Schock said the photographs and evidence collected to date were to be sent to the FBI’s special photo unit in Washington, D.C., for review. In addition, Oklahoma County Assistant District Attorney Lisa Hammond sought a court order to photograph Floyd’s hands. In two of the Commesso pictures a thumb was clearly visible inside the victim’s right thigh. Investigators believed it was Floyd’s thumb, probably holding her leg back as he took his photos holding the camera with his right hand.
Whatever the outcome of the thumb investigation, it wouldn’t take an expert to tell Bob Schock that Cheryl Commesso’s death was an execution.
The next day, he and Deasaro had an appointment to meet the executioner.
Franklin Floyd was led into the interview room at the Oklahoma City County Jail at 9 A.M. on March 25, 1997. Waiting for him were Bob Schock and Mark Deasaro, who on first sight didn’t think much of Floyd.
He wasn’t a physically intimidating presence, that was for sure. He was of medium size, wore glasses, and his hair had plenty of gray. He had no remarkable physical features, and was so plain he looked to be someone who could be easily dismissed or ignored.
Floyd became angry and agitated upon his introduction to the detectives, saying he knew why they were there.
“My sister sent you. She’s crazy. Did you know that? She’s always calling cops about me,” he said.
Floyd rambled on for fifty-five minutes, and Schock and Deasaro let him go without interruption. They were warned by Fitzpatrick and others to just let him talk and get it out of his system, or else he’d just shut up and remain silent.
Schock and Deasaro traveled to Oklahoma City hoping, at best, for a confession from Floyd. They knew the evidence to date was overwhelming: They had a motive, they had a means, and they had the pictures.
But when Schock broached the subject of the murder of Cheryl Commesso around 10 A.M., Floyd became angry, reiterating he had heard about the murder from his sister Dorothy but claiming to know nothing about Cheryl Commesso.
“That homicide took place in 1994. I was in Oklahoma. Couldn’t’ve been me,” said Floyd.
“No, the victim was found in nineteen-ninety-five, but we believe the homicide occurred in nineteen-eighty-nine,” said Schock.
Floyd threw off a look of surprise.
“Well, that changes everything,” he said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I was in Florida in nineteen-eighty-nine.”
Schock produced a photo of Cheryl and gave it to Floyd, who said he didn’t recognize her.
“She could have been a friend of Sharon’s.”
“Sharon? That’s the girl that was living with you in Florida. She was your daughter, right? You want us to call her Sharon?”
“Yes, Sharon. She wasn’t my daughter. I just raised her. She was a good girl until she got older, and then she became bad. She was involved in dancing, drugs, and other stuff. She danced at a club in Tampa, off of Dale Mabry.”
“You mean the Mons Venus?”
“I don’t remember the name. But Sharon knew a lot of shady people at that club, and some of them would come up from Miami. Sharon did parties there, and in Fort Lauderdale. I told you, she wasn’t a good girl. And she wasn’t my daughter. I raised her, but she wasn’t my blood.”
Schock continued his interrogation, drawing even more anger from Floyd, who didn’t want to hear anything about Cheryl Commesso.
“Did you meet any of Sharon’s friends from the club?” said Schock.
“Hell yeah, knew lots of the girls. Sharon would bring them home. Sharon knew lots of people. And a lot of them were weird. She’d have parties in the house. Sex parties. I told you, she became a bad girl.”
Floyd changed the subject away from Sharon to how he fell off a ten-foot-high ladder while working a painting job, and drew nine hundred dollars a month in disability payments. The injury caused severe back pain and forced Floyd to wear a brace.
“If you were hurt that bad, how could you go on a boat? You had a boat, didn’t you?” said Schock.
“Yeah, I did. Don’t you know that boats are good therapy, that riding on the water is like a good massage? Doctors told me to get on the boat.”
“I like boats,” said Deasaro, drawing a satisfying grin from Floyd, who had developed a clear dislike for Schock. Floyd reacted favorably to Deasaro and eased a bit, talking about his arrival in Florida in 1988, thanks in part to word of mouth from ex-cons he knew, who said Tampa was a good place to live.
“I’ve got friends. Not going to tell you who they are, but they’re around and they know where a guy like me can live and prosper. We did all right in Tampa,” said Floyd.
“You mean Sharon did all right. You weren’t working, right?” said Schock.
“I told you, I hurt my back. Fell of a ladder and got nine hundred a month. And she had her own money and did whatever she wanted to do. There was little I could do about it,” said Floyd. “I just hung around the house and fished.”
Schock asked if he remembered a red Corvette. Floyd said he remembered the car but not the color. Schock pulled out a picture of the car, and Floyd said yes, the car was at the trailer.
“She was probably friends with Sharon. She’d go out on weekends, on junkets to Miami with those people. You know, parties. They’d do terrible things. We had to leave Florida because Sharon stole from them. Half-a-million dollars,” said Floyd, leaning over the table and reducing his voice to a whisper. “We had to change our names, so we went to Alabama, to a cemetery in the town of Andalusia. I took Clarence Hughes. She took Tonya Tadlock. We went to New Orleans and got married. I had to do it. To give Michael a name. Couldn’t raise him without one, you know. Then we went to Oklahoma and buried the money. But they found us and we had to give it back.”
Floyd told his bizarre story with great zeal and conviction.
Schock thought he was mad.
Deasaro, who was somewhat amused, asked about Sharon.
“Where did Sharon come from, can you tell us that?” said Deasaro.
“I’ll never tell ya’ anything other than it was near Chicago. Near the warehouse where they made the snuff films,” said Floyd.
“Didn’t you tell the FBI that she was from Indianapolis? That her mother was a prostitute?” said Schock.
“Don’t remember what I told the fucking FBI. I know what I’m telling you now,” said Floyd.
Schock nodded, looked to Deasaro, then asked the question he wanted to ask two hours ago.
“Mr. Floyd, did you kill Cheryl Commesso, the woman in these photos?” said Schock.
“No, I didn’t,” said Floyd, appearing incredulous. “I may have known her, but I sure didn’t kill her.”
The following morning Schock and Deasaro drove to the federal prison in Lexington, Oklahoma, to meet with an inmate, Allen Dwight Dowdy. He was just a kid, only eighteen years old, but had befriended Floyd months earlier when they were cellmates at the Oklahoma City County Jail.
Dowdy said they spent much of their time talking, though the conversations were heavily one-sided, with Floyd doing the talking, even recalling several startling events in his life.
Schock pressed Dowdy to share his conversations with Floyd, and Dowdy thought for a second or two.
“He first told me something about burying a body and putting lye on top of it to help it decompose. He didn’t say where it was or who it was. I just figured he killed somebody and didn’t want to give me any more details.”
“Did he ever talk about his wife, Tonya?” said Deasaro.
“Yeah. He said he hit her in the head and left her on the left side of the road. Another time he said he ran her down in his car while she was walking on the side of a highway. He talked a lot. Said lots of things. Not sure if anything is the truth, you know?”
“Did he say why he killed her?” said Schock.
“I think she was going to leave him. He heard she was going to take his son and run away. Franklin blamed the people she worked with. Said they were whores who pushed
her to leave him, and he wouldn’t have it. He didn’t really like talking about her much. Didn’t seem like he really cared about her. He only cared about the boy. That’s really all he talked about. That kid, Michael. But he always spoke in the past tense, like he was dead. Franklin said one night that he was in jail in Kentucky after he was caught and told a con there that he threw the boy off a bridge and he screamed the whole way down until he hit the water.”
“What did you think of that?” said Deasaro.
“Not much,” replied Dowdy. “I mean, he told so many stories I figured he was just telling me a lot of shit. Pumping himself up. I didn’t think he was a bad guy, maybe a little crazy, but he was OK as a cellmate. I’ve had worse.”
“How about Florida?” said Schock. “Did he talk about living there, about his involvement with a girl, a girl with a red Corvette?”
“Only thing he said about Florida was that he owned a boat and he’d get rid of his enemies by wrapping them in a net and throwing them in the water,” said Dowdy. “He also said he didn’t like strippers and people involved in pornography. Again, I just figured he was telling stories, you know, to pass the time. Ain’t got much else to do. Really didn’t think much of it.”
Franklin Floyd was seated again in the interrogation room at the Oklahoma City County prison, and appeared even more disturbed than he had two days earlier. Under each arm were papers and envelopes, which he called his “stuff pertainin’ to his situation.”
He dropped the papers on the table, then started talking much like he had before, without allowing any interruption.
Schock and Deasaro, as they did during the first interview, allowed Floyd to carry the conversation. And much like the first interview, Floyd told a convolution of stories, even changing statements he’d made before. Floyd continued for an hour before Deasaro finally cut him off.
“Let me ask you a question,” said Deasaro.
“No, I have more to show and tell you,” said Floyd.
“No, I’m going to ask you a question. If the police could prove the photos of Cheryl Commesso were yours, what would be your explanation?” said Deasaro.
“They’re not my pictures. They were intermingled with the FBI to make us think they were mine. I’d be able to fuck you in court just with the chain of custody alone,” said Floyd. “I’m not stupid. I studied the law.”
Floyd continued on for another fifteen minutes and Schock and Deasaro were about to cut him off again when he unexpectedly admitted that he knew Cheryl Commesso.
“She hung around with Sharon. Drove that red car. Now I remember. I didn’t see her much, but I know she was around,” said Floyd.
“So let me ask you again, Mr. Floyd, now that you’re saying you did know her. Did you kill Cheryl Commesso?” said Schock.
“I told you before no and I’m sayin’ it again, no,” said Floyd.
Schock and Deasaro flew back to Florida, and over the summer months interviewed more witnesses, solidifying their case with further identification of the furniture in the Marshall trailer at the Golden Lantern trailer park, particularly the sofa in the living room. The color of the sofa matched the color and design of the sofa in the photos, which was identified as the sofa bed in the living room.
In November, Floyd pled guilty to state kidnapping charges filed in Oklahoma, claiming he was “sick and tired” of the Oklahoma City County Jail and its menu of beans and bologna. By pleading guilty, it was agreed that Floyd would be transferred to the federal prison in Atlanta, the same prison where he served a year from 1971 to 1972 just prior to his parole to a halfway house in November 1972.
Unbeknownst to Floyd, a grand jury was impaneled in the circuit court for the Sixth Judicial Circuit of Florida in Pinellas County, Florida, to consider evidence presented by Bruce Bartlett, the chief assistant state attorney for the Sixth Judicial Circuit.
Bartlett alleged that Floyd bound, beat, and eventually killed Cheryl Commesso in his rented trailer home at the Golden Lantern trailer park. The photos found in the stolen truck revealed that Cheryl was either dead or near death before Floyd allegedly shot her twice in the head, disposed of her body off the side of I-275, then left her red Corvette at the St. Petersburg-Clearwater Airport.
On November 12, the grand jury returned an indictment for first-degree murder, a capital felony in Florida. A week later Floyd received a third and final visit from Schock and Deasaro, who believed there was a slim chance that Floyd would finally admit to the crime.
Floyd was angered by their presence, and greeted them with a four-hour-long harangue, insisting that several others were responsible for Cheryl’s murder.
“Sharon had so many friends, could’ve been anyone that did it,” said Floyd. “I have an idea who did it, but I ain’t no snitch.”
At that point it was clear to Schock and Deasaro that Floyd would not admit to the murder, and it was Schock who delivered the news to Floyd that a grand jury had returned an indictment against him for murder.
Floyd flew into a rage and cursed the two detectives, who got up to leave the room.
“You don’t have shit on me!” he yelled. “I’m going to make fools of you! I didn’t kill that woman!”
The detectives stood side by side, a sheriff’s deputy behind them waiting to take Floyd back to his cell.
“Mr. Floyd,” said Schock. “Be informed that you are under arrest for the murder of Cheryl Ann Commesso.”
CHAPTER 26
During his twenty-seven years as a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Joe Fitzpatrick took special pride and satisfaction in his ability to close every case assigned to him. It was a personal barometer of his achievements within the bureau, a feat that also served to drive him emotionally and professionally, and no doubt led to his continued success.
By 1997, Fitzpatrick entertained thoughts that perhaps he’d spent enough time with the bureau, and envisioned spending lazy days fishing or playing with his grandchildren. He had also remarried, following a divorce several years earlier from his first wife, and he wanted to spend less time at work.
As retirement became increasingly enticing, Fitzpatrick had some unfinished business, his personal record now in jeopardy.
Two mysteries remained from his successful pursuit of Franklin Floyd: finding the last resting place of Michael Hughes and the true identity of Sharon Marshall.
There was little Fitzpatrick could do with the Hughes investigation. Michael’s remains were believed to be twelve hundred miles away in the Atlanta area, and the search was now in the hands of the Atlanta FBI field office. All Fitzpatrick could do was press hard on the Atlanta agents, pushing and prodding them to follow every possible clue and grill every witness, particularly Floyd’s friends David Dial and Rebecca Barr.
Fitzpatrick assumed Dial knew more than he was saying, and even believed that Floyd confided to Dial the exact whereabouts of Michael’s remains. But Dial remained mum, claiming he knew little about Michael, but a lot about Floyd.
“Franklin was a nicer person back in prison,” said Dial in one interview. “Now he’s all twisted.”
Rebecca Barr had previously agreed to help the FBI and had taped Floyd’s phone calls from prison. But by the time of Floyd’s federal trial she publicly expressed her love for Floyd and planned to marry him in prison, a union that prison authorities thought unwise and suspect.
As he did with David Dial, Fitzpatrick and others believed Barr knew more than she was letting on about Michael and Sharon, but Barr refused to say anything that would incriminate Floyd.
His secrets were her secrets.
With the Michael Hughes trail cold, Fitzpatrick decided to take it upon himself to search for Sharon’s true identity.
Sharon’s story affected Fitzpatrick like no other investigation before. He never knew Sharon, and she died four years before he ever heard of her. But it was clearly eating him alive that she remained unidentified, and it bothered him more that a convicted felon and pedophile could actually ki
dnap a girl and raise her as his daughter without so much as a blip on any radar screen.
Fitzpatrick asked himself over and over, Why didn’t she ever say anything?
Hoping to find an answer, he turned to the interviews at Forest Park High School. Agents from the Atlanta field office visited the school, where teachers and administration personnel who remembered Sharon were still dealing with raw feelings that mixed between guilt, rage, and confusion. All were stunned when they first heard the news in November 1994, and all were unable to understand or comprehend how Sharon and her “father” could fool so many people for such a long period of time.
The more they talked about Sharon, the more they remembered the subtle, and not so subtle, signs that something was amiss. Teacher Terry Magaro remembered Sharon’s quiet way during their first interview, and could still see “Warren” sitting before her, espousing his “daughter’s” talents and accomplishments, even answering questions directed toward Sharon.
Carol Worley clearly remembered Sharon’s insistence that she return home by 4:30 every afternoon to cook and clean for her father. Everyone knew why she was leaving, but no one thought to interfere with what all believed was a somewhat strict dynamic between father and daughter. Further blurring the lines of reasoning was Sharon’s performance: She was a gifted student with a high IQ and all felt Warren’s firm parenting was something to admire, not criticize. As Worley, Magaro, and others looked back in disbelief, no one could comprehend how a young woman could perform at such a high level while subject to the kind of torment and abuse that Sharon suffered.
And she hid it so well. It was clear that Sharon had developed a skill at covering up her past, never approaching any teacher or student to share her pain. Instead she maintained the ruse, easily shifting back and forth between stories, telling most students that her mother died in a car accident, then supporting her father’s later statement that she died of cancer.
A Beautiful Child Page 20