My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out, hoping it’s Anna, back to her old self, calling to say she misses me and can’t wait to see me.
Instead, it’s Reggie Summers, the sheriff of Gulf County and my boss, returning my call.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got something for me already,” I say.
“I do,” she says.
“That was fast.”
I had texted her earlier to see if she could find any information on the Samuelsons’ grandchild that died. I didn’t expect anything this quickly.
“That’s me,” she says. “A fast woman.”
“Think I read something about that in the men’s restroom at the sheriff's department,” I say. “Or maybe it was the jail. How are things there?”
“We’re surviving,” she says. “Slowly making a little progress. Look forward to having you back over here to help.”
“I feel guilty not being there,” I say.
“You should,” she says. “So here’s what I got. The Samuelsons were actually watching their grandson when he was killed. From all I can tell—based on the investigation and the media coverage—it was an accident. They were keeping him for their daughter at her place while she and her new boyfriend went to some swanky all-inclusive resort in Mexico.”
“Swanky?”
“Yeah,” she says, “I’m bringing it back. Soon all the kids will be using it. You watch. It’ll be in rap songs and in tragic teen movie dialog. Anyway . . . The kid was five at the time. Typical toddler. Constant movement and motion. And they just both looked away at the same wrong moment. Their attention drifted way for a split second and he was gone.”
“Abducted?” I ask.
“No. He fell into a swimming pool. It had a cover on it, and it wrapped around him and he took part of it down with him while the other part of it floated and prevented them from being able to get to him. By the time they did, he was already dead. They pulled him out and attempted CPR, called 911, tried everything they could, but it was no use.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Their daughter blames them and has cut them off completely.”
We are quiet a moment.
“But I found something else that might be something,” she says. “Seems suspicious as hell. Definitely worth a closer look. They had already lost a son several years before. That’s how they got all their money. It’s insurance money from the death of their son. It also looks like an accident, and maybe it is. Some families seem to have more than their fair share of tragedy, but . . .”
“How did he die?”
“Car accident,” she says. “I’ve got a call in to the highway patrol to see if there’s anything suspicious about it. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
About twenty of us search a small quadrant from the grid that Brent Tremblay created.
We are no more than a few feet apart, our heads down, poking and raking the ground with the tips of our aluminum walking poles.
It’s slow and tedious, which makes it all the more impressive that so many of these volunteers have done it for so long.
“How long we been doing this?” Demi Gonzalez says.
She is on my left side and she’s asking Charis Tremblay who is on my right.
Derinda Dacosta, who is to Christopher’s right, says, “Several months and, hey, we covered almost a postage stamp of property.”
Charis laughs and says, “We’ve covered a little more than that. Why do you ask, Demi?”
“Do y’all find it odd that in all that time Vic Frankford has never been out here and suddenly today he is?”
“He was probably inspired by John’s talk,” Derinda says.
“I really enjoyed what you had to say this morning,” Charis says.
“I did too,” Demi adds.
“Me three,” Derinda says.
“I’ve been volunteering at the jail near where I live in Destin for several years now,” Charis says, “and I’ve seen firsthand how much injustice there is in our justice system.”
“Thank you all,” I say. “I appreciate your kind words.”
“It’s interesting to hear someone like you,” Demi says. “When it comes to faith and religious expression it seems like most everyone I encounter is at one extreme or the other—extremely religious in a rigid, rules-based way or not religious at all. You seem to be a very smart and thoughtful person who has incorporated his practice of faith into his otherwise full life.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I say. “It’s certainly what I attempt to do, but it’s a practice. One I often fail at.”
“I used to be part of the rigid and rules-based crowd she’s talking about,” Charis says.
“Yes, you did,” Demi says with a smile. “Every other word out of her mouth was Jesus and God and some damn Bible verse. Drove me crazy. But she was the best foster mom on the block.”
“Sorry I was like that,” she says. “Part of the reason I became a foster mom was to be able to put into practice the love and faith I was trying to live. I heard this song when I was a teenager that said don’t tell them Jesus loves them until you’re ready to love them too—or something like that.”
“Exactly,” Derinda says. “Those are great words to live by.”
“And you really do,” Demi says.
“I try to, but . . . like John said, I mostly fail too. I want my faith to be action instead of beliefs, practices instead of just words, but . . .”
“Like organizing this great search for my grandbaby,” Derinda says.
“Maybe, but this may have more to do with guilt than grace. I feel so bad about being resistant to Keith and Christopher. Wasn’t my finest hour. Probably still trying to make up for that. And I know a lot of people think it was just because they’re gay, but there was more to it than that. I just wanted Magdalene to have a mother.”
“We can all understand that,” Derinda says.
“But as I got to know Keith and Christopher, I realized a mother’s love doesn’t just come from females.”
“That’s so true,” Demi says. “It’s obvious John has a father and a mother’s love for little Taylor.”
I start to say something, but stop as a volunteer to my far left begins yelling. “I got something. I got something. Over here. Over here.”
Someone to our right blows a whistle.
“Everyone freeze,” Keith yells. “Please. Don’t move. Anyone.”
Every volunteer stops in place.
“It’s . . . it’s . . . I think it’s her pajamas.”
“Who is that?” Derinda asks. “Whose voice is that?”
“Vic Frankford’s,” Demi says. “First day searching with us and he finds her pajamas. That’s not suspicious at all.”