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Chase Darkness with Me

Page 13

by Billy Jensen


  I went back to the happiest place on earth, and we spent the next day at the Magic Kingdom. We left before sundown and took the monorail to the Polynesian Hotel on the Seven Seas Lagoon. We put our feet in the water and watched a thunderstorm roll in. Maybe it was the strong cocktails from Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto and Tiki Bar talking, but I looked at Kendall and smiled and said to her, “For the first time, this feels like a vacation.”

  We got back on the monorail and glided past the Grand Floridian Hotel. From the space-age cars, we saw the flashing lights of fire trucks and ambulances and police cars bouncing off the white walls of the hotel. We got back to our room, turned on the TV, and learned that a two-year-old boy playing in the lagoon behind the hotel had been snatched by an alligator.

  A fucking alligator. Three hundred feet from where we were standing on the shore of the lagoon. We didn’t see or hear a thing.

  They searched for the little boy through the night. Two days later, they would find his body, in murky water six feet deep, just fifteen yards from where he was last seen. It was covered in puncture wounds.

  I wanted to go home.

  • • •

  Once the school year started, Patton was ready to start meeting regularly and read what Paul Haynes and I had put together. Every other week, I would take a long lunch from Crime Watch Daily and drive to his house, where Haynes and I would update him on our progress. After two hours, I would go back to the show and produce more crime stories. I would drive home at six, pop a frozen dinner in the microwave, eat over the sink, pour a glass of Bulleit, then work on my own cases. At nine, I would take a break and work on Michelle’s book until midnight. Then I would go back to my cases and usually pass out by two.

  I missed my family like crazy, but the good and bad news is that I’m married to a scientist, who between lab work, grant writing, and speaking at conferences might just be busier than I am. My daughter started college, and my son was engulfed in playing League of Legends and World of Warcraft on his PC, shouting at the screen to his digital cohorts into the wee hours of the morning.

  I’m not sure if I could have handled the crime load when the kids were smaller. But now I had the time (meaning every waking moment) and the energy and a little bit of spending cash. And I had gotten a taste for it. I desperately wanted my next solve. But although I had been able to achieve success on my very first social media investigation, I was about to learn the soul-crushing lesson that beginner’s luck is no myth.

  • • •

  “I loved him so much,” Alicia Lopez said shakily as the television camera zoomed in on her face, which she had partially covered with her well-manicured nails, trying in vain to halt the tears. She dropped her hand and sucked in a breath. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Lopez was talking about her friend Timothy Croskey, who everyone called Pacman. They’d known each other since they were teenagers. Pacman was a father of two, a never-a-dull-moment twenty-five-year old who worked his fingers to the bone at his construction job during the week and cheered for his beloved Washington Redskins on Sunday.

  “He was hilarious,” Lopez continued. “He would just make you laugh, the first moment you meet him.” A smile started peeking out through the tears. “And that’s how I met him. He just made me laugh.” On that last line, you can see she’s picturing Pacman in her mind. And he makes her laugh again.

  On the afternoon of August 17, 2016, Pacman had just taken a shower after work and was walking out to his car in front of his house in a residential neighborhood in Chesapeake, Virginia, on his way to go pick up one of his daughters. He was found in his driveway by police, dead from gunshot wounds.

  The police couldn’t find his killer. But there was a major clue—a fifteen-second color video of a lanky man wearing a black T-shirt, black ball cap over dreadlocks, and black pants, walking with a purpose through a quiet intersection. Halfway through, the video cut to the same man now running back the way he came. Police said this was the killer.

  “Not only was he my child, but he was robbed of being a man,” Pacman’s mother said. “He was robbed of having his family, of seeing his sister, his brother, the other family members. [The murderers] get to talk to their parents every day, relatives, kids, to say I love you. You know, just to talk. I will never be able to talk to my child again. They all should be punished for what they’ve done, and I will accept nothing less.”

  The police released the video of the suspect to the media. It was daylight. In color. Very clear. This crime was solvable.

  I reached out to the family and contacted the police. The family wanted all the help they could get. The police wanted little to do with me—but they didn’t tell me to back off.

  You couldn’t make out the man’s face on the video, but his gait was distinctive. As a tall, lanky guy, I knew people could pick me out in a crowd just from my walk, which has been described as everything from Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever to an ostrich on holiday. I started a campaign, running the ad on Facebook with the video accompanied by this caption:

  Watch the way this man walks. Look at his thin frame. He is a murder suspect, wanted in the killing of a good man in the South Norfolk neighborhood of Chesapeake, VA, in early August. Do you recognize him? Maybe someone who you haven’t seen around for a while, who left town in August? Please message with any information, no matter how small. Please.

  The video of the man’s distinctive stride, propelled by a $300 advertising boost, caught people’s attention, reaching 121,000 people in the five-mile radius around the crime. The comments came in thick and fast and introduced me to the eight archetypes that continue to pop up during virtually every one of my social media investigations.

  There was the trying-to-be-helpful comment: Looks like he may be wearing a McDonald’s uniform, hard to tell though.

  The why-are-you-so-focused-on-this-murder? comment: Fun fact…people get shot ey’ day.

  The cops-are-trying-to-frame-someone comment: Not really good evidence. He could of been running away from the actual shoot up don’t know.

  The tips-on-how-to-get-away-with-it comment: Well…looks like somebody is getting a haircut.

  The it-might-be-a-female comment: Kinda moves like a girl to me even though there is a flat chest.

  The ever-popular complaining-that-the-video-isn’t-clear-enough comment: All the up to date technology & y’all can’t get a clear image of this guy’s face?

  Which came hand in hand with its partner, the pessimist comment: Good luck on finding him with these images.

  And finally, the most difficult to read, the friends-and-family-of-the-victim comment: That boy killed my best friend smh r.i.p Pacman Gorilla Mane they will catch his ass i promise u that if they dont sombody will…

  There were also a few of the racist and just-want-to-watch-the-world-burn comments that seem to come with most every story about a crime posted on Facebook. I won’t repeat them, but let’s just say proper spelling and grammar are kryptonite to racists.

  I tried not to be cynical, weighing my desire to get answers for Pacman’s friends and family against the urge to throw my phone out the fucking window.

  The comments kept coming, but there were no tips. Then late in the day, I got a private message:

  I recognized that man in the surveillance video his name is Darrius Copeland… I have pictures of the suspect and the getaway car.

  The tipster included photos of a tall, thin man with dreadlocks. He looked promising.

  Two hours later, I got another message from another tipster:

  That boy name Darrius Copeland.

  This time, the tipster included a link to a music video. The suspect was walking down the street to the music, matching the gait from the man in the surveillance footage.

  I immediately interviewed both tipsters. I looked up Copeland’s Facebook page, ran a background c
heck, and within twenty-four hours had a dossier built and sent off to the detective.

  “The victim, Mr. Croskey, was involved in a relationship with Darrius Copeland’s sister, Dequashia,” I wrote. “Based on information from reports and individuals I have spoken with, I have reason to believe that the relationship between Timothy and Dequashia was quite volatile. I also have reason to believe that Darrius Copeland may now be in Georgia and more specifically in the LaGrange or Columbus area based on recent people he has added on Facebook and also having family in that area.”

  Facebook had all the connections right there in front of me. By this time, some police departments were seeing social media as an effective tool in a murder investigation. If the victim was active on Facebook or Twitter, a good chunk of their social circle was at the investigator’s fingertips. I included links to all the accounts in my letter to the detectives.

  All they did was acknowledge the receipt of the information. It was frustrating for me, but that was nothing compared to what Pacman’s friends and family were feeling. If I had identified the right guy, we were just going to have to wait until they could build up a case against the suspect. After the unknown, the waiting is the hardest.

  • • •

  Summer turned to fall. Crime Watch Daily hired Chris Hansen, best known from Dateline’s To Catch a Predator series, as host for the second season. Child-predator investigations were added to the small-town beauty murders and love-triangle homicides that were proving to be just as appealing to daytime viewers as their nighttime counterparts. I was dedicating every waking moment to crime. Murders during the day. Murders during the night. Chasing. Chasing. Chasing. Just endless chasing with no end in sight.

  I was adding a new case every other week. I couldn’t wait for just one case to get solved. Justice is a slow-moving beast, and I needed to have as many irons in the fire as I could afford so I wouldn’t go insane. And then in November, I saw the story of White Boy Q.

  Quinton Langford’s mother died in a car accident when he was five. He was raised by his grandmother and then his aunt. He worked hard in school and earned a scholarship to Florida A&M University, where he majored in construction engineering technology. He moved from his hometown in Plant City to Tallahassee and immediately gained a bunch of friends in the mostly black FAMU community, who took to calling the friendly, generous Quinton “White Boy Q.” He loved both hip-hop and country music.

  On homecoming weekend, October 22, 2016, the twenty-year-old was on the street outside a party with a group of people when shots rang out. Everyone scattered. Quinton’s friend Landsey Elisson was shot in the face. He survived. Quinton did not.

  Quinton and Landsey weren’t targeted, the police felt. It was just a case of wrong place, wrong time.

  “He was a great young man,” his father said to me. “Smart. Full of life. Put others ahead of himself. He was going somewhere in life. I just don’t get it.”

  But the police did have a lead—a video of a woman and man walking near the area of the shooting. They created a montage of different camera angles. In the first scene, you see a woman with long dark hair, wearing a light, sleeveless top and tight, white short shorts, cutting across a parking lot, walking away from the camera. It then cuts to a color shot of the same woman now on a sidewalk, jogging away from the camera. Then we see her walking toward the camera but far enough away that her facial features are hidden. In the next cut, we see her walking away from the camera again—only now there is a large man in a white shirt walking a few steps behind her. The video ends with a green Nissan driving through the frame, believed to be driven by one of the suspects.

  You couldn’t see their faces. But the woman with tight, white short shorts was identifiable for sure. She was a head turner. She was going to be what the campaign would focus on.

  I set it up for a mile radius around the murder site. I got a few tips here or there. Then I thought I hit the jackpot.

  “I’ve seen these people around this complex,” a tipster wrote. “And that car with the damaged bumper. And that boy’s name is [redacted]. I know that him and his girlfriend live here and were both using that car.” The tipster said it was the boy’s brother. “The girl I can’t tell, cause I can’t see her face.”

  “Can you tell by her legs?” I asked.

  “She lives in the dorms. I know that walk.”

  I was doing cartwheels. I sent the information to the detective. And I waited.

  I called him repeatedly. No response.

  I was finding suspects. Suspects who looked good. Real good. But the police weren’t acting. Were they too busy? Did they just not care? Or were they right there with me but couldn’t make a move because they didn’t have enough evidence to get a conviction? It’s no use arresting someone without enough evidence, spending tens of thousands of dollars to prosecute, and then watching them walk free, never to be tried for that crime again. That’s the thing many true-crime watchers and internet sleuths sometimes don’t understand. Detectives want the bad guys just as much as you. You might have done work identifying the perpetrator, but building a rock-solid case against them is a whole ’nother matter.

  Sometimes it comes down to the district attorney. Some are confident. Some are timid. And the detectives know what each attorney needs to take on a case. You see this with missing-persons cases. Sometimes you see a suspect you are confident was responsible for the person going missing and had probably murdered them. Sometimes they are charged. Sometimes they continue to walk free.

  I just had to build another case page and move on. I found a new one while scrolling through videos on Facebook. And I hadn’t seen an image so chilling since the Marques Gaines case.

  • • •

  Teddy Grasset was a thirty-year-old fashion designer from Los Angeles, He grew up in a small town in the south of France, but he dreamed of America and came over in 2005. He cofounded the vintage denim brand Dr. Collectors, which he ran out of a shop called the Trading Post in Hollywood with his father, Oliver. The store was included in GQ magazine’s “2015 Ten Best Menswear Stores in America” list.

  With wavy disheveled-for-effect hair, often covered with a flat cap, a scruffy beard, thin frame, and tatted arms, Teddy put forth a very European persona in the middle of the Hollywood fashion scene. But he did have a playful side, as evidenced by the tattoo of Raccoon Mario from the Super Mario Bros. 3 video game on his right butt cheek.

  In September 2016, Teddy traveled to Nashville with thoughts of opening a store in the music city. He was walking with a friend behind the Country Music Hall of Fame when a car pulled up behind them. It was late. The car must have made Teddy’s senses tingle. The surveillance video shows Teddy and his friend start to run. Two men get out of the car and start to chase them. They all leave the frame. Off camera, Teddy is shot and killed.

  The video is the stuff of nightmares. Boogeymen creeping up slowly behind you in the dark, inching their car close enough that Teddy felt something was wrong, a feeling strong enough to tell him to run.

  You can’t make out the killers’ faces, and the car was a Chevy Impala, one of the most common cars on the road. But the car did have something distinctive. The license plate was unreadable—because it was surrounded by an eerie blue glow, most likely an aftermarket neon lighted plate frame. The car also had a sunroof and a spoiler.

  The cops had initially held back the information about the blue light plate frame, not wanting to tip off the killers as they continued their investigation. But they were stalled and finally put everything out to the media.

  A memorial service for Teddy was held on October 3. The dress code called for everyone to wear indigo or blue. No black.

  I launched a campaign.

  See these two men walking? In a few seconds, one of them will be dead. See that car pulling up behind them? Do you know anyone who recently drove a Silver Chevy Impala with a glowing blue license p
late holder? Watch the two men get out of that car. Do you recognize them? This happened behind the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville on Sept. 25. Please message with any information. And please share.

  The campaign reached 109,000 people.

  I got one tip from a guy saying he saw a silver Malibu near the Douglass dorms on the Nashville Auto Diesel College campus.

  Another said he saw an Impala and took down the license plate.

  The next day, another saw an Impala and actually took a photo of the car and plate.

  The next day, another guy saw a gray Impala pass him on the road. “Young black man texting and driving. Damage to plate fastener.” And gave me the plate.

  Another saw a car with the blue light plate cover on Burkitt Road.

  I funneled all the tips to the police. The noose was tightening. It seemed like everyone in Nashville was looking for a Chevy Impala.

  They found the car on Friday at a Nashville auto body shop. The bumpers had been removed, along with the spoiler and that blue light license plate holder. After inquiring about the owners, the police were sure it was the right car. Andy Francisco Nunez and his girlfriend, Daniela V. Cruz, were arrested in Raleigh, North Carolina.

  But it turns out that there had been three people in the car that night, which meant there was one more suspect at large. I changed the campaign to focus on finding twenty-five-year-old Joseph Santillan, who police said was the final suspect.

  Have you Seen This Man? Joseph Santillan, 25, is wanted in connection with the Nashville murder. Targeting Antioch, where he is from, and North Carolina. If you see him, please message us. And please share.

  His photo showed his soft features, close-cropped hair, and a faded neck tattoo.

  I’d never seen so many responses since I started. A thousand shares. Pages of comments, and most importantly, dozens of tips.

  One tipster wrote in saying he went to middle school with Santillan.

  Another was more on point: “His sister and him are pretty close so there’s a good chance he might be at that address or she might also be helping him stay hidden.” Another tipster directed me to another family member’s house where he often hung out.

 

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