Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Set up over there,” Steve said, indicating an empty table in the far corner. “You can start with us.”

  “Start what with us doing what?” Father Thomas asked.

  “Not you, Father,” Steve said. “Me and John. We’ve already got yours.”

  “My what?”

  “Blood,” Steve said. “We’re gonna get a blood sample from everyone at St. Ann’s. It’s voluntary of course, but anyone who refuses can come down to the station and explain why.”

  Father Thomas nodded. “I’m glad you’re at least open to the possibility it could be someone besides me.”

  Steve smiled. “We’re wide open. And we’re looking at everyone, but you’re not doing much to help yourself.”

  “What am I—”

  “You’ve kept things from us from the very beginning. And you’re still not being completely honest with us now.”

  “How can you say—”

  “Who came into the room when you were performing the exorcism, Father?” I asked.

  “I told you, I don’t know. I was knocked unconscious. I didn’t even know the tape had stopped recording.”

  “Why did Clyde’s death upset you so much?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Tammy’s boyfriend,” I said, nodding in the direction of the crucifixion. “The guy who was—”

  “That was Tammy’s boyfriend?” he asked, the little color that was left draining from his face.

  “And seeing him upset you more than anyone else here,” Steve added. “Even Kathryn and Sister Abigail.”

  “I’m very sensitive—unlike some people. I don’t have long to live and I find death extremely upsetting these days. Sorry, but if compassion, sensitivity, and heightened awareness of mortality makes me guilty, then I’m your man. Cuff me and take me in.”

  “See,” I said. “Like that. That wasn’t helpful—not to your cause or our case. Why are you acting this way? What are you trying to cover up?”

  “I’m telling the truth, John. I thought you realized that after you watched the tape.”

  “I believe you are––about that, but not about most of these other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why Clyde’s death upset you so much.”

  “I told you. I’m dying. All death gets to me more than it once did.”

  “Not Tammy’s. You got more upset about someone you say you didn’t know.”

  56

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” Sister Abigail said, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. She was obviously still shaken up from seeing Clyde.

  It was time for my counseling session. I had come to her office to tell her I just couldn’t do it right now, there was too much happening with the case, but she needed to talk, so I sat down, intending to just stay a few minutes.

  Her bottom lip quivered. “I just can’t get over what was done to that poor boy. He was... It was so...” She squeezed her eyes closed tightly and shook her head. “I just keep seeing him hanging up there like that.”

  Nodding, I said, “I know.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a crucifix again without remembering.”

  “It’ll fade in time. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it will.”

  “No wonder you have such a hard time dealing with all this. I had no idea it was so—”

  “It’s usually not that bad.”

  “Still,” she said. “To see so much violence, to deal with so much death. It’s no wonder you showed up here in need of help.”

  “It can get to you after a while.”

  “How are you handling things?” she asked.

  “You tell me. I’ve seen you watching me pretty closely.”

  “You look like you’re doing quite well,” she said, “but I’m not talking about things that can be seen.”

  “I feel like I’m doing pretty well. A lot’s happened in a little time, so it may be different if it drags on for a lot longer, but so far, I feel good. I haven’t even thought about drinking. I’m still managing to get in a little time for meditation and reflection. Feel pretty centered.”

  “Centered or distracted?”

  I thought about it. The truth was, working a case did center me––and it did distract me. As soon as it was over, as soon as my mind didn’t have it to play with, I’d realize how lonely I still was, how unhappy, how nothing had changed.

  “Both,” I said.

  She nodded. “I was thinking about something the other day I wanted to share with you. It comes from the Tao Te Ching. It says that the master does his work then steps back.”

  I thought about it. “I like it.”

  “It’s related to the Eastern philosophy of non-attachment, which is something I think could really help you. In this case what I mean is practicing non-attachment to outcome. It’s what I have to do with my work. I can’t control the outcome of my patients. And if I try then I stay discouraged and depressed. But if I do my work and step back, letting go of the outcome, then I have peace. I know the same would work for you. Let go of your attachment to the outcome. Accept what is. ‘Cause there is nothing else. Can you do that?”

  I thought about it.

  “Can you do your best work and accept the outcome even if it’s an unsolved case? Can you do your best work and accept if the killer isn’t punished in this lifetime? Can you create some space between you and what you do by practicing non-attachment and letting go of outcome?”

  “I’ve studied non-attachment before, but I’ve never quite seen it this way—related to outcome. It’s something I’d like to explore more.”

  “All I can ask,” she said, a slight twinkle in her eye.

  “‘Cause anything else would not be practicing non-attachment to outcome?”

  She smiled.

  There was a comforting sameness to our sessions, she in her recliner, hands folded in her lap, me on the love seat in front of her.

  It was as if rather than many different sessions, we were having one long continuous one, with occasional interruptions.

  I started to say something, but she moved—the first time I could recall seeing her do so during one of our sessions—and it stopped me.

  She rubbed her left upper arm with her right hand.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That damn nurse that drew my blood. Felt like she used an ice pick.”

  “I’m surprised Steve’s having the women tested,” I said.

  “I told them I was A negative and had records to prove it, but they insisted on sticking me.”

  “It’s your clothes. Make you look very suspicious.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What were we saying?”

  “I can’t begin again until you fold your hands in your lap,” I said, and smiled.

  She did as I had asked, and a new scent of hand cream wafted over my way. Like the room, it smelled of gardenia, and I doubted it was a coincidence. She probably had entire sets of matching fragrances—scented candles, potpourri, hand cream, perfume. Her office was a garden of olfactory delights.

  “Okay,” she said. “So you were saying?”

  I laughed. “I can’t remember.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you suspect and why?” she said.

  “You wouldn’t like the list.”

  “Try me.”

  “Father Thomas is still the frontrunner. Regardless of his health or the validity of his claims about Tammy’s condition. Then there’s Reid and the monster he works for. I don’t think there’s any question but that he was involved in Kathryn’s abduction and attempted murder, and Tammy certainly was in the way of his plans—plus he seemed to be obsessed with her sexually and she taunted him with it—but we’re pretty sure his boys were already dead and he was in custody when Clyde was killed. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have it done, but...”

  She nodded slowly as she listened, but didn’t say anything.

  “Then there’s Clyde, Brad, and Keith. All of
or some of whom could be involved in a drug deal gone bad or just good old-fashioned jealousy. Clyde could have been killed because of something he saw the night Tammy was killed or he could have killed her and somebody killed him because of it. We’re pretty sure he was here.”

  I paused for a moment, but she didn’t say anything, so I continued.

  “Then there’s the inexplicable,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “What Father Thomas is calling demons or the devil,” I said. “What others call the supernatural or the unexplained.”

  “You believe—”

  “That there are things I can’t explain? Yes.”

  I told her about the tape.

  “Tom said you’d seen it. So you’re open to the possibility that—what?”

  “See previous answer,” I said. “There are things I can’t explain. That’s all I can say for sure. Then there’s Floyd’s daughter or nephew. They both stand to gain an enormous amount of money.”

  “Kathryn doesn’t even know she’s—”

  “I’m pretty sure Tammy told her,” I said. “But even if she didn’t, Kathryn could have easily figured it out by now. She may have even figured out you’re her mother.”

  57

  She sat there in stunned silence for a long moment. Eventually, she said, “How’d you know?”

  “Floyd wouldn’t give you all this land just to take his daughter. There had to be more to it than that. And let’s just say I didn’t find the story you and Father Thomas told to be very convincing.”

  “Please don’t judge me too harshly.”

  “I’m not judging you at all,” I said.

  “I’ve been a mom to her in every way but name.”

  “I know.”

  “Everything I did, I did so I could keep my vows and be a mother to my child.”

  I considered her, wondering if it was so important to her to keep her vows, how she got pregnant in the first place. “How’d you and Floyd get together?”

  “He and my oldest brother were friends. We grew up around each other. I thought he was such a big deal back then. He always had a shiny new car, the coolest clothes, and plenty of folding money. He was a good bit older than me, but he always seemed to pay attention to me, carry a torch for me. Anyway, when I came back here, he began to pursue me—even though I had already taken my vows. The first thing he did was lease us the land and an old schoolhouse to start St. Ann’s for next to nothing. Then he continued to be so generous, helping us when we needed it. He used to come out and eat here at least once a week. Anyway, at a time when I was lonely and desperate, I gave in and we made Kathryn Grace. It was just the one time. It was nothing special, but it sure produced something that was. He must not have enjoyed it either. He never asked again. Anyway, when he found out it was his, he knew I wanted to keep it as much a secret as he did, so he suggested he give us the land, a few buildings, and a trust for St. Ann’s. I went away for awhile, came back later with a little girl the abbey would adopt. He deeded the land to her, then she—well, we on her behalf—donated it to the abbey, and we set it up so that if anything ever happens to it, everything will go back to her.”

  “Who all knows?”

  “The whole story? Just you and me,” she said. “Tom has figured out a little over the years, but not nearly all of it. If you’re right, Kathryn may know more than I thought, but she can’t know very much. Are you going to tell her?”

  “I’m afraid it’s gonna come out one way or another. You may want to go ahead and tell her yourself.”

  She was silent a long moment.

  “Would you be there when I do?”

  We found Kathryn in her cabin working on her novel. She was seated in a recliner by the fire, a laptop on her outstretched legs. Beside her on the hearth, burning candles flickered, and soft instrumental music played from an unseen source.

  When we had knocked on the door, she told us to come in, but didn’t stop typing. Without saying anything, we walked over and quietly stood in front of the fire.

  “Let me just get to a stopping point,” she said, typing faster now, not looking up.

  “Take your time,” Sister said.

  While we waited, I looked around the room. It was pretty sparse for an heiress. She had quite a few books, including several copies of her own, but no really nice ones, and many were paperbacks. Her computer and printer were nice, but not extravagant. There was very little furniture, and none of it matched. It made me think of the dilapidated little trailer I lived in, and made me respect her even more.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked when she stopped typing.

  “Nothing at all,” Sister Abigail said. “Something important. Something wonderful. Nothing wrong.”

  Kathryn’s eyes glistened and she turned and looked at the fire. “You know how you can know something without knowing it?” she asked.

  We waited.

  Finally she looked away from the fire and up at us.

  “You’ve told me things over the years,” she said to Sister Abigail. “Little things—answering my questions mainly. Sometimes very vague. Others, quite revealing. Nearly every time telling me more than you meant to.”

  “So you know?” I asked.

  “Not everything, but more than I’m supposed to.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Sister said. “Sometimes I wanted to so badly it hurt, but I don’t know... I guess I’m a coward. I’m sorry. Are you angry with me? You have every right to be.”

  Kathryn shook her head. “I’m still in shock. Should be dead. I’m not feeling much of anything.”

  “I’m so sorry to do this now. You’ve been through so much. It’s not fair. But we just felt that it was going to come out soon because of the investigation and I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “So you’re only telling me now because you’re being forced to,” she said.

  Sister Abigail frowned, then nodded. “I guess so. I’m sorry. Told you I was a coward.”

  Kathryn shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re my mother. It’s better than that retard story circulating around town. I knew you couldn’t just come out and say it, but you made sure I knew. Knew I was wanted. Knew I was loved. Knew I belonged.”

  It made much more sense now. What Floyd had done was for Abigail as much as Kathryn. No wonder St. Ann’s had taken in Kathryn. They had never taken in any other children over the years. Of course, they hadn’t actually taken her in. She belonged here more than anyone.

  58

  Unlike the previous mornings, Steve didn’t appear sharp or crisp. His uniform was wrinkled, his face pale and hollow, large, dark purplish-blue circles hung in the loose skin beneath his eyes, and he talked more slowly than he had. I wondered if it was the case, Tammy’s death, Clyde’s crucifixion, Kathryn’s close call. It was a lot to process, and it was obviously taking a toll.

  “We caught Keith Richie trying to leave town last night with all his worldly possessions,” he said.

  “He say why?”

  “Said when God tells you to go, you have to go,” he said, shaking his head. “You religious people crack me up.”

  “Yeah, we’re a real riot. And all just the same. Where is he now?”

  “Station. I’m detaining him for questioning. His parole officer and the cop that busted him are supposed to call me this afternoon. I figure we’ll go at him after we’ve talked to them.”

  I thought about it.

  “How do you like him for it?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Less than some, more than others.”

  “Running sure makes him look guilty.”

  “Heat gets turned up. He runs. Might just be in his nature. Or maybe he really is guilty—but of something else.”

  “Or maybe he’s our guy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s got the right blood for it. Oh, speaking of which...”

  He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “Medical center called
me to verify you were working for me. Said you had requested this on my behalf.”

  I took it and looked at it. It was a faint photocopy from Floyd Taylor’s medical records.

  “I meant to tell you about it,” I said, “but with all that’s happened, I forgot.”

  “What’d you want with Uncle Floyd’s medical records? You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “Thought we might need his blood type if the Gulf Coast Company tries to take St. Ann’s and his daughter comes out of the woodwork,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

  “You could’ve just asked me. He was O negative, but you’re getting way ahead of things. I’m not gonna let them get St. Ann’s.”

  I glanced at the paper to confirm the blood type, and wondered if I should tell him all I knew—about the road and the wetlands, about the deeds and Grace Taylor being Kathryn Kennedy, but just couldn’t bring myself to trust him that much. He still had one of the strongest motives of anyone, and he probably already knew most of it anyway—especially after going to the clerk’s office.

  “Who knows their uncle’s blood type?” I asked.

  “A nephew he got blood from when he had an operation,” he said. “Suspicious son of a bitch, aren’t you? Come on.”

  He led me past the counseling center and kitchen, and around B-dorm. I followed him, letting him set the pace—of the walk and the conversation. The morning was cool and damp, the only light a difussed grayish glow. Though not really necessary, he held a long black metal flashlight in his hand.

  “We were right,” he said. “Clyde died from an overdose.”

  I nodded and thought about it.

  “So why crucify a man who’s already dead?” he said.

  “To conceal the real reason he died?” I said. “Send a message to someone? Bring more embarrassment and shame to St. Ann’s? I don’t know.”

  He nodded and seemed to think about what I’d said.

  We ducked beneath the perimeter of yellow crime scene tape flapping in the wind, and stopped in front of the cypress tree that had held Clyde.