The kid, a large-for-his-age eleven-year-old, ran at Reggie from the bathroom with part of a broken and black-taped muffler in his hands.
“Exactly. Why wasn’t he? Why was he helping his brother in criminal enterprises? Why didn’t his brother tell him to come out, tell us he was there? It’s all on them. Not you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I . . . I should have found working lights. I should have waited for . . .”
“You did everything right in a difficult, unfolding situation,” I say. “I should’ve been back there with you. I took too long with Alec. It’s more my fault than yours—and it’s not your fault at all.”
“I keep playing it over and over in my head,” she says. “Trying to remember exactly what happened, exactly what I was thinking, if I could’ve done anything differently. The thing is . . . I can’t think of anything I could’ve done differently. And I know given the circumstances . . . I . . . I did okay. But . . . all that’s just intellectual. In my heart I just keep saying I killed a kid.”
“But you didn’t,” I say. “You only clipped him. He’s gonna be okay. We’re all just grateful you’re not a better shot.”
She almost smiles at that. Almost, but not quite.
“I know you feel like shit and you’re in shock,” I say. “It’s understandable. Just go home and get some rest. Sleep for a while. Give yourself time to get over it. But as you do, give yourself a break. Don’t keep going over and over it. Don’t beat yourself up or blame yourself for the obvious criminal failings of others. We should’ve never had to be in that situation. That’s on them. Not you.”
“Other thing is . . .” she says. “This’ll be shit I have to deal with. More fodder for my critics. More ammunition for my political opponents. It’s embarrassing. And I’m sure there will be some sort of lawsuit against me from the family. It’s just . . . the nightmare of all this . . . is just beginning.”
“Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow,” I say. “Today has enough of its own. We’ll deal with everything as it comes and none of it will be as bad as it seems right now. Okay? For now, let it all go and just take care of yourself. Tell Merrick all about it and let him hold you and care for you. Get a big hug from Rain and your mom. Hug them back and remember all the good you’re surrounded by. Then show back up here tomorrow and let’s catch the evil bastard who got Randa. Okay?”
147
“Murder is not entertainment,” Nancy is saying. “It’s violent and depraved and as awful as anything humans have ever come up with. Criminal investigation is not entertainment. It’s not just there for our enjoyment. We do this podcast and others like it because we’re interested in murder and homicide investigation. We’re fascinated by it. And we try to make an entertaining show, but . . . murder is not entertainment. What law enforcement does is not for our amusement. What the families of missing and murdered victims go through is unimaginable. It’s a deep, brutal, bitter, acute pain that is merciless and relentless and that has no cure.”
“Well said,” Daniel says. “An important reminder we all need to hear. All of us who do this and listen to it.”
I’m driving to Daniel and Sam’s. Anna is already there waiting for me. She, Daniel, and I are driving over to East Point to have dinner at Nancy’s place. Merrick and Reggie were meant to be going too, but I can’t imagine they will after what she’s been through today.
“If you’ve ever been touched by true crime,” Nancy says, “I mean if brutality and violation and loss has touched you directly, then you’ll know what I mean. It’s not fun or funny. It’s not amusing or entertaining. It’s devastating. Painful beyond belief.”
“We get that this is entertaining,” Merrick says. “We do. And we’re not saying there’s anything wrong with that. And the last thing we’re trying to do is alienate any of our listeners. But . . . we’ve seen enough and heard enough to know we needed to address this head-on.”
“Nothing wrong with being entertained by what we and others are doing,” Nancy says. “It becomes wrong when we look at it as purely entertainment, here for our pleasure and titillation, when we forget that these are real people who had unimaginably horrible things happen to them, whose families suffer every single day.”
“Right,” Daniel says. “If we lose empathy or compassion for the real people we’re talking about—or if we do anything that leads our audience to do that, to stop caring and feeling . . . then we’ve failed.”
“According to some of the emails and messages we get, we have,” Nancy says. “We’ve done just that. Some of them are so callous and . . . well, cringeworthy.”
“So we’re just sending out a little reminder to everyone, saying check yourself as we check ourselves. Just to say take a moment, take a look, be aware, remember these are real people, hurting people we’re talking about here.”
“Tell you another thing that really bothers me,” Daniel says. “And this is just me. I’m not saying it’s wrong for everybody, but . . . while we’re on the subject . . . I’ve heard some true crime podcasts that are essentially comedy routines throughout the entire show. And they don’t just laugh at criminals and killers and cops, but they make fun of victims and their families too. Actually try to be funny at their expense.”
“Yeah, I know you have a real problem with those,” Merrick says, “but I don’t. I thought they were using humor—sometimes very sick humor—to get some good points across.”
“I’m with Daniel on this one,” Nancy says. “Don’t want any part of anything where nothing’s sacred. Victims are sacred. Their families are sacred. And if we’re talking about the same podcast . . . at least one of them got so many case facts wrong it was . . . that was even worse than the gallows humor. Their show was sloppy. So many errors. And not just because they were sacrificing nuance for humor, but just getting the underlying case facts wrong. It was unconscionable.”
“Do you think . . .” Daniel begins. “I’m just thinking that . . . I wonder if those who are drawn to either create or listen to unsolved murder podcasts are essentially . . . Do we have addictive personalities? Are we always just looking for the next rabbit hole we can jump into? Be it podcast, true crime TV show, book, Reddit or subReddit discussion. We’re all, in a way, armchair detectives, and the best of detectives are obsessive, aren’t they? How else can we explain the explosive growth in popularity of these types of shows?”
“Remember the one show that was going to examine the effects of these cases on the people who obsessively work them, and then they started working the case instead? They became the thing they were supposed to be studying.”
“It’s easy to do, isn’t it?” Nancy says. “Which is why this is such a good reminder to us and all our listeners.”
“Part of what we’re doing here,” Merrick says, “a big part, is consuming other people’s tragedies, isn’t it? Think about that. How warped is that. We eat darkness. We inject sin. We’re bloody voyeurs, virtual rubberneckers but on steroids.”
“When you say it like that,” Daniel says, “I wonder if there’s any redeeming qualities in what we’re doing.”
“It’s redeeming if we help catch a killer,” Nancy says. “If we or our audience uncovers hidden evidence that helps the police solve the case.”
“But if we don’t do that?” he says. “If we only talk about it for a while then go on to something else, which . . . by the way, is what most of these shows do. They all start by saying they’re doing it to help solve the crime, but then when they don’t, when they’ve talked in circles long enough, they just start a second season. Maybe add some sponsorships along the way. If that’s all we do, what are we good for?”
“Entertainment,” Nancy says. “Only. Nothing else. Nothing more. And if that’s all it is, we need to find something else to do.”
148
Anna meets me at my car and hugs me for a long moment. “Are you okay?”
We’re in the paved parking lot not far from the wooded walkway that leads to the cottage where Sam a
nd Daniel are staying.
I nod. “Worried about Reggie. Feel guilty for not doing more at the scene, exhausted, need sleep, but . . . I’m okay. And now . . . I’m great. Never been anything but great in your arms.”
“Do you feel like doing this?” she asks.
“Don’t really feel like we can back out,” I say.
“Reggie called. They’re not going. And now Daniel says he’s not going.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Would you talk to him?”
“Of course. I need to make one more call. Could you send him out here?”
“Yeah. Unless . . . well, if we’re not going, there’s no need to talk him into going, is there?”
“I feel like we have to—even if we’re the only ones who do.”
“Okay. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to make your call then I’ll send him out.”
We kiss and she departs, returning to the unit where Sam and Daniel are, and where Merrill is with both his Beretta and shotgun.
When I see that she is safely inside, I call Jerry Raffield.
“Finally got some information about the email you received,” I say.
“Was it from her?” he asks, his voice desperately hopeful and yet without expectation.
“No. I’m very sorry. It’s . . . unbelievable I have to tell you this, but . . . it was from a teenager playing a prank.”
“Oh my God,” he says, and I can hear in his voice a new low in the level of disappointment he feels in his fellow human beings.
“He and his little brother made the confession video too,” I say. “The one that was posted online, on the podcast website. Was trying to see how many views he could get.”
“You’re kidding. Please tell me this isn’t real.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“The torture and agony never ends, does it?” he says. “How could a kid be so cruel, so . . . depraved?”
“I honestly don’t know. I know it has something to do with the anonymous, disconnected, dissociative life online, but . . . that’s only part of it.”
“Please tell me you can prosecute the parents.”
“I wish I had better news for you,” I say. “Maybe we will the next time I call. I certainly hope so. Again, I’m sorry.”
I end the call as I see Daniel walking this way.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not great. Did Anna ask you to talk to me?”
“We just wondered why you weren’t going with us for dinner at Nancy’s. I know it would mean a lot to her.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“Something with Sam?” I ask. “Don’t want to leave her?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I understand. Let us know if we can do anything to help.”
“You mean besides all y’all are already doing?”
I smile. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He turns to walk back up to the cottage but stops and turns back toward me again.
“Actually, I . . . could really use a . . . Could I talk to you in confidence?”
“Of course.”
“I mean the strictest of confidence. I’d die of shame if anyone ever heard this.”
“Sure,” I say. “What is it?”
“I try not to complain or let on, but . . . this thing with Sam is . . . very hard.”
I nod.
“It’s . . . it’s not the caring for her, helping her, having to do everything for her. That stuff’s tough, but . . . nothing compared to . . . how much I miss her.”
“I imagine it would be . . . I’m amazed at how well you’re handling everything, but know it has to be nearly impossible. I’m glad you’re talking to me.”
“I miss her so much. Miss what we had. Miss . . . so many things.”
I nod again.
“I’m just so lonely. And . . . given what Nancy is going through—something similar . . . I just don’t want to even want anybody but Sam—no matter what shape Sam is in. So I’m . . . I’ve got to be careful how I spend my time, who I spend it with, and where it takes my mind, those dangerous little thoughts that . . . God, I feel so fuckin’ guilty. I’m not this man. I’m not.”
“What you’re experiencing is so natural and normal, you’d be a freak if you didn’t feel it,” I say. “And you’re handling it the exact right way—talking about it, so you can get some understanding and accountability, and removing yourself from any situation that might lead you down a path you don’t want to go.”
“It’s . . . I hope you don’t think I’ve done anything inappropriate. I haven’t. But I just feel the need to keep certain relationships professional. Not to be in a social setting or situation.”
“We’ll bring you some leftovers.”
“Don’t even want that. Just bring Merrill a plate. See, like with him, with Zaire. She’s with him. The way Anna’s with you or Reggie’s with Merrick. It’s just when someone is . . . untethered or . . . like me. You know what I mean. The lack of . . . certain visible boundaries and encumbrances . . . is what I’m finding so challenging—again, just in my mind. But talking has helped. Thank you. And please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“I won’t. And keep talking to me. Let me know any time you’re feeling especially vulnerable or tempted. Just call me. Anytime. And I’ll check on you from time to time too.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you so much.”
149
“I honestly don’t think I’m gonna be able to solve this case,” I say.
Anna and I are driving along Highway 98 between Port St. Joe and Apalach, on our way to Nancy’s.
“Why?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s not that it’s too cold,” she says. “You’ve solved much older and colder cases than this.”
I nod. “No, it’s not that. Though that might be part of it. I don’t know. I can’t decide whether I don’t have enough information and evidence or that, because of the media attention, I’ve been inundated with too many theories.”
She seems to think about it.
“It’s just a feeling,” I say, “but it’s persistent.”
“You ever felt this way before?”
“Not quite like this,” I say. “I always have doubts, always question whether or not I’ll be able to close certain cases, but . . . with this one . . . just have an overwhelming feeling that I won’t.”
“What if you don’t?” she asks. “Can you be okay with that?”
I shrug. “Depends on your definition of okay,” I say with a smile.
“Will you be able to let it go at some point?”
“Probably not completely.”
“But I mean have peace, some sense of equilibrium even if you still work on it on an ongoing basis.”
“Pretty sure I’ll need your help with that,” I say.
“What I’m here for,” she says, and touches my hand.
Dinner is nice.
Jake joins us, coming inside from where he’s been guarding the house.
Nancy is a good cook, and her house, though small and partially a hospital, is immaculate. She doesn’t have much, but what she has is nice and well maintained.
The four of us sit at her small dining room table and eat salad, gumbo, and seafood lasagna.
From her position at the table, she is able to check on her husband, Jeff, in the front bedroom across the way, which she does often. The setup and the way she is with him is not dissimilar to the way Daniel is with Sam, and I could see they’d be of great support and comfort to one another.
“This is so good,” Anna says.
“It really is,” I add.
“This is how she’s been feeding me since I’ve been here,” Jake says. “I’ve put on fifteen pounds already.”
“Glad y’all like it, but stop. Y’all are embarrassing me.”
Beneath her blond hair and t
ired blue eyes Nancy’s face and neck blush crimson.
“Change of subject,” she says. “How is Reggie doing?”
“She’s gonna be okay,” I say. “Especially since the kid is. But . . . it’s tough.”
“But so is she,” Anna says.
“Yes she is,” I agree.
“I really appreciate what you said on the last show I listened to,” Anna says to Nancy. “About murder not being entertainment. It was great and really needed to be said.”
Nancy gives her a small smile and nod as she looks back toward Jeff. “Think about the kid who got his little brother shot. Posting the video. Sending the email. It’s all a game to him. Randa’s not a real person. She’s a . . . That’s the thing that’s shocked me the most throughout my entire experience with Jeff and doing my podcast and now the one with the guys. The utter lack of empathy so many people have. I’m sure some are sociopaths with no souls, but most are just so self-involved, so caught up in what they see as this latest form of entertainment . . . they don’t get it.”
“It’s not unlike the way many people treat celebrities,” Anna says. “Like they’re not real, like they’re there for our entertainment—even their personal and private lives.”
“Exactly,” Nancy says. “That’s it. It’s exactly like that.”
“People,” Jake says, shaking his head. “People are dicks.”
“I’m glad we did that,” Anna says.
We are back in the car, driving home in the dark on 98 along the rim of the bay, a low-slung moon creating a pale path on the undulating water.
“She’s got a pretty lonely, claustrophobic life,” she adds.
“She did until Jake came along,” I say.
She laughs. “Us being there seemed to mean a lot to her.”
I nod. “Glad we pressed through and did it. Wish everybody could’ve come but . . .”
“Why didn’t Daniel? You never said.”
I tell her. I tell her because she is me and I don’t keep anything from her and she doesn’t share it with anyone else.
True Crime Fiction Page 58
