Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  “So, all but the first one,” Ray said. “The one in Apalachicola?”

  “That’s what the FBI said. That young lady wasn’t restrained at all. And she fought back.”

  Ray nodded. “That’s what we understand.”

  “One thing you can say about Billy Wayne—he learned from his mistakes.”

  “Sort of,” Pancake said. “He did leave his DNA everywhere.”

  “That he did,” Munson said.

  “And the only real evidence you found was a small semen stain on the bedsheets?” Ray asked.

  “That’s right. No fingerprints, or shoe prints. Nothing else.”

  “And it took a few days for that to be connected to Billy Wayne Baker?” Pancake asked.

  “Yep. Until the lab up in Jacksonville did its testing. Then the hysteria around here really ramped up.” He looked at Ray. “Anything else you want to see here?”

  Ray shook his head.

  Back in the car, Munson pulled from the curb and after zigging a couple of blocks, turned into the drive of another pleasant house on another pleasant street. This one smaller, tan brick, shaded by a pair of maple trees. They climbed out and moved to the front of the car.

  “This is where Noleen Kovac lived. Looked like Billy Wayne cut through a screen door that entered off the back patio. She wasn’t found until the next day. A good twelve hours after the murder. When she didn’t show up for work over at the bank—she was a teller—and didn’t answer her phone, her boss called and asked us to check on her. Frank took the call since he’d had the duty the night before. He found her in her bed, nude, tied with the same rope, and strangled. He called me and Chief Morgan. Again, no prints, only a semen stain on the bedsheets.”

  “I assume you considered this was Billy Wayne’s work from the beginning?” Ray asked.

  “More than that. We knew. I mean, we couldn’t definitely say that until the DNA came back, but we knew.” He pointed toward the house. “What we saw in there was a carbon copy of Loretta Swift. In essentially every detail.”

  “I hear her brother made some waves,” Pancake said.

  “Tommy Lee. Sure did. He gathered a few sympathizers and basically marched on city hall. Said we were incompetent. Called us Keystone cops. That sort of thing.”

  “How’d you guys take that?” Ray asked.

  “Like you’d imagine. We were pissed off. Big-time. But we kept telling ourselves he was a grieving brother. Still, wasn’t easy to sit back and let him trash us.”

  “The job’s never easy.”

  “You got it.”

  “Tommy Lee have a history of that sort of thing?” Pancake asked.

  Munson shook his head. “Not really. He went to school with us, too. Back in the day. Frank and I both knew him. We were friends back then but later drifted apart. He was on his boat all the time, and me and Frank were pretty busy, too.” He brushed his hair off his forehead again. “You might say life got in the way.”

  “No bad blood?” Ray asked. “Between him and either you or Frank?”

  “Not before Noleen’s murder.”

  Ray nodded.

  “After Sara Clark was killed, he softened a notch. Still thought we were incompetent, but since one of our own had lost a wife it settled him down.”

  Ray walked up the drive to the garage that sat at the end. The door, the entire structure, could use a new coat of paint, but it otherwise looked solid. Closed up. In the backyard, there was a well-maintained garden demarcated by railroad ties, a blue and silver swing set, and a small, round inflatable pool. A green garden hose hung over its edge.

  Ray returned to where Munson and Pancake stood. “Who lives here now?”

  “Tommy Lee inherited the property from his sister. I think he toyed with idea of renting it, but in the end, didn’t want anything more to do with it. He sold it to a young couple. Of course, knowing that a murder had happened here brought the price down.”

  “Sounds like Tommy Lee and his sister were close.”

  “Sure were. Noleen was older by a couple of years. They lost their parents in a car accident. Down near Orlando. A few years ago.”

  “That’s a tough one,” Pancake said.

  “Sure was. The only silver lining was the parents left them a chunk of money. And a house. They sold the house. Neither of them wanted that one either.”

  “How much money we talking?” Ray asked.

  Munson looked at the house. “I’ve heard it was around three-hundred thousand. In that neighborhood. They split it.” He kicked at a loose stone. It skittered across the drive. “I understand it was in an account at Noleen’s bank. Given her financial background, she handled it. Made some good investments. Grew it some from what I understand.”

  “I assume Tommy Lee inherited it from his sister,” Ray said.

  Munson looked at him. “Don’t see that that’s relevant.”

  “Just trying to get a handle on Tommy Lee,” Ray said. “Before we talk with him.”

  Munson nodded. “I don’t think either he or Noleen ever took any of the money out. Neither needed it. She had her career and Tommy Lee runs a successful charter business.”

  “I see.”

  Munson eyed him. “You sound like a cop.”

  Ray shrugged. “P.I. thinking. Old habit.”

  “I hear you,” Munson said. “Do that myself all too often.” He sighed. “That much money could be a motive for murder. But not here. Tommy Lee and Noleen were close. Besides, Billy Wayne Baker killed Noleen. Not much doubt about that.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I’VE BEEN BURNED by reporters before,” Detective Frank Clark said. “So I think my caution is understandable.”

  He sat across the centrally located, dull, metal table from Nicole and me. We were in “the box,” as he called it. The interrogation room. No windows, one door, a video camera near the ceiling in one corner, aimed at us but not active, and three hard, uncomfortable chairs. The table was bolted to the floor and a thick chain attached to a pair of handcuffs hung off the edge to my right. The overheads were fluorescent and harsh. Not a comfortable situation if the focus was on you. Hell, I felt guilty. And I hadn’t done anything. Well, other than spinning a yarn about our real agenda and lying to everyone, including the police.

  I eyed the cuffs. I had worn a pair before. More than once. The first time being just after my seventeenth birthday. Me and Pancake. Bar fight. Two a.m. Intoxicated. Angry police. Ray even angrier. He actually let them take us to jail. Got Pancake’s folks in on the whole deal.

  This visit was nowhere near the few hours Pancake and I stewed in jail as kids. While Ray went to lunch. Underage drinking and fighting was, to Ray, more egregious than spray-painting a neighbor’s garage. Hard to argue with his logic there. Still, the object lesson was more or less the same—if you do stupid shit, there are bad consequences. He did arrange for us to have our own cell. Two bunks, one toilet. Which was good since the other inmates looked like serious criminals. The night had been long and cold. Even though it was summer in Gulf Shores, something about concrete and iron dropped the temp. The flimsy sheet and blanket and painfully thin mattress offered little help. Not my favorite memory.

  To his credit, Clark had apologized for using “the box” for our chat. Said it was the only place around the department with any real privacy. He added that he suspected our questions might enter areas he didn’t want to reach the gossip mill. I understood.

  Nicole had a notepad before her and had placed her iPhone on the table to record the interview.

  “We aren’t reporters,” I said. “We’re here to make a documentary.”

  The lie was getting easier.

  “We want to tell your story,” Nicole said. “This isn’t a hit piece. I promise.”

  Clark stared at her. Also, to his credit, he hadn’t visually undressed Nicole. Not once. In my experience that was rare. In fact, I couldn’t ever remember it happening before. Us guys are just like that. Can’t help it. I took Clark’s lack
of leering to mean his head was somewhere else. Maybe back to the day his wife was murdered. By Billy Wayne? By Clark himself? We didn’t yet know which.

  “Why me? Why Pine Key?” He folded his hands before him. “Lot’s of others lost loved ones to Billy Wayne.”

  “Every story needs a focus,” Nicole said. “A sharply defined one. If we simply told the tales of all the victims, the impact would be lost. Viewers would yawn and change the station.” She smiled. “When we did our research, we got the feeling the murders hit this town harder than the others where Billy Wayne prowled. Partly because those towns he only visited once. Here, he seemed to …” she hesitated as if searching for the right word … “linger.”

  Clark nodded. “That he did. And you’re correct. It hit this community hard.” He gave a half shake of his head. “We still haven’t recovered.” He sighed. “Just so I understand this, it’s your uncle who’s doing this. Right?”

  “Yes. Charles Balfour.”

  “A name everyone knows.” He offered a half smile, then looked at me. “And Ray and Pancake? Your father and his partner? They’re technical consultants?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Technical consultants are fairly standard for documentaries,” Nicole said. “Regardless of the topic. They prevent us from making silly mistakes. Help avoid messing up the facts. In this situation, Ray and Pancake understand your world, your professional world, much better than we do.”

  He scratched the back of one hand, then nodded. “Okay. Ask your questions.”

  “Tell us about your wife. What she was like? How did you two meet? That sort of thing.”

  He remained silent for a good half a minute as if gathering his thoughts. “She was special. Kind, gentle, smart, devoted to this town. Everyone loved her. Even the ones she locked horns with over some issue or the other.” Another hesitation, a half smile, as if remembering something. “We met in the seventh grade. That’s when her family moved here. She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. But I was shy back then. Took three weeks to even speak to her. Then, another two months before I asked her out. To the movies.” He took in a breath. “I knew right then she was the one.”

  “She feel the same way?” Nicole asked, smiling.

  That drew a full smile from Clark. “Maybe not right then. But after a few more dates we were what they called ‘an item.’”

  “When did you get married?”

  “Two weeks after graduating high school.” He jerked his head to his left. “Right down there by the marina.”

  “You never had children, I understand.”

  “We tried. For a while. But it became apparent that children weren’t in our future.”

  “How’d she take that?” Nicole asked.

  “She, both of us actually, were disappointed. But, ultimately, we gave up that dream. She did a ton of community service work, and I joined the force. We focused on those things.”

  “How did you end up on the police department here?”

  “Charlie, Chief Morgan, hired me to do odd jobs around the office. Everything from sweeping the floors to going out for coffee and lunch to filing. Whatever was needed. After a year, he was looking to hire a couple of more officers, so he hired me and Terry Munson.”

  “You and Officer Munson close?” I asked.

  “Very. We’ve been friends since grammar school. Neither of us had siblings so we were more or less brothers.” He smiled. “Not always well behaved, but we at least avoided doing anything too bad.” Another smile. “Or at least getting caught.”

  They sounded like Pancake and me. Brothers-in-arms so to speak. I told him so.

  “How come he joined your father but you never did?” Clark asked. “Or so I hear.”

  I shrugged. “Not that Ray didn’t try. Over and over. Not my thing though. I own a bar and restaurant over in Gulf Shores. I’d rather do that than rummage around in other folks’ dirty laundry.”

  “Yet, here you are.”

  “True. But this is different. This seems a worthy cause.” I glanced at Nicole. “Besides, Nicole and her uncle are hard to refuse.”

  Clark nodded. I felt that he was beginning to relax. His initial reluctance seemed to be waning.

  “Tell us about that day,” Nicole said. “The day your wife was murdered.”

  “At first, the day was typically boring. Not much happens around here. But, by nightfall, things got a little crazy. Terry and I had to break up a fight. Over on The Boardwalk. Four guys got into it. All were well lubricated. Words and then fists flew. We broke it up. Didn’t arrest any of them but gave them, let’s say, a stiff warning. Then we had a shoplifting crew move in. Three teenage girls. One would occupy a merchant while the other two snatched stuff. Clothing, jewelry, that sort of thing. Those we arrested. While booking them, we got a TA—traffic accident—call. Over on the bridge. Terry took off to handle that. I got stuck with three crying and begging young ladies. Said they’d give everything back if we’d just let them go. Promised to never do it again. Something I’ve heard about a thousand times. Pleaded with us not to call their parents. If I remember it right, they were from Mexico Beach. Here for the weekend.” He rubbed his chin. “’Course I told them it didn’t work that way. They were sixteen. They stole several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise. Told them we couldn’t let that ride. So, their parents drove up and we let them go home with them—after the parents promised they’d be back to face the judge in a couple of weeks.”

  “Did they?”

  “Sure did. The judge gave them each six weekends of community service. Here, locally. So for the next month and a half they spent every Saturday and Sunday in our care. They cleaned the park and the roadsides and spent Saturday nights in the jail. I think they learned a lesson there.”

  “When did you discover what had happened to your wife?” Nicole asked.

  “After I informed the parents of what their daughters had done, I got the girls all locked down and headed out to help Terry with the TA. It was a little more than a fender bender. But, fortunately, no one was hurt. A few bumps and bruises. It snarled traffic for a couple of hours though. We got back about the time the parents arrived. Must have been around ten or so.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly. “When I got home, I found her. Tied up in bed. Strangled.”

  I tried to read him. He seemed in control, as if reciting from a police report. His hooded eyes weren’t exactly hard, maybe more sharp and focused. As if they were absorbing everything. Probably the look others had seen when being interrogated here in “the box.” I suspected few could stand up under Frank Clark’s glare. But was that sadness I saw behind his eyes? In the creases at their corners? Maybe remorse? For what—was the question.

  “Did you know it was related to Billy Wayne then?”

  “Obviously, I couldn’t be sure. Not until we got the DNA back—that took a couple of weeks—but yeah, based on the other two killings we had, and the others up the road, all his hallmarks were there. Nighttime B&E, restrained with those blue ropes, strangled.” He nodded. “So, yes. I knew.”

  “Must have been awful,” Nicole said.

  He sighed. “Worst day of my life.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “The FBI had already been here. Looking at the other two cases. So I called them and they showed up the next morning. They took over the investigation.” He tapped the tabletop with one index finger. “They let Terry and me help, but it was their show. No doubt about that.”

  “How’d you feel about that?” Nicole asked. “The Feds taking over.”

  “Earlier, before Sara—” Again his, voice cracked. “I resented them coming in and swaggering around. But in truth, after Sara was killed, I was grateful. I needed the distance.”

  “Did you take some time off?” I asked.

  “Sort of. Charlie wanted me off duty for a couple of weeks, but I convinced him that that would only make things worse. I needed to stay busy. So I was in and out. There were t
imes I simply went home and cried.” He looked down at his hands, now folded again before him. “Terry was great. He picked up the slack without hesitation. Charlie, too. Everyone did.” His gaze fell to the table and he held it there for several seconds. He looked up. “The worst part, after I scrubbed away all the fingerprint powder, was packing up her stuff. Dresses, makeup, jewelry. Everything. That’s when it hit the hardest.” He forked the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Guilt, anger, the whole nine yards.”

  “Guilt?” Nicole asked. “About what?”

  “I should’ve been home. I should’ve protected her.”

  “You were working,” I said.

  “Yeah, I tried telling myself that a million times. Didn’t help. So, I worked. Not very well. My mind was fuzzy. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t sleep. Probably drank a little too much.”

  Frank Clark was a good cop. I had no doubts about that. His face, body language, everything, gave away nothing. Not that I could see anyway. A personification of Ray’s “be cool” philosophy. Don’t give anything away, say little, gather intel. Never let the other guy know what you’re thinking. Keep the advantage. Frank Clark possessed all of that.

  Raised a few questions about his actions in the weeks after his wife’s murder. The crying in front of Chief Morgan, the inability to perform his duties well, the drinking. Real, or was he simply playing his role? A shaken husband, or a killer making his case for innocence?

  “But it seems you survived it,” I said.

  “Didn’t really have a choice.” He shrugged. “You know what they say, time heals all. But that’s a lie. Time lets you handle it better. Bury it some. But, a day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss her.” He looked back down. “She was everything.”

  After a few more questions, we thanked Clark for his time and his candor. As we stepped out of “the box,” I ran into a man coming down the hallway. He staggered and I grabbed his arm.

  From behind me Clark said, “Angus, you still here?”

  “Looks that way, don’t it.” He offered a lopsided grin. “Just heading to the head.” He laughed. “Heading to the head. I must be a poet or something.”