Blood Stone (John Jordan Mysteries Book 17)

by Michael Lister

  Her skin was scraped and cut and split, the broken and swollen bones beneath causing her body to be a misshapen mess of odd lumps, deep dents, and unnatural angles.

  She had been impaled on at least two branches. Maybe more. It was difficult to discern where what was left of her stopped and the tree branches began.

  Dripping blood thudded wetly on the damp dirt beneath her.

  “That’s the most horrible shit I’ve ever seen,” Walt said.

  “Reminds me of traffic accidents I worked back in the day,” one of the GBI agents added.

  “But this is far worse,” Bud said. “It’s like she’s on display.”

  “Just the way she would’ve wanted it,” Walt said.

  “No one would want this,” Erin said.

  “She’s right,” Joe added. “As . . . big time a pain as she was . . . no one should have to . . . go out this way.”

  I thought about the killer’s note. He was wrong. We took no pleasure in what had befallen this capable and ambitious woman.

  “She was so smart and so . . . wary if not wise,” Erin said. “How did he get close enough to her to do this?”

  “Shit, that’s easy,” Walt said. “Promised her an exclusive.”

  “Probably so,” Joe said. “Bet that’s exactly what it was. My exclusive interview with the Stone Cold Killer next on WSB-TV news.”

  “What’ve we got?” Frank said to Gerald.

  “Same as before. Some small cuts made with a knife, not life threatening. Have no idea why he does it. Smells of smoke. Ash and soot on her. Tied the same way. Wrists and ankles bound. Long lead rope coming off the binding at the wrists. The rope is big and long but there’s nothing extraordinary about it. Thousands of places in the metro area he could’ve gotten it. Died from blunt force trauma, severe lacerations, hemorrhaging, perforation of major organs, take your pick. Oh, and this time we have what looks like ejaculate on the victim’s skin. We’ll have to wait for the lab results to be sure, but I’m as sure as I can be at this point.”

  As they spoke, I walked away from the group to examine the rope, following its looping progression to where its end dangled from a tree branch some twenty feet away.

  Besides being long and large, only one feature stood out about it. Though damp from the dew and humidity, toward the end there were four long wet spots approximately two feet in length with a few feet in between them. They were so wet they were still dripping.

  Eventually the others joined me.

  “Any idea what those are?” I asked Gerald, pointing up at them.

  “Not the foggiest,” he said.

  “If they weren’t separated by the space in between ’em I’d say part of the rope spent some time in a small pool of water, but . . .”

  “What about four smaller pools of water?” Frank said. “Mountain’s full of ’em.”

  “Could be,” Gerald said. “But you’d think when it moved through them, it’d wet the entire area, not leave ’em separated like that.”

  “I say we get back to searching the mountain and the park so we can ask the son of a bitch when we catch him,” Bud said.

  40

  While the others helped with the search at the park, Frank and I met Ernestine Campbell back at the station to watch the video tape from Daphne Littleton’s camera.

  “After what happened today,” Frank said, “I’m requesting assistance from the FBI. They were extremely helpful with the Wayne Williams investigation and clearly we need help.”

  I nodded.

  Ernie said, “They’re the best at cases like this, have the most experience. Will give you the best chance of catching him the quickest.”

  As usual, Ernie was dressed conservatively, like the clinician and professor she was, but her excitement made her dark face look like that of a little girl’s.

  We were in the conference room, a tape machine and TV from WSB on the end of the table.

  “From the time I make the call, until they send someone and we get them up to speed and they start working the case—it won’t be quick. I’d love nothing more than for us to catch him before then. So I’m asking y’all to act as if no one is coming to help, that it’s all on us and the clock is ticking. No telling how many lives we can save by solving it sooner rather than later.”

  We both nodded.

  “Y’all want to watch the tape first or—”

  “Let’s talk a little first,” Ernie said. “I think what happened today changes everything, changes how we need to look at this guy and think about him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It shows incredible flexibility,” she said. “He deviated from his pattern enough to include the reporter, but still killed her in largely the same manner. Rarely see something like that.”

  “Lets us know he’s watching the news,” I said. “Keeping up with the case that way. We might be able to use that.”

  “True.”

  “It rules out Benton Weston,” Frank said. “I confirmed he’s still out of the country this morning.”

  “Unless it’s a copycat,” I said. “He could’ve paid someone to do it while he was out of the country to deflect suspicion.”

  “Would explain the differences,” Ernie said.

  “But the note sounded just the same,” Frank said.

  “Both could’ve come from the same copycat,” I said.

  Ernie nodded. “It is possible.”

  “I’m not saying it’s likely or that it’s even . . . I’m just saying it’s something we need to at least consider. I think it’s more likely that the murder of Daphne and the notes are part of the same plan by the killer to appear to be something other than what he is, to make himself look like a thrill killer.”

  “Instead of . . . what?” Frank said.

  “A ritualistic serial killer,” I said.

  Ernestine raised her eyebrows and nodded approvingly. “And even if it’s not a conscious plan on his part, I agree the deviation gives us greater insight into the pattern cases.”

  I thought about the ritualistic aspects of the first four killings that we knew about and almost had something, but it vanished as quickly as it had come and I couldn’t get it back.

  “I’ve been thinking . . .” Ernie said. “We’ve got to consider that Stone Mountain itself plays a bigger role in what he’s doing than maybe we first considered. When I think about the significance of the Klan’s history with it and the Confederate carving . . . I think we have to at least consider a radical departure from most previous crimes of this type. Usually serial killers hunt within their one race, but what if because of the racial implications of the mountain it’s different this time? What if we have a killer hunting outside of his race? I think it’s something that we need to consider. Most serial killers are white and hunt within their own race, but what if this one is black and is hunting outside of his race because of what all has happened on Stone Mountain?”

  I nodded and almost had something again.

  “Interesting,” Frank said.

  “I’m just saying it’s something to consider,” she said. “Let’s run it by the FBI profiler that gets assigned to this case.”

  He nodded. “We will. Anything else before we start the tape? Any ideas how he got away or where he could be hiding?”

  “I keep thinking about the note he left us,” I said. “‘You thought you had me, didn’t you?’ He knew we’d be coming in and find it, and was confident he’d be gone. How could he be so certain he’d be gone before we got in there and without us seeing him?”

  Ernie shook her head. “Absolutely no ideas for you on that.”

  “Then let’s see what’s on the tape,” Frank said. “You mind starting it, John.”

  I jumped up and pressed Play on the tape machine, the blank blue TV screen replaced with a shot of Daphne holding her mic standing in front of her camera at night.

  Her face appeared to be lit by a light on top of the camera, the spill from it revealing she was standing in the woods a
t night.

  I had seen Daphne on TV and in person many, many times. I had never seen her look like this.

  Her face was drawn, each line etched more deeply in her pale skin than ever before. Her eyes showed real terror and tears slid down her cheeks intermittently.

  It was obvious she was trying not to cry, trying not to act frightened.

  “This is Daphne Littleton, WBS-TV Channel 2 News,” she said, the mic shaking beneath her quivering chin and soft, wavering voice.

  “We were all wrong about the man I labeled the Stone Cold Killer,” she said. “I was wrong. I didn’t understand what he’s doing. None of us did. We were unequal to the task of beholding the brilliance of his work. I humbly ask for forgiveness and I implore you to do the same. This is a marvelous deed being done, wrought by God, worthy of awe and trembling from the bottom of the mountain of the Lord.”

  It was obvious she was saying what he wanted her to, but if she were reading, I couldn’t tell.

  When she was finished she stood there for a long, awkward moment, then her eyes grew wide and even more frightened and she began to beg and plead for her life.

  And then the recording stopped and the TV screen turned blue again.

  Then a few flickers of screams, flashes of horror between blank blue, as if this section of tape had been erased but a shot or two bled through.

  Then nothing.

  41

  The final gasp of day was exhaling its last breath.

  Dimness giving way to darkness.

  The setting sun streaked the west side of the mountain a dusky harvest orange and cast shadows across the faces of the long-dead Confederate commander, general, and president.

  The massive manhunt was over, the cops and search and rescue teams and bloodhounds scattered through the park returning to their vehicles and exiting the park, a weary countenance and dejected expression resting heavily upon them.

  “I thought for sure we had him,” Bud said.

  Frank nodded. “We all did.”

  “Do you think he’s still in the park?” Bud asked. “Are we wrong to call off the search?”“My guess is he’s long gone, but even if he’s not . . . too dangerous to search at night. Especially given how tired everyone is.”

  We are standing in the small triangle formed by the intersection of Robert E. Lee Boulevard and Jefferson Davis Drive, watching the exodus, waiting on the others.

  Walt and Joe pulled up and parked over out of the way.

  “Sure as shit thought we had his ass,” Walt said. “Can’t believe we didn’t get him. Smart, crafty son of a bitch, ain’t he?”

  “He made a new fan today,” Joe said.

  “I told you about that shit,” Walt said. “Cut it out. I’m just impressed. Think about how many people and animals were out here lookin’ for his ass today.”

  “Know y’all are tired,” Bud said. “We just want to have a quick word with everyone then you can go.”

  “We’re good,” Walt said. “Keep lookin’ if you want us to.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Joe said. “I can’t take another step.”

  “Bet your white ass be steppin’ toward a cheeseburger ’fore too long.”

  Joe laughed knowingly.

  A white K-9 unit truck from a nearby prison pulled up and two correctional officers parked and got out.

  Yelps, barks, and whines came from the dog boxes in the back.

  “We thought we had him for sure,” the taller of the two men said. “Followed his and the victim’s scents all the way up—he used the walkup trail to get up, though more beside it than on it. Got over to the small wooded area like you would imagine. Like we all did. Then he went down toward the quarry on the south side, then back up to where the camera was found, then back down the walking trail. Then either the dogs lost the scent or he was all over the place—really made no sense. Showed him leaving the park then coming back in.”

  Suddenly the dogs alerted on us and began baying and barking and howling in our direction.

  “Are they showing on us?” Bud asked.

  “Yeah,” the shorter correctional officer said. “Probably picked up on your scent when you were up on the mountain. Been a confusing day for them.”

  “Let’s get ’em home,” the taller man said. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help. Call us if it happens again and give us a chance to redeem ourselves.”

  Bud and Frank both thanked them and they joined the parade of other law enforcement vehicles leaving.

  Bud looked at the line of cars. “So much manpower . . . and nothing to show for it.”

  “Wonder if he really left the park and came back in,” Frank said.

  “What if the dogs weren’t confused at all?” I said. “What would it mean if the killer was all over the place? That he left the park and came back?”

  Erin arrived with one of the GBI agents and a few minutes later Bobby Meredith arrived with the other.

  Erin shook her head as she walked up. “It’s not good news,” she said.

  Frank frowned and shook his head. “I had her pull the receipts from yesterday,” he said. “See if any of our three suspects were here.”

  “They weren’t,” she said.

  “Shit,” Bud said. “That puts us back at square one.”

  “Unless they paid cash,” Frank said. “Which at this point you’d expect.”

  “We need to give their pictures to the people working the gates,” Bud said. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Unless they paid cash,” Erin said, “they weren’t here, but guess who was.”

  “Who?” Bud said. “Dorsey?”

  “The rapist Patrick Dorsey,” she said. “Made him real uncomfortable to talk to me too.”

  “Who better than a maintenance man to be all over the place?” Frank said. “And leave and come back in the park as he pleases.”

  “I don’t follow,” she said.

  Bud explained it to her.

  “Oh wow.”

  “Should we bring him in?” Bud asked.

  Frank seemed to think about it. “Tell you what. Why don’t Erin and I go back over and talk to him right now—if you’re not too tired.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “We’ll see what he has to say, and I’d like to watch his reaction to you. Depending on how it goes, we can either bring him in or follow up on anything he provides in the way of an alibi.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Erin said. “I just hope it’s him and that he runs.”

  42

  I was disappointed that I didn’t get to go with Frank and Erin to interview Patrick Dorsey. I was frustrated that we didn’t catch the killer today when we had such a great opportunity to. I was exhausted and on edge. Too tired to do anything. Too wired to sleep.

  Summer was working the desk. I was in the room alone and missing her, wanting her.

  That made me think of Susan, and I felt guilty again for not being able to feel about her the way she did for me.

  Going over and sitting on the edge of the bed, I picked up the phone and punched in the number for Scarlett’s.

  Susan answered.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She hesitated a moment. “. . . Hey.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good. You?” She couldn’t have been more coldly polite and emotionless.

  “I just called to check on you,” I said. “Make sure you were okay. I’m sorry again for how things ended between us. I care very deeply for you and . . .”

  “You don’t want to be with me right now, right?” she said.

  “I . . .”

  “Then you’re not the one to comfort me or check on me or take care of me. My boyfriend broke my heart. There’s really nothing anyone can do about that. But you can only make it worse. Don’t be nice. Don’t try to give me pastoral care. Don’t call me again.”

  “Okay, but—”

  I stopped speaking as she hung up the phone.


  I wanted to throw the phone across the room, to kick or hit or break something, but instead I gently replaced the receiver and stood up.

  I knew a run would help me feel better, but I just wasn’t sure I had the energy to even lace up my shoes.

  Then I remembered that a special about Jack the Ripper was airing tonight.

  Falling into the bed Summer and I had made love in the night before, I grabbed the remote from the table next to it and clicked on the TV.

  As I flipped around to try to find it, I thought about the fact that it had been one hundred years since the Ripper committed his slayings in London’s Whitechapel district, and I wondered if one hundred years from now people would still be speculating about who the Stone Cold Killer was.

  When I finally found the right channel, John Douglas, the FBI’s preeminent profiler, was giving his profile of the UNSUB known as Jack the Ripper, and I wondered if he would be part of the FBI team who worked our case.

  As much as I wanted to solve the case myself and do so before the FBI even had time to arrive, I would relish the opportunity to work with and learn from Douglas. He hadn’t taught at any of the FBI presentations I had attended, but he was responsible for much of what was taught in them. Ernestine Campbell had met and worked with him but I had not.

  The Ripper special was hosted by Peter Ustinov, the English actor who had played Agatha Christie’s famous detective Hercule Poirot in a number of made-for-TV movies and most recently in the feature film adaptation of Appointment with Death, which I had seen earlier in the year.

  It was brave of Douglas to give his profile of Jack the Ripper on national TV. It couldn’t necessarily be proven or disproven, of course, but it could be ridiculed—especially by the legions of law enforcement that believed criminal profiling was about a half step up from psychics and fortunetellers.

  Among other things, Douglas said that the killer was mentally unstable, a loner, someone who wasn’t out of place in the Whitechapel district. He went on to say that the UNSUB would have suffered from delusions of persecution, unwarranted jealousies, and exaggerated self-importance, and that he would be sexually dysfunctional since there was no evidence of sexual assault or sadistic torture. He said the Ripper hated and was afraid of women, and that removing their sexual and reproductive organs postmortem was an attempt to take their sexual power, to essentially neuter them.