Sandra decided not to force the issue. Instead, she watched as he burst through the trailer door and moved with determination toward the Chevy Nova. He slid into the driver’s seat and began dismantling the car stereo. Suddenly Sandra no longer cared about Snake’s bad attitude. That was her car, after all, and her stereo. She stormed outside, hands on her hips and glared at her husband.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“Shhh!” Snake hissed. “Shut your mouth, woman!”
“No, Snake,” Sandra whined, intentionally keeping her voice at a high level. “That’s my car and I want to know what you’re doing to my stereo?”
“Taking it out,” he said. “Now shut up!” Snake rose to his feet and moved menacingly toward his wife. But Sandra ignored his implied threats, even if she did lower her voice considerably.
“Snake!” She sounded exasperated. “I don’t want it out. I like that stereo.”
“Yeah, well, I’m selling it.”
“What?” Sandra raised her voice again.
“Listen,” Snake moved as close to Sandra as he could without touching her. He was so angry he was shaking. “Don’t raise your voice at me again or I’ll lower it myself.”
“Why are you selling my stereo?” she asked, her own anger evident despite the fact that she maintained a much quieter voice than at first.
“I got the darn car,” he said between clenched teeth. “I can sell the darn stereo if I want to. Understand, woman?”
“But why, Snake?”
“I’m getting a front end for my bike, that’s why,” he whispered.
“A front end? You don’t need your bike fixed. You can use the Nova any time you want,” she whined again, and Snake had grown more irritated by the minute.
“I don’t want to drive your old Nova!” He glared at Sandra and then perhaps before he might do something he would regret—especially in broad daylight and at the trailer park where everyone knew him—he turned around and resumed his efforts at removing the stereo.
Sandra did not give up. She walked up to the car and peered inside.
“What you want that rusty bike fixed for anyway?” she whispered loudly. “Where you going?”
Snake sat up and stared at her. “I’m leaving for Tampa. Gotta find a job. Any more questions or will you get out of my hair?”
Sandra had thought about that a moment. “No more questions,” she said, maintaining the whisper. “But you better get me a new stereo for my car. You hear, Snake? I mean it!”
Snake had ignored her last comment and continued working. Not until Sandra got back inside the trailer had she considered how strangely her husband had acted. The strangeness wasn’t so much in the fact that he wanted to sell the stereo. What was really odd was how he had wanted to keep so quiet about it. Snake was a loud person, probably part of the biker image he so enjoyed. Why, then, in the middle of the afternoon, would Snake want to keep quiet about taking a stereo out of the Chevy Nova.
“It wasn’t like we had anything to hide,” she explained to Bob. “We owned the car, understand?”
Bob nodded and waited as she continued.
That afternoon Snake had taken the stereo to the bike shop and come home happier than he had been in weeks. His Harley-Davidson had a new front end and he had fifty dollars spending money in his pocket.
“I believe that’s my money, Snake,” Sandra had said when Snake pulled the cash out in front of her and counted it.
“What?”
“You got the money for selling my stereo,” she said defiantly. “It’s my money!”
Snake looked at her in disgust and for a moment it seemed he might even spit at his wife. Then he turned around, mumbling a string of profanities, and walked out the door. In a matter of minutes he had started up the bike and disappeared.
“Fine,” Sandra had said out loud as she watched him disappear. “But don’t expect me to sit around waiting for you to come home, Snake. You’ll be sorry.”
Sandra had paced the empty trailer trying to decide what to do now that Snake had most likely left for Tampa. If she wanted to meet men, she couldn’t go to any of the biker bars where the Pagans and the Outlaws hung out. The gangs might have been rivals, but they knew who their women belonged to. Sandra belonged to Snake, and even if she found someone willing to take her home, Snake would hear about it as soon as he got back in town. The way the gangs worked, someone could lose their life over using another member’s woman.
Most of the time, Sandra explained to Bob, she liked being married to a Pagan biker. It made her feel important. But there were times, like that August afternoon when Snake left for Tampa, that she wished they had a more private life, without the involvement of an entire motorcycle gang. Especially one as potentially vicious as the Pagans.
“Anything else?” Bob asked quietly. She had already told him far more than he had hoped to hear, but perhaps there was more.
“What do you want to know?”
“What happened in Tampa?”
“Oh. Right. I guess I could tell you that.”
Surprisingly, she told Bob, Snake’s month-long trip to Tampa paid off. He had ridden his motorcycle home at the beginning of September and informed Sandra that he had been hired by a trucking company. He would be responsible for driving medium-size trucks across the country and back, making product deliveries along the way.
“Get your things together,” Snake had announced when he walked in the door.
Sandra had stared at him blankly. He had been gone for such a long time that she doubted if he would ever return. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed herself while he was away. But Tampa? What was there to do in Tampa?
“Snake, have you flipped?”
“Listen, old lady.” Snake was suddenly angry. “I got me a job in Tampa and we’re leaving today. Starting a new life. Right now. You hear?”
Sandra threw up her hands and moved toward their bedroom, muttering as she went. “I just don’t know about you, Snake, up and leaving like this with no warning and all and here I am supposed to just pack up and move.” She talked mostly to herself as she threw her clothing into a suitcase.
“Just like that,” she told Bob, shaking her head in disbelief. “Move to Tampa. I mean, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Go ahead, Mrs. Cox.” Bob didn’t want her to stop now.
Sandra nodded and continued. After she had complained about the move for several minutes, Snake burst into the bedroom in a fit of anger.
“Ah, shut up, woman,” he shouted. “I want outta here in fifteen minutes and you better be ready.”
“Oh, sure, Snake. Thanks for all the time.”
“I said,” Snake raised his voice even louder, “shut up! Get to work!”
Sandra had been silent then. Whatever was happening to their lives she didn’t like it one bit. Especially when all her friends were here in Daytona Beach. And why would Snake have gotten a job? Sandra couldn’t figure it out.
Nearly an hour later they had emptied the trailer and packed their things into the Chevy Nova. The trailer was furnished when they rented it so they took none of the furniture. Snake also tied several items to the back of his Harley-Davidson, which he was going to ride while Sandra followed in the Nova. When they were ready to go, Snake ordered Sandra into the car.
“What about the manager?” she had asked. “Aren’t we going to check out or something.”
“None of his darn business where we’re moving.” Snake’s forehead was covered with perspiration from loading up their belongings and he was short of breath and angry. “Now let’s get out of here!”
“You sure are acting weird, Snake,” she said as she slipped into the driver’s seat of the red and black Nova. She leaned her head out and stared at her husband. “Hey, Snake,” she said sarcastically. “Now’d be a good time to have a car stereo, don’t you think? First you give me the car, then you take the stereo. Nice guy, Snake. Real nice.”
/> “Listen, I’ve had enough talk about that. Don’t bring it up again. I got rid of the stereo. Period. Shut up and drive.”
“Sure, sure.” She had slammed the door shut then. “Whatever you say, my loving Snake.”
And with that, Sandra concluded, she and Snake had started off on a new life in Tampa, leaving Daytona Beach—and whatever it represented—behind them.
“Anything else?” Bob asked.
Sandra shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
Bob stood up slowly and reached out to shake Sandra’s hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cox. I think your stories will be a great help for us.”
Sandra rose, wiping her sweaty hands on her jeans. “I ain’t said nothin’ bad about Snake, now, understand?”
“Right,” Bob said as he left the trailer. “Nothing bad at all.”
That evening Bob pondered all that he had learned about Snake and his actions. There was a common thread that ran through the stories Sandra Cox had told him. Snake was guilty. Now Bob had to find out why.
CHAPTER 28
Later that week, back at his Orlando office, Bob Brown spent a great deal of time thinking.
The boys had last been seen the evening of August twelfth, sometime after making the phone call to their parents. During that time, they had apparently driven to Snake’s trailer, where they had spent at least some time in the company of Spider. After that, the boys had disappeared. A few days later Snake had wound up with Jim’s traveler’s checks and Daryl’s Chevy Nova, which he had then cheerfully given to his wife for her birthday.
Bob thought about the scenarios that were not likely given these certainties. First, it was not very likely that Jim and Daryl had sold the car and the traveler’s checks to Snake in exchange for a kilo of marijuana, as his wife had suggested. Even if the boys had decided to do something completely out of character like purchase drugs from Snake Cox, they would not pay for them with their single mode of transportation.
Second, even if they had sold the car, they would at least need money in order to get through the weekend. They had money, of course: Jim’s ten thousand dollars sitting back in Metamora. But the boys hadn’t touched that money and they hadn’t contacted any of their friends for assistance. Therefore, Bob didn’t see any possible way that the boys had sold their car to Snake.
If, then, they had not willingly given away their possessions, there was the other option. Snake had stolen them. If that was the Case, Bob believed the boys were probably dead. Long ago there might have been a chance that they were being held hostage. But since Snake had moved to Tampa, there would have been no one to watch the boys, no one to make sure they had proper food and water.
Only Snake knew what had really happened to the boys. And it was completely possible, Bob reasoned, that Snake wouldn’t return to Tampa in three weeks. It was possible he might never return.
Bob decided he needed another type of employee. Not a biker or a young man willing to shave his head for a hundred dollars. Someone with intelligence and weapons, and clout. Someone with a reason to arrest John Cox. Someone whose authority would cross state lines, if necessary. Bob needed to hire the FDLE.
In the past Bob had never even considered hiring a law enforcement officer. For one thing, no one in the agency’s higher levels of authority would approve of officers taking private money in return for investigative services. But at the same time, since Bob was neither a criminal suspect nor a potential witness, there was nothing explicitly illegal about taking such an offer of pay.
The more Bob thought about the situation the more he thought that the idea might just work. Of course, technically the agents were already working the case. Special favor for the governor and all. Bob knew that nothing had actually been done to further the investigation since the FDLE’s involvement. However, if he was able to kindle their interest with the offer of cash, it was possible that something might get done. He picked up the phone and dialed.
An hour later, he had successfully placed two special agents on his payroll. They would be reimbursed by funds still coming in from Michigan. The deal was that the agents would notify Bob of anything they learned about Snake and in doing so they would receive two hundred dollars per tidbit.
With that added incentive, Bob found it remarkable how quickly the next piece of information turned up. That afternoon, he took a call from the agents stating that they had spoken with a Mississippi highway patrolman who had seen Cox cash a check in Pascagoula under the name of James Boucher. The officer had recognized Cox as a Pagan biker named Snake who rode a Harley-Davidson chopper.
The information was wonderful news for those in Bob Brown’s camp and well worth the two hundred dollars. Because now in addition to the outstanding warrants, which might only hold Cox in prison for twenty-four hours, the FDLE could arrest him for possible forgery. No judge would set bail for a man with outstanding warrants. So with Snake sitting safely in jail the authorities would have plenty of time to ask him about the mysterious disappearance of two Michigan teenagers and how it was that he had wound up with the boys’ car.
“I do believe this is a wonderful working relationship,” one of the agents said after informing Bob of the newest lead and after Bob had promised to wire him the money.
“My thoughts exactly. Stay in touch.”
AND SO WHILE THE SPECIAL AGENTS TRIED TO DIG UP INformation on Snake, Bob devoted the next few weeks to a number of cases.
Since there seemed to be nothing to do except wait for Snake’s return, he made up new flyers with the boys’ pictures. This time there was a five hundred dollar reward and the phone number listed was that of Bob Brown, Investigator. The flyer read:
Subjects last seen in Daytona Beach area on August 12, and were alleged to have been in the company of another man, John Carter Cox, Jr. Street name: “Snake.”
All calls are strictly confidential.
By November 24, Bob called Rob and Mike into his office and handed them a stack of hundreds of flyers.
“Here you go,” he said.
“Where do you want them, boss?” Mike expected Bob to list a handful of places.
“You know those open spots around Daytona Beach?” Bob said.
“Open spots?”
“Spots. On the walls, on the sand, on the boardwalk, in the arcades.”
“Okay, what about them?”
“Cover them. If someone goes to Daytona Beach this week and doesn’t see our posters we’ve done something wrong.”
As is often the case when money is offered, the reward posters brought in a bevy of calls.
On November 25, Bob received a call from an anonymous source stating that quite possibly the boys were living in the upstairs apartment of a duplex just off the beach. The caller swore he had seen two young men who fit the description of Jim and Daryl heading into that apartment just one week earlier. A man who owned that apartment, the caller said, often allowed young male runaways to live in his home for free. The caller left an address of the apartment and a phone number where he could be reached in case he earned the reward money.
Bob sent Mike to check out the apartment and in a matter of hours he returned. It had been a bad lead. The only boys living there had been doing so for more than a year. They looked nothing like Jim and Daryl.
Then, on November 26 a woman called saying that a teenager who “looked a lot like the photograph of James Boucher” had been seen at the Bellair Bowling Lanes in Daytona Beach. She said she would stay at the bowling alley every day until she saw him again and when she did, she would call back. Then, she asked, could she receive the reward money or would she have to wait until the boys were safely home?
At times Bob wondered if the telephone would ever stop ringing. Each day he took dozens of calls from people who had not actually seen the boys but were willing to look. Especially if it meant getting a piece of the reward. But while the flyers were not turning up any real leads, Bob was happy a
bout one thing. Time was passing. And eventually, unless he’d gotten wind of the police impounding the car, Snake was bound to return home. When he did, Bob and at least one arresting officer from the FDLE would be waiting for him.
BOB BROWN WASN’T THE ONLY ONE RECEIVING BAD TIPS about the case of the two missing teenagers.
The Tampa Police Department had also been the recipient of a rather sick bit of information only days after impounding the Chevy Nova. But if they hadn’t determined anything else, by the end of November the department’s crime lab technicians knew one thing for sure. The strange tip had thankfully been nothing but a cruel hoax.
The bad information had come Tuesday morning, November 21, when the department received a letter from a young man in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, stating that he had been in Daytona Beach recently and spoken with a man named Spider. According to the letter, the man had reason to believe that Spider was now living in Tampa.
That of course, was not true, since Spider was still sitting in the Volusia County Jail. But that alone was not what interested the Tampa police. The man also wrote that Spider had told him something the letter-writer thought needed repeating. Spider had told him that he and his friend, Snake, had killed two men in Daytona Beach and dumped them in the trunk of an automobile.
At that point, no one had yet begun the examination of the Chevy Nova. But with letter in hand, Sergeant Williams himself walked to the crime lab and ordered that the trunk be opened immediately.
“The examination isn’t scheduled until the end of the week,” one of the technicians explained.
“I don’t care.” Williams was horrified at the possibility of there being dead bodies in the trunk of the Chevy Nova. Worse, that they might have sat in the crime lab for nearly three days, decaying under their very noses. He shuddered at the thought.
“Open it up,” he shouted. “Now.”
“Okay, boss, your call.” The technician grabbed a report sheet and a pair of latex rubber gloves. He opened the door carefully and pulled a lever which then popped the trunk open. Williams held his breath as the technician walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk.
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