True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  I consider the ropes used to tie up Mariah, the fact that they belonged to Trace and Ashley and were used in his sexually suggestive music video.

  Ashley and Brett or to mean to me. I love them but cannot take it.

  The line from Mariah’s runaway note floats through my mind.

  And with it another question.

  Was the runaway note part of staging? Did Mariah even write it? If she did, was it from an earlier time, kept by someone and used to confuse this situation?

  As usual, I have far more questions than answers, but the questions are instructive and may lead to some crucial answers.

  I think about Mariah and JonBenét and ask the question that contains its own answer—Why is it always the most vulnerable among us who are victimized?

  I think about how both little girls were tied up, sexually assaulted, and received a savage blow to the back of the head.

  But whereas that appears to be the extent of what happened to Mariah—and even her sexual assault was from the day before—JonBenét was garroted, suffered a far more horrific death, her body bearing not only the marks of brutality and violence, but the defensive wounds of fingernails scratching her own neck as she fought against the garrote that was choking the life from her little body.

  Suddenly I am overwhelmed with grief and fear, thinking about unthinkable things as I listen to the sweet sounds of Johanna and Taylor’s breathing.

  I’m stricken with stifling heart-breaking heaviness for Mariah and JonBenét and filled with a dreadful fear for Johanna and Taylor.

  Why did Mariah and JonBenét have to suffer such horrific deaths? Why’d they have to die at all?

  Will I be able to protect Johanna and Taylor? How about when I’m not around? What happens to them if something happens to me?

  As if a powerful constricting serpent, fear coils around my heart and lungs and I feel as if I’m dying.

  Can’t breathe.

  Can’t . . . feel my . . . pulse.

  Though there is so much more I need to be studying and thinking about, I click off the light, place the murder book on the floor, and slide over to hold Anna and feel her warmth, her life, her heartbeat.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “You okay?”

  She shimmies into me, contouring her body to mine, her warmth and life and heartbeat immediately beginning to comfort and heal and revive.

  I nod. “Will be. Just needed to feel you, your life.”

  She reaches around behind her and pulls me to her even more.

  “First case like this since we’ve had the girls,” I say. “Not sure I can do it.”

  She pulls me even tighter with her left hand and squeezes my hand with her right, and by not saying anything lets me know she not only understands but will love me no less no matter what I do—even if I can no longer do one of the things so core to me, so essential to who I am, that I can’t remember not doing it, can’t remember not being it.

  235

  I wake up feeling much better, which may have something to do with waking up in Anna’a arms and having both girls in bed with us.

  By the time I’m showered and dressed, the smell of breakfast is wafting through our big old house.

  When I reach the kitchen, Anna is placing breakfast on the table and Reggie is sitting down to it, Johanna catty-cornered across from her on a stool at the table, Taylor at the end in her highchair.

  “Morning,” I say to Reggie.

  “Morning,” she says. “Dinner was so good I came back for breakfast.”

  “Morning, beautiful,” I say to Anna and kiss her before taking a seat across from Reggie.

  “Morning ladies,” I say to Johanna and Taylor, and kiss Johanna, who is next to me, on the head.

  “I’m coming,” Anna says, “but y’all go ahead and start. Don’t let it get cold.”

  “It’s not gonna get cold,” I say, “but even if it does, I’m waiting on you.”

  “I’m not,” Reggie says, and begins to dip the white sausage gravy onto the huge cathead biscuit on her plate.

  In her highchair, Taylor is eating some sort of mushy, soft cereal, and next to me at the table, Johanna is pinching small bites of biscuit, the crunchy golden crust on the top, with her thumb and index finger.

  “Would you open this for me, Daddy?” Johanna asks, lifting the large jar of jelly with her little hands and passing it to me, her biscuit-greasy fingertips leaving a little residue on the moist jar.

  “Gladly,” I say.

  Anna joins us and we all begin or continue to eat.

  Before we’ve eaten much, there’s a knock on the door.

  “I’ve got it,” I say, jumping up and dashing over to the door.

  When I open the door, Sam and Daniel are standing there backlit by the morning sun.

  “We were out for our morning constitutional,” Daniel says, “and smelled breakfast.”

  “Come in. Come in. You’re just in time.”

  By the time we reach the table, Anna has two more plates and is fixing them.

  I grab an extra stool from the garage, and in a few minutes we’re all breaking bread together in a way that nourishes far more than just our bodies.

  “We miss you, Ms. Sam,” Johanna says. “When are you coming back?”

  “I . . . miss . . . y’all . . . too,” she says.

  As good as the breakfast is and as appetizing as it smells, I know it’s not the real reason Reggie is here, and I suspect Daniel and Sam are here not because they smelled it, but because Anna invited them.

  Reggie looks at Daniel. “When you gonna help Merrick with the podcast again? He’s struggling without you. Needs you back.”

  He shrugs. “Not quite ready yet. But getting there.”

  As he eats, I can see the outline of the weapon beneath his shirttails on this side. Reggie helped him get a concealed carry permit when he and Sam moved out of our place into their own. And though he didn’t say so, I know it’s because of his recent experiences with Randa Rafffield.

  The biscuits are big and dense, the sausage gravy creamy and spicy, and I eat more, and more quickly, than I should.

  Eventually, I say to Reggie, “You might as well say what you came here to say in front of them. Not only can you trust them, but I’m going to tell them anyway.”

  She smiles. “I was going to. Was just finishing my breakfast first.”

  “Any . . . thing . . . coming from the . . . search of known . . . sex offenders in the . . . area?” Sam asks.

  Reggie shakes her head. “Nothin’ so far from the ones we know about, the ones that are actually registered and were in the area that night. But I’m wondering how many there are we don’t know about—who’re either not registered or were in the area without us knowing.”

  Sam nods.

  “Not gettin’ any joy from the list of previous renters or cleaning staff either,” she says. “House like that . . . doesn’t rent much, so the list was small and so far it seems everybody has an ironclad alibi. We’ll know more when we start getting some DNA results back, but at this point it really looks like it was someone staying in the house—Trace or Ashley or Irvin.”

  “But none of that’s why you stopped by,” I said, “any more than breakfast is.”

  She smiles and nods. “True. Got some results on the ransom note first thing this morning. Lab’s in Tallahassee and an hour ahead of us. Didn’t realize how early he was calling. I told him to always call as early as he possibly can. So . . . we don’t have any handwriting results yet, and we’ll really need them to know what we need to know, but . . . the pen used to write the ransom note was in the house. They got a match to a cheap promo pen in one of the kitchen drawers with a Justin Harris Real Estate logo on it.”

  Anna says, “So far all the evidence is pointing in the same direction.”

  “How about the paper it was written on?” I say. “Did it—”

  “That’s the best part,” she says. “It’s a sheet of paper ripped out of Trace Evers’ songwritin
g journal—the one he never goes anywhere without, the one that is never very far away from him at any time.”

  236

  After graduating high school and a tearful goodbye at which my mom smelled of booze and from which my dad was absent, I had loaded my car, filled my tank using some of my graduation money, and set out for the city too busy to hate.

  A little over three decades later, I’m heading back to Atlanta again.

  Atlanta is haunted for me, sure, but it’s also a reservoir of experiences and memories that seem somehow to be touched with magic, and I feel a unique connection to this place that is the birthplace of my hero and spiritual mentor Martin Luther King, Jr.

  I can’t help but love Atlanta, and returning, even alone and under these circumstances brings a certain type of homesick satisfaction that I don’t experience visiting any other place on the planet.

  It had been extremely difficult leaving Anna and the girls, but there was no scenario we could come up with that would make this work trip anything but miserable for them if they came with me.

  Before leaving, I had set up security for them, which with Merrill in Atlanta with Trace, had been challenging.

  Ironically, what wound up working best was Daniel and Sam moving back into the place they had just moved out of. Dad and Jake were also helping—taking shifts when Daniel slept or had to be away. I also had deputies driving by regularly, conspicuously making their presence known. With Chris so close and Randa still on the loose, I wouldn’t have agreed to leave any other way.

  My first stop in Atlanta is Myra House.

  Located in South Dekalb where I had spent so much time in my youth, pursuing that which I had felt pursued for—murder investigation and ministry, Myra House is a home for battered and drug-addicted women named after Mariah’s mother, Myra Baxley.

  Situated at the bottom of a severe slope just off Wesley Chapel Road, Myra House is a sprawling old partially remodeled split-level ranch surrounded by a high chain-link fence and fronted by a guard at a gate.

  And though I’m expected and a law enforcement officer, I have difficulty getting in, the overzealous gate guard reminding me of Ralph Alderman, the security guard at Safe Haven, Miss Ida’s daycare, which was less than two miles from here.

  “Sorry about that,” Deidre says. “We can’t be too careful. I know it’s a hassle, but it saves lives.”

  We are standing near where I have just parked my car in what once was the side yard of this home.

  Deidre Baxley, Myra’s sister and Mariah’s aunt, is a small, attractive dark-haired woman who could be beautiful if not for the grief and exhaustion.

  “I completely understand,” I say. “And appreciate it. Is the biggest threat from abusive husbands or drug dealers or . . .”

  “Lot of people don’t like what we’re doing,” she says. “For a lot of different reasons. Not just the obvious victimizers who feel like they own the victims who live here. Even our neighbors don’t want us here.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “They’re not against helping victims of domestic violence and addicts,” she says. “They just don’t want us to do it here. Chain link and razor wire and men trying to break in and bullets flying about aren’t exactly good for property values, but let’s get inside. Not a good idea to stand out here like this.”

  “Even way back here?” I say. “Why’s that?”

  “We’ve had a number of drive-bys,” she says. “Some of the shots hit back here. Look at that tree.”

  I follow her glance over to an oak tree with bullet holes in it.

  She leads me inside, where I am eyed warily by every woman I encounter.

  In what appears to be the main rec room, a handful of women, black and white, young and middle-aged, sit on worn and mismatched furniture watching an afternoon talkshow.

  We continue through the house, down hallways and up stairs, the smell I associate with older, inexpensive hotels.

  Through the large dining room where two teens who look like girls far too young to be in a place like this are setting the extremely long table and into the kitchen where older women in hairnets and aprons appear to be preparing the evening meal.

  Down another long hallway, this one with bedroom doors off to each side.

  Finally we arrive at Deidra’s office.

  “Come in and have a seat,” she says.

  The office is small, clean but cluttered, and smells better than the rest of the house.

  Framed photographs, tacked up posters and bumper stickers, hand-painted signs, all bear similar themed slogans: You Hit, We Hurt. A house where a woman is not safe is not a home. A Slap is not a Solution. End the Silence of Domestic Violence. The scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal.

  “I’m so sorry about your niece,” I say.

  Her sad, weary eyes become even more sad and tired and I can see tears forming.

  “Thank you,” she says. “It . . . it feels so familiar—and not just because of what he did to her mother, but because of what he did to her where we were concerned. We’ve grieving the loss of Mariah almost as long as Myra. He took them both from us. Twice. Myra with domination, control, drugs, alcohol, and eventually death. Mariah with sole custody, control, domination, and eventually death. God, I feel like I should’ve used all my tears by now.”

  She wipes at the tears creasing the corners of her eyes.

  I wait, resisting the urge to speak.

  We are quiet for a short while.

  From down the hall I can hear women talking. Not unsurprisingly no laughter accompanies their interaction.

  “You’re not like any cop I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Seem more like a counselor.”

  “I do some of that too,” I say. “My other car’s chaplaincy.”

  She looks confused at first, but then nods her head as she gets it.

  “I’m well acquainted with loss and grief,” I say.

  “Not just professionally, I take it,” she says.

  I nod. “Lost two people extremely close to me not two miles from here when I was very young,” I say.

  “Never get over it, do you?”

  I shake my head. “Not ever.”

  “I miss Myra every day,” she says. “Every single day. Mariah wasn’t really a part of our lives—Trace saw to that—but I already feel the loss of her. And that’s just on a selfish level—me thinking about how much I’m gonna miss her—which is nothing compared to the horror of thinking of what was done to her or the despair of realizing that sweet child doesn’t get to grow up and become who she might have been—to fall in love, to have a child, to use her talents. It’s . . . overwhelming to even consider.”

  I wait.

  “Oh, I guess I should’ve said it first and gotten it out of the way—I know y’all look at everybody especially the family—including the family that’s not even in her life, but I took my parents to the North Georgia Mountains for the holiday. I’m all they have now since Trace took Myra from them and they’re getting older and I spend so much of my time here . . . it was a nice little getaway. We were at the Red Roof Inn in Helen, Georgia if you want to look into it. We were there for three days. I had to come back here for a few hours of the second day. Had an employee who got drunk and didn’t show up for her shift and a new intake, but then I drove back up and . . . we were there when we got the news about Mariah. It’s interesting. We drove straight back right then though it didn’t happen here and she wasn’t here and wouldn’t be for some time, but . . . it’s like we just had to be home. Couldn’t be on vacation after what happened.”

  I nod. “I get that.”

  “Can’t believe I didn’t get to be in her life more,” she says. “That’s the thing. Her whole life is over. She’s not getting any more. Not another breath. Not another heartbeat. Not another hug. Not another smile. Not another laugh. I missed it. Missed so much.”

  “Trace kept you from her?”

  She nods. “Kept her from me and my parents,” she says.
<
br />   “Why?”

  She frowns and seems to think about it. “Not just one reason. He has to control everything—his image, his women, his posse, his children. But mostly it’s because he knows we know he killed Myra. He beat her and got her strung out on alcohol and drugs and then he killed her.”

  “Are you saying he contributed to her death or that he actually murdered her?” I ask.

  “I know you’re not asking a sister to make a distinction like that,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “You’re right. I was just trying to get a picture of Trace and their relationship, and what happened.”

  “You want to know who Trace is?” she says. “Look at OJ. I’m talkin’ about back when he was younger, not shot out and crazy like he is now. Controlling. Jealous. Abusive. He didn’t murder her with a knife like OJ did, but he didn’t kill her any less than OJ killed Nicole. Nicole’s death was more violent, but death by overdose is just as dead.”

  I nod.

  “Have you met him?” she asks.

  I nod again.

  “Bet he impressed you, didn’t he? Said all the right things. Seems like essentially a good person. He’s a sociopath. A master manipulator.”

  I nod again because I can’t think of anything else to do and I don’t want to stop her flow.

  “I remember my poor sister reading books about bondage and being a bottom, trying to learn how to be submissive and be tied up. She actually practiced. It was so sad. It wasn’t natural to her. I know plenty of women—and men for that matter who like to be tied up—so it’s not that. It’s that it wasn’t her thing, that he wouldn’t find her thing. It had to be what he wanted. She had to conform and contort and eventually lose herself by trying to transform into what he wanted. Makes me sick to my stomach just to think about.”