“Okay,” Wheata Pearl says wearily. “I hope for your sake that is the whole truth and nothing but. We’ll take this up in the morning. Court is adjourned.”
44
“Do you believe him?” I ask.
“Scott? I don’t know. He’d be a fool to try something like this . . . and he’s not a fool.”
We are driving back toward Wewa in the heavy late-afternoon traffic, surrounded by semis and vans and pickups and trailers.
As soon as court had let out we rushed into the small room, our room, in the front of the courthouse to watch the video, but the email never came, and eventually we gave up. After Anna left Gary Scott a particularly pointed voicemail, which included a threat to call the judge if she doesn’t receive the email within minutes, we headed home for the day.
“But the fact that he hasn’t sent it yet . . .” she says. “He could be up to something. How long does it take to forward an email?”
“I wonder if it’s legit and why the student waited to share it if it is,” I say. “It’s going to be hard to watch, but if it’s undoctored . . . I’m anxious to see what it shows and how it compares with my memory of what happened.”
“The thing is . . .” she says, “even if it’s the real deal . . . it’s prejudicial. No matter what, for the jury to see you shooting and Derek getting hit and going down . . . It’s one thing for it to be described. It’s another for them to watch it happen.”
“I know you have to think in terms of the jury,” I say. “And I’m glad you are. But I’m just wondering what the jury inside my head will make of it.”
“If it’s real and the sender is impartial . . .” Anna says. “Why not send it to both of us?”
“Or give it to investigators when they asked for it?” I say.
“Everything about it raises questions,” she says. “But the most pressing one at the moment is why Gary hasn’t sent it to me.”
After checking her email again on her phone, she calls Gary Scott and leaves another message.
“You asked us to accept in good faith that you’re coming from a truthful and honorable place,” she says, “but delaying sending me the evidence seems to contradict that. I’m not sure what’s going on but if there’s some valid reason why you haven’t sent me the email yet, you should’ve communicated that. Since you haven’t . . . and you haven’t done what the judge ordered you to, I have no other recourse but to contact the judge and let her know. I’m going to wait another ten minutes before I do. So send me the video or call me and tell me why you haven’t or just call the judge and explain it to her.”
After disconnecting the call, she checks her email again.
“What did you think about the testimony today?” Anna asks.
I give her a small nod and shrug.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“I thought it went reasonably well for us, but . . . it’s supposed to, right? They were our witnesses. I guess I expected it to.”
“It was a very good day,” she says. “And that’s not a guarantee even when they’re your witnesses. Look at many of Scott’s.”
“That’s true.”
“I really hope you listened carefully to what Reggie said. She wasn’t just saying that or making it up in some kind of misguided attempt to defend or protect you. What she said lines up with what every single law enforcement officer I spoke with told me.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I really do. But . . .”
“But what?”
“If everyone in the world agreed that I did nothing wrong . . . it still resulted in the death of a teenage boy, so . . .”
“And that’s truly tragic,” she says. “Hopefully that’s the worst thing that you’ll ever have to endure in your lifetime, but . . . it wasn’t your fault. He shouldn’t have been out there shooting at you—shouldn’t have been out there at all. It wasn’t only illegal for him to have a weapon on campus, but he should’ve never broken out of the school and gotten it and come back in with it. And he should have never been shooting at two law enforcement officers. There’s a reason why we have mitigating circumstances. It’s a real thing. And this is it. You were in a no-win situation, but . . . we got the biggest win of all—the one I’ll take every single time. You came home to me and our girls. You were fired upon. Twice. You could’ve so easily died. And you didn’t. You should’ve never been fired upon. He should’ve never been out there. He was wrong. Not you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Stop thanking me and let what Reggie and the FDLE and everyone else with any impartiality or credibility is saying sink in.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” she says. “You know, John, it’s not the goal I started this case with, but I’ve actually reached the place where I feel like this was a successful trial if I can convince you of the truth of our case. Never mind the jury. I mean I hope to convince them. Hell, I actually think they’ll be easier to convince than you, but you—or the jury inside your head—are the one I’m trying to convince first and foremost now. And if I have to choose one or the other, I choose you.”
I have the urge to thank her again but resist it.
A few minutes later Pamela Garmon from the Bay County Sheriff’s Office calls.
“Got any plans tonight?” she asks.
“Just trying to catch a killer. What’s up?”
“That info you gave us on that home invasion and torture-murder in Mexico Beach . . .” she says. “We’re making arrests tonight. You gave us these guys . . . plus we feel like we owe you for not believing you on the other thing . . . so we wanted to invite you along to take these dirt bags down.”
I can’t believe she actually used the term dirt bags unironically, and find it difficult not to laugh.
I have no desire to go on the arrest—especially since the guys they’re going after are so violent and hardened. It’s the perfect scenario for too much testosterone and an ensuing shootout, and I want no part of either.
“That’s very thoughtful of y’all,” I say. “Thank you for thinking of me, but I’m good. I better keep working on the Chaos Killer case, see if I can get anywhere with it.”
“Okay,” she says. “But you’re gonna miss out on what promises to be a wild ride. We’ll let you know how it goes.”
45
I’m alone in the conference room of the new Gulf County Sheriff’s Department again, studying the whiteboard when Reggie walks in.
“I thought I was the only one here,” I say.
“You were. I just got here.”
“Got a few minutes?” I ask.
“Yeah, but just a few. Merrick’s picking me up. We’re going to dinner.”
“Good for you.”
“We’ll see. He may just want a story.”
“He’s not like that,” I say. “I mean, he wants a story, but he wouldn’t use you to get it.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
“Hope you’re right,” she says.
“I was hoping you were right as I sat there listening to you testify today,” I say.
“I was,” she says.
“Thanks for doing it and everything you said.”
“No thanks necessary,” she says. “Just told the truth. You got a raw deal out of that thing—all the way around. Hope it finally breaks your way. You deserve it.”
I glance back at the whiteboard, which has more information—notes, witness statements, and photos—since I set it up, and I feel like I’m on the fringes of the case. Being in court every day gives me very little time to work this investigation—and none at the same time the other investigators are working. Of course, I’m used to being an outsider, accustomed to working alone, but in this case it’s heightened in a way it hasn’t been since I’ve been an investigator here.
“How’d the press conference go?” I ask.
“Pretty well, I think.”
“What has the response been like
?”
“’Bout like what you’d expect. All over the place. But in general the media coverage has been fairly decent so far. I think Merrick’s and Tim’s pieces this morning set the tone. Did you read them?”
I nod.
“Speaking of responses,” she says, “I got a call from Rick Urich, the Samaritan’s Purse guy who went missing. He called me to complain that you didn’t reach out to him personally about whether Betty was among the bodies found at the laydown yard. Said you promised him you would.”
“I told him we’d release a statement once we knew something definitive.”
“Says you also promised to come by and talk to him about becoming a police chaplain and that you haven’t. Said it’s a bad reflection on the department.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “I told him I’d come by at some point and talk to him when I could.”
“I figured that was the case,” she says. “Just letting you know he called. I told him between court and this investigation it would probably be a while before you’d be able to even think about getting back with him. Told him he might want to wait until he goes back home to Indiana where there’s not a state of emergency and ask a police chaplain there.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks. Any word from crime scene or the ME from last night?”
“Nothing helpful,” she says. “Except to confirm they were killed by the same guy. He’s very careful. Leaves no evidence. Both victims were killed with blunt force trauma. Betty Dorsey had her left arm broken after death and this on the same arm.”
She walks over to the whiteboard and points to an 8x10 photo of a close-up of a tattoo that is similar but more ornate than the earlier victims.
“It’s the Druid symbol for chaos,” she says. “Willie Green had his left ring finger broken after death and the infinity chaos symbol was on the back of his left hand.”
She points to an image of a tattoo similar to the ones found on David Cleary and PTSD Jerry but with an added infinity symbol in the center.
“He’s definitely got a signature,” I say. “Operating based on some sort of pattern, but . . . the victims seem as . . . Sorry, I almost saw something, but it’s gone. Hopefully it will come back. I was gonna say the victims seem as random you can get.”
“ME’s office said there were no signs of sexual assault—or anything else really.”
I nod. “He’s just killing them,” I say. “Quickly and cleanly—and inconspicuously. I wonder how he feels about having his work so public now? Did he really want to remain hidden or was he hoping somebody would discover and appreciate what he’s doing?”
“None of these guys really want their work to remain hidden for long, do they? Especially if they can find someone smart enough to perceive it.”
“I think he’s been at it a while,” I say. “This or something like it. Seems settled, experienced, sophisticated. He may not have done this before, but he’s been busy working his way toward it.”
“I’ve put in a request to FDLE for help,” she says. “And I’ve asked if anyone from the departments here helping with post-storm management has experience with this kind of thing. We would need the help anyway, but with you in court and limited time to work on it . . . it’s vital.”
I nod. “Good.”
“And we’ve increased patrols in a big way—as big a way as we can manage right now. We’re using some of the cops from other agencies to help with that—that and enforcing the curfew. We’ve run into a few issues, but—”
“Like what?”
“Some of them aren’t used to our laidback small-town ways,” she says. “Come off as rude and aggressive, and there have been a couple of cases of unnecessary altercations—pulling people from their cars and generally being pricks to them.”
“All the volunteers and contractors and emergency service workers are helpful and right now we desperately need them, but . . . I can’t wait until we get our little community back.”
“Amen to that,” she says.
“The background work on the victims turning up anything interesting?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not really. No connections. Actually, no similarities at all so far.”
“If he’s being as truly random as he seems,” I say. “He’s going to be extremely difficult to catch.”
“Yeah, maybe we’ll get lucky,” she says. “Maybe he’ll mess with the wrong redneck and get his face shot off.”
When Reggie is gone I return the full weight of my attention to the evidence.
Once again I search for patterns, attempting to see something I’ve missed before.
Being alone like this suddenly feels right.
I’ve always been able to think better and work better alone.
I need and benefit from working with others too—especially in back-and-forth exchanges and insightful questions raised by smart, thoughtful people. But I need time alone to think about and process and study the evidence—to ask myself questions, to search my own mind even as I search the evidence.
I go back over everything we know, or think we do, so far—the victims, the timeframe of the killings, the location of the bodies, the means and causes of death, the psychological and physical signatures.
And then I begin to engage this shadowy, unformed figure in my mind, attempting to get him to reveal himself, to give up his secrets, no matter how begrudgingly.
What is it about chaos that draws you?
Does it mirror the chaos inside the hell of your own mind?
Are you trying to create some kind of order out of the chaos—an order known only to you?
I think about the mythology of creation, of God creating chaos out of order, of how the chaos continues to show through.
Why are you choosing the victims you are? What is it about them that calls to you, that ignites your dark fantasies?
If your motivation isn’t sexual dominance, what is it?
Why make your murders look like accidents? What is the point? Are you trying to stay hidden? Do you think we and the world we live in are all an accident?
Do you have a message—conscious or not? Are you saying something about the capricious nature of life?
In a superstorm like Hurricane Michael, why are some structures destroyed while those next to them go virtually undamaged? Why are some people killed and others spared? Are you playing God? Mother Nature?
Are you trying to exercise control where there is none?
What are you scared of? Are you motivated more by fear than rage?
Who made you the way you are? Were you neglected? Abandoned? Tortured? Trained to kill and destroy? Or were you born with no soul, no conscience, no compassion or empathy?How are you choosing your victims? Is it a conscious choice? Is it really as random as it seems? What is it about them only you can see?
How are you gaining their trust? Why do they let you get close enough to kill them? Are you charming? Handsome? Do you appear helpless or in need or approach them from a place of strength? How are you operating the way you are, given our current conditions and the curfew? Who do you hate more—yourself or those who created you?
Are you waging war against God? Or is it your mother and father that you are killing over and over again?
Who let chaos loose in your life?
When I circle back to how and why and where he is encountering his victims, I think about Willie Green being found in his pajamas—and remember that Betty Dorsey too went missing while in hers when she went to get her charger out of her vehicle. How many others were found in their pajamas?
Are you breaking into their homes? Spending the night with them? Do you creep in under cover of darkness, bringing chaos and death with you?
And then I realize what it is.
Given the curfew and how dark it is around here at night.
You aren’t taking them at night at all, are you? You’re an early riser, taking them in the morning when it’s still fairly dark, when their guard is down, when they’re less careful
and less likely to perceive threats. They’re in their pajamas because you come calling in the morning hours, don’t you?
I look back at the timeline.
Why did you stop so soon after you got off to such a good start? Were you interrupted? Did you get overwhelmed? Or was it not up to you? Was it out of your control? Did chaos overcome you?
How did you get so good at this? What special skill set do you have that enables you to do what you’re doing?
You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Maybe several times. And because you use chaos and confusion and make your murders look like accidents, you’ve gone undetected, haven’t you? You are as mature and experienced and sophisticated as you are because you’ve done this for a while now, haven’t you?
Where?
Where did you have your apprenticeship? Ply your trade? Hone your craft? Was it in other disaster areas or war zones? Do you go from chaos to chaos, crisis to crisis, disaster to disaster? How long have you killed with impunity by hiding your chaos within the larger chaos of storms, fires, floods, wars?
Though still not fully formed, some of the edges of this dark traveler are coming into relief.
When I finish for the night, I text Reggie.
Need to talk when you can, I type. Call me after your hot date.
She immediately replies. The hot part . . . if there is one . . . will be later. Having margaritas with the crew. Drop by.
46
When I step out of the sheriff’s department into the hot, humid night, I see that Randa is waiting for me by my car, her green eyes seeming to glow in the dark.
“Defendant by day,” she says. “Dark detective by night.”
“What’re you doing here, Randa?”
“Waiting to talk to you.”
“Why didn’t you just call?” I ask.
“Wanted to see you in person,” she says. “Didn’t mind waiting. Gave me time to think.”
“About?”
“Lots of things,” she says, “but mostly about the serial killer you uncovered. I assume you uncovered him. Reggie said ‘an investigator within the department’ at the press conference . . . and I have a tough time believing it could’ve been Angry Dyke Darlene or Affable Arnie.”
The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Page 20
