Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Who was in the infirmary that night with him?” I asked.

  She thought for a minute. “Let me see,” she said, “seems like it was only Thomas, Jacobson, and Johnson. I think that’s right. We usually have more than that, so it sort of stands out, you know? Especially after what happened.”

  “Anthony Thomas?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I saw him in Confinement a couple of days ago and he was on something strong. Didn’t seem like the side effects of something prescribed. Officer down there said to ask you what he’s on.”

  “Nothing as far as I know,” she said. “I’d have to look at his chart to be sure, but . . . Probably got his hands on something illegal. Such a shame. What a waste.”

  “And you’re sure he was there that night?”

  “I believe so. He’s there a lot. I don’t think there was anyone else that night. Come on, let’s go back there and take a look at the log, then I can tell you for sure.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She led me inside to the nurses’ station and began flipping through the pages of the log book.

  “Just Johnson and Jacobson according to this,” she said, “but I know Thomas was here. I remember. Oh well, somebody just forgot to write it down.”

  “Somebody forgot to write it down?” I asked, my voice revealing my incredulity.

  “I know. It shouldn’t have happened. Usually doesn’t. Anyway, I know he was here. Saw him with my own two baby blues.”

  “Blues?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she said smiling. “Yeah. I have colored contacts on.”

  “So Johnson, Jacobson, and Thomas were the only ones here last Monday night, right?”

  “Right. I’m sure of it.”

  “Who took the trash out that morning?” I asked.

  She gave me a large shrug. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” She leaned in closer to me and whispered, “I can tell you who it wasn’t. It wasn’t Jones. He was cleaning up a urine sample for me. I saw the bags when I went and got him, and when we went back, they were gone. Oh, and it wasn’t me. I was with Jones the whole time. So the two of us are in the clear.”

  “Unless,” I said, “you did it together.”

  26

  “You been drinkin’?” Jake asked.

  I had just arrived at Russ Maddox’s house, which was now a crime scene.

  Jake Jordan and I were brothers. So were Cain and Abel.

  He had been waiting for me in the driveway, chest out, arms dangling wide of his body to accommodate his muscles and gun.

  Two years my junior, he also had brown eyes and light brown hair, and although we were both roughly six feet tall, he outweighed me by almost fifty pounds. His dark green deputy sheriff’s uniform shirt was at least two sizes too small, and his pants puckered and pulled at the pleats.

  “I don’t think you should be here at all, but no way I’m lettin’ you through if you been drinkin’.”

  I continued past him. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Inside,” he said, turning to walk with me.

  When Jake and I were growing up, we both competed for the approval of our childhood hero, our dad. We both received Dad’s approval, but I had received more and was more like a friend than a son. Jake hated me for it.

  When I moved to Atlanta after high school, Jake moved into the top spot, even eventually becoming one of Dad’s deputy’s. When I abandoned law enforcement for ministry, my relationship with Dad was strained even further. But since I’d been back, Jake’s insecurities had kicked into overdrive.

  “Looks like Russ was murdered,” he said. “Pretty damn exciting. Two years without a homicide where we didn’t know exactly who did it and now we have two in a week.”

  I nodded.

  “When’re you going to see Mom?” he asked.

  “Soon,” I said. “Soon as I can. Next day or so. You?”

  He shook his head. “I just can’t deal with that kind of shit. Probably ride over when Dad goes. Next weekend maybe.”

  “Nancy know?” I asked.

  “Dad said he was going to call her tomorrow, but I told him he shouldn’t. Hell, she ain’t even a part of this family anymore.”

  Jack Jordan, looking tired and older than he should have, spoke with the medical examiner in hushed and quiet tones.

  The body of Russ Maddox was slumped over in an uncomfortable-looking wingback chair covered in plastic and positioned in front of the television. Like the chair, the entire house looked uncomfortable. If it were lived in, you couldn’t tell it.

  “John,” Dad said when he saw me.

  “Dad.” I nodded.

  I walked over to the chair where Russ’s obese body sat crumpled. His head hung down, the fat gathering beneath his third chin and in large rolls of white blubber around his midsection. He was wearing a white silk robe, which gaped open revealing white silk boxer shorts and a tight white silk T-shirt.

  Beside his chair stood an ornately carved wooden TV tray with an open bottle of wine, a wineglass, and a small china plate with caviar and crackers on it.

  My eyes widened when I noticed the two long, sharp kitchen knives lying near the plate. The knives seemed to be spaced too far apart from the plate, and they were positioned funny. It was just an impression, but it looked as if they had been added later. I looked back at Maddox. There was no sign of violence or trauma anywhere on his body. In stark contrast to the last death I had witnessed, there was not a single drop of blood.

  “That is caviar, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is,” the medical examiner said.

  “Is it generally eaten with large carving knives?”

  “Curious, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “You ever been accused of exaggeration, Roger?” I asked.

  He smiled, but did not comment.

  I looked over at Dad. He just shrugged.

  “Any prints?” I asked.

  “On the bottle, the glass, the plate, the tray—everything but the knives. They’re clean,” Dad said.

  “I did find small traces of the light powder residue that is usually associated with surgical latex gloves,” Roger stated as if he had said that he had found wine in the wine bottle.

  “Well, now,” I said. “Okay for me to look around?”

  “Everything’s been dusted, if that’s what you mean,” Jake responded. He took a toothpick out of his mouth and tucked it into the left breast pocket of his deputy’s shirt.

  “Take a look,” Dad said, and then gave Jake a look that said back off.

  I walked across the sculpted Berber carpet, which covered the entire house save the mahogany floors in the kitchen, dining, and foyer areas.

  In the kitchen, brass pots, colanders, and ladles hung over a butcher-block island. Like the counters, there was nothing on it, and it had been cleaned to the point of shining. Expensive wineglasses were suspended under the glassed cabinet housing his fine china.

  I walked out of the spotless kitchen into the formal living room. Every single piece of upholstered furniture sported carefully placed afghans, as if being preserved for an event yet to come. Every piece of wooden furniture was fitted with a sheet of custom-cut glass to cover the top.

  With the exception of the dead body in the living room, the entire house could have been a fine furniture store showroom.

  Evidently the crime-scene investigation was nearly concluded when I had been called. The house was virtually empty. I did, however, pass by a young female deputy as I was walking up the stairs, but she didn’t seem to be investigating.

  I smiled and nodded at her. She didn’t return either gesture.

  She obviously felt the need to establish her seriousness as a law enforcement officer at a crime-scene.

  I was convinced.

  The second story of the house was as immaculate as the first—nothing out of place and no sign that human beings actually resided here.

  Every hallway had a long plastic
runner covering the carpet, making my shoes sound like small Skill saws as I shuffled along them.

  There were three bedrooms—and if someone had ever spent a single night in any of them, I couldn’t tell it.

  The one I assumed was Russ’s, because of its size and attached bathroom, was nearly two times the size of my trailer. The bed, a king-size monstrosity, was at least four feet off the floor with massive spiral posts at each corner and looked to be mahogany. The other furniture in the room seemed to be an eclectic gathering of priceless antiques gleaned from different parts of the world—an armoire, tallboy, full-length free-standing mirror, vanity, and dresser.

  The walk-in closet was neatly organized. The back wall was covered with shoe bins from floor to ceiling, each containing a pair of polished shoes. Each side of the closet had a rack with clothes hanging on it, suits and dress shirts mainly. I looked around the closet and the bedroom and found nothing unusual.

  The bathroom was another matter.

  Under the expensive porcelain sink with gold and brass fittings, there were three large jars of Vaseline, four tubes of K-Y lubrication jelly, and two large boxes of condoms.

  The other two bedrooms were a lot like the larger one, only smaller. They were showroom-clean and decorated like ones seen in magazines. I made what I thought was a pretty thorough search of the rooms and then went back into the master suite.

  Looking through Russ’s drawers was like shopping at Macy’s. Everything looked new, and there were several packages of underwear and socks and T-shirts that had never been opened.

  I walked over and looked under the bed. It was spotless.

  I was tempted to believe Russ Maddox might be a little on the obsessive-compulsive side, but I knew the dangers of rushing to judgement.

  After finding nothing on the back side of the headboard and the mirror, I opened the two doors of the armoire, exposing a 32-inch television, VCR, and camcorder.

  Beneath the shelf under the TV and VCR, there were several videotapes—movies ranging from The Sound of Music to Rocky.

  I pulled a few of the tapes out of the boxes and popped a few of them into the VCR. They were what they appeared to be.

  As I started to replace them, I noticed that behind them, lying on their sides, were four of the oversized Disney VHS boxes—Bambi, Dumbo, Beauty and the Beast, and The Lion King. I stood them up vertically alongside the other tapes and closed the armoire doors.

  I started to leave the room, and then it hit me. Why would somebody as obsessive-compulsive as Maddox lay the Disney tapes horizontally behind the others?

  At first, I had figured it was just because they were too tall to fit, but putting them back like the others disproved that. It also proved that there was room for them.

  And why would a single, middle-aged man like Russ Maddox have Disney movies anyway?

  I went back and opened the doors again and then the Disney boxes.

  The labels on the tapes corresponded with the boxes, but they were typed homemade labels and not the printed labels that usually were affixed to tapes in the dubbing houses. Homemade labels would have made sense if the tapes were copied, but if they were copies they wouldn’t be in the Disney boxes.

  I placed one in the VCR. The TV screen blinked from royal blue to a shot of two men having sex on the bed in the very room I was standing in. The camera seemed to be shooting the video footage from where it still sat on the shelf beside the VCR. The room was well lit, and the camera was obviously an expensive one because the picture was crystal clear. It showed a fat white man from the side hunched over a thin black man. The fat white man was Russ Maddox. He was moaning and occasionally blurting out obscenities. The other man, whose face I could not see, was making noises too, but his seemed to be more pain than pleasure.

  In another minute or so, Russ had climaxed and collapsed, the black man disappearing beneath his blubber. I hit the fast forward button on the machine, and in a few seconds the black man beneath Russ began moving slightly and Russ finally rolled off him. The black man jumped up. When he did, he came face-to-face with the eye of the camera. I paused it on the familiar face of Ike Johnson.

  I stopped the tape as I heard a voice from the hall.

  “John, your dad would like to see you downstairs,” the serious young female officer said when she reached the door to the bedroom.

  “Would you mind asking him to step up here? I need to show him something.”

  A few moments later Dad and Jake stepped into the room.

  “Body’s gone,” Dad said. “Crime scene is gone. We’re about to go. Just wanted to touch base with you, see if you thought your case and this one are related.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they are,” I said, and pressed Play on the VCR.

  “Fuck me,” Jake said. “Just threw up in my mouth some.”

  “Who’s that with Russ?” Dad asked.

  “The inmate who was killed on Tuesday,” I said. “Ike Johnson.”

  He nods and frowns. “Looks like maybe Russ was poisoned. Seems completely opposite to how your guy was killed—as opposite as you can get. We really thinking the same doer did both?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure about that. Just that they’re connected. Though they may not be as different as they seem.”

  “How so?”

  “If both were drugged—and if the killer isn’t the trash officer who stabbed Ike—then all the killer did was drug him and put him in the bag, making his part of it as bloodless as this one.”

  27

  “I think Captain Skipper has been supplying inmate prostitutes to Russ Maddox. And Ike Johnson was one of them,” I said.

  I was sitting with Merrill and Anna in her office on the morning of the longest Monday of my life, a day that I began in the company of my friends and ended in the hands of my enemies.

  “Run that by me one more time,” Anna said.

  “You heard me. And the two people who’ve died recently both have ties to Skipper and each other.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna asked.

  I told them.

  When I finished, they were both silent.

  I could see the wheels turning in Anna’s head. I knew that wheels were also turning in Merrill’s head, but I couldn’t see them.

  “It’s just not possible,” Anna said at last. “There’s no way he could pull it off. It would take . . .”

  “Help from higher up,” Merrill said.

  I shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  “At least,” Anna added. “But he couldn’t do it without getting caught.”

  “He has been,” Merrill said. “John caught his ass.”

  “We’ve got to call FDLE in,” Anna said.

  “Daniels says he’s going to,” I said. “Dad too.”

  Merrill said, “You saw Johnson on the tape. See anybody else?”

  “He’s the only one I saw, and it was very short. My guess is Russ wasn’t known for his stamina. Dad took the tapes into custody, but I plan to watch them if you wanna help.”

  “I’m busy that night,” Merrill said.

  I went back to my office and ordered flowers for Laura. I had them write on the card, “The scent of peaches still lingers.”

  Next, I called her to see how she and the family were doing.

  “Hello.”

  “Laura?” I said.

  “No, this is Kim. Who’s this?”

  “John Jordan. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks. Let me grab Laura. She’s dying to talk to you. She’s totally spazzing out over you.”

  In a moment, Laura picked up.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Morning. How are you?”

  “I’m okay. Having contradictory feelings. Coming off the high of a wonderful weekend with you and then the shock of Uncle Russ’s death.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s okay. They weren’t very close. He was so weird. He was not really close to anyone that I know of. Still it’s a shock.”
/>   “Anything I can do?”

  “Could you come by after work?”

  “Sure.”

  A few moments after I hung up, Mr. Smith brought an inmate pass in and laid it on my desk.

  “Think you might want to talk with this inmate. Need to hear what he has to say.”

  “Send him in.”

  Jefferson Hunter rushed into my office. I motioned for him to have a seat.

  “When my mother passed, you really helped me a lot,” he said. “I remember that. So I had to tell you. Chaplain, you in danger.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They’s this dude what handles things for people on the ’pound. I ain’t gonna say his name, but I want you to know he come up to a small group of some real badasses, you know. He say he got lotsa money for a hit. He say it’s protection on the ’pound and about three hundred in canteen. I never heard anyone offer that much for anything. Then he say who he want hit. It you.”

  I was silent. I couldn’t believe it.

  “It really surprise me, you know, ’cause you the most popular chaplain we ever had. Everybody on the ’pound say you really care and shit. So when he say he want a hit on you, I just really couldn’t believe it. I thought you should know. But I mean, I ain’t no squealer or nothin’. I just doin’ you a solid like you done for me when my moms was dying. So we straight, and you didn’t hear it from me.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Just stay off the ’pound awhile, and watch your back.”

  28

  “We know for sure now that Johnson was murdered,” Tom Daniels was saying. He was put to sleep in the early morning hours last Tuesday. We know that his body was kept in the caustic storage closet. The lab tested the cleaner and some fibers that were found on the floor in there and made a match. We think he was drugged between six and seven.”

  We were back in Stone’s office on Monday afternoon giving him an update.

  I had been operating under the assumption that Ike had been murdered but now it was confirmed by the lab.

  I thought about the timing. If the estimate was right, he was put to sleep just before Security shift change and just after Medical shift change. The two are on slightly different schedules.