Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  “Who is where?” I asked.

  “Union Correctional Institute. Over near Raiford.”

  “We’re on it,” Nicole said.

  Of course, we are.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. His office in Jacksonville.”

  “Short notice,” I said.

  “What? You got something else to do?”

  I was sure I did but I couldn’t think of a single thing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WINSTON MCCRACKEN’S OFFICE was in Jacksonville’s downtown business district not far from the famous Jacksonville Landing, a central entertainment, dining, and tourist hangout along the St. John River. Took nearly five hours to get there from Gulf Shores, Alabama. Should’ve taken longer, but Nicole was driving. I suspected the 450 horses beneath the hood of her white SL550 Mercedes were panting and lathered up by the time we let them rest in the parking deck. They emitted ticking noises and heat ripples into the already hot air above the hood.

  The building was fairly generic. Concrete, plain facade, with one of those twirling glass-door entryways. I hate those things. I could never match my stride to the spin rate. Nicole had no problem and charged right through, while I had to do a hop, skip, and jump to avoid a whack in the butt. And even with that I caught a slight nip.

  McCracken’s suite consumed half the fourth floor. The waiting room was empty and the receptionist, a humorless young woman who seemed to be having a bad day, led Nicole and me to McCracken’s office. Corner, with a view of other buildings. Lots of buildings. No water view. Maybe he wasn’t high enough up the legal food chain to warrant one.

  McCracken welcomed us and offered coffee or a soft drink, which we declined. He glanced at me, but his gaze lingered on Nicole. We shook hands and then sat in moderately comfortable chairs facing his desk. Massive law books filled the wall behind him, except for a single shelf where a dozen baseballs and a picture of a woman and three teenagers, girls, sat. Handsome family. McCracken had a full-house backfield of daughters. I felt a twinge for him. He was outnumbered and surrounded in his own house.

  He seemed to wear it well, however. He looked to be mid-fifties, round face, intense brown eyes, half glasses resting low on his nose. He wore a white shirt, yellow tie, gold cuff links. His gray suit jacket hung on a hat rack near the wall to his left. The papers on his desk were neatly stacked and squared.

  “Thanks for coming over,” he said.

  I nodded but said nothing.

  Nicole said, “We at Longly Investigations are glad you called.” She smiled. “And more than a little intrigued.”

  McCracken raised an eyebrow, and one shoulder. “It’s definitely an unusual situation.”

  “Tell us what the story is,” I said.

  “Before we do that, I want to say what an honor it is to meet you.”

  “Me?” I asked.

  “I’m a huge baseball fan.” He gave his chair a half spin toward the shelves behind him and waved a hand at the line of baseballs that kept his family company. He swung back toward me. “I followed your career. You were great.”

  I loved this guy. He obviously was a sports aficionado. Nicole simply shook her head.

  “Thanks, but that was many years ago.”

  “Still, you could really heave a fastball.” He smiled. “And from what I read about that whole Victor Borkov thing, you still can.” He laughed.

  I shrugged. “We were in a pickle and baseballs were the only weapons I had.”

  Which was true. Borkov had captured us and taken us far out in the Gulf. Middle of the night. His plan was to tie us to an iron ring and toss us overboard. Into very black and very deep water. Not a pleasant thought. Who thinks up things like that in the first place? I managed to whack his two henchmen with baseballs. My speed was down to only eighty miles an hour but it was enough to stun them so that Nicole and I could fly off the back of the 100-foot yacht and plunge thirty feet into the cold water. Where Ray and his special forces buddies saved us and took out Borkov and crew. Hell of a night.

  “Speaking of baseballs,” McCracken said. “If you could indulge me.” He pulled open a drawer and removed a bright, white, obviously new baseball. “Maybe an autograph?” He extended the ball and a marker pen toward me.

  I signed the ball and handed it back.

  He examined it, smiling broadly. He stood, placed it next to the others, and returned to his seat. “Thanks. A wonderful addition to my collection.” He rubbed his hands together. “To business. I’m sure you know of Billy Wayne Baker.”

  “A little,” I said.

  “He’s a confessed serial killer. Seven victims. Officially. I was part of his defense team. We never made it to trial—which is a good thing, I think. Had we, he’d probably be sitting on death row.”

  “No lawyerly tricks would’ve worked?” I asked.

  McCracken smiled. “Point well taken. Sure, we had a few moves but, in the end, they likely wouldn’t have been enough. The prosecution held all the cards. They had DNA in every case.”

  “So he really did all seven murders?” Nicole asked.

  “You mean like the DNA doesn’t lie?” McCracken raised an eyebrow and gave her a half smile.

  She smiled back. “Something like that.”

  “He did confess to all the killings. Right?” I said.

  “He did.”

  “And now he wants to recant?”

  “On two of them, yes.”

  “Why only two?” Nicole asked. “He’d still be in jail for life.”

  McCracken nodded. “Actually, several lives.” He scratched his chin. “Billy Wayne’s an unusual character. A serial killer? Sure. Brutally so, in fact. But he has a deep sense of fair play.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Didn’t he break and enter at night and then rape and murder his victims?”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  I shrugged.

  We had dug into Billy Wayne’s history. Actually, Pancake had. He had printed out forty pages on Billy Wayne’s killing spree, which I had read aloud while Nicole flew across the Florida panhandle to Jacksonville.

  McCracken slipped off his glasses and rested them on the desk. “Actually, he talked his way into some of the victims’ homes. As you’ll see when you meet him, there’s more there than what you might think. He’s smart, charming, very well read. Could’ve been anything he wanted. In fact, he was a straight-A student in prelaw at Florida State when he began killing. That was just over four years ago. He went on for around two years until his arrest and incarceration a couple of years ago.”

  “The fair play comes in where?” I asked.

  “I know it sounds odd, but Billy Wayne does believe he’s responsible for his own actions. Willing to pay that price. That’s why he confessed and waived a trial.”

  “And to take the death penalty off the table,” I said.

  “That was my doing. What Billy Wayne really wanted was to tell the truth.”

  “And the truth is?” Nicole asked.

  “He always said he didn’t do two of the killings.”

  “Which ones?”

  “He won’t say.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Just what I said. Not only that, he says he knows who did them.”

  Nicole’s brow furrowed. “But he’s not telling?”

  McCracken tapped an index finger on his desk a couple of times and shook his head. “No. He wanted to have his day in court. At the sentencing. Wanted to tell the judge he only killed five people.”

  “Did he?” I asked.

  “Never got the chance. I stopped him cold.”

  “Why?”

  “If Billy Wayne reneged on any of the killings, the prosecution would have pulled the plug on the deal. That wasn’t up for negotiation.” McCracken pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He looked up at me. “In the end, the prosecution didn’t really care who killed whom but they wouldn’t take the deal unless he confessed to all seven.�
�� He shrugged. “God forbid there were any open cases left behind. Anyway, we—me and the prosecution—met with the judge. Told him what Billy Wayne wanted. Of course, the prosecution made it clear that if he did recant on any of the killings the deal was off. I said Billy Wayne would confess to all but wanted it on the record that he didn’t do two of the murders. The judge almost killed the deal right then and there. Said if Billy Wayne confessed to something he didn’t do, maybe a trial was in order so he could prove it.”

  “But, he didn’t,” Nicole said.

  McCracken shook his head. “Took some tap dancing, but I convinced the judge that Billy Wayne was comfortable—I actually used that word—with a full confession. Then, it took some arm twisting, but Billy Wayne finally agreed.”

  “Sounds like an honest citizen,” I said.

  McCracken smiled. “I can appreciate your skepticism. Were I in your position, I’d probably come to the same conclusion. But I know Billy Wayne. As well as anyone does.” He picked up a black Mont Blanc pen from his desk, examined it, and laid it aside. “He’s a sick young man, a brutal killer, but he does have a sense of responsibility, and, as I said, fair play.”

  “So why now?” Nicole asked. “His conviction, or confession, was years ago. Why stir things up at this late date?”

  “While I was twisting Billy Wayne’s arm on the deal, I told him he’d get his chance to tell his story sometime down the road. He countered that no one would believe him if he confessed to all of them, to which I said no one believed him anyway.” He shrugged. “Not then and probably not ever, confession or no. That any recantation would fall on deaf ears. Unless some new evidence came up.”

  “Did it?” Nicole asked.

  “No. But Billy Wayne is convinced it’s out there. All it takes is for someone to find it.”

  “And that’s where we come in?” I asked.

  McCracken nodded. “So it seems.”

  “So, Billy Wayne bided his time and now has a benefactor,” I said. “An anonymous one, I understand.”

  “I can tell you that this person has a keen interest in crime and forensic science and all things law enforcement. He’s supported crime labs and police associations for years. Has one of the largest collections of first-edition crime novels in the country.”

  “A crime groupie?” Nicole asked.

  McCracken smiled. “You might say that.”

  “How many people know Billy Wayne denied two of the killings?” I asked.

  “Of course, the prosecutor and the judge do. But I don’t think they really believed Billy Wayne. Or more likely even cared. I think they thought he was simply trying to mess with the system. Plus, the aftermath of the rumors and rumblings a couple of years ago. I suspect anyone who heard those has long forgotten that part of the Billy Wayne Baker story. So, in reality, only me and his benefactor.”

  “All this time he’s been silent on the subject?” I asked.

  McCracken nodded.

  “Why? Seems like a newspaper or TV reporter, even some true crime writer, would listen to his story and run with it.”

  “All I know is that he said if he made too many waves, he wouldn’t be safe.”

  “From other prisoners?” Nicole asked.

  “Or the guards,” McCracken said. “He said if he pointed the finger where it needed pointing, things could go sideways—his word.”

  “But now he’s willing to take that chance?” I asked.

  McCracken opened his hands, palms up. “That seems to be the case. He was clear that he didn’t simply want to come clean, but rather he wanted proof that he was being truthful.”

  That actually made sense. On some level. Billy Wayne screaming his innocence, even on two of the murders, maybe especially on only two, wouldn’t do much. Except possibly make him a prison target. But, if he had real evidence, proof, that might be different. What he hoped to accomplish, how that would change his life in any way, I still didn’t grasp, but maybe it was the fair play thing. Whatever that was.

  “How did this anonymous guy and Billy Wayne hook up?” Nicole asked.

  “He sent Billy Wayne a letter. They began a correspondence. Billy Wayne apparently came to trust him and told him his story. The guy believed him and decided to help. He then contacted me. To say I was surprised doesn’t quite cover it. So, I called Ray and here we are.”

  “What’s the next step?” I asked.

  “I’ve got you a sit-down with Billy Wayne.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Nine a.m.” He looked at Nicole. “I’d suggest it only be Jake. Women visitors always create a stir inside Union Correctional.” He smiled. “Particularly one that looks like you. It would no doubt create a riot.”

  “What’s wrong with a little riot?” she said.

  Good grief.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE UNION CORRECTIONAL Institute, an important part of the larger Florida prison system, housed the baddest of the bad. Definitely maximum security, it even had its own death row. It had been home to such pleasant citizens as Daniel Conahan, the Hog Trail Murderer; Danny Rolling, the Gainesville Ripper; and two of the Xbox Murderers, Troy Victorino and Jerone Hunter. It now also housed one Billy Wayne Baker—in gen pop, his confessions having freed him from death row.

  Billy hadn’t gotten a cute moniker like slasher or ripper or strangler, though strangulation had been his basic method for murder. I suspected the newspapers had mostly ignored old Billy Wayne because his killings took place in the less populated areas and smaller towns of northwest Florida. Not to mention that Florida had a laundry list of serial killers to choose from and there were only so many newspaper column inches available. They might buy ink by the barrel, but space could kick off a barroom brawl among reporters.

  Maybe if he’d chopped up his victims or posed them in a bizarre ritualistic fashion, he would have garnered more attention. But simple rape and strangulation weren’t worthy.

  Not in the Sunshine State, anyway.

  Union Correctional squatted along a two-lane road halfway between Jacksonville and Gainesville near the tiny town of Raiford. It was sterile and institutional and more than a little scary. Nicole felt the same way. I knew this because as we approached the facility, she said, “This place looks scary.”

  “That’s why you’re not going in.”

  On the drive down, she had said she was “damn sure” going in with me. I said no. She said I couldn’t stop her. I said I could—and would. She said I was an ass. I agreed but that she still wasn’t going inside.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t want to have to watch out for you, and me, at the same time.”

  “There are guards there, I presume.”

  Presume?

  “Yes, but they have their hands full. If the inmates get restless, they might just toss us out. Before we ever get to Billy Wayne.” I could see her mulling that over and went on. “Besides, I don’t want Billy Wayne distracted. The visit probably won’t be very long and there are a few things I need to get from him.”

  She gave me a glance. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “I know.”

  “At least it’s a rare event.” She smiled.

  She can be so funny.

  When she pulled up to the entry gate, I got out and walked around to the driver’s side. She lowered the window. “You going to hang around here or what?”

  “I’ll drive into town and find a Starbucks.”

  “Not sure Raiford is big enough for a Starbucks.”

  “Never seen a place without one.”

  She left.

  I stood before the entry door and stared at it. Wasn’t looking forward to being inside. What if they had a riot, or mistook me for one of the inmates, or lost the keys? Silly, but standing there, a sliver of claustrophobia reared its head. I looked up at the clear blue sky, figuring I’d miss it the most. That and Nicole.

  I remembered the first time I was in jail. Eight years old. Me and Pancake. We had
done something stupid. Spray-painted our names on Mr. Fletcher’s garage. He wasn’t happy. Neither was Ray. We couldn’t deny it was us, our names emblazoned in red on the white clapboard. Like I said, something stupid.

  Ray decided we were inveterate criminals. Destined to be outlaws. Not the first time he had said that but this time he added that we needed to learn our future. He knew a guy at the county jail. Ray always knew a guy, it seemed. Sargent something or other.

  My mother was alive then. She defended us, saying we were just kids. Ray didn’t listen. Said we either learned now or later the hard way. He finally won the argument by saying she should consider it a field trip with a lesson attached.

  The sergeant was scary. Dark eyes, a thick mustache, and not a smile to be seen. He showed us the entire jail, with all its concrete walls and clanging doors, before locking us in a tiny cell. He and Ray then went for lunch. A long lunch. Seemed like days.

  Ray’s point was well taken.

  I took a deep breath and entered Union Correctional. Fortunately, the guard had my name on his clip board. He didn’t smile, probably universal for jailers, but he made a call. Five minutes later a uniformed officer named Rafael Lopez appeared. He led me into the entry building. After showing my ID, emptying my pockets, giving up my phone, and undergoing a search, he explained the rules, emphasizing that they were rigid and not negotiable. He didn’t smile either. Not once. I then sat on a bench and waited for another guard to escort me inside to the visitors’ area.

  Last night, after Nicole and I checked into the Hyatt, we had a nice dinner, a stroll through Jacksonville Landing, and then a few drinks at the hotel bar. Back in our room, Nicole used me for her pleasure—really, she did—I only participated to be polite—and then she immediately rolled over and went to sleep. No cuddling, no pillow talk. She could be such a guy sometimes. I was too amped up for sleep so I reread Pancake’s research on Billy Wayne Baker.

  Billy Wayne was twenty-six. He had begun his killing spree four years earlier, a week before his twenty-second birthday. His first victim had been in Apalachicola. A young woman who lived alone. Killed in her apartment on a Sunday night. He left behind DNA and fingerprints. Lucky for Billy Wayne, and unlucky for the cops and the world in general, he wasn’t in any of the databases, neither AFIS nor CODEX, so he remained anonymous.