by Rick Outzen
Stan Daniels was human after all. He put the yearbooks down, picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“Where do you expect to take this?” Daniels said as he shook my hand, more perfunctory than warm this time. “Why dig up painful memories?”
I said, “I don’t know if Hines and Wittman had anything to do with your sister’s death, but I will talk to Mr. Solomon and see what he remembers about all three of them.”
He stood there half silhouetted by the sun in the skylight and said, “I wonder what our world would be like . . . you know . . . if she were here.”
Yeah, I thought, sometimes a person’s absence goes on like a living thing, still affecting the living.
Daniels looked out the window down Palafox Street and continued, “Don’t use my sister to save your hide.”
“I won’t,” I said as he shut the door, knowing that was exactly what I had to do.
I am an ass, I thought.
29
After Daniels left, Big Boy sauntered downstairs, having had a nice rest after his walk with Tiny. He found a piece of donut in Jeremy’s trashcan and began to eat it on the couch.
“You really are disgusting,” I said. The dog ignored me and finished his treat. “Come on, I need the exercise.”
We went out for a short walk. Since this was his second one of the morning, Big Boy wasn’t in any hurry. Good thing, my head and ribs still couldn’t handle even a light jog. The binding around my chest itched.
My first scheduled blog post went live at 8:30 a.m. as we were walking:
BUZZ: WHAT SECRET?
The suicide note believed to be from Sue Eaton Hines will be authenticated soon by the state attorney’s forensic experts. Below is the handwriting report from our expert.
The question on everyone’s mind is what secret? And for whom was the note intended? Who is “Sweetie”?
Within five minutes my cell phone vibrated. It kept vibrating every few minutes. Big Boy and I were still a block away from Pensacola Bay. I didn’t answer any of the calls but checked the caller ID. They were from Dare, Gravy, Clark Spencer, Jim Harden, and a number I didn’t recognize. My head hurt too much to be yelled at before noon.
Gravy texted, “Where the hell are you? Both the attorney general and state attorney want you in their offices today.”
A block away from the Pensacola Insider office, I spied a group of gray-haired retirees with posters. An empty donut box in a nearby trashcan indicated they were probably charged up on Krispy Kreme and coffee. The dress code for the men apparently was black socks with sandals. The women wore red, white, and blue tops over white shorts. The protestors blocked the entrance to my office.
Save Our Pensacola saw an opportunity to pile on the Herald’s coverage and attract attention to their petition drive. The protest would bring free publicity and draw television crews. The signs read “No More Fake News,” “Take a Walk, Walker,” “Bought and Paid-For Reporting,” and “Boycott the Insider.” The protesters, about a dozen, give or take a walker or oxygen tank, shouted, “No more. No more fake news. No more deaths. No more Insider.”
I took off Big Boy’s leash, and he walked right past the picketers unscathed and unbothered by the commotion. He sat on the mat in front of the door. I swore he smiled at me, daring me to follow him. I hated that dog.
I saw one of my “shadows” from last week’s meeting at New World Landing—crew cut, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and the prerequisite socks and sandals. Walking up to him, I asked if I could help him.
“We’re shutting you down, Holmes,” he said, not removing his aviator sunglasses. “Your bull crap must stop. Attacking the good name of a dead woman is low even for scum like you.”
He jabbed me in the chest to punctuate his last sentence. I was getting tired of people doing that. I hoped I didn’t wince because it felt like I had been stuck with a hot poker.
“Freedom of the press is a bitch,” I replied.
Turning to all the picketers, I added, “If you need a bathroom, our office is on the second floor. Don’t pet the dog. He has fleas.”
Big Boy quit smiling. He was no longer amused. We went upstairs. I texted the staff to stay away and work from home. None of them needed to become targets, too. Then I called the window company to replace the glass.
After my shower, I listened to my voice messages and read my emails. Based on them, I was either a fool or a jackass. Jackass appeared to be in the lead. The unidentified number on my cell phone was one of Bo Hines’ attorneys demanding I remove the blog post. I didn’t return any of the calls and didn’t delete any posts.
Instead, I turned on the coffee pot, got into comfortable khaki shorts, and gingerly sat in my worn leather chair with my laptop. My ribs weren’t doing too well. I debated whether to take a pain pill and decided against it. I took a couple of aspirin.
I wrote up my interview with Stan Daniels and posted a teaser to the blog:
COLD CASE: CELESTE DANIELS
On May 14, 1973, Celeste Daniels, age fifteen, was seen leaving Catholic High School. Her family and friends never saw her again. The Insider reported on her disappearance in a 2008 cover story on cold cases. We believe that someone in Pensacola knows what happened to this high school freshman, and we are asking for them to come forward with any information they might have. Please email me at [email protected].
After two more cups of coffee, my head calmed down. My ribs were tender when I turned my torso, but otherwise I wasn’t hurting too badly.
Outside, reporters interviewed the picketers. A TV camera crew taped them. Every negative story about me gave an opening to their sales reps to steal one of our advertisers. Dollars, not journalism, drove their Walker Holmes stories.
I took a photo of the protestors being interviewed and posted it on the blog to let readers know we were being picketed. Might as well get ahead of the other news outlets.
The office phone rang. Of course, it was Gravy.
“You won’t answer your damn cell so I figured at least someone would pick up this line,” he said. “You’ve really stepped into it this time. The attorney general wants you. The state attorney himself called. I think I’ve got both of them to hold off until tomorrow. Attorney general at 9:00 a.m. State attorney right after lunch.”
“I’m not going.”
“Walker, they will issue a warrant and have you arrested.”
“Screw ’em. I have a plan,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Buy me some time.”
“I have nothing to offer them. Your best bet is to make yourself hard to find. I’ll play dumb and try to get them to delay issuing any warrants.” He added, “When you miss the appointments, they probably won’t get one of the judges to issue a warrant until Monday, but a judge might make an exception for you.”
Looking out my window, I saw the reporters and TV camera crews drive away. The picketers packed up, too. It must be time for Matlock or Murder She Wrote back at the retirement home. Crew-cut drove away in his lime green 1998 Lincoln Continental. It had a bumper sticker: “Fight Crime: Shoot Back!”
“Okay, that should work,” I told Gravy. “They won’t know I’m not cooperating until it’s too late to stop me.”
“Stop you from what?” Gravy sounded like he honestly wanted to know.
“It’s best you not know.”
My blog posts attracted dozens of comments. Not all of them attacked me. Hines was taking a few licks, too. The item about the “secret” mentioned in Sue’s note drew several negative comments against Hines. Readers posted rumors of affairs, shady business dealings, and the Arts Council theft. Ever so slowly, Pensacola was beginning to call him out on the blog, something Hines and his attorneys wouldn’t like.
The photo of the picket line drew more teasing of Save Our Pensacola than support, though a few readers agreed with Frost’s comments published in the Herald.
In contrast to those comments, classmates of Celeste Daniels relished the opportunity to write about her. Pe
ople still remembered her wit and laugh. No new revelations popped up, but readers loved adding comments to that post.
I added my own comment: “The yearbooks from Catholic and Washington show Celeste Daniels went to the junior-senior proms at both schools. Does anybody remember those dances? Please email me, [email protected].”
Thirty minutes later, my next scheduled blog post went live:
FRIEND CONFIRMS HANDWRITING
Dare Evans, a close friend of Sue Hines, confirmed the handwriting of the apparent suicide note matched the handwriting on letters she had received from the late Mrs. Hines, as does the stationery. State attorney expected to issue their report on Friday.
I knew Dare would be pissed that I’d dragged her into this, but she didn’t hold grudges against me, at least not for long.
Summer came into the office. “Boss, I went by the post office and picked up the mail. We still need every deposit we can get.”
Good old Summer. She wore an A-ha T-shirt with “Take On Me” across her chest.
“Thanks, Summer, but I told you to stay home.”
“Yeah, I know, but someone must oversee the window being replaced. You aren’t going to do it.”
Okay, she had me.
“Summer, go home as soon as the window’s replaced,” I said and went upstairs to work. The heat from outside made my work area unbearable. Big Boy stayed with Summer, protecting her from any more flying bricks.
I found Jacob Solomon’s phone number in an online directory. I called, and he agreed to see me. He invited me to have lunch at his house the next day. He sounded excited to have company.
I tried to put together an outline of next week’s story. The article needed to explain the suicide note. Dammit, it was a suicide note. It must push the state attorney to prosecute Hines and derail the Hines-Wittman petition drive.
The problem was I still had more questions than answers.
Checking my email again, I found one from Jeremy. “Walker, I ran into someone who thought he knew where Pandora Childs might be. He said she liked to sneak away to Pigeon Forge and stay in a friend’s cabin. Childs recently texted him a selfie from there.”
Jeremy had attached the photo to the email.
His cell phone went straight to voicemail when I called him. I called his landline, and after convincing his mother that I wasn’t firing her son and to please let him come to the phone, Jeremy got on the line.
“Great job, Jeremy,” I said.
“Thought the photo might help,” he said. He was proud of himself.
“Any chance your friend would give you Childs’ new cell phone number? Her old one went dead when she disappeared.”
“No, he had saved the photo but deleted the text message,” said Jeremy. “He probably has it somewhere in his phone but wasn’t willing to share it.”
Within minutes of hanging up with Jeremy, my cell rang. Harden said, “I know this may be a little late, but I’ve got info on Cecil Rantz’s Happy Cumings Films.”
“No, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Tell me what you have.”
“He shot the videos in public places and houses around Pensacola,” he said. “His team recruited waitresses, strippers, and college coeds to have sex on camera. He recorded the orgies, of course, and uploaded them to the website mentioned at the attorney general’s press conference. Men paid two hundred dollars a month VIP membership dues to participate in the orgies or just to watch the people live. Some of the girls may have been minors. The production made money from people paying to log onto the websites that played the videos for its VIP members.”
That explained a little more of how Amos Frost was pulled into the filming and matched what Tyndall had shared.
“Rantz sent text messages to guys, and sometimes couples, that gave away the place and time for the fun,” said Harden. “Investigators are convinced some of the girls were underage. They have tried to catch them in the act and find out who funded the enterprise. The few girls they questioned refused to cooperate.”
“Well, apparently it was much bigger than Rantz’s videos,” I said.
“Apparently. My sources only knew about the local sex scene.”
“And Amos Frost was one of the participants,” I added.
The other end of the phone went dead for a few seconds. “Holmes, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m not writing about Amos Frost.”
“Good.” Harden sounded relieved.
“My arts reporter may have located the missing Arts Council executive director,” I said. “I’ll send you a photo she recently took in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Do you have someone who can track her down?”
He said, “I have a friend in Knoxville who could drive down. It will cost two hundred dollars, plus mileage.”
“What choice do I have?” I asked. “Okay, have your friend send me an invoice.”
Harden said, “There’s a lot of talk at the courthouse about you not cooperating with the state attorney and attorney general.”
“Yeah, they aren’t too happy with me.”
“No shit,” said Harden before he hung up.
I posted Harden’s information on the sex club on the blog:
LOCAL SEX CLUB TIED TO PORN BUST
Among those busted yesterday in Operation Cherry Bomb was pornographer Cecil Rantz.
Sources told the Insider Rantz recruited waitresses, strippers, and college coeds to perform sex acts on camera for his Happy Cumings videos.
Locals paid to perform with the girls on camera but wore masks. They were texted a code for when and where the orgies would take place.
Who paid? They could be revealed in the court documents soon.
Agents are looking for the financial backer or backers of the international child porn network.
Stay tuned.
Sheriff Frost wouldn’t be happy because he would think the post was about his brother. Tyndall’s boss would be upset because media would bombard his office with questions about the videos. The reporters would also be pissed because I wrote about it first. A trifecta.
Big Boy came upstairs. I heard Summer shout something as she slammed and locked the outside door to the office. The fortress was secure.
I grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and walked down to the offices on the second floor. The afternoon sun was coming through the windows. The new window matched the others perfectly. Sitting at my desk, I watched minions head home or to happy hour as they left their jobs for the day.
Summer had left several yellow Post-it notes on my computer. She wanted me to return calls to Clark Spencer, the television reporter who covered the protest, someone in the attorney general’s office, Sheriff Frost, and Monte Tatum.
“You sonnabitch, you set me up,” shouted Tatum when I reached him on the phone.
I didn’t take the bait. “What are you talking about, Monte?”
Sounding more than a little unhinged and high, he rattled off, “I read your blog. You came into my club to scope me out for the AG. I know you talked with that bitch Eva Johnson.”
The louder he got, the calmer I became. “Why were you taken into custody and let go? What kind of deal did you cut?”
“None of your goddamn business,” he said. “That bitch Johnson stole from me, I fired her, and she wants to ruin me. Don’t believe a goddamn thing she says.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Monte,” I said, knowing that using his first name irritated him even more. “My sources are coming from elsewhere. People have been talking about your sleazy club for weeks. Rantz was a regular.”
“Who told you that? I’ll sue you for defamation and for trying to hurt my business.” He sounded a little less confident, a little more worried.
“Monte, you tried that before. I’m not your problem,” I said. “However, if there are any insights you can give into Rantz and Deb’s Playpen, we would love to interview you.”
“Fuck y
ou,” Tatum said as he ended the call.
Gravy texted to see if I wanted a beer. I passed. I called Dare and left her a voicemail thanking her for the prepaid ads.
I texted Bree hoping she might want a drink. No dice. She called to say that she had promised her aunt a date night. At least she sounded as if she might be open to the proposition in the future.
Big Boy and I ordered wings and fries, anything other than pizza. We went to sleep watching the Dodgers on the television. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
30
Gravy called in the morning while Big Boy and I were out strolling, dodging packs of runners. We stood under an awning waiting for a summer downpour to subside when I took his call.
“No more stalling. The state attorney has served me with a subpoena concerning you first thing this morning. Spencer followed up with a phone call. He wants you in his office by one this afternoon or, and I quote, ‘they will issue a warrant for your ass,’” said Gravy. “Attorney General Gore wants to see you no later than three o’clock. No subpoena yet, but it’s coming.
“That’s a little quick,” I replied.
“Yes, but you have been putting them off,” said Gravy. “And they want you to know they’re serious. Spencer told me he has got a judge ready to sign a warrant. No more delays, Walker.”
He added, “What kind of idiot has the attorney general and state attorney on their ass at the same time? At least, Sheriff Frost stopped calling.”
Big Boy lifted his leg on a Pensacola Herald newspaper box, then flopped down by my feet satisfied.
“Thank you for running interference for me, Gravy. Tell them I promise to see both before the day is over.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “Tell Spencer I will stop by his office at 3:30 p.m. Gore, I will see at 4:45. He can work overtime.”
“Don’t screw with them. They are serious about sending law enforcement to bring you in if you don’t show. If you are arrested, you’ll sit in Frost’s jail all weekend.”
Not a pleasant option. “I’ll make it, Gravy.”
Gravy asked, “Do you want me there?”
