by Ben Rehder
Time to destroy the phone. That was, after all, the reason for the burglary in the first place. But he didn’t have much time, because right this minute, Harvey might be using an app to track his phone. He might even be in his car, following. Not likely, but possible. Or he might be calling 911, and if a cop happened to be nearby...
The intruder had to act fast. He needed to make sure the phone was ruined, but he couldn’t afford to pull over and make himself conspicuous.
So what would he do?
I sat up in bed, thoughts coming quickly.
What was the quickest way to ruin a phone? Wait. Correction. What did most people think was the quickest way to ruin a phone?
Drop it into water. Just like Holloway and his crew had done with my phone.
A lake or river. Toilet or sink. Pond or aquarium. Swimming pool or bathtub. Even a glass of water.
Water was the big killer, wasn’t it?
But after Todd had called about my phone, I’d done some research—more out of curiosity than anything else—and I’d learned that it was sometimes possible to salvage data from a phone that had been submerged in water for an extended time. You shouldn’t expect the phone to operate properly again, but there were ways that you might be able to save your photos or videos, for instance. If all else failed, you could take the phone apart and, well, I hadn’t read much further than that—just far enough to know that someone with knowledge might be able to recover data from the internal flash chip, or whatever it was called.
I got out of bed and went into the living room, where my laptop rested on the coffee table. It was 1:17 in the morning and now I was wide awake, letting my hopes rise, and wondering if I might actually be onto something.
I opened the maps application and entered Harvey Selberg’s address. He lived in Manchaca, a suburb in far south Austin, in a small neighborhood called Bear Creek Park. Fortunately, there were only two roads in and out, and both of them connected to FM 1626. Pretty good guess that the intruder would’ve turned right to go north, back toward town. That being the case, they would’ve crossed Bear Creek in less than a minute after leaving the neighborhood.
Could it be that easy?
If I’d been the intruder, I would’ve done two things for certain. First, I would’ve powered the phone off immediately, to prevent pinging off cell towers. And because I’d be worried that a cop might already be coming south on FM 1626, responding to a burglary call, I would’ve tossed the phone out the window, over the railing, into Bear Creek. Done. Phone destroyed. Or, at a minimum, impossible to find.
Right?
Now I realized I was pacing the floor.
It was 1:26. Nine minutes had passed. It was going to be a long night.
36
It was still dark when I found a place to park near the intersection of FM 1626 and Brodie Lane. Just a wide paved spot next to the road. There wasn’t a No Parking sign, so the van would probably be fine while I was gone.
But I had to wait. No use fumbling around in the dark.
And I was trying to keep my hopes in check, because this would likely be a reconnaissance mission only. If the water was too deep or too murky, I would have to contact a scuba diver—maybe Todd—and hire him to conduct a search for me.
Finally, the sky turned gray and birds began to sing.
I locked the van and walked southwest on FM 1626. The bridge over Bear Creek was about one hundred and fifty feet away. I crossed over to the east side of the road, because the intruder would’ve been driving north, and he would’ve tossed the phone out the passenger-side window. The east side.
When I got close to the creek, I climbed over the guardrail and made my way down a steep embankment, to the north bank of the creek. I liked what I was seeing.
Bear Creek wasn’t much of a creek. It certainly didn’t flow year-round, and it wasn’t flowing steadily now, meaning much of the creek bed was dry. Still, there were standing pools of water here and there, probably made deeper and wider by the recent rains. If someone had tossed a phone from the road, I guessed there was a fifty percent chance it would’ve landed in water.
I simply stood in place for a moment and assessed the area further.
The banks were covered with tangled weeds and grasses, some waist high, along with random pieces of tattered trash that had been floating in the water at some point. Fast-food sacks and paper cups. Beer cans. Crumpled cigarette packages.
It would take me several hours to comb this area thoroughly. Even then, I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t missed something. And if I didn’t find the phone, I’d feel compelled to search on the other side of the bridge, just in case the intruder had swerved into the oncoming lane and thrown the phone with his left hand.
Might as well get started.
I took a step forward, felt something hard under my shoe, and looked down to see a black iPhone.
I stared at it for a long moment, hardly able to believe my good luck.
What should I do next?
If I’d found the phone in water, my choice would’ve been easier. But here, on dry ground, even though it had rained days earlier, there was a good chance fingerprints remained, especially on the underside. As disappointing as it was, that meant I had to call the cops.
Eventually.
Maybe this wasn’t even Harvey Selberg’s phone. No harm in checking, right? That wasn’t the same thing as tampering with evidence. After all, I wouldn’t want to waste an investigator’s time. I was doing them a favor, really.
I had planned ahead—incredibly optimistic—and brought some latex gloves along, for exactly this kind of situation. I tugged them on, then squatted down and gently pinched the phone on both sides with my left hand. Then I used my right index finger to press and hold the power button.
One second.
Two.
And now I saw the Apple logo.
Sigh of relief. The rain hadn’t killed the phone.
Didn’t mean it was going to function properly, but at least it had power.
I waited as the phone booted up, which seemed to take much longer than normal, and I just knew a screen was going to pop up asking for a password. But no. The home screen appeared, tiled from top to bottom with app icons, and behind them, a Dallas Cowboys logo. A good sign. I remembered that Harvey Selberg had had a cluster of Cowboys balloons in his hospital room.
The Photos app was on the third row down and I touched it, knowing I might be smearing a fingerprint. So be it. The camera roll had three hundred and fifty-one items in it. Below that, the videos folder had sixty-one items in it. I opened it and immediately saw Harvey’s face in one of the thumbnails from one of the videos.
Oh, man. This was it. Harvey’s phone. I’d found it.
I scrolled down to the most recent video and the thumbnail was just blurry darkness. The time-length indicator showed that the video was one minute and fourteen seconds long. I felt like I was on the verge of something big—something secret—and I couldn’t help looking around to make sure nobody was approaching. And, of course, I was alone on the creek bank. Cars passing above couldn’t even see me down here.
I pressed the blurry thumbnail and opened the video. Then I hit play—and experienced one of the most rewarding, and depressing, moments of my career.
What I saw over the course of that video answered all my questions and told me exactly what had happened on the Island Hopper. It also left me feeling chilled.
I watched it three more times, wanting to make sure I could remember every detail. Finally I decided my memory alone wouldn’t be good enough, so I texted the video to my phone. Then I deleted the text from Harvey’s phone. While I was still in the Messages app, I checked Harvey’s most recent texts, but all of them were sent prior to the cruise. Nothing useful.
I went back to the thumbnails and looked for other videos from the cruise, but there weren’t any. I did find a handful of photos taken on the barge, but none of them offered any new information.
I quickly checked the li
st of recent calls, just in case the intruder had been dumb enough to phone anyone, but, same as with the texts, no calls had been made after the barge had departed the dock.
Last, I checked Harvey’s list of contacts—to make sure there weren’t any surprises. Imagine, for instance, if he had known Starlyn or Anson or Meatball before the cruise, despite saying he hadn’t. At this point, with as many twists as this case had taken, I couldn’t take anything for granted. I was relieved to find nothing unexpected or suspicious.
I powered the phone off and placed it back in the same spot where I’d found it.
Then I pulled my phone from my pocket. It was time to call Ruelas.
But I couldn’t bring myself to complete the call.
I found myself thinking yet again of my experience on the barge, hogtied and, yes, I’ll admit it, pretty damned terrified.
I wanted payback.
Now that I finally knew everything, I wanted to rub their faces in it. I wanted them all to know that this new evidence would support everything I’d been telling Ruelas and the deputies. I hadn’t assaulted Gilbert Holloway. He’d made that up to stop me from poking around. Same reason he’d sent Dirk Crider after me. Now I wanted to gloat about my discovery. To taunt them. To make them realize that the video on Harvey’s phone, combined with my testimony, was going to put them all in prison for attempting to murder me, plus a variety of other charges.
If I called Ruelas, I wouldn’t have that opportunity. Not the way I wanted to do it.
I left Harvey’s phone exactly where it was. For now.
Back in the van, I called Eric Moss’s cell phone. He answered on the second ring.
“This is Roy Ballard,” I said. “I’m on my way over to your house.”
“You’ll be trespassing,” he said. “And I will alert the authorities.”
“Are you home?”
“Don’t come over here. Consider this your only warning.”
“I have video of Starlyn driving the barge when Jeremy Sawyer jumped overboard.”
That stopped him cold. A long silence followed.
“And it shows what happened afterward,” I said. “I’m not fucking around anymore. Either we do this on my terms or I’ll call the cops myself. I almost went that route anyway. I don’t know Starlyn, but everyone says she’s a nice girl. I figure one mistake shouldn’t ruin her life. I bet you agree.”
He was in a tight spot. He didn’t want to acknowledge the possibility that a video of Starlyn at the helm of the barge might exist, especially considering that I was probably recording this call—which I was. But he also couldn’t risk telling me to go to hell. He had to find out if I was bluffing or not.
“I suppose the only way I’m going to get you out of my life is to deal with this nonsense,” Moss said. Bluffing me right back.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I said, and I disconnected before he could respond.
37
Moss’s front gate was open when I arrived. I parked the van in the circular driveway in front. The place looked empty. Dead. No light showing through any windows.
Maybe coming here was a dumb idea, but if I didn’t do something, there was a good chance Eric Moss would be the only person involved who wouldn’t pay the price.
I rang the doorbell, the dog inside started barking, and I waited for one full minute. Then I rang it again. The dog was now yapping at me from the other side of the decorative glass inset in the door.
This was a power trip on Moss’s part—making me wait.
The door eventually swung open, and there was Moss, appearing simultaneously contemptuous and dismissive.
“It’s amazing,” I said. “You’re a rich guy with every possible advantage in the world, but you always look like you have a stick shoved up your ass.”
His eyes narrowed in anger. It was tearing him up that someone could talk to him that way and he couldn’t do anything about it. The dog turned and trotted away to some other part of the house. He’d met me last time, and now I was old news.
“What is it you were babbling about on the phone?” Moss asked. “Or did you simply come here to make a nuisance of yourself?”
“We can do this on the porch, if you want,” I said, “but by the time we’re done, you’ll probably wish you were sitting down.”
He shook his head, as if he were patiently dealing with a mental defective, but there was no masking the concern on his face. He stepped back and opened the door wider for me.
I stepped past him, into the foyer, then waited for him to lead the way into his office, where I sat in the same chair I’d occupied last time, and Moss took the chair behind his desk.
He stared at me expectantly.
“I have to give you credit,” I said. “You appear fairly calm and confident. I guess the business world teaches you how to do that.”
“If you came here to show me something, you’d better go ahead and show it. Otherwise, you are wasting my time.” Now his tone was downright icy.
“See, like that,” I said pointing at him. “You’re still acting like you have the upper hand, even though, deep inside, you know you might very well be screwed. Not just you, but all your pals. And Starlyn. That’s what really bothers you, huh? But if it doesn’t, or if you think there’s nothing to worry about, by all means, just say the word and I’ll leave. Last thing I want to do is be a bother.”
I waited—enjoying every second. I was going to break this man before I was done.
Finally he said, “Show me the video.”
He said it with a sigh, but the sneer was almost gone from his voice.
I took my phone out and cued the video up to play. Then I handed it to Moss. No worries there. Moss was far too intelligent to think I hadn’t backed it up. Destroying my phone, or refusing to return it, would be pointless.
Instead, he did what he knew he had to do. He watched the video.
I’d watched it enough times now that I knew what was happening at any given moment, even though I couldn’t see the screen.
The video opened on Starlyn Kurtis, wearing the captain’s hat, behind the helm, and Jeremy Sawyer was standing right next to her. Rock-solid evidence that she’d been driving the boat—and Holloway was nowhere to be seen.
I could hear Harvey narrating. “Friggin’ hilarious. Dude’s at it again. Every time the boyfriend goes for a beer, this guy hits on the babe.”
Harvey was quite obviously amused—and drunk, considering the way he was slurring. Judging by the scale of the video, I had concluded earlier that Harvey was on the other side of the deck, maybe twenty feet away. Jeremy was talking to Starlyn, but the microphone didn’t pick it up. His body language indicated that he was being playful. Laughing. Flirting. Making time with a beautiful woman. Starlyn, to her credit, was paying attention—at least partially—to captaining the barge.
Jeremy said something else, and then he tapped one finger against his left cheek. Starlyn said something back, laughing. Jeremy touched his cheek again, moving closer to her, and Starlyn responded the way he wanted—by leaning over to kiss him on that spot. When I’d watched the video the first time, I already knew what was coming, and Eric Moss likely did, too, assuming he’d heard the unvarnished truth from Starlyn. As she leaned in, Jeremy turned his head quickly and, as a result, she inadvertently kissed him directly on the lips.
Harvey, still narrating to himself, or perhaps to the audience who might later view the video online, said, “Whoa, man, that was smooth.”
Jeremy laughed and pumped a fist. Yeah! It worked! Starlyn laughed, too, and she was shaking her head at getting tricked. It was innocent, and kind of cute, really. He’d fooled her, this kid that otherwise wouldn’t have any chance with her at all. He knew it. She knew it. No harm was done. It was just a joke.
Then the expression on Starlyn’s face changed. Time to straighten up. The party was over. Her boyfriend was coming.
Jeremy saw him coming, too, and his grin faded as he began to back up. Then Anson Byrd
—or his broad back, really—entered the frame, and he was moving quickly toward Jeremy.
“Oh, shit,” Harvey said, giggling. “Dude’s toast.”
But before Anson Byrd reached him, Jeremy vaulted himself backward over the railing, and just as he did that, a flash went off. That was one of Jayci’s friends, snapping the photo of Jayci and Cady—the photo that showed Jeremy in the background, going over the railing.
Starlyn showed concern right off the bat, attempting to slow the boat down, but she fumbled around, forgetting what she was doing. An inexperienced captain. She said something to Anson, either chastising him or asking for help. He gave a dismissive wave— Don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine. Then he stepped over to gently ease her aside and take control of the boat. She said something to him—something sharp, judging by the cloud of anger on her face—but he shook his head.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” Harvey said to himself, not sounding particularly concerned about what he’d seen.
Then Anson looked around to see if anyone else had seen Jeremy jump—and his glare came to rest on Harvey. So Anson knew that it had been recorded. Harvey lowered his phone and the video ended abruptly. No way of knowing how strenuously Starlyn had continued to object after that. Maybe a lot. Maybe not at all.
Across the desk from me, Moss had a face of stone. But now he did the same thing I’d done—he watched the video several more times. There was no changing the outcome. They’d simply left Jeremy behind, and he’d drowned as a result.
Anson, Starlyn, and Harvey were apparently the only people who’d seen what had happened. The boat was moving and the sun had set, so anyone with any sense would’ve known that Jeremy was in danger. I guess Harvey had an excuse, being as drunk as he was. But Starlyn and Anson? Not only had they seen Jeremy go overboard, they’d made a conscious choice to leave him in the water.
Moss finished watching, and then he placed my phone flat on the desk and slid it toward me. My guess was that he had been thinking about this scenario—being confronted by the video, or even just an eyewitness—and he’d prepared accordingly. He had an excuse all teed up and ready to go.
