“The second thing is . . . I wondered how to get in touch with your brother. Someone said they thought they saw him talking to Janet the night of the party but I haven’t been able to track him down.”
No one had said they saw him talking to her, but I thought it was a nice touch to toss in.
“Brad? Brad is on the road a lot for work but should be back in town later in the week. I’ll put you in touch with him the moment he returns. Hell, if you want to talk to him in person, face-to-face like, you can do it right here. I’ll let y’all borrow an office or use an interview room.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”
“No problem. I can’t imagine he knows anything, but I know he’ll be happy to help if he can. So what’s the third?”
“I was wondering if there have been any other similar cases in this area either before or after what happened to Janet?”
“That’s a great question. I don’t think there have been. And there’s no question that anything obvious would’ve stood out to us, but it’s not a bad idea for us to take a look at all our unsolved cases and see. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll have one of my investigators work on it and see if we come up with anything.”
“Thank you. But I think it’s important not to just look at the unsolved cases. Need to look at all of them, even the ones that were cleared.”
“That’s a good point. You’re exactly right. We may have caught the bastard and not even know it.”
“Or,” I say, “someone else could’ve been charged for another one this guy did.”
“Oh shit. You’re right. I didn’t even think about that. Like I said, it’s a long shot but I think it’s good to look at all possibilities. Tell you what, I’ll walk down and talk to Darlene about it right now. You can go with me if you want to.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Darlene Weatherly is built like a high school linebacker. She is a squat, muscular, powerful fireplug of a young woman.
“Got something I need your help with,” Glenn says as we walk into her office.
“Sure, Sheriff. What’s up?”
“This is John Jordan. He’s an investigator with the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.
Her hand is iron-hard, her grip a force of nature.
“He and his dad, Jack Jordan, the former sheriff of Potter County and the man who originally headed up the Janet Leigh Lester investigation, are taking another look at that case.”
She nods appreciatively. “That’s good. Someone needs to.”
“John had an idea that I should’ve thought of,” Glenn continues. “Would you go back through our homicides and missing persons and see if there are any before or after Janet that are similar in any way?”
“That is a good idea, John,” she says. “Not just another pretty face, are you? Sure, Sheriff, I don’t mind, but I think we’d know if there were any.”
“Maybe we missed something,” he says. “Or whoever here before us did.”
“Everybody in this town is just so familiar with the case,” she says, “there’s no way it wouldn’t’ve stood out.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, but there’s no reason not to check.”
“No, there’s not,” she says, then lowering her voice, “unless I’ve got other shit on my plate that I don’t have enough time to get to.”
“What’s that?”
“I said you’re exactly right, boss. I’m on it. It’s a long period of time, but it’s a small county with not many homicides or missing persons, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
“John made another good point,” Glenn says.
“Did he now?” she says, tilting her head back and considering me under raised eyebrows.
“Don’t just look at unsolved cases,” he says. “Look at all the cases. See if there are any that have any similarities at all.”
She doesn’t look happy about it, but she says, “Yes sir. Will do.”
“As soon as you finish let me know,” he says to her. Then to me, “I’ll give you a call if we turn up anything.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
We shake hands—his is nowhere as powerful as Darlene’s—and he leaves. I hang back to talk to Darlene for a moment.
“I appreciate you doing this,” I say.
She nods, but says, “No need to thank me. I wasn’t given a choice.”
“Sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to make more work for one person. I just . . . Can I help in any way?”
“It’s not a problem. Got nothin’ to do with you. I’d just like to be asked occasionally—or assigned something real. Like I said . . . being the only lesbian in the department has nothing to do with you.”
I nod and frown. “I understand and I’m sorry it’s like that, but this is something real. Very real. And it could be the thing that helps solve it.”
“How likely is that?” she says. “But I’ll give it my best. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Can I ask another favor?”
She sighs and scratches her head. “Sure, John,” she says, her voice full of false enthusiasm. “I’d really like that.”
“Actually, it’s two favors. Sorry. I just wondered if you’d pull anything that looks like it could be even remotely similar. Even the longest of long shots.”
“I will, but I’m telling you there won’t be any. What’s the other?”
“We’re not having any luck locating one of the witnesses from that night,” I say. “Loner with a juvenile record named Clyde Wolf. He didn’t go to the party, just watched it from the woods across the way. Could you help me locate him?”
“I can tell you exactly where he is,” she says. “He’s in prison. And you may want to take a closer look at him, because he’s in there for stabbing his ex-wife.”
Chapter Thirty
“I don’t know what we could’ve done any differently,” Ken Tillman is saying. “But I’d give almost anything for all of it to have turned out differently.”
It’s midafternoon and Ken Tillman is already drinking. A lot.
He has coarse, closely cropped gray hair, a deeply tanned, deeply lined face, and bright blue, bloodshot eyes. He’s sitting in a folding canvas lawn chair out in front of his dilapidated trailer in a yard that is filled with junk—a couple of old cars on blocks, a random refrigerator, an old dryer, some rusting bicycles, small mountains of crushed aluminum beer cans.
He is smoking and drinking, which is how he fills most of his days.
We are seated across from him in rickety lawn chairs of our own between his trailer and an old, rotting wooden storage shed beneath the canopy of an enormous oak tree.
While we are here talking to him, Anna is making some calls to her previous coworkers in Classification for more information about Clyde Wolf.
“For that poor girl, of course,” he says. “But after it happened, once she was gone, then at least for all of us. Hell, it’s the reason I brought you in, Jack. Tryin’ to save us from somethin’ like what happened.”
A gold chain shows in the wild spray of gray hairs springing forth from the top of his loose-fitting wife beater.
This sad, smelly, shiftless man used to be the chief law enforcement officer of this entire county because a majority of the population here thought he should be. He was once respected and admired. He was once athletic and attractive.
The ripples of violent crime, of murder, seem to never end. Here is another life capsized by the wake of what happened to one girl on one night nearly forty years ago. Except it didn’t just happen to one girl on one night, but to all involved, night after night—every night since the initial crime was committed.
“If we could’ve done anything else, I wish I knew what it was,” he says. “Wish I could go back and do it.”
A silver bracelet moves up and down his right wrist every time he drinks from his tall glass of whiskey
, which is often.
“Ruined all of our lives,” he says. “Ben and me have no life. Sent Mary, his mom, to an early grave. She’s like Janet there. Got off lucky compared to the rest of us.”
Though we are beneath the shade of an oak tree, the heat from the hot August sun is still stifling, the humidity hovering around a hundred percent, and the ice in Ken’s whiskey looks like the polar icecaps filmed with time-lapse photography techniques.
“Y’all sure y’all don’t want a drink?” he says.
We both nod.
“Thanks, but we’re okay,” Dad says.
“Look at us, Jack,” Ken says. “We’ve gotten old as fuck. The hell that happen?”
Dad shakes his old head slowly, sadly.
And once again I think of the Mellencamp line, perhaps the truest he ever penned. I know time holds the winning hand. I can tell by the lines on our faces.
“Hell, it’s not like our sons are young,” Ken says, cutting his eyes over at me. “Though yours is younger than mine—and faring a hell of a lot better. Be grateful for that, Jack. Be . . . very . . . Count your blessings, man. It’s a rough, raggedy-ass world. Chews us all up like we’re mulch. You seen my boy yet?”
Dad nods.
“He’s sadder ’n I am. And that’s . . . sayin’ somethin’.”
Tears well up in his blue, bloodshot eyes.
“He lives in a tent. A fuckin’ tent. ’Course he may have anyway. Always loved camping—in the backyard, in the woods. Always rather stay in a tent than . . . But if Janet hadn’t been . . . If they had stayed together . . . they’d have a house. He wouldn’t be so . . .”
He shakes his head slowly, looks down at the whiskey he’s drowning in.
His life and that of everyone he loves has been decimated. Violent crime is like a category five hurricane hitting the coast, utterly and mercilessly catastrophic.
We are quiet for a long, pain-filled moment.
“Can’t believe you’re still tryin’ to solve the damn thing, Jack,” Ken says. “I really can’t. I mean, goddamn, don’t you ever give up?”
“That’s the thing, Ken,” Dad says. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And I can’t live with that.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what you can live with,” Ken says.
“You thought of anything over the years that we should’ve done that we didn’t?” Dad asks. “Anyone we should’ve looked at that we didn’t—or not close enough.”
Ken shakes his head, then takes another long draw on his cigarette and pull on his drink. “Not a damn thing. I think we did all we could back then. I know my boy didn’t do it. I think it’s a safe bet Bundy did. It’s just . . . one of those things. Sometimes you can do all you can and life still fucks you in the ass. And there ain’t a thing you can do about it. Not . . . a . . . dang . . . thang.”
“If it wasn’t Bundy . . .” I say.
He shakes his head. “Everybody still believes it was my boy, that I covered it up, that your dad helped me, but . . . I swear to God on my boy’s life I didn’t. And Jack’ll tell you he didn’t cover anything up. We just didn’t. I’ve heard ’em say that we planted the bag in the woods to make it look like it was Bundy.”
It’s a possibility I had wondered about myself—not that Dad had done it, but I’ve wondered if Bundy wasn’t responsible, if the killer could have tried to make it look like he was.
Dad shakes his head. “People are so stupid.”
“Do I fit in the category?” I say.
Dad looks at me.
“I don’t believe you did it, but I have wondered if it was done by someone. The killer, maybe.”
“It’s absolutely impossible for anyone to have,” Dad says.
“Why’s that?”
“When Janet was killed, no one knew Bundy was responsible for Chi Omega or Kimberly Leach and no one had any damn idea Bundy was driving down I-10 from Tallahassee to Pensacola. Hell, they didn’t know who he was when they arrested him or for a day or so after he was in custody.”
I nod. “Sometimes people are stupid,” I say. “Sometimes they just don’t have all the facts.”
They both smile.
“That’s the biggest reason I believe it was Bundy,” Dad says. “That kit found in the woods that had her blood on it. Always thought it had to be Bundy because no one else would even know to try to make it look like him. I think the Visqueen found near the interstate with traces of her blood on it also supports it being Bundy.”
Ken nods. “We got as close to closing this one as we could,” he says. “Only two things missing are Janet’s remains and Bundy’s confession. And I’ll be honest with you, I don’t think we’re ever gonna get either of them. Bundy’s dead, and with him any hope of finding her.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Dad is quiet and looks to be in pain.
We are back in the truck, leaving the sad little corner of purgatory Ken calls home.
“You okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“What is it? Do you need to—”
“I can’t believe that’s Ken Tillman,” he says. “I can’t believe how he’s living.”
I nod.
“How . . . everyone we’ve talked to is. The grief. The loss. The . . .”
“Hollowness?” I offer. “Desperation? Disintegration?”
Thoreau’s line comes to mind. Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
“I’m a foolish old man,” Dad says.
I glance over at him. I’ve never heard him say anything quite like that before.
“I’m throwing effort after foolishness in some vain attempt at redemption or . . . And I’ve pulled you into it.”
“I’m happy to be here,” I say. “I think what we’re doing is worthwhile.”
“Ken’s right. Glenn’s right. They’re all right. It’s too late. I’m trying to . . . fix something before I die that—”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
We enter the historic downtown district and in many ways it’s like driving back in time—a small Southern town with a vibrant main street of restored old buildings, a quaint quality exuding rural charm.
“I had my chance. I failed to do it when I might actually have been able to. Now I’m just wasting everybody’s time. Just . . .”
I’m sure Dad has been critical of himself before. He may have even expressed it to someone, but not to me, not like this. I’ve never heard him be as open and vulnerable and emotionally honest as he is in this moment.
We continue past the old St. Luke’s Episcopal Church and cemetery that played such a pivotal role in the Civil War battle here in 1864, and a series of big, beautiful and beautifully restored antebellum homes.
“The time to close the case was when I had the chance, when there were still leads and witnesses who remembered what happened and . . . Not when it’s gone cold. Hell, that’s the understatement of the day. It’s four decades cold. Hard to imagine a case any colder.”
“Then you’re not trying,” I say. “Zodiac. Jack the Ripper. Cain and Able.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am too. ’Cept for the Cain and Able bit. Figured a little levity might not hurt.”
Driving through Marianna, I’m reminded just how much beauty and charm is present here, and I wonder again how so many truly terrible and tragic events could’ve happened here—the torture and lynching of Claude Neal, the horrors that happened at Dozier School for Boys, the savage murder of Janet Leigh Lester.
“Look at the shape all these people are in,” he says. “The condition of their lives. All of them. Not just Ken, but Ben and Verna and Ronnie and Kathy. And it’s at least partly because I didn’t do my job. I . . . I not only didn’t finish the task I was assigned, I . . . left and never looked back. All these years I kept telling myself I’d come back and solve it one day, but even when I was lying to myself about that, I never once thought about these poor people,
never imagined for one moment they could be suffering to the extent they are because I fucked up. Because I failed them.”
“I appreciate how you’re feeling,” I say. “I do. And I get it. I’d probably feel the same way. But you took the case as far as it would go and that’s all you could do.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Whatta you mean? I thought you did.”
“I left before it was done. I . . . It doesn’t matter. Take me back to the hotel. I’m done.”
“But—”
“Go be with your family. Don’t waste any more time on this. Enjoy your vacation. I should’ve never asked you to help clean up my mess. I’m sorry I did.”
“You’re just feeling—”
“I’m done talkin’ about it,” he says.
And he is.
I continue to try to get him to talk for a while, but it’s futile.
If we had a different type of relationship, if we were closer, if we were less like distant father and son and more like adult friends, more like intimate peers, I could have insisted that he talk to me, that he let me help process what he’s dealing with and going through.
As it is, we are family but we are not close, intimate, peer-like friends. I don’t doubt Dad’s love, respect, and support. In fact, I know he’d do anything for me—anything but let me help him on any kind of emotional or psychological level. He’ll let me help him work the case but not with his inner life of thoughts and feelings. Our dynamic, the one he established when I was a child and continues to insist on to this day, is one that avoids the true intimacy that comes from shared vulnerability.
Chapter Thirty-two
After dropping Dad off, I search for a quiet place to go through the folder of pictures Kathy had given us.
BLOOD WORK: a John Jordan Mystery (John Jordan Mysteries Book 12) Page 11
