I pull up and park on the side of the highway just down from the entrance to Windmark in the exact spot where Randa’s abandoned car had been found.
“The truck driver’s name is Roger Lamott,” Merrick says.
“Yes. According to Lamott, Randa was fine and didn’t want his help. Didn’t want him calling the police. Didn’t want him calling a tow truck. Didn’t want him giving her a ride or waiting with her. We don’t know if she had been drinking, but there’s some evidence to indicate she might have been. For . . . as an example . . . say she had been drinking. She wouldn’t want the police involved. Anyway, she tells Roger Lamott she has already called for a tow truck.”
“Which she hasn’t, and has no need of one,” Merrick says.
“Right. There is no record that she called for any kind of assistance, and her car was drivable. In his statement Lamott says he could see how a big bearded trucker could be scary to a young woman on a dark highway so he agrees to leave, but as he pulls away slowly, he watches her in his mirrors, and quickly calls the police and lets them know what has happened.”
“He says he was worried about her, and even though he said he wouldn’t report the accident he did so anyway—for her safety.”
“Now, from the time Lamott left Randa and called the police until the time they arrived was less than seven minutes,” Daniel says.
“And it’s important to note,” Merrick adds, “that we don’t just have Lamott’s word for this, because the entire time from the accident when Randa got off the phone with her mom until a Gulf County sheriff’s deputy arrived was only ten minutes.”
“So we have two witnesses that help establish the timeline,” Daniel says. “Three counting the deputy. To recap, from the time the dispatcher was called until the deputy arrived at Randa’s car was less than seven minutes.”
“Whatever happened to Randa Raffield happened in those seven minutes,” Merrick says. “Because when the deputy arrived, she was gone and there was no trace of her. And there never has been again.”
“Well,” Daniel says, “there have been reported sightings over the years.”
“True.”
“The question is are any of them legit. We have no confirmed sightings of Randa. And we haven’t even really started tracking down those who say they’ve seen her.”
“Like the guy who swears she’s a Vegas showgirl now,” Merrick says. “Or the woman who said she saw Randa performing in a circus in Ohio. Or the Russian TV producer who says she’s living in Russia and that he’s got footage of her that he’s soon going to reveal to the world.”
“Yeah, like those. Of course, there are more credible reports than those, but none have been verified or more importantly . . . produced Randa Raffield.”
“One final thing we should say in this recap is that the deputy found the business card of a tow-truck operator slipped into the driver’s side window. The man, a . . . Donald Wynn . . . says in his statement to the police that he wasn’t called by anyone, that he happened to be passing by, saw the car, stopped, didn’t see anyone, then left his card in case the driver came back and needed help.”
Turning on my flashers and turning off the car, I climb out and look around.
It’s like so many rural North Florida roads—lined by pine trees and sand scrub undergrowth and not much else.
The area is empty, desolate—and would have been far more so back in 2005 at night.
I lift the phone to my ear to better hear the podcast as I walk around.
“Now, this part of Highway 98 was actually moved so that the St. Joe Company could have more land to develop,” Merrick is saying.
“Really?” Daniel says. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. When the St. Joe Company got out of the timber and paper industries, sold the mill and began to develop their coastal land, they asked and the obliging Gulf County Commissioners agreed to actually relocate the main highway to give them more private beach and bayfront property to develop. That’s another issue in and of itself. The point I’m making right now is that there are pine woods on both sides of the road where Randa wrecked her car. Several places on 98 you can see the Gulf of Mexico on one side of the road, but here it’s sand pine scrub on both sides.”
“So it’s like breaking down in the middle of the woods?” Daniel says.
“It’s a lot like that, actually,” Merrick says. “There are no houses, no buildings, no nothing. There is highway and there are pine woods. We’re talking about one of the least developed parts of 98. The entire region is not very populated, but there’s nobody along this part. We’re talking between Mexico Beach and Port St. Joe. Behind the pines on one side is the Windmark Beach development, which was just really getting started back then, and beyond it the bay. And behind the pines on the other side is just more pines, more woods, and what locals call Panther Swamp. It goes on and on for miles and miles.”
I look at what they’re describing. If you don’t know what’s behind each one, and I doubt Randa did, you’d think you’re deep in the middle of a dense pine forest.
Port St. Joe has long been a company town.
While South Florida was undergoing a land boom, the St. Joe Company, a company founded in 1936 as part of the Alfred I. du Pont trust and operated by his brother-in-law Edward Ball, purchased property in North Florida on the cheap. After the acquisition of a railroad and the construction of a paper mill, the newly formed company ushered in a new era in the Panhandle.
Smoke from the company’s paper mill rose in the blue sky over St. Joseph Bay and the small town beneath it for most of a century, releasing sulfurous exhaust and other deadly toxins, and drawing some tens of millions of gallons of water a day from the Floridan aquifer, seriously depleting the water table.
Then, as the paper market began to soften, the St. Joe Company sold its mill and became a land developer, turning to planned communities like the one here at Windmark Beach.
Traffic is light, a few vehicles breezing by intermittently.
I cross the road to examine the guardrail on the other side. The spot where Randa hit it is still bent and bears a hint of the green paint of her car.
As I start to cross back over, the sheriff pulls up in her black SUV with her light bar on.
3
“I see Merrick talked to you,” she says, climbing down out of her vehicle and closing the door.
I nod. “Took me to lunch and made a compelling pitch.”
Reggie Summers, the governor-appointed sheriff of Gulf County, is a muscular mid-forties woman with a widish frame, a darkish complexion, long, straight dirty-blond hair, and striking gray-green eyes. As usual, she’s in jeans, boots, and a button-down shirt. No makeup or jewelry and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
“Thought you were in PC with your mom?” I say as we step over and lean against my car.
“Doctor got called into emergency surgery so they had to reschedule her appointment. I was headed back to the office when I saw your car.”
We are quiet a moment as she looks around.
“So beautiful here,” she says.
“Certainly is.”
“So you found my Merrick compelling, huh?”
I smile. “It’s an interesting case. I was just listening to their podcast when you pulled up.”
She shakes her head, frowns, then slowly half smiles. “Used to think the only thing worse than a family member of a victim trying to investigate was a damned armchair detective, but . . . they’re doing a really good job with it. It’s convinced me they can be beneficial.”
I nod. “Adnan Syed is getting a new trial thanks to Serial and Undisclosed.”
“It’s a new day,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s some bad shit and horrible misinformation out there. And there’s plenty of cranks and crazies gettin’ in the way of actual crime solving . . .”
“No doubt,” I say. “There’s far more bad than good online, far more that is useless and negative and worse than . . . anyth
ing else, but the handful of serious podcasts I’ve listened to are asking the right questions and maybe even finding new evidence and breathing new life back into cold cases.”
She nods. “I agree. Some of it seems beneficial. Just not sure over all if it’s going to do more harm than good.”
“Will probably do plenty of both.”
“Too true. What’d you tell Merrick about helping?”
“That I’d talk to you. Your department. Your call.”
“I feel like he’s putting you in a difficult position, and I told him. I want you to be honest with me and not do something you don’t want to do or not do something you want to do because he’s my . . . whatever he is. Will you be honest with me?”
“I will.”
“Do you want to investigate it?”
“I do. But only officially. Only as an open unsolved case for the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department. That’s why it’s your call.”
“But you want to?”
“Yes.”
“What are you working on right now?”
I had recently returned from vacation time I’d used to help my dad work an old case and didn’t have a whole lot going.
“The Larcy fraud case and two other cold cases—the one involving your predecessor and the Remington James case you gave me. But I’ve barely started reading them. Haven’t done any investigating so far.”
“Why do you want to work the Raffield one?” she asks.
“It’s gone unsolved too long. And I think Merrick and Daniel have uncovered details, facts, and maybe even evidence that wasn’t known before.”
“So you really want to work it?”
I nod. “I don’t feel any pressure from you to say what I think you want me to.”
“But if I say no, you won’t do it?”
“Right.”
“What if you really think you should and I still say no?”
I think about it. “I’d try to talk you into it. Failing that, I’d let it go or resign and work it on my own.”
She nods and studies me for a long moment.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m around men who really have major problems with women in authority all the time. Many of them in my own department. But you don’t.”
I nod. “I don’t.”
“It’s rare and refreshing. But it’s curious.”
“Curious?”
“Given what you’ve shared about your mom’s addiction and your relationship with her.”
“Ah. Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Why? How’d you . . .”
I shrugged. “Probably not just one thing.”
“Am I embarrassing you?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“I’m really, really interested. I mean, it’s one thing to respect women, but a corn-fed country bumpkin like me?”
I shake my head. “I hope your self-deprecation is just a shtick.”
It’s true that Reggie is a cowboy boot–wearing, Reba-loving, small-town country girl with a thick Southern drawl who occasionally uses improper grammar, but those things are endearing and charming, and could only obscure how strong and smart she is from those who lack perception or only have a fraction of her intelligence.
“So your ease and respect for women isn’t the result of just one thing. Okay, so name a few for me. Please.”
“Part of it is innate. How I arrived. Part of it’s my concept of the divine.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard you call God she and mother. Was going to ask you about that too one day.”
“It’s just the conception that the divine is no more male than female, but encompasses both masculinity and femininity. It’s a very simple concept. First the natural then the spiritual. Nature is the pattern.”
She nods and seems to think about it. “What else?”
“My relationship with my grandmothers, my sister Nancy, my friend Merrill’s mom, and Anna. Anna’s a huge part of it—and has been since childhood. And before she died—and even since—I’ve worked through some of the shit with my mom.”
“Thank you. Thanks for sharing that with me. And thanks for the way you respect me. A lot of people respect you, they watch you, they see how you treat me. It helps.”
“You’re welcome.”
“More men like you, and our next president would be female,” she says.
We are in the height of a contentious and heated presidential election campaign between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.
“She’s ahead in all the polls,” I say.
“No way she wins,” she says. “No way. And not just because of her failings as a candidate, the decades-long smear campaign she’s been subjected to, or the fact that she’s the establishment candidate in a change election year. It’s that she’s a woman. If there’s one thing we are more than racist, it’s sexist.”
If she’s right and the first female nominee of a major party running for president loses, it won’t just be because she’s a woman. There will be a million different factors, but she’s right that ingrained and internalized sexism will be one of them—a big one.
“I’d say you were right if she were running against anyone else. He’s . . . he’s already disqualified himself in dozens of different ways.”
“We’ll see. Okay, so, yes. Let’s reopen the Randa Raffield case and solve the thing this time. Can’t have a couple of amateurs solving our cases—even if one of them is my . . . whatever he is.”
4
After leaving the place where Randa disappeared, I drive down 98, turn on Overstreet, and head to Wewa and Gulf Correctional Institution, listening to another episode of In Search of Randa Raffield as I do.
“On this episode we’re going to talk about the various theories floating out there,” Daniel says. “But before we do that we have a short segment with a very special guest on the phone.”
“Yes, we do,” Merrick says. “We’re very excited to bring you Ashley Gaines. Ashley was a friend and classmate of Randa’s at the University of West Florida, and has some important reminders we need to hear.”
“She does,” Daniel says, “and while we’re on the subject of reminders, let me add that Merrick and I are not in law enforcement. Interestingly, we’re both with women who are. My wife’s an FDLE agent and his is a sheriff. But we’re not detectives—private or otherwise.”
“We’ve both done a fair amount of investigating,” Merrick says. “Me as a journalist and Daniel as a profiler and consultant in crimes with ritualistic or religious elements. But we’re not cops and we’re not doing this show as anything but interested and concerned citizens.”
“And we’re doing it to share important information and uncover new evidence if we can,” Daniel says. “To make sure no one forgets that Randa is still missing and her family and friends have no peace yet.”
“With that in mind, let’s welcome Ashley Gaines to the show,” Merrick says. “Welcome Ashley. Thanks for being with us today.”
“Thank you, Merrick, Daniel. I appreciate what you’re doing and I thought this was the place to share what I have to share. Other shows have asked me to be on—other blogs and documentaries and news shows have tried to interview me, but I’ve said no to everyone but you guys.”
“And why is that?” Merrick asks.
“Your sincerity, your respect for Randa. You’re not treating this like light entertainment like so many are.”
“And that’s part of what you wanted to share, isn’t it?” Daniel says.
“It is,” she says. “Randa was a real person. A beautiful person. And not just outwardly with that shiny auburn hair, perfect porcelain skin, and those magnificent green eyes, but inwardly too. She had a truly beautiful soul. What happened to her—whatever it was—is real and tragic and heartbreaking and devastating to those of us who knew and loved her. Randa was a good person. Liked. Respected. She was a loving daughter. A good friend. Good student and athlete. She was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and she had a very s
trong moral code. And some of the awful and bizarre things being said about her are just . . . un . . . conscionable. She deserves better than that. Her death is not cheap entertainment. It’s not a soap opera. It’s—”
“So you believe Randa is dead?” Merrick says.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” she says. “I think someone attacked her, took her, but she would have fought—she’s strong, she’s fierce. No way she’d be held captive. She would’ve fought him and . . . Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say . . . that Randa was a good and loyal friend, a really good person, and she needs to be treated as such.”
“Absolutely,” Daniel says. “She—”
Ashley disconnects the call.
“Ashley?” Merrick says. “I guess she’s gone. We had a few more questions, but . . . maybe we can do those at a later time.”
“I think today she just wanted to make her statement,” Daniel says. “Give everyone that important reminder. And it is important to remember that everyone we talk about on this show are real people. Randa is real. And while true crime and unsolved mysteries can have an element of entertainment in them, we’re not doing this for entertainment. We’re trying to find Randa. Find out what happened to her. Get her some justice and her family some peace. So . . . should we talk about the theories of what happened to her?”
“Theories of what happened to Randa,” Merrick says. “And there are lots and lots of them.”
“There are, but if you boil them all down to just the essentials,” Daniel says, “you only have a few possibilities. I mean in terms of broad categories.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“There are tons of theories on how and why and who, but if we set those aside for a moment and just look at the broad categories, this is what we have: Randa could have run away. That’s what she could have been doing anyway—so far from where she’s supposed to be, on her own—and when she wrecked her car, she kept going, just on foot.”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 2
