“The way into Mama Monroe’s heart?” I say.
“No. How are you all the way you are? Serious question. I’ve never seen a place with such racism, sexism, and bigotry. And then there’s you all.”
“That’s ’cause this your first visit to the Deep South,” Merrill says.
“I’m from Miami,” she says. “Harder to get more south than that.”
“Deep South,” Merrill says. “Confederate-forget-like-Hell-South’s-gonna-rise-again Deep South. Not South Beach.”
“Question stands. How can y’all be the way you are?”
“I owe it to Anna and Merrill,” I say.
“I owe it to John,” Anna says.
“Me too,” Merrill says.
“Y’all are being flippant about something I’m really tryin’ to understand.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” Anna says.
“I ain’t,” Merrill says, and takes a long pull on his bottle of Bud.
“You deserve a real answer,” I say. “And I think Merrill should be the one to give it to you. But before he does, I should say that there’s bigotry everywhere. I doubt there’s more here than anywhere else. And like everywhere else there are some truly great people here. Probably more than most places.”
“All true,” Anna says. “And I agree. Merrill should have to answer. He’s your date, after all.”
Za looks at Merrill.
He sets his bottle on the small, round, high table and clears his throat.
“I’ll do that thing you really like tonight if you give me a serious answer,” she says to him.
“Forget the question,” I say. “Let’s talk about that.”
“Yeah,” Anna says, “what thing does he really like?”
“The question is,” Merrill begins, serious now, “how does one grow up in a culture without adopting the biases, suppositions, conventions, assumptions, and general bigotry of that culture? And, of course, there’s not just one answer. In my case, I’m part of the minority, so that gives me a certain sensitivity to the plight of the marginalized.”
“And yet many minorities have bigoted attitudes toward other minority or marginalized groups,” I say. “And I’d say you were born with the sensitivity.”
He nods. “Some of us are more aware than others. See things. Read things. And you meet certain likeminded others who help. My relationship with John did that. In fact, as John was just saying, even as a member of the marginalized minority, I lacked compassion for another marginalized minority, namely the gays, and John helped me with that.”
“Having a gay friend will do that,” Anna says.
I smile.
“But it’s so true,” Za says. “I’m continually amazed at how many people who are the victims of bigotry are bigots to other groups themselves.”
“Humans are tribal,” Anna says. “Even those—sometimes especially those whose tribe has been shunned, abused, unfairly targeted.”
“So true,” Za says. “How about you?”
“I’m a woman,” Anna says. “I’ve got a gay brother. John has been a big influence. I don’t know . . .”
Za nods. “I can see why Merrill and Anna are the way they are. I mean, not all the reasons, but hints at some of the reasons, but you—” she says, looking at me “—how did you—”
“I’ll take that one too,” Merrill says, “but if I do, I better get that thing I like at least two times.”
Za smiles.
“John is an enigma. A lot of the things you’re asking about are just innate, just part of his moral DNA. And because of those he gravitated toward teachers who taught a message of equality and compassion, the common-cup and open-table fellowship where everyone is welcomed. Teachers like Jesus and the Buddha, Rumi and MLK.”
“Merrill could’ve been a professor if he wanted to,” Anna says.
“Got one more thing to say,” he says, “and then I’d really like to be done with this topic for tonight.”
Za nods.
“Imagine having a heightened sensitivity to others, particularly the marginalized and the outcasts, the modern equivalent of lepers. If you have that kind of compassion and desire for justice for them, especially in a rural area where you won’t encounter many others like yourself, don’t you think that would make you feel like an outsider yourself? Don’t you think someone like that wouldn’t feel like they fit in here or much of anywhere—and wouldn’t that add to and intensify the identification with and the compassion for those marginalized others?”
Anna takes my hand.
We are all quiet a moment, Za seeming to consider what Merrill has said.
“Now, shoot your damn darts so we can go back to your place and make good on your promise.”
“Fuck darts,” she says. “I’ve never been so turned on in my entire life. Let’s go home now, you thug poet professor, you.”
“Bye,” Merrill says to us, a big smile spreading across his face.
As we embrace and they prepare to leave, Za says, “You all are very lucky to have each other.”
“Yes, we are,” I say.
They’ve only taken a few steps when Zaire turns back and says, “You all aren’t leaving too?”
“Not quite yet,” I say.
“We have to see a man about a horse,” Anna says. “Well, a car.”
When they are gone, Anna calls the bartender down to this end of the bar and distracts her while I move in to talk to Ty—just like we planned.
Ty McCann was the first deputy to arrive at the scene of Randa’s abandoned car.
I ask him about it.
“It’s so easy to look back on something in hindsight and criticize it,” he says.
I nod.
His old face is pocked and pitted, and as he’s aged, his nose and ears have grown, giving an exaggerated look to his face and its features.
“All these damn armchair detectives and their goddamn theories. Some of ’em suspect me. Actually accuse me of taking her and killing her.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, say I got there before the tow-truck guy who left his card. Claim I had already taken her.”
I shake my head.
“It’s not an easy job, but . . . I was good at it, gave it my best every night. Did I make mistakes? Of course. But not many. And no big ones. No moral or ethical ones. And to be the subject of baseless theory bullshit . . . I was just a few days from retirement when all this happened. It’s the last thing I ever worked. How I went out.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Would you mind taking me through that night?”
He takes another sip of his beer. “Nah, I don’t mind.”
The jukebox is still moving through the music Anna and Zaire selected earlier—REM’s “Losing My Religion” is on now—and at the other end of the bar, Anna is listening to the bartender intently.
“I was at the sheriff’s station when the call came in. From the time the call came to the time I pulled up in front of her car was less than seven minutes. No one was there. Not in the car. Not outside the car. Not on the street. Not in the woods right around the area. I looked everywhere.”
I nod.
He’s looking off into the distance now and I can tell he’s back at the scene from that night.
“What about Windmark?” I ask. “Did you check in there?”
He shakes his head. “It was a little ways down 98 and all dark back in there. Wasn’t much there at the time and . . . but I should have. I searched all around it, but . . . in hindsight should have gone all through it. That’s on me. Just didn’t know what I was dealing with.”
The bartender grabs her cigarettes and lighter and heads out the back door. Anna joins us.
I introduce them and he continues.
“There was really no sign of an accident, not that I could see at first. Car looked fine. No signs of foul play. Just looked like a parked car. When something first happens, you can’t tell what it’ll become. Just n
o way to predict what it’ll turn into.” Anna nods and gives him an understanding look. “At the time I figured the driver had been drinking and didn’t want to get a DUI. Figured she was hiding in the woods. Drunk drivers do that a lot. Leave their car. Come back to it later.”
“That does happen a lot,” I say.
“How was I supposed to know this was gonna turn into some big missing persons case that goes on forever? Don’t know what I would’ve done different if I had known. I treated it like what it looked like. I treated it like what it would’ve been ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Anyway . . .”
“Did you see or hear anything, reach any conclusions—then or later—that are not in your report?”
He shakes his head. “It’s all in there. ’Cause there wasn’t much to it. The scene I mean. And I’m not gonna offer any more stupid useless fuckin’ theories, but I’ll tell you this—everybody says she was abducted, right? That some killer came along and took her. But if that’s the case, why was her car locked?”
“You’re sure her car was locked?” I ask.
“Positive. That’s why I thought she was just hiding somewhere.”
7
“I’m so happy for Merrill,” Anna says. “I really like Zaire.”
“You’re okay with him not ending up with Zadie Smith?”
She laughs. “I had forgotten that. Yeah, Zadie would’ve been nice, but Zaire is great.”
We are driving home from Tucks in her Mustang beneath a huge harvest moon. I’m driving and she’s leaning on the center console toward me. Her breath smells of fruit. It’s the aroma it gets when she drinks wine, the aroma I associate with amorousness and affection.
“I really enjoyed helping you tonight,” she says. “Reminded me of the old days.”
“It did,” I say, nodding. “I’ve missed that. Didn’t even realize how much.”
“Maybe I could help you some more with this one,” she says.
“Sure. I would love that.”
“I love our lives—our life, guess it’s one shared life now—and I’m so grateful for the time I get with Taylor, but . . . I’m gettin’ a little . . . restless . . . and it’d help to have something to do other than diapers and dishes.”
“It would help me,” I say.
“I started listening to the podcast already,” she says. “It’s sort of addicting. Anyway, I think I’m caught up to where you are. I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to turn it on now.”
I smile and turn on the podcast.
“So,” Merrick is saying, “the initial investigation was fraught with . . . well . . . fuckups. The first deputy on the scene . . . didn’t do much.”
“We should say his name is Ty McCann,” Daniel says. “He thought someone had just left their car on the side of the road. Either that it was broken down or the driver was drunk and left the scene to avoid getting a DUI.”
“These were reasonable assumptions,” Merrick says.
“Yeah, it’s easy to look back now and point out all he did wrong, but . . .”
“I want to address something right here before we go on,” Merrick says. “There are theories floating out there that say Deputy McCann took Randa, but there’s not a single piece of evidence that suggests anything like that. And this is the point I want to make—a theory with not a single shred of evidence, with nothing behind it to even suggest it could at least be a possibility, is useless, juvenile, and silly.”
“It’s like saying Bigfoot took her or that she spontaneously combusted—both of which are actual theories with apologists online. The point is you can say anything but we’re not going to give any credence to the outlandish and fanciful if they have no evidence undergirding them.”
“Now,” Merrick adds, “we’re going to look at every possibility—even the farfetched—but if there’s nothing to suggest that they could possibly be true, we won’t be covering them on our show. We’re not going to waste your or our time. If there’s evidence that Deputy McCann had anything to do with Randa’s disappearance then we’ll look at it, but we’re not going to accuse him or speculate about him just because he was the first officer on the scene.”
“So back to the initial investigation,” Daniel says. “Deputy McCann thought it was just a parked car. He did a search around the area. Saw no sign of the driver or anyone else. No sign of foul play.”
“So he has the car towed . . . and that’s really about it. Until two days later when her family reports her missing and everybody begins to question why she was three-hundred miles from where she was supposed to be.”
“What we’re saying is the investigation started two days late,” Daniel says. “Once it started, it seems like it was thorough and sound, but . . . losing two entire days . . .”
“Hard to overcome that kind of deficit,” Merrick says. “The cops went back to the area. Turned it into a crime scene. There was a massive search for Randa—in the woods, along the highway, in Panther Swamp, in the bay, on Cape San Blas. Dogs were brought in. At first search dogs. Then later cadaver dogs. And not only was there a massive search then, Randa’s family—and we’ll be getting into Randa’s fascinating family in a later show—has continued to search for her.”
“And there’s never been a single piece of evidence,” Daniel says. “Not a trace, not a sign—nothing, not then and not since—that shows she was ever there.”
“She literally vanished off the face of the earth,” Merrick says. “If she wound up in the bay, her body would’ve washed up at some point. If she died in the swamp, there’s a good chance the searchers would have found her. So . . . given that, you might say, well, someone took her, but how in less than seven minutes and maybe as few as five did a killer happen to be passing by just at the right moment? Can you imagine the odds, the timing, of that happening? It’s astronomical. And don’t forget she had just refused help from Roger Lamott. Can’t see her getting in the car with someone else. At least not willingly.”
“But,” Daniel says, “there is some evidence that may indicate that’s exactly what happened. Well, not the willingly part.”
“You’re talking about the search dogs, right?” Merrick says.
“Uh huh. Search dogs picked up her scent near where her car was and followed it down the side of the highway about fifty yards or so and then . . .”
“Lost the scent.”
“Right. It didn’t go into the woods on either side. Didn’t double back or keep going. It just stopped.”
“Like she got into a car.”
“Like she got into a car,” Daniel repeats.
“And maybe she did,” Merrick says, “but . . . after two days . . . with a good hard rain and all those people stomping around the crime scene . . . it’s possible the dog just lost the scent—or that it was gone.”
I stop the podcast and turn off the car.
Anna shakes her head and says, “What do you think happened to her?”
I shrug. “Don’t have nearly enough yet to even hazard a guess.”
“Well, you’re the only one. You should read the shit online.”
“No I shouldn’t and neither should you.”
She smiles. “Can’t help myself. Speaking of . . . Can we listen to some more while we fall asleep?”
8
After paying the babysitter, I called Johanna while Anna put Taylor to bed. Now, after making love, we are in our bed about to listen to more of the podcast.
“Be honest,” I say. “Did it cross your mind to ask if we could listen to it while we were making love?”
She smiles her plead-the-fifth smile and changes the subject. “How was Johanna?”
“Good. Sleepy. Excited to be coming this weekend.”
“Can’t wait ’til she’s here. Wish we had her all the time.”
“I know you do, and I appreciate that more than you know. Thank you for how good you are with her.”
“She’s our girl. Just like Taylor. Thank you for how good you are with her.”
“
I love our family.”
“I do too,” she says. “Can you imagine being Randa Raffield’s parents?”
I shake my head and actually shudder a little bit, shaking the bed. “I feel so . . . I don’t have a word for what I feel for them.”
“Wonder if they appreciate all the attention Randa and her case are getting or if they feel exploited?”
“They’ve not said anything publicly, but I plan to ask them when I talk to them.”
“That’s right,” she says. “You’re official. Unlike all the amateur sleuths working this thing, you can talk to them. Guess I’m not quite used to you being official yet. Wonder how Merrick and Daniel will really feel if you solve it? I know they say they just want it solved, but I wonder if they really want to be the ones who solve it.”
“Bet it’s both. I’m sure they’ll be very happy for the case to be cleared no matter who does it—especially Merrick if it’s Reggie’s department that does it—but I’m sure they’d love to be the ones to solve it. Any sleuth, armchair or otherwise, would want to.”
“Who do you think wants to be the one who solves it more, them or you?”
“It’s not even close. Me.”
“Well, let’s listen so you can,” she says.
I turn on the podcast.
“Before we start today’s show, we need to say a few things,” Merrick says.
“Yes we do,” Daniel says. “We are united on this and we have a very strong resolve.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Merrick says. “We won’t be intimidated or threatened or bullied off this case.”
“No we won’t,” Daniel adds.
“And we’re not talking to our critics or even the trolls out there in the anonymity of the internet.”
“We can handle criticism. We can handle you disagreeing with us—what we’re doing, how we’re doing it. Even when you do it disagreeably.”
“Right. We’re not talking to our critics and detractors. We’re talking to those actually threatening us, those of you who wish harm upon us and our families.”
“We’ve received threatening phone calls, emails, letters, messages, and now even videos that show our loved ones—as if they’re being stalked, telling us to back off or we’ll know what it’s like to lose a loved one too.”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 4
