Blood Betrayal (John Jordan Mysteries Book 14)

by Michael Lister

  We might still be able to determine exactly what, if any, her involvement was, but we won’t be able to do it through her.

  “You know how the cops first go on Qwon and narrowed in on him so fast?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Anonymous tip,” he says. “Call came in early on in the investigation. Hell, she’d only been missing a few days, still weeks before her car was found, but someone called and said Qwon did it. They were looking at him anyway, boyfriend and all, but once they got that call . . . don’t think they looked at anyone else.”

  I nod and think about it as I dry some excess water left in the cups and place them in the cabinet.

  “You domesticated as fuck now, aren’t you?” he says.

  I smile the smile of a truly happily married man.

  Which is exactly what I am, even though we haven’t made it official yet. I’ve proposed and she accepted, but with my dad being sick and dealing with the girls and life and cases and Daniel going missing and Sam moving in with us, that’s all that’s happened so far. I’ve been looking at rings and we’ve discussed some possible dates, but haven’t settled on either yet.

  He shakes his head. “You hatin’ this briar patch you been thrown in, ain’t you?”

  “With a passion.”

  “Been thinkin’ ’bout seein’ if Za and I can find one to jump into together,” he says.

  “One what?” Anna asks, walking in and placing the baby monitor on the counter beside the stove.

  “Whatever this is you and John have mired yourselves in.”

  “Don’t wait. Do it as soon as you can.”

  She begins to pull out a few pots and pans, attempting to do it as quietly as possible.

  “That’s what I was about to say.”

  “Maybe I keep bringin’ her ’round y’all, the idea’ll occur to her,” he says.

  “Bet it already has,” Anna says. “What time will she be here?”

  “Half an hour or so,” he says. “Time enough for us to solve this case.”

  “I have some thoughts to share on that too,” Anna says. “What did I miss while I was putting Taylor down?”

  He tells her.

  “Any idea who this anonymous tipster was?” she asks.

  “I just might,” he says. “Did I mention there was a Crime Stoppers reward? Angel’s family and friends raised money and donated it to Crime Stoppers and . . . wait for it . . . there was a payout.”

  “Do we know how much, when, and to whom?” Anna says.

  “The who is all anonymous and shit,” he says, “but the when and how much ain’t. And guess what? The when and the how much may just tell us the who. The way it’s supposed to work is the anonymous tipster receives a cash reward when there is an arrest or grand jury indictment of a felony offender.”

  “So when Qwon was arrested . . .” Anna says.

  “Supposed to have been then, but it wasn’t. Angel went missing on January 16, 1999. The anonymous tip came in on the following Tuesday, the day after MLK day, January 19th. Angel’s car was found on February 15th. Qwon was arrested on February 20th, but the Crime Stoppers payout didn’t take place until . . . June of . . . 2000.”

  “A year and a half later?” Anna says.

  “Almost.”

  “Why?”

  “The only explanation I can come up with,” Merrill says, “is . . . that’s around the time Justice Witney was released from prison for the little hand slap he received for helping Qwon destroy Angel’s body, aiding and abetting a felon, and obstructing justice.”

  “He was the anonymous tipster?” Anna says, her voice rising several steps.

  “I think so.”

  “It fits,” I say. “Makes a certain sense.”

  “That’s the problem with giving cash rewards for anonymous tips,” Anna says. “I see the need for it, but it almost causes more trouble than it’s worth. It’s supposed to protect witnesses from retaliation, which is needed—especially in areas with gangs and organized crime—but it’s abused all the time. Used by cops to pay their informants. Used by other criminals to direct suspicion at an enemy or just make a little blood money. There have been multiple cases where not only was the tipster lying but the cops actually got him to falsely confess to being part of the crime. Innocent people, including the tipsters themselves, have done decades in prison only to be later exonerated by DNA.”

  “It can be extremely helpful in an investigation,” I say, “but it’s a system rife with abuse.”

  “If it’s true Justice was the tipster,” Anna says, “then Qwon will almost certainly get a new trial.”

  “Why’s that?” Merrill says.

  “The defense and court and jury never knew about it,” she says. “You can’t have a witness benefiting financially like that and not disclose it to the court. They got around it by not having him claim the reward until a year and a half later. It’s possible the cops didn’t even tell the prosecution who the tipster was so he could get away with not disclosing it, keep him from committing a Brady violation.”

  “What’s a Brady violation?” Merrill asks.

  “The Brady doctrine deals with pretrial discovery,” she says. “Comes from Brady v. Maryland back in . . . 1963 I believe. Supreme Court ruled that the prosecution is required to turn over all exculpatory evidence, anything impeachable, to the defendant in a criminal case before the trial starts.”

  “Exculpatory?” Merrill says.

  “Evidence that might exonerate the defendant,” she says. “Such as your star witness is getting a reward for his testimony, or DNA or fingerprints not belonging to the defendant was found at the crime scene, or a witness came forward and claimed the defendant was with him. Evidence that might exonerate a defendant or be used to impeach other witnesses or evidence. It all has to be turned over pretrial. If it’s not, it’s grounds for a new trial.”

  “But finding proof it was him . . .” Merrill says.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Will be next to impossible.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to,” I say. “Maybe we just prove he did it and lied about Qwon being involved . . . which more and more is what it’s looking like.”

  21

  When Zaire Bell, Merrill’s M.D. main squeeze, arrives, Merrill and I are on the back patio grilling steaks and Anna is making a salad in the kitchen.

  She’s a tall, fit but thick in all the right places, forty-something African-American woman with smooth skin the color of caramelized sugar, intelligent, dark eyes that shimmer as if she’s seeing things no one else is, large, luscious brown lips, and wavy, natural hair that extends some six inches from her head.

  After talking to Anna for a moment, she steps out onto the patio.

  She is brilliant and beautiful and seems perfect for Merrill. I’m grateful for Sacred Heart Hospital bringing her up here from Miami and couldn’t be happier for them.

  “Smells so good,” she says. “Times like these I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian.”

  I spin around to look at her, my eyes wide, but she has a huge smile on her face.

  She and Merrill start laughing.

  “She’s just fuckin’ with you,” he says. “This girl loves meat—and lots of it.”

  I can tell he’s talking about her actual eating habits—I’ve never heard him make a comment like that about anyone he’s dating—but she thinks he means it as a double entendre and turns and punches him.

  “Damn,” he says. “All that red meat in her diet makes her hostile and aggressive.”

  “I’m gonna take this hostility and aggression into the kitchen and channel it toward helping Anna.”

  She and Merrill kiss again and she is gone.

  I lift the lid on the grill and flip the steaks.

  “You worried about the bullshit the State’s attorney’s gonna do?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Don’t look forward to it, but . . . it’s nothing compared to us having to deal with Chris.”

  “Can’t believe that
bastard’s gettin’ out.”

  I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

  Eventually I say, “Did you come across the name Zelda Sager in any of the Angel Diaz case notes?”

  He shakes his head. “Who’s she?”

  “Qwon’s ex-girlfriend. Darius said she was crazy and crazy obsessed. Just wondered if the police ever even talked to her.”

  I pull the steaks off the grill and we head inside.

  “Cops didn’t talk to much of anybody,” he says as he closes the door behind us. Not PCPD or Bay County Sheriff. Early on—I mean very early on they liked Qwon for it and . . .”

  “What’s not to like?” Za says. “Black guy. Dating a white girl. Only thing surprising is he’s not on death row.”

  A small wood fire in the fire place crackles and hisses, and the room is warm. Sam opens her eyes drowsily. Merrill smiles at her and touches her hand.

  Everything else is waiting on the table. I place the steaks down in the center and the four of us sit down to eat.

  Sam is back asleep. She had another surgery recently and is sleeping a lot more these days. A small stereo on the table next to her bed plays soothing music with nature sounds that helps calm and comfort her. The volume is very low and barely audible in the dining area.

  Next to the stereo on the bedside table is a picture of Daniel. We hesitated to put it there. We’re still not sure if he was abducted or chose to leave and stay gone on his own. But Sam’s not aware of any of that—or even that he’s missing—so we decided the comfort she’d receive from having it there outweighed any damage or eventual undoing of anything if Daniel is found dead or decides never to return.

  “This is so good,” Za says. “Thanks for having us over—and for cooking this great food.” She glances at Sam. “I don’t see how you do it all. We should be havin’ y’all over.”

  “I’ll tell you how she does it all,” I say. “And with such grace. She’s a truly extraordinary woman.”

  “She is that,” Za says.

  “That’s very sweet,” Anna says, “but let’s change the subject.” She looks at Merrill. “After reading the case file, do you still think Qwon’s guilty?”

  He shrugs. “More I see . . . more I think he might be . . . innocent. It was a sloppy, narrowly focused investigation, a weak defense at trial, and . . . this guy Justice . . . By my count he’s told six different stories, changes his statement six different times.”

  Anna and I nod.

  Za says, “But doesn’t that usually mean someone is telling the truth? I thought if a statement was exactly the same every time it was because it was memorized and not true.”

  “You might expect some things to be mentioned one time and not another—like memory issues,” Merrill says, “or maybe for him to be willing to reveal more as he went along, but his story actually changes. The statements actually contradict each other. And not only on little shit either.”

  “I’ve read them too,” Anna says. “And I agree. He’s lying. Some experts think the first statement is generally the most true, but he says next to nothing the first time.”

  “And the investigators are leading him every time,” I say.

  Merrill says, “You notice the times he was logged at the station versus when they started recording the interviews?”

  I nod.

  “What?” Za asks.

  “Each time he was there a couple of hours or more before they started recording the interview,” Merrill says.

  “Coaching him on what to say,” Anna adds.

  “Oh.”

  “In the interviews you can tell when he forgets to say something they told him to be sure to include,” Merrill says. “They’ll remind him, say some shit like ‘I thought you said previously . . .’ then he apologizes and adds it in.”

  “It’s like it took them six times to get the statement they wanted,” Anna says. “Kept massaging it, editing, rehearsing, coaching, leading.”

  Merrill nods. “That’s the single biggest reason I think Qwon might be innocent. That and the witness statements that say he was downtown with them the whole time.”

  “Yeah,” Anna says, “you’d expect his sister and best friend to lie for him, but not the entire group and not for eighteen years.”

  “And didn’t you say they all passed polygraphs?” Za says.

  Merrill nods. “Just like Qwon.”

  “All that together is pretty compelling and convincing,” Anna says.

  “We need to talk to Justice,” I say.

  “I’ve been lookin’ for him,” Merrill says. “Motherfucker vanished off the face of the planet.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing that needs a closer look and that’s the cellphone evidence,” Anna says. “There are serious questions about it in general. I think a lot of courts have concluded it’s just not reliable for determining exactly where someone is. I’ll keep working on that.”

  “What can I do?” Za asks. “I want to be a member of the Scooby gang.”

  We all laugh.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You could read the case file Merrill has,” I say. “See what stands out to you that we’ve missed. And you could try to locate Qwon’s crazy ex-girlfriend Zelda Sager.”

  22

  The next morning I search for Qwon in confinement, but he’s not there. When I can’t find him in his dorm or work assignment, I grow concerned.

  Eventually I find him in the infirmary.

  His face is bruised and swollen, his eyes bloodshot, and his head is wrapped in a large white bandage.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He shrugs slowly and moans a little as he does. “Got jumped. Couple of guys with a lock in a sock.”

  Nearly all weapons in prison are improvised weapons—and among them, a combination lock inside a long sock is among the most popular. Easier to make, use, and hide than a shiv, a lock in a sock delivers fast and furious blunt force trauma using two items nearly every inmate has.

  “Any idea who?” I ask.

  He frowns and shakes his head. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. Everybody—COs and the other inmates—seem to like me. I never do anything to anyone. Never get mixed up in any bullshit. Keep my nose clean. I’m friendly to everyone.”

  “No idea why it happened, what the motive could be?”

  “No, sir. I’ll be honest with you, even if I knew who did it, I wouldn’t tell you. All that’d do is get me killed, but if I had any idea why, I’d tell you. I just genuinely have no idea.”

  “Where’d it happen?” I ask. “How?”

  “I’d just been released from confinement,” he says. “This was last night about seven, I guess. I was on my way back to my dorm, had all my property in a big garbage bag. I had only taken a few steps out of the confinement building when they jumped me. Just . . . one of them tackled me and the other started beating me with the lock in the sock. When the one who had tackled me was on his feet again he started kicking me. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. Eventually, I just got in a sort of fetal position and tried to protect my head and midsection.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  He shakes his head and winces. “No, sir. No message or anything. Just put a whoopin’ on me and took off.”

  “Which officer was on duty when you were released?” I ask.

  He glances at the glassed wall of the officers’ station at the other end of the infirmary.

  “Not sure,” he says. “Can’t remember. Don’t think I had seen them before.”

  “Really?” I ask in surprise.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So if I check the log I won’t see that it was Troy Payne?”

  His eyes widen an almost imperceptible amount.

  I nod. “Any idea why he has such a yen for you?”

  “No, sir. Wish I did. I’d do my best to make it right. Far as I know . . . he’s the only one here who has anything against me. I’ve tried to talk to him, but . . . he . . . I can�
��t get anywhere.”

  “Do you want me to have you placed in protective management?” I say.

  “No, sir. If . . . an—someone other than an inmate—is behind it they can get to me anywhere.”

  I nod. “I’ll see what I can do about keeping you safe and gettin’ to the bottom of this before anything else happens.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for coming to see me. How’d you hear I was in here so fast?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “I went to confinement, your dorm, and your work assignment looking for you first.”

  “How come? Has something happened?”

  “Just had a few more questions for you,” I say.

  “About Angel?”

  “About the case,” I say, nodding.

  “I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “Do you think Zelda could’ve done it?” I ask. “And set you up?”

  “Zelda? Wow. That’s a . . . Haven’t heard that name in a lifetime or so. I’ll be honest with you . . . I can’t imagine anyone I know doing it—including Zelda. Nobody I know would want to hurt Angel—let alone kill her.”

  “Yet, somebody did,” I say.

  “Maybe not. Maybe she did just take off. That’s what I like to think. She’s happy somewhere.”

  “Even with you in here?”

  He looks at me like it’s obvious. “Of course. This is nothing compared to being brutally murdered.”

  “What makes you think it was brutal?”

  He freezes for a moment, then shrugs. “Just an expression. The . . . just the thought of it is brutal to me, so . . .”

  “You don’t think Zelda could be violent?”

  “I know firsthand she can be violent and vindictive,” he says. “Turns out she was not a nice person, but . . . murder, actually ending someone’s life . . . I don’t see it.”

  “Any idea where she is now?” I ask.

  “Absolutely none. Pretty much lost track of everybody when I was thrown into the belly of the beast.”

  “Same go for Justice Witney?” I say. “He’s vanished too.”

  He nods. “Yes, sir. Haven’t seen him since he testified against me at my trial.”