3
Susan and I were living together in an old farmhouse off of Flakes Mill Road near Ellenwood.
Though most of the farm had been divided up and sold, the house still sat on ten acres and had a huge multi-car garage in the back, which the owner’s son had built and filled with various sport cars in differing stages of restoration when he had lived here.
The house was small and drafty and had neither central air conditioning nor heat, but the rent was cheap, the rural feel refreshing, and it was less than five miles from the college I attended.
When I pulled into the small semicircle gravel drive, I could see that the lights were off in our bedroom, which meant Susan had already gone to bed.
I could feel the familiar agitation rising inside me, the tension gathering in my shoulders.
Most days this time of night when we both got home was our first and often only opportunity to spend time together and make love and she knew it. She not only knew that but knew how important it was to me. I was growing frustrated and more than a little angry at her take-it-or-leave-it, nonchalance approach to both our time alone together and lovemaking.
Instead of going to all four victim’s homes, I had only gone to one—the one that was the closest to our home—so I could get here around the time she did. And she knew it. I had told her what I was going to do and why, and still she had gone to bed.
And once she had gone to bed, that was it. She wouldn’t be getting up again. She wouldn’t welcome a visit from me into our room. She was sending a message.
I wanted her every night, but tonight, after experiencing the overwhelming sadness and loss of Cheryl Carver, I needed her, needed the warmth, affection, and connection of human interaction and intimacy, needed to feel her live heart beating beneath her bare breasts.
Immediately I began to try and work out how much vodka I had hidden in the house.
I would read the case files and work my way toward oblivion.
A makeshift office in an alcove of the second bedroom created by placing bookshelves across the opening served as my small study and library, and tonight, investigative war room.
Case notes, photographs, and newspaper clippings spread out across my folding table desk, vodka in a coffee cup, orange juice in a glass for cover, and radio playing softly in the background—at the moment Whitney Houston’s Where Do Broken Hearts Go.
The case file didn’t yet contain any information on Kathy Dady, the fourth young woman to go missing, only Cheryl Carver, Paula Nichols, and Shelly Hepola.
The pictures I had of the three women showed just how alike they were. All tall, lean, athletic, attractive without being classically pretty. They wore little to no makeup and had a certain purity and plainness about them.
“You have a type, don’t you?” I said aloud to the still faceless madman. “Why? Where does it come from? Do they all look like the same woman? Are you really doing this to her? Over and over again? Do you see her instead of them?”
As Whitney gave way to Richard Marx’s Hold On to the Nights, the cold October wind found its way through the varnished boards of the old farm house, and I slid my chair a little closer to the space heater on the floor.
Wondering where the women were crossing paths with their abductor, I checked to see if they were all from the same area or had the same profession or frequented the same places.
Cheryl was a student in Decatur. Paula was a secretary in Marietta. Shelly worked retail in Duluth. They didn’t go to the same gym or church or clubs. They didn’t attend the same high school or college.
From what was in the file there was no obvious crossing, no intersection where the women would have encountered each other or the inexplicable madness that snatched them from their lives.
Two of the three women were single, and seemed not to have a lot of friends. They appeared to be introverts leading quiet lives.
Shelly had a boyfriend and he would have to be looked at closer, but if this was what it appeared to be, it was more likely a stranger than an acquaintance of any of the women. Of course, likely is not definitely.
When I became aware of the radio again, Phil Collins was singing Groovy Kind Of Love.
As I sipped my way toward stupor I wondered where the women were. Were we dealing with a collector or a killer? Either way, where were they?
Did he have a hidden dumping ground or a basement filled with cells or cages?
I still couldn’t see his face, but if I knew which one he had, knew exactly what he was doing with his victims—rape? torture? murder?—I’d have a better sense of him. At least that was what I told myself.
The next morning I woke to the sound of a loud alarm blasting George Harrison’s I Got My Mind Set on You.
Which wasn’t a bad song to wake up to.
I was still sitting in the chair from the night before, my head lying on my arms on the folding table that served as my desk.
Susan, who had already left for her other job, had brought the alarm clock in and placed it on the tabletop beside my head, which meant she had to unplug it, move it, plug it back in, then reset both the time and the alarm—all early this morning while trying to get ready and leave for work on time.
As I sat up, I felt not only like I had had too much to drink the night before but that I had slept sitting up in an old desk chair, my head on my folded arms on a table. I was stiff and sore, my head ached, my arms asleep.
But George’s catchy, repetitive, remake compelled me to get up and get going.
Glancing around my small office space, I saw that Susan had straightened up some, returning the papers and photos to the case file, removing the cups and mostly empty vodka bottle, and picking up the various articles of clothing and shoes I had left on the floor.
Next to the case file were my textbooks and notebooks for class and a note that said she had made my lunch and left it in the fridge.
She was always doing things like this—things that provoked in me both guilt and gratitude.
I was flooded with shame and, not for the first time, wished I could skip ahead to be an older, wiser, better version of myself. I wanted to do better, to be better, and I knew I could, but I wasn’t yet and it frustrated and embarrassed me.
Reaching over and tapping the Snooze button on the clock and silencing the song that would echo in my head all day, I pushed myself up and stumbled out of my office and into my day.
After driving over and running at Panola Mountain State Park, I found myself as I had far too often lately, at Jordan Moore’s grave in Fairview Memorial Gardens, which happened to be less than a mile from my house.
The early morning sun had yet to burn the dew off the ground and the sweat on my body was quickly turning cold.
“I know I’ve got to stop coming,” I said. “And I will. I know I will. I just don’t know when yet.”
As I looked at her headstone while I talked to her, I realized what an odd thing it was to do. Perhaps something of her body still remained beneath the earth, but the headstone had nothing to do with her or her life. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d be better off going to some place we actually spent time together.
“Damn you for what you did,” I said. “Damn me for still being hung up on you.”
Miss Ida, Jordan’s stepmom, stepped out from behind the stone statue of Saint Mark and said, “Goddamn the whole mess. Every last bit of it.”
Ida Williams, a largish black woman perpetually in a traditional African print dashiki and head wrap, had a son who was murdered during the Atlanta Child Murders, and I had investigated it when I had first arrived in Atlanta back in ’86. I had actually solved the case and figured out exactly what happened to little LaMarcus, but at a price I was still paying.
“Didn’t realize you still came here,” she said.
I nodded. “Just live up the road.”
“Is she why?”
“Huh?” I asked, not following.
“Did you move out here to be close to her grave?”
I opened my mouth quickly, but nothing came out. I was unable to respond because I couldn’t admit the truth and I couldn’t lie to her.
“It ain’t my business,” she said. “I just care about you, boy.”
“I’m not doing too good right now,” I said. “But . . . I’m doing the best I can.”
She nodded. “Same here,” she said and paused a moment before adding, “All we can do.”
“I . . . feel . . . so weak . . . so . . . I’m pathetic.”
“You’re neither of those,” she said. “You’re just hurting, son. Grieving. Give it some time.”
“It’s been some time already.”
“Then give it some more. What else you gonna do? What the hell else any of us gonna do?”
4
Kathy Dady, the fourth young woman to go missing, lived in a small house she had inherited from her grandmother in the little town of Stone Mountain.
Frank and I met two Stone Mountain uniformed officers to take a look at her place.
“What’s really going on?” Walt Thurman asked Frank as we walked up.
Thurman was a youngish, muscular black man with light skin and eyes of about the same color and a very slight mustache above large lips and small teeth with slight space between them.
We were standing out in the front yard of Kathy Dady’s little house with him and his partner, a female cop named Erin Newman.
“Whatta you mean?” Frank asked.
“Why is GBI interested in a missing person who’s only been missin’ two days?”
“We’re trying to keep a lid on this thing,” he said, “so don’t say anything, but we think her disappearance could be connected to some others in the metro area.”
“Other missing women?” Erin Newman said.
Frank nodded.
Newman was a tall, thin woman with longish dishwater blond hair and a plain, longish face with too much makeup on it. She wasn’t as awkward as she should’ve been given her size and build, but the uniform didn’t do her any favors.
Frank nodded again. “We believe so, yes.”
“They’re all in the same age range, have the same body type and look,” I said. “And we think they’re all active in the same way—runners or walkers. Something like that.”
“This is John Jordan,” Frank said.
“No way you’re GBI,” Walt said. “Are you even out of high school yet?”
“John’s gonna be helping us with this one,” Frank said. “I’ve worked with him before and he’s good. Really good. He’s still a college student, but he’ll be on the task force.”
“Task force?” Walt said.
“Yeah, but keep it quiet. We really don’t want this out yet.”
“What’s the age range?” Erin asked.
“Nineteen to twenty-six so far,” I said.
“Anything else link them?”
“Not that we’ve found so far,” Frank said.
“How long’s it been going on?” she asked.
“A few months,” Frank said. “First woman disappeared at the end of August. There was more time between the first and second than the second and third and more time between the second and third than the third and fourth.”
“So he’s speeding up,” she said.
“Yes he is.”
“Are all the victims still missing?” she asked. “No bodies found or anything yet?”
“Yeah. Right. No bodies yet.”
“So they could still be alive,” she said.
“That’s the hope,” Frank said. “Let’s take a look inside and see if Kathy’s place can tell us anything that’ll help.”
Kathy Dady’s inherited house was overfilled with old furniture and collectable knickknacks—porcelain dolls and keepsakes and mementoes and salt and pepper shakers. Thousands of them.
“I’d say she hasn’t changed the place much since it was her grandmother’s place,” Erin said.
“Sure still smells like grandma’s house,” Walt says. “What is it about old people and mothballs? My granny’s house smell the same way.”
“Mrs. Dady only died about three months ago,” Frank said. “Hasn’t been Kathy’s place long.”
We moved slowly and carefully through the small rooms of the small house, examining things that may or may not have been a reflection of Kathy at all.
Several times I had to stop myself from whistling or humming I’ve Got My Mind Set on You.
Random cat hairs were strewn about, but there was no cat. No cat food. No bowl. No litter box.
Most of the furniture was painted white. None of it was nice. All of it was old, but not antique.
The two main accent colors were mauve and country blue, but the walls and ceilings and drapes and furniture were white.
In what must have been her grandmother’s bedroom, nothing had been disturbed. I’d have bet my rent money that it was just as it was on the day Mrs. Dady died.
In the guest room we found an open suitcase on the floor with clothes spilling out of it.
“Kathy’s obviously staying in here,” Erin said.
“Sort of a slob, ain’t she?” Walt said.
“Look,” I said to Frank, nodding toward the pairs of running shoes and athletic socks.
“She’s definitely a runner,” Erin said. “Lots of jogging suits and gym shorts too.”
“What made you first conclude they were runners?” Frank asked me.
“After reading that the first one was and seeing how athletically built and active they all were, and hearing they weren’t abducted from their homes, I figured they were all out doing a similar activity—walking or running—when they were taken. It’s an activity mostly done alone and one that leaves them more vulnerable than most things they do.”
He nodded. “That’s mostly what we came up with, but it took a while and it was a group of highly trained and experienced investigators.”
“What’s your story?” Erin asked me.
I shrugged. “Don’t have much of one yet, but I’m working on it.”
“He’s being modest,” Frank said. “You familiar with the LaMarcus Williams and Cedric Porter cases? He solved them. Both. On his own.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t on my own.”
“Sure, okay, but you . . . it was you who connected the dots, figured them out, and brought down the killers.”
“Pretty impressive for someone who looks like they’re still in high school,” she said. “If you ever need a place to work, we have an opening on our force. And you can tell from looking at me and Walt that our chief is all about diversity.”
5
As we drove through the little town of Stone Mountain—shops on one side of the street, railroad tracks and old depot on the other—Frank was talking, but his words had become as desultory to me as the sounds of the train and traffic.
Everything outside of me had faded, receded into a dim semi-silent background.
I was thinking, my sober mind concentrating on connections, shifting around the various pieces of information in the case as if parts of a complex puzzle for which the box and therefore the picture had been lost.
I’ve Got My Mind Set on You tried to work its way into my consciousness, but I sent it back to the old jukebox in the basement it had come from.
Why am I still set on Jordan? Why can’t I feel for Susan the way I did for Jordan, the way I still do for Anna?
Who is your mind set on? Who is the pattern for all these women? Who are you taking, dominating, controlling over and over and over again?
I thought about the women again. Was something besides running connecting them? Was I missing something?
They had caught his eye, but how? Where?
And then a thought.
“What if—” I started, but realized Frank was still speaking.
“What if what?” he asked.
“I was just thinking about where he might be seeing them,” I said. “What if he’s selling them their running shoes or sport
s bras or jogging suits or something?”
He nodded vigorously. “That’s good. I like that. That might just be—”
“He’s seeing them somewhere,” I said. “If running is what’s connecting them . . . makes sense he’d see them somewhere associated with that.”
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s say he works in a sporting goods store. He’d see hundreds of women, but only certain ones would catch his eye.”
“And for those . . . Let’s say they sign up for a newsletter or . . . to get information about upcoming sales or to receive coupons . . . He’d have their addresses. We need to go through their mail, their receipts. See if they shop at the same store or are on the same newsletter or are a part of the same running group. Something’s got to connect them.”
“I’ll get somebody on it this afternoon. Shouldn’t take long. We should know something soon. Great work. Really good. How does it feel to be working a case again?”
I nodded. “Good. Real good. Thanks for . . . letting me.”
We came to an intersection and stopped at a red light. He glanced around. “Nice little town,” he said. “How would you feel about joining the department here?”
I shrugged. “Truth is . . . I’d be happy to be in any department. Anything would beat cleaning toilets and delivering pizza.”
“The chief is an old friend of mine. Sounds like they need somebody and he’d be a good mentor. He’s a good and decent man. Good, honest cop.”
I wanted to tell him that I already had the best mentor possible, tell him how much I appreciated him, but I hesitated and the moment passed.
The red light changed to green and we continued forward again.
“What’d you think of Walt and Erin?” he asked.
“Liked them both. Really liked the way her mind worked. She asked some great questions. And he had no problem asking you just what the hell GBI was doing in his backyard on a recently missing person.”
He nodded. “That’s Bud. Guarantee he’s trained ’em to be that way. Took their strengths and helped hone them. He’d do the same for you.”
Blood Stone (John Jordan Mysteries Book 17) Page 2
