The Snake and the Spider Read online

  Almond said that although rival gang members were hated, it was women who received perhaps the worst treatment of all by the gang members. The “brothers,” he said, believed that women were “nothing.” Because of that, they were often required to support the gang with earnings from prostitution and topless dancing. Women were treated as objects and could be bought or sold like pieces of property. If one member owned a particular woman, he could sell her to another member and even collect half of the money she might bring in from outside activities. In addition, many of the women were beaten on a regular basis by the men.

  For the most part, police said, the women stayed with the gang out of fear. The beatings and constant string of threats made them victims of control. Many women had heard of or seen for themselves women who were killed for acting out of line. Therefore, the smart “honey” or “old lady” kept quiet and stayed in her place.

  One police officer was quoted as saying that he didn’t think there was any point in trying to develop a program that would assist the gang members in altering their behavior.

  “These guys are happy doing what they’re doing,” the officer said. “My guess is that they are quite similar to psychopaths. Only they happen to share an interest in motorcycles.”

  By the summer of 1978, many of the Outlaws and Pagans were considered to have become very dangerous psychopaths. Indeed, police believed a number of gang members had started carrying illegal automatic weapons. And that summer they had launched heavily into drug trafficking, especially along Daytona Beach.

  Sadly, Jim and Daryl knew nothing about the Pagans and the Outlaws. They were simply two kids from Metamora looking for the time of their lives. Obviously they knew nothing about the reasons why the locals feared and respected the motorcycle gangs. And they knew nothing about how dangerous Snake and Spider were.

  Because Snake and Spider were Pagan bikers.

  And if Jim and Daryl had even suspected what that meant around town, they probably would have fled the beach altogether.

  CHAPTER 17

  At about the same time that James Byrd was informing the Barbers and the Bouchers that he had made some real progress on his investigation, Bob Brown was arriving at his Orlando office earlier than usual. He had received an additional packet of information from Byrd’s Michigan office regarding the missing boys, and he wanted to read through it before returning to Daytona Beach.

  Private investigation work depended on fresh leads much the way the game of solitaire depends on fresh cards. One lead might lead to five which might lead to twenty-five. As long as there were viable leads, the investigation was still alive. If the leads dried up, so did the case. For that reason, he could not ignore this new information about the boys. Sometimes even the most mundane material had hidden within it the very lead that might crack a case. Bob hoped that was so with this material.

  He opened the packet and sorted through dozens of documents. Much of the information was repetitive, detailing the boys’ character traits and favorite hobbies. Bob was beyond leaning on that type of information at this point in the investigation. But that morning an obscure detail jumped off the pages of the report and suddenly Bob knew he had one more lead to follow up on.

  In a section of the information that contained comments from the boys’ parents regarding the kindhearted nature of their sons, one of their mothers said that Jim and Daryl had even been kind to members of the Hare Krishna group. The report from Byrd’s office read:

  Subject Barber’s parents, in stressing their point of Subject Barber’s friendliness, related that Subject Barber purchased a Krishna book in the amount of $5.00 rather than insist to the seller that he did not want the book.

  Bob thought about that detail for a minute. If Daryl had purchased the Hare Krishna book at some time, perhaps he had read it. And if he had read the book, it was possible that he and Jim had gotten mixed up with the Krishna group in Daytona Beach. Bob knew from previous investigations that the local cults were very aggressive in their pursuit of beach-going teenagers.

  The modus operandi for most cults was to convince new recruits to cut off all communication with anyone outside the cult. Next, the newcomers would be instructed to sell their possessions and donate the money to the organization for the good of the group.

  So it was possible, Bob reasoned, that the boys had joined the local Hare Krishna movement, been forbidden to call home, and then sold Daryl’s Nova to Snake for cash. Bob picked up the telephone.

  “Jeff, this is Bob Brown,” he said.

  “Sure, I remember. Did you get me some work?”

  Bob laughed softly. “Yes, I think so. I need you to check out a few of the local cults, Hare Krishna group, that kind of thing.”

  “Wow! That’s great, man!” Jeff, a full-time college student, had always dreamed of doing private investigations. He had come into the office a month ago and asked Bob to call him if he ever needed a young operative for any of his jobs. “Is this like an undercover thing or what?”

  “Right.” Bob was impressed with the young man’s enthusiasm. “Undercover.”

  “Great,” he nearly shouted. “Sign me up! When do I start?”

  He spent ten minutes giving Jeff the details of when and how to infiltrate the Hare Krishna group. When he was finished, he grabbed his briefcase, walked outside to his white sedan, and set out for Daytona Beach. It was time to pay another visit to Detective Mikelson.

  NOT MUCH HAD CHANGED FOR MIKELSON SINCE HIS LAST meeting with Bob. His workload was still as significant, his missing persons reports still spilling over from the places where they were kept, and he had still put no effort into solving the case involving the disappearance of the two Michigan teenagers. There were times when he thought about the boys and even wished he had enough time in the day to pursue the case.

  He had spoken to Bob Brown twice since the investigator first appeared at his desk.

  “Nothing new. No breaks in the case. Just wanted you to know I haven’t given up,” Bob would say. “And I hope you haven’t either.”

  Each time Bob called, Mikelson felt the implied pressure for him to join in the investigation. But it just wasn’t possible. And this bothered Mikelson.

  He remembered the grief-filled faces of the boys’ relatives when they had visited. He hadn’t been an officer long enough to feel immune to that kind of pain. And although he didn’t have time for the case, he sincerely hoped that Bob would find the boys. No one should have to live like their parents were probably living, wondering each day whether their sons were still alive and, if they were, whether they needed help or not. Because he had no time to work on it, Mikelson tried not to think about the case. But when he did, it was in hopes that Bob Brown would find the missing teens before so much time passed that it would be impossible to do so.

  Despite Brown’s sometimes annoying phone calls, Mikelson was comforted knowing that there was a private investigation regarding the teenagers—and, more importantly, that Bob Brown was handling it. And Bob knew that if there were ever any real breaks in the case, anything that needed Mikelson’s assistance, the detective would do whatever he could to help.

  That morning, November 10, Mikelson looked up to see Bob striding toward his desk. He was busy, he had other cases to work on, but he could tell by the look in Bob’s eyes that something had happened. There had been a break in the case and, deep inside, Mikelson was elated.

  “How’s it going, Bob?” Mikelson leaned back in his chair and pushed himself a few feet away from his desk.

  “Got a lead,” Bob said, grabbing a nearby chair and pulling it up.

  Mikelson raised an eyebrow. “Okay, tell me about it.”

  “Remember, I told you some of the boys’ traveler’s checks had been cashed, signed by Jim Boucher?”

  “Right.”

  “Seems the people at the trailer park remember a man named John Cox, more commonly—and from the sounds of it more appropriately—referred to as Sna
ke,” Bob said. “Seems Snake used the signed checks to pay his rent.”

  As Bob spoke, Mikelson sat straighter in his chair, his eyes suddenly filled with a knowing look. “Snake Cox?”

  Bob nodded quickly. “I figured you might know him.”

  Mikelson released a deep sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

  Bob waited for Mikelson to elaborate.

  “Snake’s a dangerous guy, Bob. Fully capable of killing.”

  “That’s what I thought. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s wanted by our department, the state police, drug enforcement. Oh, also the FBI for possession and illegal sale of drugs and weapons. Talk on the street is you don’t mess around with Snake if you value your life. On top of that, he’s a Pagan.”

  “So I heard.”

  “What in the world were those teenagers doing around Snake?”

  Bob shook his head sadly. “You haven’t heard the worst of it.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Lots more. Landlord says the boys and their red Nova were at Snake’s house sometime around August twelfth—the last time their parents heard from them. After that, Snake disappeared for a few days and when he came back, he was driving the Nova and the boys were nowhere to be seen.”

  The two men sat in silence.

  “Doesn’t sound real good,” Mikelson finally said.

  “No.”

  Suddenly, Mikelson pounded his fist on his desk. “Why would those kids do a stupid thing like letting Snake Cox show them around town?”

  “The answer’s pretty obvious, Mikelson,” Bob said.

  “What’s that?” The detective was frustrated.

  “Those boys wouldn’t know a poisonous Snake if it bit them.”

  Mikelson sighed and stood up. “We arrested that guy last year some time, before he had these warrants out.” Mikelson moved toward the main filing area. He quickly found the section he was looking for and began searching for Cox’s arrest record.

  “Here it is!” he said, yanking a sheet up from a file drawer and staring at it. According to the report, John “Snake” Cox was wanted by several law enforcement agencies for a number of crimes. Mikelson read the arrest record and snorted in disgust.

  “Take a look at this!” He thrust the report toward Bob.

  The arrest record was a lengthy account detailing a ten-year crime history which by 1971 included several counts of breaking and entering and possession of stolen property. Then there were drug arrests and more charges of breaking and entering. But it was the last item on the report that caught Bob’s attention and made him fear for the lives of the Michigan teenagers.

  On February 29, 1976, Snake was arrested for possession of a deadly weapon—a gun.

  Bob had seen enough. He turned toward Mikelson, who was still silently berating himself for not pursuing the missing persons report in the first place. “If there’s an arrest record, there’s a photo, right?”

  Mikelson grinned. “You bet!”

  “I don’t have a forwarding address on the guy,” Bob said anxiously. “But maybe, if we have a photograph, we can comb the beaches and find someone who knows him!”

  “It’s worth a try,” Mikelson said, pointing across the room. “Let’s get it.”

  The two men walked quickly through the department toward the photo area and looked up the file on John Cox.

  “It’s empty.” Zachary opened the file but the only thing inside was a small, handwritten note that read:

  “No picture available. Police department camera broken.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Certain methods were used in private investigation that absolutely could not be employed by police. Most of the time, Bob did not have to resort to such methods because most cases could be solved with basic police techniques. Typically, he asked questions and got answers. But in this case, Bob was fairly certain he had exhausted all his routine options.

  He wanted to find Snake. And if Mikelson and the trailer park couple were right, anyone who might know anything about Snake’s whereabouts wasn’t about to talk. Unless, of course, one might make some cash in the process. In that case, even the fear of Snake Cox might be eased enough to say something.

  Yes, Bob decided as he left the police department that morning, it was time to pull out the stops. Time to start waving crisp one-hundred dollar bills around the haunts of Daytona Beach.

  Although there were no laws to govern such a practice, there was an unwritten, time-tested rule in private investigations that said a person will not take a bribe unless they can fulfill their end of the bargain. Regardless of that person’s character.

  Therefore, if a person was offered one hundred dollars in exchange for the whereabouts of another person with the promise of an additional sum of money when that information was delivered, the person almost never took the money unless they were certain they could deliver.

  James Byrd had given Bob permission to use the offer of a reward if necessary, telling him that his clients—the Barbers and Bouchers—were willing to spend whatever money necessary to find their boys. And so, before setting out on the beach, this time still in his three-piece suit, Bob stopped at the bank and withdrew two thousand dollars in hundreds from his business account.

  He was looking for several things. First and foremost, the whereabouts of Snake Cox. Second, the real identity of Spider and Fat Man. And third, the whereabouts of those two and anyone else who might have been seen with the boys or who might be considered friends of Snake, Spider, or Fat Man.

  He parked his car behind McDonald’s and walked out onto the cement walkway that separates the arcades, gift shops, and fast food joints from the sandy beach and boardwalk area. He was no longer looking for any local group of teenagers. He wanted to find people who wore their hair long and unkempt, with little regard to their appearance. People who wore tattoos on their arms and legs and who seemed to be perpetually stoned on marijuana. People who rode Harley-Davidson bikes. That was it, really. He wanted to find bikers.

  He scanned the strip and saw two young men who matched this description. Without hesitation, Bob walked boldly up to them. The key was to hold back from flashing the money until they had heard the question.

  “I’m looking for Snake,” Bob said.

  Immediately the young men seemed to grow nervous, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing about as if looking for some kind of escape route.

  “Never heard of him, man,” one of the two said, peering out at Bob from behind a curtain of blond, greasy hair.

  Bob reached into his suit pocket and smoothly pulled out a handful of one-hundred dollar bills, fanning them discreetly but in clear view of the men. Their eyes grew wide and they looked up at Bob.

  “This some kind of setup, man?” the other one asked. He wore a tattoo of the devil on his cheek.

  “No. I’ll give you two hundred dollars if you find out where Snake is. Hundred now and a hundred when you deliver the information.”

  The blond man shifted again, clearly uneasy with the proposition. “Hey, listen, man, we don’t know where he is.”

  “You know him?”

  The man shrugged toward his friend and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure,” he said uncertainly. “Everyone knows Snake.”

  “Then someone knows where he is.” Bob moved the money closer to the man.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, holding his hands up and rejecting Bob’s offer. “You got the wrong guy. I mean, I know Snake. But I can’t tell you where he is. Ain’t a guy on this beach knows where Snake is. He just disappeared.”

  “Ever heard of someone named Spider or Fat Man?”

  The two men grinned at each other and chuckled deeply for several seconds, slapping their knees and punching each other the way people do when the drugs they’re on have compromised their ability to judge humorous moments.

  “Sure, everyone knows Spider and Fat Man,” the one man
said when he’d caught his breath. Then, as if he suddenly realized that Bob was not laughing, the man straightened up and cleared his throat.

  “Where are they?”

  “Don’t know that, either, man,” the tattooed biker said. “Sorry.”

  “Find me their real names and the money’s yours.”

  The men looked at each other again and shrugged. “Sorry, man.”

  Bob put the money back into his pocket and shrugged. “Your loss.”

  He turned around and walked away completely confused. Buying information had always worked in the past. Even in Daytona Beach. And it was obvious that these men knew Snake, Spider, and Fat Man. So why weren’t they talking? It didn’t make any sense. Unless of course the risk of talking was greater than their desire for cash.

  Bob suddenly felt a chill race through his body and he silently began to pray, asking God to direct his investigation and protect him. Because from this point on, Bob was very certain he would need divine protection.

  Later that afternoon, when no one on the beach had been willing or able to offer any information about Snake and the others, Bob headed for the motorcycle bars. Certainly that section of town would contain hundreds of people who knew Snake and his cronies and probably their whereabouts. What Bob wasn’t sure of was how the bikers would react to his presence.

  LIKE ANY BAR, BIKER SALOONS IN DAYTONA BEACH WERE dark inside. But instead of beer and sports signs hanging on the walls, there were dozens of Harley-Davidson pictures posted about. Inside, there was a machismo that went beyond that in almost any other culture. Men, their egos larger than themselves, often sat atop bar stools while someone’s skimpily dressed “old lady” waited on them.

  By anyone else’s standards, the inside of a biker bar was a slothful den of oftentimes cruel men who were really nothing more than overgrown bad boys. Of course occasionally there were solitary bikers who passed through Daytona Beach and frequented the bars. Those men and women usually bore none of the traits of the gang members. But in Daytona Beach a vast majority of the bikers belonged to a gang and hence were a despicable group.