Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “Ancient bodies,” he says. “Indians. Homesteaders. People buried along the banks of the river who are now in it because the river has shifted over the past hundred years.”

  We both nod.

  Kate continues to move through the images at a pretty fast clip.

  “If none of this turns up anything,” Ralph says, “we’ll start dragging the river in the morning.”

  “I’d like you to head this up,” Reggie says.

  The two of us are standing on the landing, away from everyone else.

  Out in the river, the search and rescue boats move about, up and down the river along the banks, in the last of the light.

  I nod.

  “Because of the nature of it, I’ll stay involved, but it’ll be your case,” she says. “It’s most likely just an accidental drowning, but . . . we’ll do a thorough investigation to be sure.”

  “Some things already don’t add up,” I say. “With the kids. Do we have statements from them?”

  She nods.

  “Who interviewed them?”

  “Me, Walt, and Denny,” she says. “So . . . should be good.”

  “I’ll read their statements. Listen to their interviews and then do a follow-up tomorrow.”

  I am scheduled to work at the prison tomorrow, and will have to go in for a while, but will only do what I absolutely have to so I can focus on what needs to be done in the investigation.

  “I know you know what you’re doing,” she says, “but tread lightly. Remind them of their Miranda. Find the truth but remember they’re kids.”

  “Kids can be killers,” I say. “But I’d call them young adults.”

  “Too true,” she says. “Do what you’ve got to, but . . . be wise. What’s not adding up?”

  “May be nothing, but . . . I have questions about the statements they first gave me when I got here. That’s why I wanted them separated and to give individual statements and be interviewed separately and on the record. I’ll know more after I read and listen to what they said.”

  “That’s not much.”

  “Their appearance didn’t match their statements,” I say.

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “The boys, who said they just got out of the water, were dry, and the girl, who was supposed to have been on a Jet Ski, was wet.”

  “Really?”

  “And the big guy, the one they call Swolle, he said something . . . something like he had a right to swim here too. Like maybe they had words or something.”

  “You thinkin’ racial?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  “Yeah, there was nothing with them or on the dock. No clothes, no shoes, no coolers, no towels, no phones, no speakers. Nothing. If they had alcohol or drugs, I get wanting to hide them before we got here, but to take the time to put everything up when you think your friend is drowning . . .”

  “Shane could’ve been on something that contributed to him drowning,” she says.

  I nod. “It’s why we have to treat this entire area as a crime scene and we need to search it as soon as we can. Treat it like a crime scene, and if it turns out to be an accidental drowning, we’re in good shape. Treat it only like a search and rescue scene of an accidental drowning, and if it turns out to be a homicide, we’ll lose evidence we need to build our case.”

  “God, I’m glad we have you, John,” she says. “So glad.”

  9

  Night.

  It’s full dark now, and the search continues beneath banks of halogen lights brought in and set up near the guardrail.

  Most point down toward the river, but a few are aimed at the area around the RV and mobile command center.

  The entire landing is lit like a high school football field, the illumination dropping off fast at the edges, the night appearing even darker than it normally would because of the contrast.

  The search and rescue boats are also equipped with lamps that light up the area around them as well as handheld Q-Beams for flooding a particular spot.

  “Think we’ll find him?” Reggie asks.

  “Thought they would have already,” I say.

  “I’m really beginning to wonder if we will.”

  As Merrick and Tommy arrive back at the landing from Byrd Parker Drive, I see Anna and Michelle pulling up from Lake Grove Road.

  Merrick pulls over and parks close to us.

  Anna is stopped by the deputy stationed at the entrance to the landing.

  “Will you radio Bartholomew and tell her to let Anna and Michelle through?” I ask Reggie.

  She does.

  When Merrick and Tommy walk up I can see that both men have been crying. Bloodshot eyes. Still damp. Sniffling occasionally. And I have a whole new appreciation for Merrick.

  I step over and hug Tommy.

  He hugs me back, holding on tightly for a long moment.

  When we release each other, I do the same to Merrick.

  Reggie looks over at us, a bemused look on her face.

  “That’s what you get when you hire a chaplain to be one of your investigators,” Merrick says.

  “I guess it is.”

  Anna and Michelle park, get out, and rush over to us, Michelle and Tommy breaking down as they embrace.

  Anna hugs me and asks, “How’re you holdin’ up?”

  “Y’all’re some huggin’ folks,” Reggie says loud enough for us but not Tommy and Michelle to hear.

  I nod. “I’m okay. How are you? Where’s Taylor?”

  “She’s asleep in her bed. Aunt C is there listening out for her. I’m not gonna stay long, but I had to see you. And I told Michelle I’d bring her.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I say. “You feel so good.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot going on, but don’t forget to call Johanna and tell her good-night.”

  “I was just about to when you pulled up. What time is it?”

  I walk several feet away to make the call.

  “I’m not going to argue with you anymore tonight,” Susan says as she answers the phone.

  “I just called to say good-night to Johanna,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, disappointment in her voice. “Well, okay then. Hold on.”

  When Susan puts her on the phone, I sing to her, as I often do, the first line of the old Kool and the Gang song.

  “Johanna . . . I . . . love you.”

  “Hey Daddy.”

  Her soft, sweet voice is also sleepy, making it even more airy.

  “I miss you,” I say.

  “I miss you, Daddy.”

  “What’re you up to?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Havin’ a snack before bed.”

  “Is it good?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy. What are you doing?”

  “Just missing my girl. Wishing you were still here. I love you so much.”

  “I love you.”

  “Sleep well and have sweet dreams,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “You too, Daddy. Night night.”

  When I return to the others, they are trying to talk Tommy into going home.

  “I just can’t,” he says. “I know I’m not helping anything by being here, but it helps me.”

  Anna turns to me. “Sheriff says for me to make you go home,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I—”

  “It wasn’t a suggestion,” Reggie says.

  “But I—”

  “You’re in charge of the investigation,” she says, “not search and rescue. Get some rest so you’ll be fresh to conduct the interviews tomorrow. That’s what matters. That’s what’s important.”

  “She’s right,” Anna says.

  I begin to nod very slowly. “Okay.”

  10

  I can’t believe he’s gone,” Tommy is saying.

  He finally relented and ag
reed to go home for a little while. I am driving him and Michelle home while Anna heads directly to our house to relieve her aunt so it’ll be just the two of us when I get there.

  “Doesn’t seem real,” he adds.

  “Can’t imagine it ever will,” Michelle says.

  “I wish he would’ve stayed in Fort Benning instead of coming home this weekend,” Tommy says. “Would he still be alive if he had or was it just his time and he’d’ve been taken no matter where he was?”

  I don’t say anything, just listen.

  “Whatta you think, John?” Michelle asks.

  “Yeah,” Tommy says, “I was really asking. Do you think we all have a certain number of days, and the day and hour of our death is already determined, or do we have some say in the matter?”

  “I think we have some say.”

  “So if he wouldn’t’ve come home this weekend . . . or if I had said no when he asked for permission to go to the landing . . .”

  “There’s no way to know for sure,” I say, “and you can drive yourself crazy second-guessing yourself and your decisions. I’ve done it plenty of times before.”

  “I believe God ordains it,” Michelle says. “I don’t think it’s up to us. Only to him.”

  I get the appeal of that kind of thinking, the simplicity and irresponsibility of believing or wanting to believe that everything happens for a reason, that it is just God’s will, that we have no autonomy, agency, or responsibility, but I think it’s naive wishful thinking that doesn’t take into account the entirety of the evidence and the state of the world. Is this world a place where only God’s will is done?

  “What do you think?” Michelle asks Tommy.

  He shakes his head. “Right now I don’t know what to think about anything. Not anything at all.”

  We ride in silence for a few moments, moonlight edifying the tall tips of pines on either side of the car.

  “Is there even a chance it wasn’t just an accident?” Tommy asks.

  “Why do you—”

  “I overheard some of the deputies and search and rescue people talking. They seem to suspect Megan.”

  Michelle gulps in a sudden intake of air. “Oh my God.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been charged with finding out. My investigation starts tomorrow.”

  “I just can’t see her doing anything like that,” Tommy says. “Not under any circumstances.”

  “I can’t believe it’s already being talked about,” Michelle says.

  “Be careful with her, John,” Tommy says. “Take care of her no matter what happened.”

  “I will,” I say. “An accident is still the most likely scenario.”

  By the time I get home, Anna is waiting for me on our back patio.

  She is sitting on one of the two wooden Adirondack chairs, a glass of wine in one hand and a baby monitor in the other, looking out at the lake.

  Julia is tranquil tonight, picture-still beneath the pale, partial moon, the cypress trees in the foreground so stately and staid as to appear part of a painting.

  I lean over and kiss her, touching her face and taking my time, before sitting in the chair beside her.

  She hands me a frosted stein of the triple-berry fruit smoothie I like so much, and we clink glasses and say “Cheers.”

  “To true love,” I say.

  I’m exhausted, but I have so many thoughts darting around inside my skull I’m not ready for bed yet.

  We sit in silence for a long moment, looking out at Julia, at the moonlight shimmering on her black glass surface, taking in the peace and beauty like sacraments.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “I’m okay. Depleted, but . . .”

  “We’ll do what we have to to be a big part of Johanna’s life,” she says. “I know we just moved and I love it here, but if we have to move to Atlanta, we will.”

  Tears sting my aching eyes. “The perfect thing to say. Thank you. You’re perfect.”

  “What Tommy and Michelle are going through is a reminder of what really matters most in this life,” she says.

  I nod.

  We fall silent again, each taking a sip from our drink.

  “Any reason to think it wasn’t an accident?” she asks.

  “A few. Maybe. I’ll know more tomorrow when I interview the kids who were with him.”

  “Thought you had to be at the prison tomorrow?”

  “I do.”

  “Well,” she says, standing, “we need to get you to bed.”

  “Won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Will when I get through with you.”

  That night I dream of drowning.

  I know from what I’ve studied and the crime scenes I’ve seen that drowning is a particularly unpleasant way to die.

  Lungs filling with water, losing their ability to transfer oxygen into the bloodstream.

  Struggling to breathe, forcing water into the sinuses.

  Coughing. Triggering the inhalation reflex. Pulling even more water into the lungs.

  Loss of air and exertion from struggle cause oxygen levels in the blood to plummet rapidly.

  Loss of consciousness.

  Loss of heartbeat.

  Loss of life.

  11

  You’re a cop?” Will asks.

  He’s a gentle, young black man with dark skin and a gap between his two front teeth. He’s intelligent and insightful and has a wisdom beyond his years. In the short time I have been here, I’ve witnessed his integrity and leadership. He’s respected by both the inmates and the staff.

  We’re in my office in the chapel of the Gulf Correctional Institution on Sunday morning following the interfaith service.

  “Just wanted to ask before we got started,” he says. “I heard you weren’t just our chaplain, but a cop too.”

  “Who told you that?” I ask.

  “It’s all over the compound. You know how this place is.”

  I nod. A lot like a small town—only worse.

  He’s assigned to Laundry, and his inmate uniform is neat and pressed and fits him well.

  “So is it true?” he says. “It’s just you don’t seem like a cop.”

  Though he’s assigned to Laundry, but he spends a lot of time volunteering in the chapel, using the library, taking classes, helping out the inmate clerks assigned here.

  “I’m an investigator with the sheriff’s department,” I say. “And I’m a chaplain.”

  “Isn’t that some sort of conflict of interest?” he says.

  I shake my head. “No. Why would you think so?”

  “How can we trust you?” he says. “How can we tell you anything? Confess anything to you?”

  “You can tell me anything and it will be kept in the strictest of confidence—except a crime or your intention to commit one, or that you plan to hurt yourself or others. And that’s true of all counselors.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ve been a minister and an investigator my entire adult life,” I say. “I’ve always done both.”

  “But . . .”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re a cop,” he says. “A . . . cop. How can you expect to . . . do . . . any good in here. Cops are our enemies. They’re corrupt. Racist. Abusive.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m not any of those things.”

  “But that’s our experience, that’s our perception. Cops kill us with impunity.”

  I nod. He’s right about the perception, about the lines that have been drawn on the streets, and I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me.

  We are quiet a long moment.

  Finally, he says, “Is there another chaplain I can talk to?”

  As I’m leaving GCI for the day, feeling down and defeated, I am stopped by Vicki Healey, a short, dumpy forty-something correctional officer with very high eyebrows and an even higher opinion of her importance to the community.

  “Hey, John, right? I’m Vicki with an i Healey. My h
usband, Norman, is a city commissioner.”

  I nod and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I hear you’re investigating the disappearance of that poor Shane McMillan.”

  I nod again.

  Vicki with an i has a reputation of inserting herself into issues and events and situations that have nothing to do with her and would be far better if she left it that way. She and her daughter are perpetually on social media and run a number of Facebook groups, ostensibly for selling and trading items and notifying citizens of upcoming events in the community, but actually used for spreading gossip and manufacturing drama more than anything else.

  “You may not know, but my Kimmy and I run a number of community service–related Facebook groups.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “We’re on social media a lot and really have a sense of where the community is in its thinking, and the pulse of the town points to that Megan Stripling having something to do with Shane’s disappearance. Did you see what she posted on her page last night?”

  “No.”

  “Read like a confession to me. My Kimmy goes to school with her and says she’s always been sort of sad and disturbed. Anyway, she tried to post on a couple of our Wewa pages, but we wouldn’t let her.”

  “What was she trying to post?”

  “Asking for prayers and support and for everyone downstream to keep an eye out for Shane’s body.”

  “And why didn’t you let her post that?”

  “Because she’s just trying to get sympathy. She’s playin’ people—some of the same people who could be on a jury if she’s arrested.”

  “Right now all we have is a missing young man in what appears to be an accidental drowning,” I say. “Megan is no more a suspect than you are. Less so after this conversation.”

  “Wait. What?”

  12

  I call Anna on my way to the substation.

  “Hello handsome,” she says.

  “How’s my girl?”

  “Working hard to get your other girl back,” she says. “I’ll have everything ready to file first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.”