Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “True. We do know it’s human blood and it matches Shane’s blood type, so it’s probably his, but we won’t know for sure until we find him and run the DNA. Just wanted you to know while you were still talking to them.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “I’m headed back down to the landing,” she says. “Call me if anything . . .”

  “I’ll see you down there when I finish up here.”

  “Did your Jet Ski strike Shane on the head?” I ask.

  Megan breaks down and begins to sob.

  I wait.

  “Is that what killed him?” she asks eventually.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “It was just a stupid accident,” she says, sniffling. “I was being stupid. I . . . I just wanted to show him I could be fun and free-spirited like whoever he’s interested in now. I was showing off—the way they were. But I was buzzin’ and my perception was a little off and I got too close and . . . well . . . I just barely grazed him. He seemed fine. Please, please, please tell me that’s not what . . . killed him.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it before?” I say.

  “I’ve been trying to block it out,” she says. “Part of me was hoping it really didn’t happen at all, that I just . . . I don’t know . . . imagined it. And I honestly didn’t think it had anything to do with . . . anything.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “During the race. What do you mean?”

  “When exactly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where were they—on the way over to the houseboat, on the way back? Closer to one side of the river than the other?”

  “Oh. Only a little over halfway over on the way to the houseboat,” she says. “I was being so stupid. I chilled after that, though. Stayed close to them in case they needed help and to watch for boats coming, but no more stupid stunts, no more trying to get his attention.”

  “So after it happened, he still swam half the way over and all the way back?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, it was just a graze. Barely touched him. I think.”

  “But you couldn’t really tell from up on the Jet Ski, could you?”

  She hesitates. “No, I guess not. I . . . just . . . It didn’t seem bad at all and he didn’t act like it was and said he was fine. I asked him a lot. I tried to get him to quit the silly race and get on the Jet Ski with me, but . . . he said he didn’t even feel it.”

  “Oh, he felt it,” Cody says. “He was trying to act all Rambo and shit. She could’a hit him with a fuckin’ Mack Truck and he’a acted like it didn’t hurt.”

  “But he was able to finish the race,” I say. “And win.”

  “On pride, ego, and adrenaline, but yeah, he was. And maybe it really didn’t hurt him. He acted fine. He just . . . always acted like nothing hurt him, so . . . you know . . . it was hard to tell.”

  “How long after the race was it before you got out of the river?”

  “We stayed in for a while, sort of holding on to the dock and catching our breath, letting Shane brag about what a badass he is for . . . a few minutes. Ten maybe. I got out. Shane stayed in. It was the last time I ever saw him.”

  “How long between you getting out and y’all noticing he was missing?”

  “I walked up the metal part of the dock, stopped on the wooden platform, called a girl about a party that was supposed to take place last night out on Road 5. Talked to her a few minutes. Then walked the rest of the way up. I was tired. Moving slow. I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “How were you feeling?” I ask. “Besides tired. How were your muscles? Your head?”

  “I was exhausted. Cramping. Hurting. Felt like shit.”

  “How much had y’all had to drink?” I say. “What all had y’all taken?”

  “More than we should if we were going to do that stupid shit,” he says. “I don’t know. Maybe four or five beers.”

  “Each?”

  “Each.”

  “Shane too?”

  He nods.

  “What else?”

  “Some Xanbars.”

  A benzodiazepine used for the treatment of anxiety and insomnia, a Xanbar is a long thin pill that has four sections—essentially four Xanax per pill or bar. Taken with alcohol, it really relaxes the muscles, provides a nice tipsy buzz, and a very clean drunk.

  “How much? The entire bar? A fourth of it? What?”

  “We had a few. I don’t know exactly how they got split up.”

  “Did Megan and Swolle have any?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because,” I say, “memory loss is one of the main side effects of it. Most people don’t remember much of anything after taking it. Calls into question everything each of you has said.”

  “Well, I remember everything. I—”

  “Did Shane take some of the Xanbar too?”

  He nods. “He had at least one.”

  “One fourth or one whole bar?”

  “One bar, I think.”

  “So with very relaxed muscles and a full-on drunk going, y’all swam across the river and back?”

  “We felt good. It wasn’t a—”

  “And the drugs were yours?”

  “You said it wasn’t an issue,” he says. “Said I had impunity.”

  “Immunity.”

  “Yeah.”

  “For the drug possession charge, sure,” I say. “But not for Shane’s death.”

  “Shane’s death?”

  “Sure. That much alcohol and drugs in his system. Probably what made him go under in the first place. Probably what caused him to drown.”

  My phone rings as he starts to object.

  It’s Reggie.

  I step out of the conference room to take it.

  “Can you pause the interviews and come to the landing?” she says. “Fast as you can.”

  “On my way. What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a body,” she says. “But it’s the wrong one. And it’s bad.”

  16

  Racing toward the river, I call Anna and tell her what’s happening.

  “So they found a body, but not Shane’s?” she says.

  “What it sounds like. She didn’t say much.”

  “Wonder who it could be?” she says. “There haven’t been any missing persons reports filed recently, have there?”

  “There haven’t.”

  “Who goes missing without anyone noticing? Or caring.”

  “Well find out.”

  “How’d the interviews go?”

  I tell her.

  “So stupid,” she says.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  “Wonder how much of it even happened,” I say. “If they took what Cody said they did, as much as he said they did, they wouldn’t remember much.”

  We are quiet a moment.

  Long before we were together I had discussed details of my cases with Anna, had always benefited from bouncing ideas around, having her listen and question and provide perspectives and insight, but now that we’re together it’s been taken to a whole new level. Now we share everything. Now she’s who I call every free moment I have, in between everything, and she’s who I get to go home to, climb into bed with, the one I get to whisper late into the night with.

  “I’m so grateful to have you,” I say. “To share everything with. And I will never take it for granted.”

  “Go ahead,” she says, “take it for granted. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I smile. “Me either. Not willingly.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” she says, “willingly or otherwise. Be careful. All the time.”

  “I am,” I say. “Maybe even too careful these days.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. Are you at the landing yet or do you have a minute for me to tell you what I found? Actually it won’t take but a second. Whatever Megan posted on Facebook or any other social media
I could find is gone. Every bit of it erased. And it looks like the boys haven’t posted anything. If they did, it’s gone too. But what is on all of their pages and on their friends’ pages are tons of comments and questions and even accusations about what happened. People are ripping Megan apart, calling her a stalker and a killer. The Jet Ski Assassin. The Apalachicola River Ripper.”

  “Shit. The stupid . . . ignorant . . . hateful . . . Social media is the new mob, isn’t it?”

  “All they need are emoticon pitchforks.”

  I arrive at the landing to find Reggie, Ralph, and a FWC officer named Nichols waiting for me.

  They are standing near the mobile command unit.

  “This is Nick Nichols with FWC,” Reggie says. “This is John Jordan, my new investigator.”

  FWC is the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, the state agency in charge of managing and regulating Florida’s wildlife and enforcing the pertinent laws. If there’s a body in the river, they have jurisdiction.

  “John,” he says, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “FWC has turned it over to us,” Reggie says. “I’ve called in FDLE and the ME.”

  FDLE is the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the state agency formed in 1967 that answers directly to the governor and is composed of five areas: Executive Direction and Business Support, Criminal Investigations and Forensic Science, Criminal Justice Information, Criminal Justice Professionalism, and Florida Capitol Police. FDLE works closely with local law enforcement, offering support and resources local agencies don’t have.

  The ME or medical examiner of the 14th Judicial District has offices in Panama City but covers Bay, Calhoun, Gulf, Holmes, Jackson, and Washington counties. His job is to provide medical examiner services, including investigations, autopsies, and the issuing of death certificates, to criminal justice, law enforcement, insurance agencies, funeral homes, and the general public.

  “Turned over what?” I say. “What do we have?”

  Ralph says, “Our side-scan sonar found a body on the bottom. Cadaver dog confirmed. We dragged the area. Hooked the body. Thought it was the McMillan boy at first, but it’s not. When we got it to the surface and saw what we had, we left it right there and called y’all. Usually we gather the boats around so the family or media can’t see anything, then load the body—we have a boat with a side gate we can pull the body right up onto—then we take it to the next landing down so the family doesn’t see it in that condition. But when it’s an obvious homicide, we stop right where we are—because at that point the body is the crime scene—and we don’t do anything else until y’all tell us to.”

  My question still hasn’t been answered.

  “So we have an obvious homicide victim that’s not Shane?” I say.

  “We have a ritualistic sexual killing,” Reggie says. “Female victim. Been in the water a while. Maybe a week. Maybe more.”

  “Never seen anything like it,” Ralph says. “And I’ve been doin’ this a while.”

  “None of us have,” Reggie says.

  Nick shakes his head. “That poor girl.”

  “Her poor parents,” Reggie adds.

  “What did he do to her?”

  Ralph rushes to get it out and I can’t tell if it’s because of what he’s saying or because he wants to be the one to say it. “Fashioned a metal bar cross and crucified her face down on it and made it so that it’s fuckin’ her.”

  17

  While we’re waiting for FDLE and the ME to arrive, I start to walk across the landing to where Tommy is standing, but I stop when I see the sad look on Ralph’s face, the vacant stare in his eyes.

  “You okay?”

  He nods, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes.

  “Just . . . I . . . Every time we find something down here . . . every single time . . . I expect it to be Ronnie. I know it’s crazy. Wouldn’t be anything but bones now, but . . . I just keep hoping. Just keep looking.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what you go through every time you’re out here helping others.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut tight, a little moisture popping out on each side, and swallows hard.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I just . . . I don’t want people to forget him. I don’t even care if they call him Red Face Raffield. Just don’t forget him, don’t forget he’s down there somewhere.”

  Tommy is near the picnic pavilion rehydrating before returning to searching for Shane.

  When he sees me, he starts in my direction, putting us well away from anyone else.

  We hug and I ask how he’s doing.

  “Numb,” he says. “Just past the point, you know? Sure it’s a combination of shock, grief, and exhaustion.”

  I nod and frown and express my sympathy again.

  He looks around us, then lowers his voice a little. “I heard they found something. Is it Shane?”

  I follow his gaze out to the spot where the three search and rescue boats are gathered waiting for us.

  When he looks back at me I shake my head.

  “They didn’t find something or it’s not Shane?”

  “It’s not Shane.”

  Tears fill his eyes again. “They won’t tell me much. And the only help they let me provide is way away from the main search.”

  They don’t want you finding him, I think. I don’t want you to either.

  “They got me searching the woods, following the sandy hills down to the banks.”

  I nod. “I’ll tell you anything I can,” I say. “Anything I find out. But just know if you’re not told something, no one is keeping information about Shane from you. There just isn’t any yet.”

  “Speaking of information,” he says. “Have you heard what people are sayin’ in town and on Facebook?”

  “What?”

  “All kinds of stuff. That Megan killed him, actually ran over him with her Jet Ski. That all of them did it or maybe it was an accident, but they are covering it up together. That Shane was part of some secret military project and was assassinated and that’s why there’s no body.”

  “I’m so sorry you have to hear all that,” I say. “I promise when there’s something real I’ll tell you.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I get back to the group, the FDLE agent has arrived.

  The FDLE agent’s name is Samantha Michaels. She goes by Sam. She’s slight—blonde, pale, petite, diminutive—but carries herself as if she’s not.

  “I know you,” she says, her blue eyes wide, her head cocked to the side when we’re introduced. “Used to be the chaplain at PCI.”

  “Yeah?” I say, curious.

  In the distance, near the kids’ playground, the FDLE crime scene unit pulls up and techs jump out and begin to set up.

  “Should’ve said I know of you,” Sam says. “Was told you recaptured the Phoenix when he escaped. I interviewed him for a case I was working on in the Bayshore Pine Key area. Had a ritualistic killer using fire as a weapon. Went to talk to the Phoenix about it. Fucker set me on fire in the interview room at the prison.”

  “I remember,” I say.

  “How the hell’d he do that?” Reggie asks.

  “With a single match and a tube of accelerant,” she says. “Mostly just burned my hair off, but it was traumatic.”

  “You caught the guy who was making burnt offerings of his victims,” I say. “That was very impressive.”

  Though muscular and hard-bodied, she is so small, so pale, it’s hard to imagine her fighting, let alone slaying dragons.

  “Just gave him a little taste of his own weapon,” she says.

  “You burned him?” Reggie says, her eyes widening as her brows shoot up.

  Ralph smiles and says, “That mean you’ll crucify this sick fuck?”

  18

  We are joined by the ME, a big-bellied balding black man, and a thin young white FDLE tech, and the seven of us walk down th
e dock and board the boat very near where Shane was when he vanished.

  Of the seven of us, Samantha Michaels looks out of place. So small she looks more like an as-yet-to-develop early adolescent girl than an actual adult—an adult with authority and expertise and a gun and a badge.

  Often the medical examiner’s office sends an investigator to the scene, but for this, the ME himself has come. Though FWC has jurisdiction over the water and turned it over to the sheriff’s department, and she has called in FDLE, the ME has jurisdiction over the body. And once he has finished his initial examination at the scene, it will be him who tags the body and follows the funeral home that will be transporting it back to his office or the morgue, and it will be him who conducts the autopsy.

  Once we are in and seated or holding on, the search and rescue driver ferries us the short distance out to where the three other boats are creating a barrier around the body.

  Pulling up in the rear to form the fourth wall that frames the body, the driver tosses the anchor over and ties up to the two boats nearest us.

  And then we behold the horror.

  The side gate on our boat is opened, lowering into the water, and the decaying body and the sacrilegious cross it’s attached to are hoisted on board.

  “Oh my God,” Reggie says.

  Both metal beams of the cross are small, narrow, and rectangular.

  The body is bolted to it face down, wrists at the ends of the crossbar, ankles together at the bottom of the upright bar. At various other places, including the neck, twisted strands of barbed wire eat into the pale naked flesh as they help secure body to beams.

  Young. Naked. Thin. Streaks of river bottom mud smear her skin and matt her hair.

  Someone’s little girl. Someone’s kid sister. Someone’s best friend. Someone’s girlfriend.

  Something precious to someone. Living. Breathing. Dreaming. Laughing. Planning.

  Now decaying. Now desecrated. Now defiled. Now dead. Now discarded.

  Purplish patches of fixed lividity on her back, butt, and calves. Various abrasions—many most likely from her time at the bottom of the river.