Kill For Me (14 page)

Harry Augello was at the PPPD drafting two search warrants. Both were focused on what detectives believed was evidence the AT&T Wireless Communication System Facility in Pinellas County had in relation to the murder of Sandee Rozzo. Detectives needed to find out exactly who Sandee had called from her cell phone and—maybe more important—who had called Sandee and left messages. The warrant specified seven voice mail messages and other telephone numbers that forensics had figured out they needed a special code to access. Interestingly enough, the phone Sandee used was owned by Tony Ponicall, who, the warrant read,
Telephoned the PPPD and said that Sandra Lee Rozzo was his roommate and was the victim of a shooting…[but] nothing else relevant was provided by Ponicall.

If anyone assumed the PPPD had blinders on and were focused exclusively on Tracey Humphrey, this warrant indicated an opposing view. In fact, read in the context of the investigation, despite what detectives were saying, one might consider the idea that Tony Ponicall was still on the
top
of the ever more popular “person of interest” list the PPPD was compiling.

On July 14, 2003, Paul Andrews and Ski took a ride to the Green Iguana to wrap up a few interviews and sketch out Sandee’s final ride home on the night she was murdered. The detectives wanted to walk in Sandee’s shoes, to estimate the time it took to clock out, saunter out to her car in the parking lot, and drive home. All of it would eventually help calculate a more exact time of death, which was going to be imperative when pinpointing and scrutinizing the number of alibis the PPPD was in the process of obtaining.

It took three minutes for Sandee to clock out and walk to her car, providing she parked in the same basic location she had on most nights.

From there, Paul led the way and Ski followed. They drove back to Sandee and Tony’s townhome in Pinellas Park.

Paul clocked the drive at twenty-six minutes, fifty-four seconds.

Sandee was murdered, as the PPPD had originally thought, somewhere near 11:00
P.M
.

With somewhat of a timeline in place, on July 15, 2003, detectives once again spread out and interviewed witnesses, following up on the tips that were coming into a hotline that had been set up. One tipster was a neighbor of Candis’s, who told a familiar story. The guy had helped Candis move some stuff out of her apartment after she broke up with Humphrey on New Year’s Day, 2003—the day after Humphrey allegedly got violent with Candis and forced her to have sex, choking her out several times. Humphrey must have been stalking them, because after the guy was finished helping out, the friendly neighbor got an e-mail and a threatening phone call from Humphrey. The personal trainer warned him that if he continued to date Candis (which he wasn’t), “I’m going to come over and give you what you deserve.” Humphrey said this through his signature clenched-teeth growl.

Mr. Intimidator.

The guy felt so threatened by Humphrey, he went out and acquired a small firearms permit and bought a pistol for protection.

When Ski got back to the department late in the day on July 15, there was a man waiting for him in the lobby. He said he had some information that might be helpful in investigating the death of a woman he once dated, Sandee Lee Rozzo.

If nothing else, Sandee was busy on the dating scene.

“Sure,” Ski said. “Thanks for stepping up.”

They found an empty room and sat down.

The man said he had dated Sandee a few times. He took her out, in fact, three weeks before she was murdered. They had fun. The night went well, and they made it back to his apartment. He thought maybe he might get lucky.

“We started to get intimate…,” the man said, “but Sandee pushed me away.”

“I’m sorry,” Sandee said a moment later.

“She was upset for not being more romantic,” the guy told Ski. “Then told me what had happened to her and who did it. I told her I understood. I listened to her after that, as she explained the entire criminal case against Tracey Humphrey.”

“Did Sandee tell you about any threats Mr. Humphrey might have made?”

The guy paused. “Humphrey did threaten her,” he finally said, “regarding
not
dropping the charges against him.”

This was the first Ski had heard specifically that Tracey Humphrey had referred to the “charges against him.” In theory, it meant that Humphrey was acknowledging in some way that the charges Sandee had lodged against him could possibly end up with him in legal trouble down the road, and result in prison time.

The next morning, July 16, was one of those picture-perfect days Florida is so known for. The sun was bright and full, a floating lemony ball in the sky. It was 83 degrees by midmorning, a temperature that would not fluctuate one way or the other more than three degrees all day long. Visibility was nine miles. The water temperature in the Gulf was a bit bathwateresque, pushing 85. The beach sand in the Tampa area, white and hot to the touch, felt like baby powder sifting through your toes. Indeed, it was hard to fathom that some people considered Florida too hot in the heart of summer. On this day conditions were faultless. The sky a baby blue you’d think God himself had painted just for the folks in the aptly nicknamed Sunshine State.

Ski woke up, determined to move the case forward. Sure, information was coming in at a fairly good clip. Sources were lining up to talk dirt about Tracey Humphrey. Sandee’s life leading up to her murder, detectives understood, wasn’t so perfect. She had been dating several men
while
telling Tony Ponicall that she wanted to be exclusive—and he thought they were. There was even some indication that Sandee had been involved in selling Ecstasy out of a few bars that she had worked at many years previously. This led detectives to consider—how could they not?—that where there’s drugs and money, there’s violence and, yes, sometimes murder.

Still, inside that rather large box of possibilities, the one name that kept popping up, over and over again, was Tracey Humphrey.

Follow the evidence. Any cop worth his weight can tell you that a skunk smells for a reason.

Ski walked over to Detective Shannon Rozzi’s desk and explained what he had going on at the present moment.

“I’m thinking maybe we need to take a ride out to the Athletic Club in Brandon and talk to Humphrey’s new bride, Ashley.”

Rozzi couldn’t argue with that.

If they couldn’t speak directly to Humphrey himself, maybe his wife, who definitely knew something, would be more willing to talk. She was young—much younger than Humphrey. In talking to several sources, the PPPD had heard various stories about her relationship with Humphrey, and they needed to pin down the facts best they could. One source said that the wedding the Humphreys had over the July Fourth weekend wasn’t necessarily an event out of
Brides
magazine. Or even a shotgun get-together at the local VFW hall. From what detectives were beginning to hear, Humphrey and his bride had gotten hitched, so the story went, just outside the Brandon Athletic Club, and had even gotten in a workout afterward. One couldn’t help but wonder, with a wedding tossed together in a pinch like that, if the reception wasn’t at the local Burger King or McDonald’s.

“We had heard about this girl named Ashley,” Ski told me later, “who was
possibly
pregnant, who was
possibly
Humphrey’s girlfriend, who was
possibly
his wife—just all these stories were floating around. All these rumors.”

Ski and Rozzi were under the impression that Ashley could either vouch for her husband’s whereabouts on the night Sandee was murdered, or dig the guy a deeper hole.

“I know at this point that this guy—Humphrey—has been through the system. He’s been arrested a number of times. I couldn’t get an alibi from him,” Ski told me, “and I’m playing this over in my head and realize that the answer is likely with his wife.”

“You know what,” Ski told Rozzi, “yeah, why don’t you take a ride with me. I cannot get an alibi from Mr. Humphrey. But let’s see if we can go get one from his girl.”

As they walked into the club, it seemed all eyes were on the detectives. It’s not hard to spot a few cops in plainclothes inside a gym, especially when one of the well-known trainers working there had been connected to the victim of a recent murder.

It was near 1:30
P.M
. Ski walked directly to the front desk.

“Like to speak with Tracey Humphrey,” he said, introducing himself to the man behind the counter.

The manager, a wiry man, a bit nervous, said, “He’s busy with a client.”

To Ski, the line seem rehearsed. But Ski “got it.” He understood. He and Rozzi were the bad guys—the pain-in-the-ass cops—there to bust the chops of an innocent trainer who couldn’t catch a break because he had spent some time in prison once.

“How ’bout Ashley? Is she around?” Ski asked.

“You mean Tracey’s wife?”

“Ah, yeah…,” Ski said. That cleared up the girlfriend/wife rumor.

“Um, she’s not here,” the manager shot back quickly. “She called in sick today.”

“Can you give me a telephone number where I can reach her?”

He gave Ashley’s cell phone number to Ski.

“Great, thanks,” Ski said. “We’re going to get something to eat and we’ll be back in ten minutes to talk to Tracey. Let him know. He should be done by then, right?” It was a little white lie. Ski was churning inside to get out of there and get over to Ashley’s and speak to her without Humphrey around. This was the perfect opportunity. Humphrey was training a client. Ashley was probably all alone.

They walked out.

“You drive,” Ski told Rozzi.

Ski was keyed up. He flipped through the pages of his notebook to see where Humphrey lived. It was a race. He knew once Humphrey found out that they had stopped by and not returned, he would put two and two together and realize they had made a beeline over to his apartment to talk to his wife. Humphrey was likely going to hightail it out of the gym himself and rush home. They had maybe a half hour alone with Ashley.

It took about ten minutes to get to Humphrey’s apartment.

Ashley answered the door. She looked tired, worn down. Not so much sick, or ill in any way, but scared.

Vulnerable.

Perfect.

“Hey, can we come in and talk a little bit?” Ski asked casually. No pressure. Just two cops on the hunt for info. He explained who they were and why they were there.

“Come on in,” Ashley said. Ski was glad he had brought Shannon Rozzi along with him. Things were working out. Having a female detective to interview a female witness always helped. It made the witness feel comfortable.

Still, Ski later said, the first thing he noticed about Ashley was “how nervous” she appeared. It was a situation, Ski contemplated, that wasn’t supposed to work out the way it had. Sometimes, as a cop, well, you just get lucky.

“I didn’t think I was going to be able to find her so easily,” Ski remarked later, “but it all fell into place.”

By now, it was near 3:30
P.M
. Ski and Rozzi sat on a long couch in the living room. Ashley sat across from them, off to the right, on a love seat and couch set up in an L-shaped pattern in the small apartment.

“Thanks for inviting us in,” Ski said. “I appreciate any help you can be in this terrible matter. We’re just trying to establish an alibi for”—he stopped, paused, thought about it, and decided why not go for it—“…for, um,
you,
and your husband.”

Knowing what they both did on that night Sandee was murdered would surely explain a few things and move the investigation along.

No sooner had Ski mentioned the word “alibi,” when Ashley, Ski later explained, “become physically sick in front of our eyes.”

Her body, in fact, started to shake. Her stomach pumped (quivered) in and out. She was on the verge of vomiting right in front of them.

“I’m sorry…,” she said, getting up.

It was so bad, Ski recalled, “that at first I thought she was going to sneeze. I didn’t realize she was getting sick. Her body was convulsing so much.”

“Hey, you okay?” Ski asked.

Ashley’s head jerked forward and she covered her mouth.

Ski and Rozzi looked at each other.

Holy shit.

“What?” Ashley said, righting herself after a few moments.

“I thought you were going to sneeze,” Ski said.

“No, no…I thought I was going to be sick.”

Silence.

“Listen, can I ask you a personal question?” Ski said.

“Yes.” Ashley was sweating now. Fidgety, moving around a lot. Her eyes darting from side to side.

“Are you pregnant? Is this why you’re so ill? We don’t want to put you under any stress whatsoever. That’s not our purpose here.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m not pregnant.”

So, why is this girl so sick?
Ski thought, looking at her, sizing Ashley up.

Ski knew how to deal with this type of witness. He spoke calmly, as did Rozzi, whenever she chimed in to follow up on something. The tone was relaxed. Ashley was made to feel like she had nothing to worry about. All she needed to do was answer a few questions and they were out of there. Yet, something told Ski that it wasn’t their presence making Ashley so uncomfortable. It was something else.

Or someone else.

“What’d you do on the Fourth of July weekend that just passed?” Ski asked. It had been almost two weeks. Not a long time to remember.

“Oh,” Ashley said excitedly, “I got married!”

“You did,” Ski said with a smile. “That’s great. Tell us about it.”

“Sure…sure. Um…”

“Where’d you guys get married?”

“At Bayside Health Care.”

Bayside was a local rehabilitation center owned by and attached to the Brandon Athletic Club. Humphrey didn’t work there, but he used the rooms at Bayside for his clients who needed things such as biofreeze put on before the actual workout sessions he conducted.

Ashley said, “We got married while on break from the [Brandon] Athletic Club. Someone came in and notarized the wedding certificate,” she added a moment later. “We tried to go out and eat sushi, but weren’t able to find any.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me that you remember from that night?” Ski was doing most of the talking while Rozzi sat and studied Ashley’s responses, waiting for the opportune time to chime in and add something.

“Yes. Fireworks. I remember seeing fireworks when we drove along the interstate.”

It
was
the Fourth of July. Fireworks would make sense. For Ski, it was all about keeping Ashley Humphrey talking. Keeping her focused on relaying details of what the Humphreys had done that weekend. Didn’t make a bit of difference what she talked about: weddings, fireworks, sushi. The girl was giving Ski more information than he had gotten from her husband, and that was exactly why he was sitting in her living room.

“What about the following day, July fifth? What did you and your husband do that day—honeymoon?”

“Um, there’s a possibility that we rented some movies. I don’t recall. Ah, I do remember that we hung out with Tobe, a good friend of ours. She’s starting a business with my husband.”

“Who’s that?”

“Tobe…Tobe…” Ashley admitted she had a hard time recalling Tobe’s last name. Some “good friend.” But after thinking it over for a moment, “White,” she said. “Yeah. Her last name is White.”

“Can I get her number? Maybe an address?”

“Hold on.”

Ashley stood. Walked into the kitchen. Looked inside a little book. Then handed Tobe White’s info to Ski.

That was easy enough.

“About those movies,” Ski said, sitting back down.

“If we rented movies, we got them from Hollywood Video in Brandon.”

The PPPD could check that out easy enough.

“What else did you do on that night?”

“Watched TV until some late hour…. I don’t even recall the time…then dozed off to bed.”

“Alone?”

“No, no…with my husband.” As Ashley started to say something else, the phone rang. It startled the young woman. She looked toward the bedroom.

“Can I get that?” Ashley asked.

“Ashley,” Ski said, “of course, you can get it. This is your house.”

Ashley got up and walked away. She went into the bedroom and out of view. Spent a few moments on the phone. Came back out. Then, as she sat down again, she decided that she was going to be sick and ran into the bathroom.

“You okay?” Ski said.

A few moments later, Ashley came out and sat. She looked more scared than she ever had. Her skin was pale. Something else was bothering her now. There was an immense weight on her shoulder. Whoever had called had said things Ashley didn’t like.

Ski and Rozzi were just getting comfortable again, preparing to ask more questions, when Humphrey came barging into the house. He looked frazzled. Determined. In a hurry. He wore sweatpants, a muscle shirt. Beads of sweat, like dew on the side of a glass, perspired down his bald head.

Ski didn’t move. Neither did Rozzi.

After staring Ashley down, nearly peeling the makeup off her face with his eyes, Humphrey stood next to his wife, arms folded, looking at Ski and Rozzi, then back at Ashley. He never asked Ski and Rozzi to get out, so Ski continued as if he weren’t even there.

“I ignored him.”

With Humphrey standing by her side, Ashley carried on. This time, however, she sounded quite a bit more nervous than she had all afternoon.

“We got pizza, yeah…now I remember. We got pizza delivered. Watched movies. Tobe came over.” She was talking about the night of the murder, during the time frame that Sandee had left work and was gunned down in her garage.

“Any idea where you might have ordered that pizza from?”

Not even a second thought: “Pizza Hut,” Ashley said.

Humphrey stood, Ski explained, “just inside Ashley’s peripheral vision. Now facing her. His arms crossed. I mean, literally, the guy’s bald head was turning different shades of purple, red, and pink as she spoke to us. He was so pissed off. He was standing there, looking at us as if we weren’t there, and I felt that if he could have picked me up, thrown me out of the apartment through the front window, he would have done it.”

It was an intense moment, to say the least. Pure rage exuded from the guy’s pores. He had clenched fists. His teeth grinding. He breathed loudly, through his nose.

“Now, you sure it was Pizza Hut?” Ski asked, trying to keep the conversation fluid—and keep Ashley talking through this showdown with the big man.

Ashley stood at that point. Faced her hubby, looking up to him, and said, “Oh, honey, didn’t we order pizza the night
after
we were married?”