The turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico, often a playground for avid fishermen, have turned into a vast, unforgiving tomb of secrets in the disappearance of two prominent Florida attorneys: Randall “Randy” Spivey, 57, and his nephew Brandon Billmaier, 33. What began as a routine deep-sea fishing trip on December 19, 2025, has evolved into a haunting enigma, with their empty boat discovered drifting 70 miles offshore, a massive search operation suspended after exhausting thousands of square miles, and now an FBI investigation delving into the unknown. Adding to the heartbreak, Brandon’s wife, Deborah Billmaier, has revealed in an exclusive interview details of a final, unsettling phone call from her husband just hours before contact was lost—a conversation she describes as “strange, like he was saying goodbye forever.” As families face a somber Christmas without answers, the question burns: Was this a tragic accident, or does foul play lurk beneath the waves? This is the full, riveting account of a day that shattered lives, a search that tested limits, and a mystery that refuses to surface.

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Randy Spivey and Brandon Billmaier shared a bond that transcended family ties; they were mentors, confidants, and adventure companions. Randy, a Fort Myers legal powerhouse, founded the Spivey Law Firm over three decades ago, specializing in personal injury cases and earning a reputation as a fierce advocate for the underdog. Known for his integrity and community involvement, he was a devoted husband to Tricia Spivey, a fellow attorney at the firm, and a loving father to his children, including a son also named Randy. “He was the kind of man who’d stop everything to help a stranger,” a longtime client shared with The News-Press. Brandon, inspired by his uncle’s path, pursued law and joined the Shiner Law Group in Boca Raton, where he quickly rose as a trial attorney. Recently married to Deborah, Brandon had relocated to Florida with dreams of eventually partnering with Randy. Friends described them as “inseparable,” often bonding over fishing trips, family vacations, and shared holidays. “They were like father and son,” said John Rocuant, a close friend of Randy’s. “Fishing was their escape, their way to recharge.”

On the crisp morning of Friday, December 19, 2025, the duo departed from a private dock in Iona, Fort Myers, aboard Randy’s prized 42-foot Freeman catamaran, Unstopp-A-Bull. A vessel renowned for its stability and speed, it was equipped for deep-sea bottom fishing, with plans to venture about 100 miles offshore into the Gulf’s bountiful waters. Experienced boaters both, they were no strangers to the sea’s whims—Randy had logged countless hours on the water, and Brandon “lived for the thrill of the catch,” according to Deborah. They anticipated returning by sunset, around 5:30 p.m., to share tales of their haul with loved ones. “It was just another day for them,” Tricia Spivey later recounted in a tearful interview with WINK News. But as the afternoon waned, unease crept in.

In a revelation that has sent shockwaves through the investigation, Deborah Billmaier disclosed details of what may have been Brandon’s final phone call to her, around 3 p.m. that day—mere hours before all communication ceased. Speaking exclusively to Global News Desk, Deborah described the conversation as profoundly out of character. “He called to check in, like he always did on these trips,” she said, her voice trembling. “But something was off. His voice was distant, almost resigned. He said things like, ‘I love you more than anything,’ and ‘Take care of yourself, no matter what.’ It felt very strange, like he was saying goodbye forever, as if he knew he wasn’t coming back.” Deborah paused, wiping away tears. “I asked if everything was okay, and he just laughed it off, saying the fish weren’t biting much. But hindsight? It haunts me. Was he sensing danger? Or was something else happening out there?” This account, shared publicly for the first time, has raised chilling questions about the men’s state of mind or potential perils they encountered. APD and FBI investigators have reportedly requested phone records to verify the call, but no official confirmation has been released yet.

By 7:30 p.m., with no sign of the boat and calls going unanswered, panic set in. Tricia and Deborah, unable to reach their husbands, alerted authorities. At 9 p.m., the U.S. Coast Guard Sector St. Petersburg initiated an emergency response, deploying helicopters and cutters into the darkening Gulf. “It was like a switch flipped from worry to terror,” Deborah posted on Instagram that night. “Please, if anyone sees their boat, call now.” The families clung to hope, bolstered by the boat’s advanced GPS tracker, which last pinged far offshore.

The breakthrough—or rather, the gut-wrenching clue—came just after midnight on December 20. A Coast Guard helicopter from Air Station Clearwater spotted Unstopp-A-Bull adrift approximately 70 miles west of Fort Myers, near Naples. The catamaran was upright, engines still in gear, drifting aimlessly like a ghost ship. A rescue swimmer boarded, shutting down the motors and anchoring it for towing. But the vessel was eerily empty—no Randy, no Brandon, no signs of a struggle or capsizing. “It was intact, almost pristine,” a Coast Guard official told USA Today. Towed back to Station Fort Myers Beach, the boat yielded few answers: the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon (EPIRB) remained onboard, unactivated, meaning no distress signal had been sent. Yet, two life jackets were missing, igniting a spark of optimism. “That gave us hope—they might have donned them and be floating, waiting,” Tricia Spivey said in an interview with Fox News. But without the EPIRB, their chances of being located dwindled rapidly in the vast ocean.

Deborah’s account of the peculiar phone call adds a layer of intrigue. Could Brandon have foreseen trouble—perhaps a mechanical issue, a sudden storm, or even something more ominous? Weather reports from that day indicate calm conditions, with no major squalls reported. Yet, the Gulf’s currents can be treacherous, and rogue waves or medical emergencies aren’t uncommon. “His words keep replaying in my head,” Deborah confided. “Why did he sound so final? We need answers.”

What ensued was one of the most extensive search and rescue operations in Southwest Florida’s history. The Coast Guard mobilized aircraft from Clearwater, Miami, and beyond, alongside cutters and partner agencies like the Lee County Sheriff’s Office and Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. Over two dozen volunteer boats and private planes joined, scouring an area exceeding 6,700 square miles—comparable to the state of Connecticut. “Every available resource was thrown at this,” Coast Guard Capt. Michael Kahle stated at a press briefing. Volunteers, many personal acquaintances of the men, braved choppy waters and fading light. “Randy helped so many; it’s our turn,” one volunteer told WGCU. Social media became a lifeline: Deborah and Tricia shared GPS coordinates, rallying vessels with 225-mile ranges to assigned grids from Fort Myers to Marco Island. “Every hour matters,” Deborah urged in a viral Facebook post. “Thank you to the local heroes risking it all.”

For three grueling days, the search persisted round-the-clock. Helicopters scanned for debris or survivors, while boats combed grids methodically. Stories of miraculous ocean rescues—survivors found after days adrift—fueled determination. Randy’s son emphasized the missing life jackets: “They’re out there, fighting to get home.” Community support poured in: vigils in Fort Myers churches, prayer chains online, and donations to cover volunteer fuel costs. Shiner Law Group issued a statement mourning Brandon as “an exceptional attorney and person,” while Spivey Law Firm hailed Randy’s legacy of compassion.

Yet, on December 22, at sunset, the Coast Guard delivered the devastating blow: active searching was suspended. After exhaustive efforts with no sightings, officials concluded with “the highest degree of confidence” that if the men were on the surface, they would have been located. “No harder decision,” Capt. Kahle said, citing risks to crews. The families, though shattered, expressed gratitude. “Brandon and Randy would never want others endangered,” Deborah wrote on social media. “We respect this, but our hearts are broken.” Tricia collapsed in tears at the briefing, supported by family. Preparing for Christmas without them, Deborah shared memories: “Brandon lived for fishing, for us. Randy was his hero, filled with love and integrity.”

With the Coast Guard stepping back, the FBI assumed lead on December 23, treating it as a federal missing persons case. Agents examined the boat for forensic evidence—fingerprints, DNA, potential anomalies—and interviewed associates. “We’re exploring all angles,” an FBI spokesperson told The Palm Beach Post. The peculiar phone call has reportedly piqued interest: Could it indicate distress or premonition? No foul play evidence has surfaced, but speculation abounds online—from piracy to shark attacks, though experts dismiss most as unlikely. “The boat in gear suggests sudden abandonment,” maritime analyst Dr. Elena Vargas told NBC Miami. “Medical event? Overboard fall? We may never know.”

The community reels. Vigils in Boca Raton and Fort Myers drew hundreds, candles flickering for the lost. “Randy was like a brother,” Rocuant said, voice breaking. Deborah vows to keep searching privately: “That call… it tells me something happened. We need closure.” As 2025 ends, the Gulf holds its breath, families pray for miracles, and the FBI digs deeper. What secrets does the sea conceal? For Randy Spivey and Brandon Billmaier, heroes to many, the final chapter remains unwritten—a testament to love’s endurance amid unimaginable loss.

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