Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  The knitter said, “Nice morning, ain’t it?” She wore baggy tan pants and a dark blue sweatshirt, Visit Panama City in white script across the front, sleeves pushed to her elbows.

  “Sure is,” I said.

  “Where you guys from?” the puzzler asked. Also clad in tan pants and a dark blue sweatshirt, this one stating Cats Rule. I wondered what the dog thought of that.

  “How do you know we’re not from here?” I asked.

  The knitter took that one. “’Cause we know everyone in town and we ain’t seen you before.”

  I smiled. “Gulf Shores.”

  “Well, welcome. I’m Mary Sue,” the knitter said. “This here’s Erma.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Nicole said. She squatted and looked at the dog. “Who’s this?”

  “That’s Poochie. She’s a bit spoiled.” The dog looked up at hearing her name, tail offering a couple of lazy wags.

  “And whose fault is that?” Erma asked.

  “Yours,” Mary Sue replied. She flashed a mischievous smile.

  Erma fanned herself with the crossword book. “She’s mostly a liar.” She laughed.

  “You do your fair share of spoiling,” Mary Sue said.

  Erma shrugged.

  Poochie had shuffled over to Nicole, who scratched her head. “She’s sweet.”

  “You guys the ones doing that movie thing?” Erma asked.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “We heard some about it. Heard it concerns Billy Wayne Baker.”

  “Not exactly,” Nicole said. She stood. “It’ll be mostly about his effect on this town.”

  “How much film you got?” Erma asked. “It’s a long and sad and sordid story.”

  “We know.”

  “You here to see the mayor?” Mary Sue asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Erma pointed to one of the porch cover support poles. “Tell her it’s about time to repaint things around here.”

  I saw a few curls of old paint lifting way from the wood. “Will do.”

  “She won’t listen to us. Maybe she’ll do something if movie folks complain.” She laughed.

  We said our goodbyes to Mary Sue and Erma and entered. Quiet, the reception desk unoccupied. A sign indicated the “Mayor’s Office” was down the hallway to the right. We headed that way and found the door open. Gwen Olsen sat behind her desk. I recognized her from the picture on the city’s webpage.

  Based on the birth date on her bio, I knew she was thirty-seven. Meant she’d first been elected mayor at twenty-five. No small feat, I imagined. She looked younger. I suspected that when she first ran for office she would have appeared to be fourteen. Must have run a hell of a campaign. Energetic blue eyes looked up from beneath her short, curly blond hair.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Jake Longly and Nicole Jamison.”

  “Oh, yes.” She stood, glanced at her watch. “Is it nine thirty already?”

  “I think we’re a few minutes early,” Nicole said. “We can come back.”

  “No, no, please come in.”

  She circled her desk and we shook hands. Her grip was firm. She wore gray slacks and a white blouse, a simple gold chain necklace visible at the open collar. She directed us to the sitting area to the left of her desk. A sofa, two wingback chairs, a coffee table. We sat on the sofa.

  “Can I get you some coffee or juice, anything?”

  “We’re good,” I said.

  She sat in one chair. “I take it you met Mary Sue Baker and Erma Clemens out front.”

  “The two young ladies?” I asked.

  She laughed. “They’d love to hear that. They’re sisters. Both widowed. Live together a block from here. They’re our de facto welcoming committee. Here every day.”

  “They did look comfortable.” I smiled.

  “We used to have a bench out there—for folks to sit out in the fresh air—but we brought in the rockers just for those two. Other folks, too, of course, but Mary Sue and Erma definitely have staked their claim.”

  “Seems to work,” Nicole said.

  “They asked us to tell you the porch needs repainting,” I said.

  Olsen smiled. “They’ve been harping on that for a couple of months. As soon as I find the money, we’ll get on it.”

  Small-town budgets.

  “So, you’re the Hollywood folks?” Olsen asked.

  I smiled. “Yes.”

  “And you’re doing a documentary?”

  “News travels fast,” Nicole said.

  “Most things around here move slowly, but news? It’s like electricity.” She smiled. “Particularly if Betty Lou has news.”

  “Ah,” I said. “She’s the source.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “She does love a good story.”

  I nodded.

  “She called me last night. Gave me a heads-up that you were coming by.” She smiled. “She sure liked you guys.”

  “We liked her, too,” Nicole said. “Funny lady.”

  “That’s one of her many good qualities.” Olsen leaned back, settling into the chair. “By the time I got to breakfast over at McGee’s Cafe this morning, she had everyone buzzing.”

  “I hope in a good way,” I said.

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t say some folks have concerns about resurrecting Billy Wayne Baker. That’s someone we’d as soon forget.” She sighed. “But for the most part, I’d say people are curious.”

  “Not unexpected,” I said.

  “So, tell me what this’s all about.”

  Nicole explained the documentary and our proposed slant on it.

  Olsen seemed to give that some thought, then asked, “Why here? Billy Wayne ranged far and wide around this part of Florida.”

  “Three of his victims were here,” Nicole said. “Seemed like the logical place to start.”

  She nodded but remained silent.

  “This documentary series will be called Aftermath,” Nicole said. “We’ll ultimately have eight to twelve episodes. That hasn’t been decided yet. Each will focus on a different community. A different killer. One principle of storytelling is to tell a small story as a means of telling a big one. Such murders in big metropolitan areas—like LA or New York—rarely make a blip. Comparatively speaking. Back-page stuff. But, their effects on small towns are catastrophic. Visceral. More personal.”

  “Since in small communities, everyone knows everyone else?” Olsen said

  “Exactly.” Nicole nodded. “The victims aren’t simply random names.”

  “That was the case here.” She brushed a curl off her forehead, shifted slightly in her seat. “I like it. It might be the final healing we need.”

  “That’s what we hope.”

  She took a slow breath. “What do you need from me?”

  Nicole uncrossed and recrossed her long legs. “We’re doing preliminary interviews right now. Later we’ll put together a shooting schedule and get a crew in to do the actual filming. Since you were mayor at that time, that would put you at ground zero. We want your take on that time. What it was like around here.”

  Another breath, as if gathering her thoughts. “The first murder was a shock. Like a punch to the gut. Had everyone on edge. The second and third knocked this town way off balance. Staggered the entire community. Everyone was literally terrified. With the events taking place at night, in people’s homes, where they were supposed to be safe, the tension became unbearable. You could taste the fear. Everyone was distracted, confused. Gun sales went up. Home security systems, too.” She waved a hand. “The traffic through my door increased dramatically.”

  “A universal reaction,” I said.

  She nodded. “Charlie Morgan, our police chief, did a magnificent job. Calming everyone as best he could given the circumstances. He added patrols. We dug into the city coffers for the overtime pay he needed.”

  “I know the final victim was the wife of one of his officers,” I said.

  “Sara Clark. One of the
nicest and sweetest people you’d ever meet. And being Frank’s wife, it made Charlie’s job even harder. Folks seemed to think that if the home of our best cop wasn’t safe, whose was?”

  “I understand Frank Clark and his partner lead the investigation,” Nicole said.

  “That’s right. Frank and Terry Munson.”

  “From what we’ve heard, they’re good at their job.”

  “We’re lucky to have them. Both are sharp and dedicated to this town.”

  “We also heard that Frank Clark was broken up over his wife’s death.”

  “He was. Understandably. He and Sara were one of those couples. The ones everybody points to as ideal. But Frank manned up. Bit the bullet and did his job.” She smiled. “That’s the kind of guy he is. Tough as nails.”

  “We’d like to talk with him,” Nicole said. “And his partner.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  I nodded. “And the chief, too, of course.”

  Olsen smiled. “Charlie loves to talk so that’s an easy one. I’ll give him a call and let him know.”

  “We’d appreciate it.”

  “I do have a question,” Olsen said. “I understand you have a couple of P.I.s with you.”

  I smiled. To put her at ease, but more to cover the unease I felt growing inside. For the lie I was about to tell. This was a good town, a nice place to live. This was a good mayor, a good woman. I only hoped that in the end, when the truth came out, as it would have to if Billy Wayne was telling the truth, she’d understand. Even forgive us. But, right now, the game had to continue.

  “Ray’s my father,” I said. “He’s a P.I. over in Gulf Shores. He and his partner are here as technical consultants. Help us understand the investigative side of this.”

  Nicole jumped in. “That’s common with these types of documentaries. We always employ consultants. So we don’t mess up the technical stuff. Otherwise, believability goes out the window. Viewers won’t trust any of the story if they think we don’t know what we’re talking about.”

  I could feel the same unease in Nicole’s voice. Apparently, Olsen didn’t.

  “Makes sense. I’ll give Charlie a call.”

  She stood and walked to her desk. She punched a button on the desk phone, waited a few seconds, then, “Charlie? Gwen. Yeah, just fine. I had a chat with Jake Longly and Nicole Jamison, the two from Hollywood.” Pause. “Yeah, they seem like nice folks.” She smiled at us. “They want to have a sit-down with you.” Pause. “Will do. Thanks.” She hung up. “He said come by now. He’s got time.”

  We stood. “Thanks,” I said. “That was nice of you to do.”

  She smiled. “I have an ulterior motive.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remind him we have a meeting later this morning. He sometimes forgets.” Her smile broadened. “Accidentally on purpose.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  REACHING THE POLICE station took a half a minute. It was right next door. Also white clapboard with black trim, it was essentially a mirror image of city hall. Slightly larger but the design and color carried on the city’s chosen theme. Clean, functional. The major difference was it had no front porch, only a small stoop, and no rockers. No Mary Sue or Erma. No Poochie either. A gray cat sat on the lawn near the walkway, bathing. It ignored us.

  I immediately liked Chief Charles Morgan, or Charlie as he asked us to call him. Almost before he said a word. He reminded me of everybody’s favorite uncle. I knew he was sixty-three. He had a round face and a thick body, carrying a good thirty pounds of extra weight. His gray hair and matching mustache were thick; his blue eyes and smile bore a hint of mischievousness. Probably had some hell-raising in his background. Before he pinned on a badge.

  He offered us coffee, but we declined and took the chairs that faced his desk.

  “Gwen said you guys wanted to talk.”

  “We do,” I said. “Thanks for seeing us.”

  He gave a slight wave of his hand as if to say it was no problem. “Betty Lou told me at breakfast this morning you’re doing some film, or something, on Billy Wayne Baker.”

  “Betty Lou gets around.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “That she does. But it seems you two made quite an impression and she ain’t easily impressed. I’d say she’s a big fan.”

  “As we are of her,” Nicole said. “I love her straightforward sense of humor.”

  He smiled. “That’s her in a nutshell. So, tell me about this project.”

  “It’s a documentary series,” Nicole said. She laid out the gist of the project.

  He tugged one edge of his mustache and nodded. “So, this ain’t another one of those that makes Billy Wayne Baker look like a criminal genius? Or a celebrity of some sorts?”

  “The opposite,” Nicole said. “This isn’t a story about Billy Wayne, it’s about the damage people like him leave behind.”

  “I’ve got to say that normally I wouldn’t give anybody who wanted to talk about Billy Wayne the time of day. Wouldn’t even let them through the door.” His gaze moved back and forth studying us. “Unless they wanted to tell me he got himself killed up there in Raiford.” He hesitated. “But, you two seem different from the newspaper types who try to shoehorn their way in here.”

  “We are,” Nicole said. She smiled. “We want to hear, then tell, the stories of the people in this town who he affected. The stories newspapers tend to ignore.”

  That uneasy feeling rose in my chest again. I could see in Chief Morgan’s eyes that he believed, maybe even trusted us. But would he if the path we were exploring led to one of his best officers? Would he feel used? Duped? Probably. We could only hope that, if indeed a killer was still in this community and if we were able to prove that, the end would justify our devious means. My discomfort was tempered to some degree by the counter feeling that this would be a real documentary. It would tell the stores of real people. It could serve as a tool for healing. Or was that simply the lie I was telling myself?

  Morgan shifted in his chair. It creaked under his weight. “I suspect you’ll find most people around here willing to talk about it. A few won’t.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s expected.”

  “Maybe even those will come around once they know the slant of the documentary,” Nicole said. “After they get comfortable with what we’re doing.”

  “Could be.” He tapped an index finger on his desk top. “I suspect you want my recollections on that whole deal.”

  “We do,” Nicole said. “We’re in the research stage. Preliminary stuff. We’ll then set up a video interview. If that’s okay.”

  He smiled. “The missus always said I was so funny I should have my own TV show.” One eyebrow gave a quick bounce. “But I think she was being sarcastic.”

  I laughed and glanced at Nicole. “I understand completely.”

  She gave a mock surprise look.

  Morgan laughed. “So you two are more than just coworkers?”

  “We are,” Nicole said. “Jake needs taming. That’s my job.”

  “I suspect my wife’d say the same thing.” The finger tapped again. “So, let’s get to business. Before someone out there in our fair city does something stupid and my whole day goes south.”

  “Tell us about that time,” Nicole said. “How you became embroiled in Billy Wayne’s world.”

  “Embroiled. I like that word. That’s what it was, too. Or maybe entrapped. Like we were tangled up in a fishing net and sinking fast.” He leaned back and laced his fingers over his belly. “The first murder—Loretta Swift—was a big jolt. We’d only had one killing around here in memory. Must’ve been over ten years earlier.” He glanced down at his desk top, gathering his thoughts, maybe envisioning something from the past. He sighed, his head giving a slight bob. “Loretta was a great lady. She and her husband, Peter, owned a bakery just over on Main. Swift’s Bakery. Stop by. They make the best muffins and pastries in town.” He patted his stomach. “I can vouch for that.”

  “We’ll do it,”
I said.

  “She was killed in her home. Right?” Nicole asked.

  “That’s true. Peter was at an Elk’s meeting. Up in Panama City. Got home about eleven. Found Loretta dead. When I got there, it was obvious she’d been dead for a couple of hours at least.”

  “From what we’ve read, at that time, you had no idea Billy Wayne Baker was involved,” Nicole said.

  “The guys up in Jacksonville had already linked up the two earlier killings. That young girl in Apalachicola and the woman over in Santa Rosa Beach. Those were a good year before Loretta got killed. So, we never gave a thought that her murder might be part of that. Things like that happen elsewhere. Not here.” He shook his head. “Man, were we ever naive. Anyway, when the DNA matched those two cases, it put Billy Wayne right here in our own backyard. Things got crazy around here in a hot minute.”

  “I suspect it did change the town’s mood,” I said.

  “It’s funny,” Morgan said. “It was sort of a dichotomy. Is that the right word? Anyway, it’s true that the fear level around here jumped off the charts when Loretta was killed. But linking it up to those earlier murders actually lowered the hysteria a tad.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Each of the other killings had been in different cities. I think that made folks feel the killer was more or less itinerant. Not someone local. Meant that if he’d struck here then he’d likely’ve moved on. Gone. Never to be seen again. Better than having a killer living here among us seemed to be the mood.”

  “Until the next time,” I said.

  “You can say that again. It was like someone had poured gasoline on smoldering embers.”

  “From what we’ve read,” I said, “no one around here remembers seeing Billy Wayne. Before or after the murders.”

  “That’s correct. And we asked everyone in the whole damn town. Nothing. Like he was a ghost.”

  “In many ways he was.” I looked at him. “I met him. Talked with him up at Union Correctional.”

  “Bet that was pleasant,” Morgan said.

  “Unexpected. Billy Wayne seemed calm, passive. Even harmless.”

  “A case of the book not matching its cover?” Morgan asked.