When she dismissed the class, everyone scattered more quickly than at quitting time, and I walked up to where she was gathering her things.
“Hey, Chaplain,” she said. “How’re you?”
“Good, thanks,” I said. “I enjoyed your presentation.
Very informative. But I was surprised you didn’t mention the suicide we had here last night.”
She nodded as if she could see why I would wonder that. “I felt that it was too soon. And the truth is, we don’t know enough about it yet. Perhaps with some time and distance . . . healing and objectivity will allow me to use it as an example, but that’s a good question.”
I wondered if she was going to pat me on the head. “Was Jacobs undergoing psychological care?”
“Some,” she said. “He tested well and didn’t seem to be much of a threat to himself or anyone else. Sometimes that’s the best we can do. It’s a mystery. Death always is.
Anyway, there will be a psychological autopsy to determine what happened and why . . . see if there was anything else we could’ve done. I doubt they’ll find anything. I saw him as often as I could—more often than his case required.”
A psychological autopsy is a procedure for investigating an inmate’s death by reconstructing as much as possible what the person thought, felt, and did prior to taking his life. The reconstruction is based on information gathered from classification, medical, and psych documents, the institutional inspector’s report, the ME’s report, and interviews with staff and inmates who had contact with him leading up to his death.
“Did you see him last night before he died?” I asked. She shook her head. “I don’t believe I did.”
“You sure?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory. “You were down in his dorm, weren’t you?”
She looked up, seeming to concentrate all her mental energies on remembering. “That’s right. I was called in for an emergency. And I did go to A-dorm, but I didn’t see Danny.”
“You didn’t?”
“I mean, I may have seen him, but I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t see him as in having an appointment with him or anything. Now that you mention it, I did see him talking with Jamie Lee. Seemed fine at the time.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
Tears filled her eyes. “We let him down. Just like his family and society, we failed him. His blood’s on our hands.”
Her maudlin sentiments came across as inauthentic, even spurious. Was she merely saying what she thought she should or trying to cover up something far more sinister than insincerity?
After leaving training, I searched the institution unsuccessfully for Donnie Foster, the sergeant on duty in A-dorm the night Jacobs was killed.
When I called his home, his wife said he couldn’t come to the phone. I left my number, though I knew he wouldn’t call.
“He ain’t done nothin’,” his wife said.
“I just need to ask him some questions.”
“What you need to do is leave him alone.”
20
After work I stopped by the courthouse.
Because there was a county commissioners meeting later in the evening, I might just be able to talk to several of the men from the farmhouse the night of the party, including Don Stockton, Ralph Long, Andrew Sullivan, Richard Cox, and Dad.
Built in the 70s, the Potter County Courthouse was bright and boxy, with light wood-paneled walls and white tile floors with black and brown and gold specks in them.
A 70s-style staircase behind which was a fountain that no longer worked rose out of the lobby, leading to the second-floor courtroom.
The square box of a building had four equal hallways with offices off each side, and the sheriff ’s department and jail were located directly behind it in another, smaller square box.
I stopped by the property appraiser’s office first.
I probably suspected Ralph Long as little as anyone. Not only was he harmless and effeminate with no interest in girls, but I doubted he had enough testosterone in his body required to beat someone to death.
“I was shocked to hear about that girl gettin’ killed,” he said. “Just couldn’t believe it. And then somebody said her body was stolen out of the hearse. That’s crazy.”
“Did you see her?” I asked.
“When?”
I was a little surprised by his question. “I meant that night, but anytime.”
“You know, I think I did but I can’t remember where. You know how your mind plays tricks on you. Memory’s a funny thing. I thought I saw a glimpse of her in the house when I went to pee but I also think I remember seeing her outside as I was leaving. May not have been her. May not have been anyone. There wasn’t much moon. Thought I saw her across the field a ways. Seemed to be stumbling. Thought she was drunk. What if she was injured?”
“Which direction was she headed in?”
“Toward the woods I think.”
“Any idea what time it was?”
“Sorry man, I don’t. Don’t even know if I really saw it. She couldn’t’ve been in the house and outside at the same time.”
“It wasn’t different times?”
“Well, not really. I went and peed and then left. Don’t think she could’ve gotten across the field by then. Let alone gotten beaten up.”
“Unless,” I said, “it happened while she was in the house.”
I made my way up the stairs and into the judge’s chambers next.
Judge Cox was preparing to leave for the day but agreed to stay and talk to me––though not before asking me to close the door.
“I have to be so careful,” he said. “And not just because of my position but my convictions. I do my very best to be an example of integrity and honesty, to truly live above reproach. Sometimes I’m too careful. This was one of those times. I could’ve driven. I wasn’t drunk, wasn’t even over the limit, but I rarely drink and I didn’t want to take even the slightest chance that I was even close to the limit, so I called my kids. I wish I would’ve never even gone into the little farmhouse to wait. I wish my name wasn’t even associated with any of this. Even so, I was long gone before any of it happened. Diane and Richie drove back out to get me. I felt bad. They hadn’t been home long after takin’ you, but . . .”
“Did you see her at any point?” I asked. “Who?”
“The blonde girl who was killed.”
He shook his head. “Don’t think so. Did catch a glimpse of a girl in the back of the farmhouse but don’t think she was blonde. I was sitting in the front room and it was hard to see. And it was only a short while before the kids came to collect me and my car. We were home before the late local news was off.”
“Notice anything out of the ordinary? Anyone acting suspicious? Anything at all?”
He started shaking his head but stopped. “It’s probably nothin’. And if none of this would’ve happened, I would’ve probably never thought of it again. As we were leaving, Diane’s lights swept across the field and I saw Commissioner Stockton walking toward the woods. It’s probably nothing and I’m not accusing him of anything. It’s just . . . he had just been inside and to then to stumble out of the house and to be walking funny across the field toward nothin’.”
“Not nothin’,” I said. “The woods.”
I found Don Stockton in the hallway heading toward the county commissioner’s room.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, pardner,” he said as if I were his best buddy. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m tryin’ to figure out what happened to the girl who was killed at Potter Farm and wondered if you had any ideas.”
“Ideas? About what?”
“Who may’ve done it and why? Did you know her?”
“I never even saw her,” he said. “Give me a name at least and I’ll try to come up with somethin’, but as it is . . . ’fraid I can’t help you.”
“Anybody acting out of the ordinary? Suspicious?
Upset?”
&n
bsp; “Not that I noticed . . . but wasn’t really on the lookout for that sort of thing, you know? I’s too busy takin’ your brother’s money.”
“How much is he into you for?”
“We’re square,” he said. “He owes me nothin’.”
“What were you doin’ when you weren’t doin’ that?”
I asked.
“That’s about all I did,” he said. “Winnin’ that kind of money takes more’n a minute or two.”
“But when you weren’t at the table taking Jake’s money, where’d you go and who’d you see?”
“Guess I got up to piss a time or two. Don’t remember seein’ much of nobody.”
“Do you remember anybody leaving the house for a long period of time and coming back?”
“Didn’t really notice, John, but even if I had, I don’t think any of ’em are capable of killin’ anybody––even a hooker––so I wouldn’t point a finger of suspicion at ’em.”
“Why do you think someone stole the body?” I asked.
“Reckon he wasn’t finished with her,” he said.
After leaving the courthouse, I walked over to the sheriff ’s department to discover that Andrew Sullivan was off duty, but Dad was in his office.
“Was hoping to talk to Sullivan,” I said.
“Really? Why?”
“He was one of the ones at the after-party,” I said. “And one of the few, according to Jake, who left long enough to have committed the murder and moved the body.”
“I’ll set up a time for us to talk to him.”
“How long were you in there?”
“Where?”
“The farmhouse.”
He shrugged. “Not too long. Shook a few hands. Said some thank yous. You suspect me?”
I shook my head. “Did you see the victim at any point?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I was just waiting for the right time to mention it. No I didn’t see her. I didn’t see anything suspicious. I would’ve already said something if I had.”
“Who was in there when you were?”
“Jake, Stockton, Andrew, Potter, and Felix were already playin’ cards. If the girls were there they must’ve been in the back. I never saw any of them. Ralph Long was in there running his mouth a mile a minute but nobody was listening. The judge came in and sat for a while but not long. He left before I did. I don’t remember anybody else but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Wasn’t payin’ too close attention. And I was exhausted.”
“Nothing on the body yet?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in all my time in law enforcement. It’s just gone. Have you had any ideas where it might be?”
“Not any you haven’t,” I said. “Put out a description to all agencies in the area. Check all the hospitals and morgues for Jane Does. Beyond that, I’m at a loss.”
“Had any more thoughts on why the body was stolen?” he asked.
“See previous answer,” I said. “None you haven’t.”
I then told him about some of the ideas that had occurred to me earlier in the afternoon as I was walking on the compound.
“The hell you say,” he said. “That’s several I didn’t.
Necrophilia never crossed my mind, you sick bastard.”
21
Later that night I drove.
As Anna and much of the world slept, I ran the roads.
I had too much on my mind, too many things to process, and I felt a restlessness I knew driving Anna’s car would soothe.
Anna’s car was a nearly new Mustang GT—another reason I was jonesin’ to drive.
I was still driving a loaner, a tricked-out black 1985 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS seized by the Potter County Sheriff ’s Department in a big drug bust. Dad had been letting me use it since I wrecked my truck while in pursuit of an escaped inmate.
The Monte Carlo, which had T-tops, pinstriping, a six-inch lift kit, twenty-six-inch chrome rims, illegally dark tinted windows, and a loud dual exhaust, was about as inconspicuous as Liberace at the First Baptist Church’s annual children’s piano recital, and I was sick of it.
Before I left, I created a new playlist for my ipod that fit my dark disposition, which included some Joan Osborne, Emmylou Harris, Jann Arden, and several covers of “Losing My Religion,”
“Ain’t No Sunshine,”
“Paint it Black,” and “California Dreaming.”
The GT had a kickass sound system and I planned to take advantage of it.
As soon as I was on the dark rural highway leading out of Pottersville, I cranked the volume and opened her up, the haunting, mournful sounds of Emmylou Harris’s “Wrecking Ball” a pitch-perfect match for my melancholic mood.
The leather seats seemed to mold to me, holding me in the cockpit-like interior of the iconic car. It’d been a while since I’d driven a powerful automobile, and I’d forgotten just how much fun it could be—especially when equipped with a stick.
The night was dark, only a shadowed rim of moon in a black, starless sky. A low-lying fog hovered just above the highway, the headlights of the GT piercing it, the beams followed hard by the racing pony behind them.
My mind roamed freely.
Anna, love, happiness, the attempt on Lance Phillips, the deaths of Danny Jacobs and the girl at Potter Farm, the cold-case cards, Susan, Chris, Matson, the body propped on the prison fence, Atlanta, always Atlanta, Mom contemplating taking her own life––all shuffling around randomly, then, suddenly, raining down on the green-top table like a deck that got away from the dealer.
I had lost many battles to the noonday demon of depression, but never the war. Never, not even at my lowest, wanted to kill myself. It hadn’t ever even really crossed my mind, at least not in any kind of serious way.
Eventually I reached highway 98 and turned east, heading down the coast.
For a while I tried to figure out the significance of the cards left by the killer, but eventually gave it up and let my mind wander again.
Arbitrary bits bouncing around my brain.
Atlanta. Wayne Williams. LaMarcus. Martin. Jordan.
Stone Mountain. The Stone Cold Killer.
PCI. Molly. Nicole. Tom Daniels. Laura Mathers.
Justin Menge.
From a now obscure religion class––Confucius teaches there are three ways to learn wisdom: observation, which is noblest; imitation, which is easiest; and experience, which is bitterest.
Paul Tillich’s God above God, what I would call God beyond God. The remembered pleasure of first reading Hemingway and Shakespeare and Graham Greene.
When lights from the city could only be seen in my rearview, I turned off the music and rolled down the windows to listen to the music of the night.
The wind whipped in and out and around the car.
Gulf to my right, slash pine forest to my left, empty road ahead. Waves rolling in and out. Rubber tires on damp asphalt.
Alone.
I found it interesting that at every empty convenience store I passed, the solitary clerks were outside—standing or sitting, smoking or not—all staring off into the distance of the lonely night. Was that which drove them out of the overly lit stores into the dark nights the same thing driving me down the fog-covered highway?
When I reached Port St. Joe, I rode by Cheryl Jacobs’s house on Monument Avenue. Not sure why exactly. Was this where I was unconsciously headed all along?
Her house was a small, square red brick box of a dwelling on a large grass lot absent any landscaping.
To my surprise, no cars filled her driveway or lined her front yard, and through the huge bay window front, I could see she was alone, pacing around, a glass of wine in her hand.
I parked next to the curb in front of her house, pulled out my phone, and tapped in her number.
“It’s John Jordan. Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“How’d you know I’m—Where are you?”
“Out front.”
“What’re you doin’ here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come in.”
22
The little light above her front door came on.
I got out of the car and walked up to find her standing in the now open doorway. She was younger than I expected, and pretty, but she looked as if she had packed a lot of living in her short life.
Merrill always said, it’s not the age, but the mileage.
As was usually the case, he was right.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said.
“Me either. I was out driving. Wound up here. When I saw you were alone, I called.”
“I’m glad you did. Come in.”
I followed her into the small, simply decorated house. It was quiet—too quiet, and perfectly still.
Standing on old but clean carpet, we were surrounded by pictures of Danny hanging from the thin, blond paneling—Danny’s various yearbook pictures, Danny in his football uniform, Danny and date leaving for the prom, Danny and his mother, portraits and snapshots of a life lived largely together.
Through an opening above a bar top, I could see her kitchen was empty—no boxes of fried chicken and biscuits, no trays of sandwiches, no Tupperware containers of baked goods, no aluminum pie plates with half-eaten apple and pecan and peach pies in them—nothing a grieving house in the South should have.
“Why are you alone?”
“There are people,” she said. “They would come.” I started to say something, then decided to wait.
Beyond a hint of hardness etched on her face, her eyes shone kind and intelligent, and, of course, sad. So very sad.
“I got pregnant at sixteen,” she said. “Kid with a kid. Paid a hell of a price around here for that. Little slut. Single mom. But I got through it. Went to college.
Eventually both Danny and I were accepted. But when he got in trouble, it started all over again, and I just couldn’t . . . Everyone acted like he was dead when he went to prison . . . That’s when he died for them. No need to tell them now. I’m alone in this tonight because I’ve been alone in this since he went to prison. Nobody’s here because I didn’t tell anybody.”
Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Page 29
