True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  Except for the scars, the missing breasts, the paleness of her skin, her body still looks like that of a woman half her age, and he’s so grateful the physical therapy is enabling her to keep much of her muscle tone. She’s certainly lost some strength and athleticism, but she has plenty left to build on if she is able to recover to an extent where she might be active again.

  But what are the chances of that really happening?

  She’s making gains, but they’re so slight it seems inaccurate to call them progress.

  He leans down and gently kisses her ear.

  “I miss you,” he whispers to her. “Please come back to me.”

  When he pulls back, she is looking up at him with sad eyes, and they both begin to cry.

  132

  Anna and I are driving back home from Nancy’s when Reggie calls.

  “Whatta you think?” Reggie asks. “Is it him?”

  “The killer?” I ask. “Or abductor or whatever he is?”

  We’re on the winding coastal section of 98 not far from East Point, Apalachicola Bay to our left, above it a big bright moon, orange earlier, now fading to bone as it rises higher in the night sky.

  “Yeah.”

  “No idea,” I say, “but I think there’s a good chance it could be. Fits with a certain type of killer. But . . . that’s the problem. Fits with a certain type of internet troll too.”

  “We really do battle with evil sometimes,” she says. “More and more it seems like.”

  I don’t say anything, just think about the truth of what she’s saying.

  “Did you see the news tonight?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “You were on it,” she says. “So was Jerry Raffield. It was at the search site. You were in the paper today in a story about the case that young reporter for the Star did.”

  “Sofia Garcia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay?” I say, wondering where she’s going.

  “Bet you anything you’re next,” she says.

  “Next for—”

  “To get a message.”

  “Not if he only uses Snapchat,” I say. “I don’t have an account.”

  “I’m serious,” she says. “Bet he sends something to the dad too. Unless it is the dad.”

  “Well, if he does,” I say, “it’s more likely we’re dealing with the killer.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Podcast goes everywhere,” I say. “They have listeners all over the country, all around the world. The paper and the TV news are local. If he sees them, it’s far more likely it’s her killer and he’s still in the area, not some maladjusted loner with a computer and internet connection in his basement in Wisconsin.”

  “Then I hope you hear from him.”

  “Me too.”

  “Be careful,” she says. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Will do.”

  “Samantha Michaels is such a vivid reminder of how quickly something horrible can happen.”

  “She’s gonna get better,” I say, “and I’m gonna be fine.”

  “Let’s make sure Merrick and Daniel are too.”

  “And Nancy,” I say. “She’s a target now too. We will. Speaking of . . . Could you ask the Franklin County Sheriff to send deputies by to keep an eye on her place?”

  “On it. See you in the morning.”

  Reggie was right.

  When I arrive home and check my email, there’s a message from ColdBloodedKiller@gmail.com waiting on me.

  I know you think you are smart, Mister Detective Chaplain John Jordan, but I am smarter. You think you are everything. You are really not much. You have only been up against lightweights before, but now you’re in with a real heavyweight. Way over your head. You have never seen a cold-blooded ruthless son of a bitch like me. Be assured of that. Back off now or I will come for someone you love and like that pretty little auburn-haired girl, they will never be seen again. Think about it. There is nothing you can do to make Randa come back to life, but you can cause someone you love to lose their life. Is it worth it? For what? I do not want to see that happen. I am warning you because I do not want to do it. I really do not. But I will. I will do what I have to. And you should know that I can. I did not get away with this for twelve years without being brilliant and merciless. I will win. You cannot beat me. You will lose. Someone will die. And for what? For nothing.

  “So . . .” Anna says, “he’s local. Still in the area.”

  We are at the desk in my library looking at the computer together, waiting for Chris Andrews to arrive.

  “Can’t know for sure, but . . . I think he is. Got to figure out how to protect everyone. I’m sure Merrill and Dad and maybe even Jake will help us. We’ve got to figure out protection for Johanna in Atlanta. I think Reggie can handle protecting Merrick and their kids, but . . . I’m most concerned about Daniel and Sam and Nancy and Jeff.”

  Anna nods.

  “Do you want me to stop?” I say.

  “Would you?”

  “Absolutely. No question. You and the girls are . . . everything. I’ll walk away tonight if you tell me to.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes glistening. “Thank you, but . . . just keep us all safe—including yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “It means more to me than you’ll ever know that you’re willing to walk away for me, for us.”

  “It’s not even a difficult decision,” I say.

  “But I know it’s who you are, what you were created to do.”

  “Who I am is yours. I’m Taylor and Johanna’s father. I’m your husband—or soon will be. We still need to pick a date and plan a wedding, by the way. I’m those things first and last. I’ll stop being an investigator if you want me to. Right now. I’ll call Reggie and resign right now.”

  “But you’d be unfulfilled, you’d . . . Don’t you think you’d eventually resent me and the girls?”

  “Absolutely not. No way.”

  She smiles and her eyes do that thing where they express nearly more love and appreciation than I can handle. “I believe you. I know what you’re saying is true. Thank you.”

  She starts to cry, and I hug her.

  “I lived with a self-centered man for so long,” she says. “He always put himself before me, before everything and everyone. I . . . I just . . . I’m so grateful for you, John.”

  “I’m grateful for you, for what we have. Nothing else comes close. Nothing.”

  “I know. I . . . just . . . don’t . . . know . . . how to handle that.”

  “You’re handling it just fine,” I say. “Now, let’s get everyone protected and see if we can’t track down who sent the picture and this email.”

  133

  Chris Andrews is a small, soft-spoken man in his early forties with a clean-shaven head and face and blue eyes the color only contacts can create.

  He was a few years behind me in high school but we were good friends even back then and have only grown closer since then.

  He’s an absolute computer genius, a hacker extraordinaire, which is how he makes his living, though I have no idea exactly what he does or how legal it is, but his real passion is performing. Before the Fiesta in downtown Panama City closed, he was the headliner of the drag show every weekend, his extravagant costumes, exquisite choreography, and impeccable impersonations receiving a standing ovation every single time.

  He’s seated at my desk, doing things never before done to my computer. I’m hovering behind him, looking on with bewilderment and awe.

  “Not gonna find any naked pictures of you and Anna on here, am I?” he says.

  I shake my head.

  “Pity.”

  “Whatta you think?” I say. “Will you be able to track him?”

  “Not sure yet—having just started and all . . . Jeez . . . I can tell you this—what he’s done requires a pretty high level of sophistication. Our boy’s no dummy.”

  Dad and Verna are staying here tonight. Dad i
s out in the living room with both his holstered sidearm and a shotgun. Merrill is at Sam and Daniel’s similarly armed. Reggie has a deputy posted outside her house—and has Merrick and all their kids inside with them. Jake is set up in his truck outside Nancy and Jeff’s place. And Frank Morgan, a retired GBI agent who helped me work the Atlanta Child Murders, is keeping an eye on my ex-wife Susan and our daughter, Johanna, at their home in Atlanta tonight.

  “How’s Doug?” I ask. “Thought you might bring him.”

  “He had rehearsals in Panama City tonight. Probably just getting home about now.”

  Doug, Chris’s husband, is a talented African-American stage actor who does carpentry and contract work to pay the bills.

  “Did I tell you we’re doin’ a show together?”

  “Othello, right? When is it?”

  Doug and Chris are working on a modern retelling of Othello with Doug playing Othello and Chris playing Desdemona.

  “We’re raising funds now and hope to be able to stage it in January.”

  “Speaking of which,” I say, “I got approval for you to get paid for the work you do for me. Sorry it took as long as it did.”

  “I’m doing it as a friend for you,” he says. “Not for the sheriff’s department or money.”

  “I know. And I appreciate it. You’re still doing it for me. You’re just getting paid for it. And it’s about time.”

  “I like helping you,” he says. “You’ve always been . . . so . . . good to me. Did you know back in high school you were the first person I came out to?”

  “I guess I didn’t,” I say. “Not the first.”

  “You were. You were the only one I could even imagine trying to tell. And you were so . . . sweet, so supportive, such a good friend.”

  “Probably could’ve been better if I hadn’t been so obsessed with the Atlanta Child Murders,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Chris, you don’t owe me anything for acting like a decent human being back in high school,” I say. “I hope you don’t think you do. We’re friends and I love you. Doug too. I’d do anything I could for you. You’ve always been the same way, but I never thought it was because you thought you owed me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good. So you’ll be paid for this and you’ll put it toward the production and Anna and I will be there in the front row.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “So now that you’re making all this money, can you explain to me how someone can send a picture from a fake Snapchat account or an email message from a fake email account?”

  He laughs. “There are sites online set up to help you send fake Snapchat messages. Or he could’ve just set up a fake account. Email is more difficult, but the real question is going to be whether we can trace the accounts.”

  He continues to work as he talks, clicking and typing, opening various windows and searching through them.

  “Two basic ways to send an email from a fake account that can’t be traced are to create a temporary email address from a site designed for that very thing. There are several. The problem is that they mostly wind up in the recipient’s spam filter because the address is from an unknown, uncommon, or unusual domain. Like the fake Snapchat series that are supposedly benign, meant to be used to punk your friends, these sorts of temporary email addresses are supposedly meant for signing up for sites you don’t want associated with your actual address. Of course, both can be used for ill—as in this case. Second option would be to sign up with a legitimate email provider through a proxy that wouldn’t immediately get spammed. This will obfuscate your location from the email server and allow you to send emails that appear to be coming from pretty much anywhere you want. Looks like he used a pretty complicated combination of both of these tactics. It’s gonna be very difficult to trace him. Maybe even impossible. He went to hella lot of trouble to make sure you wouldn’t.”

  “That’s what has me worried.”

  134

  “Today we’re joined by Dr. Arther Dyson,” Merrick says. “He’s a forensic psychologist—teaches and has a practice, and has done so for nearly thirty years now. Welcome to the show, Dr. Dyson.”

  “Happy to be here.”

  “We’re thrilled to have you,” Daniel says, “and can’t tell you how excited we are to hear what you have to say and to share it with our listeners. And we need to thank Nancy for setting it up.”

  “Dr. Dyson was on my show a while back and I thought he’d be a real asset to this case.”

  I’m in my car driving into work the next morning, listening to the podcast and thinking about the case as I do.

  “It’s vital to remember that there are all sorts of murders and motives for murder,” Dyson is saying. “Some murder is a direct result of psychosis—a murderer hears voices telling him to kill and he obeys. Some murder is sexually motivated. Other motives include revenge, domestic disturbances or so-called crimes of passion, those committed under the influence of drugs or alcohol, those committed to cover up another crime, greed, etc. But most murder is the result of situational, stressful factors. In fact, think about the very first murder ever recorded. It’s a great pattern case for the typical murder. It’s the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible, and it contains most of what you need to know about most typical murders. Cain killed his brother Abel—most murders involve a close relationship between offender and victim. He killed him out of jealousy—God liked Abel’s offering better. It was a direct, violent assault. And when the killer is confronted with the murder, he lies. God asked Cain, Where is your brother, Abel, and Cain said, I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper? Most of this type of murderer—people who kill a loved one, family member or friend—are captured fairly quickly. Other types—a stranger, serial killer, a psychotic in his own world—can take longer. But most murder victims aren’t killed by strangers. They’re killed by people they know. They’re killed by people they’re connected to, people they’re closely, emotionally involved with.”

  “So you’re saying it’s more likely than not that Randa knew her killer?” Merrick says.

  “Well, remember what I said about those kinds of killers—they’re usually caught pretty quickly. Statistically, you’re more likely to be murdered by someone you know, but . . . given the circumstances of your case . . . it could be the lower percentage killings done by a stranger, a serial killer, or an opportunistic killer. You know . . . it’s not like there had to be a serial killer out trolling for victims at that exact location at that exact time that night. This could be situational. Maybe the murderer didn’t plan on killing her, maybe something happened, things got out of hand . . . and . . . bam. Happens all the time.”

  “In cases like those,” Nancy says, “are the victims’ remains usually so difficult to find?”

  “Depends, but most killers don’t want to get caught. They’ll go to great lengths to evade capture, and hiding—even destroying—the body is an important first step to doing that. And you have to remember . . . it’s possible the body isn’t all that particularly well hidden. Maybe it’s just hidden where no one’s looking. Maybe Randa climbed into a vehicle with someone who took her far, far away and killed and buried her body there. Could be anywhere. All it really has to be is where no one is looking.”

  Daniel says, “But if we stick with the higher probabilities, it’s more likely than not that Randa knew her killer, but . . . if she did . . .”

  “Okay, let’s take that scenario for a moment. What if Randa was being followed by someone who was obsessed with her, a stalker. She wrecks. He comes to her aid. She confronts him—says what the hell are you doing way out here? He lashes out. Strikes her or . . . kills her in some way. Hides her body. Resumes his normal life. It’s possible the police have even interviewed him, but nothing came of it . . . or maybe they even suspect him but have no evidence and he didn’t rattle when they spoke to him.”

  “What if rather than stalking her,” Nancy says, “someone was actually in the car with her.
Maybe she was out here to meet someone or maybe the person came with her from Pensacola. They’re drinking. They wreck. Lock the car and leave it to go sober up. And somewhere—on the beach, in the bay, in the swamp—something happens . . . and he kills her. Then leaves. Hikes. Walks. Gets a ride. Returns to his life without ever being suspected.”

  “It’s possible,” Dyson says. “It’s all possible. And even though some of the scenarios are more probable than others . . . we just don’t know enough to . . . It could be the least likely scenario imaginable. Could be a total stranger killing. She could’ve encountered a serial killer out there. Given that it’s been almost twelve years and there’s been no trace of her . . . I’d say . . . in this particular case . . . it might be more probable at this point.”

  I pause the podcast with enough time to call and check in on everyone before I reach the station.

  “All quiet here,” Merrill says. “Wish it wasn’t. Love for the creepy fucker to show his ass around here.”

  “I understand the sentiment,” I say, “but I’d much rather us figure out who he is and show up at his place instead of him coming to ours.”

  After I finish with Merrill I call Jake.

  “Thanks again for doing this,” I say.

  “It ain’t no problem. Got shit else to do right now.”

  “Well, I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ve been sitting here thinkin’,” he says. “I’ve got the background, the training, the skills. Thinkin’ about gettin’ my private license. Do some security and investigation work. Whatta you think?”

  “It’s a great idea.”

  “Thing is . . . I been lost for a . . . well, since the election and losing my job. Doing this for y’all—you and this sweet lady . . . It’s been a while since I’ve felt any kinda useful.”

  “Do it,” I say. “Let me know how I can help. I’ll send work your way when I can. How’s everything down that way?”