True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  “Which were?” Merrick says.

  “Some of it’s related to her drinking, but . . . some of it was . . . showed some . . . deeper issues and problems.”

  “Like?” Daniel asks.

  “Promiscuity.”

  “Again,” Merrick says, “something pretty common on college campuses.”

  “Not like this,” Cal says. “Randa had a boyfriend. Actually, as of New Year’s Eve of the year she went missing, a fiancé. Yet she continued to sleep around.”

  “Should we say allegedly or something?” Daniel asks.

  “I have evidence,” Cal says. “Now listen, I’m not trying to smear Randa or make anyone think differently of her. I like her. I really do. I uncovered so many good things about her. She was a sweet and kind person. But I’m sharing some of the things that I feel could’ve contributed to what ultimately happened to her. Which was what I was hired to do, and what I’ve continued doing all these years because I want her found. I want this mystery solved. I want this case closed. I want Jerry and Lynn and all Randa’s friends to have closure. And what I’m saying is . . . Randa wasn’t just promiscuous. She had a problem that went beyond that. She suffered from a condition, a compulsion. She was a sex addict.”

  “A sex addict,” Daniel says.

  “Yes. Someone who engages in a compulsive behavior, in this case sex, in spite of the negative consequences and harmful effects.”

  “And you’re saying Randa did that?”

  “The night she said yes to her boyfriend’s proposal of marriage, she slept with another guy.”

  I look up from the binder and out at the bay. If what he’s saying is true, it means her boyfriend is a bigger suspect than was first believed. So are the other people she was sleeping with—and their jealous partners.

  “I don’t say this lightly,” Cal says. “And I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t have the evidence to back it up. This is a very serious condition and it makes me feel so bad for this sweet young girl.”

  “Okay,” Daniel says. “Wow. I . . . I wasn’t expecting that. But . . . if it’s true, it could certainly have contributed to what happened to Randa.”

  “It’s true. I have witness statements. Medical records.”

  “Medical records?” Merrick asks.

  “From the number of sexually transmitted diseases and abortions she had. I’ve also got statements from some of her partners, her friends, and even the school records where her swim coach was fired over his alleged affair with her. Again, I’m not saying any of this to make Randa look bad. Just the opposite. I think we should all feel bad for her. She was a special, unique, strong, smart young woman with some very serious issues. She was also a cutter.”

  I think about the books and other items found in Randa’s car and the picture of the damaged and faulty young woman in crisis it painted.

  “Let me say it again,” Cal says. “I think the world of Randa Raffield. She was beautiful. She was smart. She did very well at everything she did—made great grades and set records in swimming competitions. She was politically active. Socially aware. She was kind to people. A genuinely good person. But . . . beneath the outward perfection, she had some issues—issues that weren’t obvious or even visible, but they were very real and were having a big impact on her life, and I think contributed to what happened to her.”

  “In what way?” Merrick asks.

  “I think she was where she was because of these issues. She wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Why? She was getting away from something. Could’ve just been the pressure of her life . . . but it could’ve been a stalker—someone she slept with who became obsessed with her. Maybe she really did intend to kill herself. Maybe that’s why she was out there. And maybe she even did it. Or maybe she encountered someone who did it for her. Maybe she didn’t resist. I don’t know. We may never know what happened to Randa, but I hope we do—and not just to satisfy some morbid curiosity . . . but for her. For her.”

  119

  “Merrick and Daniel’s show really needs some female perspective,” Anna says. “I appreciate what they’re doing, but the show I just listened to had three middle-aged men talking about the mental state of a young woman.”

  “I had the same thought,” I say.

  It’s early afternoon and I’m on Highway 98 in Panama City, heading west toward Seaside to see Jerry Raffield.

  “NSSI is done as much or more by well-accomplished and high-achieving young women as it is by troubled, fringe, falling-apart young women.”

  “NSSI?” I ask.

  “Non-suicidal self-injury,” she says. “The cutting they were discussing. Some studies say as many as one in five girls between age ten and eighteen do it. It’s not about suicide. It’s not for attention. Most keep it a secret, do it where their clothes hide it. It’s a release, a rush, a way to exercise control, and gives a sense of euphoria—just like the compulsive sex would. It’s all about the brain, how it’s wired, its biochemistry. It’s about need and reward and punishment. I’m not surprised a high-achieving student-athlete like Randa did it—especially if she was as outwardly perfect and inwardly troubled as the private detective and others have indicated. Cutting, compulsive sex, perfectionism among these poor young women is like anorexia of the soul.”

  “How do you know so much about it?”

  “I’ve been interested in it as it relates to women’s issues a long time. Also from helping my niece with some of it a few years back.”

  “Our daughters are lucky to have you for a mom,” I say.

  “We’re gonna have to be so careful with them,” she says. “They’re gonna get so much fucked-up pressure from our fucked-up sexist culture, so many horrible messages about every aspect of their bodies and beings.”

  “They’re getting the right messages from us,” I say.

  “But the assumptions and . . . expectations and . . . conventions of an entire society . . . It’s a lot to overcome.”

  “We’re up to the task,” I say. “Besides . . . our daughters have the best example imaginable in you.”

  “I worry about them,” she says. “For them.”

  “I know, but . . . don’t waste time on worry. And make sure you’re not putting undo pressure or perfectionism on your parenting.”

  “I am,” she says. “See? It’s so . . . subtle and . . . insidious.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say, and we fall silent a moment.

  I can tell she’s thinking, figuring, processing.

  “Speaking of subtle . . .” she says. “Don’t just take that PI’s word that Randa was a sex addict or a cutter or whatever else he’s saying.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “I talked to him this morning. He’s agreed to give me copies of his files. Says they back up everything he said.”

  “Even if they do, or seem to, it may be wrong—or his conclusions may be, but even they aren’t, they’re still only a small fraction of who she was, of her story.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “She sounds pretty extraordinary from what I’ve read,” she says.

  “We’ve gotten a lot of emails and tweets and messages about our last show,” Daniel is saying. “Specifically, how sort of creepy it is that two men, and in the case of our last show, three, are talking about a young woman’s mental state, what she might have been thinking or why she might have done certain things.”

  “Yes,” Merrick says, “and we’ve heard you. We didn’t mean to be as obtuse as we seemed.”

  “And early on we did have on one of Randa’s friends from UWF,” Daniel adds, “and . . . the thing is . . . we’ve invited a lot of other women on the show . . . and gotten a lot of no’s.”

  “And the show is new,” Merrick says. “We’re just getting started.”

  “Yes. But . . . we realize now we shouldn’t just be two guys talking about a young woman and her mysterious disappearance.”

  “By far the most compelling and convincing argument was made by Nancy Drury on her Nancy Drury Woman Detectiv
e blog,” Merrick says.

  “Nancy expressed what so many were,” Daniel says, “but did it in a masterful way. She’s a good writer and thinker. She didn’t trash us. Just laid out her argument . . . respectfully and . . . like I said . . . masterfully.”

  “So we asked Nancy to join us on the show today. Welcome Nancy. Nice to have you.”

  “Thanks for having me on,” she says.

  “I have to say,” Daniel says, “I see Merrick and myself as pretty sensitive, aware, non-sexist guys, but until we started getting all the messages . . . it didn’t really occur to me how stupid we were being.”

  “It was an epic fail on our part,” Merrick says, “but one we’re planning to remedy right now. Because . . . we’ve asked Nancy to be a regular contributor to our show. Sometimes she’ll be on the show, but she’ll always be in the background having input and keeping an eye on what we’re doing.”

  “We should say that Nancy is an accomplished true crime blogger and podcaster herself,” Daniel says, “and even did a whole show dedicated to the Randa Raffield case a while back. Why don’t we start with you telling us a little about yourself, Nancy.”

  “Okay. Well, I have a background in communications and I’ve always been interested in true crime, real-life mysteries, and the criminal justice system, but it wasn’t until it personally hit home that I began to blog about it. My husband was the victim of a hit-and-run. I started all this as a way to deal with that and search for the person who effectively ended his life. He’s a quadriplegic who requires near constant care with no quality of life at all.”

  “Oh my God,” Daniel says. “We’re so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. It happened quite a while ago and we’ve adjusted to a new way of life. I haven’t found out who hit him, but working on it has led me to many other unsolved cases. It’s staggering and disheartening how many unsolved cases there are out there. It’s why I appreciate what you guys are doing. When I wrote what I did, I was doing so out of love for your show and the desire for it to be even better. I hope I wasn’t overcritical and I certainly wasn’t looking to . . . join the show.”

  “We had to beg her,” Merrick says.

  “Nancy has a lot on her and is doing this as a favor to us and as a gift to Randa and her family,” Daniel says. “And we appreciate her so much for doing it.”

  “And you weren’t overcritical at all on your blog about us,” Merrick says. “Obviously, we needed to hear it. We needed a female perspective.”

  “And now we have it,” Daniel says.

  “It’s important to say that I don’t speak for women,” Nancy says. “I don’t speak for Randa. I don’t speak for women in general. I can’t. I can only speak from my perspective, which happens to be a female of a certain age who has been touched by tragedy and true crime.”

  “Well said,” Daniel says. “You’re making our show better already.”

  “Some would say it couldn’t have gotten any worse,” Merrick says.

  The two men laugh, but Nancy, who clearly knows that Merrick is joking, takes the opportunity again to say what a fine job they’ve been doing.

  “So before we move on today,” Merrick says, “Nancy, is there anything you wanted to address that was said on our last show?”

  “I’m sure we’ll cover most of it as we move forward,” she says, “but . . . just that . . . the pressures on young women in the world are enormous. Sometimes to the point of being crushing. And however Randa dealt with them or whatever she did to cope is far more complicated than we can begin to understand. Randa, like all of us, was an extremely complex human being. Being a human being is difficult enough, but being a female human being . . . It’s like the quote about Ginger Rogers. Fred Astaire was great, but she did everything he did—except backward and in heels.”

  120

  Seaside, the unincorporated master-planned community west of Panama City along scenic 30A, is part of New Florida. Pottersville, Wewahitchka, and other small Panhandle towns are part of Old Florida. Certain cities—Tallahassee, Pensacola, Jacksonville, Panama City—have pockets of both Old and New Florida.

  I’m part of and partial to Old Florida.

  I have a love-hate relationship with most of New Florida.

  The homes along the various master-planned communities of 30A are stylish in a uniform way, but are far too expensive for most Floridians and nearly all natives. They are the second homes and exclusive vacation getaways of the wealthiest of Atlanta, Nashville, Birmingham.

  Seaside was one of the first planned communities to be designed using the principals of new urbanism and includes the look of an updated old beach town with wooden cottages—though there’s nothing old about it. The small town became world-famous when the Jim Carrey movie The Truman Show was filmed there.

  Everything in this picture-perfect postcard of a small seaside town is soft and bright pastel colors of wooden beach cottages with tin roofs, framed mostly in white, surrounded by white wooden picket fences, pergolas, and gazebos.

  The homes, which show the influence of Victorian and Carpenter Gothic and the antebellum South, all have small native yards and front porches filled with wooden Adirondack chairs, and are connected by a web of sand trail footpaths.

  Among the many things to recommend Seaside are the incredible independent bookstore, Sundog Books, and the record store above it, Central Square Records—both of which I hope to visit before I leave if I can.

  Jerry Raffield is one of the few native Floridians who can afford to live in Seaside and chooses to.

  He’s a roundish, laid-back, soft-spoken man with short curly hair, deeply tanned, heavily lined skin, small, sad blue eyes, and a smoker’s voice—though there’s no evidence on him or in his house that he smokes.

  We are in his study—a beachy modern book room and office where he meets with his counseling clients.

  “Thank you for coming, Detective Jordan,” he says. “I really appreciate it.”

  The sound of his voice and the rhythm of his phrasing is hypnotic, and I get the sense that he is very good at what he does.

  “Is there news?” he asks. “About my daughter, I mean. Have you finally found her?”

  “No sir. I’m sorry, but I am here because we’re devoting more resources to finding her. We have a new sheriff and she’s assigned the case to me. I’m looking at it with fresh eyes . . . There’s a lot of public interest in the case, lots of amateur detectives working it right now. Hopefully additional evidence will turn up and . . .”

  “I’ve always been . . . surprised by the . . . attention Randa’s disappearance has received from the public. I’m not sure exactly . . . but my suspicion is that it’s not a net gain for us. But if any of the . . . bloggers or podcasters or . . . turn up anything that helps us find her . . . I’ll gladly amend my view.”

  The room is filled with pictures—on his desk, on the walls, on the shelves—of Randa frozen in time, never aging past a certain point, the beneficent bloom of youth bright upon her smile-crinkled face.

  “You’ve had a lot of time to think about Randa’s disappearance now,” I say. “Has anything occurred to you that maybe didn’t at the time you were first interviewed?”

  “Lots, I’m sure,” he says. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Would you mind starting by just telling me about your daughter?” I say.

  His small eyes glisten and he clears his throat.

  “She . . . was . . . a . . . rare combination of tough and kind. She wasn’t a soft sentimentalist but she’d do anything she could to help alleviate the suffering of others—often with some of the very things she herself was suffering from.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  He nods. “Sure. Randa suffered from PTSD. She led a PTSD group on campus. She knew what it was like to deal with the noonday demon of depression and even experience the desire for self-harm and . . . she volunteered at a suicide prevention hotline. But she wasn’t just involved in the personal. Sh
e was political too. She participated in protests against the Iraq war. In fact . . . she was meant to be at one the night she went missing.”

  “Any idea why she wasn’t?” I ask. “Or where she might have been headed?”

  He shakes his head. “Second only to her disappearance itself, I find that the most bewildering. I just can’t imagine what she was doing, where she was going.”

  “You said she suffered from PTSD,” I say. “What . . . brought that on?”

  “Her mom’s drug-addicted, narcissistic sister has had a parade of bad men in and out of her bed and life over the years. But back then . . . we didn’t realize just how bad she was, and she had been with the same guy for several years. We didn’t find out until much later—long after he was gone—but he . . . repeatedly sexually assaulted Randa when she was a little girl. We were so ignorant of what was going on. They were our neighbors and they babysat for us all the time. He told her if she ever told anyone, he’d kill us. Told her how he’d do it in vivid detail. He took this sweet, kind, innocent child . . . and violated and brutalized her . . . When we found out, we got her medical and psychological care and treatment, of course, but the damage was done. I . . . I . . . didn’t protect her . . . my little girl . . . my angel. I . . . bought a gun. The first one I ever owned in my life. I searched for him. I was . . . going to . . . kill him. I swear to God I was. But I could never find him.”

  It explains so much about Randa—the obsession and control, the cutting and sexually acting out.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah, well . . . maybe you can find him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He went by Bill,” he says. “Bill Lee, but . . . that wasn’t his real name.”

  I write his name down in my pad and nod. “I’ll find him.”