Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “They say that every year,” one of the truckers said of the paper mill in Panama City closing.

  “But it’s just to make us grateful for our jobs and make sure we don’t ask for a raise. It’s not gonna shut down. It’s just a rumor.”

  The other trucker shook his head. “You used to say the same thing about the one in Port St. Joe, and look what happened.”

  At another table someone in a suit was saying, “Affirmative action is just unconstitutional. There’s no two ways about it. I’m for fairness. Give the job to the person who deserves it. It’s unfair to do anything else.”

  The most amusing conversation came from the booth just over my shoulder where a man in blue jeans was trying to convince another man in a telephone company uniform to take out his exwife. “I know the two of you would hit it off. She’s really great.... Really.”

  “I don’t know,” Telephone Company Man said.

  “Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Blue Jeans said. “She really is great. And this alimony shit is killin’ me.”

  As I scanned the room, I felt someone staring at me, and I turned to see Colonel Patterson glaring at me from a stool at the counter. Our eyes locked briefly, but then from shame and embarrassment over how I had behaved following Nicole’s murder, I looked away. I hadn’t told anybody what had happened—not even Merrill and Anna. It was just too humiliating.

  Unable to bring myself to take another bite, I dropped my fork onto my plate.

  “That’s about all of that I can take,” I said, pushing my plate toward the center of the table.

  “You don’t need to eat that shit anyway,” Merrill said. “Your body’s the temple of the Holy Spirit.”

  “So is your—”

  “I’m not so sure about mine,” he said.

  I smiled.

  “Any headway with the Caldwells yet?” Anna asked.

  “Dad’s working with NOPD on it,” I said. “And I’ve asked to meet with them.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Except for rumors on the compound,” I said. “And you know how reliable those are. But I have heard one over and over.”

  “Yeah?” Merrill said. “What’s that?”

  “That Bunny has a thing for black men,” I said.

  “Well, who doesn’t?” Anna asked, winking at Merrill.

  Vigorously nodding his agreement, Merrill said to her, “He’ll get to them. He’s got a secret weapon.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?” she asked.

  “Me,” he said with a broad smile. “I a brother. And Bunny love herself a brother.”

  As I walked out of Rudy’s, I spotted Tim Whitfield heading toward his new sports car parked in a pasture across the street.

  Jogging to catch up with him, I noticed there were plenty of spaces in Rudy’s lot.

  “Nice,” I said, nodding toward his new car.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It was a gift.”

  “A gift?” I asked.

  “From God,” he said.

  Directly? I wondered, or through Bobby Earl?

  “He wants his children to have the best.”

  The lonely old highway running in front of Rudy’s was straight and flat and empty, stretching away for several miles in both directions. It was scarred and pocked and had deep ruts caused by loaded log trucks. I was surprised Tim would put his new car on it.

  “How long have you had it?” I asked.

  “Just got it,” he said.

  Payment for a job well done?

  Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped a speck of dust off the front quarter panel. “I wasn’t about to park it in front of Rudy’s and get oyster shell dust all over it.”

  Glancing over at my old Chevy S-10, he said, “About time for you to get a new one, isn’t it?”

  I smiled. “I haven’t gotten my other one broken in all the way yet,” I said.

  “Seriously,” he said. “As a man of God, what you drive and where you live reflects on God. Brother Bobby has an eight-part teaching on prosperity that you need to hear. It’s in the chapel library. You should listen to it.”

  “Speaking of Brother Bobby,” I said, “you sure you didn’t see his security guard that night? Maybe on the compound or—”

  “I’ve told you,” he said. “I didn’t see him. You sure he was even there?”

  “What about in the bathroom?” I asked. “Someone said he was in the bathroom the same time you were.”

  “You were in there,” he said. “Did you see him?”

  “They said he was in the stall.”

  “Well, I didn’t look in any stalls,” he said. “Who’s they anyway? You talkin’ ’bout some inmate?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “Colonel Patterson’ll chew my a—behind if I’m late getting back from lunch.”

  He jumped in, cranked and revved the loud engine, and turned around. I smiled when I saw the little Jesus fish on his bumper, but stopped as I caught a glimpse of the Louisiana license plate beneath it. Was all his religiosity, like Malcolm’s extreme racism, just a cover?

  I motioned for him, and he rolled down the window.

  “You went all the way to Louisiana to get your car?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s where I could get the best deal.”

  As he peeled off and sped away, I said, “I bet.”

  30

  I loved the intensity with which children played, though watching them had always been a disturbing mixture of pleasure and pain. As I stood near the fence and watched the raucous play of the wild angels of Pottersville Elementary School, I had to blink back tears.

  For several years I had been unable to see a child without thinking of Martin Fisher, but today, as I watched the children on the playground, it was Nicole I thought I saw among the others playing with such wild and reckless abandon.

  After watching for as long as I could, I turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the inmates from the public works squad. They were repairing a section of the fence under the watchful eye of city employees.

  I was used to seeing inmates working around Pottersville. Each year public works squads saved the city tens of thousands of dollars in labor, and only offenders without violent crimes could participate in them. Now I looked on the scene of inmates working so close to children with fear and suspicion, each child becoming as trusting and vulnerable as Nicole. Technically, the work crew wasn’t at the school, and they were probably far enough away from the children to satisfy the regulation, but it was a lot closer than I would have liked.

  “Did somebody die, Chaplain?” one of the inmates asked when I walked up.

  I shook my head.

  “Then what’re you doin’ here?” he asked.

  I walked past them and over to Phillip Linton, the city employee in charge of maintenance.

  “How’s it goin’, JJ?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said. “You?”

  “I’m great,” he said. “Never better. If it got any better I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  That was always Linton’s response, and it always sounded the same way to me—like he was trying to convince himself as much as me that what he was saying was true.

  “What brings you out here?” he asked.

  “I need to speak to one of your inmates for a few minutes,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “Which one?”

  “Porter,” I said.

  “Cedric,” he yelled. “Chaplain needs a moment of your time.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  I walked down the sidewalk next to the chainlink fence to meet him.

  “You got out of the infirmary awfully quick,” I said. “I was surprised when they told me you were already back at work.”

  He shrugged. “I just a convict. I can work with a headache.”

  “Let’s move down this way a little,” I said, leading him away from the earshot of the others and further away from the children.

 
“You found Nicole’s killer yet?”

  “No,” I said. “But we will. And again, I’m so sorry but I need to ask you a few more questions about the night she was killed.”

  “I hope y’all catch him soon,” he said, “’fore he finally kill me.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head at me in disbelief. “Bobby Earl.”

  “You think he’s the one who tried to have you killed?” I asked.

  He nodded. “More than once,” he said, pulling up his shirt to show me a jagged scar running down the side of his abdomen.

  “Why haven’t you checked in?” I asked.

  If an inmate felt his life was in danger—for any reason: gambling debts, refusing to perform sexual favors, retaliation from an officer—he could check himself into protective management, where he would be locked in a cell and watched closely while the inspector investigated the matter.

  “’Cause,” he said. “If I in a cell, I can’t run or hide or fight back. Least out here I can see ’em comin’. Anyway, don’t worry about me. You just find out who killed my little girl. Then he better be the one lookin’ over his shoulder.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You said you wanted to ask me about the night she was killed,” he said. “What about it?”

  “How long were you in the bathroom?”

  “What?”

  “We’re trying to establish everyone’s movements during the time when Nicole was killed,” I said.

  “You know where I was,” he said.

  “How long were you in there?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, but it was a while. My stomach was real upset. The later it got, the sicker I got. I missed work the next day. You can ask Mr. Linton.”

  “Who all’d you see while you were in the bathroom?”

  “No one,” he said.

  “No one?”

  “It was empty when I went in,” he said. “Once I was in the stall, I couldn’t see anyone. I heard a few people, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Well, who’d you hear?”

  “You,” he said with a smile. “Abdul. Freeman. Somebody came in and washed they hands near the end, but they didn’t say nothin’, so I don’t know who it was.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Near the end,” he repeated. “Because it wasn’t long after that I went back in the service. Bobby Earl and Bunny were giving they altar call.”

  “How long was the hand washer in there?” I asked.

  “A while,” he said. “A long time now that I think about it.” His eyes growing wide in alarm, he added, “If I was that close to her killer and didn’t...”

  He looked away and thought about it, tears forming in his eyes. “I hate to think I was that close to him and didn’t kill him.”

  “Why were you even at the service that night?” I asked.

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “You don’t normally come to church, do you?” I said. “Was it just to see Nicole?”

  He nodded.

  “Not Bunny?” I asked.

  He hesitated.

  “You still love her, don’t you?”

  He looked away, glancing back at the other inmates. Without looking back at me, he nodded.

  “Did you see her?”

  “Bunny?” he asked.

  “Nicole.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I mean did you get to talk to her?”

  He shook his head. “How would I do that?”

  “You tell me,” I said. “How’d you use to meet Bunny?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see her. Not except on stage when she’s singin’. Bunny and I used to meet in the back of the chapel—the kitchen or the cleaning closet—when she worked at Lake Butler. Not since.”

  Over at the school, a bell rang and the children began to scatter, most of them racing back to class. A few stragglers had to be goaded by the teacher on duty, but soon the playground was empty, its abandoned equipment looking sad and useless like a body without life.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask this,” I said, “and I’m sure it’ll seem like a stupid question since you had a child together, but did you and Bunny use condoms?”

  He nodded. “She always made me. And she still got pregnant,” he added, shaking his head. “I think she did it ’cause she went with so many different mens.”

  Looking down the sidewalk toward the other inmates, I hesitated to ask my next question, wishing I didn’t have to. True to form, the inmates on the work crew were quiet, respectful, and hard working, their interaction lacking the cruelty, horseplay, and profanity that was typical of many of the inmates on the inside.

  “I’m doing my best to find out who killed Nicole,” I said. “And sometimes that means I have to do and say things I’d rather not, but I have to—and I have a good reason to ask what I’m about to or I wouldn’t ask it.”

  “What is it? Damn.”

  “Did you and Bunny ever have anal intercourse?”

  If he found the question intrusive or disturbing, he didn’t give any indication. Shaking his head, he said, “It never came up.”

  I nodded.

  “We weren’t together long,” he added, as if it were something that had to be worked up to. “But I don’t think they was anything Bunny wasn’t up for.”

  “She has a reputation for really liking black men,” I said.

  He nodded. “She does. Her dad was a real redneck racist. Used to catch her with black boys and beat her, but she keep on goin’ with ’em.”

  “You see anybody in the hallway?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “What about in my office or near the door?”

  “I saw the teacher sorta hangin’ out,” he said.

  “Mr. Malcolm?”

  He nodded.

  All around us, spring was turning into summer. The tops of the oak trees above us were filled with thick green growth. The flowers spilling out of the planter in front of the school, already past their zenith, were in the heat of the increasingly warmer days beginning to wilt.

  “What about Bobby Earl’s bodyguard?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  We both fell quiet a moment. Tears filled his eyes, and he wiped at them absently.

  Slipping his hand into the pocket of his inmate uniform, he withdrew a soiled and crumpled piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to me. It was a picture similar to the one Nicole had colored for me.

  “She colored this for me,” he said. “I carry it everywhere I go.”

  I nodded.

  “My little girl was being used,” he said, his voice weak and small. “Anyone who’d do that... well... sometimes I think I’d be better off dead,” he said. “I don’t care what happens to me. I really don’t.”

  I nodded.

  “Would you do something for me?” he asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  “When you find out who did it, will you tell me first?” he continued.

  I just might, I thought.

  “And if it’s Bobby Earl,” he said, no attempt to conceal his contempt, “would you invite him back for just one more revival service?”

  31

  Later that afternoon, I took Highway 20 into Tallahassee and picked up I-10 heading west toward Greensboro. Greensboro was a small town in Gadsden County, which borders on the Georgia state line. It was originally settled by wealthy slave owners, and is still famous for its large plantations, substantial black population (joined now by Mexican migrant workers), and tobacco crops.

  In Greensboro, I bought a pack of Certs at a convenience store and then drove over to the AME Church near the high school where Pottersville regularly got beaten in every athletic competition. The church was actually a small white clapboard house with a chimney that had been converted into a steeple. However, I suspected, that l
ike most of the conversions that took place inside the church, the process was incomplete and didn’t seem to be working out too well.

  Perhaps because everyone else was running on CPT, I was one of the first to enter the small sanctuary. I walked down to the front where the casket was centered between the two altars and looked at the lifeless shell that used to be Dexter Freeman’s mother. Even in death, she was beautiful, and I could easily see Dexter’s handsome face in her features. She wore a delicate white dress with lace around the neck, and in her hands was a Polaroid picture of herself and Dexter that had been taken in the visiting park of Potter Correctional Institution. You could tell by her expression that the blue inmate uniform her son wore didn’t diminish in any way the fact that her boy was the apple of her eye.

  A small door to my right opened, and I turned to see Dexter enter the sanctuary, his wife and daughter at his side, his son in his arms. He wore a navy blue double-breasted suit and a burgundy silk tie over a crisp white shirt as if he had come from a GQ photo shoot rather than a Florida state prison. His son’s suit matched his, and his wife and daughter wore matching navy dresses with white lace collars. They were the picture-perfect young American family.

  When he saw me, his face lit up, and he rushed over and wrapped me up in a hug that included his son.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “Honey, this is Chaplain Jordan, the one I was telling you about.” He looked at me. “This is—”

  “Honey,” I said, and took her outstretched hand.

  “I’m Trish,” she said with a smile. “And this is Moriah.” She touched her daughter on the head. I held my hand out and she took it.

  At the mention of Moriah, I couldn’t help but think of Abraham and Isaac; Bobby Earl and Nicole.

  “And this is Dexter, Jr,” she added with a big smile.

  “What’s up, DJ?” I said, and held my hand up for a high five, which he gave me with no hesitation.

  When I looked back at Dexter, he was shaking his head, and staring at me. “Thanks so much for coming, Chaplain. You’ll never know what it means.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “You have a beautiful family.” I winked at Moriah.

  “Thank you,” she said, as she shrugged her shoulders and looked down, an embarrassed grin spreading across her adorable face.