I nod. “Y’all see anybody else out here, in this grid yesterday or this morning—going or coming—anything that looked suspicious at all?”
They both shake their heads. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Y’all did great. Thank you.”
“Bear with me for a few more minutes,” Reggie says, “then we’ll get you out of here. Okay?”
“We’re in no hurry, love,” Sue says.
Reggie and I walk back over to my car.
“So?” she says.
“So someone moved those bones from where they were and partially buried them where they are now so they’d be found today—or soon. He had to know the search was taking place in this area. There are signs.”
“Why move the remains?”
“Well, if it’s her,” I say, “if it’s Randa . . . to get them off his property—especially if he thinks we’re getting close.”
“But we’re not, are we?”
I shake my head. “If we are, I don’t know it. But maybe something we’ve done—like questioning him or something . . . has him thinking the net is closing.”
“Who’s most likely for it to be?”
I shrug. “This happened after the boyfriend disappeared. He’s certainly acting suspicious.”
“And he was following her,” she says.
“Looks like it. But we should also see if there has been any concrete at Windmark Beach busted up and/or repoured.”
“I’ll get somebody over there.”
“And Roger Lamott is acting all kinds of nervous and hostile.”
“What if after all this time and all these theories and after looking so far and wide, the only witness we have from that night is who took her?”
“Has a higher likelihood than about anything else we’re considering.”
“Look, we’re not gonna know anything from this for a while,” she says. “And even when we do, we may not know much. FDLE tech on the phone said best case is the remains can tell us sex, race, and approximate age. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find her wallet or clothes or something.”
“But even if you do,” I say, “since the remains were moved, the only things that’ll be present are what whoever moved her wants you to see.”
“True. So you find the old couple as credible as I do?”
I nod. “I assume you’re going to check her mark on the tree.”
She nods. “It’s there. But back to the . . . remains. Even if we get all that, and even if we find out somehow for sure that it’s Randa, that’s not gonna tell us who killed her and hid her body out here. So keep working the case. Keep tracking down leads. This could easily become a distraction if we let it.”
I nod.
“Work the case so that when we have confirmation it’s her, we can make an arrest.”
When I get back in my car and check my emails on my phone, I see that I have another from [email protected].
How many times has somebody gotten the better of you, John? How many unsolved cases haunt you? Bet there haven’t been many that you didn’t close, right? Surely I won’t be the first, but, as I said, I truly doubt you have many. But, make no mistake, you are about to have another. See, here’s the difference in us. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old Nietzsche quotes. “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster” and “for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” That’s the difference. You fight monsters. I am a monster. You gaze into the abyss. I am the abyss. Of course, I’ll beat you. How could I not. You’re merely trying to capture a thing. I am the thing. Don’t feel bad. Did you know that the rate of closed homicide investigations has been going steadily down for decades now? Do you know why that is? Because of monsters like me? Because of the rise of stranger killers? Hey, your rate is much, much higher than the national average. It’s about to be a little worse after me, but it’s still way up there. Hold your head up, John. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s like my mama used to tell me, there’s always somebody bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better. You just ran into someone who is. I’m gonna miss these little talks, John. I truly am.
45
After leaving the crime scene, I continue down Overstreet intending to take a left on 98 and head to Windmark to look around.
I know Reggie is going to send someone out to have a look, but I want to see it for myself.
I also plan to talk to British Bob and Bert, but I never got the chance to do any of it.
Before reaching 98, I got a call from a secretary at Gulf Coast State College who I’d asked to keep an eye out for Josh for me.
“He’s here now,” she says. “Trying to cash in his retirement. He won’t be long. You better hurry.”
“Don’t let him leave. I’m on my way.”
“I can’t stop him.”
“Make up more paperwork or something. Just keep him there.”
I put my emergency light on and race through Tyndall Air Force Base and Panama City, and reach the college campus faster than should have been possible.
When I rush into the Employee Financial Services office, Josh is there, impatiently waiting for the secretary to find just one more form she needs him to sign.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” she says.
When they become aware of me, she glances up quickly and says, “I’ll be with you in just a minute, sir,” as if she has no idea who I am or why I’m here.
She’s good. Scary good.
“Actually,” I say, flashing my badge, “I’m here to see him.”
“Now’s not a good time,” he says. “Sorry.”
“The time is not in question,” I say. “Only the where and the how.”
“I don’t—”
“You can talk to me here or I can cuff you, lead you across campus to my car, then drive you down to my office for questioning. Up to you.”
“Here,” he says. “Of course. You don’t have to be such an ass.”
“Ma’am, do you have a small room we can use?”
Having completely abandoned her search for the important paper for Josh to sign, she stands and leads us over to a small meeting room and closes the door.
“Where have you been?” I say. “Why’d you disappear so abruptly?”
“My dad had a stroke,” he says.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. How is he?”
“Not good. Gonna require constant care.”
“Where is he?”
“Mobile. Where we’ve been. Where we’re moving. My brother’s very wealthy. He’s hiring us—my wife and I—to live with and care for Dad. It’s a great opportunity because I can . . . it will afford me the chance to finish my book.”
“I’ll need some names and numbers to verify all this,” I say. “When you vanished so thoroughly, I thought—”
“I didn’t vanish—thoroughly or otherwise. We went to take care of my dad. It turned into a long-term thing. The truth is . . . I went there thinking and hoping it would. I don’t really like teaching at this level. You thought what? What did you think?”
“That you were running because of our new investigation into what happened to Randa.”
“What? Wait. What? Why would I—oh, you think I . . .”
“We know you were following her,” I say. “Surveillance footage shows you—”
“I loved her. Cared for her so . . . deeply. I was decent to her. Something not many people were. I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything to her. I didn’t even . . . Don’t you see? I stopped too soon. I wish I would’ve kept following her, but I didn’t. I gave up. It took a while, but I realized if I stayed with her or tried to—or even someone like her—I’d always be following, always be wondering, always be suspicious. It took me a little while, but that night changed my life. Changed me. I chose that night what sort of man I was going to be and what kind of wife I’d have and . . . I . . . I did it. I became that man. I married that woman. I wouldn’t change who I became—except to save Randa.
If I had kept following her . . . maybe I could’ve kept her from getting killed.”
“So you followed her all the way to Panama City, then turned around and drove home?”
“No. I called a buddy of mine who lives here and we went drinking. He’ll tell you. I’m sure we can scrounge up a few other witnesses too. But it’d be a complete and utter waste of time.”
“You mean like what I’m doing here when you could’ve told authorities this twelve years ago?”
“I . . . I kept waiting for a call or a visit. I didn’t try to hide. I figured someone saw me—or some camera picked me up.”
“You were hiding from Randa.”
“Just to see what she was doing. It was so bizarre—even for her. She didn’t usually go off like that—not that far and not by herself. I wanted to see where she was going. Until I didn’t. Until I decided not to live my life that way for another second. Give me a polygraph. Verify everything I’ve told you with witnesses. I have nothing to hide. I just hate for you to waste all your time on me when I know I’m innocent.”
“It’s good of you to be worried about my time,” I say. “Especially when all this would’ve been easier to verify over a decade ago when it happened.”
I toss him my pad and a pen. “Write it all down. Full names. Numbers if you have them. Where your dad is staying. His doctor. Everything.”
“Sure,” he says, and starts scrawling the information on the paper, “but I told you who you should talk to.”
I shake my head. “No. No you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I did. I always tell everybody.”
“Who? Who should I talk to?”
“Randa’s aunt. The crazy one. Scarlett George. If she didn’t have something to do with this somehow . . . then it was some random serial killer or something, ’cause I don’t know who else could be involved. And I know she was trying to reach her aunt in the week after Chelsea died, leading up to her own disappearance.”
46
“Look at this place,” Scarlett George is saying with an outstretched hand. “Look at it.”
I did.
“It’s a dump.”
She’s right. It is.
She lives in a small dilapidated duplex off 11th Street in St. Andrews. Literally crumbling down around her, the structure doesn’t look particularly safe to be in.
There is very little furniture—and what there is, is filthy and covered with piles of laundry.
“Think about all that money they have,” she says, “and look at this place.”
I shake my head. “It’s unbelievable. Some people can be so selfish it borders on the cruel.”
She likes the sound of that, nodding as she squints her eyes. I can tell she’s trying it on for size, and will use it with them or someone about them someday soon. “Borders on the cruel,” she repeats.
She is slumped in a high-back chair in the middle of the small living room, a muted TV balancing precariously on a folding chair in front of her.
Her hair is unkempt, and though she used to keep it dyed scarlet, it now appears there’s a rust-colored little fox on her head. Her clothes are wrinkled—and don’t match. And she looks at least a decade older than she is.
“It really does.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t have my differences with that child,” she says. “She was another one more selfish than you can imagine, but . . . you can’t convince me she’d want her poor aunt to be living like this when she left so much money behind for us.”
Scarlett George is a sad person, a drug-fried, low-IQ narcissist who is actually on a partial high at the moment.
And I’m going to do my best to take advantage of that.
“She’d want you to have it,” I say. “To take care of yourself. To live in a better place. To have a better life.”
She nods. “To have a better life. Exactly. She knew how much I suffered, how hard I’ve had it. You can’t tell me even a self-centered only child like her wouldn’t want to help her own flesh and blood if she could.”
“And she can,” I say.
She nods. “If they would let her.”
“Maybe we can make them.”
She sits up and draws her head back. “Really? How so?”
“I think you may have some legal remedies,” I say. “My wife’s an attorney.”
“Shame you’re married.”
“But what might work even faster is a visit from a guy with a gun and a badge.”
She smiles a gleefully sick smile, her hooded eyes opening at the prospects of being able to throw a cop at her troubles.
“Nothing makes me happier than knocking down high and mighty bitches think they’re better than everybody else,” I say, “think they can just keep all the money for themselves.”
“It’s just him,” she says. “I know it is. He’s stoppin’ her somehow. She’s always helped out at least a little over the years. Not nearly what she could . . . but always something. Now . . . it’s gotta be him that’s keeping her from it.”
“You’re talkin’ about Jerry, right?”
“Yeah. Jerry.”
I open my eyes wide as if something just occured to me. “Wait a minute,” I say.
“What? What is it?”
“I may have an even better idea,” I say. “One that will get you the money a lot faster and not require any rough stuff.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“They have that money put up for a reward.”
“So they say.”
“You help me a little and I’ll see what I can do about getting them to give you the reward. You’ll have earned it fair and square. Nobody can say anything.”
“People always say stuff, but . . . I get what you mean. And I do have some information.”
“I know you do,” I say. “That’s what makes it so perfect.”
“How do you know I—”
“I know Randa called you the day she disappeared,” I say.
Actually, what I knew was that Randa had been trying to reach her the week after Chelsea died and before Randa disappeared. I was guessing that she eventually got through to Scarlett.
“It was the day before,” she says. “Well, the night before. She called all upset. She had been calling. Calling and calling. She could be relentless when she wanted to be. I finally answered just to get her to stop. She was a blithering mess. A friend of hers had died. It was her fault. Except it wasn’t her fault. It was my fault.”
“Your fault?” I say. “Why would she say that?”
“Kid’s always had a vivid imagination,” she says. “Figured she’d grow up to be an actress or some kind of strange artist or something. Said my Bill touched her when she was little and that she never got over it and that’s why she is the way she is and yada yada yada. Boohoo. What kid ain’t been touched? Ain’t no big deal. I can tell you I never blamed the little diddlin’ I got as a kid on any of the bad shit that’s ever happened to me. Never used it for an excuse.”
“What did she use it as an excuse for?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Like that has anything to do with bein’ able to keep a man or not. Said some crazy shit.”
“Like?”
“Like sex stuff. Addiction bullshit. You either like sex or you don’t, right? And most everybody do, don’t they? Ain’t no addicted to bullshit. She was talking crazy. Like I said, she . . . was always high-strung. Ain’t sayin’ that’s what got her killed, but . . . wouldn’t surprise me none, I can tell you that.”
“But surely she didn’t just call to tell you all that shit,” I say. “Just to bitch at you and blame you for her actions.”
“Only one person she blamed more than me,” she says. “And by God she meant to have it out with him. Sounded like she wouldn’t be happy ’til she killed him.”
“Bill?” I say.
She looks up at me and nods. “He went by Bill Lee a lot. Thought it was cute ’cause his name was Billy. He wasn’t cute. Just thought he was. He was
a mean bastard. Nasty. Liked to hurt people. Full name was Billy LaDuke.”
“And she wanted to know where he was?” I ask. “Wanted to take out her rage for how she was and her friend’s death on him?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Told her she was a silly little girl who didn’t want nothing to do with that mean man. I’ve known some cruel bastards in my time. Felt their bite. But Billy . . . he’s the . . . he makes all the rest look like child’s play.”
“Did she get it out of you?” I ask. “Did you tell her where he was?”
“Didn’t know it to tell. Told her last I ever knew of him he was working construction in St. Joe, but that had been a while. No idea where he was then or now.”
“That’s what she was doing out there,” I say. “She was on her way to Port St. Joe to confront the monster who was still haunting her life.”
“Then she’s a bigger fool than even I thought.”
My mind runs ahead of me. In an instant I see Randa running into Windmark where Billy LaDuke is working, yelling all manner of accusations at him, beginning to hit and kick him. Is he there alone? Was it his van Bert noticed? He lashes out. Punches her in the face. Picks up a framing hammer and finishes the job. Then buries her beneath the foundation a few hours before it’s poured. Then to put more distance between where he used to work and where her body is found he digs her up and moves her across the street into the swamp.
Maybe none of it happened that way, but the movie in my mind is vivid, graphic, disturbing, and most troubling of all, it fits with the facts.
Of course, the facts can be fit together in other ways too. In a less sleep-deprived state I could come up with a few of them.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask. “Tell you she was headed to Port St. Joe to exact her revenge?”
“She said all kinds of jibber jabber mish mash.”
“Did you try to stop her? Tell her parents? The police? Anybody?”
“I got better things to do than get involved with some silly young girl’s dramatic bullshit.”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 18