He’s an absolute computer genius, a hacker extraordinaire, which is how he makes his living, though I have no idea exactly what he does or how legal it is, but his real passion is performing. Before the Fiesta in downtown Panama City closed, he was the headliner of the drag show every weekend, his extravagant costumes, exquisite choreography, and impeccable impersonations receiving a standing ovation every single time.
He’s seated at my desk, doing things never before done to my computer. I’m hovering behind him, looking on with bewilderment and awe.
“Not gonna find any naked pictures of you and Anna on here, am I?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Pity.”
“Whatta you think?” I say. “Will you be able to track him?”
“Not sure yet—having just started and all . . . Jeez . . . I can tell you this—what he’s done requires a pretty high level of sophistication. Our boy’s no dummy.”
Dad and Verna are staying here tonight. Dad is out in the living room with both his holstered sidearm and a shotgun. Merrill is at Sam and Daniel’s similarly armed. Reggie has a deputy posted outside her house—and has Merrick and all their kids inside with them. Jake is set up in his truck outside Nancy and Jeff’s place. And Frank Morgan, a retired GBI agent who helped me work the Atlanta Child Murders, is keeping an eye on my ex-wife Susan and our daughter, Johanna, at their home in Atlanta tonight.
“How’s Doug?” I ask. “Thought you might bring him.”
“He had rehearsals in Panama City tonight. Probably just getting home about now.”
Doug, Chris’s husband, is a talented African-American stage actor who does carpentry and contract work to pay the bills.
“Did I tell you we’re doin’ a show together?”
“Othello, right? When is it?”
Doug and Chris are working on a modern retelling of Othello with Doug playing Othello and Chris playing Desdemona.
“We’re raising funds now and hope to be able to stage it in January.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, “I got approval for you to get paid for the work you do for me. Sorry it took as long as it did.”
“I’m doing it as a friend for you,” he says. “Not for the sheriff’s department or money.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. You’re still doing it for me. You’re just getting paid for it. And it’s about time.”
“I like helping you,” he says. “You’ve always been . . . so . . . good to me. Did you know back in high school you were the first person I came out to?”
“I guess I didn’t,” I say. “Not the first.”
“You were. You were the only one I could even imagine trying to tell. And you were so . . . sweet, so supportive, such a good friend.”
“Probably could’ve been better if I hadn’t been so obsessed with the Atlanta Child Murders,” I say.
He laughs.
“Chris, you don’t owe me anything for acting like a decent human being back in high school,” I say. “I hope you don’t think you do. We’re friends and I love you. Doug too. I’d do anything I could for you. You’ve always been the same way, but I never thought it was because you thought you owed me.”
“I don’t.”
“Good. So you’ll be paid for this and you’ll put it toward the production and Anna and I will be there in the front row.”
“Thank you, John.”
“So now that you’re making all this money, can you explain to me how someone can send a picture from a fake Snapchat account or an email message from a fake email account?”
He laughs. “There are sites online set up to help you send fake Snapchat messages. Or he could’ve just set up a fake account. Email is more difficult, but the real question is going to be whether we can trace the accounts.”
He continues to work as he talks, clicking and typing, opening various windows and searching through them.
“Two basic ways to send an email from a fake account that can’t be traced are to create a temporary email address from a site designed for that very thing. There are several. The problem is that they mostly wind up in the recipient’s spam filter because the address is from an unknown, uncommon, or unusual domain. Like the fake Snapchat series that are supposedly benign, meant to be used to punk your friends, these sorts of temporary email addresses are supposedly meant for signing up for sites you don’t want associated with your actual address. Of course, both can be used for ill—as in this case. Second option would be to sign up with a legitimate email provider through a proxy that wouldn’t immediately get spammed. This will obfuscate your location from the email server and allow you to send emails that appear to be coming from pretty much anywhere you want. Looks like he used a pretty complicated combination of both of these tactics. It’s gonna be very difficult to trace him. Maybe even impossible. He went to hella lot of trouble to make sure you wouldn’t.”
“That’s what has me worried.”
28
“Today we’re joined by Dr. Arther Dyson,” Merrick says. “He’s a forensic psychologist—teaches and has a practice, and has done so for nearly thirty years now. Welcome to the show, Dr. Dyson.”
“Happy to be here.”
“We’re thrilled to have you,” Daniel says, “and can’t tell you how excited we are to hear what you have to say and to share it with our listeners. And we need to thank Nancy for setting it up.”
“Dr. Dyson was on my show a while back and I thought he’d be a real asset to this case.”
I’m in my car driving into work the next morning, listening to the podcast and thinking about the case as I do.
“It’s vital to remember that there are all sorts of murders and motives for murder,” Dyson is saying. “Some murder is a direct result of psychosis—a murderer hears voices telling him to kill and he obeys. Some murder is sexually motivated. Other motives include revenge, domestic disturbances or so-called crimes of passion, those committed under the influence of drugs or alcohol, those committed to cover up another crime, greed, etc. But most murder is the result of situational, stressful factors. In fact, think about the very first murder ever recorded. It’s a great pattern case for the typical murder. It’s the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible, and it contains most of what you need to know about most typical murders. Cain killed his brother Abel—most murders involve a close relationship between offender and victim. He killed him out of jealousy—God liked Abel’s offering better. It was a direct, violent assault. And when the killer is confronted with the murder, he lies. God asked Cain, Where is your brother, Abel, and Cain said, I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper? Most of this type of murderer—people who kill a loved one, family member or friend—are captured fairly quickly. Other types—a stranger, serial killer, a psychotic in his own world—can take longer. But most murder victims aren’t killed by strangers. They’re killed by people they know. They’re killed by people they’re connected to, people they’re closely, emotionally involved with.”
“So you’re saying it’s more likely than not that Randa knew her killer?” Merrick says.
“Well, remember what I said about those kinds of killers—they’re usually caught pretty quickly. Statistically, you’re more likely to be murdered by someone you know, but . . . given the circumstances of your case . . . it could be the lower percentage killings done by a stranger, a serial killer, or an opportunistic killer. You know . . . it’s not like there had to be a serial killer out trolling for victims at that exact location at that exact time that night. This could be situational. Maybe the murderer didn’t plan on killing her, maybe something happened, things got out of hand . . . and . . . bam. Happens all the time.”
“In cases like those,” Nancy says, “are the victims’ remains usually so difficult to find?”
“Depends, but most killers don’t want to get caught. They’ll go to great lengths to evade capture, and hiding—even destroying—the body is an important first step to doing that. And you have to remember . . . it’s possibl
e the body isn’t all that particularly well hidden. Maybe it’s just hidden where no one’s looking. Maybe Randa climbed into a vehicle with someone who took her far, far away and killed and buried her body there. Could be anywhere. All it really has to be is where no one is looking.”
Daniel says, “But if we stick with the higher probabilities, it’s more likely than not that Randa knew her killer, but . . . if she did . . .”
“Okay, let’s take that scenario for a moment. What if Randa was being followed by someone who was obsessed with her, a stalker. She wrecks. He comes to her aid. She confronts him—says what the hell are you doing way out here? He lashes out. Strikes her or . . . kills her in some way. Hides her body. Resumes his normal life. It’s possible the police have even interviewed him, but nothing came of it . . . or maybe they even suspect him but have no evidence and he didn’t rattle when they spoke to him.”
“What if rather than stalking her,” Nancy says, “someone was actually in the car with her. Maybe she was out here to meet someone or maybe the person came with her from Pensacola. They’re drinking. They wreck. Lock the car and leave it to go sober up. And somewhere—on the beach, in the bay, in the swamp—something happens . . . and he kills her. Then leaves. Hikes. Walks. Gets a ride. Returns to his life without ever being suspected.”
“It’s possible,” Dyson says. “It’s all possible. And even though some of the scenarios are more probable than others . . . we just don’t know enough to . . . It could be the least likely scenario imaginable. Could be a total stranger killing. She could’ve encountered a serial killer out there. Given that it’s been almost twelve years and there’s been no trace of her . . . I’d say . . . in this particular case . . . it might be more probable at this point.”
I pause the podcast with enough time to call and check in on everyone before I reach the station.
“All quiet here,” Merrill says. “Wish it wasn’t. Love for the creepy fucker to show his ass around here.”
“I understand the sentiment,” I say, “but I’d much rather us figure out who he is and show up at his place instead of him coming to ours.”
After I finish with Merrill I call Jake.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I say.
“It ain’t no problem. Got shit else to do right now.”
“Well, I really appreciate it.”
“I’ve been sitting here thinkin’,” he says. “I’ve got the background, the training, the skills. Thinkin’ about gettin’ my private license. Do some security and investigation work. Whatta you think?”
“It’s a great idea.”
“Thing is . . . I been lost for a . . . well, since the election and losing my job. Doing this for y’all—you and this sweet lady . . . It’s been a while since I’ve felt any kinda useful.”
“Do it,” I say. “Let me know how I can help. I’ll send work your way when I can. How’s everything down that way?”
“Sad,” he says. “She’s sweet and all but that’s one sad lady with a sad little life. What happened to her husband?”
“Hit-and-run.”
“Fuck. That’s the crime you should be solving. Find the fucker who did that.”
“We should, you’re right. Though I think if he could be found Nancy would’ve already found him. But I’ll ask her. See what we can find out.”
“Just let me know what I can do to help,” he says. “I’m all in.”
29
“You okay?” I ask.
Reggie looks up at me from where she’s staring, a worried expression on her face.
“Come in,” she says. “Sorry. Was just thinking. How’s it going? Everybody still safe?”
“Everybody’s good. But you don’t seem to be. What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and frowns. “Letter to the editor,” she says. “It was in the same issue you were in about the search for Randa. Calls me corrupt. Says I’m hindering the investigation into the previous sheriff and his deputies. Says I’m feeding Merrick information about the Randa Raffield case to help his ratings. And generally what a bad job I’m doing.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “From someone who wants your job.”
She gives me a half smile. “Doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Not about the other, but . . . I . . . I may just not be cut out for this job. I knew going in . . . I wasn’t a politician, but . . . I . . . I thought I might make a good . . . be good at the other . . . I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“You’re a great sheriff,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to work for any other.”
“Thanks, John.”
“I’m serious. You’re doing such a good job. Don’t let some asshole who’s trying to set up his campaign against you get you down.”
“You just called someone an asshole,” she says with a smile.
“Wanted you to know how serious I was,” I say.
“You should run,” she says.
“From what?”
“For sheriff.”
I laugh. “They say to never say never, but that will never happen.”
We are quiet a moment.
“I was insecure about taking the job to begin with,” she says. “I’m still unsure about how I’m really doing. Most of the time I don’t feel like I should be doing it at all. So when I’m criticized I . . . it just sends my insecurities into overdrive. I’ve come close to resigning so many times.”
I nod my understanding. “I hope you won’t. I understand how you feel, what you’re saying, and I know me saying something different isn’t going to change the way you feel, but . . . again . . . you’re doing a fantastic job—and doing it backward in heels.”
“Someday we’ll talk about this more in depth. I’ll share with you all the reasons why I feel like I’m not qualified, we’ll evaluate my performance since I’ve been in the position . . . and we’ll see if you feel the same way.”
“I’m sure I will, but okay. Anytime you like. As far as the murder of the previous sheriff, I know FDLE is investigating it, but why not let me look into it too? And announce that I am. And why not call a press conference about the Randa Raffield case, give an update, ask for tips and help from the public, and go on record about not supplying Merrick with information.”
“Those are good ideas. I’ll think about them. Do you know we don’t even talk about the case anymore—not since we reopened it and you started working it—not at all.”
“Probably best.”
“Oh, and speaking of the case . . .” she says. “Got a call from Lynn Raffield’s attorney. He said a lot but it all boiled down to the same thing—she’s not willing to talk to us at this time.”
“Really?” I say. “She’s just flat out refusing?”
“Says it would be too upsetting for her. Says she’s devastated by the loss of her daughter and just can’t bear to talk about it. He went fishing by saying it’d be one thing if we had new leads and were close to making an arrest, but that if we didn’t he saw no reason to subject his client to more pointless questions.”
I shake my head and think about it.
“He did say if we wanted to submit questions to him, he’d see what he could do about getting her to answer them.”
“Another fishing expedition,” I say. “He wants to know what we know and what we don’t. The questions will tell him.”
“I thought the same thing,” she says. “I find it all very suspicious.”
We are quiet a beat, each of us sipping our drinks—her, steaming hot coffee, me, ice-cold Diet Cherry Coke.
“Any luck tracking the Snapchat pic or the email sent to you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to. Chris is going to try a few different things, but . . . doesn’t look too promising. Merrick said you looked into some earlier threats they received. Anything come of that?”
“Not a damn thing. Seemed to just be idiots with too little life and too much time and internet access.”
I nod and think about i
t. “Think this is different.”
“I said I don’t talk to Merrick about the case and I don’t,” she says, “but I do listen to the podcast now. And I had an idea. When they were talking about the theory of someone following or being with her . . . We know her dad still has the car.”
I nod. “Still in storage. Waiting for her. Cranks it up occasionally, charges the battery. That’s about it.”
“What if someone was in the car with her,” she says. “Shouldn’t we have the FDLE process it? There could be hairs, fibers, or DNA from her passenger if someone was with her.”
I nod. “I had the same idea,” I say, “but . . . there were probably so many people in the car prior to that night. We know most everyone close to her will have been in it and left trace evidence, plus . . . we have no idea what all her dad has really done to it since he’s had it. Eleven plus years is a long time. Mechanics, family members, who knows? We know he gets in it regularly to crank it.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Couldn’t hurt to have it processed. Just might not help.”
“Could hurt my budget—and for nothing if we’re pretty sure we wouldn’t get anything useful.”
30
“I can’t say for sure he was,” Sage Isaacson is saying.
Sage Isaacson is an early thirties African-American woman with honey-colored skin, long dark hair, and black eyes that light obviously loves.
We’re talking to her via Skype on Reggie’s computer in her office.
She was the young woman who organized the busload of UWF students to participate in the inauguration day protest of the Iraq War in Atlanta back in 2005 when Randa went missing.
I’ve just asked her if she remembers Josh Douglas being with them that day.
“You can’t?” Reggie says.
We’re Skyping with Sage because she now lives in Houston.
“Sorry, but . . . I just can’t be absolutely certain he was there with us in Atlanta. It’s been a very long time.”
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 12
