“Nothing,” she says. “I woke and you weren’t in bed.”
“Came in here to be close to them and must have fallen asleep.”
She nods and gives me a smile and a kiss on the head.
“Lay back down,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
I do as I’m told and in a few moments she returns with our pillows and a blanket and joins me on the floor between our children.
“Not that they’ll let us sleep that long, but I brought your phone so you’ll have your alarm,” she says.
“You’re the best wife in the world,” I say.
“Did you come in here because of what you were reading?” she asks.
I nod. “And thinking. And it’s not just Mariah. Brings back Nicole Caldwell, Martin Fisher, LaMarcus Williams, Cedric Porter . . . so many . . . so much.”
She pulls me into her arms and the warmth of her body and the kindness of her concern vanquishes all thoughts of the vulnerable and victimized, and soon I am drifting back into sweet oblivion surrounded by my three favorite girls in the world.
217
The next morning, Arnie, Keisha, Jessica, and I meet with Reggie in her office to go over the FDLE crime scene collection log.
After FDLE processes the crime scene, they send us an inventory of what evidence they collected and we have to determine what to test and how.
Jessica Young is our department’s non-sworn crime scene tech. Keisha Colvin is the FDLE agent assigned to assist in the investigation.
It’s Reggie’s first day back and she’s still moving quite gingerly.
“Okay,” she says, looking at her copy of the list we all have, “let’s figure this out as fast as we can so we can get moving on this. Lot of people are waiting for these results and it seems like the whole world is watching.”
Because of limited time and resources and because certain types of testing exclude others, we’ve got to let the FDLE lab know what we want done with each item they collected—even if what we want done is nothing at all.
“Let’s start with the biggest nightmare,” she says. “Fingerprints.”
“It’s a rental,” Arnie says, “and there are a lot of prints, but not as many as you’d think.”
“I’m assuming it’s cleaned pretty well between guests,” Reggie says.
“It is,” he says, “and that’s our saving grace.”
“We’ve printed the cleaning lady,” Keisha says, “and the family, workers, friends, and neighbors who we know went into the house. We’re also trying to track down the past few guests before Mariah’s family to print them for exclusion too.”
Keisha Colvin is a stout and powerful forty-something African-American woman with dark skin and shortish hair that appears to have a will of its own.
“Once we’ve finished with all that,” Arnie says, “we’re going to be down to a pretty reasonable amount of unknown prints to deal with.”
“Most important objects to check prints for are those that came into the house with family,” Jessica says. “We know no previous guests’ prints should be on those.”
“True.”
“And of course anything used in the commission of the crime,” she says. “The ropes, the blanket, whatever the weapon is determined to be.”
“We meet with the medical examiner tomorrow,” Reggie says. “Get the preliminary autopsy results back. Maybe we’ll find out cause of death and figure out what was used.”
“Hope so,” Arnie says.
“Okay,” Reggie says, “let’s work our way through the list of what was collected. All the bedding from Mariah’s bed. Assuming we want DNA testing on all of it and the blanket Mariah was wrapped in and the pajamas she was wearing.”
Jessica nods and says, “Touch DNA tests too, right?”
Everyone agrees.
Certain tests conflict with each other and can’t both be done, so part of what we’re doing is assigning priority. If touch DNA and fingerprinting or some other test can’t both be done, we’re going with touch DNA.
Keisha says, “The lab has identified what they believe could be semen smears on the bedsheets, along with a pubic hair.”
“That could be huge,” Arnie says. “It’s something like that that’s going to help us get a conviction.”
“I see the clothes on the floor and the sheets, pillow cases, and blankets from the bunk beds as low priorities,” Reggie says. “Whatta y’all think?”
We all agreed.
The clothes Trace was wearing when he pulled Mariah out from beneath the bed and held her were also collected, and we all agreed they needed to be checked for hair and fibers and DNA.
“Everyone agree the ropes used to tie the vic—to tie Mariah up, should have extremely high priority for DNA testing?” Reggie says.
Everyone agrees.
“I think we need handwriting analysis and fingerprinting done on both notes,” Reggie says.
“We’ve collected handwriting samples from everyone who was in the house that night,” Keisha says. “We also took some of Mariah’s writing samples from a notebook with her things and her dad’s songwriting journal that she doodled in sometimes too.”
“She actually wrote some lyrics in both notebooks,” Arnie says. “Wanted to be a songwriter like her dad. So we should have plenty to use for comparison.”
“As the investigation widens and we speak to more and more people,” Reggie says, “I want handwriting samples and fingerprints from everyone and I want to know anyone who refuses.”
“Will do,” Arnie says.
“What about the zip ties?” Reggie asks. “If we can’t do both, and I’m pretty sure we can’t, fingerprint or DNA?”
Even though rope was used to tie Mariah up, three zip ties were found at the scene—one in her bedroom, one on the stairs, and one on the porch.
Checking them for fingerprints is the consensus.
“Glove,” Reggie says. “Same question.”
A single aqua latex glove had also been found at the scene—in the bathroom connected to Mariah’s bedroom. According to statements by Trace, Ashley, Nadine, and Irvin, the glove wasn’t there the night before and didn’t belong to anyone in the house.
“Definitely DNA,” Jessica says.
“And the metal pieces?”
Two tiny metal pieces—one flat, the other cylindrical—were discovered on the floor near the door inside Mariah’s room. Above them on the wall was a scuff mark and indentation in the sheetrock Nadine said was not there the night before when she put Mariah to bed.
“Prints,” Jessica says.
Everyone seems to be in agreement.
“Okay,” Reggie says, “Let give the lab a call and cover this and see what kind of time we’re looking at.”
She calls the lab and puts the tech on speaker.
As she goes over the list, it becomes increasingly obvious that much of the testing is going to take far longer than we would like.
“You caught any of the news lately?” Reggie says. “This is the highest profile murder case in the country right now. We’re under tremendous pressure to clear it, to get results . . . like yesterday. Isn’t there anything you can do to help us get the results back any faster?”
“We’ll do what we can,” the tech says, “but it won’t be much faster no matter what we do. Especially the DNA. Might want to use a different lab for it—or at least some of it.”
The services FDLE provides for smaller departments like ours costs our department nothing. The crime scene investigation that was done, the lab work that will be done, the agent provided, in this case Keisha Colvin, is absolutely free. If Reggie wants another lab—either an independent one or one belonging to a larger county such as Broward, Dade, or Hillsborough—she will have to pay for it out of her limited department budget. Unless, as is sometimes the case, the sheriff of a larger department with a dedicated lab insists on running the tests as a favor because it has no budgetary impact on his or her department.
“I’l
l call around and see what I can find out,” Reggie says.
If Reggie finds another lab to run the tests sooner, the FDLE lab will box up the evidence being transferred and ship it via FedEx so that when it’s signed for, chain of custody can be maintained.
It takes several calls and a fair amount of logistics, but Reggie finally finds a couple of labs that can do the test sooner and that we can afford. FDLE will be taking care of the fingerprints and certain other tests while a lab in Tampa and one in Miami will take care of the others.
“It’s the best result we’re going to get,” Reggie says, “and though it’s going to be relatively fast, the case will already be long since concluded in the court of public opinion before we get a single result back.”
218
Later that afternoon, Reggie and I drive out to the Cape together to do a walkthrough of the crime scene before the yellow tape comes down and the rental company starts to clean it in preparation for future rentals—which I’m told will quadruple because of true crime tourists alone.
Cape San Blas is situated on a peninsula that begins just a few miles from the town of Port St. Joe. It’s a small but popular beach vacation destination made up of homes and cottages instead of condos, surrounded by woodlands and pristine beaches instead of tourist attractions and amusements.
Unlike Panama City Beach or Daytona, older wealthy couples and younger wealthy families come to the quiet, rustic, isolated strip of snow white and sugar fine sand.
St. Joseph’s Peninsula is a narrow finger of land some ten miles long with the Gulf of Mexico on one side and St. Joseph Bay on the other. At its westernmost point is a state park popular among campers, hikers, swimmers, fishers, kayakers, and birdwatchers.
We drive out on 30A, the rustic road lined with pines and palms, passing more media vans than tourists as we do. I’m driving and Reggie, who probably shouldn’t be back at work yet, is sitting at an odd angle in the passenger seat, attempting to sit without putting pressure on the worst of her wounds.
“You listened to or read the transcripts of the interviews with Trace and the others yet?” Reggie asks.
“Plan to tonight,” I say.
“When the ME concludes the autopsy and releases the body, they plan to return to Atlanta for the funeral,” she says. “I’d like you to interview them before that happens.”
I nod.
“Which means it will probably have to be tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“They’re cooperating and have said they’ll come back when we need them to, but . . . that doesn’t mean they really will.”
“Be much more challenging if we have to coordinate and conduct interviews in Atlanta,” I say. “Let alone make an arrest.”
“Fulton County Sheriff’s office will help, but you’re right. Won’t be easy.”
The first part of 30A looks as rural as any other road in Gulf County, tall pines rising above the highway on both sides, their backlit bases striping the blacktop, their tops dappling the grassy shoulders beyond.
“You got any thoughts on this yet?” she asks.
“None worth sharing,” I say.
“It’s early, I know, but . . .”
“We’ll know far more in another day or so,” I say. “Seeing the house will help. Reading the interviews—conducting some ourselves. Going over the crime scene photos. And especially . . . getting the results of the autopsy. Without knowing cause of death it’s impossible to even theorize—and of course we don’t need to do too much of that until we get the lab results back. Be setting ourselves up for disaster to form many opinions until we get the fingerprints, handwriting samples, and DNA results back.”
“I’ve never felt this far behind this early in a case before,” she says. “I tell you the governor called this morning?”
I shake my head.
“And it wasn’t for the reason he claimed—expressing support and pledging resources. It was to remind me how high profile this thing is and to get it right but do it fast.”
Suddenly the dense pine forest to our right gives way to a low-lying pine prairie where young, narrow trees with a lot of space between them are scattered about, beyond them the bay and beyond the bay more pines on the peninsula curving away from us westwardly.
“Made me glad I blew my budget and hired the outside labs to do some of the testing so we get the results back quicker,” she says.
I nod. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and some of the sheriffs won’t charge us for the work their labs do.”
“To be honest with you, that’s what I’m counting on,” she says. “The private labs, which will absolutely charge us, are going to break the bank as it is.”
“Sorry,” I say, and am thankful again that I never have to deal with budgets or administrative issues. They affect the work I do, of course, but nothing I do affects them, which is freeing.
“Someone said Merrill is working for the defense team,” she says.
I nod. “That’s what I hear.”
“You haven’t spoken with him about it yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it going to be a problem?”
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Wish I could say the same for me and Merrick.”
“I just mean no matter what happens or how this all plays out Merrill and I will still be friends.”
“Wish I could say the same for me and Merrick.”
219
After pulling through the gate at the entrance of Stars Haven where several news crews are still stationed, we drive back to the pale blue beach house mansion that still has yellow crime scene tape flapping around the bottom of it.
Built up on stilts, the ground level is a six-car garage, the platform for the elevated pool, and the housing for the elevator shaft. The crime scene tape is wrapped around the stilts and is whipped around violently in the beach breeze blowing in off the Gulf.
Beyond the massive pastel monstrosity, a private boardwalk extends out between sand dunes and sea oats down to the beach.
The three livable levels are some 10,000 square feet, with an elevated pool and deck on the first story, seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, an elevator, a gym, and three wet bars.
Inside, the enormous rooms are plush and opulent and alternate between beach chic and Gulfside gaudy, and it has the feel of someone’s beachfront mansion far more than rental property. Which it is. This obscene monument to selfishness and hubris was designed and built by the insurance magnate and real estate developer Roger Garrett. In fact, Garrett developed the entire Stars Haven community but only owns this home.
“Place rents for three thousand a week,” Reggie says, as we stand in the open concept first story with a view of the sprawling kitchen, dining room, breakfast nook, wet bar area, and living room.
The living room alone is large enough for two full sectionals, a giant fireplace, and the biggest TV I’ve ever seen.
“How often you think that fireplace gets used?” she asks.
“Probably far more than it should,” I say. “I hear a lot of tourists crank the AC way up and build big fires.”
“You could build a bonfire in that bitch,” she says.
We look around some more.
“It’s no wonder someone had the idea for a kidnap-ransom,” she says. “Wonder why he asked for such a relatively small amount?”
“We figure that out and we’ll be well on our way to catching him,” I say.
“’Course there may not have been an attempted kidnaping at all,” she says. “This level is the only realistic entrance to the house—that’s two doors, front and back—and the family claims they were locked. They were locked when they went to bed and they were locked when they got up the next morning. And there were no signs of a break-in.”
“But they didn’t set the alarm,” I say. “And it’s a rental. No telling how many keys to this place are floating around out there. The owners have keys—and no tellin
g how many of their family and friends. The rental agents have keys. The cleaning service. And anyone who has rented it in the past could’ve made copies of the keys.”
“All true,” she says, “but what’s more likely? That? Or someone in the house did it?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m just trying to think through all possibilities.”
I step over to the huge sliding glass door in the back, looking past a large bronze sea turtle on one side and a brightly painted dolphin on a stand on the other to the deck and bar and pool beyond.
“I realize there are the only two main doors on this floor—this one and the front one, but each level has a balcony and french doors that lead out.”
“Sure,” she says, “a world class gymnast could shimmy up the balcony and break in, but one set of french doors open into the master suite with Trace and Ashley in it and the other opens into the nanny’s room.”
“Didn’t say it was likely, just possible.”
“But is it really?”
I nod. “Possible. Not probable.”
She steps over and joins me at the back door. “Bet you that bronze sea turtle and funky colored dolphin costs more than we make in a month.”
Beyond the pool and deck a set of wooden stairs leads down to a boardwalk that leads down to the beach. Above the beach and the green Gulf rolling in and returning from it, the clouded ceiling of sky blushes with the reflection of the late-afternoon sun.
“There were a lot of people in here the night before the murder,” she says. “Trace threw some sort of celebration party for his record going platinum. Plus the event was live on Facebook so no telling how many head cases and pedos saw it.”
“Someone could have come to the party and stayed in the house,” I say. “It’s big enough. Could’ve hidden and waited for an opportune time. How many people at the party?”
“Not sure. More than fifty, less than a hundred.”
“These people who drove down from Atlanta or—”
True Crime Fiction Page 87
