The Whole Truth (18 page)

And I wonder: Can it really be this easy?

"Come on in," I invite, only to discover that means admitting half a dozen uniformed and plainclothes officers into my home.

I haven't made nearly enough coffee.

6

Raymond

It doesn't matter how much coffee I prepare, or how much the cops drink, because Ray Raintree never calls me back. The calls are tracked to a cell phone on board a residential trawler on a branch of the New River. The owner of the boat, an elderly hippie with a private number, is missing and presumed murdered. Ray's fingerprints are all over the place.

And he is long gone.

I am sickened by the thought that he may have killed the man to get the phone to call me. Hurting people in a desperate attempt to escape a death penalty is one thing, horrible, but understandable in a sick way. But killing a man to steal his cell phone?

My comprehension of Ray's psyche stops at that barrier.

One day later, the local newspaper accusingly trumpets, "One lone suspect, wounded, unarmed, and allegedly not even very bright, has thus far managed to humiliate three counties' worth of law enforcement by slipping through the noose they futilely tightened around the northern neck of Howard County. Unfortunately, they are the ones who choked on it."

Considering the nature of the murder case that started all this, I find that an appalling choice of metaphors.

It isn't clear how Ray has evaded capture all this time. It is possible, says Detective Paul Flanck, "that Ray swam out to sea and did us all a favor and drowned himself."

"I wish," says his partner, Robyn Anschutz.

On the third day, having been deluged by frightened and furious phone calls from the mothers and fathers of Florida, the governor calls out the Army National Guard. They are assigned to assist in the search for the escaped convict, who is "considered extremely dangerous." A one-million-dollar reward is posted by a coalition of private donors and nonprofit organizations devoted to helping missing children. Internet sites spring up overnight, rife with feverish and morbid speculation. One of them, called Sightings, posts an average of one hundred new "Ray sightings" per hour. Cranks and other people genuinely wanting to help swamp 911 and the other police phone lines.

News of the developments in the case goes out over the national wires, and networks and CNN, spreading a far wider net of communication than the abduction and murder case have produced up until this time. On the popular television show Entertainment Tonight, they even report that Ray Raintree is a main character in "a true crime story soon to be published by best-selling author Marie Lightfoot."

Almost as soon as ET goes off the air, readers begin posting computer E-mail messages to me about the book-in-progress. I answer them in clumps, trying to keep up with them as they come in. There are always a few to which the only appropriate reply is no reply at all, but most of them are from fans, and I am grateful for the chance to express my appreciation to them. Scrolling down a dozen of them, I am unprepared for the surprise that awaits me, eleven messages down the line.

Dear Ms. Lightfoot, I am a retired sheriff's deputy who investigated a missing child case many years ago. I have good reason to believe it is connected to the case of the man you know as Raymond Raintree. Please call me collect as soon as possible.

Yours truly, Jack L. Lawrence, Olathe, KS.

That one gives me pause. I read it twice, looking for clues to what it means, but find none. The fact that he suggests I call "collect" is a good sign that at least he means well, even if his information's no good. Still, I hate to get stuck on the phone with kooks, so I E-mail my message, rather than calling as he asks me to.

"Dear Mr. Lawrence," I type, "I'm intrigued by your message. What is the connection between your case and Ray Raintree? Sincerely, Marie Lightfoot."

The response reaches me within minutes, as if he is sitting at his computer waiting to hear from me. And this time, what I read on the computer screen makes my pulse race. He writes:

Twenty-two years ago, I investigated a tragic case of a little boy named John Kepler who went missing from his parents' front yard. We never found any trace of him. But Johnnie Kepler had an imaginary playmate, as children do, and his imaginary friend's name was Raymond Raintree. Please contact me as soon as possible. Yours truly, Jack Lawrence.

This time, I call him, and not collect, either.

"I'm just a retired old codger from Kansas."

I hear a gravelly, authoritative voice, and I can well believe that Jack Lawrence was a law enforcement officer.

"I'm nobody important," he tells me over the phone. "What big city cop down there where you are is going to listen to a retired deputy from a county they never heard of? I called their TIPS line, but they just wrote down my information like anybody else's, and I suppose they must have gotten a thousand different calls. It could be weeks before they get far enough down the list to call me. I imagine you know how it is. I used to know a couple of Florida cops, one over in Sarasota and another up in Naples, but they're as old as I am, nobody knows them now."

He says he got his local sheriff to contact the Howard County sheriff, who hasn't been available to talk to him personally but whose secretary has promised to get somebody on it right away.

"I recognized the runaround when I heard it," he says.

Forty-eight hours later, he still hasn't heard anything back.

"I got our sheriff to call again, and I've tried to make a pest of myself."

But it appears that law enforcement in Florida is otherwise occupied this week with the search for the escapee.

"You're kind of our last-ditch hope," the retired deputy tells me. "Kimmie got your name off the TV show, and she's read your books, and she's a big fan of yours."

"Kimmie?"

"Kim Kepler. Sister of the missing boy. She seems to think you'll pay some attention to us."

"I certainly will."

"Now listen," he says in a way that sounds stern and kind at the same time, "these people, the Keplers, they've been through a hell of a lot, and they don't want a big fuss, if they can help it."

"I gather they're hoping that Ray Raintree can lead them to information about their boy? I'd hate to get their hopes up, Mr. Lawrence. Maybe Ray just heard the name somewhere, and he can't help them at all. I've got to tell you, it's next to impossible to get information out of him. Or, at least truthful information. Sometimes he'll talk your ear off, but you can't believe a word he says."

There is a silence on the other end, in Kansas.

Then the retired deputy says, "I don't think I've made myself clear. When I said there might be a connection between John Kepler and Raymond Raintree?"

"Yes?"

"What did you think I meant?"

"Well, that maybe he knew the kidnapper. Or maybe he saw the boy sometime, and picked up the name to use for himself."

"No. Hell, maybe this is why nobody paid any attention to me down there. My wife—I'm a widower—always used to tell me nobody can understand a thing I say when I try to explain something. What we're saying is, Ray is John. It's not that he may have seen Johnnie, or heard about him. He is Johnnie Kepler."

A shock of electricity runs through me, leaving me literally gasping.

"Ray is the boy you're looking for?" I can hardly take this in. I am flabbergasted. This is the miracle I have been looking for, and it might never have happened if the judge hadn't shot Ray, and Ray hadn't escaped. "My god, Mr. Lawrence. You're saying you think that this man who abducted a child was himself abducted when he was a child?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"How many years ago?"

"Twenty-two."

"That would make him—"

"Twenty-eight."

That was right for Ray, who said he was twenty-eight, but never seemed sure of it. Ray Raintree was a missing child? My mind is bouncing off its own walls at the cruel twist of this. Can it be true? It would make sense of so many things about Ray that don't make sense. "Oh, my god," I say again, feeling breathless. "But what is there, besides the name? Is that all you're basing this on?"

"No, ma'am, this isn't wishful thinking, and it isn't a coincidence, and it isn't a guess. We know. We know. That's why the Keplers want to talk to somebody, and if the cops won't talk to me, we'll talk to you. We've got to get connected to this business down in Florida, just as soon as we can. They're scared to death he's going to get electrocuted, and they'll never get to see him alive, now that they've finally found him. You understand?"

"Oh, yes." I'm trying to think fast, to come up with solutions for him. "I can get through to the prosecuting attorney for you, Mr. Lawrence, shall I do that? Or, how about the two detectives who arrested Ray?"

"No, Katherine's changed her mind—"

"Katherine?"

"Johnnie's mother."

His mother. My mouth drops open at the idea of meeting Ray Raintree's mother.

"Changed her mind about what?"

"She doesn't want to talk to them yet. Soon, real soon, just not yet. They're going to have to wait a little while before they get hold of her. You can imagine, this is very emotional for the Keplers, it's just difficult as hell, and they've decided they don't want cops and reporters crawling all over them. They just want to make absolutely sure he's really their boy, and they want to see him again."

I can't find words to reply to that amazing wish.

"But I thought you said you know he's their child."

"I do know it, but there's nothing like actually seeing him. It's like they know, but they can't let themselves really believe it until they see him with their own eyes."

I think that's a futile hope, given the current manhunt.

"Hell, he may be dead already," the retired deputy says, echoing my thoughts. "Katherine's worried about the death penalty. I'm more worried about some trigger-happy bounty hunter. If they capture him, and put him in prison, the Keplers will have plenty of time to get to know him. But that's my point—the Keplers want to see him if they can, but they also want to try to keep this quiet for as long as they can. It's not like they want to end up on Entertainment Tonight themselves."

"Deputy Lawrence—"

"Not anymore. I'm just Jack."

"Thank you. And I'm Marie. Jack, may I meet them?"

"Yeah, they want to tell somebody their story."

"The cops are going to have to hear it, Jack. It might help them find Ray, or even bring him in, if he thought he was going to get to see his family."

"We'll cross that bridge real soon, but they want to talk to you."

"Why?"

"That's easy. Because you're writing a book about him. You're the one who's telling his story, whether he lives or dies, and his mother wants to make sure somebody tells it true. You've met him, right?"

"Yes, a few times."

"She wants to talk to somebody who knows him."

I want to tell him that nobody "knows" Ray Raintree.

"We figure if Katherine talks to you, she won't have to talk to any other newspaper people, or other journalists."

I can't even begin to tell him how naive that hope is.

"Plus," he adds, sounding forceful and upbeat, "you've got all those contacts, when we're ready."

"Do they want to talk to me over the phone?"

"They want to meet you."

"Are they coming to Bahia?"

"Could you come here?"

"You bet! How soon?"

"Sooner the better."

"I'll get the first flight I can, Jack. Tonight, if I can do it, or is that sooner than you meant?"

"No, that's great. We were hoping."

"Good. Well, tell me where I'm going, and how to get there."

"You'll fly in to Kansas City International Airport. I'll pick you up, and we'll drive right over to Katherine's house. She told me to tell you that she'd really like it if you'd stay in Johnnie's room."

I wouldn't miss this chance for anything.

"Please tell her that I gratefully accept her kind invitation."

"She'll like you," he says, with a sudden smile in his gravelly voice.

"How do you know that?"

"You're polite, not like some big shot."

I have not felt quite so flattered in a long time, but I know that now I have to risk losing his good will.

"Jack?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Listen, I have really got to let the authorities down here know about this. I can't just go flying off to Kansas like a private eye, without telling the cops about this."

"Well," he says, doubtfully. "Katherine says—" "She doesn't have to talk to them, Jack, not until she wants to." He finally agrees to let me do it, because I make it clear that ethically I can't do otherwise. I'm not going to Kansas without informing Anschutz and Flanck about this revolution in their case. I can just imagine how they would react if they found out later that I had kept this amazing news from them.

As soon as we hang up, I call a series of people, starting with my travel agent. Then I call the detectives, and Franklin, and Leanne English. I have to be evenhanded, or I'll lose my sources in my own hometown. It's policy with me to be honest with everybody I interview. I never attempt to play one against another, either. I never lie to the cops, to the victim's families, or to the murderers—especially never to them, on the theory that it takes one to know one, and I'd get caught at it. In fact, if one of the other principals in this case were to ask me, "Are you having an affair with the prosecutor?" I'd have to say yes, and I've told him I would. Apart from that, I keep all of their secrets, unless given permission to publish them. My career depends on earning and keeping the trust of dozens of people. Many of these people are suspicious of journalists, and all of them are vulnerable, in their own ways. With a careless phrase, I could humiliate an innocent person, or ruin a lawman's or a lawyer's reputation. I prevent that from happening by checking my facts, and by choosing to err on the side of kindness if I have to choose between that and printing a gratuitous cruelty. That's why—except for the villains—nobody is "ugly" in my books; they are "interesting-looking." Nobody is fat or skinny, either; they are "attractively robust" or "fashionably slim." By now, I have a reputation for being both diplomatic and a straight shooter, which is a high-wire act at times. It also helps to be famous, because total strangers are more likely to take my phone calls.