COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13)

by Michael Lister

  “Gulf County Sheriff’s Department doesn’t inspire confidence,” Toby says. “That’s for sure.”

  “Well, it was very different back then,” Merrick says. “It’s a new department. New sheriff. New lead detective.”

  “That’s right,” Toby says, “you have a connection to the sheriff. I forgot. Sorry.”

  “I’m just saying I bet they reopen the case, and if they do I’m betting they’ll have different results.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Toby says. “Okay, backtracking further back, we know Randa stopped in Destin to get food and go to the bathroom. This is based on receipts and witness accounts. As far as I understand there is no surveillance footage. Before that, before leaving Pensacola, we know she went to an ATM not far from the UWF campus and took all but two dollars out of her checking account—a sum of about four hundred and twenty dollars. And I understand there is surveillance footage of that.”

  “What time of day did she leave?” Daniel asks.

  “That’s interesting,” Toby says. “She packed her car and left campus pretty early that morning according to witnesses in her dorm. And her ATM withdrawal was early too—before eight. And the receipt from the restaurant in Destin is around eleven. So if she wrecked her car at almost ten that night . . . that means it took her—”

  “Eight extra hours,” Nancy says. “Where was she? What happened in all that time?”

  “My guess is we’ll never know,” Toby says.

  22

  “Exactly,” Toby says. “Did she break down somewhere else? Meet someone? Take a detour? What?”

  “That’s a lot of missing time,” Merrick says.

  “Here’s another thing,” Toby says. “She volunteered at a suicide hotline in Pensacola, but she had the night off because she was supposed to be traveling to participate in a protest in Atlanta that day. But . . . at some point during the day she disappeared, she called the supervisor and told her she’d be able to work after all because she wasn’t going to the protest. But then she never showed up.”

  “That’s so . . . strange,” Daniel says.

  “So we know she intended to be back for work that night,” Nancy says.

  “Unless that was a ruse of some sort,” Toby says. “Some people believe she did several things like that because she didn’t want people to know what she was really doing, didn’t want to be found after she did it.”

  “Do we know why she backed out of the protest?” Nancy asks.

  “She told the organizer that she had a family emergency to attend to,” Toby says.

  “And we know for sure she has no family near where she wrecked or farther in that direction?” Daniel asks.

  “Never been able to find any. And a lot of people have looked. If she would’ve continued on the direction she was headed, she would have gone through Port St. Joe, Apalach, Eastpoint, Carabelle, and ultimately Tallahassee, passing the roads to Cape San Blas and St. George Island along the way.”

  “And all those places have been thoroughly checked?” Merrick asks.

  “I believe so,” Toby says, “but can’t be certain. I know both of her parents and other family members who’ve been interviewed said she had no family in any of those places and they didn’t know of any friends or acquaintances.”

  “Where the hell was she headed?” Nancy says.

  “That is the question,” Daniel says.

  “One we don’t have an answer to,” Toby says. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Now, Toby, you’ve said you believe Randa died by either accident or foul play, that she was most likely murdered. But there are facts that paint a different picture, evidence that could cause reasonable people to draw other conclusions, right?”

  “Absolutely. We know Randa was a special person and that she always appeared to have everything together, but that she struggled with some depression. I think that’s why she was drawn to the helpline. So I’m not saying it’s impossible that she was on her way to hurt herself in some way—though why she was out there and where she was headed I can’t imagine, if that be the case. Why not just do it in Pensacola or at least somewhere closer or some place that had significance to her?”

  “For those who believe she wished herself harm,” Daniel says, “what is the evidence? What do they point to?”

  “Her history of depression, anxiety, and other issues,” Toby says. “Most of which was never seen by even those close to her. Really took some digging to uncover. Her erratic behavior in the days leading up to her disappearance. The fact that she was out in this place so far from where she was supposed to be and no explanation can be found. And, most convincing of all, the fact that she had a piece of garden hose and a roll of duct tape in her backseat, and the hose was just the right length to reach from her tailpipe to just inside her window.”

  “That’s all pretty compelling,” Daniel says. “Am I wrong to say that, Nancy?”

  “Not at all,” she says. “We just have to remember that there may be other reasonable explanations for every single one of those things. It’s very difficult to know what another person is thinking and it’s very easy to reach the wrong conclusions when looking at things the wrong way from the outside.”

  “No question,” he says. “We have to keep an open mind about everything and try to look at all of it from every imaginable side.”

  “True,” Merrick says. “Now . . . Toby . . . something happened on campus, actually in Randa’s dorm the day before she disappeared . . . that you and a lot of other people believe had a huge impact on her leaving and acting the way she did—and explains what she may have been doing out in the middle of nowhere all alone. Can you tell us what that was?”

  “A young woman named Chelsea Sylvester overdosed in Randa’s dorm. It’s not conclusive whether it was intentional or accidental, but she was a friend—or at least an acquaintance of Randa, and there was talk among the young women who lived in the dorm that Randa had something to do with it—either supplied her with the drugs, was there when she took them and/or took them with her, or even had some sort of suicide pact with her and this was how she followed through.”

  This is the first I’m hearing of this. There is nothing about it in the file, and I haven’t heard anyone mention it.

  I pause the podcast and call Reggie.

  “Did you read the entire Randa Raffield file?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Was there anything in it about a connection she may have had to a young woman who died in her dorm, Chelsea Sylvester?”

  “No, nothing. Never heard of her—let alone a connection to Randa. Where’d you hear—”

  I tell her about the podcast.

  “I guess I need to start listening to the damn thing,” she says. “I’ll ask Merrick about it and call you back.”

  “Have you watched all the surveillance footage?”

  “Yeah. Quality is low. Why?”

  “Were you looking to see if someone was following her?”

  “Sort of. I’m tellin’ you . . . it’s hard to see much of anything on the recordings.”

  “I’ll watch them tonight.”

  “How’d you make out with the professor?” she asks.

  I tell her. “Do you know if his alibi was ever verified?”

  “No idea, but even if it was, we need to check it again.”

  “Probably gonna need some help chasing some of this down,” I say.

  “Sure. Whatever you need. Hell, I can do some of it myself.”

  23

  When Anna and I arrive at Sam and Daniel’s new place in Barefoot Cottages with bags of groceries, we find Sam undergoing physical therapy and learn that Daniel, Merrick, and Nancy are upstairs in their new home studio recording another episode of In Search of Randa Raffield.

  We tell the day nurse she can go ahead and leave, that we’ll keep an eye on Sam until Daniel comes down.

  When she is gone, I unpack the bags and put things away while Anna begins to make dinner.

  The
kitchen, dining nook, and living room all occupy one large open area. Sam’s therapy is taking place on a massage table in the living room, so we are able to observe the work the therapist is doing with her while we make dinner.

  The cottage is relatively small, with everything close together. A door off the living room leads to the master bed and bath, while on the opposite side a half bath beneath the stairs is also the laundry room.

  The beachy decor gives it the feel of a vacation rental instead of a permanent home.

  Sam’s therapist, a short, trim, dark-haired, hairy man, is patient and kind but firm, and seems to be pushing her just the right amount.

  I’m amazed at the progress she’s making. And I’m not the only one.

  “Sam, you’re doing amazing,” Anna says. “Your strength and determination are an inspiration.”

  Sam attempts to say something but what comes out is unintelligible.

  She’s a small woman—both short and petite—even smaller since her injury, with just shorter than shoulder-length blond hair, large blue eyes, and pale white skin. She’s an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and was injured while we were working a case together.

  The prognosis her doctors have given her for a complete recovery from the gunshot wound to the head she suffered isn’t good, but her doctors don’t know her the way we do. My money is on a full recovery—or at least enough of a recovery that she and I will work another case together one day.

  When her therapy is over and she is exhausted, her therapist and I help her back into her bedroom and the hospital bed awaiting her there. Next to it is the single bed Daniel sleeps on—what little sleeping he does between checking on and caring for her.

  When we have her situated, she looks up at me, gives me a partial smile, then shoots me with a thumb and forefinger gun.

  I shoot her back with one of my own and our eyes lock for a long moment.

  “Better save your bullets for the bad guys,” I say. “We’re gonna have some catching up to do once you’re back in the saddle.”

  She nods intently and narrows her eyes.

  By the time her therapist and I prepare to leave the room, she is fast asleep.

  I leave the door open—not only so we can keep an eye on her but so she can be a part of what’s going on out here.

  The therapist leaves and I help Anna finish dinner. A short while later, Daniel, Merrick, and Nancy bound down the stairs excited about the show they’ve just recorded.

  “I think that was our best yet,” Merrick says.

  It’s obvious from his energy and bearing that he is the leader, the driving force behind the show.

  “Me too,” Nancy says.

  “When do we get to hear it?” Anna asks.

  “From the smell of that dinner you’re cooking, anytime you want,” Daniel says as he steps over and looks in on Sam.

  Daniel and Merrick are around the same age—early forties—but Daniel is darker, quieter, more reserved.

  “John, Anna, this is Nancy,” Merrick says.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says.

  Though she is taller and a little larger and about ten years younger, it’s amazing how much Nancy resembles Sam. Similar blond hair and blue eyes.

  “I feel like we already have,” Anna says. “Love listening to you. Love what you bring to the show.”

  “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  “Can you stay for dinner?” Daniel asks Nancy.

  “You have to,” Anna says.

  “I’d love to but I need to get home to my husband. I’ve already stayed longer than I intended to.”

  “It’s ready,” Anna says. “What if we eat quickly?”

  Nancy smiles. “That’s so . . . sweet of you. Let me call the nurse and see how he’s doing and how long she’s willing to stay.”

  It occurs to me how similar a situation Nancy and Daniel are in, and I can certainly see how helpful it is for them to have the podcast as an outlet.

  Nancy lives in East Point, on the other side of Apalachicola, about a forty-five-minute drive away, so even if we eat super quick it’ll still be well over an hour before she’s able to get back.

  “What about Reggie?” Anna asks Merrick. “Can she join us?”

  He shakes his head. “Afraid I’ve got to go too. We have a friend’s birthday party tonight.” He looks at me. “But I was hoping to talk to you about the case. Can we get together tomorrow or sometime soon?”

  I nod. “Just give me a call and we’ll figure out a time.”

  “Will do,” he says. “Great show guys. See you both soon. Talk to you sooner. Anna, it’s breaking my heart to leave such a good-smelling meal.”

  He leaves and we begin to set the table.

  In another few moments, Nancy returns. “He’s doing okay. She’s willing to stay, but . . . I can’t leave him much longer and I don’t want you guys to rush for me.”

  “Sit,” Anna says. “Eat with us. John’s never eaten slowly in his life. You won’t be rushing us at all.”

  24

  The four of us sit, serve our plates, and begin to eat.

  Anna has made her famous spaghetti and meatballs, soft garlic-butter French bread, and salad. They all have red wine. I have water.

  “You did it again,” I say. “It’s delicious.”

  She smiles at me and pats my hand.

  “I made extra,” she says to Daniel. “I’ll make plates you can warm up this week.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome to take some too,” she says to Nancy.

  “I’d love to. It’s so good. Thanks.”

  “I love the name of your podcast,” Anna says. “Appreciate that you used woman instead of girl. Is Nancy Drury your real name?”

  “Yeah, well, Nancy’s my middle name, but yeah. Before the podcast I always went by Beth, but as many people call me Nancy as Beth these days.”

  “Sorry to say I haven’t listened to your show yet,” Anna says. “Trying to finish In Search of Randa Raffield, but as soon as I do . . .”

  “Daniel and Merrick’s show is much better than mine. I’m all over the place. Lots of different cases. Tend to ramble.”

  “It’s a great show,” Daniel says. “She doesn’t ramble, doesn’t . . . It’s great. No other podcast comes close to being the victim advocate you are.”

  “Stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Okay, but it’s true.”

  Daniel and Nancy are easy to talk to, and we have a nice, relaxed conversation that flows well. We each keep an eye on Sam, though no one more than Daniel, who actually goes in to check on her occasionally.

  “So tell me about Chelsea Sylvester,” I say. “I heard you guys talk about her on the show I listened to today. I’d never even heard of her.”

  “It’s very sad,” Nancy says.

  “It’s legit,” Daniel says. “Suspicious death. Friend of Randa. Lived on the same floor. There’s some question as to whether it was intentional or accidental, but . . . I say either way it would’ve had a big impact on Randa. She could’ve felt responsible, but even if she didn’t . . . she would’ve been upset, shaken. It’s probably why she cancelled everything, jumped in her car, and drove . . . toward her fate.”

  “Maybe she didn’t just feel guilty,” Nancy says. “Maybe she was. Maybe she killed her and then couldn’t . . . kill herself. Maybe she didn’t actually kill her . . . Maybe she provided the drugs. Maybe she knew they were bad.”

  “There’s talk that they had a falling out,” Daniel says. “There’s a lot we didn’t share on the show. More than one of their friends said Randa slept with Chelsea and that Chelsea broke up with her girlfriend, Brenda Young, in hopes of being with Randa.”

  “I think it has something to do with what ultimately happened to Randa,” Nancy says. “Even if it was just what got her out here on the road that night, but . . . I really think it’s more than that.”

  “Can’t believe the original invest
igation didn’t consider any of this,” I say.

  “The original investigation was lacking to say the least,” Daniel says. “Some people online have posted how they think there’s a conspiracy or cover-up or that the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department is involved somehow, but . . . I just believe it was incompetence or more likely laziness.”

  “Another possibility is that Brenda killed Chelsea and Randa was running from her,” Nancy says. “Pure speculation, but . . . we’re not on the air. I think it’s possible Brenda was stalking her—and could have even been following her that night and . . .”

  Daniel’s phone vibrates and he picks it up from where it sits facedown by his plate and looks at it.

  He then gasps as his eyes widen and all the color drains from his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He shakes his head as if trying to jar something loose. He then shakes his phone. “Come back,” he says to it.

  “What is it?” Nancy asks.

  “The In Search of Randa Raffield Snapchat,” he says. “Just got a snap or a chat from Randa Raffield.”

  “What?” she says.

  “That’s the name that came up on the screen. It was an old picture. Only lasted a second. But it was her. She was . . . it looked like she was about to be murdered. She was tied up to a table. A man with a knife was hunched over her. Can I get it back? How do I get it to come back?”

  “You can’t,” Nancy says. “Unless . . . see if it’ll let you replay it.”

  “It won’t.”

  “If he sends it again, screenshot it.”

  “How?”

  “Push the power and home buttons at the same time, but it’s got to be quick. You only have a second.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Snapchat,” Nancy says. “It’s an app for mobile devices that lets you send pictures or videos that self-destruct after between one and ten seconds—depending on how you set it.”

  “So the picture was there for one second and now it’s gone and we can’t get it back?” I say.

  “Right.”