The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  * * *

  (Remington James Novels)

  Double Exposure

  (includes intro by Michael Connelly)

  Separation Anxiety

  Blood Shot

  * * *

  (John Jordan Novels)

  Power in the Blood

  Blood of the Lamb

  Flesh and Blood

  (Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)

  The Body and the Blood

  Blood Sacrifice

  Rivers to Blood

  Innocent Blood

  (Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)

  Blood Money Blood Moon

  Blood Cries

  Blood Oath

  Blood Work

  Cold Blood

  Blood Betrayal

  Blood Shot

  Blood Ties

  Blood Trail

  * * *

  (Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)

  The Big Goodbye

  The Big Beyond

  The Big Hello

  The Big Bout

  The Big Blast

  In a Spider’s Web (short story)

  The Big Book of Noir

  * * *

  (Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)

  Thunder Beach

  A Certain Retribution

  Blood Oath

  Blood Shot

  * * *

  (Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)

  Burnt Offerings

  Separation Anxiety

  Blood Oath

  Cold Blood

  Blood Shot

  (Love Stories)

  Carrie’s Gift

  (Short Story Collections)

  North Florida Noir

  Florida Heat Wave

  Delta Blues

  Another Quiet Night in Desperation

  (The Meaning Series)

  Meaning Every Moment

  The Meaning of Life in Movies

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  1

  BLOOD SHOT Sample Chapters

  Some unsolved cases are like unanswered questions.

  Not casual curiosities, but obsessive, relentlessly repeated questions nagging mercilessly at the edges of everything else.

  Others are like open wounds.

  Seeping, susceptible-to-infection lacerations incapable of healing without intense treatment.

  Who killed Robin Wilson, the previous sheriff of Gulf County, and four of his men-- with their own guns-- has always been the unanswered question type of unsolved case, but why Remington James was hunted down like an animal in the woods and who killed him in cold blood has always been more of the open wound kind of unsolved case.

  Both haunt me. But in different ways.

  One is incessant questions.

  Who’s the killer? Why’d he do it? How’d he do it? How’d he get away with it? Did he have help? Was there a cover-up?

  For those of us charged with answering questions, with bearing witness, with giving some sort of narrative cohesiveness to the seemingly arbitrary and accidental elements of an unfinished story, the unanswered questions of an unsolved crime stalk us, mock us, gnaw at us.

  The other is an open, unhealed wound.

  Since I joined the Gulf County Sheriff’s department, I have been obsessed with one unsolved case more than any other. What exactly happened out in the unforgiving swamp during Remington James’ long, dark night of the soul troubles me in a way that few mysteries have.

  Who killed Remington James? Not who pulled the trigger. Who was behind it? And why?

  One possible answer—and one that only adds to the enigma—is that he witnessed the murder of a young woman out in the swamps where he had his camera traps set up—something he claimed to have happened in a message he left behind—but no evidence of such a crime has ever been found.

  Did Remington make up the story about the murdered woman? If not, why hasn’t she been found? Or was she? If she was, who found her and what’d they do with her body?

  * * *

  Everything changes with a single phone call.

  For nearly a year I have been pleading with Heather James, Remington's widow, to talk to me, to help me find out what really happened to Remington and who was really behind it.

  She declined each and every request I made—politely at first, but later with forceful rudeness, and eventually with complete silence.

  And then after ignoring me for months, she calls me.

  “I’m in town,” she says. “I’d like to talk.”

  “Okay. When? Where?”

  “I’m emailing you a manuscript. I’ve been working with a local writer to tell the truth about what really happened to Remington. Take a look at it and we’ll talk. How’s tomorrow?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Why now? What changed?”

  “I’ll explain when we meet.”

  “Okay.”

  “The manuscript is based on everything I’ve been able to piece together from the evidence, the original investigation, and what Remington left behind. We don’t have an ending yet. Not really. Not one that explains things in any satisfactory kind of way. I’m hoping you can help with that. I know you’ve been working on the case.”

  “I have, but the original investigation was . . .”

  “A fuckin’ joke,” she says. “You figured out whether it was ineptitude or cover-up?”

  “I have some ideas.”

  “I look forward to hearing them,” she says. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Without saying goodbye or anything else she hangs up.

  2

  BLOOD SHOT Sample Chapters

  “I want to reopen the Remington James case,” I say.

  “I thought you already had,” Reggie says.

  We are in her office in the back of the sheriff’s department, which is behind the Gulf County Court House in Port St. Joe, on a laid back Monday morning in early April, the AC on.

  Reggie Summers is the sheriff of Gulf County and my boss. She was appointed by the governor after Robin Wilson, the previous sheriff, and four of his men were murdered. She is smart and tough and honest and the reason I took this job. A natural beauty, no drama cowgirl, she has smooth skin the color of river clay that she never ever covers with makeup, long, straight brownish hair perpetually in a ponytail, and mesmerizing eyes.

  “I mean really reopen it,” I say. “Give it priority until we solve it or something comes up that pulls us off of it.”

  “What else are you working on right now?”

  “Not much. Testifying in court in a few upcoming cases, looking for Daniel and Randa, still tracking down records on the Alison fraud case. It’d be a good time for me to really dig into it.”

  She purses her lips and seems to consider it, her gray-green eyes narrowing in focus on things I can’t see.

  For reasons that remain a mystery to me, she has always seemed reluctant to let me really investigate this case—though not half as reluctant and actually resistant as she is about the Robin Wilson case, which is why I’m not even going to mention that I plan to investigate both of them together because I think they could be connected.

  “Is there some reason you don’t want me to?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Why would there be? Just comes down to managing the department and its resourses.”

  Reggie’s office remains bare, only half-moved-in, and I wonder if it’s an expression of her oft-stated feeling that this is a temporary gig, that she really doesn’t feel at home here. I know she believes the citizens of Gulf County won’t elect a female sheriff, and she may be right, but something about her refusal to really move in and make this her office and her department makes it seem like she’s not sure she’ll even make it to her first election.

  “You’re my best investigator,” she says. “Is this the best use of your time?”

  I nod. “I think it is.”

  “Do you? Or do
you just want to do it?”

  “His wife has finally agreed to talk to me,” I say.

  “Whose?”

  “Remington’s.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “Even sent me the manuscript of a book she’s writing about the case.”

  “She’s writing a book about the case?”

  “Not the case. What happened to her husband.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Not everything. She’s working with a ghostwriter. They’ve written it as a story, filling in what she doesn’t know with imagination, best guesses, and conjecture.”

  “God help us.”

  “Give me one week,” I say. “Anna and Taylor are at her parents’ in Dothan for the week. Sam’s in rehab. And Johanna’s with her mom in the North Georgia mountains for spring break. I can devote every waking moment to it.”

  “Who’re you kidding?” she says. “You know good and damn well you’ll dream about it, too. Probably how you’ll solve the damn thing.”

  I smile.

  In addition to my family being away, I have even more time on my hands than usual because when I turned in my resignation as a chaplain at Gulf Correctional Institution, the warden offered me a part-time position if I would stay—something I gladly and gratefully agreed to.

  “We’ve got an opioid epidemic on our hands—or haven’t you heard?” she says. “Tourists driving into our little county in droves, local beekeepers fighting with ones coming in from out of state for tupelo season, an influx of people and a buttload of activity with Deseret. Can’t interest you in something actually happening here today?”

  “If I don’t uncover any new evidence or get any kind of break in it inside of a week, I’ll put the folder back in the filing cabinet for a while.”

  “And if you uncover something new?”

  “If it’s significant enough you let me keep working on it.”

  “For how long?”

  “Another week with the same deal.”

  “And you won’t let any current cases slide?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Okay. One week. That’s it. And you better not wind up in some damn true crime book, either.”

  3

  BLOOD SHOT Sample Chapters

  On my way home, I stop by the Ambulance building to talk to the EMS director, Carter Peak.

  My drive from Port St. Joe to Wewa was particularly slow today. I got behind both a loaded log truck and two flatbed trucks and trailers full of bee boxes. Agriculture in our area isn’t what it once was, but it still has a huge impact on everything from jobs to land use to traffic.

  Parking on the side near the front of the Ambulance station, I walk through the open bay between the two ambulances and into the back room where the on-duty EMTs work and rest while waiting for calls to come in.

  The large, open room has a kitchen on one end and seating area on the other, and like the ambulance bay, is quiet. Unlike previous times I’ve been in here, the TV in the seating area is muted, and, except for Carter, the room is empty.

  Carter Peak is a large, thick man with curly, longish hair. He is kind, good-natured, a little goofy, and one hell of a good EMT.

  I find him over in the kitchen area, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a library book.

  “What’re you reading?” I ask.

  He holds it up. It’s Glyn Johns’ Sound Man: A Life Recording Hits with The Rolling Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Eric Clapton, The Faces.

  In addition to being the EMS director, Carter is the front man for a talented local band called Mix Tape Effigies.

  “How’s the music career going?” I ask, taking a seat across the table from him.

  “Better than ever,” he says. “Got a new song on Youtube that’s gettin’ a lot of love, looks like we might get to open for Rick Springfield for the fundraiser concert he’s doing for the college, and we just booked Gulf Coast Jam, but . . . I won’t be quitting my day job anytime soon.”

  “Would you like to?”

  I’ve encountered a lot of artists over the years—actors, writers, painters, musicians, nearly all of whom dream of making it. What that means to most of them has to do with finances and popularity, and even though chances of it happening are minuscule they continue to dream, continue to pursue, and that makes their lives richer and more meaningful. The things we care about, that drive us, that make up our dreams, are far less about making a living than making a certain kind of life.

  “I’d love to play music full-time, plus . . . this gig takes a toll on you, you know? All the guys tell me I’m way too much of a pussy to be doing this. It does get to me. Anyway, what brings you by? I’m sure it’s not to talk about my jukebox hero daydreams.”

  I tell him.

  He shakes his head and his eyes take on a far off stare. I can see him accessing the unpleasant memories.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, John,” he says. “I’ve been called out to some horrific wrecks where . . . what was there wasn’t recognizably human, to some sad-ass suicides, but this . . . this was a massacre. Everybody was dead.”

  He has a slight lisp and a wet, whistley mouth when he talks, which only intensifies the more he talks—or the more excited he gets when he talks. Interestingly, his lisp and his over-salivated mouth vanish when he’s singing.

  “We were first on the scene,” he continues. “Not that there was much we could do—but we got to see it all, raw, fresh . . . looked like something from a war zone. And it was so . . . isolated. Took forever for us to get everybody out there—most came by boat down the river. Took forever for FDLE to process the scene. We were there from almost sunup to well after dark.”

  “Robin Wilson was sheriff at the time,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head and letting out a harsh laugh. “If you want to call it that. More like a . . .”

  “What?”

  “I try not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Make an exception just this once,” I say with a smile.

  “He was a thug with a gun and a badge and more power and authority than anyone in the county. Hell, the county paid him to do whatever the hell he wanted to. Made up his own rules, acted as if he and his little posse were above the law—and they were. Hell, they were the law.”

  “He worked the case himself, didn’t he?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I guess. If you want to call it that. Was it ever solved? He and some of his men supposedly worked it. I know Dahl Rogers and Skip Lester were pretending to work it with him.”

  “Pretending?”

  “Did it ever get solved?”

  “No, but—”

  “Only thing they worked at was a cover-up. Something was wrong with the investigation from the jump. He let FDLE process the scene but wouldn’t really let their agents work the case. I don’t know. I’m just glad you and Reggie are in there now.”

  “You think Robin and his men’s deaths had anything to do with what happened to Remington and the others in the swamp?”

  “Two groups of men being killed execution style,” he says. “Only two groups of men to be killed like that in the history of this county—well, since the Indian-Settler days—and one group was investigating the deaths of the first group. What do you think?”

  “I think what you obviously think,” I say. “It’d be one hell of a coincidence.”

  “And who the hell am I? Just a glorified EMT, not a detective of any kind, but between you and me . . . I’d say somebody’s still covering it up. I mean, come on. Neither crime has been solved. Really? In all this time. I don’t know. Something ain’t right. Says something for you and Reggie that you’re looking into it. Really does.”

  “What was the talk at the time?” I ask.

  “Which time?”

  “Both. Start with the swamp massacre.”

  “Well . . . big shootout in the swamp like that and everybody assumes drugs, but none were ever found and . . . nobody believed Remington o
r Mother Earth would be mixed up in shit like that, so . . . There were some wild ass theories, though. None of ’em worth repeating. It’s just a giant unsolved mystery. And those messages Remington supposedly left behind. Why was no girl ever found? Why would he say it if it wasn’t true? But . . . still . . . no girl was ever found. And if there was one, why didn’t anyone ever come looking for her? I don’t know . . . It’s just all so . . . But I knew Remington. Knew his dad, Cole, better, but the whole family was good people. If he said a woman was killed out there then there was a woman killed out there. If he said Gauge did it, then Gauge did it. And if he said he hid evidence of it then he hid evidence of it. But . . . fact remains no evidence of it has ever been found. And on the second one—Robin and them . . . take your pick. Jealous husbands, rape victims, drug related, or . . . most likely . . . whoever was behind what happened in the swamp. I mean . . . what if it was a big drug deal out there that went bad? What if they were involved? What if they took the money and the drugs and whoever they took them from . . . executed them? ’Cause it was like a statement. I mean . . . hell . . . they were killed with their own guns.”

  Blood Shot

  a John Jordan Mystery Book 15

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Lister

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.