Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  She said, “Can we kick my parents out of our bed now? Please.”

  Early in our prior relationship she was this same way—sexually aggressive, inventive, imaginative. It was only later that she lost interest. And even then she would have moments like these when she was wanton and brazen, but they became rare and had seemed more and more mechanical.

  “Were you trying to get pregnant?” I asked.

  That stopped her. She let go of me and dropped down onto the floor. “What?”

  “Did you mean to get pregnant?”

  “You’re not happy? I thought you always wanted—”

  “I did. I do. It just seems a little soon. We’re just barely back together. We’ve got a lot to—”

  “Do you think I’m trying to trap you? That it?”

  “John,” Sarah yelled from the kitchen. “Susan. Breakfast!”

  Susan stood up and walked out of the room without saying anything else.

  I followed her back into the kitchen to find far more food than we could possibly eat. Tom had put down his paper, and they were both seated, waiting on us.

  “Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Sarah said.

  “I’m not hungry,” Susan said.

  Typical for the child of an alcoholic, Susan showed far more overt anger and resentment for her sober parent than her addicted one. After all, it had been Sarah who had actually been her parent all those years that Tom was passed out on the couch in ‘his’ room. Being a single parent was difficult enough, but when you felt abandoned, powerless, afraid, and were having to both cover for and enable your husband’s addiction it made you the easy target for a child’s anger and blame.

  “You need to eat somethin’, darlin’,” Sarah said. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  Susan rolled her eyes.

  Sarah started passing dishes in both directions, and we each loaded down our plates with eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, toast, pancakes, and fresh fruit.

  “Eat up,” Sarah said. “Oh, first, John would you say a blessing?”

  I said I would, and I did. I wasn’t sure if they noticed, but it seemed to me that it sounded stale and stilted, as if rote and formal for a distant deity I suspected wasn’t really listening anyway.

  We all began to eat, but not eagerly enough for Sarah, and she let us know it. She talked faster and more than I had ever heard her before.

  “This is good, Sarah,” Tom said. “Very good. Thank you.”

  By his words and actions I could tell Tom Daniels was doing for his wife what she had done for him for so many years. He was taking care of her. Their role reversals was ironic, and I wondered if that, more than anything else, was responsible for his sobriety.

  Now I understood why he wanted to get Juan Martinez so badly and why he was taking Justin Menge’s death so personally. Sarah Daniels was no longer her calm care-taking self.

  “You two think it’s gonna work this time?” Sarah asked.

  I nodded.

  “Mom,” Susan said, her tone scolding.

  “You thinkin’ about moving back up here, John? Or can you help persuade our girl to finally come home to Florida?”

  “We’re in negotiations right now.”

  “Well, don’t waste too much time,” she said. “I’m ready for a grandchild.”

  Susan smiled to herself.

  “Not right away, but before I’m too old to be any help with it. Come on, guys, eat up. I didn’t spend all morning doing this just to throw it away.”

  She began passing dishes again, though our plates were still full.

  Tom took one of the dishes, pretended to dip more eggs onto his plate, them began to eat in earnest, occasionally glancing at Susan apologetically.

  All the while, Sarah Daniels continued to talk. “John, you eat like a bird. Here, have some more grits.”

  “No thanks. I’m full. It was all so good.”

  “You can’t be full.”

  “I’ve eaten a lot. And it was very good. All of it.”

  Without saying anything, Susan pushed away from the table and stood up.

  “Where’re you goin’, honey?” Sarah said. “You need to eat some more. Here, have some more eggs.”

  “I don’t want any more goddam eggs,” Susan yelled, and rushed out of the room.

  I started after her, but Sarah, jumping up said, “Let me. I’m the one who upset her.”

  When both women were out of the room, Daniels said, “You see what that cocksucker did to my wife?”

  “Who?”

  “Martinez.”

  I nodded.

  Tears formed in his eyes and his next words were said through soft sobs. “John, the ways he violated her.” He shook his head, wiping at tears. “She’ll never be the same. We’ve got to get him. You better help me get him . . . because if we don’t I’m gonna kill him.”

  “We will.”

  “Sorry we crashed in on you two this weekend, but I don’t know what to do with her.”

  “She needs to see a counselor.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “She needs to see a counselor,” I said again.

  In another moment, the two women came back into the room the best of friends, acting as if nothing had happened, pretending to be one of those happy families Tolstoy said were all alike, instead of the uniquely unhappy family they were.

  23

  On my way back from Atlanta that afternoon, I drove through downtown Panama City and stopped by Paula Menge’s art gallery for an exhibit of Justin’s work.

  Her gallery was just off Harrison Avenue behind the old Martin Theater. The crowd was small, but the art was extraordinary.

  Justin Menge was a gifted artist with an eye for the spirit of the people and places he captured on canvas. His speciality was beach landscapes and children. Though not strictly an impressionist, Justin was obviously influenced by the movement. His landscapes brought to mind Monet’s water lilies, his children, Degas’ dancers.

  He painted the Gulf Coast’s beaches to perfection, capturing the great curves of powdery white sand and blue-green waters in a still frame that seemed to move somehow. His depictions of the Gulf were more accurate than any I had ever seen, finding the delicate balance between its beauty and danger, its transparency and mystery.

  The children in Justin Menge’s paintings seemed alive, their soft skin and innocent eyes animated by the peculiarity of personality. His powerful paintings did nothing less than expose the young souls to the voyeuristic adults who found the distant wonder of childhood only faintly familiar.

  It was no wonder he was so easily convicted of lewd and lascivious acts on a minor. I was sure his art alone was enough to convince a Pine County jury, but these weren’t abused or exploited children. He understood them. He loved them. He didn’t harm them, not in any way—not if you believed the truth of his art. And I did.

  As I studied one painting in particular of a small girl running naked in the incoming tide, her blonde hair spun gold against the rich green of the sea, the actual little girl of the picture, older now, walked up with a woman who seemed to be a taller version of her.

  “There it is, Mommy,” the little girl said. “There I am. See? That’s me.”

  “Yes,” the woman said softly. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  “Where’s Justin?” the little girl asked. “I don’t see him. I want him to do another one.”

  “He’s not here, honey,” the woman said. “He had to be somewhere else today. But we’ll see him again real soon. I promise.”

  “It really is magnificent,” I said.

  “Thanks,” the woman said. “You a fan of his work?”

  “Quickly becoming one.”

  “I’m Katherine Kirkland and this is Emily.”

  “Hi, Emily. I’m John. You sure are pretty. That’s one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen.”

  “Justin did it.”

  “Do you know the artist well?” I asked Kather
ine.

  She nodded. “We went to school together. He even took me to the prom. He was great back then, but he just keeps getting better and better. Do you know him?”

  I nodded.

  I wasn’t sure whether or not I should tell her he was dead. I couldn’t believe that she didn’t know. Daniels had done a great job of keeping it out of the media. I decided not to reveal his secret.

  “I’m the chaplain of Potter Correctional Institution.”

  Across the room, I saw Paula slink in, head down, shoulders up, and look around, as if for prey. When she saw me, she waved. I waved back.

  “Oh,” she said in surprise. “Wow.” She hesitated a minute, studying me more closely. “Well, how’s he doing?”

  I shrugged and gave her my best as-well-as-can-be-expected look.

  “I can’t imagine what a place like that is doing to a sensitive soul like his.”

  Beside her, Emily twirled around in a small circle, humming to herself, and I saw the same free spirit Justin had somehow managed to freeze in a single frame of time and space with paint and canvas.

  “I hope he can survive intact,” she continued. “Not let it change him. Not let it change his heart—his art. That would be the greatest crime of all.”

  “Did I hear Emily say she was going to work with him again?” I asked.

  Behind us, a steady, but small stream of people slowly walked past, each glancing from the program in their hands to the paintings on the wall, many of them gasping when they saw the painting of Emily by the sea.

  She nodded. “I hope so.” She looked up at the painting of Emily hanging in front of us. “Don’t you think she should?”

  Looking at the painting, I nodded. “But what about what he was charged with?”

  Three overweight elderly ladies passed by us in too tight dresses, their pinched expressions indicating how seriously they took art.

  One of them whispered: “I heard he’s not here today because he’s in prison.”

  “Really?” another one said. “How exciting.”

  Katherine shook her head. “It’s not possible. If there were any chance, I wouldn’t let Emily go anywhere near him. But there’s not. Trust me. Justin Menge is one of the purest souls I’ve ever encountered.”

  I looked down at Emily who had stopped twirling and was now studying the parade of adults around her. Her fine blonde hair outlined her small round face like an expensive gold frame, her deep green eyes the color of the Gulf in the painting.

  “But—”

  “I’m a psychologist. I’ve worked with abused kids and those who’ve abused them. Believe me, I’d know.”

  I nodded.

  “Just look at his work. You can see for yourself.”

  After Katherine and Emily had wandered away, Paula walked up. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  “It’s incredible . . . and your gallery’s great.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say. But I’m about to redo it. Come back in about six months, it’ll really be something then.”

  “Justin’s work selling well?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Actually, everything I was willing to sell sold before the show began.”

  “What?”

  “A collector from Sarasota bought them all when she heard Justin had died.”

  “Everything?” I asked, looking around.

  She nodded and smiled. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “You can certainly afford it.”

  We walked up to Harrison Avenue to a new coffee shop. At the end of Harrison beyond the marina, the sun sat low in the sky, casting a soft rose-colored glow on the buildings lining both sides of the street.

  I had coffee and a slice of coconut cake. She had a large Java Royale, quiche, and a bagel with cream cheese. I paid.

  We sat at a table outside.

  “I haven’t eaten anything today,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  There was very little traffic on Harrison, and a Sunday evening hush rested on downtown. The shops were closed, the visitors few, the cool air calm and quiet.

  She ate without inhibition, enjoying every bite, yet shoveling it in as fast as she could.

  “Most of the people at the gallery didn’t seem to know about Justin,” I said.

  “It’s not public knowledge,” she said, wiping her mouth with the small paper napkin. “And I didn’t tell them.”

  “How’d the collector who bought all his paintings find out?”

  “She didn’t buy them all. Just the ones I was willing to part with. I called and told her. She had acquired several of his pieces before, and I knew she loved his work. She had the means to buy the collection I was offering.”

  I nodded, wondering again at her lack of grief.

  “A lot of the people there today were friends or regular customers,” she continued. “If they’d known Justin had died, they would’ve tried to buy something, but it would’ve been awkward because they couldn’t have afforded it.”

  “You seem to be doing good.”

  “I have my moments, but, yes, overall I’m doing fine.”

  “When’s the funeral?” I asked. “Have you made the arrangements yet?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Did you want to come? I’m sorry. I decided just to have a memorial service. He’s just going to be cremated when they release his body, and I didn’t want to wait ‘til then for all of us to get closure. It was earlier this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry. I would’ve been there.”

  “I should’ve let you know. It was just me, Mom and Dad, a few cousins, and Justin’s partner, Chris.”

  “Chris Sobel?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Said they let him come since he was minimum custody with very little time left.”

  “But he’s also one of the leading suspects in your brother’s murder.”

  “Really? Chris? I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do—he loved Justin.”

  “How’d he even know about it?”

  “I made sure he knew. I know how close they were.”

  I said, “I thought you hadn’t talked to Justin in four years?”

  She shook her head. “I hadn’t seen him for four years, but he never stopped writing me, letting me know everything that was going on in his life. He told me all about Chris in his letters, even sent me a picture of the two of them together.”

  “Didn’t you think he and Justin looked like twins?” I asked.

  She squinted and looked away as she seemed to consider it, then shrugged. “I guess they favored some in the picture, though it was a long time ago. Now, it’s hard to tell since he doesn’t have hair.”

  “Who doesn’t have hair?”

  Her expression was one of confusion. “Chris. He shaved his head.”

  “That’s something new,” I said, wondering if it were a sign of grief or an attempt alter his appearance in order to escape. “Was he cuffed, shackled, and in the custody of a sheriff’s deputy?”

  She shook her head. “His brother was able to sign him out.”

  My heart started racing. One of our leading suspects was out of prison, and I doubted he would ever come back again—not willingly anyway.

  “Did he tell you when he had to be back?” I asked, hopping up from the table.

  She shrugged. “Sometime tonight . . . before count, I think.”

  24

  When I pulled into the PCI parking lot, Anna was waiting for me.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  I’d called her on my drive back and asked her to meet me, but was unwilling to tell her why on the cell phone since a favorite Potter County pastime was listening to cell and cordless phone conversations on emergency scanners.

  “Chris Sobel,” I said. “Did you approve him for a furlough?”

  Her face grew alarmed, then angry. “Of course not.”

  “He went on one.”

  “There’s no way.”

  On the rare occasions furloughs were approved for inmates w
ho had a nonviolent charge, a minimum custody level, and very little time left, they were only granted for the funerals of immediate family members.

  “He went to Justin’s memorial service, according to Paula Menge.”

  Turning toward the control room, she said, “Let’s find out just what the hell’s goin’ on.”

  When we reached the control room we were greeted with a wave by the officer and the sergeant inside.

  Lifting the lid of the document tray, Anna said, “Hey, Sarge, are there any inmates out on furlough right now?”

  He nodded, glancing down at the log. “Two. A Russell and a Sobel.”

  “Chris Sobel?” she said, concealing the alarm I knew she felt.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Who approved Sobel’s furlough?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. He left before I came on duty.”

  “What time is he scheduled back?”

  He glanced at the log book again. “Six.”

  I looked at the clock on the back wall of the control room. It was five-forty-five. He should be pulling up any minute—if he were coming back.

  “Who’s the OIC on duty right now?” Anna asked.

  “Captain Weaver.”

  “Would you please radio him and ask him to meet me up here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  While he did, Anna turned back to me. “Fifteen minutes. Whatta you think?”

  “I think it could be fifteen days—wouldn’t matter.”

  She nodded.

  “Somethin’s way off about this whole thing,” I said.

  Before she could respond, Sergeant Bryan said, “Ms. Rodden, Captain Weaver’s in the VP. He said for me to send you two on back.”

  And so, without our ID badges, he buzzed the gate and we walked in the institution when we were off-duty—something we were never supposed to do.

  We found Weaver sitting with Rosetta Jackson, the sergeant in charge of supervising visitation, at a table in the corner of the visiting park.

  The PCI visiting park was a large room, maybe 50 x 75, with cinder block walls and a tile floor. Folding tables with plastic chairs around them filled the center of the room and vending machines lined two of the walls. For safety and security, there were separate bathrooms for inmates and visitors and the pavilion out back was enclosed by its own fence and razor wire.