“Poor thing,” she says. “You know a good guy like him is eaten up with guilt—just for having a few thoughts and feelings. Hasn’t done anything else, right?”
“Right.”
“I realize how much you have on you,” she says. “I really do. But maybe you could spend a little extra time with him. Maybe we can both go over more.”
“Maybe we should’ve just moved them in with us instead of at Barefoot Cottages,” I say.
“I’m thinking maybe we should have.”
I was kidding. She was not.
We are quiet a few moments, riding along next to the black body of water, watching the moon dance on the darkness.
“Would it help if you went over the suspects with me?” she asks. “Sort of talk things through.”
“Always.”
“Lay it on me.”
“A stranger or even serial killer could’ve happened by at just the right moment and taken her,” I say. “Then there are the two men who were at the scene—Roger Lamott, who actually spoke to her, and Donald Wynn, the tow-truck driver who says he just stopped and left his card on her car.”
“All good possibilities,” she says.
“Her boyfriend or fiancé or ex—whatever he was—Josh Douglas. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be and I think some of the surveillance footage shows he was following her. And after I interviewed him, he disappeared.”
“Very suspicious,” she says. “He’s got to be your prime suspect.”
I shrug. “Of course, it may not have been his shoes on the surveillance footage. It could’ve been Brenda Young. She could’ve killed Randa because she took Chelsea Sylvester away from her or because she blames Randa for her death.”
“Damn. You do have a lot of promising suspects. What about her parents?”
I shake my head. “Don’t really suspect them. Especially Jerry. Lynn won’t talk to us, which is suspicious, but could really be grief like she claims. If it’s a family member it’s more likely her crazy old aunt, Scarlett George, or one of her child molester boyfriends. I hope to talk to Scarlett tomorrow.”
“Wow. They just keep coming.”
“Yeah, and I’m not even mentioning some of the more farfetched possibilities or strange theories that have been floated our way.”
“Thank you for sparing me that.”
“Finally, there is British Bob and Bert Stewart and their contractors at Windmark Beach,” I say. “I still think one or more of them could’ve been involved and that there’s a good chance that Randa is beneath or in one of their foundations out there.”
“What about Annie Kathryn Harrison?” she says. “Do you think the same killer killed her and Randa?”
“Certainly haven’t ruled it out,” I say. “There are just enough similarities and differences to make it impossible to come down on one side or the other. It’s maddening. Like everything else about this case.”
As we near Port St. Joe, I call Jerry to check on him. He’s still in shock that someone would send him an email like that as a prank.
When I finish with him, I call Merrick to check on Reggie. Reggie is sleeping and Merrick says she’s had an okay evening, considering.
On our way home, we swing by Daniel and Sam’s place to check on them and deliver Merrill a huge plate of food. While we’re there, I talk to Daniel some more. He seems to be doing better already—sticking close to Sam, caressing her affectionately as we talk.
Back in the car on our way home, Anna says, “I never quite realized the extent to which you are a pastoral cop. Makes sense. Of course you are. I’ve just had the chance to observe it more lately I guess. You take an investigative approach to chaplaincy and a pastoral approach to being an investigator. It’s very cool to observe.”
“Thank you.”
“I know it’s too much on you to have two jobs,” she says. “I was thinking, Taylor’s about ready for me to go back to work—at least part-time. Have you thought about which one you’ll give up?”
“I’ve thought about it,” I say. “Haven’t come up with anything.”
“Wonder if there’s a way you can keep doing them both on a part-time basis?”
I shrug. “Something will work out. Let’s talk about it again when I’m in a better place.”
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“There’s a list?”
150
The biggest break in the case comes the next morning when a retired couple helping with the search in Panther Swamp discovers human bones.
After another night of not much sleep, I drive down Overstreet to meet Reggie at the site where FDLE crime scene techs and a forensic anthropologist will soon be sifting through what might be Randa’s remains.
By the time I arrive, the scene has been cleared of all but two volunteers—the two who found the bones—and a couple of deputies spooling crime scene tape between the trees.
When I park, Reggie walks over to meet me.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Better. Thanks. Good night’s sleep helped.”
“Good.”
“Helps having this to deal with too,” she says.
“What is this?” I say.
“Come on,” she says, “I’ll show you.”
She leads me back a short ways into the woods, down an embankment, along a trench with a soggy, sandy bottom, and over to the tipped-up root system of an overturned tree.
On the other side of the tree, in a shallow grave, the skull and only a few other bones here and there are visible—but there are enough to see that the entire skeleton is present.
“Take a good look at it, then we’ll go talk to the couple who found it.”
I nod and continue looking. “We’re supposed to believe that eventually, inevitably erosion revealed what’s been buried here for nearly twelve years?”
She smiles. “Seen enough?”
“Anything else found? Clothes? Wallet? Keys?”
“Not so far. We’re just preserving the scene for FDLE.”
I nod. “Okay. Seen enough.”
“Follow me.”
She leads me back out to the highway and over to the couple who found the remains.
They are fit and spry but pushing eighty, and I wondered if it was a good idea to have them traversing such an uneven and rough terrain.
“This is Clarke and Sue Morgan,” Reggie says. “This is my lead investigator, John Jordan.”
We shake hands.
“Tell him what you told me,” Reggie says.
“It wasn’t there yesterday,” Sue says, tucking her gray hair behind her ear with swollen and misshapen fingers.
“What wasn’t?” I ask.
“The body,” Clarke says.
“The remains,” she corrects. “Those bones, that skeleton wasn’t there yesterday. We walked right past that fallen tree. Searched both sides thoroughly.”
“You’re absolutely positive?” I say. “It’s a big swamp and a lot of it looks just like the rest of it.”
“We’re hikers,” Sue says. “We have a good sense of forests and swamps. Plus, if you’ll look on that overturned tree you’ll see a little mark I made—M for Morgan with the date and time. We were there yesterday. We had to walk across yesterday’s grid to get to today’s.”
I nod. “Y’all see anybody else out here, in this grid yesterday or this morning—going or coming—anything that looked suspicious at all?”
They both shake their heads. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Y’all did great. Thank you.”
“Bear with me for a few more minutes,” Reggie says, “then we’ll get you out of here. Okay?”
“We’re in no hurry, love,” Sue says.
Reggie and I walk back over to my car.
“So?” she says.
“So someone moved those bones from where they were and partially buried them where they are now so they’d be found today—or soon. He had to know the search was taking place in this area. There are signs.”
“Well, if it’s her,” I say, “if it’s Randa . . . to get them off his property—especially if he thinks we’re getting close.”
“But we’re not, are we?”
I shake my head. “If we are, I don’t know it. But maybe something we’ve done—like questioning him or something . . . has him thinking the net is closing.”
“Who’s most likely for it to be?”
I shrug. “This happened after the boyfriend disappeared. He’s certainly acting suspicious.”
“And he was following her,” she says.
“Looks like it. But we should also see if there has been any concrete at Windmark Beach busted up and/or repoured.”
“I’ll get somebody over there.”
“And Roger Lamott is acting all kinds of nervous and hostile.”
“What if after all this time and all these theories and after looking so far and wide, the only witness we have from that night is who took her?”
“Has a higher likelihood than about anything else we’re considering.”
“Look, we’re not gonna know anything from this for a while,” she says. “And even when we do, we may not know much. FDLE tech on the phone said best case is the remains can tell us sex, race, and approximate age. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find her wallet or clothes or something.”
“But even if you do,” I say, “since the remains were moved, the only things that’ll be present are what whoever moved her wants you to see.”
“True. So you find the old couple as credible as I do?”
I nod. “I assume you’re going to check her mark on the tree.”
She nods. “It’s there. But back to the . . . remains. Even if we get all that, and even if we find out somehow for sure that it’s Randa, that’s not gonna tell us who killed her and hid her body out here. So keep working the case. Keep tracking down leads. This could easily become a distraction if we let it.”
I nod.
“Work the case so that when we have confirmation it’s her, we can make an arrest.”
When I get back in my car and check my emails on my phone, I see that I have another from [email protected].
How many times has somebody gotten the better of you, John? How many unsolved cases haunt you? Bet there haven’t been many that you didn’t close, right? Surely I won’t be the first, but, as I said, I truly doubt you have many. But, make no mistake, you are about to have another. See, here’s the difference in us. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old Nietzsche quotes. “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster” and “for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” That’s the difference. You fight monsters. I am a monster. You gaze into the abyss. I am the abyss. Of course, I’ll beat you. How could I not. You’re merely trying to capture a thing. I am the thing. Don’t feel bad. Did you know that the rate of closed homicide investigations has been going steadily down for decades now? Do you know why that is? Because of monsters like me? Because of the rise of stranger killers? Hey, your rate is much, much higher than the national average. It’s about to be a little worse after me, but it’s still way up there. Hold your head up, John. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s like my mama used to tell me, there’s always somebody bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better. You just ran into someone who is. I’m gonna miss these little talks, John. I truly am.
151
After leaving the crime scene, I continue down Overstreet intending to take a left on 98 and head to Windmark to look around.
I know Reggie is going to send someone out to have a look, but I want to see it for myself.
I also plan to talk to British Bob and Bert, but I never got the chance to do any of it.
Before reaching 98, I got a call from a secretary at Gulf Coast State College who I’d asked to keep an eye out for Josh for me.
“He’s here now,” she says. “Trying to cash in his retirement. He won’t be long. You better hurry.”
“Don’t let him leave. I’m on my way.”
“I can’t stop him.”
“Make up more paperwork or something. Just keep him there.”
I put my emergency light on and race through Tyndall Air Force Base and Panama City, and reach the college campus faster than should have been possible.
When I rush into the Employee Financial Services office, Josh is there, impatiently waiting for the secretary to find just one more form she needs him to sign.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” she says.
When they become aware of me, she glances up quickly and says, “I’ll be with you in just a minute, sir,” as if she has no idea who I am or why I’m here.
She’s good. Scary good.
“Actually,” I say, flashing my badge, “I’m here to see him.”
“Now’s not a good time,” he says. “Sorry.”
“The time is not in question,” I say. “Only the where and the how.”
“I don’t—”
“You can talk to me here or I can cuff you, lead you across campus to my car, then drive you down to my office for questioning. Up to you.”
“Here,” he says. “Of course. You don’t have to be such an ass.”
“Ma’am, do you have a small room we can use?”
Having completely abandoned her search for the important paper for Josh to sign, she stands and leads us over to a small meeting room and closes the door.
“Where have you been?” I say. “Why’d you disappear so abruptly?”
“My dad had a stroke,” he says.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. How is he?”
“Not good. Gonna require constant care.”
“Where is he?”
“Mobile. Where we’ve been. Where we’re moving. My brother’s very wealthy. He’s hiring us—my wife and I—to live with and care for Dad. It’s a great opportunity because I can . . . it will afford me the chance to finish my book.”
“I’ll need some names and numbers to verify all this,” I say. “When you vanished so thoroughly, I thought—”
“I didn’t vanish—thoroughly or otherwise. We went to take care of my dad. It turned into a long-term thing. The truth is . . . I went there thinking and hoping it would. I don’t really like teaching at this level. You thought what? What did you think?”
“That you were running because of our new investigation into what happened to Randa.”
“What? Wait. What? Why would I—oh, you think I . . .”
“We know you were following her,” I say. “Surveillance footage shows you—”
“I loved her. Cared for her so . . . deeply. I was decent to her. Something not many people were. I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything to her. I didn’t even . . . Don’t you see? I stopped too soon. I wish I would’ve kept following her, but I didn’t. I gave up. It took a while, but I realized if I stayed with her or tried to—or even someone like her—I’d always be following, always be wondering, always be suspicious. It took me a little while, but that night changed my life. Changed me. I chose that night what sort of man I was going to be and what kind of wife I’d have and . . . I . . . I did it. I became that man. I married that woman. I wouldn’t change who I became—except to save Randa. If I had kept following her . . . maybe I could’ve kept her from getting killed.”
“So you followed her all the way to Panama City, then turned around and drove home?”
“No. I called a buddy of mine who lives here and we went drinking. He’ll tell you. I’m sure we can scrounge up a few other witnesses too. But it’d be a complete and utter waste of time.”
“You mean like what I’m doing here when you could’ve told authorities this twelve years ago?”
“I . . . I kept waiting for a call or a visit. I didn’t try to hide. I figured someone saw me—or some camera picked me up.”
“You were hiding from Randa.”
“Just to see what she was doing. It was so bizarre—even
for her. She didn’t usually go off like that—not that far and not by herself. I wanted to see where she was going. Until I didn’t. Until I decided not to live my life that way for another second. Give me a polygraph. Verify everything I’ve told you with witnesses. I have nothing to hide. I just hate for you to waste all your time on me when I know I’m innocent.”
“It’s good of you to be worried about my time,” I say. “Especially when all this would’ve been easier to verify over a decade ago when it happened.”
I toss him my pad and a pen. “Write it all down. Full names. Numbers if you have them. Where your dad is staying. His doctor. Everything.”
“Sure,” he says, and starts scrawling the information on the paper, “but I told you who you should talk to.”
I shake my head. “No. No you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I did. I always tell everybody.”
“Who? Who should I talk to?”
“Randa’s aunt. The crazy one. Scarlett George. If she didn’t have something to do with this somehow . . . then it was some random serial killer or something, ’cause I don’t know who else could be involved. And I know she was trying to reach her aunt in the week after Chelsea died, leading up to her own disappearance.”
152
“Look at this place,” Scarlett George is saying with an outstretched hand. “Look at it.”
I did.
“It’s a dump.”
She’s right. It is.
She lives in a small dilapidated duplex off 11th Street in St. Andrews. Literally crumbling down around her, the structure doesn’t look particularly safe to be in.
There is very little furniture—and what there is, is filthy and covered with piles of laundry.
“Think about all that money they have,” she says, “and look at this place.”
I shake my head. “It’s unbelievable. Some people can be so selfish it borders on the cruel.”
She likes the sound of that, nodding as she squints her eyes. I can tell she’s trying it on for size, and will use it with them or someone about them someday soon. “Borders on the cruel,” she repeats.
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