Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16)

by Michael Lister

  “Can you think of anyone who might have killed her?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Absolutely not. She was a small child for God’s sakes. Who kills a child? I mean, really. Who? The mentally deranged, right? I have no idea who it could be. I don’t think I know anyone capable of something like that.”

  When the rain comes, the wind comes with it, blowing the cold raindrops in at an angle on us under the porch.

  Since I need to talk to Brett next anyway, we make a dash for her mom’s sad little house.

  And that’s when I see it.

  As she’s running and as we dry off inside her mom’s mudroom, the ends of her sleeves and pant cuffs shift enough for me to see what’s beneath them.

  They are light and they are subtle, but they are there.

  In addition to all her other tattoos, Ashley Howard has images of ropes around her wrists and ankles not unlike the ones around the dead body of Mariah when she was found.

  23

  “You’d think with all the money they have, she’d buy her mom a decent place to live, wouldn’t you?”

  The question comes from Arlene LaFontaine, Ashley’s mom, as we are drying off.

  She yells it from the recliner in the living room, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and cats.

  “I keep telling her it’s Trace’s money, not mine,” Ashley says to me, “but it doesn’t matter.”

  From the small, dim kitchen that smells of poorly ventilated propane, Ashley’s brother says, “I told you we don’t need any of that . . . man’s money, Ma. Not that he’d share it with us anyway. Hell, I don’t think he gives much to Ashley. Besides, I’ve got some things that are about to come through. We’re gonna be fine.”

  Ashley rolls her eyes. “He’s had some things about to come through for a decade now. He’s just like them.”

  The small, dingy house is cluttered and unclean, and has the sour smell of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and cat urine.

  “Brett,” Ashley calls, raising her voice. “Honey, come here.”

  To me she says, “We can talk in the dining room.”

  She leads me into the living room where her overweight and whiskey-old mom in ill-fitting Dollar Store clothes is watching a rerun of Murder, She Wrote a little too loudly.

  “I always say . . . I like this town just fine,” Arlene says, “but if Jessica Fletcher ever moves here, I’m gone. Everywhere she goes there’s a murder.”

  “It’s because she’s a serial killer,” I say. “That’s her thing. She frames other people for her kills.”

  “Huh?” she says, squinting up at me beneath a tangle of too early graying hair.

  “Nothin’, Ma,” Hank says from the kitchen. “He was pulling your leg.”

  Hank Howard, Jr. comes to the doorway of the kitchen in sweatpants and a wife beater, a frying pan in one hand, a spatula in the other. A few years Ashley’s junior, he looks to be about twenty years older.

  “You guys want some eggs?” he says. “I’m making some eggs.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” I say.

  Ashley shakes her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missin’. I put some cheese and cayenne in them. Ask little Brett if he wants some.”

  “He’s allergic to dairy and doesn’t like spicy food,” Ashley says.

  “Oh. Okay. More for me and Ma.”

  “Where is he?” Ashley says. “Brett. Come in here, honey.”

  A skinny, young, blond boy appears at the opening to the hallway.

  “Where were you, baby?”

  “In my room.”

  “Oh, it’s your room now, is it?” Hank yells from the kitchen.

  “Come in the dining room, honey,” Ashley says. “This policeman has some questions to ask you about Mariah.”

  She leads the two of us into the small dining room and the three of us sit at the far end of the table—as far away from the living room and Arlene, Hank, and Jessica Fletcher as we can get—which is not nearly far enough.

  “I’m very sorry about what happened to Mariah,” I say. “I’m trying to find out exactly what that was and why. Do you mind answering some questions for me?”

  He shrugs.

  “It’s okay, baby,” Ashley says. “Just like we talked about. Answer the questions for Mommy, okay?”

  “Did you like Mariah?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Was she fun to play with?”

  He shrugs again but then nods too.

  “She . . . didn’t like . . . video games,” he says.

  “Brett loves video games,” Ashley says. “They’re his favorite thing to do.”

  “You do?” I say.

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Right now . . . ah . . . Minecraft.”

  “Cool.”

  “You ever played it?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not yet, but I hear everybody talking about it. Should I try it?”

  He nods. “Uh huh. It’s the best.”

  “You build things with it, right?” Ashley says.

  He nods.

  “Can we talk about Mariah?” I say. “Are you sad about what happened to her?”

  He hesitates, looks at his mom, then nods.

  “Do you know what happened to her or who might have done it?”

  He shakes his head, glances at his mom, then shakes it more vigorously.

  “Did you enjoy the party the night before the Fourth?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “What did y’all do when you went upstairs?”

  “Played.”

  “Who played what?”

  He shrugs and twists his lips and raises his eyebrows. “Not sure . . . what all. I played Minecraft.”

  “I’m tellin’ you he’s obsessed with that game,” Ashley says.

  “Anybody play it with you?”

  “Caden for a little while then he left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Again the shrug. “Play with Mariah I think. She and Miss Nadine were playin’ Connect Four or somethin’. Said he didn’t just want to sit and watch me play Minecraft.”

  “You didn’t let him have a turn?” Ashley asks.

  “Wasn’t his turn yet.”

  “We always let the guest go first, okay?” she says. “From now on.”

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you enjoy the fireworks in town the next night?”

  He shrugs again, and I wonder why he doesn’t have more developed shoulder and neck muscles.

  “Did you hear anything after y’all came in from launching fireworks on the beach?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “You either do or you don’t, baby,” Ashley says. “Tell the detective everything you can remember.”

  “Miss Nadine said you were still up when she went to bed,” I say.

  “She’s not supposed to do that,” Ashley says. “Go to bed while they’re still awake.”

  “She said you were playing video games in your room,” I say. “How late did you stay up?”

  He shrugs again. “Not sure. Not too late. I was tired, but wanted to play some Minecraft before I went to sleep.”

  “Did anything happen?” I ask. “Did you leave your room for any reason?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Did you see anyone? Hear anything?”

  He shakes his head. “Not while I was playing, but . . . after I laid down.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “I thought I heard—something woke me up. I thought it was Mariah. Sometimes we’d get up and sneak downstairs for snacks or to go play on the beach.”

  “While we were asleep?” Ashley says. “Did the nanny go with you?”

  He nods at her first questions and shakes his head at the second.

  “Was it Mariah?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No one was there. I then heard a noise like maybe she was on the stairs. Figured she tried
to wake me then went down without me. I don’t know.”

  “Was anyone else ever around when y’all went out and played at night?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Sometimes Caden or Beau would meet us.”

  “Caden Stevens the boy staying next door?” I ask.

  He nods. “He and Mariah liked each other.”

  “They did?”

  “More than they liked me.”

  “They just liked playing different games,” Ashley says. “It’s not you. They like you.”

  “Who is Beau?”

  “His family was staying on the other side of our place, but they left before the Fourth,” Ashley says. “I’m not even sure of his last name.”

  “Did you get up to go see if it was Mariah on the stairs?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Did you hear the elevator being used that night?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Did you hear or see anything else that night?” I ask. “Anything at all?”

  He shrugs. “No, sir.”

  “Nothing?” Ashley asks. “You sure?”

  He nods. “I thought I saw a man pass by out in the hallway,” he says, “but it was just a dream. Nobody was there.”

  “When?” she asks before I can. “What’d he look like? Why didn’t you tell Mommy?”

  “It was just a bad dream.”

  “Why do you think it was a dream?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “It’s important,” I say. “Please try to remember. Why did you think it was just dream?”

  “His . . . face. He . . . he didn’t have a face.”

  “What do you mean, sweetie?” Ashley says.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I . . . Sometimes in bad dreams people don’t have faces.”

  “Sometimes in real life too,” I say.

  24

  “What do you think he meant?” Anna asks. “A man with no face.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He really could have just been dreaming. Could’ve been part of a nightmare.”

  “But if he wasn’t,” she says. “If he really saw someone.”

  “A mask maybe,” I say.

  On my way back to a meeting with Reggie, Arnie, and Keisha, I’ve made a quick detour by our home to kiss my wife.

  We’re standing in the shade of the oak trees near the end of our driveway—oak trees still wet from the afternoon shower, their bark dark with water, raindrops glistening on their leaves, dripping intermittently onto the damp soil below.

  Inside our home, while Taylor naps, Johanna is helping Sam and Daniel pack. When Anna and I finish making out and talking, we‘ll go in to see them and wake Taylor up.

  We’re all going to miss Sam and Daniel living with us—probably far more than any of us even realize.

  “If the hallway was dark and the killer had on a black ski mask . . .” she says.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “That could absolutely be it. Or one of those Halloween masks that are blank—featureless, colorless, expressionless.”

  “Does a mask mean someone broke in?” she says.

  “It could,” I say. “Can’t be sure he even saw it, but if he really did . . . I’d say that might mean it was more likely an intruder. Of course, there’s no evidence of a break in and until all the evidence is processed, we won’t know if there’s anything at all to indicate even the possibility someone else was in the house.”

  “Of course the presence of a mask doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t someone from inside the house,” she says.

  “True.”

  “Someone sick enough to tie up and murder a child like that . . .”

  “Mask could be part of his fantasy,” I say. “Or ritual. And if he didn’t plan on killing her, it could’ve been to conceal his identity.”

  “Someone from inside the house or an intruder,” she says, “who does something like this?”

  It’s rhetorical, which is good, because it’s not a question I can answer.

  Though it is generally accepted that there are three theories and five reasons for why parents kill their children, they don’t begin to touch on the inexplicable evil that is filicide.

  The three theories are mental illness, abnormally high levels of testosterone, and unwanted offspring.

  There are five major reasons for filicide.

  Altruism—the parent kills the child because of the belief that it is in their best interest.

  Acute psychosis—the parent murders the child based on a belief not consistent with reality, such as the child is evil or dangerous.

  An unwanted child—the parent kills the child because he or she is considered to be an undue burden or hindrance.

  Accident—the child’s death is unintentional or an unintended consequence of parental physical abuse.

  Spousal revenge—the parent kills the child as an act of aggression or spite against the other parent.

  As sound and sort of obvious as these theories and reasons are, they are powerless to explain what is beyond comprehension.

  “With or without the mask,” she says, “he’s a monster.”

  25

  “So the ropes used to tie up Mariah . . . ” Jessica says.

  “Before we get to that,” I say. “I don’t see an iPod listed among Mariah’s things or in the evidence inventory log.”

  Jessica shakes her head. “There wasn’t one.”

  “Ashley says she had one that she used like a phone—could text with it, which she was evidently doing all the time.”

  “It wasn’t in the house,” Jessica says. “Not anywhere.”

  “Then we’ve got to assume her killer took it,” Reggie says. “Must have something incriminating on it.”

  We all grow quiet as we think about it and make a note of it for our case files.

  “So . . . the ropes . . .” Jessica says.

  “Yes,” Reggie says.

  “They’re Shibari or Japanese bondage ropes. Black. Soft cotton. Imported from Japan. Ten meters long. Eight millimeters in diameter.”

  Of all sexual bondage, Japanese bondage is considered by many to be the most artistic and beautiful.

  “The package the ropes come in says that it’s multifunctional,” Jessica says, then looks down at her notes. “‘This rope can be used for tying luggage, bedroom fantasies, games, sewing, craft projects, costume playing and organizing. It’s also great as a soft bondage rope for adult restraint fun.’”

  “Funny how they put that as almost an afterthought,” Keisha says.

  “Yeah,” Jessica says, “these are made for one thing and one thing only—and it ain’t tying up luggage.”

  Arnie, Keisha, Jessica, and I are with Reggie in her office, discussing the case, sharing what we’ve found with the others.

  Arnie, whose face is flushed, appears particularly uncomfortable.

  Jessica passes around crime scene photos of Mariah once the blanket she had been wrapped in had been removed.

  Thankfully, and surprisingly, Mariah is in her bathing suit.

  “Five ropes were used on Mariah,” Jessica says. “Three full lengths and two half lengths. Her ankles were bound together and her wrists bound together behind her back, then the two were tied to each other. Then what is known as a harness was tied around her chest, upper arms, and neck.”

  The photographs show a young girl who appears to be sleeping, bound by elaborately wrapped and knotted ropes. Both the types of ropes and the way they’re tied are obviously sexual, and would look artistic and erotic on an adult female form, but on a child they look simultaneously absurd and abhorrent.

  “What kind of sick, sadistic fuck would do shit like this to a child?” Keisha says.

  “That is the question,” Reggie says.

  I notice Arnie passes the pictures without looking at them, and keeps his gaze averted from wherever the photos might be.

  “You okay?” Reggie asks.

  “I can’t look at this,” Arnie says.

 
“We have to,” Reggie says.

  “I can’t. You can reassign me if you want to, but I just can’t. I saw some of it at the scene, but I can’t look at it any more. I have a granddaughter about her age and . . .”

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  “You’re having a normal reaction,” I say. “None of us want to look at them. It’s okay.”

  “You don’t have to look at them,” Reggie says. “It’s fine.”

  “I won’t look away,” Keisha says. “I want them seared into my brain so that the only thing that can replace it is the guy who did it shot in the face.”

  “This looks pretty elaborate,” I say. “Not just the position of the ropes, but the way the knots are tied. I’m assuming this would take some time and have to be done by someone who has done this before.”

  Jessica nods. “Looks more complicated than it is, but obviously someone would have to know what they’re doing. Probably done it before. Or read about it. Tons of videos online tell you just how to do it. There are three common knots from bondage that are used—the overhand, the reef or square not, and the Lark’s Head.”

  “They’re common to other things too,” Arnie says.

  Jessica nods.

  “Are we thinking this is some sick sexual crime and that the murder may or may not have been part of the original plan?” Keisha says.

  “It’s obviously sexual,” Reggie says. “And according to the ME she was molested.”

  “But not around the time of her death,” I say.

  “Based on what the ME said,” Keisha adds, “maybe he was intending to molest or rape her but something made him kill her before he could.”

  “She could’ve been unconscious and woke up and began to scream or fight him,” Reggie says.

  “The question is,” Keisha says, “does that argue more for an intruder or someone already in the house?”

  “Like John pointed out,” Reggie says, “this would take a while—which would seem to point toward someone in the house. But it has to be someone who knows how to do it.”

  “Hopefully when we get the DNA results back on the ropes, it’ll tell us who it was,” Jessica says, “but—”