“Sad,” he says. “She’s sweet and all but that’s one sad lady with a sad little life. What happened to her husband?”
“Hit-and-run.”
“Fuck. That’s the crime you should be solving. Find the fucker who did that.”
“We should, you’re right. Though I think if he could be found Nancy would’ve already found him. But I’ll ask her. See what we can find out.”
“Just let me know what I can do to help,” he says. “I’m all in.”
135
“You okay?” I ask.
Reggie looks up at me from where she’s staring, a worried expression on her face.
“Come in,” she says. “Sorry. Was just thinking. How’s it going? Everybody still safe?”
“Everybody’s good. But you don’t seem to be. What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and frowns. “Letter to the editor,” she says. “It was in the same issue you were in about the search for Randa. Calls me corrupt. Says I’m hindering the investigation into the previous sheriff and his deputies. Says I’m feeding Merrick information about the Randa Raffield case to help his ratings. And generally what a bad job I’m doing.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “From someone who wants your job.”
She gives me a half smile. “Doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Not about the other, but . . . I . . . I may just not be cut out for this job. I knew going in . . . I wasn’t a politician, but . . . I . . . I thought I might make a good . . . be good at the other . . . I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“You’re a great sheriff,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to work for any other.”
“Thanks, John.”
“I’m serious. You’re doing such a good job. Don’t let some asshole who’s trying to set up his campaign against you get you down.”
“You just called someone an asshole,” she says with a smile.
“Wanted you to know how serious I was,” I say.
“You should run,” she says.
“From what?”
“For sheriff.”
I laugh. “They say to never say never, but that will never happen.”
We are quiet a moment.
“I was insecure about taking the job to begin with,” she says. “I’m still unsure about how I’m really doing. Most of the time I don’t feel like I should be doing it at all. So when I’m criticized I . . . it just sends my insecurities into overdrive. I’ve come close to resigning so many times.”
I nod my understanding. “I hope you won’t. I understand how you feel, what you’re saying, and I know me saying something different isn’t going to change the way you feel, but . . . again . . . you’re doing a fantastic job—and doing it backward in heels.”
“Someday we’ll talk about this more in depth. I’ll share with you all the reasons why I feel like I’m not qualified, we’ll evaluate my performance since I’ve been in the position . . . and we’ll see if you feel the same way.”
“I’m sure I will, but okay. Anytime you like. As far as the murder of the previous sheriff, I know FDLE is investigating it, but why not let me look into it too? And announce that I am. And why not call a press conference about the Randa Raffield case, give an update, ask for tips and help from the public, and go on record about not supplying Merrick with information.”
“Those are good ideas. I’ll think about them. Do you know we don’t even talk about the case anymore—not since we reopened it and you started working it—not at all.”
“Probably best.”
“Oh, and speaking of the case . . .” she says. “Got a call from Lynn Raffield’s attorney. He said a lot but it all boiled down to the same thing—she’s not willing to talk to us at this time.”
“Really?” I say. “She’s just flat out refusing?”
“Says it would be too upsetting for her. Says she’s devastated by the loss of her daughter and just can’t bear to talk about it. He went fishing by saying it’d be one thing if we had new leads and were close to making an arrest, but that if we didn’t he saw no reason to subject his client to more pointless questions.”
I shake my head and think about it.
“He did say if we wanted to submit questions to him, he’d see what he could do about getting her to answer them.”
“Another fishing expedition,” I say. “He wants to know what we know and what we don’t. The questions will tell him.”
“I thought the same thing,” she says. “I find it all very suspicious.”
We are quiet a beat, each of us sipping our drinks—her, steaming hot coffee, me, ice-cold Diet Cherry Coke.
“Any luck tracking the Snapchat pic or the email sent to you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to. Chris is going to try a few different things, but . . . doesn’t look too promising. Merrick said you looked into some earlier threats they received. Anything come of that?”
“Not a damn thing. Seemed to just be idiots with too little life and too much time and internet access.”
I nod and think about it. “Think this is different.”
“I said I don’t talk to Merrick about the case and I don’t,” she says, “but I do listen to the podcast now. And I had an idea. When they were talking about the theory of someone following or being with her . . . We know her dad still has the car.”
I nod. “Still in storage. Waiting for her. Cranks it up occasionally, charges the battery. That’s about it.”
“What if someone was in the car with her,” she says. “Shouldn’t we have the FDLE process it? There could be hairs, fibers, or DNA from her passenger if someone was with her.”
I nod. “I had the same idea,” I say, “but . . . there were probably so many people in the car prior to that night. We know most everyone close to her will have been in it and left trace evidence, plus . . . we have no idea what all her dad has really done to it since he’s had it. Eleven plus years is a long time. Mechanics, family members, who knows? We know he gets in it regularly to crank it.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Couldn’t hurt to have it processed. Just might not help.”
“Could hurt my budget—and for nothing if we’re pretty sure we wouldn’t get anything useful.”
136
“I can’t say for sure he was,” Sage Isaacson is saying.
Sage Isaacson is an early thirties African-American woman with honey-colored skin, long dark hair, and black eyes that light obviously loves.
We’re talking to her via Skype on Reggie’s computer in her office.
She was the young woman who organized the busload of UWF students to participate in the inauguration day protest of the Iraq War in Atlanta back in 2005 when Randa went missing.
I’ve just asked her if she remembers Josh Douglas being with them that day.
“You can’t?” Reggie says.
We’re Skyping with Sage because she now lives in Houston.
“Sorry, but . . . I just can’t be absolutely certain he was there with us in Atlanta. It’s been a very long time.”
“Did y’all have a log or sign-in sheet of who went?” I ask.
She twists her lips as she seems to think about it. “I think so, but . . . again . . . I can’t be positive. And I don’t know if anyone would still have it.”
Behind Sage is a huge, nice home—a big, open, expensively furnished living room with a large, modern kitchen with industrial stainless-steel appliances in the background.
“Obviously we’re investigating what happened to Randa,” I say. “So why don’t you tell us what you do remember from that day that might relate to either her or Josh.”
She takes a deep breath, frowns, and sighs. “This is not very PC of me to say, but . . . you know how in a group of some size there are a lot of different types of people and you can tell who’s a chaser, a gold digger, a politician, a liar, a flake, you know like that. Well, Randa was a victim. You could tell, you know. She was sweet and pretty and sma
rt and should have been . . . I don’t know . . . more—more popular, more successful, more something, but she was . . . It seemed to me that she was or was going to be a victim. I guess what I’m saying is that I wasn’t surprised when I heard something happened to her.”
Reggie nods and says, “We appreciate your candor. We really do. Tell us anything that comes to mind. How did Randa let you know she had decided not to attend the protest?”
“She didn’t. Just didn’t show. I thought she might meet us there . . . maybe ride with Josh or—wait. That’s right. When she didn’t show . . . Josh got off the bus. Said he would drive up and meet us there, that he had to talk to her first. He . . . he was on the bus. We were getting ready to leave. He got a call. Then he suddenly got up and grabbed his things . . . said he had to talk to Randa first but he’d definitely be at the protest, that he’d meet us there. Bring her if he could.”
“Did you see him in Atlanta?” I ask. “Anywhere at any time.”
She puts her thinking expression on again, which soon fades into a frown. “No,” she says, shaking her head, “I didn’t. I don’t think he was there.”
“Who else could we ask?” Reggie says. “Who else might have seen him or would know if he wasn’t there?”
“I can put together a list of people and their contact info. I’ve stayed in touch with some of them over the years.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
A gray and white cat jumps up on the large marble-top island in the kitchen behind her, slinks over to a bowl, haunches down, and begins to eat.
“Anything else you can tell us about Randa or Josh or anything?” I say.
“I liked her. Felt bad for her—even after she slept with a guy I was talking to at the time. It was like I could tell she was damaged goods and didn’t mean anything by it. Like . . . she couldn’t help herself. A lot of people, mostly guys, were obsessed with her, wanted to save her, rescue her, take care of her.”
“How did Josh handle that?” I ask.
“Like a saint. He was patient and understanding. Like he really got her deal and didn’t take her acting out personally. It’s interesting. He was obsessed with her too, but . . . just handled it so well. I don’t know how he did it. I really don’t. Anyway, hope that helps. Been a long time. I’m sure I’m forgetting a whole lot. I’ll email you a list of some other students from back then you can talk to.”
It’s New Year’s Eve. The streets of Downtown Pensacola are packed. The illuminated pelican is dropping.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
The DJ is leading the crowd in the countdown.
The quality of the video footage from a local TV station is low, the camera whipping about, attempting to give viewers a glimpse of what it’s like to be there.
six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .
The pelican lands.
“Happy New Year everyone,” the DJ says.
The camera moves about showing couples kissing, but when it gets to Randa and Josh it lingers.
“First question of 2005 goes to Josh Douglas,” the DJ says.
He then walks up to where Josh and Randa are standing.
As the DJ extends the mic so Josh’s question can he heard, Josh kneels down, hitting his head on the mic and making a loud thud, followed by feedback.
“Randa,” Josh says, pulling the ring box out of his pocket as he takes a knee, “will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
The camera pans to Randa—along with all the eyes of those around them.
Randa looks taken aback, embarrassed, confused, angry, uncomfortable.
It’s difficult to watch.
After a long, awkward moment, she nods.
“What was that?” the DJ asks, shoving the mic into her face.
“Yes,” she says with no emotion.
Josh has to grab her hand and lift it so he can place the ring on it and the DJ has to tell them to kiss.
“Congratulations to Josh and Randa,” he says. “May they have a long, happy life together.”
I pause the DVD.
Reggie says, “It was nice of her not to reject him in front of all those people and on TV, but . . . anyone paying attention could tell that’s what she was really doing.”
We are still in her office, watching all the video and surveillance footage we have of Randa.
“No doubt. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy should have been more clued in to what his girlfriend wanted and didn’t want.”
“True.”
I start the disc again.
A series of still frame photos from the ATM Randa used at her bank near the UWF campus before she left Pensacola the day of her disappearance show her swiping her card, entering her pin, punching buttons, taking her cash and a few seconds later her receipt.
The quality of the images is very low, but they show Randa is alone and doesn’t appear to be under any duress.
I jump back to the beginning and watch the images unfold again, this time looking only at the background.
“There,” Reggie says, “look at that.”
I pause the frame.
Someone is behind her. Not close. Maybe ten feet away. Randa is blocking our view of him. Only his shoes are visible—black Puma sneakers with Velcro flaps.
“Could just be someone waiting to use the ATM,” I say.
“Probably is.”
I start the disc again and we watch as the guy wearing the shoes stands there a little longer but then leaves before she finishes her transaction and turns around.
“That could be something,” Reggie says. “He left before she turned around.”
“Solid black Pumas with Velcro flaps,” I say. “Could prove useful.”
We watch the rest of the images but the shoes don’t reappear and no one is visible when Randa turns and leaves.
The next footage is by far the worst quality. It is black-and-white exterior-only surveillance footage from the little mom-and-pop restaurant where Randa stopped to get food and use the restroom in Destin. She is only a black ghostly figure surrounded by grayness as she enters the front door of the establishment.
“Can’t even tell that it’s her,” Reggie says. “Why even have a surveillance system?”
We watch it a second time, studying the background, but there is nothing to see.
The final footage and the best quality is from a gas station in Panama City where Randa stopped to fill up her car.
The footage is from a surveillance camera set up beneath the well-lit awning, but because of its position and the positioning of Randa’s vehicle, only the back of her green Accord is visible.
Randa can be seen loosening her gas cap, swiping her credit card, removing the nozzle, inserting it into her car, and pumping gas for a few moments.
It’s difficult to make out much detail, but she doesn’t seem particularly distressed or upset. Actually, she appears to be daydreaming as she stands there waiting for the nozzle to click off.
No one else is around. No other cars pull up or take off. Nothing.
“Damnit,” Reggie says. “Was hoping we’d see something since this is so close to where she went missing. And we could actually see something on this footage if there was something to see.”
After pumping her gas, returning the nozzle, and replacing the cap, Randa closes the small gas cover and walks toward the store.
I follow her until she reaches the top edge of the frame and disappears. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing suspicious. Just a young woman walking. And then it goes black.
“Wait,” Reggie says. “Go back. Just a few frames. Son of a bitch.”
“What is it?”
“Were you watching her?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I did too the first time, so this time I watched her car. Rewind it and watch only the car.”
I do.
And there in the last few frames right before the footage ends and the screen goes bl
ank, the front edge of a pair of solid black Pumas with Velcro flaps can be seen approaching the car.
137
I try unsuccessfully for the next two days to find Josh Douglas.
After not showing up for his next class after we spoke, he emailed the chair of his department and told him for family reasons he had to take an emergency sabbatical effective immediately.
His home is empty.
He nor his wife are responding to calls, texts, or emails, and none of their friends or family seem to know where they are.
I talk to Sage Isaacson again, as well as several other students who attended the protest. They all say the same thing. No, Josh didn’t show. Yes, he often wore black Pumas with Velcro flaps.
“You think it was him?” Anna says. “He was following her? He . . .”
“It’s looking like a good possibility.”
We’re driving down to Sam and Daniel’s to have dinner and give Merrill a little break. We’re on Overstreet, the highway that connects Wewahitchka with Mexico Beach. It’s late afternoon and the setting sun is burnishing the tips of the pines along the horizon in front of us.
“Think you’ll find him?”
I nod. “Someone will. Lot of people looking for him. Disappearing is a lot harder than people think. Especially with a family.”
“He could’ve killed them and left them behind.”
“Could have, but we’ve checked the house. I bet they’re just hiding somewhere.”
She nods. “You ready to listen?”
“Sure.”
“This is the episode about the other victim I was telling you about. It’s all over the internet. Usually comes up when you do a search for Randa Raffield.
I nod and she starts the podcast.
“Welcome to another edition of In Search of Randa Raffield,” Merrick says. “Today we have a very special episode for you. We’re going to be talking about Annie Kathryn Harrison.”
“A lot of people connect the disappearances of Annie Kathryn Harrison and Randa Raffield,” Daniel says.
“Annie went missing about a month before Randa,” Nancy says. “About fifty miles from where Randa did near Carabelle, Florida, on the same highway as Randa, and like Randa, only her car was found—locked. There’s been no sign of her since.”
True Crime Fiction Page 54
