I am alone.
I am isolated.
I am separated.
I am detached.
Anna is in the next room and would gladly come in here and offer me comfort and consolation if I would only ask her.
If I would just call him, Merrill would be over here in a matter of minutes—to sit with me inside this deafening silence or let me talk or rant or cry or anything I needed to.
Countless other friends would likewise be willing to help regardless of how inept that help might be, but right now nothing anyone could do would help.
What is this inconsolable condition afflicting me? Why do I find myself with this particular malady?
It’s not because of Bay County’s and then Reggie’s response to my theory about the recent spate of accidental deaths—though that began the loss of altitude that has led to this nosedive.
And it’s not just one thing—though it is one thing primarily.
It’s not primarily the impact of the hurricane and the desolation it left in its wake, though that is part of it.
It’s not that I’m all alone in my belief that we have a killer in our midst preying on us in our most vulnerable hour, but that too is part of it.
And it’s not primarily the trial—though having to sit there and relive one of the worst and most regrettable experiences of my life is making a significant contribution to this cold, sad separation that has seeped into my every cell.
No, the primary reason I’m feeling the way I do—alone and miserable, detached and isolated, saturated with sadness and grieving so intensely I find it an effort to breathe—is because I shot and killed Derek Burrell. That is primary. That is everything—everything else is so secondary to it as not to even register when set next to it.
Rising from the floor where I was sitting in front of my altar, I begin to pull books off my shelves and search their pages for something I can’t even completely formulate by candlelight.
I turn first to St. John of the Cross’s “Dark Night of the Soul,” but after just two stanzas give up on it.
Once in the dark of night,
Inflamed with love and yearning, I arose
(O coming of delight!)
And went, as no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose
All in the dark went right,
Down secret steps, disguised in other clothes,
(O coming of delight!)
In dark when no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose.
I then search other texts—some of them hundreds and others thousands of years old—the solitary expressions of men and women long since dead before my ancestors were born, but who were experiencing something akin to what I am in this dark hour.
I try many, many wise and true and profound writings, but it is not until I crack open my dusty old volume of the poetry of Hafez, the lyrical fourteenth-century Persian poet, that I find the instruction my soul most needs in this moment.
Don't surrender your loneliness so quickly. Let it cut you more deeply. Let it ferment and season you as few human and even divine ingredients can. Something missing in my heart tonight has made my eyes so soft, my voice so tender, my need for God absolutely clear.
31
Melissa Burrell is crying softly as she takes the stand, dabbing at her puffy, red-etched eyes with a small white handkerchief.
“I know how difficult all of this is for you, Ms. Burrell,” Gary Scott says, his soft tone nearly completely masking his voice’s nasality, “and I’m so deeply sorry you’re having to endure this—after everything else.”
“We asked for this,” she says. “And please call me Melissa.”
“I think everyone the world over agrees that of all the profoundly painful things a human being can suffer, losing a child is far and away the most painful—that it is unimaginably excruciatingly heartbreakingly unbearably painful.”
“I never have and never will experience anything as devastating,” she says. “Every single day since it happened I’ve wanted to die.”
“I can only imagine,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He pauses for a moment.
Melissa wipes at tears and sniffles as he takes a quick sip of water.
“Was Derek your only child?” he asks.
She nods. “We didn’t think we were going to even get one. We went through several miscarriages and a lot of fertility specialists. But . . . it was worth it. He was worth the wait. There’s never been a better baby. It was like he knew what we had been through just to get him here and he was as grateful as we were just to be here. And then growing up . . . he was just always the most gentle thing. Kind and thoughtful. I can say before God that he never gave us one moment’s trouble.”
“I’ve heard very good things about him from all his classmates and teachers,” Scott says. “They’re all experiencing an enormous loss, but nothing compares to what you and your husband are going through and they know that. We all know that.”
“Everyone has been so supportive,” she says. “Well, almost everyone.”
“What do you mean?” Scott asks. “I would think everyone would be extremely supportive and understanding.”
“There are those—mostly online, but some in the media and in our community—who blame him for his own death. And by extension me and Bryce. They say he should’ve never had a gun at school, that he and we knew it was illegal. That he should’ve never gone out and gotten it out of his truck and shouldn’t have come back into the school with it and started shooting. Say he became a . . . a school shooter when he did that. Some actually go as far as to say that we owe the defendant an apology—that we put him in that terrible position and now he has to live with it for the rest of his life.”
“How do you and your husband respond to that kind of . . .”
“I say at least he has a life,” she says. “Derek doesn’t. I’d love for him to be here having to live with something—anything.”
“What about the fact that it’s illegal to have firearms on campus?” Scott asks. “Even out in the parking lot in a vehicle. What would you say to those who say that if he hadn’t climbed through the classroom window, gotten his gun, and come back in shooting . . .”
“Every young man I know around here hunts,” she says. “Sometimes a rifle or a shotgun gets left in a vehicle. The boys forget it’s there. Or they think they took it out to clean. They don’t mean anything by it. Accidents happen. And as far as him going out to get it to help try to save the lives of his classmates . . . that makes him a hero. Nothing else. Nothing less. A young hero with his entire amazing life ahead of him and he had it violently taken away from him by an overaggressive killer cop who thinks he can shoot our children and get away with it.”
“Is that why you’ve brought this suit against the defendant?”
She nods defiantly, glancing over at me for a moment then back at Scott. “Partly. I just couldn’t let someone do that to my boy . . . to our family, and not do something. I’m so sick of corrupt killer cops being protected by the agencies they serve. The oversight and accountability is a joke. They always clear cops for shooting and they never criminally prosecute them. And it’s not going to change until we the people do something about it. Our only recourse is a civil suit like this.”
He nods gravely, pauses another moment, then says, “Now, can you tell us why you didn’t sue the department the defendant works for or the one whose jurisdiction it is where this shooting took place?”
“Well, this isn’t the reason, but think about that . . . the defendant doesn’t even work for the department that has jurisdiction. If that doesn’t let you know that there’s something criminally off about the case, then I don’t think you can be convinced. But the reason we brought this suit against . . . the defendant is as a way of begging for just some small modicum of accountability, of him being forced to admit some responsibility for murdering my only child.”
“Most plaintiffs s
ue the agency the officer involved in the shooting works for because they have the deeper pockets.”
“That’s why we didn’t,” she says. “This isn’t about the money for us. Not in any way. We’re not keeping a dime of it, not one nickel.”
“I noticed you sued for an extremely small amount—only fifteen thousand.”
“That’s the minimum for circuit court and we wanted it as low as possible to make the statement this isn’t about money—it’s about my son. This is about that man over there sitting at the defense table and only him being held accountable. It’s saying you can’t get away with this. That’s why we’re donating every cent of it to groups that are working tirelessly to stop police violence.”
“That’s very admirable of you and your husband.”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. It’s . . . Our son is dead. Nothing else matters. Money can’t bring him back and we don’t want any money. We wouldn’t use it anyway. We’re hardly hanging on. We barely eat. We no longer have any interests or hobbies. No desire to travel or . . . anything. So we certainly don’t need or want any money.”
“What do you want?” he asks.
“For some court somewhere, with enough conviction and courage to actually do it, to hold the man who murdered my son accountable. To say to him you’re not God. You’re not the law. You’re not above it. You can’t do what you did and not be punished—even if it’s just a measly amount of money in a civil suit. That’s it. And short of my son being raised from the dead and restored back to us, that’s all we want. And I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”
“Neither do I,” Scott says. “Neither do I.”
He then turns and sort of stumbles back over to his seat as if he’s so emotionally spent he is unable to walk.
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” he says.
“Ms. Jordan,” Wheata Pearl says, pushing back a stray strand of her strawberry-colored hair.
Anna slowly stands and deliberately walks over to the podium.
“Ms. Burrell, I have so many questions for you,” she says. “But I’m not going to ask you a single one and I want you to know why. I know how you feel about my husband and I can only imagine that those feelings extend to me—especially as I am representing him in this case. So out of respect for you and as a way to keep you from having to interact with me or prolong your time on the stand I won’t ask you the many questions I have for you, but instead will only say that both John and I are so very, very sorry for your loss—especially John, who wishes with every cell of his being that this had never happened.”
Melissa leans into the mic and says, “Apology not accepted.”
Anna nods and continues to look at her with sympathy and compassion.
“I’d’ve much rather you had kept your lame apology,” Melissa says, “and asked me your many lame questions instead.”
32
“I can imagine sitting through worse things than that,” I say. “But not many.”
Anna and I are driving back into Gulf County in the early afternoon.
“That was absolutely brutal,” I say. “My heart would break for her under any circumstances . . . but to be the cause of that level of suffering . . . to be the child murderer she was describing . . .”
Because of the toll testifying took on Melissa Burrell, because of its emotional impact on the jury and everyone else in the courtroom—including Judge Wheata Pearl—the judge had decided that we wouldn’t hear from any other witnesses today, but would instead reconvene in the morning. This was especially welcome news to me—and not just because of how I’m feeling, which had been bad long before I had to feel the utter brokenness of Melissa’s being and experience the vitriol of her anger that was so singularly directed toward me, but because very soon my number will be up and it will be me that Gary Scott calls to the stand.
“It was nearly impossible for me to sit through,” Anna says. “I can’t imagine what it did to you.”
“I’m sorry you had to sit through it,” I say. “And stand up and talk to her afterwards, but I thought you handled it perfectly.”
“I meant every word I said,” she says.
“I know.”
“But from a purely strategical standpoint . . . it was a no-win situation. There was nothing I could’ve asked her that would’ve done anything but inflict more pain and make me look like an insensitive bitch.”
“As difficult as this has been,” I say, “it has been incredible to see you work. You’re such a talented trial attorney—and under nearly impossible circumstances. I mean, I knew you were brilliant and a good lawyer, but to see just how good a litigator you are in person . . .”
“You’re sweet.”
“I am but I’m not being sweet at the moment,” I say. “Just truthful.”
“I just wonder how the jury is hearing it,” she says. “It’s entirely possible that they will simply so empathize with the Burrells that nothing I do in the trial matters.”
“Yeah, I can see that happening. And it’d be understandable.”
“Based on what Merrick and Tim are writing,” she says, “we’re doing fairly well—and though Merrick may not be able to be, I would think Tim is objective and unbiased.”
“Unless Merrick is influencing him.”
“We should ask them how they think the jury is responding,” she says. “I bet they’re watching them far more closely than we can.”
“For a home-cooked meal or an exclusive interview, they’ll tell you anything you want to know. Or . . . we could ask the other observer who hasn’t missed a moment since the first day.”
“Randa?” she asks. “You’re funny. The home-cooked meal I’d make for her might be seasoned with some arsenic and a dash of cyanide.”
“If you did and were arrested you’d be the rare defendant who represents herself who doesn’t have a fool for a client.”
We ride in silence for a few moments, taking in the brutalized pinewood flats that were once part of the natural beauty that had made our homeland so distinct.
“You ready to talk about last night yet?” she asks.
I shrug. “Not much to talk about,” I say. “I just gave in for a while.”
“To?”
“You can probably guess,” I say. “Guilt, grief, despair. All the classics.”
“How are you now?”
“Not like that,” I say. “Not giving in or up at the moment.”
“Glad to hear that,” she says. “But let me know what I can do. You’re not alone in this.”
33
I’m standing alone in the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department conference room in our new building before a massive white magnetic dry erase marker board, re-examining everything we have on the storm-related deaths ruled accidental that I find suspicious.
I’m giving myself one last look, a final chance to find evidence that will convince the others before letting go and getting back to helping with the pressing needs of post-storm patrol, peacekeeping, and search and rescue.
Very little of the whiteboard in front of me is visible.
In addition to my handwritten case notes and questions, crime scene and autopsy photos hang from magnetic clips arranged as much as possible in chronological order beneath the timeline that runs across the top.
My messy, hand-drawn graph begins with Ellen Lucado, whose body was discovered in the marina in Mexico Beach on Friday, October 12th—the second day after the storm. Followed by David Cleary, whose body was discovered under the rubble of the Gulfside Seafood Restaurant on Sunday, October 14th. Then Charlie West was found in his room at the Boatman Inn on the next Thursday. The following day Philippa Kristiansen’s body had been discovered in a cottage on St. Joe Beach. Then PTSD Jerry Garcia on Tuesday the 24th, the day of opening arguments in my trial.
I try to look at everything on the board as if I’ve never seen it before.
I move around as I look at it, changing my perspective, zooming in on specific pieces of evidence, zoo
ming back out again to see how they inform the whole.
I scan for patterns and search for connections.
I examine the groupings of the discoveries—two within four days of the storm and then three in close proximity nearly a week later.
What, if anything, does that mean? Why did he stop? Or maybe he didn’t and we just haven’t discovered his other victims yet.
Thinking about his victims, I turn my attention to their individual identities.
No matter how long I look, I can’t see anything at all that links the victims in any kind of profile or type. Unlike most murders like these—if that’s what they are—there are no similarities among the victims. Not in age, sex, body type. Not in background or socioeconomic levels. Not in religion or ethnicity. Which is why there’s probably no killer behind these deaths—and it’s this more than any other single factor that most convinces me I’ve made this up, that a nameless, faceless predator exists only in my mind.
Have I just created a solution in search of a problem, a mystery where none exists, a pattern where there is only randomness?
I’m thinking about this when my phone vibrates.
Withdrawing it from my pocket, I see that it is Merrill.
“Mark two more off your list,” he says, and gives me two more names from our missing persons list.
“Mark them dead or alive?”
“Alive,” he says. “If not particularly well. One was in the shelter in Honeyville and the other at an aunt’s in Campbleton. Neither knew anyone would be lookin’ for them or even notice they were gone.”
“That part’s sad, but I’m glad they’re alive.”
“Not sure they are,” he says. “Neither got a home or job to go back to.”
That’s the plight of probably nearly a third of our population right now.
“Speaking of being unhappy . . .” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me Randa was out and staying here?”
Merrill had been guarding Daniel and his wife Sam when Randa kidnapped him, and he had never forgiven himself or Randa.
The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Page 15
