The Snake and the Spider

  Snake then used the car to drive to Biloxi, Mississippi, where he picked up his wife and brought her back to Daytona Beach. He used the traveler’s checks, which he made a special note of saying he had paid cash for and which were legally his, to pay rent at the trailer park and to pay for the trip north to Biloxi.

  After that he had waited for the boys to return with the money but he had never seen them again. And so, Snake decided, since the loan was never repaid, the car was legally his.

  That was the story.

  But when Snake’s attorney asked him if he’d be willing to take a polygraph test and tell the entire story once again but this time hooked up to electrodes that could detect even the slightest amount of anxiety, Snake flat-out unequivocally refused. His reason was that in an unrelated incident some time earlier he’d had a bad experience while taking a polygraph test. Since then, even though he might want to take such a test, he had been physically unable to do so.

  As Ziegler read the details of Snake’s story he figured he knew what the bad experience was. It probably had something to do with the fact that Snake had lied while taking the test.

  And so because of his refusal to take such a test and because of the shady details surrounding the story, after reading it in Snake’s presence, Ziegler had tossed the document into the trash can.

  “Buncha lies, Cox.” Ziegler had spat the words in Snake’s direction. Then he had lowered himself to Snake’s level and glared at the man. “You know what’s happening next door, Cox? Smith’s about to spill his guts and when he does, when we get the truth about where the boys are, the other one of you scumbags will be headed for the electric chair.”

  Snake said nothing and kept his gaze focused on a neutral spot on the empty wall.

  “You hear me, Cox?” Ziegler had yelled. “You talk to us or you take the chair. And this isn’t any game we’re playing here. This is real life, Cox. Talk or take the chair.”

  Being older and more experienced at a criminal’s life, Snake had known instantly that Ziegler was not bluffing. He had thought his options over for what Ziegler estimated to be less than five seconds and then he had started to talk.

  “All right, man, you win. I’ll tell you what happened and where you can find ’em.”

  There had been no missing the fact that Snake was not happy about having to talk. But his words were coming fast and Ziegler had known instinctively that he was about to tell the truth.

  “Just a minute,” he’d said.

  And then the detective had gone next door and ended the conversation between Bob and Spider. If Snake wanted to talk, then Spider could sit in jail and rot for the next ten years on death row until someone was finally willing to pull the switch.

  After Ziegler made his announcement that Snake was willing to talk, Bob stared at Spider and shook his head sadly.

  “Stupid move, Smith,” he said. “You had every chance in the world.”

  Then he notified the bailiff that he was finished with the prisoner and he followed Ziegler into the next room.

  “Get your pen and paper ready, Brown,” Ziegler whispered as they made their way inside. “This ought to be good.”

  They sat down and stared at Cox, who looked like a caged lion with a bad case of rabies. Bob was thankful the man was wearing handcuffs.

  “We’re listening, Cox,” Ziegler said. “Tell us what happened.”

  And so on December 12, at 12:50 P.M., exactly four months after Jim and Daryl had disappeared, Snake began to talk. This time, his story was significantly different from the first one he’d told.

  The way Snake told it now, on the evening of August 12, he was sitting inside the McDonald’s hamburger restaurant in the boardwalk area of Daytona Beach when he was approached by Spider Smith. Spider led him outside to the car he had arrived in—a red Chevy Nova with a black vinyl top. Inside the car were two teenage boys. Spider then pulled Snake away from the car so the boys could not hear what he was saying. At that time, he suggested that they take the boys to a party, do some smoking, and while they were at it, rip ’em off.

  Spider then went back to the Nova and talked to the boys, and within a short time he reported back to Snake that the boys were willing and ready to find a party. At that time, Snake and Spider entered the boys’ car and sat in the backseat. For a time, they sat in the McDonald’s parking lot and smoked marijuana while talking about parties in the area. Then they had driven around Daytona Beach, all four of them still smoking marijuana in the car.

  Ziegler raised an eyebrow toward Brown. Both detectives knew that the Michigan boys were not drug users and this detail sent up more than a red flag in Ziegler’s opinion.

  Snake continued. Somehow—and Snake couldn’t remember exactly how—the group had wound up in the vicinity of the Strickland Rifle Range on Williamson Boulevard in Volusia County. The area was dark and deserted, and all four occupants exited the car. At about this time, Spider pulled out a .25 caliber automatic handgun from his waistband and ordered Jim and Daryl to hand over their money and their traveler’s checks.

  At this point in the story Snake was unclear about whether it was him or Spider who was responsible for the specifics of what happened to the boys. Either way, after Jim and Daryl had been robbed, they were ordered at gunpoint to remove their belts.

  Bob was scribbling notes furiously but when Snake mentioned the part about the boys having to remove their belts he suddenly stopped. All through the hours of staking out various locations and searching boating docks and cemetery plots and biker bars and making deals with shady characters named “Larry,” Bob hadn’t spent much time thinking about the ultimate truth, about what actually might have happened to the boys. And now he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the details.

  He took a deep breath and bent over his notes. As long as Snake was telling the truth about what had happened to the boys, he would have to pay close attention. He had been paid to find the boys and as of yet they had still not been found.

  Next, Snake was saying, the boys’ belts were used to tie their hands behind their backs and then they were placed in the backseat of Daryl’s car. Snake and Spider then climbed into the front seat and noticed the motel keys on the car’s dashboard. “Thunderbird Motel, Room 109,” the keys read. So with Snake driving the Nova, the group headed for the Thunderbird Motel.

  But before they pulled out of the deserted area, Snake and Spider agreed that there was a problem they had to take care of before they could go anywhere. As long as the boys were sitting in the backseat they might try to alert someone that they needed help. Because of that, Snake pulled off the road once again. Jim’s and Daryl’s hands were untied and—for reasons Snake did not supply—their shoes were removed. Then they were placed in the trunk of the Nova.

  Snake took a deep breath.

  “Go on,” Ziegler shouted. “This isn’t story-telling hour, here. We don’t have all day.”

  Snake glared at the detective and resumed his story.

  Once the boys were in the trunk of the car, he and Spider had gotten back inside and continued the drive to the motel. When they arrived, he and Spider entered the boys’ room and removed all their personal belongings including Jim’s camera and both boys’ suitcases and clothing.

  With the boys still in the trunk of the car, Snake and Spider left the motel and drove around for quite a while deciding what to do with their victims. Finally, they came to an isolated area approximately half a mile off Highway 92 on Indian Lake Road. Snake stopped the car. Both men climbed out and one of them opened the trunk.

  Seeing that the boys were no longer moving, Snake said, he and Spider came to the conclusion that Jim and Daryl had died while in the trunk. He and Spider then removed the boys’ bodies and dumped them in a well-hidden wooded area.

  “That’s it,” Snake said, leaning back in his chair as if he had just finished presenting an oral report on the benefits of good nutrition.

  Ziegler stared at Snake for a f
ull five minutes saying absolutely nothing.

  There were many parts of the story, huge sections, in fact, that he did not for one minute believe. Those were details that Ziegler definitely intended to get hold of eventually. But overall, the story had a ring of truth to it.

  There was one way to be sure.

  “You ready to take us to the bodies?” Ziegler finally asked. Bob put down his pen and felt his breathing quicken.

  “That’s what you want? The bodies?”

  “That’s it, Cox. And if it doesn’t check out you can just as soon fry for all I care.”

  “I know where they are, man. If you don’t believe me then let me take you there. I’m ready when you are.” Snake sounded defiant and hurt as if after admitting to a double homicide and after first lying about the facts the night before, he somehow still expected the detective to trust him.

  As it turned out Ziegler was not ready for several hours. He contacted the judge and shortly before six o’clock that evening finally received permission together with deputy Joe Deemer and private investigator Bob Brown to take a handcuffed Snake to the spot he had described and search for the bodies of Jim Boucher and Daryl Barber.

  Spider, meanwhile, had been returned to his cell, where by that evening he had received even more bad news.

  His attorney, Dick Kane, had withdrawn himself from the case. So with no attorney and no idea that Snake was about to lead three investigators to the bodies of the boys, Spider spent the night huddled in the corner of his cell. He was utterly and completely alone.

  SOMETIME BEFORE SIX O’CLOCK, BOB BROWN GOT THE word to James Byrd, who in turn telephoned the Bouchers.

  “I told you I’d get to the bottom of this,” he said, shamelessly taking credit for Bob’s work. “And I think we’ve finally gotten there.”

  “Did you find them?” Faye’s voice was little more than a frightened whisper and she quickly moved out of earshot of her younger children.

  “Not yet. But they’ve apprehended the second man, John Cox, and he’s told investigators the whole story about what happened.”

  “Are they alive?” It was the last time Faye might be able to ask such a question, the last time there would be any uncertainty about whether her son was dead or not. Tears began trickling down Faye’s cheeks and she closed her eyes in anticipation of the investigator’s answer.

  “No, Mrs. Boucher. I’m sorry.” Byrd paused politely. “If Mr. Cox’s story is correct, the boys died the same night they arrived in town. They were robbed and killed by a couple of the deadliest, dirtiest guys in the state of Florida.”

  Faye felt weak as if she might faint. Black spots were dancing before her eyes, and her legs were beginning to go numb. “But,” she stammered, “they still haven’t found them, right?”

  “Right. They’ll be going tonight. To the place Mr. Cox remembers leaving the boys’ bodies.”

  Faye was sobbing now, wanting so badly for it all to be a nightmare. For four months she had convinced herself that the worst thing a mother could face was not knowing where her son was.

  But she had been wrong.

  This was worse. The ache in her gut would never go away, never be eased by the hope that someday he would come home. No, he would never come home again. Her oldest son was dead. And there was nothing in the world worse than that.

  “Mrs. Boucher,” Byrd said softly. “I’m sorry. Someone will be in touch after they find the boys’ bodies.”

  Faye was crying so hard she was barely able to speak. “Will they find them today?” she managed to ask.

  “Tonight, ma’am. They’re going to look tonight.”

  Faye thanked him and hung up the phone. Then she collapsed to the ground, allowing her entire body to lie motionless while she screamed her son’s name. Roy heard her first and came running from the back room.

  “Oh, my God, Faye! What is it?” His face was white and Faye looked up helplessly, raising one hand and placing it inside her husband’s larger one.

  “They’re dead, Roy.” Her voice was weak. “They’re both dead.”

  Roy closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

  “No!” he screamed. “Not my Jimmy. Please, God, not my Jim.”

  At that instant the younger boys appeared and saw what was happening. Timothy and Stephen knew from the way their parents were acting that finally they had gotten word about Jim. Neither boy had to ask the question in both their minds because they already knew the answer. Their brother was dead.

  “Is Jim dead, Daddy?” John asked, his childlike voice frightened, tears spilling onto his freckled face.

  Roy looked at his youngest son and something inside him snapped. Throughout the past four months Roy had remained stoic, hiding his emotions so that he would not burden his hurting family. But now, with his family falling apart around him, Roy could do nothing but give in to his pain. He put his arm around his younger sons, sank to his knees alongside his wife, hung his head, and cried.

  WITH DARKNESS ENCROACHING, ZIEGLER AND DEEMER escorted the shackled Snake to a squad car. Bob Brown drove behind them, and following Snake’s directions, they headed for Highway 92. Several miles out of the city limits and far beyond any buildings or signs of civilization, in an area covered with dense, deep Florida scrub brush, Ziegler turned the car onto Indian Lake Road.

  Within half a mile, the road narrowed down and became little more than a glorified trail. At that point, Snake motioned for Ziegler to turn left on what appeared to be a fire trail that was even more narrow. As Ziegler drove, maneuvering slowly along the uneven dirt trail, branches from the overgrown brush scratched at the squad car. He turned to Deemer, seated beside him.

  “No wonder we never found the bodies,” he muttered.

  “Yeah,” Deemer said. “Only thing comes out this way is snakes and spiders.”

  “You got that right.”

  With Bob following closely behind they traveled the trail four-tenths of a mile. Suddenly Snake held up his hand.

  “Right here,” he said.

  The cars stopped and the detectives climbed out, helping Snake to his feet. They watched as he walked a few yards ahead of the cars and then pointed toward a clearing in the brush.

  Speaking in a tone of voice that suggested he was talking not about the bodies of two teenage boys but about, say, a spot where he’d last seen his missing sunglasses, he said, “We put ’em right there.”

  The detectives moved to the spot and peered into the clearing while Snake remained a few feet behind. It was 6:50 P.M. and there was very little light left so Ziegler flipped on his flashlight. There, scattered around what appeared to be a blue, woolen blanket, were dozens of bones.

  “Look,” Deemer said, pointing his flashlight to another area. The men looked and each of them could see what Deemer had found.

  There were two skulls, lying side by side on the damp earth.

  Bob turned away first. If everything checked out, his job was officially finished. It was the first time any of his investigations had resulted in the discovery of a dead body.

  “Well, we won’t be needing body bags on this one,” Ziegler said. “Only thing left of those kids is a box full of bones.” He turned toward Deemer. “Get on the radio. Tell ’em looks like Snake’s story checks out. We’ll rope off the area and then come back tomorrow when it’s daylight. I’m betting we’ll have to go over this whole area with a magnifying glass before we’re through.”

  With Snake back in the squad car, Bob watched as Ziegler and Deemer roped off the area. Before they left, Ziegler turned to Bob.

  “Only reason we’re here right now is ‘cause of you,” he said. “I appreciate good work when I see it and this was one helluva good job, Brown.”

  Bob nodded his thanks.

  Normally at this stage of an investigation he would feel elated, thrilled beyond words. But this time, with the image of Jim and Daryl’s skeletal remains still in his mind, he felt only an emptiness. He wo
rked private investigation so he could put an end to the pain people were feeling. And all along he had thought that would be true of this case, also. Once the parents knew where their sons were—dead or alive—at least they would no longer have to wonder. Because of that, Bob figured solving the case would end their pain. But now he knew without a doubt that he had been wrong.

  If anything, their pain had just begun.

  CHAPTER 38

  The phone rang in the Barber home at nine thirty that evening. By then the Bouchers had made arrangements for their younger children, and the two couples had gathered at the Barbers’ where they had done little more than wait by the telephone for most of the evening.

  Ron Barber answered the call. It was James Byrd, putting in overtime, he said, and giving the impression that he had been losing sleep over the case while waiting for this moment.

  “They found them, Mr. Barber,” Byrd said.

  Faye and Roy had composed themselves and shared the news with the Barbers hours earlier so Ron knew what to expect. But still, hearing the words from the investigator was like being punched in the stomach. Ron felt the air leave his body and he suddenly found it nearly impossible to breathe.

  “Are they dead?” he asked. The others sat silent and still, their eyes glued to Ron’s.

  “Well, positive identification hasn’t been made yet, but everything matches up. I’d say there’s no mistaking the fact that it’s them, Mr. Barber.”

  Ron closed his eyes and the others knew the answer. At long last their sons had been found. The searching and waiting and wondering was over. But there was no sense of victory, no elation over the fact. Their desperate need to know had been replaced with an even deeper pain, a raw anguish that was more awful than any of them had ever imagined.

  “Have they made any arrests yet?” Ron knew that officially the private investigation was over. But now there would be bodies to identify, arrests to be made, and trials that would have to take place. The process had really only begun.