Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  Using my momentum, I pushed myself up and started to run.

  That’s when one of the other men stepped up and clocked me on the nose with a tire iron he swung like a baseball bat.

  Blood spurted out. Cartilage crunched. My eyes filled with tears. Shooting pain. Disorientation. Nausea. Dizziness. Blurred vision.

  As I pitched forward, he swung again, striking me just as hard as before, this time in the abdomen.

  I went down hard, unable to breath, throwing up as I did.

  I knelt there vomiting for a moment and trying to catch my breath.

  “Twenty bucks to whoever can guess what he had for lunch,” Skipper said.

  On my last heave, I pitched forward.

  With everything in me, I tried to get up, but I couldn’t.

  “Search the truck,” Skipper said.

  As they did, I lay there with tears, blood, and vomit smeared on my face, unable to move, unable to take a deep breath.

  “It’s not here, boss,” Shutt said.

  “Get him up,” Skipper yelled.

  He got right in front of me after two of his men were holding me vertically again. “Where’re the tapes, you son of a bitch?”

  I thought I responded, but evidently nothing came out.

  “Answer me,” he said.

  I tried to again.

  He stepped aside and the two men holding me went to work.

  One got behind me to hold my hands back as the other one moved into position in front of me.

  The guy in front used my midsection like a heavy-bag while the officer behind me held me up.

  I began to heave again. This time blood only came out.

  “My turn,” the guy behind me said.

  He let me go and I crumpled to the ground.

  They switched positions, then yanked me up again.

  The guy in front said, “Hold him still. I held him still for you.”

  The officer holding me began to move me from side to side as if I were a boxer bobbing and weaving.

  “Cut it out,” the one in front said.

  The guy holding me didn’t.

  This frustrated the guy in front, and he took it out on me.

  After missing me a few times, he finally connected with a hard, perfectly-placed shot to my chin, and I lost consciousness.

  33

  I awoke to the muddy, muted sounds of soft, constant beeps, whispering voices, and the low hum of an air conditioner.

  Everything sounded as if it was under water.

  When my eyes finally opened, they closed again from the assault of the bright light.

  “Close the blinds. He’s waking up.”

  I opened my eyes again, blinking against the light, less bright now.

  A TV mounted on the wall in front of me was tuned to CNN.

  I lifted my right hand. Something was attached to my forefinger. I tried to remove it, but a hand descended and prevented me.

  My eyes followed the hand up the arm to the body to which it was attached. It was a beautiful goddess with large brown eyes and long brown hair. Beside her was another one.

  Anna and Laura.

  A voice from the other side of the bed said something I didn’t catch. I turned toward it to see Merrill standing there with a wide grin on his face.

  “How do you feel?” one of the ladies asked.

  I turned in that direction again, which didn’t take any more than five minutes.

  “Like I just went fifteen rounds with Foreman,” I said.

  “Look it, too,” Merrill said. “If big George was fighting with a tire iron.”

  “Anna, Merrill, this is Laura Matthers. Laura, this is Anna and Merrill.”

  They all laughed. “We know each other pretty well by now,” Anna said.

  “We’ve been in here all up in each other’s business for three days,” Merrill said.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’ve been resting,” Laura said.

  I was puzzled, which must have registered on my face.

  “You been out cold, man,” Merrill said.

  “What? For three days?”

  They all nodded.

  Something was on my nose. I reached up to touch it. Some sort of plastic device was taped to it.

  I could tell that both of my eyes were black and that various bandages covered various abrasions on my face. The underside of my chin was split open pretty bad, but there didn’t seem to be any stitches, just butterfly Band-Aids.

  “Why didn’t they kill me?”

  “Some badass Negro in a big-ass pimpmobile-looking car scared ’em off.”

  “What were you doing driving Uncle Tyrone’s car?” I asked.

  “He needed my truck to haul his old lady’s dresser. She leavin’ again. Twice every year he has to borrow that shit to move her shit, then borrow it again to move her ass back in. Anna told me what happened. I went out lookin’ for you. I made a lot of noise coming in—horn honking, firing a gun. They took off.”

  “White flight,” I said.

  He smiled.

  “You see who it was?”

  “Affirmative. They sittin’ up in your daddy’s jail right now—well, all but Skipper. He came up with an ironclad alibi and none of his helpers gonna roll over on him—even though they may be some police brutality goin’ on up in there.”

  “Mom,” I whispered when I had rolled up beside her bed.

  It was late the next night. I was in a wheelchair in my mom’s room on the next floor down.

  She didn’t respond.

  She was on her side, her back to me. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was tied only at the top.

  “Mom,” I said a little louder this time.

  She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed.

  “Mom,” I said even louder, and this time directly toward her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.

  Her eyes opened, and in them I saw misery and confusion and fear.

  She closed her eyes.

  The closeness of our eyes seem to make her uncomfortable.

  She probably needed a drink. I know I did.

  I rolled the chair back slightly. This time when she opened her eyes that’s how they stayed.

  “John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober. “What happened to you? What’s wrong?

  “Sorry it took me so long to get here,” I said.

  “It’s okay, honey.”

  “Sorry for how I spoke to you on the phone the other night.”

  “I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. You’ve always been such a kind, sensitive young man. Had to be . . . so hard. I see now how . . . Can you . . . Will you forgive me?”

  And though it wasn’t the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.

  34

  I was lying on my couch, propped up on several pillows on Saturday afternoon, reading a stack of newspapers.

  My entire body was stiff and sore, every movement bringing about pains and discomfort.

  All the area papers reported about the same things—I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. A few added that though I had never been charged, similar allegations of sexual misconduct had occurred when I was pastoring in Atlanta. There was no mention of the Atlanta Child Murders or the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.

  I was nearly finished reading the mostly fact-free articles when someone knocked on my door.

  “It’s open,” I yelled, not wanting to get up. “Come in.”

  A young woman with light blond hair, pale white skin, and light blue eyes came in. She was wearing a blue business suit roughly the color of her eyes, and I thought I detected a shoulder holster beneath her jacket.

  “John Jordan,” she said as she walked in, “I’m Rachel Mills, an agent with the F
lorida Department of Law Enforcement.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “I’m looking into the accusations that you sexually assaulted the wife of an inmate in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. I’m just in search of the truth. Not trying to jam you up. Far as I’m concerned you’re absolutely innocent until evidence says otherwise.”

  “Then I’ll remain innocent, because there is no evidence.”

  She nodded. “Everybody says that. Convince me by answering some questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where were you the Monday night of the Ike Johnson murder? By the way, do you mind if I tape this?”

  She pulled out a microcassette recorder and press Record.

  “No, I don’t mind. I was at an AA meeting in a Sunday school room at the First Methodist Church of Panama City, Florida, from six until eight. I then went to Applebee’s on Twenty-third Street with two of the members. I then drove home, arriving about twelve forty-five. I read a little and then went to bed . . . alone.”

  “Can someone corroborate your story?” she asked.

  “AA is anonymous. It would be their choice, but I’ll ask.”

  “It’s not that important. The crime occurred far later than that anyway, but if they’re willing, it wouldn’t hurt. Did you speak to anyone after you got home that night who could confirm your whereabouts?”

  “No.”

  She started to say something but I stopped her.

  “The thing about both the murder of Ike Johnson and the assault on Molly Thomas,” I said, “is that they both took place inside the prison. I wasn’t inside the prison when either happened. And anyone who was, including the killer, was logged in at the control room.”

  She nodded. “That’s a good point. How well do you know Molly Thomas?”

  “I’ve probably spent a sum total of three or four hours with her. Most of that time has been in the visiting park of the institution. I’ve counseled her and her husband during some of their visits together, at their request, of course. They, like most inmate couples, were having some marital problems and wanted my help.”

  “Were you able to help them?”

  “Apparently not. I thought so at first, but then lately something has happened to Anthony, her husband. He’s on a serious downward spiral.”

  “Have you ever met with Molly Thomas by herself at or away from the institution?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I have. Friday before last. She called and asked to see me, saying it was an emergency and she was scared to come to the institution. So we met in the pastor’s office of the Methodist church in Pottersville.”

  “What was the nature of that meeting?”

  “She described what took place at the institution the night of her assault and how Captain Matthew Skipper followed her home and tried to force his way into her house. She asked for my help.”

  “Who did she say raped her?”

  “Her husband.”

  “He’s an inmate. How could he have even seen her?”

  “Captain Skipper arranged it, according to her, but interrupted them in the middle and then stalked her that night and tried to break into her home.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward with this information?”

  “I did. I told the Inspector General of the department, Tom Daniels, and the warden of PCI, Edward Stone.”

  She was about to say something else, when my phone rang.

  “Sorry, but with everything going on, I need to get it,” I said.

  She nodded.

  I answered the phone.

  It was Sandy Strickland.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I stopped by the hospital to see you, but . . . you were still unconscious.”

  “Thanks for coming by. I really appreciate that.”

  “I . . .”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’m hearing and reading some pretty horrible things.”

  “I know. But they’re not true. And I know everybody always says that but . . . they really aren’t.”

  “One time, sure, but . . . when there’s a pattern.”

  “There’s not. Truly.”

  “Anyway, that’s not why I called. If you are innocent . . . makes this even more difficult to do now, but . . .”

  “Sandy, please listen to me. I didn’t do— Makes what more difficult to do?”

  “Your first test came back . . .”

  My heart started banging and I found it difficult to breathe.

  “It was positive for the HIV infection.”

  “What?” I whispered as the breath suddenly rushed out of me.

  “I know this is the worst possible time . . . which I guess only matters if you’re innocent.”

  “I am,” I said, “but that hardly matters now.”

  When she hung up, I sat there with the phone still at my ear, unable to move.

  “You okay?” Rachel Mills asked.

  “Huh? Oh. Can we do this later? I need to—”

  “Just a couple more questions. Okay?”

  Though I gave no indication that it was, she pressed on.

  “Was there anyone present at your meeting with Molly Thomas at the church?”

  “Yes. I’d never meet with the wife of an inmate alone. The pastor of the church, the Reverend Dick Clydesdale, was in the next office monitoring the session, and I told Molly that he was.”

  “Would you be willing to submit blood and semen samples? If you’re telling the truth, it will clear this up quickly.”

  I nodded. “Gladly. Because I’m telling the truth.”

  “I sincerely hope so. It would be a refreshing change.”

  35

  On Sunday afternoon, in record-setting heat, I was lying under a tall bald cypress tree near the bank of the Apalachicola River, my head on Laura’s lap.

  Laura’s lap wasn’t as comfortable or as soft as the stack of pillows back on my couch. There were, however, other consolations.

  The base of the bald cypress swelled to four times the circumference of the rest of the trunk, and there were cypress knees shooting up all around it. The grayish-brown, spiraling base of the tree was normally covered in water, but the summer was dry, the river low.

  A small breeze rippled the surface of the coffee-colored water and waved the Spanish moss hanging from the craggy cypress branches above us.

  “I moved to Atlanta right after high school,” I said. “The night I graduated, in fact. I was obsessed with the Atlanta Child Murders. Had an encounter with Wayne Williams as a kid. I’ve always done some form of both investigation and ministry—even back then. Went to seminary school while working a couple of cases. Eventually became a cop in Stone Mountain and later a pastor. I was drinking on and off. A few of the investigations I worked were particularly horrific and difficult. When I transitioned to mostly ministry, I stopped drinking, threw myself into my work, and ignored how ill-suited my wife and I were.”

  “You exchanged one addiction for another,” she said.

  I nodded. “I was a classic workaholic, seduced by the incredible feeling helping people can give. This whole time I’d been living as a dry drunk, and that was okay with Susan, my ex-wife, because that’s what she was used to. We had a nice, comfortable, unhealthy relationship. We didn’t see each other all that much, and we lived in a glass house, so when we did, we were usually doing our best to look our best. Finally, everything started stacking up—the pressure of being a pastor, of trying to meet all the needs of a large congregation, unable to say no—and this after never really having processed the bad cases. I started drinking again—which is just a symptom of . . . other, deeper issues. Susan was a classic, well-trained enabler. She was the best. The silence, the secrets, the excuses, and the justification. But eventually I started AA again—read the books, got a sponsor, and became honest about my addiction. Something both Susan and my congregation couldn’t tolerate.”

  Upstream, a fish jum
ped and made a loud splash.

  “When I was accused of having an affair with one of my parishioners, Susan was so insecure, so . . . disconnected from me . . . she believed it and made everything worse.”

  “Why did the woman accuse you of adultery?”

  “She didn’t. Her husband did. She had come to see me because they were both severe addicts. She wanted help. He didn’t. So he . . . Not too long after that, she committed suicide. He said she had done it because I had . . . Anyway, the papers smeared me with rumors and innuendo and . . . I . . . just didn’t have it in me to fight any of them anymore.”

  “Them?”

  “The members of my congregation who wanted me gone. The church hierarchy. The media. Susan. I resigned the church. We divorced. I came home.”

  The walk back to my trailer was short but slow.

  Every step hurt, but was worth it for all the good the sun and river and Laura’s lap had done for me.

  When we neared the trailer I could hear the phone ringing.

  Though it took us a while to get there, it was still ringing when we did.

  Long before I picked up the receiver I knew it was going to be bad news—so I wasn’t shocked or even surprised, only saddened, when it came.

  It was Merrill. He was violating a direct order by calling to tell me that Anthony Thomas had been murdered in the infirmary the night before—stabbed and raped with a surgical scalpel, which the murderer had left in the body.

  36

  “You look awful,” Molly Thomas said.

  She was seated in the only chair in my living room wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a white oxford button-down shirt, and white leather Keds.

  When she’d knocked on the door, Laura had let her in, not realizing who she was. Apart from her clothes, she looked like the grieving widow she was. Her eyes were deep and hollow with large dark circles beneath them. Her auburn hair was thin and wispy, part of it standing up, and she had aged ten years in the ten days since I had last seen her.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here,” I said. “I’m very sorry about Anthony, but I’m not the one to help you right now.”