Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon

by Michael Lister

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Far worse than you think,” she said. “Try living this year without his . . . ah . . . assistance, and let me know how that works out for you.”

  “Dir?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You called her Dir.”

  “Oh. Started as Dirty Diana back when the song came out. Then Dirty and eventually Dir.”

  “It true you’re beddin’ Anna Rodden?” Diane asked.

  “Dir,” Richie scolded.

  “What?”

  “They haven’t invented a word for what we’re doing,” I said, “but beddin’ doesn’t even begin it.”

  “Oh my,” she said. “A romantic.”

  “And then some,” Richie said. “Lucky girl,” she said.

  “I’m the lucky one.”

  “That you think that makes her a very lucky girl.”

  “Dirty Diana thinks you’re a very lucky girl to be bedded by me,” I said.

  I found Anna asleep on the couch, braless in a soft T-shirt and yoga pants, one of my old theology books resting on her breasts.

  “I am,” she said.

  She slid over toward the back cushions and I sat down next to her, hugging and kissing her as I did.

  “I missed you,” I said.

  “Was it torturous?”

  I nodded. “Pretty damn bad.”

  “Who’s Dirty Diana? Thought no women were allowed.”

  “Judge Cox’s daughter. She picked up Richie and they gave me a ride.”

  “I hope she said it in front of him. Me not even divorced yet and pregnant with another man’s child. It’d give him conniptions.”

  “Still wouldn’t be as bad as if you were a dude,” I said, “but sadly, no. She didn’t say it in front of him.”

  “How does she know we’re beddin’ one another?”

  “Apparently, everyone does.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “That I was the lucky one.”

  “Such a good, sweet man. I’m the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve waited to be with you?” I asked.

  “I do. Same as I’ve waited to be with you. Forever.” I touched her cheek.

  “Sorry about this place,” I said, looking around at my old trailer. “Didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten until you moved in.”

  “There’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.”

  “We’ll find a place soon.”

  “No rush. Really. I’ve never been happier anywhere.”

  “We’ll look some more after work tomorrow.”

  I was sleeping very soundly when the call came. And dreaming.

  I was dreaming of being trapped in an airplane submerged in the sea. I was trying to make my way up to where Anna was, but the people between us were panicking and the floating debris was so thick, I couldn’t get to her.

  I startled awake, my heart pounding, but began to settle down the moment I reached over and felt Anna there in the bed beside me, her skin smooth and warm.

  “Hello.”

  “Chaplain?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Sergeant Sterzoy from the control room. Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve got a . . . we’ve got something . . . a situation. I know the warden wouldn’t want me to call you so please don’t let him know I did, but . . .”

  “I won’t,” I said. “What is it?”

  “A young woman,” he said. “Trying to break in to the prison. Well, I mean she was. She’s . . . she’s dead now.”

  “Trying to break in?” I said. “Is that how she got killed?”

  “No, sir. We found her that way. She was already dead. And your card was in her pocket.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  5

  As I drove to the institution, I thought about who the victim could be and why she would be trying to break in to the prison.

  I gave a lot of my cards out––especially to the families of inmates. Was it one of them trying to get in to see their boyfriend or husband or son? Probably not the last, since Sterzoy called her a young woman, but I couldn’t rule it out.

  My phone rang again as I neared the institution. It was Dad.

  “Sorry to call so late but we’ve got a situation at the prison,” he said. “Can you meet me out here?”

  “I’m pulling up now.”

  I parked in the mostly empty lot in front of the admin building, and when I rounded the corner in front of the main gate and control room, Dad was waiting for me.

  “Who called you?” Dad asked.

  “As far as the warden knows, you did,” I said. He nodded.

  I got into his truck and we rode around the perimeter of the prison toward the flashing lights flickering in the darkness in the distance.

  The entire prison was surrounded by an asphalt road used by a roving perimeter patrol. We were driving on it down the east side of the institution.

  When we reached the scene, Dad pulled up at an angle and shined his lights on the area, adding them to the deputy’s car and prison patrol vehicle already doing the same.

  Though the light was uneven and dim and the deputy’s flashers hindered instead of helped visibility, they provided enough illumination to show a white woman in her midtwenties standing stiffly in front of the fence, her body leaning forward at an odd angle, only her face actually touching the chain link.

  I could see well enough to identify the victim and determine she had been placed here after she died.

  “Chaplain, Sheriff,” Officer Barber said by way of greeting.

  He was a young CO with puffy, acne-scarred cheeks and a brown buzz cut. His brown uniform hung loosely on his narrow frame.

  The night was cooler than before, a brisk breeze biting at our faces and waving ever so slightly the chain link and razor wire.

  “Any idea who she is or how she got here?” Dad asked.

  “No sir. I was makin’ my rounds and there she was. I had passed by no more than twenty minutes before and she wasn’t there. She was just standing there. Leaning really, I guess. Not moving. I radioed the control room. I was surprised her touching the fence didn’t alert them already anyway.”

  “And she was just like this?” Dad said. “Hasn’t moved?”

  “Hasn’t moved so much as a millimeter. The only thing I’ve done was feel for a pulse and search her for identification. All she had was the chaplain’s card, a couple of condoms, and four hundred-dollar bills in that little purse across her shoulder.”

  The prison was situated on hundreds of acres of clear, open land. It extended behind us for some two hundred yards to a pine tree forest, a mile or so beyond which was Potter Farm.

  The silver sliver of moon was higher now, its faint, fog-muted beam still streaking the charcoal sky.

  Dad turned to me. “You recognize her?”

  I nodded. “She was at Potter Farm tonight,” I said. “Down by the lake, waiting for the political part of the party to end and the crowd to scatter. Said she was there for the after-party.”

  Dad shook his head. “God almighty. That’s all we need.”

  “I have no idea who she is,” I said. “I just spoke to her briefly. Offered her a ride and gave her my card in case she got into anything out there she needed help with.”

  “It’s almost as if she was trying to climb in to get to you,” Barber said.

  Dad looked at the deputy, who had yet to say a word. “Where’s Jake?”

  “Still at the farm, as far as I know.” Dad shook his head.

  “Was playing poker the last time I saw him,” the deputy added.

  “Them and that goddamn after-party,” Dad said. “Gonna cost me the goddamn election. Radio and tell him to keep everybody there and you go help him do just that. I’ll be over there just as soon as I can.”

  The deputy left––and with him part of the illumination and all of the annoying blue strobing.

  “I called FDLE as soon as I got w
ord,” Dad said.

  “Crime scene unit should be here within the hour.” I nodded.

  “Warden and inspector are on their way,” Barber said.

  Dad and I stepped closer to the young woman. She had on the same TV prostitute clothes that I had glimpsed her in earlier in the evening––a shimmering sequined top with spaghetti straps, a bottom of the butt-cheeks bedazzled blue jeans skirt, and candy-apple-red peep-toe pumps.

  Her body was stiff with rigor and showed signs of fixed lividity from where it had lain after she was killed but before she was moved.

  Her pose was both creepy and surreal, standing death-still with her head against the fence like a devotee praying at the wailing wall.

  Kneeling down on the ground beside her and looking up, I could see the wounds, the cuts and scrapes and bruises, of her bloodied face. Given those and the general swelling of her misshapen head, I’d guess she was beaten to death, her unnatural and untimely demise caused by blunt force trauma.

  “Somebody beat the living shit out of her,” Dad said.

  I nodded.

  “Why bring her here?” he said. “She couldn’t’ve made it on her own, could she?”

  I shook my head. “She was moved after she died.”

  “Why here?”

  “Potter Farm is right through there,” I said, pointing to the woods beyond the field behind us.

  The warden’s car screeched to a stop on the road behind Dad’s truck, and Bat Matson and the institutional inspector jumped out.

  Matson’s fleshy face was red and even more puffy than usual, his jowls bobbing as he bounced in our direction. Instead of swooping to the side, his thick gray hair stood on end, waving in the wind.

  “Just what in the hell is goin’ on here?” he said. “And why is the warden the last one to arrive at a crime scene in his prison?”

  Barber tried to explain and placate as best he could, but Matson would have none of it.

  “And just what the hell is the chaplain doing here? You’re not needed. I have no idea why you’re here, unless you’re disobeying a direct order of mine, but you need to go home. Be in my office first thing in the morning.”

  “Whoa now,” Dad said. “Wait just a damn minute. He’s here as a witness. Not a chaplain. His card was the only thing found on the victim. He spoke to her earlier tonight.”

  “But––”

  “He’s here because the chief law enforcement officer of the county asked him to be.”

  “I don’t like this, not one bit,” Matson said. “I’m in charge of my own damn institution, by God.”

  “Nobody said you weren’t, but this is a murder investigation and I’m in charge of it.”

  “Actually, Sheriff, the IG of the Department of Corrections is in charge of all investigations at the institutions.”

  “I’ve worked with the IG several times before,” Dad said, “and have no problem when he’s the lead investigator when he has jurisdiction, but jurisdiction is established by where the crime took place, not where the body is found. She was clearly killed somewhere else and placed here. I have jurisdiction and this is my investigation. Understand?”

  Matson took a moment to settle himself down a bit.

  “Very well then,” he said. “Okay, what have we got?” Dad told him––with a little help from Barber. The interim institutional inspector, Mark Lawson, a thick, heavily tattooed twenty-six-year-old who was little more than Matson’s puppet, never uttered a word.

  “So we have no idea who she is or why she’s leaning against my fence?”

  “Not yet. But we will. And soon too. As soon as FDLE gets here and we process the scene, we’re going to interview the last people to see her alive.”

  “We?” Matson said beneath raised eyebrows and challenging eyes.

  “Yes,” Dad said. “My department.”

  “Do you have any idea why the killer would bring her here or pose her body like that?” Dad asked me.

  We were standing back from the scene a bit, just the two of us, waiting on FDLE to arrive. Matson was down the way busy calling the inspector general and the secretary of the department to report what had happened. The institutional inspector was busy watching.

  Mention of the IG inevitably led to thoughts of my ex-father-in-law, Tom Daniels, and his daughter, my ex-wife Susan, and the unfinished business I still had with both of them.

  “I honestly can’t come up with anything,” I said. “Is it random or does it carry some kind of significance for the killer?” he said.

  “No way to know,” I said. “But since it’s not apparent to us, if it does have meaning it must be only to him.”

  “She had to meet whoever killed her at our party,” he said.

  “Most likely.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  We were quiet a moment, which only pronounced Matson’s conversation and amplified his voice.

  “Wonder if it’s political?” Dad said. “Meant to embarrass me and make me lose the election.”

  It was as irrational as it was extreme, and it reminded me of the blind spot and touch of paranoia he had when it came to politics in general and his job in particular.

  I shook my head. “Guess we can’t rule it out, but I can’t imagine anyone doing something so extreme given the stakes and situation.”

  “Well, it’s what’s going to happen whether it was intended or not.”

  “Maybe we can prevent that from happening,” I said.

  We fell silent again and this time there was only the sad, lonely sound of the wind.

  Finally, FDLE arrived and began to process the scene.

  There wasn’t much to it so it didn’t take long.

  When they were finished, the lead tech, a diminutive man named Denis, came over and gave Dad a preliminary report.

  “I’m sure you already know everything I’m gonna say. This wasn’t where the victim was killed. The body was moved here after death. We’ll come back in the morning when there’s light, but so far we’ve found nothing––no usable footprints or tire tracks.”

  “When you do come back,” Dad said, “let’s expand the search for evidence to include this field and the woods over there. We have reason to believe the killer may have come through there. Coordinate with my office and I’ll provide some deputies to help with the search.”

  “Will do. Sorry I don’t have more for you . . .”

  Robin Rouse walked up and joined our little group as Kent Clark Funeral Home loaded the body into the back of a hearse to take it to the ME’s office in Panama City to await an autopsy.

  Robin, a tall, thin, midforties African-American woman with short, thick black hair and a smallish head, was an investigator with the medical examiner’s office. She spoke very softly and we all leaned in as she talked.

  “Can’t tell you much until the autopsy is complete,” she said. “And anything I say is subject to change . . . but I’d say the victim died of blunt force trauma to the head. She was dead a while before her body was moved here. Rigor mortis had set in, which is how she was able to be propped up against the fence the way she was. Fixed lividity shows the victim lay on her back for a while after she was murdered and before being transported here.”

  “Any idea how long she’s been dead?” Dad asked.

  Robin shook her small head. “I could only guess.”

  “Would you?”

  “For the body to be stiff enough to be propped up against the fence like that, rigor mortis has to be set in. In normal conditions that can take up to twelve hours. Certain things can speed it up or slow it down.”

  I looked at the clock on my phone. It was nearly six. “I saw her at a little before nine,” I said.

  “So then it was probably sped up by heat, exertion, or drugs,” she said, “but I’d still guess it happened pretty soon after you saw her.”

  “If she ran from her killer,” I said, “and fought with him . . .”

  “Then rigor would set in sooner,” Robin said, “and the bo
dy would be stiff enough to prop against the fence.”

  6

  The first hints of dawn showed at the edges of the horizon in a nearly imperceptible softening of the darkness.

  Potter Farm looked to be sleeping it off. Trash strewn about.

  Beer cans. Whiskey bottles. Paper plates. Everything abandoned.

  Empty white event tents. White plastic tables and chairs, some overturned, no one sitting, no one eating, no one present. The party over.

  Every surface cold and wet from the night dew.

  A handful of cars scattered throughout the large pastures where a few hours before there had been hundreds.

  The thick, damp air still tinged with the smell of smoke and charcoal and grilled meat.

  In the farmhouse, we found Jake, Ronald Potter, Felix Maxwell, Don Stockton, and Hugh Glenn sitting around a green felt-covered poker table, smoking cigars and playing cards.

  The deputy Dad had sent over was standing awkwardly in the corner.

  “You’re playing with him?” Dad asked, nodding at Hugh Glenn.

  “He’s taking all my money,” Glenn said. “Hell, I’m now financing your campaign.”

  “Why didn’t you want us to leave, Jack?” Don Stockton asked.

  He was a corrupt county commissioner with a district so gerrymandered with family and friends, people he’d bought and bribed and traded favors with, he never had any serious threat to his seat.

  “I just need to talk to y’all,” Dad said. “Who else is here?”

  “May be a girl or two in the rooms,” Stockton said.

  “Andrew, Jake, go through the rooms,” Dad said. “I want everyone together in this main room right now.” Evidently the deputy’s name is Andrew.

  Within a few minutes, Jake and Andrew had returned with two young women who looked underage and were barely able to walk, and three more men––one old, one middle-aged, one in his thirties––all half asleep and hungover.

  Both the girls and the men looked vaguely familiar, but only in the small town-bearing-a-family-resemblance kind of way.

  “That everybody?” Jake nodded.

  “Who else has been here?”