by Greg Aunapu
When your child is missing, you never forget it, but to have it rammed into your conscience at virtually every moment can be especially debilitating. Almost weekly a young woman's body would be found somewhere in the state or across the country. Sergeant Gonzales would dutifully notify Sue that he was receiving dental records to match with Amy's, not realizing that he was causing more harm than good by keeping her so well-informed.
Sue's faded notebooks are full of scrawled notations, such as: Sgt. Gonzales called to say a young woman's body was found near Orlando. Why doesn't he wait to tell me unless there's a match!
She had nightmares every time she was told a body had been found, imagining what the girl's mother was going through.
Weeks turned into months, and suddenly a year had passed. The yearly Bike Week in Daytona was scheduled again, so Ned and Josh headed north to scout the gangs that would appear, hoping beyond hope that they would find Amy.
Fort Lauderdale was still the Mecca of spring break. Daytona, by contrast, was a small redneck town, known mostly for its racetrack and motorcycle races. Bike Week caused an invasion of thousands of rowdy bikers, all just one beer and one slanted glance away from killing each other. Anyone with any sense stayed away from Daytona during Bike Week. Locals locked their doors and stayed inside as much as possible, or left town completely.
When Josh and Ned arrived, they found that the bikers enjoyed a sort of self-imposed outdoor prison grounds, each club separated by fences of chicken wire, with armed biker guards at the entrances—a compromise with local authorities.
Ned asked the local police chief to escort them into the Outlaw compound to see if they could find his daughter.
The officer leaned back in his air-conditioned patrol car and laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm not sending any of my men in there!"
Frustrated beyond belief, Ned and Josh prowled the outside perimeter trying to get a glimpse of the women. But they were all stationed well away from the fence with many layers of defense between them and the outside. When they saw a lone woman stray, they would show her a picture, but always without any luck. No one would give out information.
Possibly so close, but farther away than ever.
A year had gone by. The world turned, and with it billions of lives continued their inexorable stories. But despite the whirlwind of bizarre experiences, Sue, Ned, and Josh were a family stuck in neutral—unable to mourn Amy's death, but also unable to go on with the normal day-to-day joys and heartbreaks of life, had they been able to confirm that she was alive somewhere, anywhere.
"We're torn apart," Sue told reporter Edna Buchanan at the time. "We still love each other, but we're a different family than we were. Sometimes we're afraid of talking to each other out of fear of causing pain."
Sergeant Mike Gonzales told Buchanan: "Sue Billig is still the same bright, talented individual she always was, but she's had experiences that no one like her has ever had. The uncertainty of what happened to her daughter is traumatic and ugly. It had to change part of her. I have never seen anyone go to such extremes to find someone. She's obsessed with it."
And she was. Anytime someone would suggest that she take a rest, a vacation, or imply that Amy was probably already dead, Sue would put it out of her mind. She felt as if she would somehow know Amy was no longer walking the earth. There was a connection that still felt very real and palpable. Certainly, if you believed the psychics—they all said that Amy was alive. If something had happened to her, wouldn't some evidence have been found? Judging from the Hell's Angels rock-pit debacle, these guys weren't always that good at disposing of bodies. Day in and day out, murder victims were found in fields, canals, and woods. No matter what people might say, it wasn't that easy to make somebody disappear forever.
And at every knock at the door, Sue would fantasize that Amy had returned. Every time the telephone rang, she thought it would be Amy at the other end . . . with a tale of woe and misery, but alive.
Sue spent virtually every waking and dreaming moment with her daughter on her mind. "I only feel alive when I'm searching for Amy," she told her friends and reporters. "The worst time is when nothing is happening. I get desperate because I think people will forget I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself."
Frank Rubino shakes his head in disbelief now, knowing all that would come later, and offers a smile of respect. "Sue is just the toughest person I've ever come in contact with," he says.
That was a year into the nightmare. How Sue would keep going through a life that would become ever more bizarre, like a twisted tale of Alice Through the Looking Glass, can only be attributed to pure willpower. It really is better not to know the future.
-5-
T he Billigs had just spent their second Thanksgiving without Amy. The holidays are always hard for families missing a loved one, and it was depressing for the Billigs, who could now look forward to an empty Hanukkah/Christmas season. As always, there would be many Grove parties and get-togethers, but this time they would stand among their friends, Amy's friends, trying to conceal the emptiness they felt inside. Everyone would remember how much Amy enjoyed special events and parties and being surrounded by her friends.
On November 30, 1975, when Sue was feeling especially low, she received a call before ten in the morning.
The voice was gruff, bearlike. "Mrs. Billig? You don't know me, and I can't tell you who I am."
Sue steeled herself. She had received many calls like this. She sat down on the bed, hit the record button on the tape recorder, and started automatically in her notebook.
"I'm a Pagan, and I've been in jail for a while. I just got out and I was going through old newspapers and I found an article about you. Are you taping this?"
"No," Sue lied. "We haven't received any calls worth taping for a while. I'm writing it down."
"Well, I see from some of the articles that you've taped conversations, so I'll make this short. Amy was my old lady for a while in Orlando."
"Is this Creature I'm speaking to?" Sue asked breathlessly. "Amy was supposed to have been with an Outlaw named Creature."
"I told you, I'm a Pagan. She lived with me in Orlando for a while. I got her from a guy named Bracket, not Creature. But I came back to Miami to get my bike and I got arrested. One of my friends was supposed to bring Amy back down, but the deal never went down. She was living underground with some hippie chicks."
"And you're sure this was Amy? She said her name was Amy Billig?"
The voice grew harsher in defense. "Are you crazy? Of course she wasn't using that name. She had a fake ID, like everyone else. But I'm looking at her picture in the newspaper, and I'd know her anywhere. I don't know if she even knew who she was before. But I was good to her, I didn't beat her, Mrs. Billig." His voice quailed. "I loved her, Mrs. Billig."
Tears came unbidden into Sue's eyes.
"You have to meet me," she implored. "I have to hear more. Can you help me find her? We are not looking to put anyone in jail. We will keep everything confidential. All we want is to get her back. If we do, there's a reward of $2,000."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" the biker asked.
"Check me out with your friends. Ask Satan. Whomever . . . We swear we won't bring any heat down on you. You have my word!"
"I'll check you out and call you back," the biker said.
"Give me your name—"
"I'll call you," he said, and hung up.
Sue and Ned paced nervously all morning until the next call two hours later. The biker had "checked them out," he said.
"So you'll meet us?"
"There's a Fina station on Krome Avenue, just north of Quail Roost Drive. You can't miss it. Be there at three P.M."
"How will I know you?" Sue asked.
"Oh, you won't be able to miss me," he told her.
Krome Avenue was really Route 27, way out in west Dade, pretty much a man-made border between development and the Everglades. The Fina was a fill-up station for farmers in the Redlands an
d Homestead, truckers headed north with loads of fresh produce, fisherman headed into the swamps trailing giant airboats behind pickup trucks, and vanloads of migrant farm workers who pulled up to buy beer. A thousand drug deals had probably gone down in the parking lot. If authorities weren't tapping the battered pay phones, they certainly should have been.
Ned and Susan pulled up in their station wagon and turned the engine off. They opened the windows to a cool breeze washing in from over the swamp that smelled of mud and distant fertilizer. Sue was extremely nervous.
They didn't have to wait long. They could hear the popping echo of the Harley before they could see it. Soon, a hulking, black-leathered rider sped into view, then swerved into the gravel parking lot, spitting rocks from beneath his tires.
He stopped and looked around. His pale freckled arms stuck out like tattooed hams from his black vest with the Pagans' insignia emblazoned across the back. The tattoos were of an eagle, a naked woman, and others. A couple of lower ones had been burned off, showing rippled skin. Probably remnants of another bike club before the Pagans. Of course, he had the one percent tattoo branded on his knuckles. He had longish, red curly hair and sideburns, mustache, and a beard crawling over a meaty white face that looked fresh from prison. He scouted around and spied Sue and Ned, the one great anomaly sitting in the parking lot. They wouldn't miss him, and he sure couldn't miss them.
He cranked the handle and the giant black Harley with balding tires reared in their direction. He pulled up on Sue's passenger side and stuck his head down.
"Ever ride a Hog, Mrs. Billig?" he croaked.
Ned was incensed. "I'm not letting her go anywhere alone," he insisted, getting out of the car.
The biker looked at the slim middle-aged art dealer with thinning hair. The Pagan had killed men three times Ned's size and a thousand times meaner without thinking twice, and then done jail time with the worst sons of bitches in the country. Ned wasn't someone who would give orders to him. "You want any info about your daughter, you're gonna get it from me," he said without even raising his voice. "Now me and the little lady are going for a ride, and you'll wait here for her until we get back."
Sue got out of the car and slammed the door. "Ned, I'm going," she said. "It'll be all right."
Ned bristled. "We don't even know his name," he said.
Sue hopped on the back of the bike, no helmet, getting a painful burn from the muffler. "Ouch! I'll be all right," she said firmly.
Not many men of any size would have argued with the biker. Ned took a breath and prayed as Sue blew him a kiss. Suddenly, it was like lifting off in a jet. The giant motor blasted beneath her. She was caught in a universe of sound. Sue gripped the giant ribs in front of her as the bike exploded onto the road. Wind whipped her hair as she gripped the bike seat between her thighs and prayed.
She couldn't see the speedometer but guessed they must have accelerated from zero to 60 mph in a few seconds. The biker changed gears, the sound of the motor increased, and the diminutive five-foot-two-inch interior decorator cinched her eyes shut against the wind, knowing they were going at least 100 miles per hour.
Just as suddenly, the driver braked, leaned left and cut into a side road. She forced her eyes open, wanting to see where they were going in case she had to get there again—or if she had to get away. The road turned into a gravel drive lined with weedy sawgrass and half-smashed mailboxes nailed onto posts that jutted at various angles to the road. They passed a group of faded trailers with old rusted cars in front, tires piled here and there, and dusty dogs lazing in the sun. One looked up, started to bark, and thought better of it, scuttling away with its tail between its legs.
The Pagan pulled up to a medium-size trailer guarded by a giant, drooling mastiff hitched to a rusty chain.
Sue, a bit woozy, disembarked from the bike. The biker laughed at her. "Never been on a bike before, have you?"
She shook her head. "My leg hurts. But it was quite an experience." She took everything in. There was a rusted 1960s-era two-door Valiant parked nearby, trailing a taillight on wires. She memorized the license plate: 4-85026.
The large man pet the dog, which was growling at Sue, and pushed open the front door. It was littered with old pizza boxes, beer cans, and drug paraphernalia. The sink was piled with dirty dishes. Ashtrays had long ago been filled and had mountains of cigarettes piled in them.
The biker strode over to the chugging refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer from inside. "Want one?" he offered.
"Just tell me about Amy," Sue said, "I can't wait any longer. Describe her for me. I need to know that it was Amy you were with."
He sat down on a ragged old Barcalounger and took a swig of beer. "Well, she's a skinny girl. Skinny all over. Especially her legs. She reads a lot. Always reading. She listens to music. Likes crap like that Joni Mitchell woman. She's definitely not like the other girls."
This all rang true to Sue, from the skinny legs to the music. But a smart man could have deduced some of that from the articles.
"But was she all right, healthy?" Sue demanded.
He swigged the second half of the beer down like water, then fetched another. "She'd been knocked around plenty by the time I got her," he said. "Had bruises on her face and knots on her head. I know she didn't know who she was anymore. Didn't remember her name or her family. So it's not like she's scorned you. She had a fake ID and I got her another one. She was afraid to do anything on her own. Say boo, and she cried. But she was so sweet. She hardly talked at all, but when she was alone she would sing a bit. Had a real nice voice."
"Tell me something else," Sue said. "There's information we haven't allowed anyone to know about, so we could identify her. What kind of rings did she wear?"
"I don't remember no fucking jewelry," the Pagan scoffed. "But she did have a thin, two-inch appendix scar, way down to her waist."
Susan gasped. "That's right! You're the first person to come up with that!" For the first time since the Majik Market, she felt she was really on Amy's trail.
"But I got to know," the man said. "All you want to do is talk to her. You're not going to force her to leave?" He sounded upset. He was definitely in love with her and didn't want them to take her away.
Sue wanted to jump up and scratch his eyes out. Of course, the first thing they would do was bundle Amy up, get Frank Rubino and the police, and take her away from wherever she was. She'd been kidnapped and brainwashed as sure as any cult. Instead, she spoke in a level voice: "It'll be her choice. We just want to know she's alive."
"You seem all right, lady. Got some spunk. I'll send a letter to one of my buddies who's doing time in Raiford. And we'll get you a picture of her so you know she's alive. Let me take you back to hubby now. He's probably about to die."
The bike ride back was just a little less nerve wracking. Before, she had no idea what type of situation she was headed into. But now she was okay. On the way back she kept her eyes open and actually smiled. This wasn't so bad after all. This biker seemed to have been genuinely nice to Amy—really seemed to want to help.
She told this all to Ned, who had been half out of his mind with worry. She wrote down the license plate number she'd memorized, and as soon as they were home, she called the policewoman, Ina Shepard, and filled her in on everything, including the plate number.
Ina called back quickly, her voice tense. "Was this guy about six-two and 225 pounds? Has an eagle and a woman tattoo?"
"Yes, that's him," Sue said.
"Well, the car is registered to a Paul Preston Branch, got a sheet longer than he is tall. Been arrested for auto theft, concealed weapons, assault, and—get this—he did eight years for murder. Got out, and got clipped for a second-degree murder charge. Shot a guy in the head in a bar. Got off on a technicality. This is one mean and dangerous man you're playing with here, if it's the same guy. I want you to be extremely careful."
"If he was in jail, how did he have Amy?" Sue asked.
"Looks like he wasn't put in j
ail until July of 'seventy-four. That makes plenty of time for him to have had her. It's hard to tell from the records I have, but it looks like he probably got out last month."
When the biker called the morning of December 2, the possible murderer told Ned, "I'm sending a letter to Raiford today."
"Is this for the picture of Amy you mentioned?" Ned asked.
"We got a long way to go for that, pops," Branch said. "First, we have to find where she's been put. Then we'll see what we can do after that. I might have to break some heads to get her back."
-6-
T he holidays seemed brighter after they had received the new information about Amy. In fact, it seemed fitting they would hear something about her during Hannukah or Christmas. The family always celebrated both because they had so many friends of different faiths, and because they welcomed any cause for celebration. There was almost an air of expectation hovering in the house.
But after New Year's 1975, with no more contact from the mysterious biker, Sue began to think she was on another roller-coaster ride. It was time to apply some pressure to make things happen.
Ina Shepard was able to get Creature's arrest record. He was the Kissimmee Outlaw who supposedly had owned Amy when she was identified at the Majik Market. His real name was David Clark: six-five, reddish blond hair, 250 pounds, with arrests for assault, robbery, and assault with intent to kill. Another real nice guy. He sounded a lot like the mysterious biker who had taken Sue for the fast motorcycle ride.
Sue knew there was no way Ned would allow her to go back to the trailer if she told him about her plans, so she arranged to go out with Father Hingston, who had accompanied them to the Denny's to meet the former narcotics detectives a few months earlier in October. Shepard and her partner would wait nearby in an undercover vehicle in case backup was needed.