“You’d have a better chance of doing it with our help,” I say.
“You found her,” Dad says. “But how?”
“I can’t get into it. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“And finding her now, when you did, has nothing to do with what John and I have been doing? It’s just a coincidence that you found her remains after thirty-eight years while we’re here conducting an investigation?”
“See, Sheriff,” Glenn says, “that sounds like you’re looking for credit again.”
“I’m not looking for any goddamn credit,” Dad says, his voice rising, though still weak and not very loud. “I want to close this case.”
“You want it closed?” Glenn says. “Or you want to close it? Because you can’t issue any subpoenas, you can’t serve any search warrants, you can’t make any arrests. So how exactly would you close it?”
“I just want it done and done right.”
“Oh, the way you did it the first time? Right like that? Are you—you of all people—questioning my abilities? Are you saying you lack confidence in my department?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You know how much this means to him,” I say. “You know how personally invested he is in finding Janet’s killer.”
“Thought he already had,” Glenn says. “Thought Bundy did it.”
“Maybe he did,” Dad says.
“Oh yeah? Then how the hell did he move the body eleven years after he died in the arms of old sparky’s warm embrace?”
Chapter Forty-seven
“Come again?” Dad says.
“You heard me. Her remains were moved over a decade after Bundy was executed. The Tree of Peace monument was built in 2000. She wasn’t there when they started. The ground where we found her remains had been dug up and bulldozed and leveled and sodded—as the garden was being built. She wasn’t there. Someone moved her and buried her there just as they were completing work on the monument.”
“Where was she moved from?” I ask.
“We don’t know. And I’m not going to get into all the details of this whole thing with y’all. I just wanted you to know that your Bundy theory was bullshit.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, just sits there stunned, speechless, saddened. Eventually, he frowns, shakes his head, and looks down.
“Sorry to be so . . . but . . . I’m just being truthful,” Glenn says. “And if you really care about justice for Janet, you’ll be happy I am, because I’m gonna solve this thing.”
“We still gonna be able to meet with your brother Brad?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Don’t see any point in it now. But don’t you worry, I’m reinterviewing everyone—including him.”
“Are you saying he won’t talk to us?”
He shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve been about as patient and accommodating as I can be. But you guys just don’t stop pushing, do you? What I’m sayin’ is you need to go back and work on solving cases in Gulf County. We’ve got Jackson County covered.”
I start to say something but stop.
I want to ask him if it’s true his brother worked on the garden installation and actually operated the backhoe it now looks like was used to bury Janet’s remains there, but know it will only serve to cause problems for Darlene Weatherly.
“I’ve got a man in custody,” Glenn says. “A man who in every way that matters was the father of the victim, and he says that instead of working the case like you should have back then you were carrying on with his wife, the mother of the victim out of her mind with grief and still in shock. Is that true?”
Dad doesn’t respond, just holds Glenn’s gaze.
“That’s not just negligence,” he says. “That’s gross misconduct. You know what . . . I wasn’t going to say anything else about the case, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell you a little something else about the case you botched back then. Guess who worked on both the golf course project where the backhoe was stolen from and the Peace Tree project where Janet was buried? Hell, he’s still the yard man there to this day. That’s right. Janet’s boyfriend, the most obvious suspect. Oh, and the son of the man who asked you to come in here and take over the case. What was it, only on the condition that you set up someone else? Hell, who better than fuckin’ Ted Bundy for that? Ted Bundy. You might as well have said the goddamn boogeyman did it.”
“Why move the body?” I ask.
Dad doesn’t respond. He’s still despondent, defeated, disheartened.
“I was feeling so hopeful this morning,” Dad says. “Was thinking I might just beat back the cancer for a while and maybe even find a little happiness with Verna for whatever time we have left, but . . .”
“Come on. Help me. We’ve got to figure this out before Barnes does irreparable harm to it.”
“I’m the one who did irreparable harm to it. Me. Not him. Not anyone else. Just me.”
“We can still do this,” I say. “We’re close. Think about how much we’ve learned.”
He shakes his head. “Take me back to the hotel. I’m tired. Need to rest.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go to Verna’s?”
He shakes his head again. “I’m . . . All I do is make her difficult life all that more difficult. Take me to the hotel now.”
“Okay,” I say, and start the truck.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just . . . I don’t feel very . . . Sorry.”
While Dad rests, I drive out Caverns Road to try to take a look at the Tree of Peace memorial garden again.
On the way, I call Daniel Davis.
“Hey man. How’s it going? How’s Sam today.”
“Little improvements every day,” he says.
“How about you? How are you holdin’ up?”
“Enjoyed y’all’s visit,” he says. “Always does me good.”
“We’ll be back soon. Promise.”
“Thanks.”
“Got a quick question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you or Sam have any friends in the FDLE lab who would talk to me?”
“About the Bundy thing?”
“The victim’s remains were found, and now the sheriff has shut us out. I just have a couple of questions about what was found, very unofficially.”
“I know just the person,” he says. “I’ll call her and get back to you.”
“Thanks man. I really appreciate it.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The Tree of Peace memorial is both majestic and disturbing. At its center is a life-size bronze tree similar to the one in front of the court house that Claude Neal’s mutilated corpse hung from. On one side of the tree a series of nooses hang from the branches, on the other black and white children climb the branches and push each other in a rope swing that looks like a larger version of one of the nooses.
It’s as if in this Eden the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil are now one tree.
Around the tree are stone steps with inspirational quotes and markers with historical information on them.
Well-watered and cared for by Ben Tillman, the garden is verdant, both green and flowering.
Though it’s still taped off with crime scene tape, the FDLE crime scene techs are gone. Only a single deputy remains to guard the perimeter.
When I see that it’s Darlene Weatherly, I pull up, park, and get out.
“You do a little of everything, don’t you?” I say.
“Just the shit detail,” she says, then her voice changes, taking on an upbeat sarcastic tone. “‘It’s something nobody wants to do—I know, let’s give it to the lesbian. Maybe we can get her to quit.’ But I won’t.”
“Good for you,” I say. “And I’m sorry it’s that way.”
“Won’t be forever,” she says.
I nod. “Nothing is. Some things just feel like they are.”
“You ain’t just whistling Dixie there,” she says.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. I
t’s a Tallahassee number and I figure it’s someone from FDLE calling me back.
“Sorry,” I say. “I need to take this.”
“No problem. I’m not going anywhere.”
I step a few feet away. “Hello.”
“This John Jordan?”
“Yes.”
“This is—this is a friend of Sam and Daniel’s.”
“Thanks so much for calling me.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t call. We never spoke. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I understand.”
“I’d do anything for Sam, but this is . . .”
“I understand and I really appreciate it.”
“Rather than you askin’ me questions, I’m just gonna tell you all we know—because it isn’t much and won’t take but a second.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“The remains were wrapped in a pretty standard blanket from that era. Nothing out of the ordinary about it. But it’s consistent with the 1978 burial date. So is the tent material that is covering it.”
“So the nylon material around the blanket is from a tent?”
“Yes. Again, a common tent material from the time. Everything is consistent with a late-seventies burial. But we know the remains were dug up and moved in 2000—and not only because they couldn’t’ve have been where they were found before 2000 but because there are two different types of soil. The soil from the garden where the remains were found is sandy. It was brought in when they were building the memorial park. But based on other soil traces we found, the body was originally buried in soil found in most pastures and yards around the Jackson County area. I can’t tell you why her remains were moved, only that they were—all together with all her belongings inside the tent wrap just like they had been buried.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?” she says. “I didn’t tell you anything. We didn’t even talk.”
She disconnects the call and I step back over to where Darlene is guarding the perimeter.
“Sounds like you may have been getting classified information on an official police investigation,” she says.
“You gonna tell Glenn?”
“Might feel compelled to if he actually listened to me or had me working on the case, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“You weren’t the only one who didn’t treat me like a fuckin’ leper.”
I shake my head. “Sorry that’s the case, but I’m glad you won’t be turning me in.”
“Who were you talkin’ to?” she says.
“Not who I really need to,” I say.
“Who’s that?”
“The ME or someone in his office. It’s funny, I talk to him all the time about my cases in Gulf County, but he won’t talk to me at all about a Jackson County case.”
The Medical Examiner’s Office for the 14th District covers Bay, Gulf, Holmes, Calhoun, Washington, and Jackson counties, and though we all share the same ME, he won’t share information about our cases with investigators from other counties—investigators he routinely communicates with otherwise.
“My only hope,” I continue, “was an investigator in the office who’s a friend, but she’s on vacation this week.”
Darlene nods and purses her lips, a twinkle in her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask.
“If only you knew someone who had given one of the young ladies in their office the night of her life.”
“If only,” I say.
“If only you knew someone who had just gotten a job with the highway patrol and didn’t give a fuck.”
“If only,” I say again.
“It’ll probably mean I’ll have to provide another night of toe-curling ecstasy, but . . . I could be convinced to take one for the team.”
“Congratulations on getting the job. Happy for you. If it doesn’t work out, there’s always a place for a good cop like you in Gulf County.”
“What’s the lesbian scene like over there?”
“Sort of quiet,” I say. “You’d be just the thing to liven it up.”
A big, broad grin spreads across her face. “Give me just a minute to make a call,” she says, pulling her phone out. Punching in a number, she says, “Hey baby girl, how you been?” as she steps away, back toward the Peace Tree memorial.
As she talks to Baby Girl, I look at the memorial some more and think about the case, attempting to put the pieces together in some coherent order. I think about the ignorance and hatred and fear and small-minded racism that led to such a beautiful memorial, but also about the hope for change and understanding, compassion and equality it also represents.
Does Janet’s father being black have something to do with her death? Was it Bundy and someone else who buried her and moved her remains for some reason?
As I gaze at the powerful work of art, I see an older black man doing the same down the way.
I walk over to him.
He’s tall and thin and very light skinned. His narrow frame is bent a little, and he’s dressed more formally than most people you encounter in the rural, casual South. In his left hand he holds a small bouquet of flowers.
“Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Thank you,” he says.
“You—”
“Designed it. Yeah.”
“You are gifted. It’s . . . a stunning work of art.”
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t look at me, just continues staring at his work.
There is something about him, some familiarity . . . and I realize who he reminds me of. Given the resemblance to Janet and the fact that he’s here with flowers, I can’t help but wonder if he’s her biological father.
“You from here?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’m John Jordan, by the way,” I say, extending my hand.
“Langston,” he says.
His hand is bony, the skin rough and dry.
“You’re a true artist, Langston.”
“Thank you.”
“What brings you back out here today?” I say.
He shrugs. “Just wanted to see . . . it.”
“Are the flowers for Janet Lester?”
He looks at them as if he wasn’t aware they were there.
“Just figured it’s what people were doing. Leaving flowers. But haven’t seen any others.”
“Yours can be the first,” I say. “I’m sure others will bring some to join yours.”
He nods, then slowly bends down and places the flowers on the ground in front of the crime scene tape.
“Do you have a daughter?” I ask. “I see some family resemblance.”
He shakes his head. “Got no daughter. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”
“Wait. I just—”
But he is gone, walking away faster than I would have thought him capable, climbing into his car, and speeding away.
I’m writing down his plate number when Darlene returns with a self-satisfied smile on her face.
“Well?” I ask. “What’d she say?”
“I have a date Friday night.”
“That’s great, but not what I meant.”
She laughs. “Oh. Well, it’s all preliminary, and they’ve called in a forensic anthropologist, but she says she doubts they’ll find much more than what they have now. There’s just not much remains that old can tell you. What they do know is that it is her. Dental records confirmed her identity. There’s not much else . . . except there are no broken bones or signs of blunt force trauma that left the skull fractured or anything. Based on the blood in the vehicle and the presence of arterial spray, they believe she was stabbed to death, killed in her car. And there are nicks and scrapes on some of her bones that support that theory. He stabbed her so violently, he scraped and scratched and cut bone. It was a vicious attack.”
Chapter Forty-nine
Jack Jordan can tell someone is in the room with him, but he gives no indication. He just goes about his normal routine and appears to collaps
e into bed the way he had the last time someone was in the room with him.
Only this time, he gets in a slightly different position, and he quietly and quickly pulls his borrowed gun out.
So this time when the man climbs on top of him and attempts to pin him down, Jack shoves the barrel of the revolver into the soft skin beneath the man’s chin and thumbs back the hammer.
“Drop it,” Jack says.
The man doesn’t move.
“Drop it now or a round is about to travel over nine hundred miles an hour through your mouth and sinus cavity and into your brain.”
The man drops the weapon he’s holding onto the bed.
“Now lace your fingers behind your head.”
The room is dim but from what Jack can make out, the man does as he’s told.
“Now very, very slowly, without breaking contact with the barrel of my gun, stand up at the same time I do. But don’t let your chin lose contact with the barrel or I’m just gonna start shooting and call housekeeping to sponge you up.”
Slowly, awkwardly, the two men push up from the bed to a standing position.
“Keep your hands laced behind your head but turn around. As you so, I’m gonna keep the barrel pressed to you, coming around the side of your neck to the back of your head. Try anything and I’ll empty the entire cylinder into your neck, face, and head. Maybe you don’t care if I do. You clearly don’t value your sorry life coming into my room like this. But think about your poor mama. ’Cause I promise she won’t be able to identify you.”
“I’m doin’ everything you say just like you’re sayin’ it. Don’t shoot.”
He then slowly turns around, actually leaning his neck into the barrel as he does so as not to lose contact with it.
When he’s completely around, Jack quickly cuffs the man.
Then grabbing him by the cuffs while keeping the gun barrel at the base of his neck, he pushes him across the room and into the chair beside the small table in front of the window.
With the man in the chair, Jack steps back and turns on the light switch by the door.
As if a cat burglar, the man is wearing all black with black gloves and a black ski mask.
BLOOD WORK: a John Jordan Mystery (John Jordan Mysteries Book 12) Page 17
