The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  —Waited just a little longer the first time I’s out here, it woulda been dark enough to set off that flash and know it was here.

  Remington quickly sets up the camera again and tries to figure out the best angle.

  —The fuck you doin’ out this far? I seen you about a mile back. Figured I’d follow you since you was headed this way. Sure glad I did.

  Holding the camera up again, Remington attempts another picture. As he does, the man fires a shot from a rifle that whizzes overhead near the camera and hits a tree a few yards behind him, splintering the bark, lodging deep into the heart of the hardwood.

  —I’m tired of having my picture took.

  This time the picture is framed much better, but the man has moved.

  —You might as well talk to me. Got nowhere to go. You do realize that, don’t you? This is the end of the line, partner. Even if it was just the two of us. I’m more at home out here than anywhere. But I’ve radioed my buddies, so . . .

  Remington’s mind races.

  What do I do? How can I get out of this? I don’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. Heather. Mom. Pictures. Run. Hide.

  —Sorry it has to be this way. I genuinely am. But no way I can let you leave these woods. If there was some other way, I’d be happy to . . . but there ain’t. Some shit’s just necessary. Ain’t particularly pleasant, but it is, by God, necessary. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. That’s the God’s truth. Speaking of . . . You wanna say a prayer or anything, now’s the time.

  —Who was she? Remington asks.

  —Huh?

  —Who was she? Why’d you kill her?

  He hadn’t planned on saying anything. The two questions had erupted from him without warning.

  —It doesn’t really matter, does it? Not gonna change anything. Won’t make any difference for her or you.

  Something about the man’s practical reasoning and unsentimental logic reminds Remington of his father, and he hates that. His dad shared nothing with this soulless sociopath, save a pragmatic approach to life.

  A flare of anger.

  His dad’s sober sensibility infuriated him. It was so safe, so serviceable, so on-the-odds.

  Heather.

  What if that were her buried in that hole? It’d matter. Might not change anything, but it’d goddamn sure matter, it’d mean something. The shot and burned and buried victim means something to her circle, means everything to somebody.

  —Still like to know, Remington yells.

  —Just complicate things. Come on out and I’ll make it quick. Painless. Won’t torture you. Won’t hurt somebody you care about.

  Stowing his camera and its original memory card securely in his sling pack, Remington prepares to run.

  Odds aren’t very good. But there it is. It’s who he is. Born without the practical gene.

  Run.

  His body hears his thought, but doesn’t respond.

  Now.

  Pushing up from the cold ground, he stumbles forward. Bending over, swerving, attempting to avoid the inevitable—

  Shots ring out from behind as rounds ricochet all around him, piercing leaves, striking tree trunks, drilling into ridge banks.

  Run.

  6

  Now

  * * *

  On my way home, I stop by the Ambulance building to talk to the EMS director, Carter Peak.

  My drive from Port St. Joe to Wewa was particularly slow today. I got behind both a loaded log truck and two flatbed trucks and trailers full of bee boxes. Agriculture in our area isn’t what it once was, but it still has a huge impact on everything from jobs to land use to traffic.

  Parking on the side near the front of the Ambulance station, I walk through the open bay between the two ambulances and into the back room where the on-duty EMTs work and rest while waiting for calls to come in.

  The large, open room has a kitchen on one end and seating area on the other, and like the ambulance bay, is quiet. Unlike previous times I’ve been in here, the TV in the seating area is muted, and, except for Carter, the room is empty.

  Carter Peak is a large, thick man with curly, longish hair. He is kind, good-natured, a little goofy, and one hell of a good EMT.

  I find him over in the kitchen area, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a library book.

  “What’re you reading?” I ask.

  He holds it up. It’s Glyn Johns’ Sound Man: A Life Recording Hits with The Rolling Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Eric Clapton, The Faces.

  In addition to being the EMS director, Carter is the front man for a talented local band called Mix Tape Effigies.

  “How’s the music career going?” I ask, taking a seat across the table from him.

  “Better than ever,” he says. “Got a new song on Youtube that’s gettin’ a lot of love, looks like we might get to open for Rick Springfield for the fundraiser concert he’s doing for the college, and we just booked Gulf Coast Jam, but . . . I won’t be quitting my day job anytime soon.”

  “Would you like to?”

  I’ve encountered a lot of artists over the years—actors, writers, painters, musicians, nearly all of whom dream of making it. What that means to most of them has to do with finances and popularity, and even though chances of it happening are minuscule they continue to dream, continue to pursue, and that makes their lives richer and more meaningful. The things we care about, that drive us, that make up our dreams, are far less about making a living than making a certain kind of life.

  “I’d love to play music full-time, plus . . . this gig takes a toll on you, you know? All the guys tell me I’m way too much of a pussy to be doing this. It does get to me. Anyway, what brings you by? I’m sure it’s not to talk about my jukebox hero daydreams.”

  I tell him.

  He shakes his head and his eyes take on a far off stare. I can see him accessing the unpleasant memories.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, John,” he says. “I’ve been called out to some horrific wrecks where . . . what was there wasn’t recognizably human, to some sad-ass suicides, but this . . . this was a massacre. Everybody was dead.”

  He has a slight lisp and a wet, whistley mouth when he talks, which only intensifies the more he talks—or the more excited he gets when he talks. Interestingly, his lisp and his over-salivated mouth vanish when he’s singing.

  “We were first on the scene,” he continues. “Not that there was much we could do—but we got to see it all, raw, fresh . . . looked like something from a war zone. And it was so . . . isolated. Took forever for us to get everybody out there—most came by boat down the river. Took forever for FDLE to process the scene. We were there from almost sunup to well after dark.”

  “Robin Wilson was sheriff at the time,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head and letting out a harsh laugh. “If you want to call it that. More like a . . .”

  “What?”

  “I try not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Make an exception just this once,” I say with a smile.

  “He was a thug with a gun and a badge and more power and authority than anyone in the county. Hell, the county paid him to do whatever the hell he wanted to. Made up his own rules, acted as if he and his little posse were above the law—and they were. Hell, they were the law.”

  “He worked the case himself, didn’t he?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I guess. If you want to call it that. Was it ever solved? He and some of his men supposedly worked it. I know Dahl Rogers and Skip Lester were pretending to work it with him.”

  “Pretending?”

  “Did it ever get solved?”

  “No, but—”

  “Only thing they worked at was a cover-up. Something was wrong with the investigation from the jump. He let FDLE process the scene but wouldn’t really let their agents work the case. I don’t know. I’m just glad you and Reggie are in there now.”

  “You think Robin and his men’s deaths had anything
to do with what happened to Remington and the others in the swamp?”

  “Two groups of men being killed execution style,” he says. “Only two groups of men to be killed like that in the history of this county—well, since the Indian-Settler days—and one group was investigating the deaths of the first group. What do you think?”

  “I think what you obviously think,” I say. “It’d be one hell of a coincidence.”

  “And who the hell am I? Just a glorified EMT, not a detective of any kind, but between you and me . . . I’d say somebody’s still covering it up. I mean, come on. Neither crime has been solved. Really? In all this time. I don’t know. Something ain’t right. Says something for you and Reggie that you’re looking into it. Really does.”

  “What was the talk at the time?” I ask.

  “Which time?”

  “Both. Start with the swamp massacre.”

  “Well . . . big shootout in the swamp like that and everybody assumes drugs, but none were ever found and . . . nobody believed Remington or Mother Earth would be mixed up in shit like that, so . . . There were some wild ass theories, though. None of ’em worth repeating. It’s just a giant unsolved mystery. And those messages Remington supposedly left behind. Why was no girl ever found? Why would he say it if it wasn’t true? But . . . still . . . no girl was ever found. And if there was one, why didn’t anyone ever come looking for her? I don’t know . . . It’s just all so . . . But I knew Remington. Knew his dad, Cole, better, but the whole family was good people. If he said a woman was killed out there then there was a woman killed out there. If he said Gauge did it, then Gauge did it. And if he said he hid evidence of it then he hid evidence of it. But . . . fact remains no evidence of it has ever been found. And on the second one—Robin and them . . . take your pick. Jealous husbands, rape victims, drug related, or . . . most likely . . . whoever was behind what happened in the swamp. I mean . . . what if it was a big drug deal out there that went bad? What if they were involved? What if they took the money and the drugs and whoever they took them from . . . executed them? ’Cause it was like a statement. I mean . . . hell . . . they were killed with their own guns.”

  7

  Then

  * * *

  Robin Wilson, the former sheriff of Gulf County, along with his inner circle of the men—lifelong friends—who worked for him, including Donnie Ray Kemp, Dahl Rogers, Skeeter Hamm, and Skip Lester, were executed one by one with their own guns.

  Dahl Rogers was found in his locked car in a wooded area near an empty subdivision. There was some question at the time as to whether his death was suicide or murder, but FDLE ultimately ruled it a suicide, though they believed it was connected to the corruption and the murders of the others in the department. Donnie Ray Kemp was found in a nest of cypress tree roots in the Apalachicola River, a gunshot wound in his chest. Skeeter Hamm was found sitting in a ratty old recliner on his houseboat in a blood-soaked wife beater and blue jeans, bullet holes in his left cheek and the center of his chest. Eric Layton, Reggie Summers’ brother-in-law, was found dead in his deep freezer on his back porch. Skip Lester was killed with his gun in his kitchen, the pot of gumbo he was cooking still simmering on his stove.

  At the time of the murders, Wilson and his department were under investigation by FDLE for a variety of allegations relating to everything from the violation of the civil rights of citizens and inmates to criminal misconduct.

  This reckoning, the methodical murder of each corrupt and compromised cop, took place quite a while after their department had conducted the Remington James case and around the time Reggie moved back to Wewahitchka to take care of her mother and become the chief of police of her old home town.

  For many years the small city of Wewa hadn’t had a police department, but instead fell under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff’s department. As more and more came out about Robin Wilson’s questionable, even criminal, conduct and the FDLE investigation began, the city commissioners decided to reinstate their own police jurisdiction and brought in Reggie to run it.

  As the chief of police in a department of one (she was chief and the entire squad), she investigated the murders because many took place in Wewa—or at least on this end of the county. Eventually, she was appointed to the position of sheriff and the city of Wewa returned to being policed by the sheriff’s department, like it had been before she was hired.

  While still the chief of police in Wewa, Reggie arrested Robin and locked him in her cell in the old city hall building she was using for an office. Shortly after that, she was called out to search for her niece, Lexi Lee, who was missing at the time. While she was out searching and he was still locked inside his cell, Robin was shot nine times with his own .45.

  Merrick entered the building a short while later looking for Reggie and found Robin dead. He was knocked out by whom he and others assumed to be the killer.

  FDLE cleared both Reggie and Merrick of Robin’s murder.

  As far as I can tell, Reggie has kept the investigation into the murders open, but hasn’t given it much priority and hasn’t taken advantage of many of the FDLE resources on offer to her.

  From what I can gather, FDLE couldn’t make a connection between the Robin Wilson corruption case and his murder. Since it was two different investigations, the agency didn’t automatically work the second one, only offered to help the new sheriff since it was her jurisdiction and her decision.

  Many in the media have questioned both departments about the case, and how the murder of a sitting sheriff can continue to go unsolved, but so far no amount of pressure seems to be able to motivate Reggie to make the now-cold case a priority.

  8

  Now

  * * *

  Walking into my empty, quiet house makes me sad.

  Closing the door behind me and kicking off my shoes in the mudroom, I step into the kitchen and stand for a moment.

  Total stillness. Total silence.

  And then I detect, ever so slightly, the hum of the refrigerator.

  Usually Anna and Taylor and sometimes Johanna are here to greet me, to give me hugs and kisses and tell me about their days. Usually Sam is in her hospital bed in the corner of the living room smiling at me, patting my hand as I pat hers. But now, as if a body without a soul, my home lacks presence, lacks sound, lacks those who make coming back to this place each day the thing I look forward to the most.

  It reminds me of how quiet and lonely my solitary life used to be.

  Anna is at her parents’ with Taylor, taking advantage of Sam being gone, getting away from her ex-husband who recently moved to town to torment us. She’s also there to plan our wedding.

  It’s spring break for Johanna, my daughter, and she and her mother are on vacation in North Georgia.

  And Sam, who is showing improvement that is surprising everyone, including her doctors, is in a special rehab facility in Tallahassee for additional evaluation and therapy.

  I am alone.

  My house is empty and it makes me feel empty.

  Eventually the house settles and creaks and the central unit kicks on.

  The kitchen is immaculate. I told Anna not to clean the house before she left, that I would do it when I got home, but of course, she couldn’t leave without making it spotless first.

  I step over to open the fridge, but pause to look at the pictures beneath the magnets on the front of its doors first.

  Snapshots at various angles, their corners covered by the magnets holding them in place.

  Anna and I in dress clothes at a friend’s wedding, the two of us at our favorite restaurant in Panama City this past Valentine’s Day, each of us with our daughters, the four of us together—at the beach at sunset, grilling at the Dead Lakes Campgrounds, hunting for Easter eggs at Dad and Verna’s place.

  These are among my favorite photographs, each its own world of life and meaning. It occurs to me that Remington died attempting and succeeding to capture just such images.

  Mixed in among the photog
raphs are the words of the refrigerator magnets. In addition to everything else, Anna has taken the time to leave me small poems expressing her love.

  I open the fridge to find containers of food she cooked for me before she left and sweet notes that make me feel simultaneously less and more lonely.

  As if a bachelor again, I drink orange juice thick with pulp straight from the bottle, return it to the fridge, and close the door.

  Stepping even farther into the dark house, I can see the moon’s reflection on the gently undulating surface of the lake through the French doors in the back. The moon is big and bright, but from where I stand inside, only its reflection on the water can be seen.

  My plan had been to come in, get comfortable, and spend the rest of the night reading the novel manuscript Heather had sent me and the case files I copied and brought home, but something about the empty, quiet house makes me want to leave.

  So I do.

  9

  Then

  * * *

  He runs as fast as he can, his boots slipping on the slick surface of the leaves.

  Keep running.

  Slamming into the thick-bodied bases of hardwoods, he absorbs the blows, spins, and continues. Tripping over fallen branches, felled trees, and cypress knees, he tucks, rolls, and springs, somehow managing to find his feet again and keep moving.

  Eventually the shots stop, but he doesn’t.

  He runs.

  The cold air burns his throat and lungs.

  He keeps running. His heart about to burst, he keeps running. He doesn’t stop.

  Exhaustion. Fatigue. Cramps. Shin splints. Twisted ankle. Thirst. Lightheadedness.