I hand her the bags and she tears into them while I pull up one of the old wooden Adirondack chairs and sit down beside her.
She holds up J. D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis. “I’ve been wanting to read this. Thank you so much.”
“Figured you might read it to us while we’re in the car together chasing down leads on this case.”
“I’d love to.”
“Our friend at Sundog says it’s in the same vein as Deer Hunting with Jesus and will explain many of the dynamics of the election.”
“It will be a nice break from the shit I’m encountering online,” she says. “You should see what the evil little internet trolls write about Randa, her family, her boyfriend, her friends, even Merrick and Daniel and the other bloggers and podcasters. It’s vile. Makes you lose what little faith in humanity you have left.”
I frown and shake my head.
“They say the most outlandish and outrageous things, trash people’s entire lives—with not a single shred of evidence. It’s just crazy thoughts they have, random bullshit ideas with no basis in fact or reality—and they post it with impunity, with no regard for civility or decency or reality.”
“That’s the catchphrase of the moment, isn’t it? We’re living in a post-facts, post-truth world.”
She shakes her head and looks as sad as I’ve seen her lately. “It’s the very worst parts of humanity, and it’s not just tolerated, it’s celebrated. And there’s so much of it. How can so many people be batshit crazy?”
“I don’t have an answer for that, but to quote my favorite Midwest folk poet Mr. John Mellencamp, ‘to say that we’re doomed is just an obvious remark, it don’t make you right just keeps you in the dark.’”
“Do you really think we are?” she asks.
“Doomed? No. I don’t. Well, I guess sometimes I do. And in some ways we are. But for every narcissistic, egotistical politician, for every racist and sexist and bigot, and for every sad little internet troll, there are decent people doing good. Doesn’t get as much attention or coverage, isn’t as flashy or reacted to, but the good is there, quietly relieving suffering, continually making the world a better place.”
“You give me hope, John Jordan,” she says.
“You give me hope, Anna Rodden,” I say.
Saying her last name reminds me we have to pick a date and plan a wedding.
“Love conquers all,” she says.
“Only if she’s allowed to,” I say. “She works by invitation only. Love is simultaneously the weakest and strongest force in the universe. Now, open your other gift so we can give some expression to this great love we have.”
She smiles and opens the Central Square Records bag. And squeals when she sees it’s Boz Scaggs Hits! on the old original Columbia Records vinyl.
“You found it,” she says. “We have to dance to our song right now.”
“Yes, we do.”
I stand and take her hand and lead her back into our living room.
As she turns off all the lights but a small one in the kitchen, I pull the old record out of its sleeve, place it on our new turntable, and find the very first song we ever danced to in junior high.
By the time the keyboard begins the familiar refrain, we are in each other’s arms in the middle of our dark living room. By the time the strings begin, we are slow dancing like we did that first time. By the time Boz Scaggs begins to sing “Look What You’ve Done to Me,” we are transported back to the commons area of Potter High School on a cool fall night following a home football game, when the world was still new to us and the possibilities it presented seemed to open up in an infinite and incomprehensible expanse.
“Best first dance song ever,” she whispers.
I nod and thank God again for this gift.
Our bodies conform to each other’s contours as we turn rhythmically round and round like the earth spinning beneath us, our own gravitational force pulling us toward each other as it has our entire lives.
And the mad world of American politics and true crime internet trolls and everything else that is inane and insane dims and fades away, and for this present, perfect moment there is only us, only love.
17
Over the next few days, I become even more obsessed with Randa Raffield, her life, her disappearance.
I continue to work the case.
Each night I go to bed with Merrick and Daniel in my ear feeding my obsession. Each morning I wake up thinking about it.
I attempt to set up interviews with Roger Lamott and Randa’s mom and boyfriend, but meet with resistance and delays.
I meet with Reggie. She approves a new search and we organize and train volunteers to search Panther Swamp for Randa’s remains.
Anna uncovers more and more information online—some of it useful, much of it not—all of it instructive.
We help Daniel and Sam move into a friend’s empty unit at Barefoot Cottages, and Merrick and Daniel convert the guest room into their podcast studio.
Johanna comes for the weekend. Having her here with us makes our family complete, and I want her here all the time. Taking her back to her mom is extremely difficult for me to do.
Dad is undergoing treatment for chronic lymphocytic leukemia, and I’m both taking him to his treatments and trying to spend as much time with him as I can in between working two jobs and being with Anna and the girls.
Chris, Anna’s ex-husband, continues to create and cause problems for us—or attempts to. At best, he’s a severe irritant, like a stone stuck in the passageway of our lives. At worst, he’s a spreading, incurable disease. And all of this is just a precursor of what’s to come.
On the following Monday morning I drive out to the place on 98 where Randa’s car was found, now the base of operations for the new search taking place.
Among the many volunteers, I discover Jerry Raffield. He’s giving a short speech before the workers return to the woods.
“My family and I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing,” he’s saying. “More than anything in this world, we want Randa returned safely to us . . . but . . . if that’s not possible at this point, we want to know where she is and what happened to her. Now, I know you good people aren’t doing it for this reason, but . . . there is a substantial reward for the person who finds her, so . . .”
Local TV stations have news crews videoing his speech. Nearby local newspaper reporters take notes.
When he’s finished with his remarks, the reporters gather around him and ask a series of questions, which he patiently answers. He then looks directly into the cameras and makes a tearful plea—first to Randa to come home, then to whoever took her for mercy, then to the public for information to help locate her.
While he’s talking to the media, I step over and speak to Gary Adams, the deputy organizing and overseeing the search operation.
He’s a middle-aged thick black man with huge hands, a big head, and a quiet, no-nonsense manner.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Wasn’t expecting all the reporters,” he says with a frown, “but . . . maybe it’ll help. We got a pretty good turnout. More older people than I’d like. The thought of them traipsing through the swamp makes my sphincter pucker, but . . . we’ll use what we’ve got.”
I nod.
“I’ve told ’em if they find anything not to touch it, but you know they will,” he says. “Trying to use the various emergency services folk we have to keep a close eye on the citizen volunteers, but . . . it ain’t gonna be easy.”
“I appreciate all you’re doing.”
“I took some special training on this and have a consultant friend I don’t mind asking for help,” he says. “She out here . . . we gonna find her.”
“I have no doubt.”
“’Course . . . she out here . . . she . . . bones. So . . . not tellin’ the public, but we got cadaver dogs coming in later in the week.”
I nod. “Thanks again. Let me know
if I can do anything to help.”
As I finish with Gary, a reporter for the Port St. Joe paper the Star approaches me. She is a young Hispanic woman who looks to be barely out of her teens. My guess is she’s an intern still in college or this is her first job after graduating.
“I’m Sofia Garcia,” she says. “With the Star. Can I speak to you for a minute? You’re the lead investigator on the Randa Raffield case, right? What can you tell me about why this renewed interest in it? Is it because of the popularity of the In Search of Randa Raffield podcast?”
“Sheriff Summers encourages her department to continually pull out older case files and go through them with fresh eyes, keeping in mind recent DNA and other forensic advances.”
“Isn’t her boyfriend the one doing the show? Did he talk her into reopening the case?”
“There are a lot of citizens looking into this case,” I say. “And we hope they may discover information that will help us—we always need the public to contact us with information, it’s how cases are solved—but, and this is very important to remember, the official investigation into the case by the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department is not connected with or influenced by any outside, amateur, or private investigations.”
She presses—like any good young journalist should, but that’s all I give her, and eventually she moves on.
When Jerry is finished with his interviews, he steps over to where I am, not far from the search command center tent.
“Hello, John. How are you? Thank you so much for all you’re doing to help find my Randa.”
“I was surprised to see you here today,” I say.
“I’ve come out here searching so many times,” he says. “I couldn’t let others volunteer to do it without me being here to help, support, and appreciate them.”
I nod. “How’d you even hear about it?”
He shrugs. “Not sure. Guess it was from one of the news stations wanting a comment or interview. Well, I better get out there and join in the search . . . I just wanted to thank you again for all you’re doing. I feel more hopeful about finding her than I have in a very long time.”
18
While everyone is searching on the north side of the street toward Panther Swamp, I walk across the highway and look around on the south side.
Walking along the soft, sandy shoulder of the road, I make my way over to the entrance of Windmark Beach, the St. Joe Company’s coastal resort community on St. Joseph Bay.
Had Randa come this way? It’s possible.
Windmark Beach is still largely a ghost town, its marketplace and community buildings mostly empty, the majority of its lots still vacant, but in 2005 when Randa disappeared there was even less. Far less. Mostly construction.
I pull out my phone and call Anna.
“Could you see if you can find out what was in Windmark in January of 2005?” I ask. “What was already built. What was under construction.”
“Sure. Are you there now? I can go ahead and do it.”
“If you can. If not, just when you can.”
“I’ll do it now and text you any pictures I can find.”
“Thank you. Love you.”
“Love you more,” she says, and is gone.
I walk along Windmark’s narrow paved road, under the decorative water tower, past the empty storefronts on the right and community buildings on the left, to the wooden bridge leading down to the beach.
Had Randa made this same walk? I could see her doing it, being drawn to the water.
I pause on the wooden bridge over the dunes and look back at the houses to my right. How many were here? Was anyone living in them at the time? Did anyone see her? Did her killer live in one?
When I reach the end of the wooden walkway, I’m reminded again of how narrow the beach is here. The thin strip of sugary sand is boarded by sea oat–covered dunes on one side and the bay on the other, its dark water expanding out toward the point of Cape San Blas and the greater Gulf beyond.
It’s quiet and peaceful here—and would be even if it weren’t early morning. The nearly four miles of beach lining this part of the bay is nearly always empty, appearing abandoned just like the resort community encroaching on it.
Looking out across the bay toward the Cape beyond, I wonder if Randa made the difficult but doable, for her, swim and wound up over there. Had all the searches during all this time been looking for her in the wrong place?
My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Anna.
Wasn’t much there at the time. Here are a few pics.
Thank you. Love you.
LYM.
In another moment, three images of this area around early 2005 come through.
The thing that strikes me most about all of them is how raw and unfinished much of the property appears and how much construction was taking place.
Two nearby houses were in various stages of completion in early 2005. I walk over to them.
The structures are enormous, the architecture impressive, the lot the homes are on and the land surrounding them appearing natural and native, North Florida rustic.
I knock on the front door of the first home.
A trim middle-aged man with closely cropped, coarse salt-and-pepper hair, a deeply tanned face, bright white teeth, and light gray eyes opens the door and invites me in before he even knows who I am.
Declining his invitation to enter, I show him my badge and tell him why I’m here.
He shakes my hand enthusiastically, as if he’s happy to meet me, his hand hard, his grip firm, and tells me his name is Bert Stewart.
“Were you living here at the time?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “House wasn’t quite finished, not in January of 2005. I’d come down occasionally and crash when I was working on it—or, more accurately, overseeing the work being done on it, but we didn’t move in until March or April of that year.”
“Were you here the night of January twentieth?”
He shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m . . . just not sure. And I really don’t know how I could go back and find out. It’s so long ago.”
“It was the day of George W. Bush’s second inauguration.”
“Oh. Well . . . Oh, yeah, I remember that. I was here, but didn’t get in until late. The reason I came was . . . they poured my neighbor’s foundation and my driveway the next day. I got a great deal on the concrete since they were coming anyway.”
I turn to look at his driveway.
“Actually, it wasn’t . . . my driveway was already here. It was . . . see that little pad on the side where I park my boat? It was mostly just that.”
I nod. “Which neighbor? Right next door?”
“No that house was already up—was just a little behind mine. No, it was the one on the other side of that. Same architect and contractor did all three.”
“What time did you get here that night? Did you see anyone else around? Do you remember seeing a young woman? Auburn hair. Pale white skin. Green eyes.”
He seems to think about it. “It was pretty late. Not sure exactly. Maybe eleven. I . . . I didn’t see anyone else . . . but . . . one of the . . . I saw a contractor’s van parked a little ways down. It stood out because I didn’t see anyone working and I didn’t recognize the name of the company. Next morning when I got up . . . van was gone. Wow. Haven’t thought of that . . . since back then. Not sure why I did.”
“You ever see that van again?”
He shakes his head. “I guess I just figured our contractor had subbed something out to him, but . . . only subconsciously. I never really thought about it again.”
“Your neighbor next door home?” I ask.
“She’s not, but . . . she’s new. Only bought the place and moved in about a year ago.”
“And you didn’t see a young woman that night, the night of the twentieth?”
He shakes his head. “Wish I had. Wish I could be more helpful. Sorry.”
“What about the house one over, the
one that poured the foundation at the same time you poured the pad for your boat? They home?”
He nods. “That’s British Bob,” he says. “What everybody calls him ’cause he’s Kentish. He also goes by English Bob and Bob’s Your Uncle. He’s been here the whole time too. Got a great place. People have tried to buy it, but . . . he won’t sell.”
“Was he here that night?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. If he was I didn’t see him. Don’t know why he would be. Didn’t even have so much as a foundation at that point. But who knows? Bob’s odd. That’s what they should call him—Odd Bob.”
“How so?”
He hesitates a moment.
“How’s he odd?” I say.
“More . . . eccentric . . . I guess I mean. Maybe it’s because he’s British. Maybe it’s because he’s a lifelong bachelor. I don’t know.”
I thank him, give him my card, and walk two doors down.
Bert had been right and wrong.
British Bob or Odd Bob or Bachelor Bob has an awe-inspiring place—even when compared to the other big, breathtaking homes surrounding it—but he isn’t home.
So I pull out another one of my cards, scribble a note on it, leave it on his door, and—Bob’s your uncle—maybe he’ll call me back.
19
“Randa was not suicidal,” Ashley Gaines is saying. “I keep hearing people say that—that she was out there to commit suicide. It’s just not true. I keep hearing people say all kinds of shit. None of it’s true. I knew Randa—and not just in general, but at the time she disappeared.”
It’s the following afternoon and I’m listening to more episodes of the In Search of Randa Raffield podcast as I drive in to Panama City.
“That’s right,” Daniel says. “There’s a big difference in knowing or thinking you know someone way back versus when they went missing.”
“People change,” Merrick says. “Circumstances change. Situations change. How a person is feeling or what they’re thinking changes. What do you think, Nancy?”
“Ashley is making a good point,” Nancy Drury says. “Random people theorizing about Randa’s state of mind in the abstract is worth exactly nothing. Ashley, what else can you tell us about Randa?”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 8