“It’s redeeming if we help catch a killer,” Nancy says. “If we or our audience uncovers hidden evidence that helps the police solve the case.”
“But if we don’t do that?” he says. “If we only talk about it for a while then go on to something else, which . . . by the way, is what most of these shows do. They all start by saying they’re doing it to help solve the crime, but then when they don’t, when they’ve talked in circles long enough, they just start a second season. Maybe add some sponsorships along the way. If that’s all we do, what are we good for?”
“Entertainment,” Nancy says. “Only. Nothing else. Nothing more. And if that’s all it is, we need to find something else to do.”
42
Anna meets me at my car and hugs me for a long moment. “Are you okay?”
We’re in the paved parking lot not far from the wooded walkway that leads to the cottage where Sam and Daniel are staying.
I nod. “Worried about Reggie. Feel guilty for not doing more at the scene, exhausted, need sleep, but . . . I’m okay. And now . . . I’m great. Never been anything but great in your arms.”
“Do you feel like doing this?” she asks.
“Don’t really feel like we can back out,” I say.
“Reggie called. They’re not going. And now Daniel says he’s not going.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Would you talk to him?”
“Of course. I need to make one more call. Could you send him out here?”
“Yeah. Unless . . . well, if we’re not going, there’s no need to talk him into going, is there?”
“I feel like we have to—even if we’re the only ones who do.”
“Okay. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to make your call then I’ll send him out.”
We kiss and she departs, returning to the unit where Sam and Daniel are, and where Merrill is with both his Beretta and shotgun.
When I see that she is safely inside, I call Jerry Raffield.
“Finally got some information about the email you received,” I say.
“Was it from her?” he asks, his voice desperately hopeful and yet without expectation.
“No. I’m very sorry. It’s . . . unbelievable I have to tell you this, but . . . it was from a teenager playing a prank.”
“Oh my God,” he says, and I can hear in his voice a new low in the level of disappointment he feels in his fellow human beings.
“He and his little brother made the confession video too,” I say. “The one that was posted online, on the podcast website. Was trying to see how many views he could get.”
“You’re kidding. Please tell me this isn’t real.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“The torture and agony never ends, does it?” he says. “How could a kid be so cruel, so . . . depraved?”
“I honestly don’t know. I know it has something to do with the anonymous, disconnected, dissociative life online, but . . . that’s only part of it.”
“Please tell me you can prosecute the parents.”
“I wish I had better news for you,” I say. “Maybe we will the next time I call. I certainly hope so. Again, I’m sorry.”
I end the call as I see Daniel walking this way.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not great. Did Anna ask you to talk to me?”
“We just wondered why you weren’t going with us for dinner at Nancy’s. I know it would mean a lot to her.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“Something with Sam?” I ask. “Don’t want to leave her?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I understand. Let us know if we can do anything to help.”
“You mean besides all y’all are already doing?”
I smile. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He turns to walk back up to the cottage but stops and turns back toward me again.
“Actually, I . . . could really use a . . . Could I talk to you in confidence?”
“Of course.”
“I mean the strictest of confidence. I’d die of shame if anyone ever heard this.”
“Sure,” I say. “What is it?”
“I try not to complain or let on, but . . . this thing with Sam is . . . very hard.”
I nod.
“It’s . . . it’s not the caring for her, helping her, having to do everything for her. That stuff’s tough, but . . . nothing compared to . . . how much I miss her.”
“I imagine it would be . . . I’m amazed at how well you’re handling everything, but know it has to be nearly impossible. I’m glad you’re talking to me.”
“I miss her so much. Miss what we had. Miss . . . so many things.”
I nod again.
“I’m just so lonely. And . . . given what Nancy is going through—something similar . . . I just don’t want to even want anybody but Sam—no matter what shape Sam is in. So I’m . . . I’ve got to be careful how I spend my time, who I spend it with, and where it takes my mind, those dangerous little thoughts that . . . God, I feel so fuckin’ guilty. I’m not this man. I’m not.”
“What you’re experiencing is so natural and normal, you’d be a freak if you didn’t feel it,” I say. “And you’re handling it the exact right way—talking about it, so you can get some understanding and accountability, and removing yourself from any situation that might lead you down a path you don’t want to go.”
“It’s . . . I hope you don’t think I’ve done anything inappropriate. I haven’t. But I just feel the need to keep certain relationships professional. Not to be in a social setting or situation.”
“We’ll bring you some leftovers.”
“Don’t even want that. Just bring Merrill a plate. See, like with him, with Zaire. She’s with him. The way Anna’s with you or Reggie’s with Merrick. It’s just when someone is . . . untethered or . . . like me. You know what I mean. The lack of . . . certain visible boundaries and encumbrances . . . is what I’m finding so challenging—again, just in my mind. But talking has helped. Thank you. And please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“I won’t. And keep talking to me. Let me know any time you’re feeling especially vulnerable or tempted. Just call me. Anytime. And I’ll check on you from time to time too.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you so much.”
43
“I honestly don’t think I’m gonna be able to solve this case,” I say.
Anna and I are driving along Highway 98 between Port St. Joe and Apalach, on our way to Nancy’s.
“Why?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s not that it’s too cold,” she says. “You’ve solved much older and colder cases than this.”
I nod. “No, it’s not that. Though that might be part of it. I don’t know. I can’t decide whether I don’t have enough information and evidence or that, because of the media attention, I’ve been inundated with too many theories.”
She seems to think about it.
“It’s just a feeling,” I say, “but it’s persistent.”
“You ever felt this way before?”
“Not quite like this,” I say. “I always have doubts, always question whether or not I’ll be able to close certain cases, but . . . with this one . . . just have an overwhelming feeling that I won’t.”
“What if you don’t?” she asks. “Can you be okay with that?”
I shrug. “Depends on your definition of okay,” I say with a smile.
“Will you be able to let it go at some point?”
“Probably not completely.”
“But I mean have peace, some sense of equilibrium even if you still work on it on an ongoing basis.”
“Pretty sure I’ll need your help with that,” I say.
“What I’m here for,” she says, and touches my hand.
Dinner is nice.
Jake joins us, coming inside f
rom where he’s been guarding the house.
Nancy is a good cook, and her house, though small and partially a hospital, is immaculate. She doesn’t have much, but what she has is nice and well maintained.
The four of us sit at her small dining room table and eat salad, gumbo, and seafood lasagna.
From her position at the table, she is able to check on her husband, Jeff, in the front bedroom across the way, which she does often. The setup and the way she is with him is not dissimilar to the way Daniel is with Sam, and I could see they’d be of great support and comfort to one another.
“This is so good,” Anna says.
“It really is,” I add.
“This is how she’s been feeding me since I’ve been here,” Jake says. “I’ve put on fifteen pounds already.”
“Glad y’all like it, but stop. Y’all are embarrassing me.”
Beneath her blond hair and tired blue eyes Nancy’s face and neck blush crimson.
“Change of subject,” she says. “How is Reggie doing?”
“She’s gonna be okay,” I say. “Especially since the kid is. But . . . it’s tough.”
“But so is she,” Anna says.
“Yes she is,” I agree.
“I really appreciate what you said on the last show I listened to,” Anna says to Nancy. “About murder not being entertainment. It was great and really needed to be said.”
Nancy gives her a small smile and nod as she looks back toward Jeff. “Think about the kid who got his little brother shot. Posting the video. Sending the email. It’s all a game to him. Randa’s not a real person. She’s a . . . That’s the thing that’s shocked me the most throughout my entire experience with Jeff and doing my podcast and now the one with the guys. The utter lack of empathy so many people have. I’m sure some are sociopaths with no souls, but most are just so self-involved, so caught up in what they see as this latest form of entertainment . . . they don’t get it.”
“It’s not unlike the way many people treat celebrities,” Anna says. “Like they’re not real, like they’re there for our entertainment—even their personal and private lives.”
“Exactly,” Nancy says. “That’s it. It’s exactly like that.”
“People,” Jake says, shaking his head. “People are dicks.”
“I’m glad we did that,” Anna says.
We are back in the car, driving home in the dark on 98 along the rim of the bay, a low-slung moon creating a pale path on the undulating water.
“She’s got a pretty lonely, claustrophobic life,” she adds.
“She did until Jake came along,” I say.
She laughs. “Us being there seemed to mean a lot to her.”
I nod. “Glad we pressed through and did it. Wish everybody could’ve come but . . .”
“Why didn’t Daniel? You never said.”
I tell her. I tell her because she is me and I don’t keep anything from her and she doesn’t share it with anyone else.
“Poor thing,” she says. “You know a good guy like him is eaten up with guilt—just for having a few thoughts and feelings. Hasn’t done anything else, right?”
“Right.”
“I realize how much you have on you,” she says. “I really do. But maybe you could spend a little extra time with him. Maybe we can both go over more.”
“Maybe we should’ve just moved them in with us instead of at Barefoot Cottages,” I say.
“I’m thinking maybe we should have.”
I was kidding. She was not.
We are quiet a few moments, riding along next to the black body of water, watching the moon dance on the darkness.
“Would it help if you went over the suspects with me?” she asks. “Sort of talk things through.”
“Always.”
“Lay it on me.”
“A stranger or even serial killer could’ve happened by at just the right moment and taken her,” I say. “Then there are the two men who were at the scene—Roger Lamott, who actually spoke to her, and Donald Wynn, the tow-truck driver who says he just stopped and left his card on her car.”
“All good possibilities,” she says.
“Her boyfriend or fiancé or ex—whatever he was—Josh Douglas. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be and I think some of the surveillance footage shows he was following her. And after I interviewed him, he disappeared.”
“Very suspicious,” she says. “He’s got to be your prime suspect.”
I shrug. “Of course, it may not have been his shoes on the surveillance footage. It could’ve been Brenda Young. She could’ve killed Randa because she took Chelsea Sylvester away from her or because she blames Randa for her death.”
“Damn. You do have a lot of promising suspects. What about her parents?”
I shake my head. “Don’t really suspect them. Especially Jerry. Lynn won’t talk to us, which is suspicious, but could really be grief like she claims. If it’s a family member it’s more likely her crazy old aunt, Scarlett George, or one of her child molester boyfriends. I hope to talk to Scarlett tomorrow.”
“Wow. They just keep coming.”
“Yeah, and I’m not even mentioning some of the more farfetched possibilities or strange theories that have been floated our way.”
“Thank you for sparing me that.”
“Finally, there is British Bob and Bert Stewart and their contractors at Windmark Beach,” I say. “I still think one or more of them could’ve been involved and that there’s a good chance that Randa is beneath or in one of their foundations out there.”
“What about Annie Kathryn Harrison?” she says. “Do you think the same killer killed her and Randa?”
“Certainly haven’t ruled it out,” I say. “There are just enough similarities and differences to make it impossible to come down on one side or the other. It’s maddening. Like everything else about this case.”
As we near Port St. Joe, I call Jerry to check on him. He’s still in shock that someone would send him an email like that as a prank.
When I finish with him, I call Merrick to check on Reggie. Reggie is sleeping and Merrick says she’s had an okay evening, considering.
On our way home, we swing by Daniel and Sam’s place to check on them and deliver Merrill a huge plate of food. While we’re there, I talk to Daniel some more. He seems to be doing better already—sticking close to Sam, caressing her affectionately as we talk.
Back in the car on our way home, Anna says, “I never quite realized the extent to which you are a pastoral cop. Makes sense. Of course you are. I’ve just had the chance to observe it more lately I guess. You take an investigative approach to chaplaincy and a pastoral approach to being an investigator. It’s very cool to observe.”
“Thank you.”
“I know it’s too much on you to have two jobs,” she says. “I was thinking, Taylor’s about ready for me to go back to work—at least part-time. Have you thought about which one you’ll give up?”
“I’ve thought about it,” I say. “Haven’t come up with anything.”
“Wonder if there’s a way you can keep doing them both on a part-time basis?”
I shrug. “Something will work out. Let’s talk about it again when I’m in a better place.”
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“There’s a list?”
44
The biggest break in the case comes the next morning when a retired couple helping with the search in Panther Swamp discovers human bones.
After another night of not much sleep, I drive down Overstreet to meet Reggie at the site where FDLE crime scene techs and a forensic anthropologist will soon be sifting through what might be Randa’s remains.
By the time I arrive, the scene has been cleared of all but two volunteers—the two who found the bones—and a couple of deputies spooling crime scene tape between the trees.
When I park, Reggie walks over to meet me.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Better. Thanks. Good night’s
sleep helped.”
“Good.”
“Helps having this to deal with too,” she says.
“What is this?” I say.
“Come on,” she says, “I’ll show you.”
She leads me back a short ways into the woods, down an embankment, along a trench with a soggy, sandy bottom, and over to the tipped-up root system of an overturned tree.
On the other side of the tree, in a shallow grave, the skull and only a few other bones here and there are visible—but there are enough to see that the entire skeleton is present.
“Take a good look at it, then we’ll go talk to the couple who found it.”
I nod and continue looking. “We’re supposed to believe that eventually, inevitably erosion revealed what’s been buried here for nearly twelve years?”
She smiles. “Seen enough?”
“Anything else found? Clothes? Wallet? Keys?”
“Not so far. We’re just preserving the scene for FDLE.”
I nod. “Okay. Seen enough.”
“Follow me.”
She leads me back out to the highway and over to the couple who found the remains.
They are fit and spry but pushing eighty, and I wondered if it was a good idea to have them traversing such an uneven and rough terrain.
“This is Clarke and Sue Morgan,” Reggie says. “This is my lead investigator, John Jordan.”
We shake hands.
“Tell him what you told me,” Reggie says.
“It wasn’t there yesterday,” Sue says, tucking her gray hair behind her ear with swollen and misshapen fingers.
“What wasn’t?” I ask.
“The body,” Clarke says.
“The remains,” she corrects. “Those bones, that skeleton wasn’t there yesterday. We walked right past that fallen tree. Searched both sides thoroughly.”
“You’re absolutely positive?” I say. “It’s a big swamp and a lot of it looks just like the rest of it.”
“We’re hikers,” Sue says. “We have a good sense of forests and swamps. Plus, if you’ll look on that overturned tree you’ll see a little mark I made—M for Morgan with the date and time. We were there yesterday. We had to walk across yesterday’s grid to get to today’s.”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 17