Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “Come out where I can see you right now,” DeAndré said, “or I’ll splatter this nigga’s brains all over the frontta your church house.”

  All I could think about was Dexter’s family, of how Trish, Moriah, and Dexter Jr. were just about to get him back. I recalled his son’s little navy-blue suit, his daughter’s white lace collar and imagined seeing them wearing them again for their father’s funeral.

  When we didn’t get up, DeAndré yelled, “NOW, GOD DAMMIT.”

  I glanced back at Merrill, and when I did, I saw Daniels edging toward the sanctuary door. As he stepped inside the sanctuary, a round fired from DeAndré’s gun shattered the glass of the door beside him and he jumped back into the hall.

  “I got nothing to lose,” DeAndré said. “I’m probably gonna die anyway, so whoever gets close to me is going with me. Get my uncle in here.”

  Standing up very slowly, I walked over to the center aisle and faced DeAndré.

  “What the fuck you doin’?” Merrill asked.

  Dexter’s eyes were wide with fright and moist with tears. The tendons in his neck were stretched taut under his shiny, sweat-covered skin, and when he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rose and fell slowly.

  As Merrill stood up, DeAndré loosened his grip on Dexter and turned his gun toward him. When he did, I took several running steps and dove, tackling both men to the ground.

  As we went down, DeAndré fired his gun and I took a bullet in the right shoulder. My skin and muscle felt as though they had been branded, a searing pain arcing out in every direction like the phosphorescent tails of Fourth of July fireworks.

  As we hit the floor, DeAndré fired again. The side of Dexter’s head exploded and the pain in my shoulder was sucked into the vacuum in my soul. Suddenly, all the fight was out of me and I lay there on the floor, unable to move. Dexter was dead. I had failed again.

  Merrill kicked the gun out of DeAndré’s hand and it bounced across the floor. He then rushed forward and grabbed it.

  Merrill said, “How’s the arm?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t feel anything.”

  He glanced over at Dexter’s body and shook his head. “He was dead before we got here.”

  We would never know—I would never know if I had done something differently, just one little thing, if the outcome would have been different and Dexter would have been spared.

  After helping me to my feet, Merrill handed me the two guns. A violent wave of nausea swept over me as I realized I was holding the instrument of Dexter’s death in my hand and I dropped both guns on the pew.

  Merrill then grabbed DeAndré and jerked him up.

  “We got unfinished business,” he said. “Show me whatcha got, dog.”

  DeAndré lunged for him before he even finished saying it.

  Grabbing Merrill by the throat with both hands, DeAndré did exactly what Merrill wanted him to do—leave himself open to body shots.

  With the hand speed of a fast light heavyweight, Merrill threw a barrage of punches into DeAndré’s abdomen. Unaware that Merrill was attempting to burst one of the condoms, DeAndré saw it as a challenge to keep choking him. As he did, Merrill continued to drive uppercuts into his gut, drilling them with such frequency and force that by the time he finally let go, DeAndré was coughing up blood.

  Dad and Daniels ran up, Edward Stone on their heels.

  “You all right?” Dad asked.

  I shook my head and nodded toward Dexter.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Stone asked when he saw Merrill using his nephew as a heavy bag.

  “If he’s still alive when Merrill gets finished, I’m arresting him,” Dad said.

  “What’s the charge?” he asked.

  “Narcotics possession with intent,” he said. “Bringing a firearm into a state prison facility, and murder.”

  “Murder?” he asked, just as he caught sight of Dexter’s body on the floor.

  “And I’m sure NOPD’ll have a lot of other charges to add before it’s over,” I said.

  “He sure as hell didn’t do that,” Stone said. He looked at Daniels who nodded, then looked at me. “Is this your doing? Have you been shot? What’re these weapons doing in here?”

  “Your nephew brought one of them in and killed Dexter Freeman with it,” I said.

  “He did no such thing,” he said. “And he’s obviously not in possession of drugs, let alone trying to distribute them.”

  As if on cue, Merrill drove one final punch into DeAndré’s gut and he doubled over, falling to his knees and beginning to vomit.

  Among the contents emptying from his stomach were three condoms filled with what looked to be small crack rocks.

  Stone’s eyes grew nearly to the size of his glasses as he saw them.

  “Looks like one of those has a hole in it,” Merrill said. “Get enough straight in your blood stream and you’ll save the taxpayers some money.” He smiled broadly. “Not to mention how poetic it’d be.”

  “Inspector,” Stone said to Daniels. “Secure this crime scene. The rest of you get the hell out of here.”

  “But—” I began.

  “NOW,” he shouted. “Get the hell out of my institution right now.”

  “Come on, Son,” Dad said. “We need to get you to a hospital anyway.”

  52

  Three days later, I stopped by Anna’s office to get some information.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “The pain in my shoulder is manageable.”

  She frowned and gave me an understanding look, but didn’t say anything, which I appreciated.

  Vividly expressing her duality, Anna’s office was both hard and soft, tough and tender. Like the other institutional offices, pale painted cinder block and tile floor conducted cold and enhanced echoes. However, Anna’s warmth radiated from her large collection of porcelain, painted and cloth angels, and it was the soothing sounds of soft rock that echoed through the small room when her laughter did not.

  “Can you tell me what kind of time Cedric Porter has left?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, immediately typing his name into her computer. “Why?”

  “Because he killed his daughter,” I said. “And I want to make sure he’ll be around for a very long time.”

  She stopped typing. “He killed Nicole?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you prove it?”

  I shook my head. “That’s why I want to make sure he’ll be around for a while.”

  “I’ll check,” she said. “But wait, he works outside the—”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I had his gate pass pulled a week ago.”

  As she typed in information and clicked through the screens, she said, “What makes you think he did it?”

  “Her face was very badly beaten, which usually indicates the killer knew the victim,” I said. “Parents are the most likely suspects, which is why so many people thought it was the Caldwells. It was a parent—just not either of them.”

  She shook her head as she thought about it, lines of pain drawn across her face.

  “Plus the body had been staged.”

  “Been what?”

  I told her.

  “But after staging it to look like a sexual murder,” I said, “he undermined his own production by turning her over to cover her. I knew it had to be someone who knew her well, and of course Bobby Earl and Bunny knew her very well, but it really looked to be an impulsive act. Bobby Earl or Bunny could have done it impulsively, but they were more likely to have planned it, and if they had, they’d’ve had a much better alibi and not been anywhere near her at the time.”

  “How’d he get into your office?”

  “I think Bunny let him in,” I said. “I think they prearranged a visit between Nicole and her real father because he demanded it—probably blackmailed her. Bunny goes to the inner door that leads to the chapel and calls Coel over so he won’t see Porter slip in the outer one from the hallway.”

  �
��That’s right,” she said. “Coel had a blind spot of about ten seconds each way—walking to the door and then walking back to his post. But when did he kill her? Was Bunny in there?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think he did it shortly after Bunny went back on stage.”

  “But Bobby Earl went in there.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And he thought Nicole was in the bathroom, but really Porter and Nicole were. Daniels said they found blood in the bathroom.”

  “The sick son of a bitch,” she said.

  “No one else had a motive,” I said. “And it wasn’t a sexual crime. It was pure rage. She said something or did something, or Bunny did, to set him off.”

  “You really think he’s capable of doing that to his own daughter?”

  I nodded. “He really loved Bunny,” I said. “When she had him transferred out of the chapel at Lake Butler and began her relationship with Bobby Earl, he was devastated. He’s been on a downward spiral ever since.”

  “What about evidence?” she asked. “What do you have?”

  “Everyone in the hallway and bathroom that night remembered seeing Porter. He stayed out of the service longer than anyone— almost the entire service. He was out there when I came in the first time and still out there after I returned from the control room.”

  She nodded slowly, and I continued.

  “Then there was the evidence inside the office itself,” I said. “A greeting card, a wad of cash, and a piece of hard candy. At first I thought the greeting card just fell off my desk during the struggle, but all the cards on my desk had envelopes. Since there wasn’t an extra envelope, I knew it had to have been brought in. Only an inmate would bring in one of the cards I give out—he wouldn’t have access to any others. But he didn’t sign it. That was smart. That way he could give it to Nicole, but Bobby Earl wouldn’t know it was from him. Or if she lost it, he wouldn’t be implicated.”

  “He’s bringing it as a gift for his daughter,” she said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “And that’s not all. He brought candy, too—a fire ball from the canteen. He was trying to endear himself in the only ways he knew. He was trying to be her father, buy her love. He didn’t know what else to do, and didn’t have anything else to give.”

  “What about the money?”

  “DeAndré brought that in to pay off Whitfield,” I said. “It couldn’t’ve been for an inmate—and Porter didn’t take it—because it wouldn’t do him any good in the cashless canteen system on the compound. If a staff member or either one of the Caldwells had done it, I think they would have picked it up.”

  “Porter also stole Nicole’s crayons and coloring book,” I said. “He’s in the same dorm as Register, so he planted the crayons on him, but he held onto the pictures. He showed me one he kept in his pocket, but according to the mail room he’s never received anything from her—or from anyone—not a single letter. The picture was obviously from the same book mine was. He could’ve only gotten it from her the night she was here, but he said he didn’t see her. Then later, he returned to the crime scene and slid another picture she had colored under the door between the sanctuary and my office. As a memorial I guess. He’s the only one who could have.”

  She shook her head. “Not a single letter—from anyone. No wonder he’s so angry.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The woman he loves and their child won’t have anything to do with him. They’re living indulged lives and he has no life at all.”

  She nodded. “Well, I’m convinced.”

  “But would a jury be?” I asked.

  She frowned, pursing her lips tightly together. “Hard to say, but I doubt it.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “So what’re you gonna do?”

  I shrugged. “Depends how much time he has left,” I said.

  She looked down at her monitor again. “Mandatory twenty on a third offense drug charge,” she said. “He’ll be with us quite a while.”

  53

  It was June now, nearly three weeks since Nicole had died, and the full heat of the day bore down on Cedric Porter as he picked up trash along the fence near the front gate. The road leading away from the institution, toward freedom and opportunity, shimmered like a mirage, waves of heat rising from the sizzling asphalt.

  Walking toward Porter, I noticed how often he paused from picking up the trash to gaze down the road, as if continually making sure it was still there.

  “I heard you had my gate pass pulled,” he said, when I reached him.

  I shuddered inside as I recalled how close he had worked to the children at the elementary school, and though, like most parents, he probably wouldn’t hurt any child but his own, we couldn’t take the chance.

  I nodded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You know why,” I said.

  As he stooped to pick up another piece of trash, I noticed his futile attempt to endue his menial task with dignity.

  “I want to know why you did it,” I said.

  “What?” he asked, standing and facing me haughtily.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He started to say something, but I continued.

  “I could let it be known on the compound that you’re a child killer and you wouldn’t last much more than a day,” I said, “so don’t play games with me.”

  Joining the thick sheen of sweat, a tear rolled out of his eye and down the shiny black skin of his cheek.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said, his body slumping and more tears coming as the dam of denial broke within him. “I... ” he began, but broke off. “That son of a bitch was using her,” he began again in a trembling voice. “My daughter. To get some bunch of convicts to think he not the most racist motherfucker on the planet. My daughter. Her mother’s a whore. They not better than me.”

  He paused and I waited in silence, standing firm as a witness against his evil act, allowing him to face his accuser.

  “They usin’ her,” he said again, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard before adding, “And she think they all she got. She say I not her daddy. Say Bobby Earl her daddy. Look at me like I’s not worthy to be in the same room with her. Like I a nigga. Like the thought of my blood runnin’ through her veins make her wanna slit her little wrists.”

  When he paused again, this time to wipe tears from his eyes and sweat from his face, I noticed how much smaller he seemed, as if he were imploding from the emptiness the absence of his denial was causing.

  “’Cause she think she white,” he said. “They straighten her hair and keep her away from little black children and got her convinced she white. That she his daughter. I loved her. I not gonna let her be used by that bastard. He not gonna take what mine. I told her to say she was mine,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “To say it with pride. ’Cause Cedric Porter somebody to be proud of.” The defiance was back in his eyes, joined by hardness and madness. “She wouldn’t say it. She say she gonna tell her daddy. I say, ‘I’m your daddy,’ and I said to say it. But she won’t.”

  All around us the world had faded for me and unaware of anything else, I entered his world and relived with him the last moments of Nicole’s life.

  “She say she not gonna say it no matter what I do,” he said. “So I spank her. ’Cause my daughter gonna do what I say, but she don’t. So I spank her again. Hard this time. And I spank her again. But she still won’t say it.” Now tears were flowing as fast as his words. “She never would say she mine. Never would say, ‘Cedric Porter my daddy.’”

  When he finished, I still didn’t say anything, just remained a silent witness to things I could only see in my mind.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” he said. “I loved her. I just wanted her to say she mine. That I her daddy and she love me, too, but she wouldn’t.”

  Inept and aberrant as it was, what Cedric Porter was trying to do was be a daddy to his daughter, to love her in his twisted way and get from her the love he so needed.

&
nbsp; For a long time after he finished his story, neither of us said a word.

  I thought about Nicole, about what he had done to her. The compassion I had for him felt like a betrayal of her, but there was nothing I could do for her now. I had failed her. I had failed Dexter. I would try not to do the same with Cedric.

  Finally he asked, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You gonna tell the compound?”

  I shook my head.

  “I am going to turn everything I have over to the inspector and DA,” I said. “But I doubt what I have is enough for them to bring you to trial.”

  He nodded slowly, seeming to think about it.

  “You could tell them,” I said. “Confess to them like you have to me.”

  He didn’t respond, but seemed to be considering my suggestion.

  “It’d be the right thing for you to do—the best thing you can do now,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “You’ve lost your daughter,” I said. “Don’t lose your soul, too.”

  As repulsive as I found his act, I couldn’t help but feel compassion for this wounded man, and I knew where it came from—knew I had to tell him, though it would most likely come out as awkward and contrived as an altar call at a funeral service.

  “But regardless of what you decide to do,” I said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  He turned and really looked at me full on for the first time.

  “What you’ve done is horrible,” I said. “It’s evil in so many ways, but... it doesn’t change the fact that God loves you. Your actions, ungodly though they are, don’t—can’t separate you from the love of God unless you allow them to.”

  His tears started streaming again, his body beginning to convulse as they did.

  “The best way you can receive and respond to God’s forgiveness and grace is to take responsibility for what you’ve done and accept the consequences it brings, but no matter what you do, it won’t—it can’t change the fact that God loves you. Nothing can.”