Post mortem lividity occurs when a person’s heart stops beating and blood pools in the lowest parts of the body, causing purplish bruising patters on the skin. After eight to twelve hours the lividity becomes fixed and doesn’t change even if the body is moved.
The FDLE tech takes pictures and the ME does a quick examination of the body, then he and Ralph and I disconnect the search and rescue drag hooks, most of which, thankfully, are attached to the crossbars, and carefully turn her over.
The front is far worse and far more difficult to look at.
Seeing the young girl, I can’t help but imagine Johanna or Taylor in her place.
Reggie grabs my upper arm and squeezes as she looks down, and I reach up and over and cover her hand with mine.
Her head is held so tightly to the beam by the barbed wire around her neck and forehead that the bar had made an indentation in her face and forehead.
Lifeless blue eyes, wide open and wet, stare out of either side of the metal beam, looking up, seeing nothing.
A thick ring of barbed wire strands form a crown of thorns on her head.
Small breasts, barely rising in her prone position, their nipples pale and pink nearly nonexistent, make her look all the more vulnerable, all the more exposed, all the more in need of care and cover.
An anklet tattoo of vines and flowers and birds around her left ankle.
Both fingernails and toenails painted. Though different colors.
Ligature marks around her neck.
A large, wet wound in her side is meant to approximate the spear that pierced Jesus.
But of all the shocking and horrific aspects of this complete and utter violation, the most unsettling is the metal bar extending up at a forty-five-degree angle and disappearing into her fully exposed, clean-shaven vagina.
The ME takes more pictures and does a cursory examination.
We all stand as silent witnesses to the unfathomable and unspeakable act, no one moving, no one looking away.
Like the back, the bars are solid—except for a few holes about an inch in diameter on the right end of the crossbar.
When the ME is finished, Sam Michaels squats down next to the victim and touches her cheek with the tips of her gloved fingers.
“You just rest now, sweetheart,” she says. “We’re going to get the monster who did this evil thing to you. We’re gonna make sure he never does this to any other innocent girl like yourself again. I promise you that.”
Behind her we are all nodding—even the ME, FDLE tech, and the search and rescue driver.
19
It doesn’t even seem real,” Reggie is saying. “I mean . . . fuck.”
She, Sam, and I are back at the landing, standing well away from everyone else.
“We went from wondering if our accidental drowning was truly accidental to . . . this . . . to the sickest, most sadistic shit I’ve ever even heard about.”
Sam says, “Y’all both know that was way too specific and sophisticated to be his first time.”
I nod.
“A goddamn serial killer,” Reggie says. “In my backyard.”
In one sense she means figuratively—this is all of our backyard—but in another she’s being very literal. She lives in a trailer with her mom on Byrd Parker Drive—just the third place down from the landing, her backyard, which I can see from here, backs up to the river, less than a hundred yards from where the body was discovered.
“There’s no telling how far the body traveled,” I say. “It could’ve been dumped upstream and drifted down here.”
Given the weight of the cross, I know it’s doubtful, but in theory it’s possible.
“But,” I continue, “even if he dumped the body here, it doesn’t mean he’s local.”
“This could be his dumping ground,” Sam says. “We’ll see if any other bodies show up. Or she could be from here. He just passes through, works his way up and down the river. It may be full of bodies. Any missing persons matching . . . any teenage girls missing?”
Reggie shakes her head. “Not from here—not from either end of the county.”
“Identifying her will really help,” Sam says. “Hope we’ll be able to. Then we need to see if we can find similar cases, see if there are any suspects already.”
I nod. “And not just in Florida.”
“There’s a religious element,” she adds. “I know you have a religious background, John, but I’d like to bring in my husband to consult too. He’s a former religion professor—now a profiler who specializes in this sort of thing.”
“I attended a workshop he did at UF in Gainesville,” I say. “He’d be a real asset for us.”
“I want you two working on this together, with my help,” Reggie says. “Can you do that, John, and continue the investigation into Shane’s death?”
I nod.
As the chief law enforcement officer in the county, it’s Reggie’s call. FDLE is here at her invitation. By pairing us, we’ll have the resources of FDLE and our knowledge of all things local. Having FDLE involved will also help with any jurisdictional issues if the investigation takes us out of Gulf County.
“We’re not thinking they’re related, right?” Reggie says.
I shake my head. “Don’t see how they could be so far, but . . . we’ll keep an eye out for any connections.”
Sam nods, then turns to Reggie. “Were you saying you didn’t want Daniel consulting?”
“What? When?”
“When I mentioned him you said you wanted me and John to work on it with you.”
“Oh. No. Sorry. We’ll use all the support staff we can—from forensics to deputies—I was just making sure it wasn’t too much for John and that our departments can work together on it.”
Reggie seems off and I wonder if she’s shaken up from seeing the victim or feeling the weight of the responsibility of such a case or if it’s something else.
“Good. I was asking because it’s not official. He just helps me, but I want to be able to bring him along if I need to—to a crime scene or meeting or whatever.”
“Sure. Great. Yeah.”
“Hopefully we’ll get a match on other cases,” Sam says. “Hard to imagine forensics is going to be able to give us much.”
“Given what we have now,” I say to Reggie, “can you get search and rescue to widen their search?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“And I know this is shocking and horrific and extraordinary,” I say, “but I don’t want it to overshadow our investigation into what happened to Shane.”
Reggie nods enthusiastically. “Make sure it doesn’t,” she says. “You’re in charge of making sure it doesn’t.”
While Reggie talks to Ralph about expanding the search, Sam and I figure out our next move.
“Is she okay?” Sam asks.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I say. “She was definitely a little off. She’s normally more together than that. She’s a good sheriff. I’m sure she’ll be fine tomorrow.”
She nods. “I look forward to working with you on this,” she says.
“Same here. I really appreciate what you said to the victim.”
“I meant it.”
“I know you did. And you were speaking for all of us.”
“So . . .” she says, “what’s your initial take on the crucifixion element?”
“He made it part of his sexual sadism,” I say, “but the cross is a symbol of both sacrifice and suffering—and ultimately to a symbol of redemption for some. He’s making her suffer, of course, but for what? He’s making a sacrifice of her, but for what? His sin? Hers? Is she a sacrifice because she’s pure, or because she’s wicked and deserves to die? In a way, what he’s done is crucifying and then baptizing. Is that intentional, symbolic in some way for him, or just a way to hide the body and help wash away evidence? Why a metal cross instead of wood? Why bolts instead of nails? And his use of barbed wire . . . are all these things convenient or significant? My guess is s
ignificant, and figuring out how will help us find him.”
“Like I said,” she says with a smile, “I’m really looking forward to working with you on this.”
“Just a lot of questions.”
“They’re the right questions,” she says. “Which is the key in any investigation. Probably be redundant to ask Daniel to consult, but—”
“Not at all,” I say. “He knows so much more about all this than me. I’d love the chance to get to work with him. And I think we’ll need all the help we can get on this one.”
She nods slowly, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
We are quiet a moment.
Eventually she says, “I really don’t see how your missing swimmer and our victim can be connected. Am I missing something?”
I shrug. “I tend to agree. Be hard to see how they could be, but . . . can’t rule it out entirely yet either. Same landing. So close together. Maybe Shane saw something. Maybe the killer took him out because of it.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe he’s the killer. Maybe that’s why he was swimming here—to be close to her.”
“Even less likely, but maybe.”
“Okay,” she says. “There’s not much for us to do yet. Why don’t you continue working on your swimmer case and I’ll check ViCAP for matching victims and missing persons. We’ll see what the prelim tells us in the morning and go from there.”
ViCAP or the Violent Criminals Apprehension Program is the FBI’s unit responsible for the analysis of serial violent and sexual crimes—a system Sam has access to through FDLE.
“If you find anything, don’t wait until tomorrow,” I say. “Call me tonight.”
20
Still shaken, Reggie calls Merrick.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Home.”
“Mine or yours?”
They live less than a mile apart and use both equally and refer to both as home.
“Mine. You okay? What’s wrong? Did you find Shane?”
“I need to talk to you,” she says. “And I need to trust you more than I ever have anyone.”
“You can.”
“Meet me in my backyard?” she says.
“On my way.”
“Have you seen Rain?” she asks.
“Not since this morning when you did. Why?”
“I can’t get him to answer his phone.”
They are sitting in the swing in her backyard, overlooking the Apalachicola River. The wooden swing hangs between posts that give a little in the loose dirt around them as it moves. Out in the water, search and rescue boats move about searching for Shane. One with a cadaver dog on the bow, one with the side-scan sonar taking images every fifteen feet or so. Two dragging the bottom. And an unseen observation pontoon boat now five miles down.
“What’s going on?” he says. “Tell me so I can help.”
“I’ve already trusted you far more than anyone else ever,” she says.
“Don’t stop now.”
She takes a deep breath, holds it a moment, then lets it out slowly. “We found a girl in the river,” she says, and proceeds to tell him what happened.
“My God,” he says. “That’s . . . fuck. That’s . . .”
She realizes that she had been in this same damn swing when she had the most difficult conversation of her adult life. It was this swing she fell into after the devastating dawning of revelation in her last case.
She should burn this fuckin’ swing. Of course it’s not like bad news and difficult conversations and painful realizations would cease if this swing ceased to exist. And besides . . . there is something comforting about it, something solid—as if it has the strength and density to absorb pain and sadness, guilt and shame.
“No wonder you’re so upset,” he says.
“It was bad, but that’s not why I’m . . . so . . . I . . . Here’s where the trust comes in.”
“Okay.”
“I think it’s Amber,” she says.
“Amber?”
“Matthews,” she adds.
“The little girl Rain was seeing?” he asks, his voice rising.
She looks around.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice again. “The one who ghosted him?”
“The one we thought ghosted him.”
“How long has she been . . .”
“About the time she disappeared on him.”
“So the texts she sent him . . .”
“Probably sent by her killer.”
“Her boyfriend who answered her phone?”
“The killer.”
“He’s going to be devastated,” he says.
“Devastated I can deal with. Implicated, not so much.”
“How?”
“First I want to confirm it’s her. I need to see the pictures he has of her again. Then I need to know the details of their relationship and last day together, and then account for his whereabouts ever since.”
“You should hear what they’re saying,” Tommy says. “About the body y’all found. It’s all anyone can talk about.”
“It was bad.”
We are standing on the end of the dock, looking out at the activity in the water. Reggie, Sam, and Ralph have all gone.
It’s evening. Quieter and cooler now.
Behind us the landing is mostly empty. A few search and rescue support staff. A single deputy posted at the entrance.
“I feel real bad for that little girl,” he says. “Already been praying for her and her family. And I hope y’all catch whoever did it quick so he can never do anything like it again.”
I wait, knowing there is more.
“But . . . it’s hard not to resent her some too. It’s like everybody has forgotten about Shane. It’s like him still being missing is a distant second because he’s not the victim of some serial killer or something.”
“I can see how it would feel that way,” I say, “but it’s not the case. Those boats out there right now, they’re searching for Shane. I spent most of the afternoon interviewing his friends who were with him. The sheriff, FDLE, and I have already talked about not letting the discovery of the body today take anything away from our search for Shane and our investigation into exactly what happened to him.”
He nods. “Thank you. I feel so . . . childish for feeling resentful of that poor girl, but . . . I just want my boy to be treated like he should, like he deserves.”
“I promise you that will be the case,” I say.
“Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.”
21
I arrive home to discover we have an unexpected but not unwelcome dinner companion.
Since losing his job, my dad had been just sort of drifting aimlessly, and my sweet Anna had invited him to dinner often, and though he often declined the invitation, when he did join us it seemed to do him good.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Anna whispers when I walk into the kitchen.
Dad is in the living room giving Taylor a bottle.
“Of course not. I appreciate you doing it.”
“I know how much you’re dealing with right now.”
“I’m glad you invited him. Glad he actually came.”
“I invited Merrill and Jake too, but they’re both working.”
Merrill Monroe is my best friend and Jake Jordan is my younger brother. I’d be surprised if Jake came, but I’m disappointed Merrill can’t make it. I miss him. Since we moved and I took the new jobs, I have seen far less of him—and my life is the lesser for it.
We eat.
Anna has prepared parmesan chicken, potatoes, and my favorite—fresh field peas and fried cornbread—and it is truly delicious, nourishing me in many ways.
After dinner and after Taylor is down, Dad, Anna, and I wind up in my library—Anna with wine, Dad with a beer, and me with sweet tea.
In my previous home—an old single wide house trailer in Pottersville—I had books in every room, in piles and stacks, on the floors against th
e walls. Here, in our new home, at Anna’s insistence, I have a proper library in the converted formal living room, and I love it.
“Still no sign of the McMillan boy?” Dad says.
He’s sitting on a small antique-looking love seat that had been his mother’s.
I shake my head. Not yet.
Anna is in a chair across from him.
I’m on the rug on the floor between them, a book about religious symbolism and homicide in my lap. During breaks in our conversation, I glance down and quickly take in short passages.
The concept of sacrifice means to make holy and carries the connotation of a religious practice in its fullest, most complete sense. It can best be understood in the context of its four historical purposes: homage, thanksgiving, supplication, and expiation. Homage is an act of absolute adoration. Thanksgiving is appreciation for an answered prayer. Supplication is a request or petition for a gift, favor, or divine intervention. Expiation is a payment for sins committed, an attempt at placating divine anger and wrath. The desired result of such religious sacrifice is transformation, communion, regeneration, divine assimilation, and immortality.
“I hear what was found was really bad,” Dad says.
“Maybe the worst I’ve ever seen,” I say.
“Really?” Anna asks.
I nod.
“That’s saying something,” she says. “What exactly was it?”
I tell them.
“Oh my God,” she says. “That poor child.”
Dad shakes his head.
“I was thinking about it,” I say. “Thinking about all the homicide victims I’ve seen over the years—the kids in Atlanta, the inmates in the prison, the women killed by the Stone Cold Killer at Stone Mountain, even the exorcism victims at the retreat center near Mexico Beach, which involved a crucifixion—and as truly tragic and terrible as all of them were, none of them were as elaborate and sadistic as what I witnessed today.”
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Anna says. “I wish you would’ve said something sooner.”
“Nothing to say. Not really.”
Dad says, “Worst ones I ever saw were victims of Bundy. Well, were said to be victims of Bundy’s killing spree through the Panhandle. I have my doubts about one of them actually being his.”
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