Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  I jumped out from behind an SUV as he came up beside it, and I was able to see his face for a moment before he reversed his direction and ran around the vehicle, out of the parking lot and down Pensacola.

  I followed.

  Eventually, Merrill caught up with me.

  “Fast bastard, ain’t he?”

  I nodded.

  We chased him down Pensacola toward the college, running as fast as we could, but the gap continued to grow. In addition to speed, he had great stamina, showing no signs of tiring, seemingly able to maintain his current speed indefinitely.

  “When we gonna admit defeat?” Merrill asked.

  “Any moment,” I said. “My side’s about to explode.”

  “It wasn’t Taylor?” Laura asked.

  I shook my head.

  We were inside her apartment. Merrill had gone home. I was staying with Laura, who would take me to get my truck at some point.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. “Even if I hadn’t gotten a look at him, I’d have known,” I said. “I’ve seen Taylor jog around Lake Ella.”

  “And?”

  “He prances,” I said. “This guy flies.”

  “Do you think it’s been him all along?” she asked. “Taylor really was innocent?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said, “but we’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where you wanna go?”

  “Anywhere,” she said. “Just out. Let’s go for a drive.”

  Tallahassee at night is as peaceful as it is beautiful—rolling hills, spreading oaks lit from beneath, Spanish moss waving in the breeze, the nocturnal energy of a college town coupled with the easy flow of the light traffic. We rode around for a couple of hours, stopping to complete sex acts begun while moving.

  An irrepressible insomniac, it was my time and I was wired—and it wasn’t just the night or the dark energy, but the chase earlier and our libidinousness.

  And before long, it was also the drink.

  The longer we drove around, the later it got, the brighter the lights of the liquor stores became, the thirstier I got, and eventually I could resist temptation no longer.

  We pulled into a package store on Thomasville Road.

  When we pulled out, Laura drove and I drank.

  Our plan was to drive to my place and spend the night, but we never made it.

  When I woke up the next morning, I was in Laura’s passenger seat, fully dressed, with scratches on my neck and blood on my hands. Laura, naked in the driver’s seat beside me, bloodied and beaten, was dead.

  Stumbling out of the car and falling onto the ground, I crawled a few feet away and began to throw up.

  The surroundings were familiar, but it took me a few moments to realize that I was at Potter Landing in the very spot where Dad’s birthday party had been. The early morning was cool, though sunlight streamed through the oak and pines, dappling the dew-damp ground.

  My brain felt so swollen that I thought it might burst through my skull, its throbbing ache so severe it made me nauseous. Pressing through the pain, I stood and examined what was surely a crime scene, taking in the area surrounding the car, the car, and Laura—blinking my stinging eyes as I did.

  The sand of the landing was imprinted with so many tracks—both vehicle and human—it was difficult to imagine they’d be useful. None seemed any fresher than the others.

  The exterior of the car held no obvious physical evidence—no tool marks or bloody palm prints, and I was certain that any physical evidence inside the car or on the body would point to me.

  There was nothing I could do but make the call.

  My alcoholism had been threatening to destroy me most of my life and appeared to have finally succeeded, my self-destructive actions claiming Laura as well.

  “Son,” Dad said.

  I looked up at him.

  I was sitting on the ground about ten feet from the car, head in hands, waiting for his arrival.

  “You okay?”

  I shook my head.

  He had come alone, honoring my request for privacy during the initial moments of the investigation—an investigation his department would have to conduct on one of his sons.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I must have blacked out. I was drinking.”

  He nodded, trying to be understanding, but I could see the pain, betrayal, and disappointment in his eyes.

  “What do you remember?”

  I told him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you home so you can shower and sleep. We’ll process the scene and question you later this afternoon.”

  “Dad,” I said, “you know I have to be processed before—”

  “You let me worry about that,” he said.

  “I can’t,” I said. “You’re gonna take a big enough hit for this as it is. You’ve got to treat me like any other suspect found in similar circumstances.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “But—”

  “I’m gonna take the hit anyway,” he said. “And I know you either didn’t kill that girl or didn’t mean to.”

  As I showered, I tried to remember what had happened the night before, but no matter how hard I thought, I just couldn’t come up with anything. It was frustrating, like trying to recall a name or title I should know but just couldn’t retrieve, and it made my head hurt worse.

  Eventually, I gave up.

  And that’s when the bits of memory, unbidden and unformed, flashed in my mind—the angry words of an argument. A slap. Clawing. A scratch. Tears.

  What happened? I asked myself. Think!

  Laura’s face lit up in laughter, then contorted in pain.

  Crying. Anger. Sadness. Shock.

  Why couldn’t I remember? Or was it that I wouldn’t? Did I not really want to? Was I suppressing memories so bad, so incriminating that my subconscious was attempting to protect me from what I had done?

  Whatever secrets my mind held, I was unable to wrestle them free from its grasp.

  When Merrill arrived, he tapped lightly on the door and stepped in.

  I was on the couch, hair wet, partially dressed, unable to move.

  He sat down in the old chair at the end of the couch without saying anything, and we were silent a while.

  “Your dad asked me to check on you,” he said. “Told me what’s goin’ on.”

  I nodded. I had yet to look at him.

  “You need anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “I know you been through a lot,” he said, “probably in shock, but we don’t have a lot of time here.”

  He paused a moment, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Who you think did it?”

  “Can’t think of anybody else it could’ve been,” I said.

  “Price?” he asked.

  “Me,” I said, looking at him for the first time, searching his eyes for how he really felt about what I had just said.

  He shook his head. “No way it was you.”

  His eyes didn’t betray him.

  “Don’t see how it could be anybody else,” I said.

  “They’s a reason why they call it blacking out,” he said. “Your ass is unconscious.”

  “But before,” I said.

  “Don’t care how drunk,” he said. “You couldn’t—”

  “You haven’t been around me at my worst,” I said. “Most of the violent things I’ve done, I did in Atlanta.”

  “Any of it against women?” he asked. “Check that,” he added. “I know the answer to that. Any of it toward anybody other than predators, pedophiles, and hardcore criminals?”

  “Still,” I said.

  “Just for the hell of it, let’s say it wasn’t you. Who then?”

  “But to find us at Potter Landing,” I said. “How—”

  “Who?”

  “Taylor Price,”
I said. “Though I thought we had scared him straight. And the guy that smoked us last night.”

  “I wanna rematch with that fast bastard in a little more confined space.”

  I thought about the guy who had outrun us and how we might find him.

  “What about some evil bastard coming up and finding Laura asleep and you passed out?” he asked.

  “Pretty unlikely,” I said.

  “More so than it bein’ you,” he said.

  “Why not kill me, too?” I asked.

  “Lettin’ you take the fall for it.”

  I thought about it.

  “We need the sheriff to have his boys canvas the area around the landing,” he said. “Camps, stores, houseboats—see if anyone saw anything. While he havin’ that done, we talk to some of Laura’s friends and family. We go at Price again, and we find the runner from last night. Either that or sit here until they come to arrest you.”

  “You’re John?” Anne Gaskin asked.

  I nodded.

  “Laura’s crazy about you,” she said.

  I attempted a smile.

  Word of Laura’s death was not yet public, so we had told Anne, one of her best friends, that she was missing.

  We were standing outside an orthodontist office off of Thomasville Road, not far from I-10, where Anne worked. She had long, straight, natural-looking blond hair, pale blue eyes, and an unvarnished, wholesome beauty. If she wore makeup, I couldn’t tell.

  “I mean, big bad mad love,” she said.

  “Any idea where she might be?” Merrill asked.

  “You check work?”

  He nodded. “She didn’t show up this morning,” he said.

  “Her apartment?”

  “Not there.”

  Anne’s dental hygienist–type uniform looked to have been designed by kindergarten students. Above purple pants, her white top had dancing purple toothbrushes, their arms and legs formed from floss. The name tag pinned to it was in the shape of a large molar.

  “What about her parents?” I asked.

  “Her mom lives over in the sticks,” she said. “Near Pottersville. You might check with her, though they’re not very close.”

  “What about her dad?”

  She shook her head, her blond hair whipping from side to side. “She doesn’t even talk to him.”

  “She mention anything to you lately?” Merrill asked. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  She looked up and seemed to think about it. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “John here’s about all she could talk about.”

  “Anybody harassing her?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” she said.

  “She didn’t mention any problems with anyone?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Aren’t you guys overreacting a little?” she asked. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Probably so,” Merrill said. “We’re just sort of silly that way.”

  “It’s sweet,” she said. “I should be so lucky. You kidding? Have someone looking out for me like that.”

  “Anyone else we should talk to?” I asked.

  “Fritz,” she said. “He’s really Laura’s best friend.”

  “Fritz?”

  “Didion,” she said, and rattled off his phone number. “They’re very close. She hasn’t mentioned him to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “If anyone can help you, it’s him.”

  Fritz Didion didn’t answer his phone.

  I left a message for him, and while we waited for the return call we went in search of the guy we had chased out of Laura’s yard last night.

  Based on the way he was dressed and the way he moved, my guess was that he was a marathon runner and perhaps a track coach at the college.

  We drove over toward the football stadium and turned on Chieftain Way, passed the baseball stadium and circus complex to Mike Long Track.

  We found him jogging around the track, urging on his fellow runners, who looked to be part of the college track team.

  “Better to be lucky than good,” Merrill said.

  I nodded.

  The guy had on the same black outfit as the night before—black athletic tights beneath black silk shorts.

  “We can’t let him see us coming,” I said. “He runs, we’ll never catch him.”

  Merrill nodded.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Sneak up on him, knock him down, and hold him there until we’re done with him,” he said. “’Course, we do that out here, it’ll draw attention.”

  “We could corner him in the locker room,” I said.

  “Mean we’ll have to wait ’til he finish,” he said. “He look tired to you?”

  I looked over at him again. Almost the moment I did, he broke off from the pack and jogged beneath the stands and into the men’s restroom.

  Merrill shook his head. “Like I said, it ain’t about bein’ good.”

  “It’s a good thing, too,” I said.

  “Remember us?” I said.

  He looked up from the urinal at us, confusion at first, then recognition dawning on his face.

  “Probably look different today,” Merrill said. “Last night we just a blur.”

  “You’re John Jordan, right?” he said.

  I was taken aback, but I nodded.

  “I’m Fritz Didion,” he said.

  Fritz Didion looked like a runner—that or an anorexic, but unlike a person with an eating disorder, his thin frame held well-defined muscle, and his tight clothing made sure everyone could see it. Beneath closely cropped hair, he had bright blues eyes and a sunburned face.

  “Two birds,” Merrill said. “One visit.”

  “This is Merrill Monroe,” I said.

  Fritz leaned back and nodded. “I’d shake your hand, but ... it’s kind of busy at the moment.”

  The bathroom was a lot smaller than the ones in the football stadium, but it was built the same: a row of urinals on one wall, sinks in the middle, a row of toilet stalls on the opposite wall. Like most of the facilities at athletic complexes, the bathroom was hot, moist, and had that same lingering smell of human waste.

  “Shake it and wash your hands,” Merrill said. “We on a deadline.”

  After he flushed, he stepped over to the sink and washed his hands.

  Merrill moved to block the door. “Let’s see you outrun me in here,” he said.

  Fritz smiled. “Sorry about that,” he said. “If Laura didn’t mean so much to me ...”

  “Anne said that you’re Laura’s best friend,” I said.

  “I was,” he said.

  “Was?” I asked.

  “’Til you came along again,” he said.

  “Then what the fuck you stalkin’ her for?” Merrill asked.

  “Stalking?” he said, then looked from Merrill back to me. “You really should talk to Laura,” he said.

  “She’s missing,” I said.

  “Missing?”

  “Fritz,” I said. “This gonna take twice as long if you repeat everything I say.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Have you checked—”

  “We’ve checked,” I said.

  “Tell us what you were doing in her backyard last night,” I said. “Or tell the police.”

  He hesitated a moment, then sighed heavily. “This is embarrassing,” he said.

  “Fritz,” Merrill said. “You’re among friends.”

  Fritz nodded as if he really were. “I was doing Laura a favor,” he said.

  “Bet you do lots of women favors, don’t you?” I said.

  “It’s not like that,” he said. “She asked me to come over and hang out in the back, then take off running when you approached me. She knew y’all couldn’t catch me. She wanted to get your attention again. She thought you were getting distracted—maybe even thought she had never been followed in the first place. She knew if she told you someone was actually at her apartment, you’d come running and—” he jerked his head toward Merrill
“—bring the cavalry.”

  He paused and I considered what he had said. In the silence, the constant sound of dripping water seemed magnified, each drop echoing through the room, bouncing from tile surface to tile surface.

  “I swear it’s the truth,” he said. “You can ask her when you talk to her. She told me she was going to tell you eventually.”

  “Let’s say for the moment that what you’re telling us is true,” I said. “Why would you do that?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Honestly, because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re losing the person that you love. Truth is, I’d do anything for her. Plus, this gave me the chance to see her, to spend a little time with her. I haven’t gotten to much lately.”

  “You say you know what it’s like to feel like you’re losing the person you love, but we just started seeing each other again.”

  “Dude, she’s been carrying a torch for you since the first time you dated.”

  “Was there really ever anyone harassing her?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That prick, Taylor Price,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t think there was much to it. I mean, I think she saw it as an opportunity to ask for your help, but the guy’s an asshole, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he fucked with her some once he was finished fuckin’ her.”

  I nodded.

  “From what I hear, he’s had a hard-on to hurt somebody ever since you two made him piss his pants. Fact, he’s probably more danger to her now than he was before. It’s part of why I was willing to play decoy for her. Somebody needs to be watching over her.”

  “Bastard may want to take out his frustration on someone, but I doubt it’ll be Laura,” Merrill said.

  The way we were talking, I could almost imagine that she was alive.

  “You gonna keep an eye out for her this time?” Fritz asked. “Not get distracted or whatever?”

  “We gonna take care of everything,” Merrill said. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

  He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, I’m not the problem here,” he said. “And the first thing you need to do is find her. Where do you think she is?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us that,” I said.

  “Wish I could,” he said.

  “Where’d you go after you smoked our asses in the eight-hundred meters?” Merrill asked.

  “Actually did some more running,” he said. “My roommates and I are training for a marathon. We met here, ran for several hours, went to Waffle House for a very late snack, then went home and crashed. If Laura really is missing, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”