“Exactly,” he says.
“Unless,” I say, “the guy has something else to hide—something we might uncover if we keep picking at this particular scab. What was your thought about Bundy?”
“Remember he got his VW stuck in Eglin? What if he was there to bury Janet’s body? They found some of his stuff and the passenger seat of the car. What if her body was somewhere else around there and that’s why it’s never been found?”
I nod. “That’s good. Very good. Need to get them to check it out.”
“The old brain still fires up and runs occasionally,” he says.
“For tonight, you can come back to Anna’s parents’ place with us and—”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need babysitting. Don’t need Merrill or Jake to come here. Don’t need to go there with y’all.”
“It’s not babysitting,” I say. “It’s—”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” he says. “It’s nonnegotiable. I won’t be scared away and I won’t be babysat. Only thing I need is the loan of a gun. Bastard took mine.”
“But—”
“That’s the end of it,” he says. “I’m done talking about it. Besides, he threatened me. Said if I didn’t do what he told me he’d be back. I want to be where he can find me when he comes back. And I intend to get some information out of him.”
“Then John will stay with you,” Anna says. “And that’s nonnegotiable.”
He shrugs and considers it. “We could sleep in shifts.”
I nod, then look at Anna. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Thank you.”
“Y’all are also going to call Glenn Barnes and let him know what’s going on,” she says. “Get him to have his department keep an eye out for y’all too.”
“What if it was him?” Dad says. “Or he’s behind it?”
“Do you think it was him?” I ask. “He’s a big guy. Was—”
“Nah, wasn’t that big, but he could be behind it. Ben. Brad. Clyde. Gary. One of the other girls like Sabrina or Kathy. Anybody could be behind it.”
“Including Janet,” Anna says. “What if she faked her death and is scared you’re going to find out? She could’ve sent someone to threaten you.”
Dad frowns and shakes his head. “ME said there was too much blood in her car for her to have survived.”
“Unless it wasn’t her blood,” Anna says. “Could’ve been someone else’s. Maybe that’s why she had him threaten you off. She killed someone else and doesn’t want it discovered.”
“Who?” Dad says. “There were no other missing persons around that time. And the blood in the car was her rare type.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe they weren’t from around here. Or maybe there wasn’t a victim at all. Maybe she robbed a blood bank or saved her own blood over a long period of time. Maybe her stepdad was molesting her and she wanted out and so she—”
“There’s just no evidence of any of that,” Dad says. “I looked into all that. It’s possible. Most things are—at least in theory until we find her remains or other evidence. But you’re right, we certainly need to keep it in mind as a possibility like all the others until we can narrow things down even more.”
“And if she didn’t fake her own death to get away from her stepdad, maybe it was her stepdad who killed her,” she says. “Maybe he’s the one who came over here and threatened you—or sent someone to do it.”
“We’ll be sure to ask him when we talk to him tomorrow,” Dad says.
85
“I owe you both an apology,” Verna says. “I acted badly and I’m very sorry. I don’t handle things as well as I once did. Still a little fragile. I hope you can forgive me. It just took me by surprise. All this time . . . I thought Ted Bundy killed my baby . . . and if he didn’t . . . well . . . anyway. I hope it goes without saying that I appreciate what you’re doing and want to help in any way I can. If Bundy didn’t take Janet from us, then I want to know who did, and if he did, then I want to know where she is and to have the opportunity to bring her home and bury her in a sacred place.”
“We understand,” Dad says.
“Absolutely,” I say.
We are in her house once again—at her invitation—after having spent the morning working with Glenn Barnes and Reggie Summers and a few other law enforcement individuals and agencies to coordinate with Eglin Air Force Base for a search of Janet’s remains in the area where Bundy was known to be.
Ralphie, in a complete Batman costume, is in his chair watching Batman on TV. The only part of him visible is the bottom half of his face beneath his cowl.
Ronnie is already at the bar.
We are with Verna around the island in her kitchen drinking sweet iced tea.
“Thank you. I really felt bad. I’m so relieved y’all forgive me. So now that I’m in a better place . . . how can I help?”
“You mentioned corresponding with Bundy,” I say.
“Yeah, that was part of what upset me so bad, because I spent all those years writing that monster trying to convince him to confess and to let us know where he hid my baby. If he didn’t do it . . . well . . . what a waste of time that was.”
“We all spent a lot of time trying to get him to confess,” Dad says, “trying to get him to tell us where to find her. I had three different interviewers try to get it out of him over the years. I even tried to get in to talk to him myself before he was executed, but he refused to talk to me—or anyone else except James Dobson.”
Just prior to his execution, Bundy, manipulative madman to the end, granted his final interview to conservative Christian radio talk show host and psychologist James Dobson, in which the two famously talked about pornography as a root cause for his multiple assaults, murders, rapes, and necrophilia.
“Did he write back?” I ask. “What’d he say?”
“I wrote him for years,” she says. “Lots and lots of letters, asking him not only to confess to Janet’s murder and to tell us where he buried her, but to confess to every murder he’d ever committed so all the families could . . . would know. In all that time, I got one sentence from him. One sentence on a partial piece of paper that read, ‘I’m not the monster you seek. Ted.’ That was it.”
“I got nowhere either,” Dad says. “He did talk to a few interviewers about his crimes—usually in the third person or in some very vague ways, but not much about victims that weren’t already known.”
“I noticed there are no bars in Marianna,” I say. “Where does Ronnie go to drink?”
She frowns and shakes her head. “It’s so pathetic. It’s a guy’s basement. Decorated just like a bar—neon lights, pool table, dartboard, jukebox, lighted liquor shelves behind an actual wooden bar. It’s . . . sad and . . . absurd, but . . . I’m just glad to have him gone. I know that sounds ter—”
“Batmom,” Ralphie says from the den, “Batman need a Batsnack.”
“Coming up, sweetie,” she says, jumping up and beginning to prepare his food.
“Not sweetie,” he says. “Batman.”
“Sorry, Batman. That’s what I meant. Batsnack coming right up. Will be in the Batcave in no time.”
She fills a Batman thermos with a purple drink from a pitcher and prepares mini grilled cheese sandwiches in the shape of bats.
“Feel free to keep talking,” she says. “This will only take a minute.”
While Dad asks her if she minds if I see Janet’s room, I glance around the formal living room across from us that looks to never be used. Huge framed portraits and photographs hang on every wall. Based on the others I’ve seen, I’d say they’re all Janet’s work.
Happier times. Ronnie and Verna together, genuine smiles, comfortable affection. Ralphie in various costumes and crime-fighting poses.
A stunning self-portrait of Janet wearing an outfit not dissimilar to the one she was seen in at the party the night of her disappearance, a vintage remote-shutter-release trigger and cable visible in her left han
d. All the images are great, are art, but the one of Janet is truly extraordinary, as if by being both photographer and subject simultaneously she is able to open herself up, expose her naked, vulnerable essence in a way she never could otherwise.
I step over to take a closer look at it, studying it carefully.
There is beauty—simple, pure, innocent beauty—but it’s the openness and vulnerability that make the photograph so powerful and a little difficult to look at.
I feel as though I can see straight through her big brown eyes into her soul.
Is there pain present? Is this someone being molested by her stepfather? Is this someone capable of faking her own death? Of killing someone else? I honestly don’t believe it is. I don’t see anything in her—as art or artist—that would suggest anything even remotely like that.
When I return to the kitchen area, Dad is standing and Verna is next to him. Something about the way they stand, the way they lean into each other just a little makes it look like they were once lovers.
“We’re going to Janet’s room, Batman,” she yells into the den. “We’ll be right back.”
“No,” Ralphie yells. “My room. See my room first.”
“Okay. We can see yours first. Do you want to show them or do you want me to do it?”
In another few moments, a large, old, overweight Batman is easing through the doorway with the aid of his Batcane.
“To the Batcave,” he says, which is comical given how slowly he’s moving.
When he’s sufficiently in front of us, we follow.
“He’s almost always a comic crime stopper,” she says. “Ironman, Spiderman, the Hulk, but Batman is his favorite.”
He leads us down a hallway lined with bookshelves.
“Ronnie used to read,” Verna explains.
The books lining the shelves represent a diverse collection of fiction and history and philosophy and true crime and religion and self-help, with several shelves of farming and farming machinery mixed in.
“He doesn’t do anything but drink these days,” she says. “Not that I blame him. If I didn’t have Ralphie to take care of that’s probably what I would do. I haven’t been able to read—or concentrate on anything for very long since it happened.”
Ralphie’s room is absolutely packed with collectables—toys, sneakers, figurines, lunch boxes, movie memorabilia, canes, old records, and antiques of all kinds, including tractors, swords, nunchucks, and, of course, comic books—all in pristine packages displayed as if in a showroom instead of a bedroom.
“Wow,” I say. “This is very impressive.”
“Ralphie throws himself into everything he does, don’t you buddy?”
“I’m not buddy. I’m Batman.”
“Sorry, Batman. Okay. We’re gonna go look at Janet’s room now. We miss Janet, don’t we?”
“So bad,” he says. “Miss her so bad. Janet is my sister. Janet takes pretty pictures.”
“Yes, she does,” she says.
They both use the present tense, and I wonder why. Is it just because of Ralphie’s childlikeness or how much of Janet is still present in this house, or is there some other reason?
“You go watch more of your adventures, Batman,” Verna says. “We’ll be back in there in a minute.”
“I love your room,” I say. “It’s very cool.”
“Yes, it is. Coolest room ever. Coolest room ever, isn’t it? Isn’t it the coolest room ever?”
“Yes, it is.”
As Batman slowly makes his way back toward the den, we turn to Janet’s room.
86
“It’s just as she left it,” Verna says. “Still. I dust and vacuum once a week without disturbing anything. Like before, I just ask that you don’t move anything, don’t change anything.”
“We won’t,” Dad says.
I nod.
She opens the door and we step into 1978.
Over the years, the rest of the house had been updated and remodeled more than once, but not this room. This room is a time capsule, exactly as it was the night Janet vanished off the face of the earth forever.
A single bed with a gold bedspread and rust-colored sheets sits in the corner, its covers tossed to the middle and bunched up. A windowsill with a couple of plants on it. Green shag carpet with clothes and shoes strewn about. An open closet with plaid skirts and flared-bottom jeans hanging on a single bar, boots and shoes beneath it spilling out into the room.
A small, narrow built-in desk. A huge plastic camera like you’d see in a department store display hanging from the ceiling above it, looming large, dominating everything else in the room.
Both her dresses from that weekend—one for the pageant, one for the ball—like everything else, have been left exactly as they were, one draped over the desk chair, the other over the end of the bed.
“She never kept her room perfect,” Verna says. “But because of how busy she was that weekend, it’s far messier than normal.”
A bulletin board on the wall above her desk is filled with photographs, mostly taken by her, and clippings from fashion magazines and fancy photoshoots.
“Family, photography, and fashion,” Verna says. “With a little time left over for her boyfriend, friends, and her horse. That’s how my girl filled her short life. And fill it she did.”
We look around a little while, but are limited in what we can do and not disturb anything.
“It’s like I’ve gone back in time,” Dad says. “Like I was just in here yesterday.”
Verna nods. “I experience that every morning when I come in here to tell her I love her and every evening when I come in to tell her about my day.”
Dad reaches back and takes Verna’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
She squeezes his hand, caressing the top of it with her thumb.
“Sorry it happened. Sorry I wasn’t able to find out exactly what happened or why or who did it. Sorry I left. So sorry for all of it. Every damn bit of it.”
She starts to say something, but Ralphie yells for her from the den and she excuses herself to go check on him.
Dad shakes his head. “Before Janet was killed, she had a little help—Janet, even Ronnie—now she has no one. To go through what she has . . . and still be able to take care of . . .”
“Batman?” I offer.
“Yeah.”
“You two seem pretty close,” I say.
He nods. “We really bonded while I was working on the case up here. Nancy was younger than Janet but not by much. She was into horseback riding at the time. I . . . I really . . . I was able to put myself in Verna’s place and . . .”
Eventually, Verna returns. “Batman made a Batmess and needed Batmother to make it better.”
“You’re so good with him,” I say.
She smiles and shrugs. “He’s all I’ve got. And it’s easy. He’s easy to love. Fun to do stuff for. Not everyone gets to live with Batman.”
I nod and smile at her and miss Anna, Johanna, and Taylor something fierce.
“We’ve seen enough,” Dad says. “Thanks for letting us take a look.”
He turns to leave, but she lifts her hand to stop him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“I held something back,” she says. “I . . . I hid something. I was just tryin’ to protect my baby girl, that’s all. And I was going to tell you back then—only you, no one else—but just about the time I was ready to, you left.”
“Sorry again that I did,” he says. “You can tell me now. And you can say anything in front of John.”
She nods. “I know that. He’s a good man like you. I can tell.”
“So what is it?”
“I took two things out of her room before the police arrived,” she says. “And I’d do it again. I don’t think they have anything to do with . . . what happened to her, and . . . it would have embarrassed her. She is a private person. Shy, in a way.”
Dad nods.
/>
She looks over at me.
I also nod, and give her an encouraging expression.
“I took her diary and . . .”
“And?” Dad says.
“She had lingerie laid out on her bed. It was new and sweet but very sexy. Had red hearts and lace and looked like a Valentine. Her last entry in her diary said she was excited and nervous because she was going to give her virginity to Ben that night.”
Dad touches her shoulder tenderly.
“I don’t think Ben killed my Janet and I don’t think her last diary entry or the fact that she had lingerie laid out had anything to do with what happened to her. And it was too private to . . . I couldn’t let the world see that. I couldn’t.”
Dad nods. “We understand,” he says. “I’d’ve done the same thing if it were my daughter.”
“Oh, I know only too well what you’re willing to do for your daughter.”
Dad looks a little embarrassed. “You should see how John is with his.”
“You have a daughter?” Verna asks.
“Two,” I say.
“Would you do what I did for them?”
I nod. “I would. That and more.”
“What I did wasn’t the reason the case wasn’t solved, was it?” she says.
Dad shakes his head. “I don’t think it was.”
She looks at me again.
“I don’t either,” I say. “I really don’t.”
As they turn to leave, I step over to the closet and look at the clothes.
Turning back toward me, Verna says, “She had such great taste, such a flair and eye for fashion.”
I nod. “She really did.”
“Had she worn the outfit she wore to the farmhouse party that night before?”
“What outfit?” she says. “Is there a picture of her there that night?”
“I’m sorry, I figured you would’ve seen it,” I say, reaching into my pocket and bringing out the copy Kathy had given me.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t know there was one. It would be the last picture ever taken of my baby girl.”
She takes the photo from me and pulls it close to her to study it.
In only a moment or so, she is shaking her head and frowning. “I can see why you’d think that was her,” she says, “but it’s not.”
True Crime Fiction Page 35
