Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

I could hear sirens in the distance, faint, but growing.

  “I’ve radioed in to let the others know they’re headed down river,” he said.

  “All three of them?” I asked, looking around the landing.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why?”

  “Don’t see their truck.”

  “They drove it off into the water,” he said. “Over close to the boat launch.”

  “How long’s it been since they’ve fired?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Wondering if it’s safe to get the money and get you to the medical center.”

  “Should be,” he said. “Let me get my shotgun and I’ll cover you two while you get the money.”

  “Shee-it,” Merrill said. “I know you the hero of the moment and all, but I ain’t about to have you shootin’ near my black ass. You could fuck up or just find it too temptin’ and say you did.”

  “Then why don’t you cover me,” Jake said, “and I’ll limp down there and get it and try not to bleed to death in the process.”

  “Much better plan,” Merrill said with a big grin.

  The sirens were getting closer. “If we wait just a minute,” I said, “we’ll have plenty of help and neither one of you will be in a position to have to resist the temptation to shoot the other.”

  52

  Pottersville State Bank was a red brick building with a front consisting mostly of dark plate glass. Its interior decor had changed many times over the years but the old black and woodgrain teller counters, desks, and tall standing tables had not.

  While Jake was being treated at Pottersville Medical Center, and FBI agents were on their way, Dad, Fred Goodwin, Merrill, and I were sitting with Cathy Morris and Lonnie Potter in his office. Lonnie was the bank’s president, a job consisting mostly of watching his family’s money. Cathy, the executive who actually ran the bank.

  The bank was closed, the blinds pulled. We were locked inside. The furniture of the lobby had been pulled back, and long sheets of plastic had been spread out in the middle of the floor. The recovered money was stacked on it, and four tellers—under the watchful eye of one of the board of trustees—were drying and counting it.

  “With as small as we are and as electronic as banking has become,” Lonnie was saying, “we just don’t keep a lot of cash around anymore.”

  Lonnie Potter was a tall, thin, soft and soft-spoken man in his fifties. He had big blue eyes that were so wide he looked to be in a perpetual state of surprise, and his face was always red, as if from wind or razor burn.

  “How much you think they got?” Dad asked.

  “Oh, we know exactly,” Cathy said.

  Cathy Morris was a rigid, nervous single woman in her mid-forties, critical of most everyone and everything. She was so uncomfortable with herself, she made those around her uncomfortable—a defense mechanism she used to great advantage.

  Dad raised his eyebrows. When Cathy didn’t respond, he said, “How much?”

  “Two hundred thousand,” she said. “Exactly. They only took what was in the vault. They really seemed to know what they were doing.”

  “Really?” I asked, my voice full of surprise. “I didn’t get that impression from their escape plan.”

  “And yet as I understand it,” she said, “they have, in fact, escaped.”

  A boat Jake identified as the one the robbers used to escape was found about two miles down from the landing. If Jake had hit a man as he thought, the man hadn’t bled in the boat. No blood, no prints, no trace evidence whatsoever had been found.

  “So far,” Dad said, “but there’s only so many places they can hide out there. We’ll find them.”

  “Like the inmate?” she asked.

  Fred Goodwin laughed out loud.

  “What made you think they knew what they were doing?” Dad asked, his voice firm and demanding.

  “Well,” she said, sitting a little straighter, “they came at the perfect time. We eat in two shifts—eleven to twelve and twelve to one. The hour from eleven to twelve has the least amount of people in the bank—and all women.”

  I glanced out at the women in the lobby drying and counting the recovered money. Two of them were recent high school graduates, two in their late thirties or early forties, none of them in shape. They did their work without talking, and I suspected it had more to do with the presence of Cathy Morris than concentration or post traumatic stress.

  “Is that it?” Dad asked.

  “Not even close,” she said. “They came in through the back door, so no one passing by or in the shops across the street saw them. My office is back there, so they came in and got me first. They had me open the safe first. It’s on a timer, so while they were waiting for it to open, they went in the lobby, got everybody to lie down on the floor, and locked the front doors.”

  “They had to know what they were doing,” Lonnie said. “No question about it.”

  “Anything else?” Dad asked.

  Cathy nodded. “They got the tellers out from behind the counter before they could push the alarm, and they didn’t take any of the money from their drawers. That means they sacrificed over fifty thousand dollars, but it was the smartest thing they could’ve done. Every drawer has marked bills—not only that, but when you lift them up it sets off the alarm.”

  She paused for a moment, but it was obvious that she wasn’t finished.

  Lonnie’s office held black-and-white photographs from the early days of the bank, color portraits of his wife and two daughters, and newspaper clippings from various significant Pottersville events, especially those involving the bank. Everything was professionally matted in expensive frames that matched each other and the office.

  One look at his family and you knew they had money. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but I suspected it had far less to do with their clothes and jewelry and the quality of the photographs than their features and the way they held themselves.

  “The other thing is they were patient,” she said. “It takes fifteen minutes for the safe to open. They seemed to know that. And they stayed cool while they waited for it. They were professionals. Never endangered anyone’s life, never even raised their voices.”

  “Sounds like you were quite taken with them,” Dad said.

  Ignoring him, she added, “As far as I could tell, the only thing that they didn’t count on was how little money there was in the safe. That’s the only time they seemed the least bit upset or angry.”

  We were all quiet a moment.

  “Recovering the money so fast has got to help with the primary tomorrow,” Lonnie said to Dad.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to say.”

  “Well, you’ve got my vote. And Jake has my admiration and appreciation.”

  “Did they sound local?” I asked.

  Everyone turned and looked at me.

  “Huh?” Cathy said, seemingly distracted.

  “When the robbers talked,” I said. “Did they have strong Southern accents? Did they sound like they were locals? Was there anything familiar about the way they sounded?”

  She thought about it, looking up and squinting as she did. After a while, she began to nod. “They didn’t say much, but they were definitely Southern.”

  “You got any thoughts?” Dad asked.

  I nodded. “A few.”

  “Any you’d care to share?”

  “They need to develop a little more first,” I said.

  He looked at me, frustration filling his face.

  “If I had anything worth saying I would tell you,” I said.

  He frowned and sighed. “Okay.”

  Suddenly, there was additional tension in the room, and when he turned and looked back at the others, no one said anything.

  In a moment, the head teller walked over nervously and stood in the doorway of Lonnie’s office. She was a tall, big woman, but her sheepish demeanor made her seem small.

  “Ms. Morris,” she said.

  Most professional women in small Southern to
wns are called Miss whether they are married or not. The fact that this woman, Cathy’s age or older, was calling her Ms. had to be a result of Cathy demanding it.

  “Yes,” Cathy said, her voice cold and intimidating.

  “We’ve got a problem,” she said, as if it was her fault.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the money,” she said.

  “What about the money?”

  “Are you absolutely certain there was two hundred thousand in the vault?”

  Cathy looked at her in narrow-eyed, open-mouth shock, as if utterly appalled. “Absolutely certain.”

  “Then—” she began.

  “What is it?” Cathy said. “Is some missing?”

  “No, ma’am,” she said.

  “What then,” Cathy said. “Spit it out.”

  “There’s actually more,” she said. “We got back extra.”

  53

  “What do you mean extra?” Cathy asked.

  I slowly stood, trying not to be noticed.

  “We got more money back than what was stolen,” she said.

  “Maybe we had more in the vault than we realized,” Lonnie said. “It’s possible.”

  It was possible for somebody like Lonnie maybe, but not Cathy. She would know precisely.

  Ignoring Lonnie, Cathy said, “How much more?”

  “They stole two hundred,” she said, “and we got back two hundred and fifty.”

  “Two-fifty would include our teller drawers and everything,” Lonnie said. “And they didn’t take those.”

  I began slowly easing out of the office. I finally thought I understood what was going on, and it made me sick. My head ached, my throat constricted, and my stomach felt like I had been sucker punched.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t feel good. I think I’m sick.”

  “Are you okay?” Goodwin asked.

  “No,” I said, “I’m sick. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go lie down.”

  “We’ve got a cot in the conference room,” Lonnie said.

  I shook my head. “I think I better go home.”

  “What?” Dad asked in shock, his face full of alarm and something that might have been a look of betrayal. “Now? With all that’s happening?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll call you the moment I feel better.”

  “Okay,” he said in a way that communicated that it was anything but.

  Cathy stood and walked out to inspect the money. The others followed. Merrill broke off from the group and followed me out the front doors. One of the tellers was quick to come over and lock it behind us.

  It was dusk now, the unseen sun illuminating the world with a diffused pastel softness.

  “What is it?” Merrill said.

  He knew me too well to buy what I had been selling inside.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You need me?”

  “I might.”

  “You know how to reach me,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I didn’t just mean for the offer of help or things he might do but for the things he wouldn’t do—like press me or become petulant when I needed space.

  He nodded as if he knew what I meant and it made me want to hug him, which, for his sake, I did not.

  I drove as fast as I could to Pottersville Medical Center.

  I found Jake in one of the small exam rooms alone. His left shoe off, the pant leg above it had been rolled up and a clean white bandage covered his wound.

  When I caught his eye, I shook my head.

  “What?” he said.

  That one word held his usual disdain but he averted his gaze and refused to meet my eye.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  He started to protest but stopped when he finally locked eyes with mine.

  I felt the urge to punch him, to close the space between us and just pound him until I felt better, but then tears formed in his big brown eyes, and I felt sorry for him.

  The pity didn’t replace my anger, just slipped in beside it and sat there, tempering, restraining.

  “I need my boot,” he said.

  I looked around and found it. When I handed it to him he made no attempt to put it on, just held it as he pushed himself off the bed and hobbled toward the door. Alternating between wanting to help him and wanting him to hurt, I followed as he slowly limped over to the door and started down the hallway to the exit closest to the room.

  We were near the exit when I heard the nurse rushing up behind us. She was a middle-aged gray-haired woman with an abrupt manner and a smoker’s voice.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked. “He can’t—”

  “Official police business,” I said. “It’s an emergency.”

  “I don’t care what it is,” she said. “He’s got to stay off his leg.”

  “He will just as soon as I get him in the car,” I said. “I promise.”

  “He’s got to stay here,” she said. “I’m going to call the doctor.”

  When she was gone, I said, “Think you can walk a little faster?”

  He picked up the pace marginally and we made it out the door, across the side yard, and into the car before she returned with the doctor or anyone else.

  As we drove off into the darkening evening, the street lamps beginning to come to life all around us, he said, “How much do you know?”

  I shrugged. “No way of knowing without knowing how much there is to know,” I said. “But here’s what I think.”

  54

  “I think the plane I saw the day Michael Jensen escaped crashed into the river,” I said. “I think it belonged to Air Ads Inc. and a guy called Junior was flying it. You guys were doing your search and rescue drills on the river and a plane crashes down on top of you. And when you go to search and rescue it you discover that the crash killed Junior, right? He was dead, wasn’t he? Tell me y’all didn’t help him along?”

  “He was dead. I’ve never killed anyone––not even on duty.”

  “Y’all also discover that Junior’s not one of the good guys. So instead of reporting the crash you take his money. Was it just money or something else too? Drugs, guns?”

  “We only took his money,” he said. “We saw an opportunity and took it. Hell, it happened so fast we didn’t even really think about it.”

  I shook my head.

  We drove through town, the lights inside houses blinking on, kids still out on bikes and skateboards, young women in groups of twos and threes power walking down the sidewalks in skimpy shorts, pumping their arms and working their mouths as they did.

  “It was just money,” he said. “He didn’t need it anymore. We were going to divide it up.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, Jake?” I asked.

  “Only one thing,” he said. “Getting Mama a transplant.”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. The dumbest thing he had ever done might just have been for the best reason he’d ever done anything.

  “That’s why you were so certain Mom was going to get one.”

  He nodded.

  “Your plan was to buy a black-market organ?” I asked.

  He nodded again.

  I shook my head. “Even if you actually could, which would be next to impossible, don’t you realize somebody most likely would be murdered in order for her to get it?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Where’s the plane?”

  “In the river,” he said. “Almost dead in the middle, straight out from the cross that marks the spot where Taylor drowned.”

  “That’s why it hasn’t been found,” I said, “why there was no debris field or fire. You’re going to take me to it. Is one of the search and rescue boats still at the landing?”

  He nodded.

  “So after I recovered from Jensen jumping me,” I continued, “I came to the landing with Dad to see if anyone saw a plane go down, and you guys, knowing exac
tly where it was and having just come from it, go and help me not find it.”

  He nodded again.

  When we passed the bank I could see that Dad and the others were still inside. There was no sign that the FBI agents had arrived yet and I wondered how long it would be.

  “The money was actually in the boat at the time,” I said. “In your bags. That’s why Goodwin was so anxious for everyone to unload their things to make room for me. It’s why Todd was in no hurry to get the dogs and get searching for Jensen. It’s why the equipment wasn’t in your bags. The money was.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead, wiping silent tears.

  “Junior was dead when you got to the plane, wasn’t he?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I think so,” he said. “How’d you know?”

  “What do you mean you think so?”

  “I didn’t actually go into the plane,” he said. “Only Todd, Shane, and Kenny. But they said he was dead.”

  “He was the lynching victim, wasn’t he?”

  He nodded. “Think so. Haven’t seen him but based on the description . . .”

  “From the autopsy result we thought he’d been beaten to death before he was lynched, but actually he’d been in a plane crash. That’s why he had water in his lungs too. Y’all hung him after he was already dead. But why? Why not just leave him in the plane?”

  “We did,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I swear,” he said. “I swear to God, we only took the money. We left the pilot and everything else in the plane.”

  I thought about it.

  “We couldn’t’ve hidden him in a duffle bag,” he said. “He wasn’t in the boat when you got in with us—just the money. Why would we go back later, pull him out of the plane, and then lynch a dead man?”

  As I turned onto River Road I couldn’t help but feel the action carried a certain inevitability, as if everything that had been happening had been leading to this. It was as if the river had been silently beckoning us all along—whether to the cleansing of baptism or for its waters to turn crimson with our blood I could not tell. Perhaps only the river could.

  “So who lynched him?” I asked.