Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “And you didn’t kill her?” I said. “Didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  Like too many of the young men around here, Sean’s seeming toughness was actually a mother-enabled self-centeredness that led to emotional stuntedness. Unfortunately, what was actually weakness was presented as strength, a don’t-give-a-damn-about-anything attitude that made too many of the gullible young women believe they were men-of-few-words cowboy types.

  “I didn’t care enough to kill her,” he said. “I took a turn fuckin’ her like everybody else in town, but I didn’t love her. Hell, once was enough for me. She couldn’t fuck for shit no way. And if I was gonna kill her, I wouldn’t do it where I work. I’d do it as far away from where I live and work as I could.”

  “Unless you didn’t mean to kill her,” Stone said. “If this was just an accident ...”

  “It could’ve been,” he said. “I don’t know. I didn’t do it. And I don’t know who did.”

  Judy, who had stayed out of the kitchen until now, no doubt to avoid the embarrassment of having us witness her hearing the way her son talked, came back in now.

  “Chaplain, Warden, we’ve tried to be helpful, but we just don’t know anything,” she said. “Given that, for you to continue to interrogate us would border on harassment.”

  “And we wouldn’t want to do that,” I said, standing.

  “Seems to me you need to be talking to Joe anyway,” she said. “I always wondered how much he could endure before he finally wrung her faithless little neck.”

  As we were leaving the Williamses’ house, Dad called.

  “Don’t tell me Joe’s on the move already,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Near Potter Landing,” I said. “We’re just leaving Sean Williams’s. We talked—”

  “Now isn’t that interesting?” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “We just found Melanie Wynn’s car,” he said. “Less than a mile from Sean’s house.”

  I told Stone.

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  Dad must have heard him because he told me before I could ask.

  “We’ll be right there,” I said.

  In under a minute, we were pulling down a small dirt road off the county highway, and parking behind a highway patrol car—the last of a handful of emergency vehicles, all of which had their lights flashing.

  Walking past the vehicles and the small group of uniformed men, we proceeded another ten feet or so down the landing to the slough. Dad and one of his detectives, wearing latex gloves, were carefully going over the car.

  Both doors were open. Dad was squatting down near the passenger side, leaning and looking through the glove box. The detective, Wayne Mitchell, in plain clothes like Dad, was squatting next to the driver’s side watching.

  The car, a late-model Toyota sedan, didn’t appear to be damaged, and a large pink handbag sat on the front seat beside a small pile of clothes. The keys were still in the ignition. The car was immaculate inside and out.

  Dad looked up. “FDLE crime scene techs are on their way,” he said, “but nothing appears out of place.” He looked at me as he spoke, not even acknowledging Stone. “It’s her purse on the front seat. Wallet, jewelry, cell phone, cash, and credit cards still inside. I guess it’s her clothes, too.”

  I looked down at the car, the doors, the seats, the steering wheel, her things.

  “Were the doors open?”

  He shook his head.

  “Anybody moved the seats?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head again. “Why?”

  “They’re all the way back,” I said.

  Stone and Mitchell listened without saying anything.

  “How tall would you say she was?” he asked.

  “Five-three?” I said. “Maybe.”

  Above us, the midday sun shone down through the Spanish moss hanging from long oak branches, and dappled the loose sand of the road beneath us. The forest around us was thick for spring because of a mild winter, blocking out all artificial sights and sounds, giving the illusion that we were miles away from civilization. The water of the slough, like the rivers and lakes that fed it, was a dark greenish-black and filled with cypress trees, its surface wind-rippled and shimmery.

  “You check the trunk yet?” I asked.

  “Just got here,” he said.

  Without being prompted, Mitchell reached in with his gloved hand and pressed the trunk release on the keyless-entry remote. The trunk popped open, and all four of us stepped around to the back of the car. As we did, the small group standing a few feet away, an EMT, a deputy, and a highway patrol officer, joined us.

  The trunk was as spotless as the rest of the car.

  “Clean car,” Mitchell said. “Think it got that way before or after she was murdered?”

  No one answered at first, then Dad shrugged, and said, “No way to tell. Hopefully FDLE can help with that.”

  The animosity between Dad and Stone was palpable, and the others seemed to sense it, their hesitant, awkward manner and furtive glances uncharacteristic and otherwise inexplicable.

  “Think this is where she and the Williams boy would meet?” Mitchell asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Here’s how I see it happening,” he said. “They meet here, she changes into one of his uniforms, then he takes her to work, sneaks her in, and she gets killed—maybe he does it, maybe someone else.”

  “Why not come back this morning and move the car?” Dad asked.

  “We found it too soon,” Stone said. “He thought he’d have more time. We were there talking to him while you were finding it.”

  “He’d have to know it’d be found soon,” Dad said. “It’s not even hidden. None of this adds up.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Stone said.

  “Actually, you won’t,” Dad said. “FDLE is in charge now and my office will be assisting them.”

  “But—”

  “The regional director and IG are waiting for you at the institution,” he continued. “They’re hoping you can tell them how a civilian got into your institution and got murdered.”

  After being shut out of countless investigations inside the prison, Dad was finally able to let Stone know how it felt, and he was enjoying himself. He had waited patiently for Stone to say something so he could deliver his blow. I understood his frustration, had tried to help by keeping him in the loop of the investigations I was involved in, but the way he was acting now was childish and petty.

  Without saying another word, Stone turned and headed toward the car.

  “Sorry, John,” Dad said.

  “No you’re not,” I said.

  “Not for that arrogant bastard, no,” he said, “but for you. I’d like to have you in on this one. Maybe we—”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be busy trying to help the warden keep his job.”

  He shook his head, lowered his voice, and leaned in so that his mouth was at my ear. “Don’t let your white guilt get the best of you, boy.”

  Possessing a racial sensitivity my Dad did not share often put us at odds. My identification with the small minority of African-Americans in our community more than my own race, though never overtly expressed, was viewed as a betrayal.

  Where had my appreciation of and concern for the disenfranchised come from? Why did I feel so much more at home in prison than behind the pulpit of an all-white, middle-class congregation? I didn’t know, exactly. I knew it had to do with Jesus, his fringe movement and radical compassion, and there was something in me that responded to it when I first heard it. Where it came from was as mysterious as temperament, personality, or palate.

  I thought about these things as we rode back to the institution in silence, while also imagining Edward Stone in the seat next to me contemplating the end of his correctional career.

  “Your dad’s not a bad sheriff, is he?”

  I shook my head.

 
“Think they’ll get to the bottom of this?”

  I shrugged. “FDLE is good,” I said, “but there’s just not a lot to go on. Coming up with a theory of what happened is one thing. Making a case is something else.”

  “Do you have a theory?” he asked.

  “I’ve got one forming,” I said, “but it’s very nebulous.”

  “Would you be willing to keep working on it for a little longer?” he asked. “Unofficially.”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Obviously, I’d like to keep my job, but I also really want to know how it happened and who did it.”

  “There wasn’t a woman down here at all yesterday,” Patty Aaron said. “’Sides me.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Positive,” she said. “Nowhere she could’ve been I didn’t check.”

  It was later in the day. I was back on the rec yard talking to one of the officers assigned there—a large white woman with long blond hair. Broad-shouldered and flat-chested, she looked as if the attractive, if plain, head of a woman had been placed on the body of a man.

  The crime scene processed, FDLE was gone, only flapping yellow crime scene tape left behind. Lunch had been served, count cleared, the compound opened, but the rec yard remained closed.

  “Let me show you,” she said.

  We were standing beneath the pavilion on the back side of her office—the only structure on the rec yard. Stepping around the Ping-Pong table, she walked over to the chain-link fence–enclosed weight pile. I followed.

  “Every time the yard closes and the inmates leave, I do a walk-through,” she said. “I start here with the weights.”

  The much maligned weight pile consisted of several benches, bars, and free weights. There was nowhere for anyone to hide.

  “After I close and lock the gate,” she said, “I walk over to the storage closet and check it.”

  She crossed the open area again, between the Ping-Pong tables, and over to the small closet from which all equipment was distributed. She opened the half door with the counter on top and walked inside, with me right behind her.

  The closet was narrow and held horseshoes, basketballs, bats, softballs, volleyballs, and the Ping-Pong paddles and balls. There was nothing for anyone to hide behind.

  Stepping out of the closet, she paused and waited for me, then closed and locked the doors.

  “After I check and lock the bathroom, I go into my office, and that’s it,” she said. “Nowhere else anyone could hide.”

  Just down from the closet door was the office door for the rec yard supervisor. Through its steel-mesh-covered plate glass window I could see that the small office consisting of a desk, filing cabinet, and three chairs was empty. The inmate bathroom was on the outside of the building, but there was no need for us to look at it. She was obviously very thorough.

  “It’s the same every day,” she said. “Check every area and lock up.”

  “You were working yesterday?” I asked.

  She nodded. “And the day before and the day before that. And there ain’t been no woman down here.”

  “Where’s Jeff?”

  Jeff Bruen was the new rec yard supervisor.

  “He’s off this week,” she said. “He’s in Key Biscayne for his daughter’s wedding.”

  “He hasn’t been here at all this week?”

  She shook her head. “That’s two people you can check off your list,” she said.

  “Two?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Him and me. ’Cause I didn’t kill the bitch and he couldn’t’ve.”

  “I hear Stone’s out,” Pete said.

  He had been standing near the center gate and fell in step beside me when I entered the upper compound.

  “Don’t count him out just yet,” I said.

  “You actually trying to help him?” he asked. “He hasn’t exactly been your biggest fan over the past few years.”

  “How long before you’ll have the prelim?” I asked.

  “Should be soon,” he said. “They’ve made this thing a priority.”

  “Would you mind letting me know when you know?”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  As we passed by the medical building, a small African-American female officer opened the door and called out to us.

  “Phone for you, Chaplain,” she said. “You can take it in here if you want.”

  I veered off toward her as Pete continued on to the front gate.

  “I’ll holler at you when I get the prelim,” he said.

  I walked inside the waiting room for Medical, Psychology, and Classification, the cool air greeting me, and picked up the phone.

  “John, it’s Gwen Clark.”

  “Hey, Gwen,” I said.

  “Sorry to call like this,” she said, “but something’s been bothering me.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “What is it?”

  “There’s more you should know about Melanie,” she said. “Roy was just too embarrassed—especially in front of the warden. We really don’t know him well, and Roy gets embarrassed so easy anyway, but I think you need to know. Could just the two of us meet? I’d be happy to come out there. I know you’re in the middle of this thing.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said, “and I doubt it’ll help you find out who killed her, but it might—and it certainly will give you insight into her and her struggles.”

  “That’d be very helpful,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “During our sessions, she shared so much with us,” she said. “Intimate, detailed things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her fantasies,” she said. “At least some of them. The one that keeps swirling around in my head is ... well, she said she always wanted to be raped by a gang of inmates.”

  When I got back to the chapel, I called Mr. Smith, my inmate orderly, into my office and closed the door.

  “You know what’s going on?” I asked.

  “Heard a female officer got killed on the rec yard,” he said.

  Mr. Smith was an old black man of indeterminate age with graying hair, dark skin, tapered fingers, and a slow, cautious manner.

  “Anybody braggin’ about doing it yet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, but there will be. Just a matter of time.”

  “What about a gang bang?”

  “With her?”

  I nodded. “Any of the guys braggin’ about that?”

  “Not that I’ve heard so far,” he said, “but if it happened, there’ll be talk.”

  “Could you go back down on the compound and see what you can find out for me?”

  He nodded. “I’ll find out what’s bein’ said.”

  “The sooner the better,” I said.

  He nodded again and didn’t waste any time leaving the chapel.

  Locking my office door and turning off the light, I sat in the quiet, cool, dark room and thought about everything I had seen and heard the past several hours, allowing my mind to go where it would. I thought about the crime scene, how difficult it would have been for Melanie to get to it. I wondered where she had hidden if she had been in for as long as the Tower III officers said she had, or if they had lied about buzzing her into the rec yard that night. Were they a part of this? Had they participated or benefitted in some way? I thought about Joe and their marriage, and the transformation that had occurred in Melanie. Was he really as patient and understanding as he seemed? Did seeing her inside the prison cause him to lose it and become violent? I thought about Judy Williams and Sean. Judy was certainly bitter. Had she killed Melanie to protect her son? Had Sean brought Melanie in to have sex in a dangerous setting, caught her with inmates instead, and killed her himself?

  When Mr. Smith returned to the chapel, he was shaking his head.

  “What is it?”

  “Nobody sayin’ nothin’,” he said.

  “Not exactly what I had expected,” I said.

  “Me neit
her,” he said. “Convict do somethin’ he gonna brag about it to somebody.”

  “Nobody braggin’ about having sex with her?”

  He shook his head. “Not a word.”

  “And ideas?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe ... nah, I got no ideas. Never seen nothin’ like this before.”

  “Maybe there just hasn’t been enough time yet,” I said. “Yard was closed all morning. Maybe enough of them don’t know enough about it to say anything.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but that ain’t ever stopped ’em before.”

  As I was leaving the chapel, Pete was coming in. Gwen Clark had arrived and, unable to come on the compound, was waiting for me in the admin building, and I was on my way to see her.

  “Got the prelim results,” he said.

  “You mind walking up to Admin with me?”

  He shook his head. “No problem.”

  He took a few steps back and waited while I locked the chapel doors.

  “Before I forget,” he said. “Sean Williams and Joe Wynn are on their way in. IG’s gonna interview them officially.”

  I nodded.

  “I doubt I can get you in,” he said, “but I can probably mic the room so you could hear it.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Regional director’s still in Stone’s office,” he said. “Today is Stone’s last day. They haven’t said who the new warden will be, but the rumor is there’s an assistant warden at Calhoun CI that’ll get it.”

  I didn’t care about any of that, but I nodded, paused for a moment, then asked, “How’d she die?”

  “Asphyxiation caused by strangulation,” he said. “Somebody choked her to death.”

  I thought about it. No surprises there.

  We were buzzed into the holding area next to the control room, walked to the front gate, and waited.

  “She was pretty kinky, wasn’t she?” Pete asked. “What if she was doin’ that thing where the guy chokes her while she comes and it went too far? Could’ve been an accident, right?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said. “Had she had sex?”