Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “A large quantity of sleeping pills were found hidden in Jacobson’s property this weekend,” Stone said. “He’s been saving them up, not taking them. He’s in Confinement now but he was there with Johnson the night he was killed.”

  “Who found them?” I asked. “Who did the search?”

  “Captain Skipper.”

  “Of course he did,” I said. “These pills weren’t found when Jacobson’s property was searched when he was sent to Confinement, but conveniently as we’re gathering evidence against Skipper. Why is he still working? Surely after Saturday night you can suspend him now.”

  “I’m working on it,” Daniels said. “Takes time to build a case. Trying not to tip him off while we investigate him. We’re gonna get him—for whatever he’s been doing. We just want to get it right—and find out exactly what he’s been up to. He may very well have been up to all sorts of corrupt shit but not be guilty of killing anyone. You yourself said he didn’t go into Russ Maddox’s house around the time he was murdered. This kind of work takes patience. Perhaps you don’t have the temperament for it.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  “We don’t know for sure Russ Maddox was murdered, do we?” Stone said. “I thought it was possible he died of natural causes.”

  “It’s true there were no obvious signs of foul play,” I said, “but . . . I’ll be shocked if he wasn’t poisoned and if it doesn’t have something to do with what happened to Ike.”

  “And it might, but we can’t do anything until we have evidence,” Daniels said.

  “I talked to the chaplain at Calhoun Correctional about Shutt,” I said. “He worked there before transferring here. He said he got nothing but complaints about Shutt—”

  “Yeah, but—” Stone interrupted.

  “—from staff as well as inmates,” I continued.

  “Okay,” Stone said. “We’ll watch him very closely. Anything else?”

  “Got the results back on the tests the FDLE lab did on the carpet in the back of the chapel,” Daniels said. “Found small traces of blood and semen. Which means someone has been having sex on the floor in there.”

  “Confirms Molly Thomas’s story,” I said.

  “Lab also found traces of vaginal fluid.”

  Stone shook his head and frowned deeply.

  As I walked into the chapel, I could hear my phone ringing. The quick double rings let me know it was an outside call. Unlocking my office, I rushed over and answered it.

  “Dad wanted you to know that it looks like it was murder,” Jake said when I answered. “Russ Maddox’s preliminary autopsy results are back. Looks like he was poisoned. They won’t be one-hundred-percent certain until the labs come back, but they found traces of poison in the wine and caviar and there was plenty of both in his stomach.”

  “Do they have any idea what was used?”

  “Not with certainty yet. Chloral hydrate is a front-runner.”

  “How about a time of death?” I asked.

  “ME guesses between 12:30 and 1:30 a.m.,” he said. “Russ ate at Rudy’s earlier, so he’s basing it on that and the stomach contents.”

  “We shouldn’t rule out that it could be Rudy’s food that killed him.”

  “Oh and we got Russ’s medical records. Faggot had AIDS. Just like you.”

  That was Jake’s attempt at humor or stupid brotherly banter, but it brought back the fact that I might be infected, a thought I had been working to keep at bay.

  29

  As I approached the medical building, I could see Nurse Julie Anderson out front smoking again. It seemed at times that was all she did. She perked up when she saw me coming.

  “Hey, Chaplain, come here,” she said.

  Her loud voice changed and she began to whisper, which was roughly the volume most people use in ordinary conversation.

  “I really felt bad yesterday about our log book not being right so checked into it. I called the sarge who’d been at the center gate at the time to see if he could remember who went through on their way to Medical that night, and guess what, he did. He said that Thomas didn’t come through the gate but that he did go to Medical that night—just from the other side of the compound.”

  “Did he remember anyone else going in or out?”

  “Yeah, he did. I didn’t ask him or anything, but he said that later, after my shift was over, he let another inmate through the gate to go to Medical, but that he came back in just a few minutes and said he couldn’t find anybody, and, anyway, he didn’t want to be charged the three dollars.”

  Because of all of the abuse of the medical facilities by inmates who just wanted to get out of the sun or see a pretty nurse, the department had instituted a policy that made inmates pay three dollars to the department if they declared a medical emergency and they really didn’t have one.

  “He say who it was?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t remember,” she said.

  “Thank you. I sure appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m just sorry somebody was so careless. You going to say anything to anybody about it?”

  “No, don’t worry. I’d like to talk with Nurse Strickland though. What time does she come in tonight?”

  “You’re in luck. We’re both pulling a double. So she’s here today.”

  I walked through the waiting room, where twenty-five inmates were staring at the wall in front of them in silence. A few of them whispered greetings to me. A couple asked to see me later in the day. I entered the door on the right, which led to the exam rooms and the infirmary.

  Strickland was not in any of the exam rooms, nor the nurses’ station, nor the infirmary. She was seated in the break room at the end of the hall talking with someone I couldn’t see.

  When I reached the break room door, inmate Jones walked through it and left without speaking.

  “I wondered if I might ask you a couple more questions?” I said.

  She looked at her watch. “Sure. They about your tests? You wanna go to my office? How are you feeling?”

  “They’re about the night before Johnson was killed.”

  “Someone said they heard you were conducting an investigation. Is that true? Are you not really a chaplain?”

  “I’m just helping the IG a little. I used to be an investigator.”

  “Really? Cool. What made you become a chaplain?”

  “It’s a long, complicated story, but for most of my life I’ve done both.”

  “Both?”

  “Investigation and ministry.”

  “Wow, very interesting. I’d like to hear that long complicated story sometime. Perhaps over dinner.”

  “It’s a date.”

  She smiled. “I keep thinking about that night. Haven’t really come up with anything else. It was a pretty quiet night.”

  “I’m still not clear on when Thomas came to the infirmary and how long he stayed.”

  “Thomas wasn’t there on my shift,” she said. “Just Johnson and Jacobson.”

  “What about Nurse Anderson?” I asked.

  “She was in and out. Mostly out. It’s what she always does—waddles around, flirts with inmates, takes smoke breaks. Anything to avoid work.”

  “Is there a typewriter down here?”

  “I think there’s an old one somewhere. We all use the computer.”

  “Does your inmate orderly use it?”

  “Jones? I can’t imagine. I don’t think he reads or writes, but . . . I guess he could. I’m just not sure.”

  “Do you know where it is?” I asked.

  “Last time I saw it . . . Think it was in the first office on the left when you enter the medical department. Just before the nurses’ station. You want me to get it for you?”

  “Is it locked?”

  She shook her head. “Stays open. Just some extra furniture and a few supplies in there.”

  “Thanks. I may take a look at it. No need to take up any more of your time. But there is something you can do for me.
”

  “Name it.”

  “Be extra careful,” I said. “Don’t be alone with anyone. This is a dangerous place.”

  “Prison?”

  “The infirmary.”

  “Oh.”

  “Even with your orderly—”

  “Jones? He’s old and harmless,” she said. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “I mean everyone.”

  “Including you?” she asked with a smile. “I’m alone with you right now.”

  Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world yet loses his soul? The little brown fox jumped over something or other.

  After typing several sentences on the typewriter I found in the empty medical office, I pulled out one of the letters I had received and compared them.

  The type was identical—the t’s missing the right side of the crossbar. The o’s missing a small place in the bottom center. And the a’s were darker than all the other print.

  I had no way of knowing exactly who had been typing the threatening notes and sending them to me, but I now knew they had been typed here on this machine. Though it could be virtually anybody, it was most likely an inmate. A staff member could use a computer or another machine—even one outside the prison, but an inmate like Allen Jones wouldn’t have access to any other machine.

  30

  Confinement felt even more dark and oppressive today.

  When I signed in at the sergeant’s desk, I told him I had received a note from the first shift sergeant asking me to check on an inmate named Larkins.

  He nodded and gave me the cell number.

  I thanked him and headed toward Larkin’s cell.

  About halfway down the long hallway, a small group of inmates appeared, stepping out of dark cells into the dim corridor.

  The confinement cells were supposed to remain locked at all times. No inmates should be out of their cells, in a group, in the hall.

  I glanced back at the sergeant’s desk. He was gone.

  When I looked back at the group of inmates they were moving toward me, closing in, having picked up their pace.

  Continuing to face them, I began to move back toward the empty desk—not that being down there would be any better than here. I was locked in with no way of escape.

  Behind the group of inmates I caught sight of an officer.

  At first I felt relief but it was quickly replaced by a sinking dread as I saw that it was Captain Matthew Skipper.

  In another few moments, the inmates had me surrounded.

  Skipper stepped into the circle with me.

  “Chaplain, I hear you’re confused about exactly what your job is around here,” he said, his breath smelling of tobacco and coffee.

  He was probably six-four, but he slumped, as if the weight of his belly was pulling him forward.

  “Thought I’d remind you,” he said. “You’re here to give this bunch of degenerates some religion. That’s it. Nothing else.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I think you’re in serious need of some job counseling.”

  “That what these men do?” I asked, nodding toward the inmates circling us. “Career counseling.”

  “When it’s needed.”

  “You should speak to the warden about my job description.”

  “Stone? He’s a prissy little pussy. Thinks he’s HNIC around here, but everybody knows I run this bitch.”

  “And doing a mighty fine job of it,” I said.

  “You got a complaint or a suggestion, now’s the time. These boys are also my complaints department.”

  Before I could respond, he stepped aside and the circle closed in on me.

  The first blow was a body shot that caught me in the kidney. It was a hard blow, well delivered, and I wondered if the guy who threw it had been trained as a boxer.

  My knees buckled, and I started down.

  One of them caught me, lifted me back up, and then punched me hard under the chin.

  Head ringing. Room spinning.

  I held up my hands in attempt to block some of the blows but it did little good.

  The next time my legs gave no one caught me.

  I hit the bare, rough concrete floor hard and they started kicking me.

  My vision was blurred as I covered my head with my arms and pulled my legs up into a fetal position for protection.

  “Inmates,” I heard someone yell. “Inmates, face the wall with your hands behind your head. NOW. Captain, I’ll have you and the chaplain secure in just a moment,” the officer said.

  I looked up. Skipper punched one of the inmates in the face and began to yell. “Get against the fucking wall, motherfuckers. Do it. Now. Or I kill every last one of you sons of bitches.”

  I was in Medical being treated by Sandy Strickland, Anna next to her watching her work.

  I felt like I had just been fifteen rounds with Foreman. In actuality, I only had a cut under my chin and a small abrasion on my right cheek. I had no idea where the captain was, but I found myself periodically looking over my shoulder.

  “Funny how the captain didn’t sustain any injuries at all, isn’t it?” Anna said.

  “Funny ha ha or not funny at all?” I said.

  “You must be feeling okay if you can make jokes,” Anna said.

  “I feel okay. How do I look?”

  “Still the best-looking man in the institution,” Anna said.

  “Best looking maybe, most beat-up certainly,” Sandy said.

  31

  When I arrived at the warden’s office, he was seated behind his desk, Tom Daniels and Pete Fortner, the institutional inspector, in front of it.

  “Have a—” Stone began. “What happened to you? You been fighting?”

  I sat down between Daniels and Fortner and told them I was attacked in Confinement.

  “Pattern of behavior,” Daniels said.

  Stone nodded.

  “What’s that?”

  Stone looked at Daniels.

  Daniels said, “Chaplain Jordan, we’ve received some very serious allegations concerning your conduct while an employee of the Department of Corrections. We’ve made the decision to suspend you without pay until a thorough investigation can be conducted.”

  “What?” I asked, finding it difficult to speak or even swallow. “Are you serious?”

  “We’re taking this very seriously.”

  “Like you did the allegations against Shutt and Skipper?” I said.

  “Unlike them, there’s actual evidence against you, not just allegations and speculation.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  Daniels flipped through a few papers in an open file folder on his lap.

  “An inmate’s wife has accused you of assault and rape in the chapel and having her husband locked up and threatened in order to keep her quiet.”

  “I told you who she said did that. I had you process the crime scene.”

  “A very smart and calculating move,” Daniels said. “I’d expect no less from you.”

  “Chaplain, look at it from our perspective,” Stone said. “She’s putting a lot of pressure on Tallahassee. Demanding her husband be released from lockup and a full investigation be conducted. She’s gone to the press. The department has to act quickly and decisively. We’ll get to the bottom of it and if you’re innocent—”

  “If,” I said. “If. This is . . .”

  “Listen to me, Chaplain,” Stone said. “Don’t make this any worse than it is. Lie low. Let us investigate. I promise you the truth will come out.”

  Fortner finally spoke up. “I know you think this is personal because of your history with Inspector Daniels, but I’d have to handle things the same way based on the victim’s testimony and the evidence we have.”

  “You said you found semen and blood,” I said. “Test it. She told me her husband raped her. I’m sure you’ll find it’s his.”

  “You willing to provide a sample too?” Da
niels said.

  “Absolutely. But to FDLE, not you.”

  32

  The thing I wanted to do most—confront Molly Thomas—I couldn’t do.

  It would only make things worse.

  So would having Dad or someone in his department talk to her.

  I was driving my old S-10 in the direction of town, but it was only a direction, not a destination. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be.

  I considered calling Susan to ask her to talk to her dad. What had she told him about what happened between us to get him to do what he’s doing? I hadn’t spoken to her in over a year and had no desire to do so now, but I was desperate.

  In town I pulled into the Jr. Mart parking lot and used the pay phone to call her.

  She didn’t answer.

  I got back in my truck and considered driving up to the state park, but instead I just drove.

  Eventually I wound up at Potter’s Landing, some ten miles outside town.

  I started to make a U-turn, to head back into town, waiting long enough for a white Ford Bronco to pass by.

  But it didn’t.

  It slowed and pulled off the road at an angle blocking me in.

  Matt Skipper and three other men, including Shutt, got out.

  I tried to think whether there was anything in my truck I could use for a weapon. The tire iron was the only thing that came to mind, but it was latched inside a recessed storage spot in the back. I could never get it out in time.

  I jammed the gear shifter in Reverse and stomped on the gas.

  But before I had moved very far, Skipper was there pointing a handgun at my head through the open window.

  “Stop and put it in Park,” he said.

  Without waiting for me to, he reached in, grabbed me, and starting pulling me out.

  With my truck still rolling backward, Shutt rushed over and helped him pull me the rest of the way out through the window.

  Once I was clear of the truck, they slung me toward the road. I hit the pavement hard and rolled a few times, scraping my hands and arms and face as I did.