Later that afternoon, Reggie and I drive out to the Cape together to do a walkthrough of the crime scene before the yellow tape comes down and the rental company starts to clean it in preparation for future rentals—which I’m told will quadruple because of true crime tourists alone.
Cape San Blas is situated on a peninsula that begins just a few miles from the town of Port St. Joe. It’s a small but popular beach vacation destination made up of homes and cottages instead of condos, surrounded by woodlands and pristine beaches instead of tourist attractions and amusements.
Unlike Panama City Beach or Daytona, older wealthy couples and younger wealthy families come to the quiet, rustic, isolated strip of snow white and sugar fine sand.
St. Joseph’s Peninsula is a narrow finger of land some ten miles long with the Gulf of Mexico on one side and St. Joseph Bay on the other. At its westernmost point is a state park popular among campers, hikers, swimmers, fishers, kayakers, and birdwatchers.
We drive out on 30A, the rustic road lined with pines and palms, passing more media vans than tourists as we do. I’m driving and Reggie, who probably shouldn’t be back at work yet, is sitting at an odd angle in the passenger seat, attempting to sit without putting pressure on the worst of her wounds.
“You listened to or read the transcripts of the interviews with Trace and the others yet?” Reggie asks.
“Plan to tonight,” I say.
“When the ME concludes the autopsy and releases the body, they plan to return to Atlanta for the funeral,” she says. “I’d like you to interview them before that happens.”
I nod.
“Which means it will probably have to be tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“They’re cooperating and have said they’ll come back when we need them to, but . . . that doesn’t mean they really will.”
“Be much more challenging if we have to coordinate and conduct interviews in Atlanta,” I say. “Let alone make an arrest.”
“Fulton County Sheriff’s office will help, but you’re right. Won’t be easy.”
The first part of 30A looks as rural as any other road in Gulf County, tall pines rising above the highway on both sides, their backlit bases striping the blacktop, their tops dappling the grassy shoulders beyond.
“You got any thoughts on this yet?” she asks.
“None worth sharing,” I say.
“It’s early, I know, but . . .”
“We’ll know far more in another day or so,” I say. “Seeing the house will help. Reading the interviews—conducting some ourselves. Going over the crime scene photos. And especially . . . getting the results of the autopsy. Without knowing cause of death it’s impossible to even theorize—and of course we don’t need to do too much of that until we get the lab results back. Be setting ourselves up for disaster to form many opinions until we get the fingerprints, handwriting samples, and DNA results back.”
“I’ve never felt this far behind this early in a case before,” she says. “I tell you the governor called this morning?”
I shake my head.
“And it wasn’t for the reason he claimed—expressing support and pledging resources. It was to remind me how high profile this thing is and to get it right but do it fast.”
Suddenly the dense pine forest to our right gives way to a low-lying pine prairie where young, narrow trees with a lot of space between them are scattered about, beyond them the bay and beyond the bay more pines on the peninsula curving away from us westwardly.
“Made me glad I blew my budget and hired the outside labs to do some of the testing so we get the results back quicker,” she says.
I nod. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and some of the sheriffs won’t charge us for the work their labs do.”
“To be honest with you, that’s what I’m counting on,” she says. “The private labs, which will absolutely charge us, are going to break the bank as it is.”
“Sorry,” I say, and am thankful again that I never have to deal with budgets or administrative issues. They affect the work I do, of course, but nothing I do affects them, which is freeing.
“Someone said Merrill is working for the defense team,” she says.
I nod. “That’s what I hear.”
“You haven’t spoken with him about it yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it going to be a problem?”
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Wish I could say the same for me and Merrick.”
“I just mean no matter what happens or how this all plays out Merrill and I will still be friends.”
“Wish I could say the same for me and Merrick.”
15
After pulling through the gate at the entrance of Stars Haven where several news crews are still stationed, we drive back to the pale blue beach house mansion that still has yellow crime scene tape flapping around the bottom of it.
Built up on stilts, the ground level is a six-car garage, the platform for the elevated pool, and the housing for the elevator shaft. The crime scene tape is wrapped around the stilts and is whipped around violently in the beach breeze blowing in off the Gulf.
Beyond the massive pastel monstrosity, a private boardwalk extends out between sand dunes and sea oats down to the beach.
The three livable levels are some 10,000 square feet, with an elevated pool and deck on the first story, seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, an elevator, a gym, and three wet bars.
Inside, the enormous rooms are plush and opulent and alternate between beach chic and Gulfside gaudy, and it has the feel of someone’s beachfront mansion far more than rental property. Which it is. This obscene monument to selfishness and hubris was designed and built by the insurance magnate and real estate developer Roger Garrett. In fact, Garrett developed the entire Stars Haven community but only owns this home.
“Place rents for three thousand a week,” Reggie says, as we stand in the open concept first story with a view of the sprawling kitchen, dining room, breakfast nook, wet bar area, and living room.
The living room alone is large enough for two full sectionals, a giant fireplace, and the biggest TV I’ve ever seen.
“How often you think that fireplace gets used?” she asks.
“Probably far more than it should,” I say. “I hear a lot of tourists crank the AC way up and build big fires.”
“You could build a bonfire in that bitch,” she says.
We look around some more.
“It’s no wonder someone had the idea for a kidnap-ransom,” she says. “Wonder why he asked for such a relatively small amount?”
“We figure that out and we’ll be well on our way to catching him,” I say.
“’Course there may not have been an attempted kidnaping at all,” she says. “This level is the only realistic entrance to the house—that’s two doors, front and back—and the family claims they were locked. They were locked when they went to bed and they were locked when they got up the next morning. And there were no signs of a break-in.”
“But they didn’t set the alarm,” I say. “And it’s a rental. No telling how many keys to this place are floating around out there. The owners have keys—and no telling how many of their family and friends. The rental agents have keys. The cleaning service. And anyone who has rented it in the past could’ve made copies of the keys.”
“All true,” she says, “but what’s more likely? That? Or someone in the house did it?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m just trying to think through all possibilities.”
I step over to the huge sliding glass door in the back, looking past a large bronze sea turtle on one side and a brightly painted dolphin on a stand on the other to the deck and bar and pool beyond.
“I realize there are the only two main doors on this floor—this one and the front one, but each level has a balcony and french doors that lead out.”
“Sure,” she says, “a world class gymnast could s
himmy up the balcony and break in, but one set of french doors open into the master suite with Trace and Ashley in it and the other opens into the nanny’s room.”
“Didn’t say it was likely, just possible.”
“But is it really?”
I nod. “Possible. Not probable.”
She steps over and joins me at the back door. “Bet you that bronze sea turtle and funky colored dolphin costs more than we make in a month.”
Beyond the pool and deck a set of wooden stairs leads down to a boardwalk that leads down to the beach. Above the beach and the green Gulf rolling in and returning from it, the clouded ceiling of sky blushes with the reflection of the late-afternoon sun.
“There were a lot of people in here the night before the murder,” she says. “Trace threw some sort of celebration party for his record going platinum. Plus the event was live on Facebook so no telling how many head cases and pedos saw it.”
“Someone could have come to the party and stayed in the house,” I say. “It’s big enough. Could’ve hidden and waited for an opportune time. How many people at the party?”
“Not sure. More than fifty, less than a hundred.”
“These people who drove down from Atlanta or—”
“Some, yeah. Others were some of Ashley’s old friends from the area and her family.”
“None of them crashed here after the party?”
“Not according to the statements given by the family.”
“What’d they do on the Fourth?”
“Was just family, the nanny, and the manager,” she says. “Went into town to watch fireworks.”
“Someone could’ve gotten in then,” I say. “While they were in town.”
“Sure. They came back home and did a few of their own down on the beach. Everyone was tired. Crashed when they came in. Early night according to them.”
“Who put the kids to bed?” I ask.
“The nanny. Says Brett was still up playing a video game in his room when she went to bed, but Mariah was out like a light.”
We cross the room and climb the stairs, pausing at the landing on the second floor, before continuing to Mariah’s room.
“She was isolated from the parents up here,” I say, “but Brett and Nadine were on either side of her. You’d think one of them would’ve heard if there had been any screams or loud noises.”
Because the rooms are large, there is more space between them than normal, but the doors to them are within twenty feet of each other.
“Yeah. They say they didn’t, but I’m looking forward to re-interviewing all of them.”
“Me too.”
We stand at the door to the kids’ room where the notes and Mariah were found.
With the beds stripped and other items collected as evidence missing and the white walls and furniture still smudged with black fingerprinting powder and the evidence markers still scattered about and sections of carpet removed, the room is an incongruous contradiction of festive beachy pastel colors surrounded by white walls and bright multicolored carpet contrasted with the harsh, industrial, blunt, dirty, damaging remnants and reminders of a processed crime scene.
Mariah’s full-size bed is centered along the far wall in, the long side against the wall. To the left of it is a bright aqua-colored couch with a white pillow with bold pink letters on it that read Don’t Worry! Be Happy! To the right of her bed, along the right wall is a set of white wooden bunkbeds, a white ladder extending at an angle down to the floor. Two smallish windows, their blinds pulled up, look out onto the side yard and the next house, which though huge, is small compared to this one. Scattered throughout the room are a few nightstands, a dresser, a chest of drawers, a large wardrobe, a desk with some crayons, colored pencils, construction paper, and a partially open stapler, and a huge TV mounted to the wall. The other walls are decorated with beach, sea, and nautical items—all painted in a clash of bright primary and pastel colors. In the front left corner is a private bathroom.
We look through the room and bathroom, slowly, carefully, methodically, though we’re not here to collect evidence or spot something that might have been missed. The excellent FDLE crime scene team didn’t miss anything. We are here for our own benefit, to take a firsthand look at the house, see what crime scene photos can’t show us, get familiar with the area we’ll be talking about during the investigation and hopefully the court proceedings.
We then take a tour through the room Nadine was staying in. Followed by the room at the opposite end that Brett was staying in.
After we had seen everything there was to see on this level, we conducted a few tests. With all bedroom doors closed, Reggie stood in Mariah’s room and yelled and screamed while I listened from Nadine’s and then Brett’s. Though muffled and relatively low, I could hear her from both rooms.
We then walk through the other levels much more quickly and finish just as Ashley’s ex arrives.
16
“Am I a suspect?” Justin Harris asks.
We are standing in the enormous, open kitchen of the beachfront mansion where we’ve just asked him for his fingerprints and a writing sample.
“Are you refusing?” Reggie asks.
“No,” he says shaking his head. “Not at all. I’m just curious. I guess I would be—a suspect that is—I just . . . it’s just funny. I don’t know. I’m happy to help. I’m here to cooperate. I just thought I was here to answer questions about the house and share some things with you I think you need to know.”
“Write this please,” Reggie says, placing a sheet of paper with certain words on it beside the blank notebook paper and pen already on the marble top of the island.
“Sure,” he says. “No problem.”
Justin Harris is a mid-thirties man in navy work slacks, cheap dress shoes, and a white sports shirt with his name and the name of his rental company embroidered on it.
He presents as a man with an IQ on the low end of average who is working very hard to run the company he inherited from his father but struggling to do so.
“Can you talk while you do that?” Reggie asks.
The rhythm and strategy we had developed since we began working together is for her to take the lead and ask most of the early questions, allowing me to observe how the person responds and have time to think.
“Sure,” he says.
“Tell me about your relationship with Ashley,” she says.
“We were kids. Well, she was. I was, mentally. I was from down here. She was from Wewa. We met at a party. I was older. She was smoking hot. She was a teen mom, but that wasn’t something she told me ’til later—after I had fallen for her.”
As he talks, he continues to copy the words and sentences from the sample Reggie placed on the countertop. Without seeming to realize what he’s doing, he occasionally writes some of the words he’s saying along with the ones he’s copying.
“Between us . . . I think Ashley feels kinda bad for me,” he says. “Probably why they vacationed here. Knew I could use the commission.”
“Why would she feel bad for you?”
“Like guilty I mean,” he says. “My family had money. She was very poor. She pursued me. I think she was trying to find security and a father for her baby. She never said anything like that, and she wasn’t bad to me while we were together, but . . . the moment something better came along . . . she was gone.”
“You said your family had money,” Reggie says. “Not anymore?”
“It’s a tough market right now,” he says.
The truth is there’s nothing wrong with the market. It’s the manager. The agency did extremely well when his dad ran it, but since his dad’s death and the company becoming his, everything except the market is down—rentals, income, valuation.
“So you need money?”
Obviously the family knows about the ransom note, but we’ve been able to keep it from going public. I wonder if he knows about it. Did Ashley tell him? Had they spoken since it happened?
He stops
writing and looks up at her. “Everybody needs money, but I’m not like destitute or anything. I just think she . . . It’s her way of paying me back. I was good to her. And to Brett.”
He answers as if he doesn’t know about the ransom note.
“I don’t know if you suspect her or not,” he says. “Hell, if you suspect me, you must suspect everybody. But there’s no way she could kill anyone. And especially not a child. And that fact that she’s trying to pay me back for the help I gave her when she needed it shows what a decent person she is.”
He finishes the writing sample and drops the pen on it.
“Now we need to get you printed,” Reggie says.
“My prints will be all over this place,” he says. “This is one of my listings. I’m in here all the time.”
“That’s why we need them,” she says. “To exclude you.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
As she rolls his fingers across the small portable digital reader, he says, “I still can’t believe what happened. What did happen exactly?”
“You don’t know?” I say.
“Just what’s online, but . . . that’s not much. Suspicious death, but no details.”
“You haven’t spoken to Ashely since it happened?” I ask.
“Called and left a message for her, told her how sorry I was and to let me know if I could do anything, but I haven’t heard back from her yet.”
“We haven’t released any information like that to the public yet,” Reggie says.
What she doesn’t say is that we don’t yet have that information—and won’t until we hear back from the ME.
“How many sets of keys are there to this property?” I ask. “And who all has them?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure exactly. I can try to find out, but . . . the owner, Roger Garrett, has a few sets I’m sure. We have three sets I think. I can look when I get back to the office. Did the killer use a key to get in?”
“Killer?” Reggie says. “How’d you get from suspicious death to killer?”
“Because of all this,” he says, nodding to her printing him. “And all the questions. And crime scene tape. And there are plenty of rumors flying around out there—locally, like here on the street, and on TV and the internet.”
Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16) Page 6