by D P Lyle
“Possible that the DNA could have been cross contaminated?” Pancake asked.
“Sure. It’s possible.” He sighed. “But I have a good crew here. I trust each of them.” He closed the folder before him. “We have excellent protocols and we follow them strictly.” He leaned back. “Also, the evidence came in weeks, months, even years apart. Billy Wayne’s active period lasted just under two years.”
“Would the techs have access to the old evidence? Maybe grab something from an old case and incorporate it into a new one?”
Gaines shook his head. “Not easy to do. If someone wanted to do that, access any old evidence, it would require a requisition, sometimes even a court order, either of which would have to be reviewed and approved by me. Nothing like that happened.”
“I see.”
“And there would be a record,” Gaines continued. “The evidence would have to be signed out and then signed back in. That never happened either.”
“After the original testing, was the evidence ever re-analyzed?” Ray asked. “Maybe in anticipation of presenting it in court?”
“No. We would have, of course, had a trial been set, but Billy Wayne confessed before those wheels could be put in motion.” Gaines looked at Ray, Pancake, back to Ray. “You guys thinking that someone did the other killing and then used someone here to help frame Billy Wayne?”
“Truth is,” Ray said, “I don’t think that’s the case. But we have to at least consider it.”
Gaines nodded. “I’d suspect that if any shenanigans were in play, it would have happened before the samples reached us.”
“I do, too,” Ray said.
Gaines sighed. “The questions then become, who and why?”
“Assuming Billy Wayne ain’t lying,” Pancake said.
Gaines moved the folder to one side. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” He looked at Ray. “Any idea where you’ll start looking?”
“Pine Key. With three victims there it would afford a better opportunity to plant the DNA. Better than if it were in separate locations.”
Gaines gave a slow nod. “You thinking someone in law enforcement?”
“The last victim there was a cop’s wife.”
“That’s right,” Gaines said. “Frank Clark.”
“Do you know him?” Ray asked.
“Peripherally. Crossed paths with him at a few conferences over the years. But the three Pine Key cases were the only times I ever worked with him professionally. He seemed on top of everything. Particularly for someone from a town where murders aren’t all that common. My overall impression? I’d be surprised if he was involved in anything like that.” He shrugged. “But I’ve been surprised before.”
“He would have access,” Ray said. “The evidence did go through his hands.”
Gaines sighed. “Boy, you guys are going to be walking on egg shells.”
“And trying not to make an omelet,” Pancake said.
Ray stood, ready to thank Gaines, and leave, but another thought brought him back into his chair.
“One more thing,” Ray said. “After the first victim, the others were restrained. Anything useful from the ropes used?”
Gaines shook his head. “Simple ski-type. Blue. Cheap and easy to come by. The gauge, color, and manufacturer matched in each.”
“No way to trace them?”
“The FBI looked into that. Way too common.”
CHAPTER TEN
OUR ROOM, A mini-suite, was perfect. In the living area a stone fireplace, a deep comfy sofa, a pair of plush chairs, and two large windows, one facing the marina and the Gulf, the other aimed up The Famous Pine Key Boardwalk. The bedroom had a king-sized, four-poster bed with a thick down comforter and a second fireplace.
I sat on the bed, patted the comforter. “Want to test-drive this thing?”
“No. I’m hungry.” She shifted her shoulder bag to the other side. “Feed me.”
We strolled down the crowded Boardwalk, weaving our way through people of all ages. Older couples walking hand in hand, teenagers laughing and eating ice cream and taffy, or hanging near the railing looking purposefully cool, and a handful of kids running wild.
It looked just like the pictures I had seen. The Boardwalk hung on the plateau’s edge, businesses lining its inland side. Half a dozen wooden staircases led down to a parklike area and beyond that the marina, filled with boats, both sail and power. No wonder The Boardwalk was the town’s main attraction.
Woody’s was toward the far end, anchored between a clothing store and a candy shop. It reminded me of Captain Rocky’s, my place in Gulf Shores. A large deck bordered The Boardwalk and opened into the restaurant proper, the entire place designed for food, drink, and fun. Even at two in the afternoon, it was busy, and noisy. A group of a dozen women gathered at a long, centrally located table—obviously celebrating a birthday if the balloons and gift bags were any indication. From the empty margarita pitchers that littered the table, I suspected their workday was done.
Their decibel level dropped as we walked by. I smiled, but their collective attention was directed at Nicole. She had that effect on every living creature, it seemed.
We found an umbrella-shaded table on the expansive deck, near the rail that separated it from The Boardwalk. You could literally reach out and touch the people who strolled by. Nestled against the umbrella’s support pole, a metal tray held mustard, ketchup, Tabasco, and a couple of other hot sauces. The wooden armchairs were wide, cushioned, and comfortable.
Our waitress, young and trim, wore white short-shorts that covered very little and an orange halter top that covered less. Her light-brown hair was pulled into a short ponytail and secured with a turquoise clasp. Her name tag read: Sherry.
She dropped a pair of menus on the table. “Welcome to Woody’s. You having lunch, or just drinks?”
“Food,” Nicole said. “I’m starving.”
Sherry laughed. “You’re at the right place. Anything to drink?”
Nicole nodded toward the party. “The margaritas look like a hit.”
“That’s our speciality. We have the standard eight ounce, a sixteen-once schooner, or if you want to catch up with them, a thirty-two-ounce pitcher.”
“Regular size for me,” I said.
“Traditional, strawberry, banana, peach, watermelon, or blackberry?”
“I’m old-fashioned,” I said. “Traditional, no salt.”
“I’ll go with the watermelon,” Nicole said. “Sixteen ounces.”
Oh, yeah. A couple of those and she’d be ready for that four-poster. A nice thought, but, really, what was I thinking? She could drink me under the table. That bottle of tequila we had had the other night at her place? She put a much bigger dent in it than I did. And handled it way better.
Sherry scribbled on her pad, said she’d be back in a sec. I watched her go.
“Did you enjoy that?” Nicole asked.
“Enjoy what?”
“Undressing her with your eyes.” I smiled. “Sure did.”
“I’m so jealous.” She gave me a mock pout.
“No, you’re not.”
“I could be.”
“Can’t think of a single reason why you should be.”
“Since you put it that way.” She smiled. “I like this place.”
“Better than Captain Rocky’s?”
“Wouldn’t say that. But, from what I’ve seen so far, I like this town. Small, quaint. Seems friendly.”
The margaritas arrived. Sherry suggested the shrimp tacos, as they were “to totally die for.” We went with her recommendation. And they were great. When she delivered our second round, I asked if the owner was there.
“Betty Lou?” Sherry said. “She’s always here.”
“We’d like to meet her,” Nicole said.
And we did. Five minutes later a middle-aged, blocky woman with graying hair, large round blue eyes, and a pleasant smile walked up. “Sherry said you guys wanted to introduce yourselves.”
“I
’m Jake. This is Nicole.”
“Betty Lou. Nice to meet you.” She nodded to our empty plates. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” Nicole said.
“It better be.” She laughed. A real laugh. One that shook her entire body and collapsed her eyes into slits. “Or I’d have to kick some butt.”
“Not necessary.” Nicole propped a forearm on the table. “Monica over at the Tidewater said you were the one we needed to chat with.”
“Chattin’s one of my favorite pastimes.” Another laugh. Easy, natural, as if laughing was another of her favorite activities. “What you want to jaw about?”
“We’re with Regency Global Productions.”
Betty Lou scraped back a chair and sat. “From Hollywood? You two look like you’re from Hollywood.”
“We are,” Nicole said. “We’re doing some preliminary research for a documentary series.”
“About what?”
“This segment would be about Billy Wayne Baker.”
“Oh.” Betty Lou’s smile evaporated. Furrows appeared in her brow.
“Not what you think,” I said. “We’re doing a series on the effects folks like him have on victims’ families and communities.”
Nicole picked it up from there. “The series is definitely not focused on the killers. It’s about the collateral damage they do. We’re calling it Aftermath. We’ll look into several serial killers, including Billy Wayne Baker. And since three of his victims were here, we want to feature this community.”
Betty Lou looked from Nicole to me and then back to Nicole. She gave a half nod. “I like it. Everything I’ve ever seen about that boy has made him into some kind of celebrity.”
Nicole nodded. “That seems to be universal in shows about these guys. It’s the Hannibal Lector effect. Like these predators are somehow special.”
“Billy Wayne Baker was special, all right. A special kind of evil.” She gazed out toward the marina. “He sure as hell put this town through the ringer.” Her gaze moved back to us. “Even though it’s been a couple of years, folks still ain’t back to normal. Not sure they ever will be.”
“We want to tell their stories,” Nicole said. “The people of Pine Key.”
“Well, what did Monica think I could do for you?”
I smiled. “She said you knew everyone in town and could direct us to the right folks.”
Betty Lou’s laugh returned. “That’s true. I do know just about everyone. I mean, people got to eat. And drink.” She waved an arm. “They all find their way in here sooner or later.”
“Based on the margaritas and the shrimp tacos, I can see why,” I said.
“My folks in the kitchen, and bar, do a good job.” A burst of laughter from the birthday party grabbed her attention. “It’s Mary Green’s birthday. She owns a gift card shop down the way. I hope I don’t have to eighty-six them. Or drive them home.”
A young man, a busboy, gathered our plates from the table.
“Thanks, Paul,” Betty Lou said.
He dipped his head, smiled, and walked away.
Betty Lou squared her shoulders. “I do like the concept of what you’re doing so I guess the question is what exactly can I do to help out?”
“We want to talk with some members of the victims’ families,” Nicole said. “The ones you think can handle reliving things.”
“Not rightly sure anyone around here wants to revisit Billy Wayne.”
Nicole leaned forward. “You know what I mean. We’re not here to cause any unwarranted pain. But, if anyone wants to share their story, we’d like to listen.”
Betty Lou nodded, smiled. “I like your attitude. Tell you what, let me noodle on it and I’ll write down a few names for you.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“I think we’d like to start with you,” Nicole said.
“Me?”
Nicole smiled. “You’d be great on camera. And I suspect you know Billy Wayne’s story better than most.”
Betty Lou shook her head. “Me? On camera? I just might break the damn thing.” Another body-shaking laugh.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HIS NAME WAS Jason Levy. Billy Wayne’s benefactor. Wasn’t hard to uncover his identity. Took ten minutes. A call to the Union Correctional warden, dropping the right names, and Ray discovered he had exchanged dozens of letters with Billy Wayne and visited him a total of eight times. He accomplished all this sitting in Pancake’s truck outside the FDLE lab.
Pancake then took the ball. Another ten minutes working his iPhone and he discovered that Levy was thirty-eight and had earned his pile of cash in real estate and Wall Street investments. Net worth north of eleven million. He also lived nearby. Ray gave him a call, explaining he wanted to talk about Billy Wayne, and the fact that he knew Levy was paying the freight for Ray’s investigation. Levy hesitated, as if he might deny he was the one, but then, probably sensing that would be a futile tact, agreed to meet.
Pancake plugged his address in the GPS and they headed that way.
River Road bisected a spit of land between Lake Marco and the St. Johns River south of downtown Jacksonville. Multimillion-dollar neighborhood, including Levy’s multilevel, stark-white stucco and glass structure that looked over the river. Palm trees hugged a circular drive that curled around an eight-foot, three-tiered fountain, breeze-blown water rising another five feet in the air. Levy stood in the doorway as they climbed from the truck.
After an exchange of greetings and handshakes and a brief chat about Pancake’s name and facial scrapes, Levy led them inside. Soaring ceilings, magnificent views through a wall of thirty-foot windows. Beyond, an infinity pool. They sat at a table on the deck beneath a green-and-white-striped umbrella.
“I have to say, your call was a surprise,” Levy said. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a pale blue golf shirt, expensive black leather sandals.
“Why?” Ray asked. “Didn’t you think we could uncover the benefactor?”
Levy shrugged.
“You hired us because we know how to do this. Right?”
“Yes. I did.”
“So, we’re doing our job.”
Levy smiled. “I’m curious. How’d you find out about me?”
Ray shrugged. “It’s what we do. More specifically, friends of friends.” He left it at that.
“I see.” Levy glanced at Pancake and then back to Ray. “Who else knows?”
“You’re looking at it,” Pancake said.
“I hope it stays that way. I wanted to be anonymous for a reason.” He looked out toward the water. “I’m afraid most people wouldn’t understand.”
“We have no reason to reveal or alter your relationship with Billy Wayne in any way,” Ray said. “Besides, you’re the guy footing the bill.” Ray smiled.
Levy nodded. “Good. Good.” He spread his hands on the table before him. “What do you want to know?”
“How and why did you hook up with him?”
“I’m sort of a true crime buff. I collect first-edition novels in the genre. Just over eight hundred and counting.”
He hesitated as if waiting for an attaboy or something of that nature, but Ray said nothing.
“Billy Wayne was, of course, a big story. I heard from a friend of mine, a local prosecutor, that Billy Wayne had suggested he didn’t kill all of those folks. He thought it was all so much BS, Billy Wayne messing with the system, that sort of thing, but I was curious. So I wrote him. We became pen pals, I guess you’d say. The more I communicated with him, the more my curiosity grew. Have you met him?”
Ray shook his head. “My son Jake had a chat with him. But me? No.”
“Jake Longly. The baseball player.” It wasn’t a question.
“That’s right. He works for me now.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I did my homework.”
Ray waved a hand at the house. “I suspect you always do.”
Levy gave a soft laugh. “That I do. I talked with Billy Wayne. Yesterday. He was i
mpressed with Jake.”
“Good to hear.”
“As I was with Billy Wayne,” Levy said. “Despite his proclivities for murder and mayhem, he’s actually an amazing guy. Smart. Quiet. Soft-spoken. Definitely not the mental image I had before I met him.”
“That’s what Jake said.” Ray leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table’s edge. “What do you expect to get out of this? Digging into Billy Wayne’s life? Hiring us?”
“The truth.” He forked his fingers through his unkempt light brown hair. “I mean, isn’t this a fantastic story? What if Billy Wayne didn’t kill all of those people? What if he’s being truthful?”
“Is he?”
He opened his hands, palms up. “Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s worth a look.”
“What’s your gut tell you?” Pancake asked. “You probably know him better than most.”
“I believe him. Enough to spend some money to find out.”
“And then what?” Ray asked. “What if he’s being truthful? What’s the next step for you?”
“I know a couple of crime writers who’d jump at the chance to tell the story.” He smiled. “One even wants me to cowrite it with him.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’d mind seeing my own name on one of the books in my collection.”
Ray liked that. An honest and straightforward answer. No wavering or tap dancing. Of course, Levy wanted something out of the deal. Something more than satisfying his curiosity. Curiosity was fine, but results paid the tab for his mansion and his lifestyle. Ray was curious, too. And if Levy was willing to pay for satisfying their collective inquisitiveness, then it was a win-win.
“And if he’s lying?” Ray asked. “Jerking everyone off?”
“It’s still a story, isn’t it?” Levy sighed. “But, honestly, I don’t think he is.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO SIXTEEN-OUNCE MARGARITAS worked. Nicole was lit up. In a good way. The four-poster never had a chance. Neither did I. Also, in a good way. As we lay there, recovering, Ray called. They were fifteen minutes out, would check in, and be good to go in about thirty. I told Nicole. She rolled over, doing that cat-like stretch of hers, saying it was time for another margarita anyway. Where the hell does she put it?
