In the mid-1980s, several young women vanished without a trace in Tampa, only to be found murdered in remote areas.
The man behind that fear was Bobby Joe Long. He was eventually connected to at least ten murders in the Tampa Bay area. Investigators would later discover that he also carried out dozens of assaults.
No one in town felt safe, especially those traveling alone. Seventeen-year-old Lisa McVey understood that worry better than most.
Lisa had a rough childhood. As a young teen, she moved in and out of foster care. She had been forced by her drug- and alcohol-addicted mother to move in with and take care of her grandmother at age fourteen, but that situation turned into another nightmare.
Lisa says she was abused and sexually assaulted by her grandmother’s boyfriend and threatened at gunpoint.
She shared that she reached a breaking point. “The night before I was taken, I was writing my suicide note,” Lisa later said.
“I felt there was no hope, no future.” She never imagined that within hours, she would face an even bigger fight for her life.
On November 3, 1984, Lisa left her shift at a local doughnut shop. She usually rode her bike home in the dark. She knew it was risky, but as she pedaled through the streets that night, she had no idea how close danger actually was.
A sudden force knocked her off balance. Before she could scream, a strange man pulled her into his vehicle. He pointed a gun at her head. She begged for help, but no one heard.
“I remember pleading with God—just don’t let him kill me,” she would later recall.
Lisa didn’t know at first that this man was the serial killer everyone in Tampa feared. He was Bobby Joe Long, and he didn’t want witnesses. He blindfolded Lisa, tied her up, and took her to a place he had prepared.
She soon realized this was a fight for survival. “He held me for 26 hours at gunpoint,” Lisa said in an interview.
“He raped me over and over again. I lost count.” Each hour felt like a hundred years. She stayed calm, believing she had to outthink him.
At one point, she drew on her past experiences with abuse. In her words, “I said, ‘Listen, it’s unfortunate how we met, but I can be your girlfriend. I can take care of you, and no one has to know.’”
Some people might never think of such a strategy, but Lisa hoped that acting gentle might convince him to spare her life.
She also remembered tactics from crime shows. She tried to memorize the route, the texture of the car seats, and any noises outside.
Under the blindfold, she noticed a nameplate that read “Magnum.” She counted the number of steps into the building he took her to. She touched surfaces, leaving prints everywhere.
“He made me put my hands on his face,” she recalled.
“That’s when I felt pockmarks, a mustache, small ears, short hair. I tried to record every detail in my mind.” She worried she wouldn’t make it, but if she died, she wanted police to have enough clues to find him.
In a moment of desperation, she told him a lie about her family. She said her dad was sick and only she could care for him. She guessed that a show of sympathy might make him think twice about killing her. As unbelievable as it sounds, it worked.
Long chose to drive Lisa to a remote area. He told her to keep the blindfold on for five minutes after he left. She heard his car fade into the distance. Then she pulled off that blindfold and saw a towering oak tree.
“That’s the moment I knew my life was going to change,” she said. “I saw new beginnings in those branches.”
She made it home, hoping for relief. Instead, she found more pain. Her grandmother’s boyfriend beat her, demanding to know where she had been. He doubted her story. She had just escaped a killer, but now she faced another form of cruelty. Hours passed before anyone called the police.
When officers arrived, Lisa stuck to her story. She shared every detail she remembered: the name “Magnum,” the approximate route, a possible ATM stop. Investigators took her seriously. They knew about the ongoing murders in the Tampa area and recognized her information might finally crack the case.
Police began surveillance on Bobby Joe Long. They noticed details about his car that matched Lisa’s descriptions. They also gathered his financial records, lining up the times he used an ATM with the hours Lisa recalled.
On November 16, 1984, authorities placed him under arrest, charging him with kidnapping and sexually assaulting Lisa. The same man suspected of a string of murders was now in custody.
Investigators worked quickly to tie the pieces together. With forensic evidence like red carpet fibers, rope knots, and other physical clues, they connected him to the deaths of at least ten women.
He eventually pled guilty to eight murders, plus the kidnapping and rape of Lisa. Though his initial confession for some homicides was set aside by the courts, he still faced an overwhelming amount of evidence. Multiple life sentences were handed down, plus a death sentence for killing Michelle Denise Simms.
Another victim, Linda Nuttall, had survived an attack in her home. Many in Tampa only learned about Linda’s ordeal later. She, too, suffered at the hands of Bobby Joe Long. Knowing that two survivors emerged from his violence gave people hope that justice could be served.
Long spent over three decades on Florida’s death row. He appealed many times, but the courts upheld his capital sentence in at least one of the murder cases. In April 2019, Governor Ron DeSantis signed the death warrant. “It was long overdue,” Lisa said without hesitation.
On May 23, 2019, Long was executed by lethal injection. He had no final statement. Lisa and Linda Nuttall were present to witness. For Lisa, it was the close of one life chapter. She had endured nightmares for years, struggling with PTSD and depression.
“He took so many lives,” she told reporters. “But he didn’t break me.” She said her only regret was that nothing could bring back the women who were killed. She still grieved for them and their families, knowing they didn’t get the chance she did.
After her abduction, Lisa found a new calling. In 1995, she took a job with Hillsborough County Parks and Recreation. Then a deputy responding to a break-in told her, “You’ve got the attitude to be a cop.” She remembered that line and kept pushing forward.
She joined the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office as a dispatcher. She later became a reserve deputy and put herself through the academy. By 2004, she was officially deputized, wearing the same green and gold uniform as the officers who had once saved her life.
“I’m a protector,” she said in a Fox 13 interview. “No one’s going to get hurt on my watch.” She’s driven by the memory of what she endured. She doesn’t want anyone else to feel as alone as she did back then.
Today, Lisa often works as a middle school resource officer. She patrols hallways, greets students, and makes sure they feel safe. “I see myself in some of these kids,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be scared, to think nobody cares.”
She uses her story as a teaching tool. She talks about staying aware, trusting instincts, and speaking up if you feel threatened. Her message is simple: “Don’t let fear win. Help is out there, and so is hope.”
She also shares details of her childhood abuse, hoping it encourages young people to find their voice. “I want them to know they can break free, even if they’re scared to speak,” she said. “I promise them there’s a better day ahead.”
Bobby Joe Long’s background was troubling too. Born in 1953 in West Virginia, he was said to have an extra X chromosome, a condition called 47,XXY. He had multiple head injuries growing up. Friends recall that he resented his mother’s short-term boyfriends. Yet none of those factors justified his vicious spree.
Investigators discovered his pattern of violence stretched beyond Florida. He once lived elsewhere, but Tampa became his main hunting ground in 1984. He targeted women who might be isolated, such as hitchhikers or those walking alone late at night. Fear rippled through the area as bodies were discovered in backroads and wooded spots.
The media covered the case relentlessly.
Watching Long’s execution brought mixed emotions. She wanted closure but also felt sadness for the families of those murdered women. “Those families never had a chance to say goodbye,” she said. “I survived, but many others didn’t. That weighs on me.”
Over time, Lisa developed coping strategies for her PTSD. She found therapy and emotional support from friends in law enforcement. She even found the will to forgive in some ways. “Forgiveness doesn’t mean what he did was okay,” she explained. “It means I won’t let hate consume me.”
Her road to healing hasn’t been easy. She’s faced flashbacks, nightmares, and moments of deep anxiety. Yet she greets each morning with the commitment to help someone else. Whether it’s a scared student or a fellow survivor, she’s there to show them a path forward.
Some wonder how she walks the same streets where she once lived in fear. She believes returning as a deputy has helped her conquer those old shadows. “I go by those places and think, ‘This is my home now, and I’m in control.’”
People approach her at schools, local events, or on patrol, thanking her for sharing her story. Some tell her they too have survived abuse. Others say she inspired them to reach out for help.
She’s built a life that shows others they can reclaim control, no matter how horrifying their past may be. She stands as living proof that one person’s determination can expose a dangerous criminal and protect countless lives.
When she speaks to groups about safety, she reminds them that it’s okay to be afraid, but it’s not okay to stay silent. She encourages everyone to call authorities if they suspect something is wrong. She believes strong community ties and open dialogue can prevent future tragedies.
She also recognizes the importance of mental health services. She credits her faith, counseling, and supportive mentors for helping her process trauma. “If you’re hurting, reach out,” she often says. “There’s no shame in asking for help.”
Her story was dramatized in the TV movie “Believe Me: The Abduction of Lisa McVey,” where Katie Douglas played Lisa, and Rossif Sutherland portrayed Bobby Joe Long. People who watch the film might feel shock or disbelief, but Lisa hopes it sparks conversations about survival and the need for awareness.
She takes pride in her work with the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office. She specializes in sex crimes and child protection, offering comfort to young people who feel lost. She promises to guard them, the way she once wished someone had guarded her.
Every time she steps into her squad car, she carries the memory of that night. “I’m no longer a victim,” she says. “I’m a warrior.” It’s a phrase she lives by, wearing her badge with a quiet confidence earned through unimaginable pain.
If you drive through certain parts of town, you might spot Lisa in her patrol car. She might be sitting near a middle school, ready to greet students with a friendly nod.
Her dedication has turned something dreadful into a powerful message. Where fear once ruled her life, she now stands firm against those who harm the innocent. “I want my story to help somebody,” she says. “Even if it’s just one person, that’s enough for me.”
