Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16)

by Michael Lister

  “Think we have to look at him for Mariah’s murder too,” I say.

  “Consider it done.”

  Frank and I walk back toward Pick’s ambulance as Merrill makes his way over to Trace’s.

  “Help me out,” Pick says to me and Frank. “I want to be on my feet before he is.”

  We do.

  “Kill my daughter and granddaughter and try to kill me at her funeral,” he says, looking over in Trace’s direction. “Well, I don’t kill so easy.”

  “Dad,” Deidra says, her voice scolding though she is smiling.

  “He’s right,” Rhonda says. “He took our daughter and our granddaughter from us. We’re burying her today, but Mariah’s been dead to us since he killed Myra. That . . . animal saw to that. We missed her entire life and then he’s gonna try to shoot us when we dare to come to her funeral. Screw that. Screw him.”

  Deidra suppresses a smile at her mom’s use of screw.

  “Don’t laugh at me, Deidra,” she says. “Do I have to use stronger language for you not to laugh at me?”

  “I wasn’t laughing at you, Mom. Hearing you talk like that made me happy. That’s all. I say screw him too.”

  40

  I wake up the next morning next to Anna.

  I drove all night to be able to. And to say it was worth it would be the understatement of the century.

  The moment my eyes blink open, she slides closer, cuddling with me.

  “Morning,” I whisper.

  “Morning. I’ve been wanting to touch you so badly it’s been driving me crazy, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Don’t ever not wake me,” I say.

  I turn to look at the girls.

  They’re not in their beds in here like they were when I slipped in here this morning.

  “Where are—”

  “Your dad and Verna took them to the park.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine?”

  I reach over and lift my phone from the nightstand. I have several texts and missed calls—three from Reggie.

  “You got in so late I wanted to let you sleep,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say, returning the phone to the nightstand.

  “And with the girls away I thought we might take advantage of some uninterrupted alone time.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “Why I didn’t call Reggie back.”

  “I wanted to give everyone a chance to share what they’ve got and go over the evidence that’s coming in,” Reggie says.

  It’s early afternoon. Arnie, Keisha, Jessica, and I are in Reggie’s office.

  “Oh, and to welcome Sleeping Beauty back from Atlanta,” she adds, smiling at me. “He’s the reason we postponed the meeting from this morning.”

  “Glad to have you back in one piece,” Arnie says. “We heard about the drive-by.”

  “Heard, hell,” Keisha says. “Watched that shit on YouTube.”

  “You, Merrill, and that GBI agent prevented a massacre,” Arnie adds. “Good work.”

  I’m not sure we did, but I thank him.

  “I’m’a need you to introduce me to that Merrill man,” Keisha says.

  We all laugh.

  “Any updates on that so far?” Reggie says.

  I shake my head. “GBI and Dekalb County Sheriff are looking into it, but nothing so far.”

  “Shame the shooter didn’t at least clip a few of those reporters,” Keisha says.

  “From what they’re reporting,” Arnie says, “they know a lot more about our case than we do.”

  “Shit they’re sayin’ is vile,” Keisha says. “All of ’em too. It’s like there’s only one kind of journalism anymore—tabloid.”

  “Can’t let verifiable truth get in the way of entertainment,” I say.

  “They’re makin’ it near ’bout impossible for us to make a case,” Keisha says. “And forget finding a jury who hasn’t been tainted.”

  “Well, we’re gonna build a case and we’re going to take the killer to trial,” Reggie says, “so let’s get to it. Who wants to start?”

  “I will,” Jessica says.

  “Okay.”

  “Only prints in the safe room are Roger Garrett’s and Justin Harris’s,” she says. “And there’s no other physical evidence in it—no blood or . . . nothing to indicate the killer was in there before or after Mariah’s murder.”

  “Everywhere we turn, every new piece of evidence we find or don’t find,” Keisha says, “makes it look like the killer was someone staying in the house that night.”

  Reggie nods. “I agree.”

  “I think I may have something,” Arnie says, “and if I’m right about it, it could be evidence of an intruder or not—could go either way.”

  “What’s that?” Reggie asks.

  “Remember the little metal pieces found on the floor in Mariah’s bedroom?”

  “Yeah,” Reggie says.

  “They’re still at the lab,” Jessica says.

  “Here’s a picture of them,” he says, and passes around an evidence photo of the small flat piece of metal with the small cylindrical piece beside it.

  “Now look at this,” he says, and passes another photo showing two similar pieces.

  “They’re the same, right?”

  Reggie Nods.

  Jessica says, “Look the same to me.”

  “That flat piece is a blast door,” Arnie says. “The little round thing is part of a probe. They’re from a taser.”

  “Great work, Arnie,” I say. “Really nice. That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Nice job, partner,” Keisha says.

  “Yes,” Reggie says. “Very nice. So . . . hopefully we’ll get prints or DNA or something from it, but . . . in the meantime the use of a taser argues for an intruder, right?”

  “You’d think anyone in the house—except maybe Irvin and Brett could just tell Mariah what to do and she’d do it,” Keisha says. “Trace, Ashley, and Nadine—I mean, she’d do what they told her to, wouldn’t she?”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Arnie says.

  “So maybe there was an intruder,” Reggie says. “But with no break-in . . .”

  “We’re back to someone with a key or someone hiding in the house after the party,” Keisha says.

  “John?” Reggie says. “What’s that look? What’re you thinking?”

  “Two things,” I say. “That it doesn’t necessarily point to an intruder or Brett or Irvin—though it might. It could just be part of the killer’s sick fantasy or some form of punishment, a desire to control or inflict pain prior to death.”

  “True,” Keisha says, “so it could be Trace playing some sick sexual game or Ashley being punitive in some sick way.”

  “But,” I say, “and this is by far the more important point. There’s absolutely no evidence in Mariah’s autopsy that a taser was used on her.”

  41

  “Saw you on YouTube,” Randa Raffield says.

  I’m driving home for the day, bone-weary and mentally exhausted, the slash pines lining the rural highway seen through my raindrop-dotted windshield all running together.

  It has been a while since she’s called—so long, in fact, that when I saw the call was from an unknown number I didn’t even consider it might be her. Of course that could have something to do with the weariness as well.

  “You did just fine,” she adds, “but Merrill was particularly impressive.”

  “Yes he was.”

  “Makes you wonder why he didn’t do a better job of protecting Daniel, doesn't it? Was he just having an off night or am I just that good?”

  “He’d welcome a rematch anytime,” I say.

  “Speaking of Daniel . . . How’s our boy doing? He missing mama yet? Give him my love, would you?”

  I don’t respond.

  The drizzling rain intensifies a bit and I turn my wipers up a notch.

  “Well anyway,” she says, “I was ju
st calling to ask for your autograph now that you’re all internet famous and shit. And to make sure we’re square.”

  “Square?”

  “Since I returned ol’ Dan. Wanted to make sure you were keeping your end of the bargain and not still looking for me.”

  “We’re nothing like square,” I say. “And we’ve never had a bargain, but you don’t even keep the ones you make without my agreement. But I’ll be honest with you . . . I’m not actively looking for you right now.”

  “Got your hands full, do you?”

  “Little bit, yeah.”

  “Well, it’s for the best,” she says. “There’s no extradition here. It’s why I’m here. And I’d hate to see you throw a lot of effort after futility.”

  “That’s sweet of you, thanks.”

  “I like you, John,” she says. “Always have. That’s why I want you to leave me alone. Don’t want to have to tussle with you or wind up hurting someone you love. And let’s face it, you love a lot of people. You’re obviously not Buddhist, are you? By my calculations you’ve got more than your share of woes.”

  I smile, appreciating her allusion to statement attributed to the Buddha that He who loves 50 people has 50 woes. He who loves no one has no woes.

  “Makes you very vulnerable,” she says.

  “In one sense, sure. But in another just the opposite.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You sayin’ you have no woes?” I ask. “That’d be a very sad way to live.”

  “I’m not a—Do you think I’m a sociopath, John? Do you? I’m not. I feel. I love. I have a conscience. And just because it’s not calibrated the same as yours doesn’t make it bad.”

  “Never said anything like that. Never would. I’m certainly not saying my calibration is any better than anyone else’s. You seem a little touchy about it, though. Might be something to look into.”

  “I might just do that,” she says, “while I’m sipping on Sex on the Beaches and soaking in the sun, I’ll give it some thought. Oh, and I’ll be thinking about your Black JonBenét case too. That’s what those fucks are callin’ it, you know. Anyway, if you need help with it just let me know.”

  42

  “The prints are the nightmare we thought they’d be,” Jessica says. “But there doesn’t seem to be any real big surprises. Not really.”

  It’s later that night and she’s calling because Reggie told her to the moment she had gone over the results. So instead of waiting until the next morning and telling us all at the same time in the office, she is calling all four of us individually and going over it with us.

  “Lay it on me,” I say.

  “The nightmare part is just how very many prints there are,” she says. “Hundreds. Because of the party, I guess. We’ve identified some of those—the ones of family and friends who we printed and got writing samples from—but there are hundreds more that we don’t have matches for. A defense team would have a field day with it. We’ve got the guest list, but I haven’t heard if we’re going to try to print everyone on it or not. That’s a Reggie call, but . . . can’t imagine it will do much good. No way we can find them all. And what about the crashers? We don’t even know who they are.”

  I think about what she’s saying and what we might do about it.

  “And evidently some guests toured the house while at the party,” she says. “Their prints aren’t just downstairs. They’re on all three levels—Ashley’s mother and brother, Arlene and Hank, Jr., but they’re not in her bedroom, just the hallway, doorjambs, staircase, bathrooms, things like that.”

  “Okay,” I say, “we’ll get to the broader house, but let’s start with Nicole’s room.”

  “Nicole?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Mariah’s.”

  “Who’s Nicole?”

  “Sorry about that,” I say. “A victim in another case. Certain things about Mariah remind me of her. Been thinking about her and . . . Let’s zoom in on Mariah’s room first, then pull back and look at the rest of the house.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Like I said, no huge surprises. Of course Mariah’s are all over, as are Brett’s.”

  “There are a lot of Brett’s?” I ask.

  “Nearly as many as Mariah’s,” she says. “There are less but still a good bit of Trace’s, Ashley’s—and probably more of Nadine’s than the two of theirs put together. The aunt’s are on the picture frame and earrings like she told you.”

  While I was in Atlanta I got fingerprints and handwriting samples from Nadine, Deidra, Pick, Rhonda, and a couple of Trace’s friends and bodyguards who were at the party on the third.

  “Andy Finch’s,” she continues, “Ronnie Wyric’s, and Arnie’s are also in the room—mostly on the doorjamb.”

  “Can’t believe they didn’t wear gloves,” I say. “But I didn’t think Andy went in—oh, I guess when he first searched the house. Okay.”

  “There’s a lot of one other as-yet-unidentified set of prints,” she says. “And they’re pretty much all over the place.”

  “From a smaller hand?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “I figure that’s from the little boy from next door who played with them,” I say. “Caden Stevens. I’ll get his prints when I interview him.”

  “Great. I’ll get them processed and compared when you do.”

  “How about Irvin?” I ask.

  “One partial.”

  “So he was in there at some point.”

  “Yep. Now, the entire house was cleaned before the family arrived—and we have several of the maid’s prints everywhere, including Mariah’s room and bathroom—so . . . I was surprised to see some of both the owner and rental agent in her room.”

  “They found both Roger Garrett’s and Justin Harris’s prints in Mariah’s bedroom?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thought you said there weren’t any big surprises?”

  “Well, it’s not like we found the Zodiac’s or OJ’s.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Justin’s are sort of all over the place—it’s that way in the rest of the house too—on and round both the bedroom and the bathroom doors, on the bed, one the—”

  “All the beds or just Mariah’s?”

  “Just Mariah’s. On the wall near her bed and the windowsill on the left.”

  “Where were Garrett’s?” I ask.

  “Partial palm print on the bedside table,” she says.

  “Was it in a place that the maid might miss when she cleans?”

  “No, not really. It was right there on the top front like he leaned on it. They way you’d expect if he were maybe leaning down over the bed. And there’s another thing that makes it very suspicious—there’s not a single other print of his in the entire house—not even the safe room.”

  “Sometime,” I say, “we’re gonna have to talk about your definition of big surprises.”

  43

  That night I dream of JonBenét.

  I’m a detective assigned to her case.

  I’m in conflict with my colleagues over what I perceive as their too-narrow focus and the influence they’re letting the media have on the investigation.

  Walking through the house. JonBenét beside me. Alive. Helping me solve her murder. She is who she was before she was killed and doesn’t know who killed her any more than I do.

  Unlike the media portrayal of her, she is and acts like a typical kid. Active. Energetic. Entertaining.

  Suddenly she is with me in Roger Garrett’s mansion on Cape San Blas.

  She’s motioning for me to bend down to tell me a secret.

  I know who killed Mariah, she whispers.

  Who?

  The bad, bad man.

  With no warning or transition, I am back in the Ramsey home in Boulder, but this time Mariah is leading me through the house.

  Do you know who killed JonBenét? I ask.

  The bad, bad man, she says. He killed me too.

  Not the same man, I say. You don’t mean tha
t.

  No, not the same. I don’t mean that.

  We climb a spiral staircase.

  John, why do the innocent suffer? Why is there so much pain in this world?

  I shake my head. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I wish I did. I wish I could take it back, make it stop, undo what has been done, but I can’t. And I can’t explain it. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I can’t.

  I feel terrible regret and guilt at not being able to give her the answer she seeks. I feel as though I should be able to and it bothers me more than I can that I can’t.

  Do you think it’ll do any good to catch who killed me?

  I do, I say. Will it not? Am I wrong? I believe it will help or I wouldn’t be doing it.

  Won’t help me, she says.

  No, It won’t help you. Do you not want me to?

  I wanted to live, she says, wistfully. To love a boy. To get my ears pierced. To learn to drive. To make a record of my own one day. Just to live.

  Tears start streaming down my cheeks.

  Anna and I are at dinner. We’re talking about adopting Mariah as a way of saving her, removing her from the environment and situation that led to her death.

  And then—

  Then I’m awake and my cheeks are damp and my heart hurts and I feel as if I’m in a shroud of deep darkness and sadness I can’t slough off.

  44

  “I miss you man,” I say. “How much longer you gonna be up there?”

  It’s the next morning and I’m talking to Merrill by phone on my drive out to the Cape to meet Justin Harris and Roger Garrett.

  “Was supposed to already be back,” he says, “but after the shooting at the funeral home, he asked me to stay on a couple’a extra days. Said I would, but . . . not sure how long any this gonna last. They’s all kinds of trouble in paradise.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Miss Nadine quit,” he says. “Already gone.”

  “She told me she was done, that she had only been there for Mariah.”

  “Yeah. I think it hit her harder than anyone.”

  “Told me it was like losing her own daughter,” I say.