Matt Deal was talking to a brain trauma surgeon at Sacred Heart Hospital, Destin, when Captain Mike Stevenson and three of his detectives were breaking down the door of a condo in nearby Sandestin.
They soon called for backup when they found Conor O’Rourke, Roland Fenney, Brett Angus, Paul Greenslade, and Tim Heath in the three-bedroomed full-service unit. All five were awake, drunk, and smoking marijuana.
The alpha male O’Rourke, on hearing the door splinter and seeing the detectives, shouted, “Holy fuck!”
“All of you, stand against the wall. Slowly. Hands up against the wall,” Stevenson ordered.
“Is this to do with that whore on the beach?” O’Rourke said.
Stevenson pistol-whipped him on the back of the head.
“What the fuck!”
The detective ignored him and shouted, “Roly!”
Roland Fenney said, “Yes?”
“You a faggot, boy? Yes or no?”
“No,” Fenney whispered.
“I can’t hear you,” Stevenson yelled, close to Fenney’s ear.
“No, sir,” came a firmer reply.
Fenney fidgeted with his jeans back pocket. Stevenson saw it. “Okay, boy. Take it out. Show me.” Fenney pulled out pink panties from his jeans back pocket.
“Bag that, Ted,” Stevenson said to one of his detectives, “and make sure it is swabbed for DNA as soon as we get back.”
O’Rourke muttered some gibberish. It sounded like, “Kakoo.”
“Stevenson said, “Quit that Kappa Alpha fraternity code crap or I’ll crack your skull open.”
“What you busting us for? Weed has been legal in this state for years or haven’t you heard?” O’Rourke said.
“Rape and first-degree murder,” Stevenson said.
Fenney said, “She’s dead?”
“Shut the fuck up, Roly,” O’Rourke said.
“She’s not dead… yet. You better pray she lives, but that still leaves the gang-bang rape,” Stevenson said, ignoring O’Rourke.
A silence followed, broken only by Stevenson giving the five suspects their Miranda rights. Then a further silence as all five exercised their right to remain silent.
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