True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  He frowns and nods.

  “Business really that bad?” I ask. “Thought things were booming out here.”

  “My situation is dire, but . . . I’m sure not everybody’s is.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Speaking of . . . I need to get back to the office. Try to figure out a way to win Mr. Garrett back.”

  “You’re not handling the sale of this house?”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t even know about it until he just mentioned it. God, if I was . . .”

  “What would it take you to get flush?” I ask.

  “Not much. Not compared to what my business is worth—or what these homes out here sell for. A twelfth of what this house alone is worth would have me back in the black.”

  “What’s he getting for it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not sure. Sounds like his buyer is paying a premium, but I’d say the market value is about three mil. I really do need to go.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll make this quick. When you were together, was Ashley into bondage? Submission? Being tied up?”

  After giving me a look that conveys both confusion and disgust, he shakes his head. “No. To be honest . . . Well, anyway. No, she wasn’t.”

  “To be honest what?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I don’t know why I even—You just proved you can’t keep a secret.”

  “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “It’s a secret room for fuck sake.”

  “You know what I mean. What were you going to say?”

  “Just that . . . Ashley was kind of pedestrian in bed. Kind of boring. And I beg of you not to ever tell her I said anything like that. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything.”

  “I won’t. You have my word.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “How well is a house like this cleaned before a new guest arrives?”

  “Immaculately. Extremely. Spotlessly. You don’t pay what you do for a place like this and it not be pristine in every way. Why?”

  “Just trying to account for the evidence we found,” I say. “Particularly prints.”

  “Do you realize how many people were here during the party?” he says. “We were all over the place. Touching everything.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” I say, as if I actually am.

  250

  “Handwriting results are back,” Reggie says.

  We are back in her office—me, Arnie, Keisha, and Jessica—at the end of the day to share information and coordinate our efforts.

  Though it’s hours before sunset, the day is dark and thunder can be heard in the distance.

  “On both notes,” she adds. “First, the runaway note alleged to have been written by Mariah . . . actually was. Her handwriting is a match. She did write that note.”

  She pauses to let that sink in. And we do.

  “As far as the ransom note . . .” she says eventually, “everyone we’ve gotten samples from can be excluded but four people. Anybody want to guess who they are?”

  Nobody does.

  “I’m disappointed,” she says. “What if I give y’all a clue? Two of the people are from inside the house and two are from out.”

  Nobody says anything.

  “No fun at all,” she says. “Okay. The two inside . . . are . . . Trace and Irvin.”

  She pauses again to let it sink in. And again we do.

  Keisha and Arnie nod like what’s said is what they had expected.

  “And outside?” Keisha asks.

  “Hank Howard,” she says, “and Justin Harris.”

  “Both of whom have a connection to Ashley,” Keisha says. “Brother and ex-husband.”

  “This doesn’t necessarily mean one of them wrote it,” Jessica says. “Just that they can’t be eliminated.”

  “Everyone else has been eliminated,” Reggie says. “That’s good to know . . . ’Cause my money was on Ashley. That’s why we follow the evidence and not our guts.”

  “So what’s our next step?” Keisha says.

  “Additional handwriting samples,” Jessica says.

  “Right,” Reggie says. “We’ve got very specific lists of words and sentences we want them to write for us—with both their left and right hands. But . . . we’re also going to try to find random samples of their writing on other things—checks, letters, lists. Unguarded. Unrehearsed. Real and raw as we can find. Means sifting through their garbage. Whatever it takes.”

  “We have Trace’s song journal,” I say. “Should be plenty.”

  “Be a good place to start,” she says. “Okay, let’s figure out who’s doing what. We’ve got two in the area, two in Atlanta. Do we want to let the Dekalb County sheriff’s do it or take care of it ourselves?”

  “I think we need to,” Keisha says. “I don’t mind driving to Atlanta.” She turns to Arnie. “You up for a little road trip, partner?”

  He nods.

  “Okay,” Reggie says, and looks over at me.

  “I’ll take Howard and Harris,” I say.

  Jessica says, “Is not being able to eliminate these men based on their handwriting enough to get a search warrant? No tellin’ what we might find if we could take a look through their things.”

  “Probably not,” Reggie says. “We’ll need to narrow it down some more. But even if we get a match after this next round . . . handwriting analysis isn’t an exact science. Even if we could convince a judge to give us a warrant it could probably be easily appealed, which means anything we found would be fruits of a poisonous tree. We’d lose it all. Can’t afford that. The handwriting evidence will help strengthen a case made against someone we get other evidence on.”

  “Just thought the killer might have some evidence we could use or maybe he kept a memento.”

  “Like her iPod,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Jessica says.

  “It’s truly amazing,” Reggie says, “even knowing they should destroy any and all evidence, how many killers don’t. Maybe we’ll get lucky. We’re getting close folks. I want to get Trace and Ashley and Irvin and Nadine back down here for questioning soon, but I want our case built by then. We’ll have DNA results in a little while. Let’s keep at it. Work fast but carefully.”

  “I’ve got an idea I’d like for us to try,” Arnie says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Our main two suspects are together a lot,” he says. “Trace and Irvin. The media is still hounding them relentlessly. From what I hear Trace is slowly losing everything—including Ashley. Probably never be under more stress than he is right now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And Mariah’s birthday is coming up soon. I think we should coordinate with the GBI to get Trace’s house mic’d up. His car and Mariah’s headstone too. No tellin’ what’s all being said right now. Could lead to the information we need—maybe even a confession. I could picture Trace and Ashley saying incriminating things in an argument or Trace going to Mariah’s grave on her birthday and breaking down and apologizing to her for what he did.”

  Something similar was done in the JonBenét Ramsey case. It didn’t yield anything useful, but that doesn’t mean this wouldn’t.

  “That’s a great idea,” she says. “Not sure I can pull it off, but it’s worth a try. That really could work if we could actually do it. I’ll see what I can do. Good thinkin’ Arnie.”

  251

  On my way to get additional handwriting samples from Hank Howard, I call Justin Harris to schedule a time to meet with him to do the same thing.

  “I don’t think so, John,” he says. “I . . . just . . . I’ve lost confidence in the investigation, in your department . . . and . . . I’ve cooperated . . . I’ve been so cooperative, but . . . I don’t know, the things I’m hearing being reported . . . I just think y’all are getting desperate to pin it on somebody and I don’t want that to be me. I’ve hired Mr. Browning and he said—”

  “You and Roger Garrett have the same attorney?” I ask.

 
“We do.”

  I know Justin can’t afford Hugh Browning, so either Garrett is paying for it for some reason or Browning is providing his services pro bono. Either way it’s more than a little suspicious.

  “Is Roger Garrett still your client?” I ask.

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “Earlier you accused me of costing you his business and making yours go under.”

  “He’s still a client, but that has nothing to do with—well, anything really.”

  “Is he paying for Hugh Browning for you?”

  “That’s not—that has nothing to do with who murdered Mariah.”

  “Why would he pay for your attorney?” I ask. “Why would he want it to be the same as his? Do you have something on him? Is that how you’re keeping him as a client?”

  “Anyway, good luck with the case,” he says. “I hope you get the guy. I really do. But don’t contact me again. If you need anything in the future, call my attorney.”

  He hangs up without saying goodbye and I call Reggie.

  “Justin is refusing to give any more handwriting samples or to cooperate in any way,” I say.

  “Oh, really?”

  “And he’s lawyered up.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Even more so when you hear who his attorney is.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Hugh Browning.”

  “Thought he only worked for Roger Garrett?”

  “My guess is that’s who’s picking up the tab.”

  “Extremely interesting,” she says.

  “I’m pulling up to Arlene Lafontaine’s house now,” I say. “Just wanted you to know about Justin.”

  “Thanks. Call me when you leave there and let me know how it goes.”

  When he finally comes to the door, Hank Howard tells me essentially the same thing Justin had—though without the expensive lawyer part.

  “Ain’t givin’ no more,” he says. “Should’a got what you needed the first time. TV news says y’all don’t know what you’re doin’ and are about to frame up somebody for it. Well . . . ain’t gonna be me.”

  When I get back in the car and drive away, I call Reggie back.

  “That was fast,” she says.

  “Seems he too is done cooperating,” I say. “Evidently everybody’s doing it.”

  “You have no idea,” she says. “I just got off the phone with Trace’s attorney and was told the same thing. His client won’t be returning to Gulf County for questioning. He will not be speaking with us again. If we’d like to submit questions in writing to him, he’ll see if his client is willing to answer them in writing, but no guarantees.”

  “From what Merrill says, Trace’s life is unraveling.”

  “Arnie’s right, be a good time to question him.”

  “Yes it would,” I say. “Maybe we can figure something out. Merrill might be able to help us some on that end.”

  “Well, let it go for tonight,” she says. “Kiss your wife. Hug your babies. We’ll regroup in the morning. See where we go from here.”

  “I plan to do those very things,” I say.

  But a dangerous and demented man with a gun had a plan of his own—a plan that differed from mine about as much as a plan possibly could.

  252

  When I enter our home, no one greets me.

  When I call out to my girls, none of them respond.

  When I step far enough into the kitchen to see through the living room that the french doors in the back are ajar, I realize something is wrong—or could be.

  I had parked beside Anna’s Mustang in the driveway and passed the stroller in the mudroom on my way in, so they haven’t gone for a drive or a walk.

  I rush over to the back door and look out into the backyard, actually stepping out onto the porch and looking down around the lake and in the neighbors’ yards.

  There are no signs of them.

  When I re-enter the house, I draw my weapon, hoping I’m overreacting.

  Removing my phone from my pocket, I check to make sure I haven’t missed any calls or texts from Anna.

  There are none.

  I text Dad and Verna, then Daniel and Sam, to see if they’ve heard from Anna and the girls.

  Then I begin my search of our home.

  Easing down the hallway quietly, I listen carefully, trying to detect any sound that would signal both their presence and whereabouts.

  About halfway down the hall I hear the whimpering of a child and the soft incessant talking of a man.

  I start to text Reggie, but since I don’t know exactly what’s going on and I doubt having a SWAT team outside would help, I decide against it.

  As I get closer, I can tell the sounds are coming from the girls’ room, which is at the end of the hall and around the corner to the right.

  I start to take my shoes off so I can move even more quietly, but decide taking them off would make more noise than keeping them on and continuing to walk with them.

  I thumb the safety off my Glock as I near the foyer.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve been quiet enough to go undetected, but I’m wrong.

  “Why don’t you come on in here and join us, John,” Chris says. “But leave your weapons out there in the hallway.”

  Without laying my gun down, I continue.

  When I reach the end of the hallway and turn the corner, I bring up my gun, but then quickly drop it to the floor.

  Inside the girls’ room, Chris sits on the floor holding Taylor, his biological daughter, like she’s a stranger to him, which she is. Beside him, Johanna sits crying quietly, his gun to the back of her head.

  One slip of his finger, one tiny little twitch, just an inadvertent jerk, and my daughter will be dead. It doesn’t even have to be intentional. A little cough or a small sneeze and the most precious little girl in the whole world to me will be as lifeless as JonBenét or Nicole or Mariah, and I will join John Ramsey, Trace Evers, and Jerry Raffield as a father who lost a daughter.

  In the back corner across from them, Anna sits with her back against the wall, her wrists and ankles bound together by zip ties.

  All three of my girls look relieved to see me.

  “I told you to drop your gun in the hallway,” Chris says.

  I pivot a little and kick it back out into the hallway.

  Chris looks down at Johanna. “What should daddy’s punishment be for disobeying Uncle Chris, huh?”

  Johanna looks up at me, her big brown frightened eyes searching mine for what to do, how to respond.

  “Look at me,” Chris says. “Not him. What should I do to him?”

  She looks at him, but still doesn’t answer.

  “If you don’t tell me what to do to him I’m gonna shoot him,” he says.

  “Timeout,” she says. “He should have to go in timeout.”

  “Doesn’t seem punitive enough,” he says, “but I said I’d let you decide, didn’t I? Okay, John, toss your phone and other gun over here and then we’ll put you in timeout.”

  I do as he says, moving very slowly, then lift my hands up, palms facing out in a placating gesture.

  He checks the phone to make sure it’s not recording, keeping Taylor trapped in his lap and the gun to Johanna’s head. Then he places the phone and gun on the floor to his right.

  He’s in no hurry and this take a few minutes.

  “You try anything and your daughter dies first,” he says.

  “I know. I’m not going to try anything. Please just remove the gun from her head. It’s so easy for accidents to happen with—”

  “You took my daughter from me,” he says. “Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

  I haven’t taken his daughter from him, but I can understand how he sees it that way. And not for the first time lately, I am overcome with sadness and loss.

  So much loss. Jerry Raffield losing Randa. Chris losing Taylor. Trace losing Mariah. John and Patsy losing JonBenét. I have been here before. Though not quite the same, losi
ng Martin Fisher the way I had in the way I did at such an early age is a scar I’ve carried with me ever since.

  On the floor beside Chris, my phone vibrates, and I wonder if it’s Dad or someone calling me back about where Anna and the girls are.

  “Chris, your daughter is in your lap,” Anna says. “She hasn’t been taken from you.”

  “Close the door behind you and sit on the floor with your back against it,” he says.

  I comply, moving very slowly and deliberately, making sure I don’t do anything to make him react in any way.

  “Why?” He says. “Why is she in my lap right now? Look what I had to do just to have a little time with her. Look what . . . y’all make me do just to see my own flesh and blood.”

  “It’s not us and you know it,” she says. “A judge will decide all that.”

  “But you’re fighting for me not to see her.”

  “I’m trying to protect her,” she says. “I’m not trying to keep her away from you. All I want is what’s best for her. That’s it. Given all that you’ve done . . . I’m sure you can understand me wanting supervision in place. I’m trying to protect your daughter. You have a gun inches away from her, Chris. Are you really saying—”

  “He has a gun around her all the time,” he says, nodding toward me.

  “That’s different and you know it,” she says. “His is holstered or put up, never out or as close to the girls as yours is now.”

  “He’s around her all the time. He’s taken everything from me. Everything. Y’all are my family. Not his. I have nothing. Nothing. I’ve lost absolutely everything. Y’all have everything. I shouldn’t have to walk around town like a gutter bum and watch how fuckin’ happy y’all are, how y’all have everything that I once had—including my own goddamn daughter. Get so sick of seein’ y’all . . .”

  “Chris,” Anna says. “You’re in the position you’re in because of choices you made, actions you took. Nothing just happened to you. John didn’t take anything from you. You can have a different life than the one you have, but you have to rebuild it. It won’t be quick or easy, but you can do it.”