Blood Betrayal (John Jordan Mysteries Book 14)

by Michael Lister

Acqwon: No.

  Examiner: Do you know who killed Angel Diaz?

  Acqwon: No.

  32

  “Sometimes I think maybe I did kill her,” Qwon is saying.

  “Really?”

  Unable to sleep and not wanting to lie awake and obsess over the nightmare we’re about to experience of Chris Taunton coming back into our lives, I slipped out of bed, dressed, and drove to the prison to talk to Qwon.

  Placed in confinement again by Sergeant Troy Payne, his isolation and the late hour have him both contemplative and talkative.

  I’m seated in the hallway next to the solid steel door. He’s seated inside the cell next to the door. The food slot is open and we’re communicating through it.

  “I keep wondering if it’s . . . if I’m dreaming . . . if it’s a nightmare . . . or if it really happened.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Thing is . . . I don’t think I could kill anyone.”

  His voice is night dry and thick with sleep.

  “Like I’m just not capable,” he continues. “But I don’t remember much about that night after a certain point because I was . . . wasted. I drank way, way too much. And I took some . . . I don’t know, ecstasy or something. I remember feeling so good, being all in love—with life, with the world, with my friends, everybody. Then I remember feeling so bad. Worst ever.”

  “Just tell me what you remember.”

  “I don’t even care anymore,” he says. “I mean about what happens to me or . . . what I mean is, I want to know the truth. Don’t care what it is. And if I somehow did it, I want to know. But I really want to know. Want to remember it, remember how I felt and exactly what I did and why. No wondering. No guessing. No tryin’ to fill in the gaps with . . .”

  I start to say something, but he continues.

  “When I think back I—and this is every time I ever think back to that night—I feel so guilty. I have these flashes of . . . I don’t know if they’re memories or like imaginings. I remember her walking away and letting her go. Remember thinkin’ I should go with her or try to sneak her in. Something. Guilt just comes. Floods me. I feel selfish and sad, but also happy then angry. I remember dancing like . . . it was like I was at a rave—like what I picture a rave being like, you know? House music blasting, everybody jumping up and down to the monotonous pounding of the beat. I remember kissing strangers, making out with an ex-girlfriend, and . . . kissing a guy. Or maybe he kissed me. Did I go in the dressing room? Is that where it happened? Maybe it wasn’t an ex-girlfriend. Maybe it was an old friend dressed like a girl. All the sequins and makeup, the wig and those sexy ass high heel boots and the smell of stripper perfume. Am I a gay? Did I kill her because I felt so . . . Did she . . . Maybe she came in and saw me somehow. Maybe she made a scene, called me a faggot and I killed her.”

  If anything like that would’ve happened, witnesses—and not just the ones from his friend group—would’ve reported it. At least some of what he’s saying didn’t happen. Did any of it?

  “Were you attracted to your friend who was in the drag show that night? I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I really like her, and I have no problem with him being gay or her being a woman now—she transitioned a few years back—but no, I’m not. I wasn’t attracted to him back then or her now.”

  “So you keep in touch?”

  “Not many people do,” he says. “She does.”

  “You’ve been in prison for a long, long time,” I say. “All your adult life. Have you been sexually active?”

  “You asking if I’ve fucked or been fucked by men since I’ve been in? You think I’m a—”

  “I’m wondering if that might be what has you imagining some of this.”

  “Oh. No. I’ve never had sex with anyone in here. ’Cept myself.”

  This is a different Qwon. Different demeanor. Different attitude. Different way of talking—not only his language, but his delivery. There’s an edge to everything he says and does. Am I seeing a side of him that’s always been there? Did this Qwon kill Angel? Or is this the result of not enough sleep, too much isolation, and grief and guilt induced nightmares?

  “I don’t think I could kill anyone,” he says. “So why do I wonder if I did?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If I didn’t . . . If all or most of this is just bad dreams and guilty imaginings . . . where is it coming from?”

  I shrug, but don’t say anything. Instead, try to give him time to see if any answers emerge.

  “Wait,” he says, sitting up. “Wait just a—Why do I think Justice hit on me or hinted at wanting us to . . . I think he maybe made a pass at me and I . . . I guess I ignored it. I’m not sure I even realized what it was at the time. Guess I hoped I was wrong. Wait. Did he try to kiss me? Did he kiss me and I shut him down? Is that why he—did he do all this to me because I rejected him?”

  33

  The next morning when I walk out in the living room to check on Sam, Merrill is sitting beside her bed, holding her hand and whispering to her.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “I brought breakfast,” he says. “And big news.”

  Anna walks in behind me, holds her ring hand up, and says, “We have some big news of our own.”

  As I drift toward the kitchen table to start putting the food on plates, she goes over and shows Merrill and Sam her ring.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says to Sam. “Do you like it?”

  “This shit’s been a fuckin’ lifetime in the making,” Merrill says.

  “And absolutely worth the wait,” Anna says, then to Sam, “You hungry? Let’s get you sitting up and get some breakfast in you.”

  Merrill steps into the kitchen and shakes my hand. “Mazel tov.”

  “Thanks.”

  I put on coffee and Merrill and I get breakfast ready while Anna feeds Sam. Eventually, Anna, Merrill, and I wind up at our table eating breakfast.

  I notice Anna is eating quickly, and realize she’s probably trying to finish before Taylor wakes up. She’s already slept longer than she normally does.

  “Did you get called out last night?” Anna asks me. “Or did I just dream that?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Drove out to the prison to talk to Qwon.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  I nod. “Wish I could interview every suspect and witness in the middle of the night.”

  “I bet,” she says.

  We are quiet, all of us eating.

  “So,” she says to Merrill, “what’s your big news?”

  “I know why Justice Witney was such an eager beaver witness for the prosecution and why he gladly did his little six month stint in the joint for the part he played in the coverup.”

  “Eager beaver?” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “Why?” she says. “Tell us. And talk fast.”

  “He’d already been arrested earlier,” he says. “Was looking at attempted murder and some serious drug trafficking charges.”

  “Before Angel went missing?” I say.

  “November of the previous year.”

  “So he was already talkin’ to the police,” Anna says. “But why didn’t the defense know about it? Or his classmates? How was he back in school? It shouldn’t’ve been sealed. He wasn’t a minor.”

  “Was in November when his ass got arrested,” he says. “Turns out ol’ Justice has the same birthday as our lord and savior.”

  “Those dirty bastards,” Anna says.

  “Jesus and Justice?” Merrill says.

  “No. The prosecutors. Even though he had been a minor when he was arrested if he was benefitting in that case by testifying in Qwon’s it should’ve been disclosed.”

  “Except . . .” Merrill says, “there wasn’t a deal to disclose. He had no deal in place at the time he testified.”

  Anna nods. “Dirty bastards. Prosecutors will do that a lot. We’re not going to make a deal with you—wink, wink—but if you testif
y we’ll do what we can for you after the trial. If there’s no deal, there’s nothing to disclose to the defense, nothing for the jury to hear.”

  “So he really had a deal,” I say, “it just wasn’t official, wasn’t in writing?”

  “Exactly. It wasn’t like Justice had anything to lose anyway, but he knew he had a sweet unofficial deal when he stepped into that witness box.”

  “Think about the charges he was looking at,” Merrill says, “yet he out on bail when all this shit with Angel and Qwon happened.”

  “Convenient coincidence,” I say.

  “Did he just kill Angel and set Qwon up for it to give himself leverage in his own case?” Anna says.

  “Well now,” Merrill says. “That’s an interesting question, ’cause guess what happen soon as ol’ Justice became a witness for the prosecution?”

  “Let’s see . . .” she says, “his other charges all went away?”

  “Exactly. Poof. Like magic they vanished.”

  “So he traded an attempted murder charge for perverting the course of justice, accomplice after the fact,” I say.

  He nods.

  Anna says, “Became a star witness and did six months instead of twenty years. They were probably willing to let him walk, but thought it’d look good to the jury that he was actually going to do a little time.”

  “All these years later,” I say, “and people still mention that. ‘Why would he confess to something and serve time for it if he wasn’t telling the truth?’”

  “I’m sure he was happy to do six months,” she says. “Compared to what he was looking at.”

  No one says anything, as we all think about Justice and his role in the case and continuing to eat our breakfast.

  “It was a match made in Legal System Hell,” Anna says. “He needed to weasel his way out of the pending charges hanging over him and they needed a witness in order to build a case without any physical evidence or even a body.”

  “It all fits with what you figured out last night,” I say.

  “What was that?” Merrill asks.

  She tells him about Justice’s evolving statement and the way he and the cops formed it to fit the cellphone tower evidence and not the other way around.

  “Fits like a mofo,” he says.

  “Piece by piece,” Anna says, “we’re taking apart the state’s case piece by piece. Soon there’ll be nothing left.”

  Merrill nods. “Qwon’s confession still bothers me—and just ’cause Justice lied about some things don’t mean he lied about everything. Maybe Qwon was involved. Maybe he helped him kill her and get rid of the body. It’s lookin’ less and less likely, but . . .”

  “Maybe,” Anna says, “but I really think Qwon is innocent.”

  “So . . . y’all ready for my big news?” Merrill says.

  “Thought that was your big news,” Anna says.

  “Nah, I was just gettin’ to it, working my way up to it. That there was just a little appetizer.”

  When he doesn’t add anything else she says, “Well? Tell us.”

  “I tracked Justice’s little lying ass down,” he says.

  “You found him?” Anna says. “Where?”

  “Just down the road a little ways.”

  “Well,” I say, “let’s finish our breakfast and go have a little chat with him.”

  34

  Justice Witney has changed his name to Justin Winslow as part of his attempt at hiding from the world. He lives and works on St. George Island as a condo and beach cottage rental agent.

  He’s married to a Franklin County school teacher and has two children—a ten-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl.

  We take Highway 71 to Port St. Joe and pick up 98. In Eastpoint we take the four-mile-long St. George Island Bridge, crossing Apalachicola Bay.

  St. George Island is a twenty-eight-mile-long and one-mile-wide barrier island, adjacent to Cape St. George in the Apalachicloa Bay. It’s a tranquil, if expensive, vacation destination that attracts wealthy families wanting to avoid the madness of Panama City Beach. The eastern end of the island—about nine miles or so—is dedicated to a state park with camping, hiking, and fishing facilities. The peaceful, picturesque island is all sand dunes, sea oats, and pine trees.

  Settled early on by Creek Indians who eventually died out due to disease, the island's first Europeans began arriving and fighting for control in the 18th Century. In the 20th Century the island’s pine forest was used to harvest turpentine, and during World War II, St. George was used as a practice range for B-24 bombers.

  Justin has a small, single unit in a wooden office building in the business district. We wait until his young office assistant leaves before going in.

  It’s too early for lunch, so my guess is she’s running errands—perhaps to the bank or post office or to check on properties—so I’m not sure how much uninterrupted time we have.

  As it turns out, as much as we want. When we walk in, Merrill flips the sign to Closed and locks the door.

  “Can I help you?” Justin says, standing from his desk and walking out into the reception area.

  Justin Winslow is nothing like Justice Witney. Nothing in his demeanor or dialect remotely resembles the little thug showman from the interviews I’d listened to.

  “You sure can,” Merrill says. “We need to speak to Justice Witney.”

  He hesitates a moment, swallowing hard. “There must be some mistake. There’s no one here by that name. I’m afraid I need to ask you to unlock my door and leave or I’ll have to call the police.”

  “Justice,” I say. “We know who you are and you know we know, so let’s not waste a lot of time while you pretend that you’re Justin Winslow.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Well, and maybe a condo for a weekend,” Merrill says with a big smile on his face. “It’s off season, right? Shouldn’t be a problem for you to hook us up.”

  “Come into my office and let’s see if I can’t help you both out,” he says, turning to walk back into his office.

  That was too quick and easy.

  “Hold up,” I say.

  He doesn’t stop.

  I run over and grab him from behind and pull him away from his desk.

  “Whatcha got back there, Justin?” I ask. “Where is it?”

  Merrill steps over and pulls him down into one of the two seats in front of his desk. I step behind it and start opening the drawers. There in the middle right side drawer is a Smith .38.

  I pull it out and hold it up.

  “You can take the thug out of the hood and even change his name,” Merrill says, “but . . . can’t take the hood out of the thug.”

  “What were you planning to do with this?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says. “I swear. I just wanted to be able to get to it if I needed to. Think of it from my position.”

  “Your position is felon,” I say. “No way this is legal.”

  “You barge in my office and lock my door,” he continues, ignoring me. “You threaten me and—”

  “Nobody’s threatened you,” I say.

  “My bad,” Merrill says. “Meant to. Let me correct that oversight right now. Look at me.”

  Justice looks up at Merrill standing behind him.

  “Nobody in this world gonna care what we do to a murderin’ drug dealer rat who’s let an innocent man sit in prison for almost twenty years. But truth is, nobody’ll ever know. Promise you that. It’ll be just like that little girl you killed. Your remains will never be found and I won’t need a crematorium to destroy them, either. Shit’ll be much messier than that. Just like your death. Wet work all the way. So do whatever the fuck you have to do to quit this little bullshit play actin’ you doin’, and let us talk to Justice. And if Justin ever wants to see his little school teacher wife and kids again, Justice better tell us the goddamn truth and nothin’ but the first fuckin’ time we ask.”

  Justice is nodd
ing before he even finishes.

  Merrill looks at me. “How was that?”

  I nod. “Good. Real good. But let me try one too. Justice, look at me.”

  He slowly looks away from Merrill, though it’s obvious he doesn’t want to, and looks at me.

  “My associate meant what he said,” I say. “Every word of it. But here’s a far less violent but no less life-destroying threat for you. We know who you are. We know where you are. Right now we’re the only ones who do. Answer our questions honestly and convincingly and it might just stay that way. I’m guessing your clients and business associates don’t know who you are and I seriously doubt if your wife and children do.”

  His response indicates he fears exposure, humiliation, the loss of his reputation and the possible loss of his family even more than physical pain or death.

  “That not the kind of shit you put in your chamber of commerce profile or your wedding vows, is it?” Merrill says.

  “Thing is,” I say. “We’re the good guys.”

  “Fuckin’ fightin’ on the side of truth and justice,” Merrill says.

  “We’re not here to blow your life up or take you off the board,” I say. “We’re here for the truth. No agenda other than that. We have some of the pieces. Know some things—like your arrest. Looking for others. Will you answer our questions honestly?”

  “Yes, sir. I will. I swear I will.”

  I ask the first question as a test. “Why’d you cooperate with the cops and prosecutors in Qwon’s case?”

  “They said I could reduce the charges I was lookin’ at by helping them.”

  “What charges?”

  “I got popped a couple of months before for a disagreement I had with a supplier. Bitch said I tried to kill him. They clipped us both for drugs but threw attempted murder on mine. Said they were looking at a classmate of mine. Told me all I had to do was help them put away an innocent rapist and killer and I’d only do a fraction of what I was looking at. I liked Angel. Thought she was a bad bitch. Was glad to help put her killer away—even if at one time I liked him, too. I swear that’s the truth.”