Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  It was during this time that I discovered other crime writers who have had a profound influence on my work, like James Lee Burke and Michael Connelly (who has contributed an essay for this book). It was also during this time that I attended my first novel-writing workshop taught by Lynn Wallace (who has also contributed an essay for this book).

  And because way leads to way and book leads to book, I began a kind of self-designed curriculum for my education as a new writer, which included Shakespeare, Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Melville, Chandler, Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, Updike, Roth, Irving, DeLillo, Fitzgerald, and Cormac McCarthy.

  Over the next twenty-plus years, I continued my education and training, and after some thirty books, thirteen of which are John Jordan novels, here I am.

  I feel like somewhere along the way I learned to write some, and I hope twenty years from now I’ll have learned a lot more.

  At some point during the past twenty years since Power in the Blood was first published, probably back around the time I learned a little about writing, I began wanting to rewrite it. I’ve thought about it for years, but was uncertain as to how to approach it or when to take the time away from current and future books to do it. And then a couple of years back it occurred to me that the twentieth anniversary of the book would be the perfect time.

  The moment I decided to rewrite Power in the Blood for this special edition, I had to decide exactly what that meant. Was I going to toss out the original and start over? Was I going to keep the original and just tweak and lightly edit? Was I going to change the story? The plot? The style?

  Ultimately, I chose to keep the original book, but do heavy revision without changing the essential plot and characters in any fundamental way.

  This new, revised version of Power in the Blood more closely matches my style, my voice, my approach to the novel today than the original version from twenty years ago. However, since I kept the characters, plot, and structure of the original, this new version is a hybrid—neither completely the novel I would have written back then, nor the one I would write today.

  This is a remodel instead of new construction. I kept the bones of the original book, the foundation, some of the wiring, walls, and plumbing, but rebuilt and repurposed and redid most everything else. This new version is not a completely new house, but neither is it an old one either. In that way, I believe it shows the first-time novelist I was and the twenty-sixth-time novelist I’ve become.

  The writer I’ve become has increasingly been about what I leave out as much as what I put in. Saying more, evoking more, discovering more with less—fewer words, less exposition, less explanation—has been the biggest part of my particular evolution. And this new version of Power in the Blood reflects that. Whatever else it is, it’s cleaner, leaner prose, and closer to my authentic style, my true voice.

  I hope you enjoy this version of Power in the Blood, that it serves as a good introduction to John Jordan. And, most importantly of all, I hope you see in it the seeds of what the series will become and want to journey with John throughout the entirety of the books featuring him, however many books that ultimately turns out to be.

  Michael Lister

  January 2017

  Michael Connelly Introduction

  It’s hard to write a book. You have to keep so many plates spinning on sticks. You’ve got the plot. You’ve got the place you are writing about. You’ve got the what-happens-next plate that can never wobble. You’ve got the momentum plate. You’ve got the humor plate. And the compassion plate. And I could go on and on. You’ve got the need to blend all of these things together into one act and keep them spinning, always spinning. Oh, and did I mention that you are holding all of these sticks up and spinning all of these plates while walking on a tight rope? No, wait, walking would be too easy. Change that. You are actually riding a tricycle on a tight rope.

  Yes, it’s a major high wire act, fraught with danger and failure, and that wire is the most important part of the whole thing. That high wire is character, and the whole thing comes crashing down plates and all if you don’t have it right. If that wire is not taught and reliable and secure. If that character is not one for the ages.

  Now with all of that, think about getting back on that high wire with the same character time and time again. Six shows a week and two on Sunday. It is not for the faint of heart, I can tell you that. It is hard to do it once. It is harder to do it time and time again. And that’s what writing a book series is like.

  And that is what Michael Lister has done for 20 years with the character of John Jordan and what he has been able to do for 20 years with his own muse. Not just sustain. Not just keep his balance on the wire. Not just go back to the well again and again. He has filled the well, he has expanded the boundaries of what he does with character. He has gotten better. He has somehow been able to find within him the inspiration to get back on the wire and do it again, only better.

  It may be that the challenge and accomplishment of this can only be fully known and understood by the one who does it. No matter. Take my word for it. Michael Lister has become a master storyteller in his first 20 years and he’s only getting started.

  Michael Connelly

  January 2017

  How to read the John Jordan Blood Series

  The Blood Series

  This New York Times bestselling and award-winning series features a conflicted detective—a cop with ties to Atlanta who also works as a prison chaplain in Florida. He’s a man of mercy and justice, compassion, open-mindedness. He’s also a smart, relentless detective.

  The John Jordan mystery series is character-driven and realistic—thoughtful mystery thrillers involving the hero’s journey of a good man trying to be even better, as he helps others along the way.

  Like John Jordan, the author, Michael Lister, was a prison chaplain with the state of Florida before leaving to write full-time.

  If you’re new to the John Jordan series, you can begin with any book, but we recommend one of these 3: Power in the Blood, Innocent Blood, or Blood Oath.

  Power in the Blood, the first fiction the author ever wrote, was published over 20 years ago, and though it’s recommended, the books in the John Jordan series don’t have to be read in order.

  All the books in the series are novels—mystery, thrillers, whodunits—except for the 3rd book in the series, Flesh and Blood, which is a collection of short stories featuring temporal and metaphysical mysteries. If you don’t care for short stories, feel free to skip Flesh and Blood and continue with the fourth novel The Body and the Blood.

  If you decided to skip the short stories and continue on with the novels, we recommend that you read the short story “A Taint in the Blood” in the book Flesh and Blood to find out what happened to Laura Matthers from Power in the Blood.

  The 7th book in the series, Innocent Blood, is a prequel going back to John’s very first investigation. Though the 7th in the series, it can be read 1st or 7th since it’s a prequel.

  The 10th book in the series, Blood Cries, is the second in the “Atlanta Years” series within a series following the 7th book Innocent Blood. It can be read 2nd or 10th.

  The 17th book in the seres, Blood Stone, is the 3rd book in the “Atlanta Years” series within the series following the 10th book Blood Cries. It can be read 3rd or 17th.

  John Jordan is an ex-cop in books 1-10, but once again carries a gun and a badge beginning with book 11, Blood Oath.

  All of the John Jordan novels are available in high quality hardback, paperback, ebook, and audio editions.

  Interspersed throughout the “Blood” books there are other related books that are part of the John Jordan universe. These books are extremely important to the series and provide essential backstory for characters, connections, and locations of series regulars. Most of all they answer the questions most readers want to know. They include Double Exposure, Burnt Offerings, Separation Anxiety, Thunder Beach, and A Certain Retribution. These are “Blood Series” books
without being John Jordan Mysteries.

  We hope you will enjoy all the books in the John Jordan series and eagerly await each new entry.

  Be sure to join Michael Lister's Readers' Group for news, updates, and special deals on the John Jordan series.

  Power in the Blood

  a John Jordan Mystery

  By Michael Lister

  1

  I was standing at the gate of Potter Correctional Institution staring at him when he was killed.

  Waiting to be buzzed into the pedestrian sally port, my view slightly impaired by the chain-link fence and razor wire, I was gazing into the back of a trash truck.

  The hot July sun reflected off the razors like the mirrored shades of a redneck police chief, waves of heat dancing through circles of steel, and the air was thick and difficult to breathe.

  The clear, blue, cloudless sky offered no shelter from the sun’s assault, nor any promise of rain for the parched planet beneath my feet.

  I had no idea what I was witnessing at the time. A murder? An accident? A suicide?

  At first, all I could see was a young correctional officer with a bad complexion and wide hips standing on the back of a white Ford flatbed pickup truck thrusting a long metal rod into the trash bags piled on it.

  His hips were so wide and strangely shaped, it looked like he was wearing football pants with full pads. Sweat poured off his face, and his light brown uniform was soaked through. It wasn’t the young officer’s odd appearance but the enthusiasm with which he executed his task that caught my attention.

  I was awestruck by the violent blows each bag received.

  Obviously there were more effective and efficient ways to search the trash before it was removed from the institution, which meant the manner in which he was doing it was a warning to all the inmates looking on as much as it was any kind of actual hunt for an inmate trying to escape.

  Like a prehistoric sign language or an antiquated form of Morse code, every violent stab was a character of communication. Taken together, they sent out a concise message for all who had the eyes to see—attempting to escape PCI in the back of a trash truck was a bad idea.

  Even though inmates were sometimes treated like trash and at times acted like trash, they were not going to escape by pretending to be trash.

  What a strange, surreal little claustrophobic world I was entering.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the need for a certain type of security. I did.

  And I knew an officer had to check every vehicle and everything in those vehicles before they left the institution. Recalling just one of the many real-life horror stories of escaped inmates recited during my recent new-employee orientation was more than enough to convince me of that.

  But I couldn’t help but believe that the excessiveness expressed in this particular brutal method of searching the trash contributed to the violent and essentially inhumane environment of this secret and closed society.

  Preparing to stab the final bag in the center of the truck, the officer stumbled over the outer ones and hovered above it. Raising the weapon above his head, he brought it down with a force far more incredible than even the others had been.

  But this time when the rod entered the bag there was a deep thump, followed by the sound similar to that of twigs caught in a lawn mower.

  This time the metal implement did not return when the officer attempted to retract it.

  He then took another stance and yanked even harder.

  On his third attempt in that position he pulled it free, ripping open the bag as he did. It was dripping with blood.

  At first, I thought he had stabbed a can of chocolate syrup from Food Services or an old oil can from Maintenance, but his reaction quickly convinced me otherwise.

  The young officer lost all color and stumbled backward, dropping his blunt spear, and reached for his radio only to discover that it wasn’t there—something that served to make him only more frantic.

  I waved to the officer in the control room, who immediately buzzed me in.

  As I ran in, the officer on the flatbed began yelling.

  “Oh God. Chaplain. Chaplain. Chaplain, get out here now. Call for help. Get—” His voice, which had been weak and tight and frightened, turned to pure high-pitched hysteria.

  “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . What the . . . Oh shit . . . There’s a body in the . . .” With that, he passed out.

  I rushed over to the second gate that led into the vehicle sally port, and before I reached it, the control room had already buzzed it open. I ran straight through the gate, pausing on the other side only long enough to close it behind me.

  Heart hammering in my chest, thoughts a blur of indistinguishable images. Climbing up onto the back of the truck, I saw that the officer had landed on a bag of papers that had cushioned his fall. I crouched beside him, the sweat from my face dropping onto his. I could tell he was beginning to come around.

  My eyes moved down his body. The name tag on his shirt read Shutt. His feet, covered in blood now, were still touching the last bag he had stabbed.

  It looked as if the entire bed of the truck, once white, was now crimson.

  “Look at me,” I said when he first opened his eyes. “Shutt. Don’t look down. Look right at me.”

  He immediately looked down and began backpedaling away from the blood, like a sand crab avoiding an approaching tide.

  Blood splattered everywhere. On the bags. On him. On me.

  And I wondered if the red rain falling on us might contain an infection, HIV or hepatitis B—something far more likely in here than on the street.

  In his clumsy attempt to escape, the officer knocked me back into the bag with the body in it.

  As I fell, it enveloped me, and I felt warm, sticky liquid on the back of my neck and soaking through my clothes.

  Lurching forward, I pivoted slightly, a morbid part of me wanting to see. Lifeless black eyes staring blankly. Black head hanging unnaturally.

  I slid forward trying to move away. When I sat up, I noticed that one of the nurses, a tall young woman with blond hair, had entered the sally port with us. Shutt was already off the truck moving frantically toward the gate where I had entered. The officer in the control room had the wits about her not to let him through.

  I quickly jumped off the truck and had to hold onto its side as inside me all the blood seemed to drain from my head.

  Within seconds, officers began pouring into the sally port from the other gates. Two immediately went over to check on Shutt. Another came to check on me. All of them straining to see into the back of the truck, which had taken on a surreal, slightly horrific quality.

  “Chaplain, you okay?” Captain Skipper asked.

  “Fine,” I lied, nodding. “But let’s get Shutt to Medical. He’s really shaken up. And he’s got blood all over him. We both need to get cleaned up.”

  “They’re on the way,” he said, and looked back at the truck. “Damnation. How can there be so much blood?”

  “Heart must have still been pumping,” I said. “How did everyone respond so fast?”

  “Tower,” he said as if it were obvious.

  I looked fifty feet up at the tower to see the officer leaning out of the window observing everything below, radio still in her hand.

  When I looked back down, I saw that the nurse had her arm around the distraught officer, talking to him reassuringly.

  I walked over to them.

  “Chaplain, can you help me for a minute?” the nurse asked.

  A delicate, pale, blue-eyed beauty, she wore more makeup than she needed.

  “Sure,” I said, glancing at her name tag.

  “Strickland,” she said, trying but unable to remove the distressed look from her late-twenties face.

  “John Jordan.”

  “I need to check on the inmate in the truck, John. Can you stay with him?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She turned to leave, but then turned back to Shutt and said, “I’m so
sorry, but it’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She then ran over to the truck and bravely climbed onto the back.

  Snapping on latex gloves, she carefully but quickly made her way to the bag with the body in it.

  Crouching down to check the inmate, nearly disappearing behind the bags as she did, she moved with the surety and confidence of a seasoned ER nurse.

  Moments later the colonel and other medical personnel began to arrive.

  Shutt and I were escorted out of the sally port and into the security building on the rear side of the control room.

  It was difficult to see well from this new position, but I could tell that Captain Skipper had finished ripping open the bag to discover there was nothing left to do but call the coroner.

  “I don’t know if post-mortem prayers work, but if you have one, you might want to launch it up,” Colonel Patterson said when he was buzzed into the hallway of the security building where we were standing.

  He was a short, fat man with thick hands, bushy eyebrows, and messy hair. His uniform, which always looked sloppy, had large rings around the neck and armpits. His skin was leathery, and his neck was red.

  In my short time as a prison chaplain, I had met many decent, hardworking correctional officers. Colonel Patterson was not one of them.

  “Why don’t y’all come back to my office. We need to get your statements and have each of you fill out an incident report,” he said as he continued to walk down the hallway toward his office.

  The hallway, like all the hallways at PCI, was spotless and gleamed with the shine of a fresh coat of wax. Inmates had to have something to do.