COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13)

by Michael Lister

  “And to some of our listeners who have only heard these two theories, I’m sure they’re saying ‘of course it’s one of those two things, what else could it be?’ So before Cal goes on, let me just mention a few of those other theories. Some say, though there is no evidence for this at all, that Randa was traveling with someone in a second vehicle, that she staged her disappearance, got in the car with them, and they went to Mexico together and are living the good life down there, that this whole thing was an ingenious plan to leave her life and start over.”

  “Which would mean she had an accomplice,” Merrick says, “someone very close to her that was willing to do this—but no one close to her disappeared. And no one has ever said anything and you just don’t keep a secret like that for twelve years.”

  “I also don’t see her doing this to her parents,” Daniel says, “leaving them to suffer like this if she was alive and could contact them to let them know she’s okay.”

  “It’s out there as a theory, but it’s not even close to the most outrageous or outlandish,” Merrick says. “There are groups of people who truly believe that Randa spontaneously combusted as she stood there on the side of the road that night, even point to some scorch marks on the ground. Say it’s the only thing that would explain why her body was never found.”

  “And we’re not going to get into the other theories of UFO abduction, Bigfoot, or that she discovered Atlantis while swimming in the bay,” Nancy says. “The point is people are crazy and crazy theories are a distraction and we’re serious about solving this case, about finding Randa and giving her family some sort of peace and justice.”

  “Right,” Daniel says.

  “Which is why Occam’s razor should be employed,” Cal says. “Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be chosen.”

  “Another way to say it,” Daniel says, “is other things being equal, simpler explanations are generally better than more complex ones.”

  “But which one is it?” Nancy asks.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Cal says.

  “It is,” Merrick says, “and we were hoping you had the answer.”

  “That’s the thing about this case,” Cal says. “The moment you think you have an answer, what you really have is another question. Let’s take the two most likely possibilities and the main question or assumption that accompanies them.”

  “Okay,” Nancy says, “the first would be that Randa killed herself, that she was there to do harm to herself, that she had the hose and duct tape and books dealing with suicide in her car. So what’s the question?”

  “Where’s the body?” Cal says. “If she killed herself somewhere around there—in the bay or the swamp—we should have found a body.”

  “True,” Merrick says. “Now, the other most likely theory . . . A killer came along and killed her somewhere around there or abducted her and killed her somewhere else.”

  “With that one you also have the question of where is the body,” Cal says. “No matter where he did it, you’d think her remains would have been discovered by now. Or that the killer would’ve been caught for another murder or crime—or that he wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet for so long. He’d have to tell someone. Most of them do. But beyond all that . . . here is the real assumption that goes with this one. Is it really possible that a killer just happened upon the scene in the middle of nowhere at just the right moment? What are the chances?”

  “It could happen,” Nancy says.

  “Absolutely it could,” Cal says, “but is it more or less likely than her killing herself and us not finding the body?”

  “Good question,” Merrick says.

  “I go back and forth between these two all the time,” Daniel says. “And I can’t figure out which one Occam’s razor would make the most likely hypothesis. They each seem just as likely and unlikely.”

  “Yes they do,” Cal says. “But today . . . I’m going with suicide. I know it’s not as interesting or sexy as a serial killer, but . . . I believe the preponderance of evidence shows that Randa was suicidal, that that’s what she was on her way to do—where we don’t know—but that when she wrecked she went ahead and did it.”

  “But,” Nancy says, “that leads to another glaring question. Her car was fine. If she was really headed to kill herself somewhere, why not just get back in her car and go do it? Why even get out of her car in the first place?”

  33

  “Randa did not kill herself,” Brenda Young is saying. “I don’t know what the hell happened to her, but I know that. She wasn’t the type. No question.”

  Brenda Young is a thick, nicely proportioned early thirties young woman with white-blond hair, pale skin, brown eyes beneath dark purple eyeshadow, and lots of colorful tattoos. She’s wearing a loose black cotton dress, the fabric of which seems to be straining across her enormous breasts, and black boots that look to have been worn by the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz.

  We are walking through the garden behind her juice bar, gift shop, and garden center in Tallahassee, where she has created a center for organic foods and locally produced artisan products for, according to her, hipsters and hippies.

  Some eleven years ago, Brenda lived on the same floor as Randa in the UWF dorm and dated Chelsea Sylvester, the young woman who died shortly before Randa disappeared.

  “Is her death or disappearance related to what happened to Chelsea?” I ask.

  She frowns and her eyes glisten and in a moment, she nods. “I’m . . . I don’t know how . . . directly, but . . . it has to be related.”

  “Can you tell me how?”

  She nods. “Let’s sit down over here.”

  She leads me to a cement bench at the back of the garden that looks like something from a cemetery.

  We are facing the garden and the back of the old wooden building beyond it. The garden is verdant, the store vibrant, its front and back double doors open, allowing the bearded young boys in skinny jeans and dress shoes and the fat bearded old men in tie-dye shirts and overalls to flow freely in and out and through the property.

  “It’s been so long ]now, you wouldn’t think it would still upset me, but . . .”

  “I understand,” I say. “Take your time.”

  “There was something about Randa,” she says. “A certain attraction. An attraction certain types of people were powerless over. Honestly, I’m not sure how aware of it she was. Some, I’d say. She definitely used it sometimes, but I think a lot of the time she didn’t even realize it was happening—it was on, this tractor beam that issued forth from her goddessness.”

  “Were you drawn to her?”

  She nods. “Some, sure, but . . . not in the way I’m talking about. Not like Chelsea was.”

  The trees around us are filled with wind chimes, which, when the breeze blows, joins with the waving of the limbs and branches to create a soft, hypnotic sound. Natural. Rhythmic. Transcendent.

  “You and Chelsea were together, right?”

  She nods. “Until Randa.”

  “They . . .”

  “Chelsea was one of those drawn to her like a star caught in her gravitational pull. Completely powerless to do anything about it.”

  “Were they lovers? A couple? Did you and Chelsea break up?”

  “They were . . . whatever people were with Randa. I don’t know what you’d call it. Just . . . drawn in. Chelsea was obsessed with her. She didn’t break up with me. Didn’t have to. I just sort of ceased to exist. Or . . . orbited out of her . . . I don’t know. Our relationship ended. But I still was in her life because . . . I knew it wouldn’t be long until Randa was on to the next object she sucked in, and Chelsea would be devastated.”

  “And that happened?”

  “Sooner than I predicted,” she says.

  “Were you angry at Randa?”

  “Sure, but more just concerned for Chelsea. And I was right to be. I predicted she’d be devastated, but I had no idea just how decimated sh
e would be. She started drinking and taking drugs like someone serious about doing real harm to themselves. I tried to help her, to save her. She only wanted Randa. Randa, who did have a huge heart, came to see her, tried to talk to her, but . . . Chelsea told her if she couldn’t be with her she didn’t want to live. Now I don’t know if Chelsea really meant to kill herself or just accidentally overdosed, but either way . . . Randa felt responsible, which is why she . . . acted the way she did, took off like she did. It’s what put her in the situation she was in when whatever happened to her did.”

  “So you don’t think she was suicidal?”

  “I know she wasn’t. We talked about it. She had no intention of harming herself, but . . . she was really upset, like . . . she went a little nuts. So she put herself in whatever peril she found herself in.”

  “What about the items found in her car that indicate she was suicidal or thinking about committing suicide?”

  She turns and looks at me with genuine surprise and not a little disgust.

  “You’re the detective heading up the investigation?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “How can you be so . . . uninformed?”

  “Good question,” I say. “One I ask all the time.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I am too, actually.”

  “Randa worked at the suicide hotline on campus. She helped a shit ton of people. Some of the people she helped, especially the young women, would often give her things—the things that were feeding their suicidal thoughts or the very things they had intended to use to harm themselves. You can’t imagine the pills and blades and shit she was given. Whatever was in her car was there because someone grateful for her help gave it to her. How can you solve her case if you don’t know that?”

  “I can’t,” I say, “which is why now I do. Thank you.”

  “Sorry. I just . . . that was uncalled for. I shouldn’t take shit out on you. My bad. I didn’t get to meditate this morning and I can tell. I’m a mess. Please forgive me.”

  “Did you ever confront Randa?” I ask. “Did you let her know you blamed her for Chelsea’s death?”

  “We talked. I could tell she felt bad. I . . . I only blamed her for getting involved with Chelsea to begin with. If she had just shown some self-restraint . . . none of this would have happened. But she had none.”

  “Are you saying if she hadn’t gotten involved with Chelsea, not only would Chelsea still be alive, but Randa would too?”

  She nods, and I wonder if it’s because she killed her.

  “When was the last time you saw Randa?”

  “The day she died,” she says.

  Interesting she said died instead of disappeared. So definitive. Does she know what happened to Randa? Is she subconsciously saying she does?

  “Where?”

  “Hallway in the dorm.”

  “What’d she say? How’d she act?”

  “We didn’t speak, but she acted fine. Like her same old self. Like she had gotten over what had happened to Chelsea.”

  “How’d that make you feel?” I ask.

  “Not great, but . . . I was feeling bad anyway. Chelsea had not come out to her parents. They didn’t know anything about me. Treated me like shit at the funeral. I was . . . I had had enough that day, I can tell you that.”

  “What’d you do about it?”

  “Turned within. It was around that time I started meditating and using aromatherapy and getting in touch with my inner goddess.”

  “We were going through Randa’s things and found a pair of shoes that weren’t hers,” I say. “Do you know if her boyfriend—”

  “Which one?”

  “Josh. Do you know if Josh had a pair of black Pumas with flaps on top?”

  She nods. “He did. I know he did because . . . I had some too. It’s the only thing we ever talked about. Literally. The only thing.”

  34

  “You okay?” I ask Jerry Raffield when he opens his front door.

  He frowns and shrugs, then eventually nods, but I can tell he’s not. All the color has drained from his face and his pale skin is clammy.

  Seeing him reminds me that I still need to follow up on the lead he gave me the last time I was here—Bill Lee, Randa’s alleged molester—and I decide that Scarlett George, Randa’s aunt and Bill’s girlfriend, will probably be the best way to do it. Besides, I need to talk to her anyway.

  “This is Chris,” I say as we walk into the study of his Seaside home. “He’s gonna help us track the person who sent it.”

  The two men exchange greetings and Chris rushes over to the computer and begins to click and bang around on the keyboard.

  We are here because earlier in the evening Jerry received an email from his daughter—well, someone claiming to be his daughter.

  From: Randa Raffield

  Sent: Tuesday, October 4, 2016, 5:37 PM

  To: Jerry Raffield

  Subject: Leave Me Alone

  Message: What if I don’t want to be found?

  Not only was the message emailed to Jerry, but it was posted on a few different Randa Raffield missing persons forums.

  Jerry’s phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his pocket.

  “I keep getting calls and emails and messages,” he says. “Everybody is freaking out over this. I . . . I’m just not sure what to say. Hell, I don’t know what to think.”

  I nod. “Sorry this is happening.”

  “It’s . . . all this new activity on the case has it . . . all stirred up again. It’s like it just happened.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just hope it’s worth it. I hope it means we’re getting closer to finding the truth.”

  “It’s not the same sender emailing you,” Chris says.

  “It’s not?” I say. “You sure?”

  “Nowhere near the level of technical sophistication,” he says. “I think we just might be able to trace this one.” He looks at Jerry. “Mind if I take your computer?”

  “What if she emails me again?” he says.

  Chris frowns, then looks heartbroken for the sad, daughterless dad. “If that happens, I’ll let you know the moment it does. I’ll take good care of . . . everything . . . and . . . find whoever sent this.”

  That night, after just a few minutes of sleep, I wake startled, heart pounding, my head sweating.

  Easing out of bed, trying not to wake Anna, I walk through the dim house to the back patio and sit on one of the old, unpainted wooden chairs.

  Beyond the craggy cypress trees at its edge, a three-quarters moon looms above Lake Julia, its reflection floating on the dark, shimmering surface below.

  My mind is racing, thoughts and questions about Randa flying at me too quick to contemplate or answer.

  I attempt to use my breathing to slow my heart and mind, but my efforts are mostly ineffectual.

  “You okay?” Anna asks.

  I turn to see her standing at the partially open French doors.

  I nod.

  “What is it?”

  “Woke up startled.”

  She steps down onto the cement pad and over to me, sitting on the arm of the chair as she puts her arms around me.

  “You should’ve woke me up.”

  “You’re not getting enough sleep as it is,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter. Is it the case?”

  I nod again. “I’ve got no traction, just spinning, flailing about. Not getting anywhere. Not sure I will.”

  Her touch is tender, her caress calming.

  “You’ve been here before,” she says. “Many times.”

  “This one seems different. I’m not sure I can close it.”

  “My money’s on you,” she says, “but what if you can’t? You have other unsolved cases.”

  “Not like this. I just can’t get my bearings, there’s nothing to grab on to. I’m down the rabbit hole and I just keep falling.”

  “Why?” she asks. “What’s different about this case?”

  “Too ma
ny unknowns, too much information, too many suspects, too many possibilities,” I say.

  “Is it the emails, the taunting?”

  “It’s all of it. The picture sent to Daniel, the email sent to Jerry.”

  “But what about the one sent to you?” she says. “Are you worried about us? Are you . . . Is it what’s upsetting you the most?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ve seen you find peace before,” she says. “Even in the midst of uncertainty and loss. You can do it again—even if you don’t solve it, even if you have to live with not knowing what really happened to Randa and who’s behind it. What do you have to do to get to that point?”

  I shake my head again. “Not ready to go there yet. Not ready to give up, to . . . let go.”

  “Fine, but you’ve got to be able to function, to sleep, to have some sort of peace so your mind can . . . do what it does.”

  “You’re helping with that,” I say. “So is the moon and the lake.”

  She tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m okay. Go back to bed. I’ll be back in there beside you in just a few.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Taylor will be up before you know it. And I’ll be in there beside you before you know it.”

  But I wasn’t. Instead I went for a drive. I returned to the scene of the crime, the place where Randa Raffield vanished from the face of the earth.

  35

  Overstreet is dark and damp, and a moist fog hovers just above the road.

  It’s difficult to see and I’m driving far faster than is safe.

  The way I feel, I want to drive even faster, but images of Anna and the girls arrive unbidden and I back off the accelerator.

  I tell myself I’m just driving, that I have no agenda, no destination, but I know when I’m being lied to, know where I’ll wind up and why I’ll be there.

  It’s the gravitational pull Brenda Young spoke about. I’m being drawn to the mystery, attracted to the place where in one way it all began and in another it all ended.