“Just a thought, here, Smith,” Mikelson’s voice rang with sarcasm. “But where would a nice guy like Snake get traveler’s checks?”
“Well, hmmmm. That is a good question.”
Mikelson stopped pacing and stared at Spider, moving his face close to the inmate’s. Bob saw that Spider’s face had grown pale. “I’m waiting, Smith,” the detective shouted.
“Snake said he hit a heavy lick.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Mikelson’s voice returned to its normal level. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Smith?”
“Well, you know, that’s street talk.” Spider was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. “Uhh, well, hit-tin’ a heavy lick. Means he ripped someone off and, you know, just maybe someone mighta got hurt.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight.” Mikelson resumed his pacing. “You and Snake are friends—”
“Wait a minute, man,” Spider interrupted. “I never said nothing ‘bout us being friends. I know him. That’s it.”
“Sure, Smith.” Mikelson was sarcastic as he waved off Spider’s statement. “Now, you say Snake had a red Nova, lots of traveler’s checks, and that he hit a heavy lick. But the last time you saw him was sometime in the middle of August. Is that right?”
Smith tilted his head slowly from side to side. Bob thought he appeared to be sorting the story through his mind, almost as if he was weighing its legitimacy. “Right,” he said finally.
“Fine. Now, tell me where you were last time you saw Snake.”
“The bars, man.” Spider swallowed loudly. “Snake was taking off, man, heading for Mississippi.”
“Mississippi?”
“Yeah, man. Mississippi.”
Mikelson narrowed his eyes doubtfully. “Why would Snake head for Mississippi?”
“He has a wife there, man. In Biloxi or something.”
“Was he going there by himself?”
Spider struggled to swallow, but after several unsuccessful attempts he appeared to give up. “When I saw him, he was by himself. I know that much.”
“And what was he driving when you saw him?”
“The Nova.”
Mikelson looked at Bob and saw him nod in a way that was barely perceptible. It was time to bring out the pictures. The detective pulled two photographs from his back pocket and thrust them in Spider’s face.
“Ever seen these kids?”
Suddenly, Spider’s eyes grew wide. He turned away from the photographs and glared at the detective. “No more questions.”
“Fine. Just tell me if you’ve seen these kids before?”
“I said,” Spider was shouting now, “no more questions! Get out of here and don’t come back. I’m not answering no questions unless I have a lawyer or something. Just get outta’ here.”
Mikelson and Bob both were taken aback by Spider’s reaction. “You think I can’t see through this,” Mikelson said, trying to trick Spider into answering his question. “You know these boys, don’t you?”
“Listen, pig, I’m not answering no more questions. And that’s final.”
Mikelson glanced at Bob and sighed. “Well, looks like we have our answer,” he said, ignoring Spider’s demand that they leave immediately.
Bob nodded and Spider watched nervously. “What the heck is that supposed to mean, man?”
“Never mind,” Mikelson said, his face filled with disgust and contempt for the scraggly inmate. He motioned for Bob and the two stood to leave. “You can have it your way. But we’re not finished with you yet, Spider. Not by a long shot.”
CHAPTER 22
By mid-November, the case of the missing Michigan teenagers had captured the attention of the very highest levels of the Michigan and Florida state governments. For the most part the chain reaction of outrage on the part of politicians was started by the efforts of Larry Burkhalter. But the chain of command did not fully become involved and underlings did not actually begin snapping into action until after Governor William G. Milliken of Michigan personally wrote this letter to Governor Reubin Askew of Florida:
Dear Reubin:
I am enclosing a letter which I received from the Honorable Larry E. Burkhalter, Michigan House of Representatives. In that letter Rep. Burkhalter outlines the cases of two young Michigan men who were last seen while vacationing in Daytona Beach, Florida.
I understand that the original missing persons reports were filed with the Michigan State Police which has been cooperating with the Florida authorities in investigating these disappearances.
As you can imagine, the distance between our states makes it especially difficult for the families of Messrs. Barber and Boucher since it is difficult for them to communicate with Florida law enforcement agencies. I would appreciate your help in obtaining information about these cases for the families. Warm personal regards.
Sincerely, Bill.
It was not often that, dealing on a first name basis, one governor asked another for his personal help in solving a missing persons case. And so Governor Askew decided that he would indeed give his personal assistance to solving the case. His efforts resulted in this letter addressed to the Honorable Edwin Duff II, sheriff of Volusia County:
Enclosed is a copy of a letter received by Governor Askew from Governor Milliken in Michigan regarding two young Michigan men who were last seen in Daytona Beach.
Governor Askew has asked that your department look into this matter and determine whether these two men may still be in the Daytona Beach area.
Your early attention to this request is appreciated.
Sincerely, Bruce C. Starling, General Counsel.
When Sheriff Duff received that letter he knew one thing for sure. His attention to the matter would be more than appreciated. It would be expected. A letter from his office was written November 14 informing Mr. Starling that the sheriff’s department would begin an immediate investigation and promising that his department would notify the governor’s office from time to time as to the progress they were making.
Later that week, on November 16, sheriff’s deputy Joe Deemer was assigned the case and directed to put his full attention into the investigation.
At about the same time, a team of investigators from the Florida Drug and Law Enforcement (FDLE) agency was also contacted by the governor’s office. Yes, they would be more than happy to check into this case, which, according to Mr. Starling, was of great personal interest to the governor.
SO IT WAS THAT MIKELSON WAS SITTING AT HIS DESK working on his ever-increasing workload when on Thursday afternoon—at the exact same time—he was visited by Deemer and two FDLE agents.
“Can I help you?” Mikelson was puzzled by their appearance.
“Yes, we’ve been asked by the governor to look into a certain missing persons case. We understand it’s a case you’re working on.”
Mikelson was still not aware of what case they were talking about. “What case?”
Deemer glanced down at his notes. “The, uh, Barber-Boucher-case.”
“Oh, yes.” Mikelson rolled his eyes. “Actually, we are working on that case.”
“Well, we’ve been asked to help speed up the investigation a bit,” one of the FDLE agents said.
“We understand there were some traveler’s checks cashed?” Deemer asked.
“Yes, but—” Mikelson was interrupted by one of the FDLE agents.
“We’d like copies of the checks, if you don’t mind, and then we’ll pay a visit to the places where they were cashed.”
Mikelson laughed and held up his hand. “Look, officers, I’ll give you whatever you need. But I have to tell you something first.”
“What’s that.”
“Everything you men want to do has already been done. And then some.”
“I thought your department was too busy to do much investigative work on missing persons cases,” Deemer said.
“Our department h
ad nothing to do with it. Everything we know about this case is the direct result of one of the best private investigators around.”
The officers brushed off the comment and proceeded to copy the information from Mikelson’s file.
“Don’t worry about any private investigation at this point,” one of the officers said. “We’ll take care of everything from here.”
AND SO THE INTEREST THAT THE BARBERS AND BOUCHERS had tried so desperately to drum up was finally taking place. The governor himself had started the chain reaction and now it was only a matter of time before the various investigators found out what happened to the Michigan teenagers.
But of course, by then, it would be too late.
Bob Brown was weeks ahead of them, blazing a trail into an investigation that had seemed hopeless and making remarkable progress along the way. The morning after the officers visited the police station, Bob Brown was busy finding yet another lead.
One he’d been waiting weeks for.
SINCE MIKELSON HAD BEEN PRESENT THE FIRST TIME THEY questioned Spider, the detective had agreed to let Bob handle any further questioning by himself. Mikelson still had numerous cases he was working on and there simply wasn’t enough time to be running the same questions by an inmate who had chosen to answer only the easy ones. Besides, Mikelson trusted Bob completely.
And so at ten o’clock that Friday morning the private investigator found himself sitting before Spider with virtually the same list of questions and as much time as it might take to get some real answers.
“Who are you, man?” Spider looked disgusted as he ran his eyes up and down the private investigator. He recognized him from the session earlier in the week. But he hadn’t been able to understand who he was or why he had sat in on the questioning. “You some kind of narc or something?”
“No.” Bob had decided to play on the fact that if Spider knew something about the boys and talked about it, he could very easily avoid a harsh prison sentence by cooperating.
“I’m a PI, hired to find these boys. Here, take a look.” Bob took the photos of Jim and Daryl from his briefcase and showed them to Spider.
“Listen, man, I told that pig last time that I wasn’t talking no more. Nothing’s changed since then.”
Bob pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Well, of course that has to be your decision. If you’re not willing to talk then there’s nothing more to say.” He paused long enough to capture Spider’s attention.
“But there is something you should know.”
Spider squirmed in his seat and again Bob was struck by the appropriateness of this man’s nickname. “What’s that, man?”
“Well, if you’re involved somehow, and I’m only saying if, then you’re only hurting yourself by not talking.”
Spider seemed to think this over. Bob cleared his throat and continued.
“Let’s just say you’re involved or you know something about how come these boys haven’t come home from their vacation yet. Eventually, someone’s going to talk. And whoever talks first, well, that’s the guy who gets the deal.”
“Hey, I don’t need no deal, man.” Spider was defensive now, his body language showing his frustration.
“That’s fine. But if you cooperate, you’re always better off in the long run.”
For five minutes, neither man spoke. Bob sat perfectly still, his eyes trained on Spider’s as he waited calmly for the man to break. Bob could read that much in Spider’s face: the man would break eventually. This was where Bob excelled as an investigator. He could almost always get someone to talk. Even if it was merely a matter of waiting until the subject would break down—just as a means of ending the silence—and tell him everything.
When five minutes had passed, Spider began to swallow loudly, much as he’d done the day before when his nerves had gotten the better of him.
“Okay, I’ve seen them before,” he admitted, pointing to the pictures that now lay on the table beside Bob’s briefcase.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “All right, now we’re getting somewhere. Where did you see them?”
“Snake’s trailer.”
“Let’s back up a bit here. How did the boys get to Snake’s trailer?”
Spider shrugged.
“Look, this is your ball, Smith,” Bob said. “It’s up to you what you want to do. You talk, and you get the best deal possible. You make us find Snake and we’ll get him to do the talking. We’ll get the truth one way or another.”
More time passed and finally Spider coughed loudly. “Snake met the boys at the Thunderbird Motel. He asked them back to his place for a pot party, you know.”
“No, I don’t know anything about it. You’ll have to tell me everything you can.”
Spider sighed and seemed to slouch over as if he was dejected by what was happening. Bob guessed that Spider was regretting having said anything at all.
“All right, Snake’s a party guy, you know? He does dope, has people around who smoke and buy and sell. Understand?”
Bob nodded.
“Okay, well, he meets these two pigeons—”
“Pigeons?”
“You know, tourists. Fresh in from some backward state like Michigan.”
“So Snake meets the pigeons and then what?”
“Well, he brings ’em to his trailer. That’s where I saw ’em. I went to the trailer for the party and we all smoked a little pot there.”
“The boys smoked, too?”
“Oh, yeah. They was big smokers. We was all getting high and stuff and then later on everyone left.”
“Where’d everyone go?”
“I went home.”
Bob’s patience was being severely tested and he took a deep breath. “Where did Snake and the kids go?”
“Oh, they went to Mississippi, like I said.”
“You also said Snake went to Mississippi by himself, if I remember correctly.”
“Yeah, well, you know, man. I guess I forgot about the boys.”
“If you know anything else, now’s the time to talk about it, Smith. Any day now we’re going to find other people who are more than willing to talk. And then all the deals anyone might ever make with you about this case will be called off. We only need one guy to spill his guts. Know what I mean?”
Spider nodded. “Wish I could help you, man,” he said, his eyes drifting off in space. “But that’s it. That’s all I know.”
Bob was satisfied. He stood up to leave and gathered his belongings.
“I’ll be back Smith. See if you can’t rack your brains and try to jar your memory a bit. I’m sure you can remember a few more details if you really try.”
“Whatever, man.” Spider had tuned out and was no longer paying attention.
As Bob left the jail, he decided that all in all it had been a productive week. In a matter of days he had pieced together the fact that Snake and Spider were the last people seen with the boys before they disappeared. He could always come back and spend more time with Spider.
For now he had another lead to check—the Thunderbird Motel.
CHAPTER 23
Armed with the information from Spider Smith, Brown set out late Friday afternoon for the Thunder-bird Motel. He knew that even if Jim and Daryl had stayed at the motel, they were not there any longer. But perhaps there was someone who had spoken with them or who knew where they had gone. At least he could verify part of what Spider was saying and in doing so lend credence to the rest of his story.
Bob arrived at the motel sometime after three that afternoon and went immediately to the manager’s office.
“May I help you?” A big man walked out from a smaller back room and came up behind the desk.
Bob flashed his identification card. “Bob Brown, private investigator,” he said curtly. “I need to see your register book for the week of August twelfth.”
“Well, I’m Stanley Robinson, manager here,” he said, sounding as if there was a great de
al of prestige in such a position. “I’m afraid those books are private property.”
Bob smiled patiently. “I can be back with a police warrant in thirty minutes,” he said politely. “Shall I do that, or would you mind just getting the books and letting me take a look?”
Robinson was a solid man with an unruly mustache and thinning hair that curled awkwardly about his head. His image rather fit that of the Thunderbird Motel, which while not run down was certainly not considered one of the finer places to stay at Daytona Beach. Robinson appeared to be agonizing over the choices Bob had given him. Finally he dramatically tossed up his hands in the air.
“What’s this country coming to, anyway,” he mumbled as he went into the back room. Bob could hear him from where he sat waiting in the lobby. “People just walk in here like they own the place and think they can look at someone else’s books. I thought this was America.”
When he returned, he opened the book to August 12 and handed it roughly to Bob. “There. Enjoy.” Then he walked away in a huff of indignation.
Bob scanned the entries carefully and was surprised that there had been so few guests the night of August 12. Mid-August was usually a time when every motel along the beach would be bursting at the seams. But according to Robinson’s book, the Thunderbird had only filled six rooms that night and none of the guests was Jim Boucher or Daryl Barber. He flipped through the pages one at a time, slowly reading each entry. The shortage of customers at the Thunderbird seemed to continue consistently throughout the week. Bob continued to search the book but finally he closed it and rang the bell for Robinson. The boys’ names had not appeared at any time during the week.
“You done nosing through my books?” There was a cigar hanging lazily from Robinson’s mouth and a trail of smoke that followed him into the lobby.
“Yes.” Bob smiled cordially. “Thanks so much for your trouble.” Bob turned to leave and then stopped.
“By the way,” Bob said as he stared the manager in the eye. “You must be worried about the business.”
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