know of anyone saying you had anything to do with Randa’s disappearance.”

  “Well, you’re new and not listening I guess.”

  “The sheriff’s new too. It’s a new investigation. We’re trying to get to the truth. That’s all. Do you have something to hide?”

  “The hell would you ask me that? See? I told you I was a suspect.”

  “You’re acting suspicious. You’re acting like you have something to hide. That’s why I asked.”

  “You sound like everybody else,” he says. “Guilty ’til proven innocent. Just like all the rest.”

  He ends the call without another word and when I call back it goes straight to voicemail.

  I try a few more times and on my fourth attempt Chris Anderson beeps in.

  “I’ve got him,” he says. “This time for real. Same person that sent the email to the dad definitely uploaded the confession video online.”

  “Where?” I ask, jumping up from the bed and pulling on my clothes.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” he says. “Dalkeith.”

  Dalkeith is a small unincorporated area of farms and rural route old home places, dirt roads, dilapidated mobile homes, and river camps. It’s located between Port St. Joe and Wewahitchka, but is a little closer to Wewa.

  “Really?” I say.

  “What if her killer has been right here, that close to us, all this time?”

  “Great work. Thank you. Text me the address. I’m gonna call Reggie. Hang tight. As soon as we secure the scene I’ll call you to come look at his computer.”

  I end the call with Chris and tap in Reggie’s number.

  “We got him,” I say. “Chris tracked him down.”

  “Where?”

  I tell her.

  “Dalkeith?”

  “I’m headed there now. Gonna call dispatch and have a deputy meet me there.”

&n
bsp; “Bad wreck in White City,” she says. “Everybody on the north end of the county is tied up with that. I’ll meet you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Actually already headed that way. Just left the scene of the accident.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Yeah,” she says, “but no fatalities. Log truck coming down off the bridge too fast. Hit two cars stopped in the road waiting for a dog to get out of the way. So . . . what do we have?”

  “Chris says this is definitely the location of the guy who sent the email to Jerry Raffield and posted the confession video on the In Search of Randa Raffield website.”

  “But not the one who Snapchated the picture of Randa or who’s been emailing you?”

  “Right. Though I guess he could be using different accounts or IP addresses or something. Just don’t know enough about it to even guess, but Chris says he thinks it’s two different people.”

  “So this could be . . . May not be the killer. Wow. It’s interesting. To me they all seem credible—the different emails, the Snapchat image, the confession. Hard to believe one of them might be a . . . fraud.”

  “Could be dealing with two killers,” I say. “Work or worked together but now live in and communicate from two different places.”

  “In one way it would make more sense—in terms of them getting away with it, helping each other with every aspect of the abduction, murder, and hiding the body—but . . . in another . . . you’d think one of them would’ve talked by now.”

  “Oh whoever it is, is talking,” I say.

  “No doubt,” she says. “Let’s go see what else they have to say.”

  “Texting you the address,” I say. “See you there.”

  “Wait for me,” she says. “Don’t go in without me.”

  145

  The faded and falling-apart old trailer sits less than fifty yards back off the highway, fronted by a weed-infested yard filled with junk and trash.

  We drive down the dirt and mud driveway, passing piles of aluminum cans, old appliances, abandoned toys, and two vehicles, their hoods up, their tires flat, trash stacked on their roofs and trunks.

  Near the front door of the trailer, tethered to a metal rod in the ground by a chain, is a snarling, squat, bound-up brown and white pit bull.

  Reggie and I had met at the little Dalkeith convenience store and gas station. She had parked her car there and is now riding with me.

  “Can this really be the place?” she asks. “Property records have it listed to a single female with no record. Wonder if she has a boyfriend living with her?”

  Most of the skirting around the bottom of the trailer is missing, revealing a collapsing floor support underneath, and faded, wet, pink insulation falling out of it like stuffing from a dying homemade sock monkey.

  We park at the end of the dirt drive near one of the abandoned vehicles and get out.

  Avoiding the trash and mud and angrily barking pit bull, we make our way to the door and knock on it.

  “Hope that chain holds,” Reggie says. “Hate to have to shoot a dog.”

  It takes a few minutes but eventually the warped aluminum door is opened a crack by a chubby, pasty white boy of about seventeen with black hair and bad skin who looks like he just woke up.

  “Gulf County Sheriff’s Department,” Reggie says. “Who are you?”

  “Huh?” he asks, rubbing sleep from his squinting eyes.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Alec,” he says. “Alec Henry. My mom’s at work.”

  “What’s her name? You alone here?”

  “Yeah. Ah, June. June Stapleton. She’ll be back . . . sometime this evening.”

  “Can we come in, Alec?” Reggie asks, pushing on the door and walking in without waiting for him to answer the question.

  It’s dim and quiet, the only illumination coming from the light over the stove in the kitchen, the only sound the hum of central AC.

  The inside of the small, narrow house trailer is only slightly less cluttered with junk and trash as the outside. Of course, it could be more cluttered. It’s just too difficult to tell in the dark.

  Alec is wearing either chef pants or pajama bottoms—I can’t tell which—with cats on them and a too-tight wife beater.

  “What do you do, Alec?” Reggie asks.

  “Workin’ on my GED.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Y’all truancy? I’m all legit. Old enough to drop out of that boring shit and still get my degree on my own.”

  “Who lives here with you and your mom?” I ask.

  “Just us.”

  “Make a lot of mess for there just being two of you,” Reggie says.

  “Yeah, we been talkin’ ’bout gettin’ a maid.”

  He’s serious. No hint of humor in what he’s saying.

  “Where’s your computer?” I ask.

  He hesitates a moment, then jerks his head back toward an old desktop at a makeshift desk in the corner of the crowded room.

  It’s old and out of date and covered with papers and magazines.

  “No,” I say. “Your computer.”

  “The one you uploaded the video with,” Reggie says. “The one you used to send the email from Randa to her dad.”

  He tries to look confused but can’t pull it off.

  Suddenly he bolts toward the hallway.

  I lunge at him, slamming into him and knocking him down, his body putting a hole in the thin, brittle paneling of the wall.

  Putting my knee in his back and pulling his hands around behind him, I begin to cuff him.

  Reggie withdraws her weapon and a small penlight and begins down the hallway.

  “Anybody else here?” she asks.

  He doesn’t respond. Too busy expressing his discomfort and pain.

  “Don’t get somebody killed, Alec,” she says. “Is anybody else here?”

  He still doesn’t answer her.

  “Gulf County Sheriff’s Department,” she yells down the dark hallway. “Anybody here? Come out with your hands up. This is your last warning.”

  She feels along the wall and eventually finds a light switch, but nothing happens when she flips it.

  I pull Alec to his feet, press him against the wall, and pat him down.

  “Why were you running?” I ask. “Where’s your computer? Who helped you record the confession? Is anyone else here?”

  “What confession? I didn’t confess to anything? Ain’t done anything.”

  “Where’s your mom work? Anyone else here?”

  “Dollar Store.”

  “Which one?

  “General.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “Yeah. I told you.”

  Footsteps. Someone running.

  I spin around.

  Two loud shots from the hall.

  Shoving Alec down face-first on the floor, I withdraw my weapon and start down the dark hall.

  “Reggie,” I yell. “Reggie. Are you okay?”

  “Oh no. Oh . . . Motherfucker,” Reggie yells. “Goddamnit.”

  “What is it? You hit?”

  “Quick. Call an ambulance,” she says. “I just shot a kid.”

  146

  “His little brother held the camera and helped him make the video,” Chris is saying. “It’s all here on his computer. All the outtakes and unaltered audio and video.”

  He and I are in the small evidence room of the sheriff’s department, the laptop on the table in front of him, his gloved fingers dancing across the keyboard and track pad.

  “Sent the email to Jerry too,” he says. “Didn’t really even try to hide anything. It’s all in here. Not behind any security walls or anything.”

  “Anything in there indicate why he did it?”

  “Because he could,” he says. “Just thought it’d be cool. See how many views he could get. How’s Reggie?”

  I shrug. “Waiting
to see her.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s . . . so . . . I just can’t . . .”

  “I know. Anything else on his computer?”

  “All kinds of shit.”

  “Anything else related to Randa? Did he send the image of her or the emails to me?”

  He shakes his head again. “Wasn’t him.”

  “Anything else? Other crimes or—”

  “Definitely some cyberbullying and . . . theft . . . some . . . sexual stuff that . . . it looks like he made it and . . . it looks illegal. We know his brother’s underage . . . so . . .”

  “Keep looking,” I say. “Let me know what else you find. Be careful with everything. Back it up. Guard chain of custody. When you finish, we’ll turn it over to the FDLE lab and see if they can come up with anything else.”

  Reggie appears as if she’s aged over ten years in less than ten hours.

  Her eyes are hollow and vacant, small and puffy, her normally dark skin pale and splotchy, stretched across her skull like a too-tight drumhead.

  Her movements are slow—like her labored breathing and everything about her.

  She seems to be doing everything from a great distance away, distracted, damaged, dissociative.

  She’s in shock—and acts like it.

  “I’ve asked FDLE to investigate the incident,” she says. “They probably would have anyway, but . . . I’m cooperating fully with them. And I want you to too.”

  She has yet to make eye contact with me. She’s standing behind her desk, a pencil in her hand though she isn’t writing and there is no paper in front of her.

  “The . . . main . . . thing . . . I wanted to . . . say is . . . don’t let any of . . . this . . . interfere with your investigation. Don’t stop. Don’t get . . . distracted by . . .”

  “Forget about all that for now,” I say. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking, how you’re doing.”

  She shakes her head and frowns. “Don’t know what I could’ve done differently. He came flying out at me from the side with . . . something in his hand. I . . . I just . . . reacted. I . . . Why the fuck wasn’t he in school?”