COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13)

by Michael Lister

  “Did y’all have a log or sign-in sheet of who went?” I ask.

  She twists her lips as she seems to think about it. “I think so, but . . . again . . . I can’t be positive. And I don’t know if anyone would still have it.”

  Behind Sage is a huge, nice home—a big, open, expensively furnished living room with a large, modern kitchen with industrial stainless-steel appliances in the background.

  “Obviously we’re investigating what happened to Randa,” I say. “So why don’t you tell us what you do remember from that day that might relate to either her or Josh.”

  She takes a deep breath, frowns, and sighs. “This is not very PC of me to say, but . . . you know how in a group of some size there are a lot of different types of people and you can tell who’s a chaser, a gold digger, a politician, a liar, a flake, you know like that. Well, Randa was a victim. You could tell, you know. She was sweet and pretty and smart and should have been . . . I don’t know . . . more—more popular, more successful, more something, but she was . . . It seemed to me that she was or was going to be a victim. I guess what I’m saying is that I wasn’t surprised when I heard something happened to her.”

  Reggie nods and says, “We appreciate your candor. We really do. Tell us anything that comes to mind. How did Randa let you know she had decided not to attend the protest?”

  “She didn’t. Just didn’t show. I thought she might meet us there . . . maybe ride with Josh or—wait. That’s right. When she didn’t show . . . Josh got off the bus. Said he would drive up and meet us there, that he had to talk to her first. He . . . he was on the bus. We were getting ready to leave. He got a call. Then he suddenly got up and grabbed his things . . . said he had to talk to Randa first but he’d definitely be at the protest, that he’d meet us there. Bring her if he could.”

  “Did you see him in Atlanta?” I ask. “Anywhere at any time.”

  She puts her thinking expression on again, which soon fades into a frown. “No,” she says, shaking her head, “I didn’t. I don’t think he was there.”

  “Who else could we ask?” Reggie says. “Who else might have seen him or would know if he wasn’t there?”

  “I can put together a list of people and their contact info. I’ve stayed in touch with some of them over the years.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  A gray and white cat jumps up on the large marble-top island in the kitchen behind her, slinks over to a bowl, haunches down, and begins to eat.

  “Anything else you can tell us about Randa or Josh or anything?” I say.

  “I liked her. Felt bad for her—even after she slept with a guy I was talking to at the time. It was like I could tell she was damaged goods and didn’t mean anything by it. Like . . . she couldn’t help herself. A lot of people, mostly guys, were obsessed with her, wanted to save her, rescue her, take care of her.”

  “How did Josh handle that?” I ask.

  “Like a saint. He was patient and understanding. Like he really got her deal and didn’t take her acting out personally. It’s interesting. He was obsessed with her too, but . . . just handled it so well. I don’t know how he did it. I really don’t. Anyway, hope that helps. Been a long time. I’m sure I’m forgetting a whole lot. I’ll email you a list of some other students from back then you can talk to.”

  It’s New Year’s Eve. The streets of Downtown Pensacola are packed. The illuminated pelican is dropping.

  Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .

  The DJ is leading the crowd in the countdown.

  The quality of the video footage from a local TV station is low, the camera whipping about, attempting to give viewers a glimpse of what it’s like to be there.

  six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

  The pelican lands.

  “Happy New Year everyone,” the DJ says.

  The camera moves about showing couples kissing, but when it gets to Randa and Josh it lingers.

  “First question of 2005 goes to Josh Douglas,” the DJ says.

  He then walks up to where Josh and Randa are standing.

  As the DJ extends the mic so Josh’s question can he heard, Josh kneels down, hitting his head on the mic and making a loud thud, followed by feedback.

  “Randa,” Josh says, pulling the ring box out of his pocket as he takes a knee, “will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  The camera pans to Randa—along with all the eyes of those around them.

  Randa looks taken aback, embarrassed, confused, angry, uncomfortable.

  It’s difficult to watch.

  After a long, awkward moment, she nods.

  “What was that?” the DJ asks, shoving the mic into her face.

  “Yes,” she says with no emotion.

  Josh has to grab her hand and lift it so he can place the ring on it and the DJ has to tell them to kiss.

  “Congratulations to Josh and Randa,” he says. “May they have a long, happy life together.”

  I pause the DVD.

  Reggie says, “It was nice of her not to reject him in front of all those people and on TV, but . . . anyone paying attention could tell that’s what she was really doing.”

  We are still in her office, watching all the video and surveillance footage we have of Randa.

  “No doubt. Poor guy.”

  “Poor guy should have been more clued in to what his girlfriend wanted and didn’t want.”

  “True.”

  I start the disc again.

  A series of still frame photos from the ATM Randa used at her bank near the UWF campus before she left Pensacola the day of her disappearance show her swiping her card, entering her pin, punching buttons, taking her cash and a few seconds later her receipt.

  The quality of the images is very low, but they show Randa is alone and doesn’t appear to be under any duress.

  I jump back to the beginning and watch the images unfold again, this time looking only at the background.

  “There,” Reggie says, “look at that.”

  I pause the frame.

  Someone is behind her. Not close. Maybe ten feet away. Randa is blocking our view of him. Only his shoes are visible—black Puma sneakers with Velcro flaps.

  “Could just be someone waiting to use the ATM,” I say.

  “Probably is.”

  I start the disc again and we watch as the guy wearing the shoes stands there a little longer but then leaves before she finishes her transaction and turns around.

  “That could be something,” Reggie says. “He left before she turned around.”

  “Solid black Pumas with Velcro flaps,” I say. “Could prove useful.”

  We watch the rest of the images but the shoes don’t reappear and no one is visible when Randa turns and leaves.

  The next footage is by far the worst quality. It is black-and-white exterior-only surveillance footage from the little mom-and-pop restaurant where Randa stopped to get food and use the restroom in Destin. She is only a black ghostly figure surrounded by grayness as she enters the front door of the establishment.

  “Can’t even tell that it’s her,” Reggie says. “Why even have a surveillance system?”

  We watch it a second time, studying the background, but there is nothing to see.

  The final footage and the best quality is from a gas station in Panama City where Randa stopped to fill up her car.

  The footage is from a surveillance camera set up beneath the well-lit awning, but because of its position and the positioning of Randa’s vehicle, only the back of her green Accord is visible.

  Randa can be seen loosening her gas cap, swiping her credit card, removing the nozzle, inserting it into her car, and pumping gas for a few moments.

  It’s difficult to make out much detail, but she doesn’t seem particularly distressed or upset. Actually, she appears to be daydreaming as she stands there waiting for the nozzle to click off.

  No one else is around. No other cars pull up or take of
f. Nothing.

  “Damnit,” Reggie says. “Was hoping we’d see something since this is so close to where she went missing. And we could actually see something on this footage if there was something to see.”

  After pumping her gas, returning the nozzle, and replacing the cap, Randa closes the small gas cover and walks toward the store.

  I follow her until she reaches the top edge of the frame and disappears. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing suspicious. Just a young woman walking. And then it goes black.

  “Wait,” Reggie says. “Go back. Just a few frames. Son of a bitch.”

  “What is it?”

  “Were you watching her?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I did too the first time, so this time I watched her car. Rewind it and watch only the car.”

  I do.

  And there in the last few frames right before the footage ends and the screen goes blank, the front edge of a pair of solid black Pumas with Velcro flaps can be seen approaching the car.

  31

  I try unsuccessfully for the next two days to find Josh Douglas.

  After not showing up for his next class after we spoke, he emailed the chair of his department and told him for family reasons he had to take an emergency sabbatical effective immediately.

  His home is empty.

  He nor his wife are responding to calls, texts, or emails, and none of their friends or family seem to know where they are.

  I talk to Sage Isaacson again, as well as several other students who attended the protest. They all say the same thing. No, Josh didn’t show. Yes, he often wore black Pumas with Velcro flaps.

  “You think it was him?” Anna says. “He was following her? He . . .”

  “It’s looking like a good possibility.”

  We’re driving down to Sam and Daniel’s to have dinner and give Merrill a little break. We’re on Overstreet, the highway that connects Wewahitchka with Mexico Beach. It’s late afternoon and the setting sun is burnishing the tips of the pines along the horizon in front of us.

  “Think you’ll find him?”

  I nod. “Someone will. Lot of people looking for him. Disappearing is a lot harder than people think. Especially with a family.”

  “He could’ve killed them and left them behind.”

  “Could have, but we’ve checked the house. I bet they’re just hiding somewhere.”

  She nods. “You ready to listen?”

  “Sure.”

  “This is the episode about the other victim I was telling you about. It’s all over the internet. Usually comes up when you do a search for Randa Raffield.

  I nod and she starts the podcast.

  “Welcome to another edition of In Search of Randa Raffield,” Merrick says. “Today we have a very special episode for you. We’re going to be talking about Annie Kathryn Harrison.”

  “A lot of people connect the disappearances of Annie Kathryn Harrison and Randa Raffield,” Daniel says.

  “Annie went missing about a month before Randa,” Nancy says. “About fifty miles from where Randa did near Carabelle, Florida, on the same highway as Randa, and like Randa, only her car was found—locked. There’s been no sign of her since.”

  “At first it seems a no-brainer to connect them,” Merrick says. “And it makes you immediately think we’re dealing with a serial killer. And it’s possible, but . . .”

  “But,” Nancy says, “there are a lot of differences in the two cases too.”

  “For one,” Daniel says, “though both young women were around the same age . . . Annie was a senior in high school. She lived in Carabelle, so, unlike Randa, she was close to home when it happened.”

  “In fact,” Merrick says, “she was driving home from her after-school job, so also unlike Randa, she was basically in her own small town.”

  “Right,” Daniel says. “But her car was found abandoned on the side of the road near the old light house. And like Randa her keys and wallet were gone and the car was locked, like she’d left on her own and intended to come back. But she never did.”

  “No, neither of them ever did,” Merrick says. “But there’s another big difference between Randa and Annie—one that Nancy really wants to talk about—and that is . . . unlike Randa, Annie was black.”

  “Yes, she was,” Nancy says, “which is why her case hasn’t gotten nearly the attention that Randa’s has.”

  “I think there are other reasons too,” Merrick says, “and we’ll get into those, but let’s talk about that for a minute.”

  “There’s a phenomenon that’s been described as Missing White Woman Syndrome—a phrase said to have been coined by Gwen Ifill of PBS—where certain victims get a disproportionate amount of media attention and coverage. It’s true of white women like Randa Raffield. Even truer of white girls, especially white girls with blond hair and blue eyes like JonBenét Ramsey. Think about the media frenzy when it comes to white female victims.”

  “It’s undeniable,” Daniel says.

  “It’s related to a concept a criminologist in the 1980s came up with called ‘the ideal victim.’ Nils Christie said that the ideal victim is the person who when hit by a crime is most readily given the complete and legitimate status of being a victim.”

  I think about how true this is and how I first encountered this in the Atlanta Child Murders where the victims were mostly poor black boys.

  “We see this all the time in rape cases,” Nancy says. “A sex worker is not afforded the victim status a young virgin is. It’s the same with murder and the coverage of murder. Our culture and the coverage of our culture is racist and bigoted. A white girl like JonBenét or a white young woman like Randa Raffield will always get more coverage, more sympathy, more attention, better ratings than a victim like Annie Kathryn Harrison or any number of other victims—who by any objective measurement are no less victims.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Daniel says.

  “I agree too,” Merrick says, “but . . . in the two particular cases we’re talking about today there are also other factors.”

  “Such as?” Nancy says.

  “Well, part of what is so fascinating about the Randa Raffield case is not just that it is an unsolved murder, but it’s an inexplicable mystery. There are so many unknowns, so many unanswered questions, so many possibilities leading to so many theories—any number of which could be right. Or none of them. Real mystery is a part of Randa’s case in a way that it’s not in Annie’s. There are real, legitimate suspects in Annie’s case. There just aren’t so far in Randa’s. There’s a huge difference between not being able to make a case against someone you’re pretty sure is the killer or killers versus not really having a single viable suspect. Annie Kathryn Harrison’s brother was a drug dealer. Annie wasn’t the only member of her family to be killed. Her brother was too. The tragedy of Annie’s death is though she had helped her brother deal before, she had stopped and was really working hard to get her life on track. She was even working a shitty after-school job that paid very little—and it was coming home from that job that she got taken. And she got taken because her brother owed the wrong people too much money. He was warned. He ignored the warning. His sister was taken and executed. Not too long afterward, because I guess he still didn’t heed the warning, he was gunned down in his front yard.”

  “Even if everything you’re saying is true,” Nancy says, “why doesn’t Annie get as much attention as Randa and others? Especially when, as you say, she was doing so well and really working hard to have a better life. She was a child. An innocent. A victim. Every bit the complete and legitimate victim Randa is.”

  “I completely agree,” Daniel says.

  “I do too,” Merrick says.

  “And just because it’s likely that Annie was taken by big-time drug suppliers or something to do with her brother’s drug business, doesn’t mean that she was. It’s possible that she was taken by the same man who took Randa. I think it’d be foolish to rule it out.”

&nbs
p; “Then we won’t,” Daniel says.

  When we get home later that night, there’s another email waiting for me.

  Clearly you do not listen, Mister John Jordan. Do you? I am not writing this for me. I am writing it for you. I sincerely do not want to hurt anyone you love. But I have warned you. I have given you a chance to let dead girls lie and you just won’t do it, will you? Why? Is it because you have always won before? Have you ever lost? Have you ever not solved a case? You will not solve this one. You will not find Randa’s remains. You will not catch me. I promise you that. All you will do is lose. And lose someone close to you. It is out of my hands now. I am not going to feel bad about having to do it. You are making me. You had your chance. What happens next is on you.

  I forward it to Chris and to Reggie, but don’t do anything else with it—except study it and reflect on it and try to understand its writer who doesn’t use contractions, seems sincere about wanting me to heed his warning, and is absolutely convinced he will not get caught.

  32

  “To me it comes down to Occam’s razor,” Cal Beckner is saying. “The most likely explanation is usually the right one. The simplest solution is most often the right one. Think about how many theories there are—how outlandish many of them are.”

  Cal Beckner has been on the show before. He’s the private detective hired by the family to work on the case.

  “And there are some truly outlandish ones out there,” Nancy says.

  “We should remind everyone that we don’t give any airtime to those,” Daniel says. “We’re aware of them—the crazy theories flying around out there—but we don’t get into them on our show.”

  “So what is Occam’s razor?” Merrick asks. “And how does it apply to Randa’s case?”

  “It says something like out of competing theories, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected.”

  “And in this case,” Daniel says, “which theory is the one with the fewest assumptions?”

  “I’ve gone back and forth on this one,” Cal says. “Because I think there are two that are about tied. Either she committed suicide or someone killed her.”