by Andrew Mayne
I knock on the screen door. Joe’s coughing answers back. The door slides open, and he’s wearing a tattered bathrobe over a stained shirt and shorts. He waves me inside and drops down into his easy chair.
“So, you caught him?” he asks.
“Did we?”
Joe shrugs. “How would I know?”
I have a theory, and I need him to confirm it for me. But I know I have to approach this delicately. Smokey Joe Ray could be my only chance at learning the real identity of the Swamp Killer.
The first part of my theory is that Sleazy Steve has gone through a few phases. “Early Steve,” the one who murdered my van kids, was trying to figure out and understand who he was. What he knew was that he got off on violating people, maybe not directly through sex, but by taking control of them. He also liked to memorialize those moments. That’s why he had the instant camera. With photos he could relive those moments over and over, and Polaroid film meant he didn’t have to get the pictures developed by an outside service.
At some point, maybe in the late 1990s, Steve craved a new thrill and tried something different. He told people. Maybe not explicitly, but he shared his crimes with others. I don’t think it was the photos, at least not at first, but rather written accounts of his exploits. Steve started describing what he did for other people.
Somewhere along the way, Shulme came across these . . . confessions?
What I can’t connect is how. From what I’ve been able to gather from Shulme’s selective confessions and the evidence left behind, Steve carefully left out anything that could link back to him. The forensic details Shulme offered up—such as where to find the knife marks in Lara Chadwick’s kitchen—were the kind of clues the police could have found.
Steve wasn’t trying to reveal himself. He was bragging. But to whom? And through what means?
This is what brings me to Smokey Joe Ray’s dirty living room. The man is at the center of a lot of shady stuff. I originally came here for information about the missing kids; now I’m here to find out about the dark, interconnected webs of South Florida.
I’d rather be talking to Shulme, but Denton won’t let me anywhere near him. So I’m stuck talking to this pervert. I need a strategy, and the one I’ve decided on is honesty. The one thing I think is true of most of the men in this godforsaken place is that they all want to see themselves as better versions of what society sees them as. They don’t want to be monsters.
But what about Smokey Joe Ray? I suspect a man who loved the limelight so much might still want to be loved, or at least liked. While he’s smart enough to know that’s probably not in the cards, he might not have given up all hope.
“He’s going to kill again,” I say flatly.
“Shulme? You think so?”
“It’s not Shulme,” I tell him. “Sure, he knew a lot of details about the murders. But I don’t think that means he did it. I know a lot of details too.” I pause. “I think others do as well.”
“Really? How so?” asks Joe.
“Shulme told me how perverts like him trade photographs and videos. That got me to thinking, what else do they trade?”
“Like snuff films?”
“Ever watched one?” I ask.
“Watch CNN much? That’s all that cable news is, one never-ending snuff film. We watch it to say, ‘Thank god I’m not one of those people in that shopping mall’ or whatever.”
“I’m talking about the other kind. You know what I mean.”
“Nope. Not my thing,” he says flatly.
“You were never curious? Maybe you wanted to reassure yourself that there were worse people out there than you?”
“Worse people than me? Lady, pick up a history book or a rock and roll biography. What I did wasn’t even really a crime twenty years ago. When I was in the navy in the Philippines, care to guess what the average age of the hookers in the brothels across from the base was? Think my commanders didn’t know? Think the Pentagon didn’t know? We were encouraged to go there. Now, here I sit, and what’s the difference? Those girls weren’t Americans. These were. So don’t even start trying to play on my self-doubts. Despite what I told the judge, I regret shit. Once I can get out of here, I’ll head off to Thailand or wherever, where I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Classy guy.
Okay, Sloan, try a different approach.
“Violent stuff?”
“What? No. I’m not that kind of prick.”
“Okay. But maybe you could tell me how Shulme knew so much? How would he know about the murders?”
“I think you were on to something before. Somebody told him.”
“Did anyone ever tell you?”
He stares at me. “Don’t be stupid.”
I take my copy of the photocopy from my folder and hand it to him. “Ever see this?”
It’s the Polaroid of the victim with the gloved hand touching her face. Below it is the text description that makes so much more sense now that I know the killer wrote it: “What the eyes do not see, lips reveal.”
“This reads like bad poetry,” says Joe.
“I’m sure there’s more of it. Does it look familiar?”
“Have I ever read snuff literature? No, Officer. Any more questions?”
He’s being evasive, so I tell him, “Remember this conversation when you see a murder in the news. It’ll be another young woman. Ask yourself if what you knew could have made a difference. Was that tiny little detail really worth holding on to? Will you be so sure you’re not a bad guy then?”
Joe is about to say something. Instead he leans back and laces his fingers behind his head and thinks. “You’re different. You take all this personally.”
“I try to make myself care, even when I want to let it go. But, yeah, I do take it personally.”
He sighs. “I know I’m a creepy guy. I prefer the term transgressive or free thinker, but I know I’m a little beyond that. I also know my limits. There are people that freak me the hell out.” He shakes his head. “I should keep my mouth shut. But, the hell with it. After the second time I got in trouble—when the papers were all over my ass—a guy comes up to me at the Wolf Lounge.”
“Wolf Lounge?”
“The sex club in the warehouse by the airport? You never heard of it?”
“Uh, no.”
“It’s not what you think it is.”
“I literally have no image in my head,” I reply.
“I mean there’s leather stuff and rooms and all that. Anyway, I was at the bar, and this tall, skinny guy starts talking to me. He recognizes me and says he’s a fan.”
I’m super curious to know what the protocols are like for local celebrity-fan interactions at a sex club, but I keep my mouth shut.
“He says his name’s Lexi, and then the conversation gets a little weird. He asks if he can show me something. I tell him I’m probably not into whatever it is, but he insists. He takes out this little booklet, the kind of thing you make on a photocopier, and he shows it to me. It’s page after page of photos of women being violated. I’m like, whatever, and then he starts showing me women with stab wounds. Each shot includes a caption like the one you just showed me. My guess is that Shulme met up with Lexi too. Maybe took a copy of the booklet.”
“What did Lexi look like?” I ask.
“Younger guy. Tall. Accent. Maybe Australian or New Zealand. They’re all pervs.”
“Did he say how he got the booklet?”
“Yeah. He said he stole it. Said he met up with some guy who got drunk and started talking and showing him this shit. Lexi said he stole it to make copies. Said he wanted to sell ’em.”
“Did you buy one?”
“No. Jesus. I told you, that’s not my thing,” he replies a little too forcefully.
“What about Lexi? What happened to him?”
“That’s the funny part. The little prick hung himself a few weeks later, trying to do some autoerotic thing. Maybe he was killed. I don’t know. Anyway . . .” He shrug
s. “End of story.”
“Do you know anyone who might have had a copy of that booklet?”
“Zine,” he corrects me. “He called it a zine. You know, short for magazine. And no. I don’t. I’d go back to jail if I was caught with something like that.”
His last comment sounds like an admission. “If you were caught?”
Joe’s visibly uneasy now. “That was a long time ago.” He waves a hand at his trailer. “They search my place for all that kind of stuff.”
“What are you telling me, Joe?”
“I’m going to go outside and grab a cigarette. And, FYI, you’re not my parole officer, so you need a warrant to search my place. Anything you find without one isn’t admissible.” He gets up and goes outside.
What the hell? Does Joe want me to search his place? Confused, I get up and walk around the small space. There’s a folder sitting on his kitchen table, out in the open. Written across the front is For my lawyer.
Is this a trick? I glance around, afraid I’ll be caught on another camera. Is he trying to set me up for something?
I stare at the folder. What am I supposed to do? What would George do?
If I take this, it’s not admissible evidence in any case unless I explain how I acquired it.
Joe’s afraid to hand it to me because of his parole status. Or at least that’s how he’s acting.
I walk back outside. He glances up from the steps and sees my empty hands. “Seriously? Could I have been more obvious?”
“No, you couldn’t have.”
He goes inside and comes out with the folder. “Don’t tell anyone you don’t have to. And understand, the only reason I kept it was because it was . . . so damn weird.”
“We’re going to need you to make a formal statement.”
“No way in hell.” He pulls the folder back. “You want this?”
“I can get a warrant,” I reply.
“I can light a fire.”
“Destroy evidence?”
“What evidence? You don’t even know what’s in here.”
“Can we skip the games? I’ll tell your parole officer you volunteered it. You can tell them whatever you want about how you found it.” I gesture to the other trailers. “Tell them one of these other perverts left it in your mailbox, for all I care.”
“Fine.” He thrusts the folder at me. “Take it. You’re the reason I hate women.” He goes back into his trailer and shuts the door.
“Glad to be of service,” I murmur as I return to my truck, then stare down at the folder in my lap. Am I ready to open this? Am I ready for what I’m going to see?
To be honest, I half expect it’s going to be some perverted photo of Joe, just to irritate me. I decide that if that’s the case, I’m going to knock on his door and have my Mace accidentally go off in his face.
I put on my gloves and open the folder.
It’s not Smokey Joe Ray committing a lewd act. It’s something much, much worse.
Below the words Murder Manifesto is a photograph of a young woman with her throat laid open so wide you can see her spinal column.
I want to throw up. Instead, I turn the page.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
ZINE
Denton stares at the manuscript in the plastic bag as if it’s radioactive. I guess in a way it is. George called this meeting after I got off the phone with him while driving away from Smokey Joe Ray’s trailer park. George didn’t have to see it to understand the importance.
“What is this?” asks Denton, pretending that George hadn’t already explained.
“It’s a zine,” I tell him.
“A what?”
“A mini magazine thingy made with a photocopier and staples. The pictures you found at Shulme’s place? They’re in there. So are a number of others. Details, times of death, other things.” I try to take my mind off the images.
“This is Shulme’s?”
“No. This belongs to another man. A convicted child molester. He turned it over to us. He says someone stole this copy from the real Swamp Killer.” I’m not sure how much I believe the Lexi story, but one thing at a time. “Shulme must’ve gotten ahold of a copy. He pretended he was the killer and made up the whole Manifold thing.”
“Why?” asks Denton.
“Because he honestly thought there was a chance we’d pay his ransom. He saw an opportunity and jumped in. He never saw your newspaper dragnet coming, is my guess.”
I also suspect it’s because I humiliated him.
Denton takes the pair of gloves I placed next to the manuscript and slides it out of the plastic wrapper. George and I sit quietly as he leafs through the images and text, letting it wash over him.
Finally, he finishes, closes the booklet, and pushes it away. “We have a confession out of Shulme. And other evidence.”
“Bullshit,” says George. “This throws everything out the window. You got a con man is what you have. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to have an even bigger mess.”
Denton looks like a man on a sinking ship. He’s smart and he’s ethical, but right now he’s contemplating all the hard work he put into the case—and the stapled stack of photocopies that just destroyed it all.
Shulme looked like a sure thing when it seemed there was no way anyone else could know the details of the crimes like he did. Now, that’s not the case.
“Think about it. Shulme told us nothing about crimes after 2005. That’s also where the zine stops.”
“It doesn’t have anything about the van or some of the other earlier murders,” Denton replies.
“Exactly. The kids in the van tell us something about Steve’s identity. So do some of the other murders. He left those out because he didn’t want to incriminate himself,” I explain.
“And yet he saw fit to self-publish this . . . this garbage?”
“I can’t tell you his motives. I only know that this exists along with the evidence Shulme had. Plus what the person who gave me this told me—which is suspect.”
“How so?” asks Denton.
“He’s a manipulator.”
“Do you think he could be the killer?”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t match anything we know about Steve, plus he was in jail during a few of the killings.”
“What about working with the killer? What if all of them are in on it?”
“I don’t know. I think the Swamp Killer may have been reaching out, but when the manuscript was stolen, that’s when he decided it was too dangerous. My source said the guy who gave him this zine hanged himself. It’s possible Steve killed him.”
“Did that guy have a name?”
“Lexi. That’s all I have.”
“Damn it,” says Denton. “We were this close. Shulme’s been fighting with his attorney. We think he might be ready to plead guilty if he doesn’t get the death penalty.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“Notoriety,” says George. “They don’t make movies about child pornographers. Serial killers, yes. He may not have meant to be caught, but now he wants the world to think he’s the Swamp Killer. The whole Manifold extortion scheme would likely put him in jail for the rest of his life alone. Why not go for broke?”
“If he makes a public statement, it gets worse for us,” says Denton. “Christ.” He glances at George. “What a mess.”
“We didn’t make this one.”
“I know. I know.” Denton stares at me. “You’re a pain in the ass. We’re going to have to change him to a person of interest and let the press know we’re looking elsewhere.”
“Do we?” asks George.
“Of course we do. You of all people, George. We can’t go on letting people think we caught him.”
“What if it helps us catch the real Swamp Killer? Maybe we sit on this for a few days and quietly reopen the investigation?”
“My task force’s dispersed. We’re in the wrapping-up stage, moving on. We don’t have anywhere near the resources we had bef
ore.”
“We can do it,” I blurt out. “Just let us have access to all the files.”
“It’s not going to work.”
“Give us three days,” I reply. “It’s Thursday. Shulme won’t drop a statement on a Friday. He’ll want a whole week of media coverage.”
“Three days?” asks George. “Care to explain how that’s going to work?”
“Three days to make a dent and find a new lead.”
“Fine,” says Denton. “You guys can have it. But what if the real Swamp Killer decides to murder again while we’re letting the public think he’s behind bars?”
I don’t have an answer to that question. Neither does George.
CHAPTER FIFTY
MOVIE CLUB
Hughes and I have our laptops set up on the conference room table playing security camera footage from the three houses near Lara Chadwick and Eric Timm’s home. None of the cameras is aimed directly at the home, but they show a pretty good sample of who came and went from that neighborhood. It was this footage that originally made the AC repairman, Cope, a person of interest. While on the night of their disappearances there was no suspicious activity in front of the victims’ home, it would’ve been easy to access it from the yard behind.
Along with the footage, we’re going through the logs the Broward Sheriff’s Office made of every vehicle and person on the tapes.
“Another Domino’s delivery,” says Hughes.
“Same guy with red hair?” I ask.
“Hard to tell from the blur, but, yeah, looks like Clifford Spivey.”
Clifford is a regular in that neighborhood, with five appearances in two weeks’ worth of security cam footage. He’s one of two dozen other people who made frequent visits there in the course of their day-to-day work. BSO already ran thorough background checks. Cope wasn’t even the most suspicious of the lot, but he did raise flags. False ones, apparently.
“Check the license on the Kloofs’ camera?” I ask.
“Their car was in the way,” Hughes says. “Same make and model, though.”
