“I love you, Daddy. I’m gonna come for a visit real soon.”
“I’d love that,” he says. “I’d love that so much.”
While Dad talks to Nancy, I step over to the porch to check on Verna.
“Sorry about all this,” she says. “Ronnie’s . . . He’s been in a bad way for a long time. He’s an addict, which means everything is always someone else’s fault. He does everything obsessively. Drink. Gamble. The whole world is out to get him. Life is less fair for him than anyone else. He’s put our whole family in jeopardy more than once. He’s a user. He uses me. Always has. I’ve covered for him. I’ve enabled him. I’ve put up with . . . more than anybody should. He used Janet. Worked her too hard at his store. Took advantage of her goodness. Even used poor Ralphie like a guard dog, had him watching for loan sharks coming to the house, handed him the phone when debt collectors called. He’s . . . he’s not a nice person anymore. Hasn’t been for some time, but I guess I didn’t realize just how bad he’d gotten.”
“Are you really apologizing for him?” I ask.
“For my part. For enabling his behavior so long. For . . .”
“You’re not responsible for him,” I say.
“I’m the reason he’s still around,” she says. “I should have . . . left him years ago.”
“It’s not too late.”
“No, it’s not. And it’s done. I’m done. I’m done with him.”
We are quiet a moment.
“Do you have any . . .” she begins. “Do you want to ask me anything about me and your dad? I’m sorry for what happened, sorry that I let it happen. For what it did to your family. I was just in such a bad way, so . . . utterly lost.”
“You’re not responsible for anything that happened in my family,” I say. “I understand what happened and why it did—for both of you. Dad was so unhappy. He . . .”
When Dad ends the call with Nancy, he walks over to us and reaches out to hand me the phone—or so I think—but when I step toward him to take it, he grabs me and wraps me up in the biggest hug he’s given me since I’ve been an adult.
He’s crying and I can feel the moisture from his tears through my shirt.
I hug him back, holding him almost like a parent would a child—regardless of age—and we remain that way for a long moment.
“Thank you, John,” he says. “Thank you my amazing son. Thank you so much.”
90
We’ve pulled it together and are back behind Sabrina’s mini mansion again, at a table beneath an umbrella on her patio next to her pool.
When we showed up unannounced at her front door, she asked us to walk around the side of the house to the back like before.
By the time we got there she was waiting with lemonade—just like before.
“I don’t wish to be . . . rude, but please understand the position I’m in now and call before you come by,” she says.
“Absolutely,” Dad says. “Sorry about that. We’re tracking down a lead we just got and came straight over. It won’t take long. But next time we’ll call.”
“Hopefully, Sheriff, there won’t be a next time,” she says.
Today, Sabrina looks even more like a nervous, slightly strung out Patsy Ramsey, and I wonder if for her entire life she’s always tried to look like someone else.
“Help us out now and maybe there won’t,” he says.
“I’ll do what I can.”
I withdraw the picture from my pocket and hand it to her.
She takes it and looks at it.
“Wow. I look amazing. The light, the way I’m spinning, the way my hair is flying out around my head. Who took it?”
“So it is you?” I say.
She nods. “Yeah. Why? Who took it?”
“I’m not sure. Someone in the farmhouse taking pictures that night.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Am I missing something? I told you I was there for a little while that night.”
“Whose car is that behind you?” Dad says.
“I didn’t have a car back then. Didn’t have much of anything. Used to borrow my parents’ car when they’d let me. My aunt, my mother’s sister, was in town that weekend. Came to see me in the Valentine’s pageant. She bought me the dress for it so I didn’t have to wear Goodwill or hand-me-downs. She bought me this outfit too.” She lifts up the picture and waves it back and forth. “I think it was the prettiest I’ve ever felt in my entire life. And she let me borrow her car. For a little while it was the best night of my life.”
“Really?” I ask.
She nods. “I felt so . . . I don’t know. It was just a good night, you know? I hadn’t had a lot of them. I felt so grown up, so with it. Hip and sophisticated. Had my own car. I looked the cat’s ass. It was a magic night for me.”
“You came to the party, but didn’t go inside,” I say. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t stay long, did you?”
“No. Not long.”
“What’d you do?”
“Talked to Ben Tillman mostly. He was all sad and . . . He’d been stood up. He’d been drinking and was gettin’ pretty drunk. He was convinced that Janet had gone to meet another guy instead of come to the party. His ego was hurt. I tried to cheer him up.”
“Who did he think she was with?” I ask.
She looks away and seems to think about it. “Kathy’s boyfriend maybe or some other guy he thought she had been secretly seeing. An older guy. I’m not sure.”
“So you talked to Ben for a while and then he left with you,” I say.
She nods. “He was with me that night,” she says. “I’ve told y’all.”
“What happened? Where’d you go? What’d you do?”
“Drove around for a little while. Eventually found a quiet spot to park.”
“And?”
“And it was a magic night until . . . He wouldn’t look at me when . . . while we were . . . and then . . . he said her name as he . . . finished.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Wasn’t the last time that happened.”
“Then I’m really, really sorry.”
She shrugs. “All’s well that ends well. I’m all good now.” She turns a little to take in her home. “I’ve got everything I always wanted.”
“Where did you take him after y’all . . . when y’all left the . . .” Dad says.
“Dropped him off at his house—well, down the block from it.”
“What time was that?”
Her eyes narrow and get the accessing-memories look again. “I’m really not sure. It was late, but . . .”
“Were you late gettin’ to the party?” I ask.
“A little. Not much.”
“And you didn’t stay long.”
“Right.”
“How long did you ride around? How long did y’all park for?”
“A while. Couple of hours probably. Why?”
“Because you provide Ben an alibi for a little while but not nearly the whole night.”
91
We spend the next couple of hours tracking down the witnesses from the farmhouse party the night Janet went missing—including Kathy, Charles, Gary, Ann, Valarie, and others.
Most we see in person. A few we have to talk to via live video—mostly FaceTime, but at least one on Skype.
We show each of them the picture of Sabrina near her aunt’s car and ask if that’s who they thought was Janet at the party that night.
Without exception the ones who had said they saw Janet that night say yes, this is the person they believed to be her.
“So we now know she wasn’t there that night,” Dad says.
We have just gotten back into his truck after questioning the last witness on our list.
“Not for sure, but with a relatively high degree of certainty,” I say. “Which argues for it being Bundy instead of Ben.”
He nods. “Still want to talk to him again.”
“Let’s do.”
Unlike the
basement bar Ronnie hangs out in, we find Ben at an actual bar. We just have to drive seventeen miles outside of town to do so.
“Ben wasn’t the one who threatened me in my room,” Dad says.
“How do you know?”
“That guy didn’t smell of booze.”
I smile.
We walk over to the bar and take a seat on either side of Ben.
Ben, who is hunched over his drink, looks up briefly, shakes his head slowly, and returns to the previous position.
The female bartender looks to be in her sixties, but could be younger. She has sun-damaged skin, a smoker’s wrinkles around her mouth, a missing tooth, and wariness.
“What’ll you have?” she says.
“Bud Light,” Dad says.
“Diet Coke and grenadine,” I say.
“You serve cops in here?” Ben says.
“Cops and criminals alike,” she says as she withdraws a bottle of Bud from the cooler beneath her, pops the top, and places it in front of Dad.
“And another one for him,” Dad says, nodding toward Ben.
She smiles. It’s a good smile. “Oh, I’m sure he’s too principled to take a round from a cop.”
“Wait just a . . . just a minute there, Sherry Lynn. Not so . . . fast.”
He turns to Dad. “Take care of my tab and my drinks for the rest of the night and you can . . . and I . . . will . . . talk to you.”
“You’ll answer all our questions honestly?” I say.
He turns toward me. “What’d you say Mr. Diet Coke and grenadine?”
“I bet you have a pretty sporty tab,” I say. “You’ve got to earn it. Answer our questions honestly.”
“Deal,” he says, nodding. “I have nothing to hide. Hell, I . . . also . . . have . . . nothing.”
Dad takes out his credit card and hands it to Sherry Lynn. “You can run it for his tab and drinks tonight when we’re done if he answers our questions honestly.”
She nods, takes the card, turns around, opens her register, puts it in it, and makes a note on a small notepad on the counter beside it.
“You heard the man, Ben,” she says. “Cooperate with them or . . . I ain’t runnin’ it.”
“I have nothing to hide,” he says. “I . . . have . . . nothin’ at all anymore. ’Cept a lawnmower my old man bought me.”
“We know you left the party with Sabrina not Janet that night,” Dad says.
“Hold up . . . hold up. You’re tryin’ to . . . trick me. That’s not a question. That’s a . . . a . . . the other thing.”
“A statement,” I offer.
“It’s just like . . . Junior says,” Ben says. “It’s a . . . it’s a . . . a . . . statement. But not . . . the kind . . . that’s like a . . . bill.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you left with Sabrina?” Dad says. “You had an alibi. You wasted our time and resources. Why?”
“Why?” Ben repeats. “Why? I’ll . . . I’m just drunk enough to tell you why.”
He pauses to take another swig of his drink.
“Because . . .” he continues. “Because . . . while my girl was being . . . being killed . . . I was bangin’ some Janet wannabe.”
He starts crying.
Dad and I look at Sherry Lynn.
“Oh, just wait,” she says. “That’s nothin’. Wait ’til he’s had some more and really gets to opening up. He can be one maudlin motherfucker.”
“I . . . was . . . I was mad,” Ben says. “Thought . . . she stood me up. Thought she was . . . teasing me ’cause she said we were gonna . . . you know . . . for the first time that night. And then she . . . she didn’t show. She . . . I . . . I was fuckin’ Sabrina while she was . . . while Janet was . . . being . . .”
He has carried around so much guilt for so long it’s a part of his molecular structure now. The grief from losing her would have been difficult enough, but together with the guilt it’s debilitating.
“Who do you think did it?” I ask. “Who do you think killed her?”
He looks from me to Dad then back to me, his face a mask of confusion. “Bundy,” he says. “Right? Has to be. He . . . was . . . got her before she . . . She never . . . made it . . . to the . . . party because . . . he . . . I . . . was there when . . .”
“You were where?” Dad asks.
“When he . . . when they . . . fried him. I . . . drove down there. Stayed . . . up all night . . . outside the . . . prison. I . . . was there for . . . her when they . . . juiced his balls and short circuited his brainpan. Kicked the shit . . . out of some fuckin’ . . . protestor of the . . . death penalty. Told him . . . about what that . . . son of a bitch Bundy did . . . to my . . . girl.”
He starts crying again.
“We . . . wouldn’t . . . we wouldn’t have wound up . . . together. Not . . . not for . . . ever. She was . . . she was too good for . . . me. She was . . . magic. So beautiful . . . so sweet . . . so talented. I worshiped the . . . the ground she . . . walked on.”
“Some witnesses said you seemed distracted at the ball and that you two may have been fighting,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I . . . was . . . nervous . . . and . . . We had . . . we had talked about goin’ all the way that . . . weekend. I . . . I was planning to . . . propose after we . . . or . . . before. I couldn’t—”
“Hey, hey, Sherry Lynn,” an older man at the end of the bar says. “Turn it up. Look at that. Turn it up.”
He’s pointing toward the TV hanging on the wall behind us. We turn to see what he’s referring to, as Sherry Lynn turns up the volume.
It’s a local newscast out of Dothan.
“. . . is believed to be the remains of Janet Leigh Lester,” a young brunette reporter is saying. “Lester went missing on February 12, 1978. Her car, which was covered in blood, was found in a pasture on Highway 71 not far from the I-10 ramp near Marianna. The sheriff leading the original investigation believed serial killer Ted Bundy was responsible for her disappearance. Bundy was known to be in the vicinity the night in question, but the convicted serial killer, responsible for the deaths of some thirty women around the country, maintained his innocence of the crime up until the time of his execution in Florida’s electric chair in 1989. . .”
I look over at Dad.
He shakes his head and frowns. “Guess we can let Eglin know to call off the search over there. Hell, I doubt they’ve even started yet.”
“Where is that?” I ask. “What is she standing in front of?”
Behind the reporter there is a statue or monument of some kind, but it’s mostly obscured by police cars and crime scene techs.
“I don’t recognize it,” Sherry Lynn says.
“They found her?” Ben says. “They found my Janet?”
“Looks like it,” the older man who first saw it says.
As Glenn Barnes fills the screen to give a statement, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A moment later, Dad’s does too.
“Y’all found her?” Anna asks.
“This is the first we’re hearing of this,” I say.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll let you keep watching. Call me later when you can.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“. . . certain at this point, but we have reason to believe there’s a good possibility these are the remains of Janet Leigh Lester. . .”
“How was her—how was she discovered after all this time?” Ben says.
“. . . I can’t get into any specifics,” Glenn says. “This is an ongoing investigation, but I’ll be giving a press conference just as soon as we have information to share. . .”
Dad is nodding, the phone still pressed to his ear. “I’m on my way,” he says.
Disconnecting the call, he stands.
I pat Ben on the back. He’s crying even harder now and looks like he’s about to lean too far forward and fall out of his chair.
“I need to get over to Verna’s,” Dad says. “She just saw this like everyone else. Bastard didn’t notify her or warn her in any way.” Then
to Sherry Lynn, “Can you total us up, including Ben’s tab?”
“Sure, sugar,” she says, still shaking her head as she watches the TV. “Can’t believe after all this time they found her. Wonder how?”
“I wonder that too,” I say.
“Me too,” Dad says, “and I plan to find out.”
92
When we walk into Verna’s house, we find Darlene Weatherly, the short, thick, muscular deputy Glenn had asked to search for similar cases.
She and Verna are in the den alone. Ralphie is in his bedroom and Ronnie is still in custody.
“John,” Darlene says, nodding to me as we walk into the room.
“Oh, Jack,” Verna says, rushing over to Dad, the two of them embracing. “Can you believe . . . after all this time.”
“This is my dad, Jack Jordan,” I say to Darlene. “Dad this is Darlene Weatherly, the deputy I mentioned to you who’s looking into the similar cases.”
Though embracing Verna, Dad nods. “Nice to meet you.”
“Can you believe we had to find out about this on TV?” Verna says.
“No, I can’t,” Dad says. “I was surprised I didn’t get a call, but I’m shocked you didn’t get a—”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Darlene says. “I’m very sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Sheriff Barnes said to please convey his apologies. He had no idea the media would be there and report on it so soon. He’s very sorry. He said to tell you that he’ll be by in person as soon as he can. Before the press got involved, he wanted the opportunity to verify that it was her before getting your hopes up.”
“This is not how any of this should’ve been handled,” Dad says.
“Where was she found?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
Dad says, “It was on TV for everyone to see but you can’t tell us.”
“Sorry,” she says, frowning and shrugging. “I can tell you that John here’s the reason we found her.”
“What do you mean?” Verna asks, then looks at me. “What does she mean?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“It was him asking us to look for similar cases that led us to her. If I hadn’t been looking at old cases, I would’ve never uncovered the . . . what I needed to . . . in order to find her.”
True Crime Fiction Page 37
