“You from here?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’m John Jordan, by the way,” I say, extending my hand.
“Langston,” he says.
His hand is bony, the skin rough and dry.
“You’re a true artist, Langston.”
“Thank you.”
“What brings you back out here today?” I say.
He shrugs. “Just wanted to see . . . it.”
“Are the flowers for Janet Lester?”
He looks at them as if he wasn’t aware they were there.
“Just figured it’s what people were doing. Leaving flowers. But haven’t seen any others.”
“Yours can be the first,” I say. “I’m sure others will bring some to join yours.”
He nods, then slowly bends down and places the flowers on the ground in front of the crime scene tape.
“Do you have a daughter?” I ask. “I see some family resemblance.”
He shakes his head. “Got no daughter. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”
“Wait. I just—”
But he is gone, walking away faster than I would have thought him capable, climbing into his car, and speeding away.
I’m writing down his plate number when Darlene returns with a self-satisfied smile on her face.
“Well?” I ask. “What’d she say?”
“I have a date Friday night.”
“That’s great, but not what I meant.”
She laughs. “Oh. Well, it’s all preliminary, and they’ve called in a forensic anthropologist, but she says she doubts they’ll find much more than what they have now. There’s just not much remains that old can tell you. What they do know is that it is her. Dental records confirmed her identity. There’s not much else . . . except there are no broken bones or signs of blunt force trauma that left the skull fractured or anything. Based on the blood in the vehicle and the presence of arterial spray, they believe she was stabbed to death, killed in her car. And there are nicks and scrapes on some of her bones that support that theory. He stabbed her so violently, he scraped and scratched and cut bone. It was a vicious attack.”
99
Jack Jordan can tell someone is in the room with him, but he gives no indication. He just goes about his normal routine and appears to collapse into bed the way he had the last time someone was in the room with him.
Only this time, he gets in a slightly different position, and he quietly and quickly pulls his borrowed gun out.
So this time when the man climbs on top of him and attempts to pin him down, Jack shoves the barrel of the revolver into the soft skin beneath the man’s chin and thumbs back the hammer.
“Drop it,” Jack says.
The man doesn’t move.
“Drop it now or a round is about to travel over nine hundred miles an hour through your mouth and sinus cavity and into your brain.”
The man drops the weapon he’s holding onto the bed.
“Now lace your fingers behind your head.”
The room is dim but from what Jack can make out, the man does as he’s told.
“Now very, very slowly, without breaking contact with the barrel of my gun, stand up at the same time I do. But don’t let your chin lose contact with the barrel or I’m just gonna start shooting and call housekeeping to sponge you up.”
Slowly, awkwardly, the two men push up from the bed to a standing position.
“Keep your hands laced behind your head but turn around. As you so, I’m gonna keep the barrel pressed to you, coming around the side of your neck to the back of your head. Try anything and I’ll empty the entire cylinder into your neck, face, and head. Maybe you don’t care if I do. You clearly don’t value your sorry life coming into my room like this. But think about your poor mama. ’Cause I promise she won’t be able to identify you.”
“I’m doin’ everything you say just like you’re sayin’ it. Don’t shoot.”
He then slowly turns around, actually leaning his neck into the barrel as he does so as not to lose contact with it.
When he’s completely around, Jack quickly cuffs the man.
Then grabbing him by the cuffs while keeping the gun barrel at the base of his neck, he pushes him across the room and into the chair beside the small table in front of the window.
With the man in the chair, Jack steps back and turns on the light switch by the door.
As if a cat burglar, the man is wearing all black with black gloves and a black ski mask.
“It’s more’n two months to Halloween,” Jack says. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”
“Clearly I wasn’t,” the man says.
Jack steps back over to him and pulls off his mask.
The man is middle-aged, younger than Jack but too old to be doing shit like this.
Though he doesn’t recognize the man, there is something faintly familiar about him, like a family resemblance to someone he’s seen recently.
“Who the hell are you?” Jack says.
The man shakes his head.
Jack nods, the puts the barrel of his revolver into the man’s forehead. “This may tickle, but don’t move. You so much as twitch, the dingy hotel wall behind you’s gonna know what’s on your mind.”
Jack then reaches around to the man’s back pocket and wriggles out his wallet.
“Brad Barnes. I knew you resembled someone I’d seen in the last few days. You’re the sheriff’s older brother, aren’t you? It’s sad to say and it ain’t sayin’ much, but looks like he got the looks and the brains in the family—what little there were. Your brother know you’re here?”
Brad shakes his head. “Told me to stay away from y’all. Hell, told me to stay away from town for a little while.”
“Turns out not to have been such bad advice.” Jack stops suddenly as if something has just occurred to him, turns and looks at the weapon the man dropped on the bed. “Did you bring my gun back?”
The man nods and Jack retrieves his gun from the bed. After admiring it appreciatively for a moment, he sticks it in the holster on his hip and sings very badly and off key, “Reunited and it feels so good.”
“I was just bringing it back to you,” Brad says. “Felt bad for taking it before.”
“Let’s say for the sake of argument you weren’t,” Jack says. “What’s another reason you might break into my room and mount me like I’s your prom date?”
The man shrugs.
Jack steps back over to Brad and places the barrel of the revolver between his eyes. “Let’s say that I’m dying of cancer. Let’s say I’ve got nothin’ to lose. Let’s say you already broke into my room once and there’s a police report showing it. Let’s say I could punch your ticket right now and call FDLE and tell them what happened and that your brother knew it and is trying to cover up for you. Let’s say that though you dealt this play, I hold all the cards. Let’s say for all those reasons you play along and answer all my questions truthfully—as truthfully as if your life depends on it. Why did you break into my room and—”
“To scare you. Just to scare you and . . . to get you to . . . drop all this and . . .”
“You coulda just asked. Hell, if I’d’ve known how bad you wanted me to leave I’d’ve left days ago. Communication is the key, Brad. How can we know what you want if you don’t tell us?”
Brad looks confused as if he’s not quite sure he’s being fucked with.
Jack pulls the gun back but keeps it pointed at Brad as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Did you kill her, Brad? That why you want me gone so bad?”
“No. Wait. Who?”
“Janet.”
“Janet Lester? No. No way. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I thought she was . . . I had a crush on her back in the day, but never even told her. Was thinking about it, but then she died. I had nothin’ to do with that. Absolutely nothin’.”
“Then who?”
“Who what?”
“If you didn’t kill Janet, who did you kill?”
“No one. No one on purpose. Maybe no one at all.”
“The Jane Doe hit-and-run,” Jack says. “You the one that ran over her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It was my . . . I was on some pretty bad shit back then. But . . . I don’t know for sure. And didn’t want to find out it was me. That’s it. That’s why I wanted y’all to stop lookin’ into it. Glenn said he’d take care of it, but . . . I just wanted to make sure.”
“Why do you think you might have done it?” Jack asks.
“I’m clean now. I am.”
“Well it sure as hell ain’t helping you think any clearer.”
“But then, I was on some really bad shit. I’s all over the place. Glenn was a deputy, then an investigator. Got me out of more than a few jams. I’d’a been in jail if it wasn’t for him.”
“Why do you think you may have been the one who hit her?” Jack says again.
“It was my backhoe. I had my own heavy equipment company. This was just before I lost it. I . . . I was buying drugs rather than making the payments on my equipment. I was doing work for different contractors in the area. Worked on the golf course, the high school, and the Peace Tree thing. A few times I’d wake up on my tractor in the middle of the night not knowing what was going on. Everybody thought my backhoe had been stolen from the golf course that night, but . . . what if my fucked-up ass just thought I was at work? Hard to see a car or even a truck doing what was done to that poor girl. But a tractor . . . She was a transient. What if she was sleepin’ in the garden and I . . .”
100
Janet was so excited, felt so alive.
Her body hummed with electricity and energy and life.
Could there be a better weekend? Ever?
It was the perfect time for her and Ben to make love, for them to give themselves to each other utterly and completely, for the Valentine king and queen to consummate their relationship, unite their two kingdoms. Totally time.
Any doubt and uncertainty she’d had earlier at the dance was now gone.
Whatever had caused him to act distracted or disinterested or whatever it was had nothing to do with her. And it wasn’t another girl. She could tell. Whatever it was and whatever caused it passed, it was gone as suddenly as it came, and he was back to his normal sweet self. Thoughtful. Attentive. Affectionate. Sweet as strawberry pie—her favorite.
She was excited, but she was nervous too.
She knew just the thing to help with that. And, as fate would have it, it was on the way.
Fate. Was it fate that she won the pageant and they won king and queen at the ball? Was it fate that she and Ben would make love later? Was it fate that they were together? Were they fated to be together forever, high school sweethearts who would one day celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary together?
What was her fate? How much say did she have in it? Were we as free as we seemed or was freedom a total illusion?
She decided she was glad she didn’t know her fate, happy to remain blissfully ignorant—because she couldn’t be any happier, any more blissful. If things were going to work out—her photography and fashion, her relationship with Ben—it couldn’t make her any happier than she already was, and if they weren’t . . . it would ruin a perfectly perfect weekend.
As she saw the Gulf Station up ahead, looming and lit up in the dark night, she wondered if in addition to getting a little liquid courage for her she should get some condoms—just in case Ben forgot.
It’s not liquid courage, she thought. I don’t need courage. It’s liquid relaxer. I just want to relax and enjoy every second of it so it can be perfect like everything else this weekend.
Should she leave the condoms up to Ben? Should she take that chance? Where would she even get some? She was gonna have a hard enough time asking Little Larry for liquor. No way she could ask him if he sold condoms too.
Wonder if the men’s bathroom in the back has a machine?
Was she really going to go into a dirty ol’ gas station bathroom to buy condoms?
No. No I’m not.
Then what?
Kathy will have some.
But borrowing them from her would mean she would know, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that. Sometimes Kathy was so supportive, so . . . just what a best friend should be, but . . . other times she seemed jealous, seemed like she might . . . actually want to . . . Nah, not Kathy.
101
Before I left the memorial, Darlene’s shift ended and her replacement showed up and she decided to come with me.
We are driving down to Chipola Ford to talk to Little Larry Daughtry, the kid who sold Janet a bottle of Dewar’s and gassed up Ted Bundy’s car the night she disappeared. My phone rings.
It’s Dad.
“Got my gun back,” he says.
Sounds like that’s not all he got back. His voice is stronger than it’s been in days.
“How’d you do that?”
He tells me.
“Impressive,” I say. “You still got it.”
“Not quite ready for the rocking chair or the graveyard just yet.”
“No doubt. So what’d he say?”
He tells me, and I think about it.
Before he’s finished, Darlene looks up from her phone and says, “Ronnie Lester was just released.”
I interrupt Dad and tell him.
“I’m already on my way over to Verna’s. Just a couple of minutes away.”
“If he shows up and starts acting stupid call the police,” I say. “He’s not worth the paperwork.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
My phone lets me know I’m getting another call. I pull it back from my ear to look at the screen.
“I’m getting a call from Anna,” I say. “I’ll come by Verna’s a little later.”
“Take your time. I’m pulling up now. Everything will be five by five over here.”
I click over to take Anna’s call. “Hey beautiful. How’s my girl?”
“Just heard back from one of my Classification contacts in Central Office,” she says. “Clyde Wolf was released from Marion CI yesterday. State of Florida bought him a bus ticket back to Marianna. He arrived this morning.”
Little Larry Daughtry is anything but.
A huge man in every way, he is some six feet six inches tall with an enormous low-hanging gut, as if his chest and stomach had both slid down to just above his waist.
“You look like a Mustang driver,” he says. “I’ve got some sweet incentives I can offer you right now. Get you the best deal anywhere.”
“As much as I’d love a new Mustang, I’m just here to ask you a few questions. I’m John Jordan. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, yeah. How are you?”
He shakes my hand and seems genuinely happy to see me—which is probably how he acts with everyone whether he really is or not.
“I’m good. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
“Happy to do it. It’s so cool you’re helping your dad with this. I sure hope y’all can finally figure it out and . . . I saw y’all found her body. That’s . . . I mean after all this time. It’s just . . . amazing.”
I nod. Little Larry seems the type to keep talking with very little prompting, so I just wait.
“I’ve been thinking about that night ever since we spoke on the phone,” he says. “’Course I’ve thought about that night a lot over the years. Still can’t believe I was that close to Ted Bundy. Dude was a little wired but sure as hell didn’t seem like what he really was. You know?”
I nod.
“I don’t know. I was just a kid, but I wish I’d’ve known it was him or . . . Wish I could’ve done something to save Janet. She was a cool girl. Nice. Sweet. Pretty.”
“Were they there at the same time?” I ask.
His expression makes him look like a kid in school who has just been asked a question he should know the answer to but doesn’t.
“I’m . . . just not sure. They could’ve been. If they were
n’t, it was close. They were there within minutes of each other if not at the same time. Neither of them were there long. Didn’t take any time to fill up his little car. And she was only there long enough to buy a bottle from me and let me congratulate her and hug her neck.”
“Congratulate her for winning Miss Valentine?”
He nods. “Yeah. And Sweethearts’ Ball queen. She was . . . You know she was . . . she was excited, I could tell that. Think she was headed to— Well, I know she was supposed to be headed to that party, so she was excited about that, I guess. So full of life. But more than anything, what she was, was gracious. She was so genuinely touched that I congratulated her and wanted a hug. It’s just the type of person she was. Man, I wish I could’ve saved her.”
“Do you remember anything else at all? Can you picture them leaving the parking lot? Was he following her? Was he still there when she left? Just pulling in? Did he leave before her?”
He squints to think about it, seeming to concentrate as hard as he can.
“Let me see.” He closes his eyes. “She was in that red Monarch . . . on her way to the party. I watched her the whole time she was at the station. Always had a bit of a thing for her, you know? She pulled up to the road. Sat there for a moment, though there was no traffic. Not at that time of night on a Sunday. And . . . wait. Wait just a minute. She . . . she . . . Why didn’t I realize that before?”
“What’s that?”
“She went the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“She went the wrong way. She was supposed to be going to that party, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Well she turned and headed the opposite direction from it. She went the wrong way.”
102
Little Larry had given me the final piece of the puzzle, the last bit of missing information I needed.
The slowing developing image is now visible, is emerging in vivid, tragic color.
True Crime Fiction Page 40
