The Snake and the Spider

by Karen Kingsbury

  When Jim and Daryl made plans for their trip to Florida, Faye Boucher could remember several times asking Jim to please telephone home every now and then. Because they were trying to give Jim his freedom, they did not insist their son call every day. But it went without saying that the boys would most likely call several times during the vacation. Probably every day, because that was the kind of teens they were. Respect and responsibility.

  All of which led Bob to another aspect of the boys’ lives he had figured out. Neither teen was a drug user.

  Even in Metamora, a town of less than a thousand people, some of Jim and Daryl’s friends smoked marijuana now and then. Bob had not been surprised to learn this. It was, after all, the summer of 1978 and youth nationwide were still feeling the effects of the drug-induced rebellion that began a decade earlier. That year and for years afterward there were still a good deal of people who viewed drugs the way people had viewed them in the late 1960s: merely a form of entertainment.

  Jim and Daryl had been around people who smoked pot but they never participated. They played sports together in high school and had decided to avoid taking drugs or doing any excessive drinking.

  Nevertheless, they didn’t mind associating with people who drank excessively or even used drugs. So the idea of partying in a place where people might be doing drugs did not strike either teenager as being a problem. And this concerned Bob deeply. He was only too aware of the hard-core drug parties that took place in Daytona Beach and the numbers of naive kids that attended. Often the parties allowed those kids to try drugs for the first time only to be sucked into an underground world of highs and lows and living for the moment. He did not think Jim and Daryl were the type of teenagers to be cajoled into drug use, but he wasn’t sure. After all, the boys were on their very first vacation away from home. Anything was possible.

  Still, even if they had dabbled in drugs or drinking while at the beach, Bob thought they would have come home at week’s end. Especially because the teens had every reason in the world to return to Metamora.

  Daryl, for instance, had a close relationship with his parents and siblings and a full-time job as a machinist. He had worked carefully for the past year and had received an excellent evaluation after almost no absences or late arrivals. He had been thrilled to have a paid vacation and before leaving he had voiced intentions to stay with the company for some time.

  But if Daryl had reasons to return home, Jim had ten times as many. First, there was his family. He was very close to his brothers and enthralled with his little sister, Kristi. Six-year-old John looked up to Jim in such a way that Jim knew his absence for any length of time would be hard on the child. He was also very close to his parents.

  Then there was Jaime, the girl he’d been dating. The two had been on very good terms and Bob knew the girl hadn’t heard from Jim since he’d left.

  AND IF THE PEOPLE HE LOVED WERE NOT ENOUGH REASON to believe Jim wanted to return home, there was his money. Jim had won ten thousand in a bowling tournament, nine thousand six hundred of which was sitting in a bank account in Metamora. He had ordered a brand new 1979 Camaro, which was going to be ready in a few months.

  Bob was convinced that there was not a boy anywhere with that kind of money and expecting that kind of car who would simply turn his back and disappear. It made no sense. Perhaps if Jim had taken his money with him. But not with $9,600 in the bank and a brand new car en route to his parents’ house.

  Back in his Orlando office at the end of the week, Bob thought about the boys and all he had learned, and picked up a picture of Jim Boucher. The interviews had been helpful, but a person could learn what they wanted about Jim from his eyes, Bob decided. They were filled with laughter and typically danced with energy. But they were, at the same time, utterly innocent and naive. The eyes of a child trying to adjust to his nearly adult body.

  In light of all that he had learned, Bob knew the boys were not runaways. And so that left just one other option. For some reason, Jim and Daryl must be unable to call home. Whatever the reason, Bob was certain the teens were in some kind of trouble and needed assistance.

  He thought about the townsfolk of Metamora and how taken they were with the boys’ disappearance. Bob had spoken with several of them and knew that they were worried about Jim and Daryl. Although the residents of Metamora remained largely sheltered from the happenings of city life, they discussed in great length the happenings in their immediate community.

  Bob knew that when people in Metamora said that everyone knew everybody else, they were serious. So that if someone walked into the market and mentioned that Joe was having trouble with Diane, everyone in earshot knew exactly who they were talking about and probably what the trouble was. Despite this, nothing of much interest ever occurred in Metamora in all the years that the Barbers and Bouchers lived there. But that was before Jim and Daryl disappeared.

  Once word got around about how the boys had gone to Florida on vacation and then were never heard from again, people in Metamora were horrified. Suddenly, it was as if the boys had two hundred sets of parents, dozens of siblings, and probably a thousand or so close friends. Everyone had their opinion about what might have happened to the boys, which by itself was not so interesting given the nature of the town. What was interesting was that, despite their lack of exposure to such things, their consensus—and it was one Bob had to agree with—was rather dark.

  If the boys had left loving families, loving friends, jobs, and girlfriends, and in Jim’s case nearly ten thousand dollars, back in Metamora and still had not called home, then there was only one likely explanation.

  Something terrible had happened.

  CHAPTER 8

  The first thing Bob Brown did after learning all he could about the boys and their backgrounds was go over the groundwork that had already been laid by the boys’ parents. He read copies of the missing persons reports they had filed with the Michigan state police and learned that that agency had in turn filed a report with an Officer Mikelson in Daytona Beach. Then he began sorting through a myriad of other aspects involving the case.

  Eventually, he would contact Mikelson, although he didn’t expect to learn much from the detective. People disappear daily along Daytona Beach and missing persons cases were as common as sunbathers. The way Bob figured it, Mikelson would be doing well if he’d even read the case by now.

  In fact, by then Daytona Beach Detective Wes Mikelson had not only read the case but also given it more thought than most.

  He was not unaware of the fact that while life in the Barber and Boucher homes was slowly falling apart, the entire burden of finding the missing teenagers had fallen squarely on his shoulders.

  Mikelson had always enjoyed the beach and had even been mistaken for a regular along the beach when he was off duty. He was tall and handsome with dark good looks and bronze skin. But when he was in uniform, the thirty-five-year-old Mikelson’s deep brown eyes looked hard and ruthless. If one was going to work Daytona Beach, one needed to be ruthless, even on the good days.

  Daytona Beach, being what it was, offered a plethora of opportunities for Mikelson to do what he enjoyed doing best—solving crimes. There was a limitless supply of crimes happening every day in Daytona Beach and over the years Mikelson had had a hand in solving more than a few major cases.

  In fact, there was much that Mikelson enjoyed about his job as detective for the Daytona Police Department. He liked being near the beach, liked being near young people—especially when his watchful eye played a part in turning some of them away from a life of crime. He even liked the fact that he stayed so busy.

  What Mikelson disliked most about his job was the missing persons cases. As with other police departments, each of the detectives was responsible for an equal number of missing persons cases in addition to his regular workload. The problem was, in Daytona Beach that number was incredibly high. For instance, currently, in addition to the murders and rapes and robberies that Mikelson was p
ersonally working on, he probably had nearly a hundred missing persons cases. Maybe more.

  If that number had been something more manageable such as, say, five or even ten cases, Mikelson knew he would put in overtime trying to figure them out. He would read them carefully, make telephone calls, and contact friends and relatives. Anything to find the missing people and give peace of mind to those who had filed the report.

  But one hundred cases.

  Mikelson was overwhelmed by the number. Since his colleagues had an equal number of missing persons cases, they had developed a system by which all such cases were handled. An officer would be assigned to the case. He would take down the information regarding the physical appearance of the missing person, and he would pass it along to everyone in the department.

  Then, instead of actually working the case, they tried to keep in mind the descriptions of several hundred missing persons each time they were on the streets. Mikelson thought this a sad way of dealing with cases that might, in fact, involve criminal activity. But they had so many cases to solve, so much work to do, that there really weren’t any options.

  And so on the morning of August 22, 1978, when Mikelson received in the mail the information involving the missing persons reports of Jim Boucher and Daryl Barber, he shook his head sadly. He remembered what the Michigan officer had said about the case smelling fishy, and he wished once again that he had time to actually work this case and any of a dozen of the more interesting missing persons cases to which he’d been assigned.

  The problem was, most of his hundred cases involved teenage boys. And much of the time, these missing persons were only kids who had come to Daytona Beach and gotten caught up in the drug culture or who had perhaps moved into one of the local flophouses where they suddenly were without any responsibility whatsoever. Many kids used Daytona Beach as an escape from their real lives. It was a place where kids from all over the country went when they ran away.

  Because of that, Mikelson knew he could not justify spending time on a missing persons case involving two teenage boys. Glancing through the file he looked at their pictures: Daryl’s handsome face and bright grin; Jim’s gentle brown eyes and shy smile.

  Mikelson sighed out loud, frustrated by the ineffectiveness of what he was about to do. Then he unceremoniously tossed the folder in a box with dozens and dozens like it. As he did, he remembered the boys’ faces. They looked like nice kids. Probably came from nice families. What in the world, then, were they doing in Daytona Beach?

  CHAPTER 9

  Like Detective Mikelson, Bob Brown could hardly understand why the Michigan boys would have gone to Daytona Beach for their vacation. After one week on the case he had researched the teenagers thoroughly and gone over what little information had already been obtained about their disappearance. In all he had one conclusion. The teens were totally unprepared for the fast and dangerous life that was Daytona Beach.

  By the time Jim and Daryl took their August vacation, crime in Daytona Beach had actually decreased from the previous two years when it had reached a truly atrocious level. The problem was that even with the decrease, Daytona Beach was still a significantly dangerous place, whether a person was planning to live there or just stop by for a hamburger and a quick swim in the Atlantic.

  So bad was the condition that four months later, on December 16, the Sentinel Star (now the Orlando Sentinel) ran a story on the front page of its metro section titled, “Seven of 25 Nationwide Top Crime Areas Are in Florida.”

  The lead paragraph of the story read, “The FBI says you are more likely to be the victim of a crime in Daytona Beach than in almost any other metropolitan area of the country. In fact,” the article continued, “you even have a greater chance of being a crime victim here than in New York City.”

  The report went on to say that although there were fewer people in Daytona Beach—or more specifically, Volusia County—than many of the big cities around the country, crime was happening at a much more rapid pace. But even at that, Daytona Beach apparently had reason to be proud of the fact that they had less crime than in the recent past.

  Daytona Beach police were certainly proud of the fact that in 1978, crimes had slowed down so that the area was now only the second most dangerous place in America. The statistic seemed like a victory because in 1976, Volusia County had been far and above the rightful owner of the No. 1 spot on the list of most dangerous places.

  This information came as no surprise to Floridians, many of whom would never consider taking a vacation in Daytona Beach, let alone allowing their children to vacation there by themselves. Although located on a beautiful stretch of white sand and warm, clear water, in the 1970s Daytona Beach was a transient town. It was the unofficial headquarters for several biker gangs and ninety percent of the country’s runaways. With those people making up much of the population, Daytona Beach became a place which lent itself to competitive drug dealing, easy robberies, and, with a fair amount of frequency, even murder. Many times, when a Daytona Beach resident needed money, bank withdrawals were not the only option.

  In fact there were people who considered the entire place a barbaric setup which had long since spiraled out of control and would probably be best off closed down completely. But, since Daytona Beach was still a tourist trap and still brought in a great deal of capital for the state, no one ever acted on such suggestions. Instead they tried to curb the crime.

  Which was why Volusia County Sheriff Ed Duff was so upbeat about the crime statistics reported in the December article. Despite the fact that his community had received nationwide attention because of its crime rate, Duff was quoted as saying that the statistics for the area really weren’t “too bad.” Especially when one considered the transient types attracted to the beach area and the fact that four thousand people had been added to his county since the previous year.

  But Sheriff Duff’s perspective and that of the Bouchers and Barbers were as different as Daytona Beach and Metamora. How Jim’s girlfriend, Jaime, had come and gone without incident was almost remarkable in light of the statistics. In fact, if either of the boys’ parents had known anything about Daytona Beach’s crime rating or about the transients that frequented the area, Jim and Daryl never would have gone on the trip—not because their parents would have forbidden them to go, but because once the teenagers knew the truth about Daytona Beach, being responsible, respectful young men, they would have made the decision on their own.

  Instead, their parents never learned the dark secrets about Daytona Beach until after their sons had disappeared. And by then, whether they were ready to admit this to themselves or not, it was far too late.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was not enough for the Barbers and Bouchers to hire a private investigator. The nightmare continued and so, they agreed, must their personal efforts to locate their sons. Even if that meant merely keeping alive the hope that one day they would come home.

  Around the Barber home the older, married children, who had long since moved away, took turns coming by and comforting their parents. At times, the family would sit around the kitchen table brainstorming about ways to locate the boys. Other times, they attempted to carry on other conversations involving other matters. But nothing, not a single word, was ever said that wasn’t weighed against the prevailing burden that Daryl was missing.

  Marian and Ron took turns being supportive for each other. But inevitably, each day was longer than the one that preceded it and more depressing in light of the fact that there was no news about the boys. Nights were the worst. The couple would lie in bed, awake but lost in their own private worlds of agony. Instead of sleeping, they would rack their brains thinking of some way they could find their son. And when they weren’t doing that, they were busy remembering the past, reliving memories of Daryl as if by doing so they might preserve his presence in their lives another day.

  The most vivid memories were those of Daryl and his motorcycle. He had purchased the bike prior to the trip and h
ad enjoyed riding along the country lanes that wound their way through Metamora. Each evening, on the days when he went riding, Daryl would take a damp cloth and dust off the bike’s body, taking special care to keep it in perfect condition. Now the motorcycle sat unused in the Barbers’ garage and the cleaning was done by his parents. Marian and Ron took turns caring for the bike, almost as if by doing so they could keep it ready and waiting for the moment Daryl would return home.

  And there was the pond out back, where Daryl and Jim would fish, and the horses that Daryl had always liked to ride. Everywhere the Barbers looked there were memories of their son.

  Sometimes, when she thought no one would miss her, Marian would go outside, sit on the front porch, gaze down Baldwin Road, and cry. Daryl was her youngest son, her baby. It seemed like just yesterday that he was toddling around the house trying to keep up with his older brothers and sisters. She missed him so badly there were days when she didn’t believe she could go on. She was certain, as much as she tried to deny the fact, that something very, very bad must have happened to her son to keep him away from home so long.

  When she wasn’t sitting outside looking for Daryl to return or polishing the chrome on his motorcycle, Marian would look through photo albums: toothless baby Daryl celebrating his first birthday; six-year-old Daryl riding proudly on his new bicycle; thirteen-year-old Daryl in his Little League outfit swinging a bat for all it was worth; nineteen-year-old Daryl standing beside his motorcycle grinning from ear to ear.