Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Looking into it,” I said. “Says Bunny was a chapel secretary at Lake Butler and they had an affair. That’s where she met Bobby Earl.”

  “He saying Bunny was her mother?”

  I nodded. “Says Bobby Earl just found out and that’s why he killed her and now he’s trying to have him killed.”

  Looking off in the distance as he thought about it, Merrill took another big swallow of his orange juice. It was the way he did everything. Without meaning it to be, most everything Merrill did was big. It wasn’t bravado or for show, it wasn’t even conscious. Noticing the way the paper cup was nearly completely hidden in his huge hand, I realized again that it could not be otherwise.

  “I realize I ain’t no ecclesiastical sleuth,” he said with a smile, “but I don’t see how anybody but Bobby Earl benefits from her death.”

  “We’ve got to figure out a way to interview him,” I said.

  “Big Easy ain’t far from here,” he said. “Just ride over and pay him a little visit.”

  “Got no jurisdiction over there,” I said.

  “If he killed that little girl, fuck jurisdiction,” he said.

  “Good point,” I said.

  “And it ain’t like we got any jurisdiction here.”

  “An even better good point,” I said.

  The phone on my desk rang. I picked up after two rings and no one was there. I hung up and it started ringing again. This time someone was there. But no one I would’ve ever expected.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said, and within the split second of recognition came a flood of old familiar feelings. It was as if a secret door somewhere in my heart had been unlocked and all the vanquished spirits it held had rushed out at once.

  The ‘me’ of, “Hey, it’s me,” was my ex-wife, Susan.

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” she said, pausing awkwardly before adding, “Really.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s good. Really.”

  We both laughed small, slightly nervous laughs.

  I looked over at Merrill. I was sure he could read the awkwardness in my expression and voice, but he gave no indication, just sat there staring at nothing.

  Susan and I had shared a life together once, but that had been a lifetime ago.

  “How long’s it been?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “At least a year. I’ve been down here that long.”

  “It doesn’t seem like that long,” she said. “Does it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it doesn’t... but in some ways it seems a whole lot longer.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right, I guess. I’ve been going to an ACOA support group for about nine months now.”

  I was shocked. It hadn’t been my drinking as much as my sobriety that had ended our marriage. The child of an alcoholic, Susan knew how to cope with addiction. It was recovery, the absence of problems, that had given her the biggest problem. To hear now, a year after our marriage had ended, that she was in a recovery group of her own left me stunned, my mind reeling.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said, adding with a laugh. “I’m not lying.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, though of course I did. “It’s just... I’m so... surprised.”

  “No one’s more surprised than me. I’ve been in an ALA-NON group, too.”

  “That’s really great,” I said.

  We were silent for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?” I asked. “I’m glad you called.”

  “For everything,” she said. “I was wrong.”

  I was speechless. After a moment, I managed, “I was, too.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But you’ve already admitted that. I haven’t. You attempted to make amends. I wouldn’t let you.”

  Where’s my wife? What have you done with her?

  “I’d like for us to get together and talk,” she said. “I think we really need to.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But now’s not such a good time.”

  “I can come there,” she said. “I’ve got a couple of days off. I was thinking about going to the beach anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said. “We could have dinner.”

  She laughed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Have you noticed anything funny about our divorce papers?”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t noticed them at all.”

  “That’s what’s funny.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t have any,” she said. “I never signed them. Legally, we’re still married.”

  She was right, that was funny, but not in any way that made me want to laugh.

  When I hung up and sat there in stunned silence, Merrill said, “Who was that?”

  I told him.

  His eyes lit up as a broad smile spread across his face.

  I started to say something, but was stopped by a thought about Bobby Earl and Bunny. Snatching up the receiver, I punched in Pete Fortner’s extension and waited.

  “You callin’ an attorney or a marriage counselor?” Merrill asked, a look of self-satisfaction joining the genuine pleasure already on his face.

  When Pete answered, I said, “What time did the Caldwells leave the institution last night?”

  “You mean this morning,” he said.

  “So it was late?” I asked.

  “Very,” he said. “Why?”

  I clicked off without answering, called the airport, and asked if they had any flights to New Orleans scheduled.

  “Should I pack a bag?” Merrill said.

  Before I could answer, the ticket agent came back on the line and said the only flight to New Orleans included a brief stop in Memphis and left at eight.

  “You gonna fly over and ask Bobby Earl and Bunny how to make love last so you and Susan get it right this time?”

  I laughed.

  “They left here too late last night to catch their flight,” I said. “The only other flight to New Orleans leaves at eight tonight. Whatta you say we’re there to see them off?”

  18

  When we reached the Bay County/Panama City International Airport, I jumped out and ran inside while Merrill hunted for a place to park.

  The ticket counters to my right were quiet and mostly empty, only two agents helping a handful of passengers check their luggage and confirm their seating, but the left side was crowded and noisy. Recent arrivals and those who had come to meet them enthusiastically greeted, embraced, and conversed as they waited for the buzzer to sound and the conveyer belt to come to life.

  There was no sign of the Caldwells in the long center corridor that led past the security checkpoint to the departure gates, nor at the small restaurant on the left, but as I turned to the right and peered into the gift shop, I saw Bunny Caldwell standing alone in front of the magazine rack in the back.

  As I walked toward her, I realized she wasn’t really looking at the magazines—they just happened to be what were in front of her. She seemed lost and alone, unsure where to go or what to do, so she just stood and stared and saw nothing.

  “Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.

  When she turned around, she squinted at me for a long moment as if finding it difficult to focus. She only vaguely resembled the overly made-up, seductive young woman I had met the day before.

  “Chaplain...” she said, and I could tell she was searching for my name.

  “Jordan,” I said. “John.”

  She nodded. “Right. What’re you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to you,” I said.

  Her long, pale face clouded over in incomprehension, then her eyes widened and it contorted into an expression of alarm. “About what?”

  “Nicole.”

  She tightened her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off tears. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  I nodded.

  “It doesn’t seem re
al,” she said. “I keep looking for her, keep starting to call her. I even started to buy her that.” I followed her gaze over to an aqua bear draped in a small American flag. “She loves all those Beanie things.”

  Beyond the bear, out in the terminal near the rental car counters, I saw a small circle of old ladies huddled around Bobby Earl. Like Bunny, he looked dressed for church—or TV, and he was putting his hands on their heads and praying for them.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, turning back to her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why did it happen?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who do you think did it?” I asked.

  “Who?” she said softly, and I wondered if the way she was acting was the result of grief, guilt, or medication.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  Maybe it wasn’t grief, guilt or medication, but shock.

  She stared at me for a long moment without saying anything, without seeming to even see me. She looked so helpless, so vulnerable, and I felt bad for what I was about to do.

  “What could she have done to make somebody do that to her?” I asked, trying not to let my disgust at the question bleed into my voice.

  Forgive me, Nicole, I prayed.

  If she or her husband had done it, she had to believe I was on their side, that I would understand. She’d need to justify it.

  As usual in these situations, I felt indecent and iniquitous. I was attempting to manipulate someone to whom I should have been ministering.

  She glanced over at the bald black man reading a magazine behind the counter. He was the only other person in the shop. If he overheard our conversation, he gave no indication. He looked bored, the magazine a barely adequate distraction.

  “She didn’t make anybody do anything,” she said. “She didn’t do anything. She didn’t deserve this.”

  “No, I didn’t mean...” I said, but of course I did. “I just meant I know how some children can be.”

  “Nicole was an angel,” she said. “An angel.” She then turned her head to the side and looked up as if thinking of something for the first time. “Maybe that’s why God took her—to join the other angels.”

  “There’s no doubt she’s with God now,” I said. “And the angels, but God didn’t kill her. Who do you think killed her?”

  “She was too good,” she continued, in her own world now, no longer talking to me. “She was just too good for this fallen, sinful world.”

  Over the intercom, a pleasant-sounding woman with only a slight southern drawl announced the boarding call for their flight, but Bunny didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Bunny,” I said sternly. “Who killed Nicole?”

  She looked at me, our eyes locking, as if she were really seeing me for the first time. “We did.”

  “You and Bobby Earl?”

  She nodded. “We—” She broke off, her eyes growing wide, her face filling with alarm, as she spotted something over my shoulder.

  I turned to see Bobby Earl quickly approaching us, DeAndré Stone following behind him at a distance.

  “Honey, it’s time for our flight,” Bobby Earl said. “Why, Chaplain Jordan, what’re you doing here?”

  “I came to see you two,” I said.

  “To minister to us or ask us if we killed our daughter?”

  “Both,” I said.

  He looked at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “DeAndré, take Bunny to the plane. I’ll join you there in a minute.”

  Zombie-like, Bunny stepped forward and DeAndré took her by the arm. When he turned to walk out with her, Merrill was in front of him, blocking the aisle.

  “We gonna do this here?” DeAndré asked.

  Merrill looked over at me.

  I shook my head.

  “Guess not,” Merrill said to DeAndré, “but I’d like a rain check on that.”

  “Bet on it,” DeAndré said.

  Without moving, Merrill relaxed his posture, and DeAndré led Bunny over to another aisle and out of the store.

  “I’m sorry again for your loss, Mrs. Caldwell,” I called after her.

  “Do you really lack spiritual discernment to such an extent that you suspect me or Bunny of killing our daughter?” Bobby Earl asked.

  “When I asked Bunny who killed Nicole, she said, ‘We did.’”

  “She meant by taking her into the prison,” he said. “She’s very upset right now, as you can imagine. She feels enormous guilt. It’s unthinkable that you would come and—”

  “Whose daughter is she?” I asked. “Is Mrs. Caldwell her biological mother?”

  Before he could prevent it, his eyes widened briefly and flickered in confirmation, and he shook his head. “How can you do these things?” he asked. “Talking to another man’s devastated wife when he’s not around, accusing a man of God of murdering the underprivileged little black girl he’s taken in and loved as his own? Sir, I ask you, are you a minister or a... or something else? I have to go now, but I will keep you in my prayers—and the men whose souls you’re meant to shepherd.”

  He turned and began walking toward the terminal.

  I followed.

  “Weren’t you and Bunny the only ones in that locked office with Nicole last night?” I asked.

  Without stopping, he said, “Obviously not. She was brutally murdered—and we didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Why did you have her in the prison in the first place?” I asked.

  He shook his head, but didn’t answer.

  He walked quickly, weaving in and out of slower moving passengers. A few of the stragglers from recently landed planes headed in our direction, recognized Bobby Earl, reacting to him the way most people respond to celebrities—with wide-eyed excitement, pointing him out to others or with attempted nonchalant coolness, undermined by surreptitious glances.

  “Why have security if you’re not going to use him to protect your daughter in the most dangerous place she’s ever been?” I asked.

  We had reached the security checkpoint, beyond which Merrill and I couldn’t go, and I realized that was my last question for the night.

  “I gave DeAndré the night off so he could visit with his uncle,” he said, dropping his bag onto the small conveyer belt and stepping through the metal detector. “I was assured y’all would provide security for Nicole. Maybe rather than harassing us, you should be asking yourself why your chapel—your own office wasn’t safe for my little girl and how culpable you and the Florida Department of Corrections are.”

  “He actually said ‘culpable’?” Merrill asked.

  I nodded.

  After continued attempts to engage Bobby Earl across the security checkpoint, and making sure they did, in fact, get on the plane and that it did, in fact, leave the ground, Merrill and I were walking back through the mostly empty airport.

  “Sound just like an inmate,” he said. “You can take the convict out of prison, but...”

  I laughed.

  The recently deplaned had picked up their luggage and departed, and the airport was much quieter now, though it still had that high-ceiling, tile floor, open-air hum large enclosed spaces like malls get.

  “Bobby Earl’s put the fear of God in his old lady,” Merrill said as we walked back toward his truck. “And that ain’t all he’s put in her either.”

  “I didn’t smell alcohol on her,” I said. “And if she’d been drinking, I’d’ve known. I can smell booze the way a vampire can smell blood.”

  “Man like him can get as much script as he want.”

  I nodded.

  “‘Course she could be medicating herself,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but for guilt or grief?”

  “Maybe both,” he said. “I hear moms make real sensitive murderers. They kill they kid just like anybody else, but then they all ‘oh-shit-what-did-I-do?’ and tore up about it.”

  Merrill stopped and looked around the nearly empty building. “Damn,
I’s hoping we could pick up some stewardesses to party with—do a little layover.”

  “This is a work trip,” I said. “Besides, I’m a married man.”

  “It’s not like anybody was gettin’ frequent flyer points from you when you thought you wasn’t.”

  I laughed and we started walking again.

  “We need to do a real interview with them,” I said. “Even if we have to go to New Orleans to do it.”

  “Just let me know when,” he said. “’Cause I wanna conduct a little interview of my own with that nigga’ that works for them. And it’s gonna be real-real painful for his black ass.”

  I smiled.

  “So which one of them you think did it?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe both. Maybe neither.”

  “You think it could be one of those other fools hangin’ out in the hallway?”

  I nodded. “I think while we’re setting up a real interview with Bobby Earl and Bunny we should try to find out.”

  19

  When I reached the control room for work the following morning, I was directed by security, along with the other staff, into the visiting park for a contraband search. A long row of tables was set up on which we deposited the contents of our pockets and anything we were carrying—purses, briefcases, and lunch boxes. We were then escorted into the restrooms—men’s and women’s respectively—and required to remove our shoes and be patted down. These occasional checks for contraband were a good idea in theory—inmate visitors weren’t the only ones bringing it in—but most employees were tipped off about them in the parking lot when they still had time to slip something back into their vehicles, and the thoroughness of the search was often dependent on how well the officer doing the searching knew you. They were our coworkers, after all.

  Leaving the VP, I ran into Theo Malcolm, the new GED and literacy teacher at PCI. Malcolm was a thin, wiry black man in his early thirties with small dark eyes, the whites of which looked like unstirred chocolate milk. His eyes had an angry, defiant glare, and his posture was one of rigidity and defensiveness.

  “You got a minute?” I asked.

  He hesitated, then gave one curt nod of his head. Obviously, he didn’t want to talk to me, but would, as long as I understood that he was doing me a favor. “In my office,” he said and began walking down the compound.