Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “It’s about to go public,” Dad said.

  Merrill and I were in his office, each of us holding stacks of glossy 8x10 prints.

  The crime scene and autopsy photographs were graphic, every detail captured from every possible angle. Wide shots establishing context, showing everything in relation to everything else, while close-ups provided the specific horrors.

  Laura’s once beautiful body, now beaten bloody and disfigured, sat rigid behind the steering wheel of her car. Streaked with dark red and black blood, the strands of her light brown hair were dirty and matted.

  As I looked, I found it hard to breathe. Had I done this? Was I capable of such savagery?

  I could only look at the pain-filled pictures a moment at a time. Her sweet deer-like face was now purple and puffy, her right eye black and swollen shut.

  “No way you did that,” Merrill said. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  Dad nodded. “But we’ve got to find out who did,” he said. “As soon as it comes out that you were with her last night, FDLE will take over the investigation.”

  I nodded.

  Dad’s office looked like it had for as long as I could remember, perhaps a little more cluttered, a little more dusty, but not much else had changed in the thirty years he had been on the job. Not one for change, he even had the same desk and filing cabinets.

  “Any progress?” he asked.

  “Guy I thought most likely is a good friend of hers and was just helping her out.”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  I told him.

  “What about the canvas?” Merrill asked.

  “Nothing so far,” he said.

  “Everything we’re learning makes it look more and more like it was me,” I said.

  Merrill shook his head. “All the evidence in the world could point to that, and I still wouldn’t believe it.”

  My eyes stung and I blinked several times. His belief and support were keeping me going. I nodded my thanks to him, not trusting myself to speak.

  We were all quiet a few moments.

  “You got the prelim?” I asked Dad.

  He nodded. “But you don’t want to hear it.”

  Dad looked older already, as if realizing he had raised a murderer had aged him even more.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” I said.

  “She was raped and beaten,” he said. “It looks like she was choked and took a hard blow to the head. They’re not saying for certain yet which one killed her.”

  I shook my head, picturing what she went through, imagining myself as the one who put her through it.

  “Raped as opposed to had intercourse recently?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “So there was evidence of violence?”

  Dad nodded again, and I could tell he was holding back—careful not to reveal everything the prelim contained—and since what he had told me already was so horrific, I was inclined not to press him.

  “He raped her,” Merrill said, “DNA’ll catch his ass and clear yours.”

  “Only two different types of blood on the body,” Dad said. “Hers and another.”

  I reached up and touched the scratches on my neck. They didn’t seem very deep, but I had certainly bled, and if Laura had scratched me, at the very least my blood was beneath her nails.

  “They say how much of the foreign blood they found?” I asked.

  He shook his head, but he seemed to know more than he was saying.

  “Whether I actually killed her or not,” I said, “I should’ve never been in the condition I was, which has put you two in the position you’re in now.”

  They both began to wave off my apology, but my phone rang before they could say anything.

  “Hello.”

  “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Fritz,” he said, sniffling. “I just heard about Laura. Is it true?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “I’m very sorry.”

  He broke down, but quickly regained his composure.

  “Do they know who did it?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Swear to me you didn’t have anything to do with it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No,” I said. It came out before I realized what I was saying, and I wondered how convincing it was.

  “No, I know you didn’t,” he said. “I know enough about you from what Laura told me. Sorry I even mentioned it.”

  “It’s okay.”

  We were quiet a moment.

  “I’d bet my life on it being one of two people,” he said. “I knew it the minute I heard something had happened.”

  “Who?”

  “That Taylor bastard or her dad.”

  “Her dad?”

  “Ever wonder why she was a virgin until her early thirties, then became like this major nympho?”

  “He molested her?” I asked, not surprised, but disappointed I hadn’t been more aware of all the signs.

  Deep down I knew she was acting like an addict more than someone who just really loved sex, but I didn’t want to believe it. I ignored the warnings, suppressed the signs, and exploited her weakness.

  “Most of her childhood,” he said. “Now he’s like this raving, jealous lunatic, like he’s a spurned lover or something.”

  “She was an addict,” I said, “but instead of helping her, I exploited her.”

  “From where I sit in the cheap seats,” Merrill said, “you had sex with a consenting adult who pursued you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  We were in Merrill’s truck heading back toward Tallahassee to talk to Taylor Price while Dad and his department searched for Laura’s father.

  “She tell you she’s a sex addict?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “But I knew something wasn’t right.”

  “She ask for your help?”

  “Still,” I said, “exploiting someone with a weakness makes me a predator.”

  “You sure you weren’t the prey?”

  I turned in the seat and looked at him.

  “She try to get you to stop drinking?” he asked. “Or encourage you to?”

  I thought about it. She certainly hadn’t discouraged me. “She’s not responsible for my actions,” I said.

  “But you responsible for hers?”

  “Guess who didn’t show up for work this morning?” Dad asked.

  Merrill and I were outside a warehouse in Railroad Square Art Park not far from FAMU when Dad called. Taylor Price was inside the warehouse, rock climbing.

  “Besides me?” I said.

  “Teddy Matthers,” he said. “Laura’s father.”

  “You think it’s because he was up late killing his daughter and framing me?”

  “It crossed my mind,” he said.

  “Thanks again for all your help with this,” I said. “I’m so sorry I—”

  “Don’t thank me or apologize again,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “And thank you.”

  He laughed. “How are things on your end?”

  “Taylor went out and bought himself some security,” I said.

  When Taylor Price walked out of the rock climbing gym in his black too-tight silk short shorts and tank top, he did so with the escort of a bodyguard and a bulldog.

  The large white bodyguard was wearing black jeans and tennis shoes and a leather jacket over a T-shirt. Given the warm weather, the jacket was no doubt intended to hide his shoulder holster and the semi-automatic it held, but it could be seen when he moved. The huge man, whose neck was the size of a tree trunk, looked like a former NFL linebacker. Obviously a professional, the man moved like money, which Price had to be paying a lot of for the pleasure of his company.

  As if the giant wasn’t enough, at the end of Taylor’s leash was an American pit bull terrier of probably twenty-two inches and eighty pounds, trained to be mean, pulling against the taut leather leash, loo
king for a fight.

  As the three creatures neared their black SUV, Merrill and I stepped out and greeted them.

  Fear danced across Taylor’s face when he saw us. The pit bull began a low, gravely growl. The bodyguard smiled.

  “How can the Fundamentalists look at you two and say that a sacred marriage is only between a man and a woman?” Merrill said.

  “The three of you do make a great-looking family,” I said.

  “How’d you adopt a child that looks so much like your husband?” Merrill asked Taylor, then to the bodyguard, “Or are you the wife?”

  “You’ll find out when he makes you his bitch,” Taylor said. His strained, quivering voice undercutting his threat.

  Professional, detached, unflappable, the bodyguard’s expression remained placid. Though he didn’t show it, I was certain he was sizing us up, evaluating the situation, figuring out his best moves should the balloon go up.

  “Zippin’ up the bottom of that cool Fonzy jacket probably seemin’ like a bad idea ’bout now, don’t it?” Merrill said.

  Amazingly enough, Merrill didn’t seem small next to the man the way the rest of the world did.

  “He doesn’t need his gun,” Taylor said. “Won’t be much left for him when Killer gets finished with you.”

  “You named your kid Killer?” Merrill asked. “Isn’t having you for a dad stigma enough?”

  “Where were you last night?” I asked.

  “Nowhere near where you killed Laura,” he said. “Wherever that was.”

  “We can do this if you want,” the bodyguard said, “but he’s telling the truth. I wouldn’t lie for anyone—no matter how much they pay me—and I can give you references, but you don’t have to take my word for it. He was in Jacksonville. We drove in very early this morning. There are dozens of witnesses.”

  I considered him.

  “I protect clients from harm,” he said. “Not while they do harm.” He held up his hands. “I’m going into my right front pocket for one of my cards.” He did, then handed it to me. “I can also give you hotel, restaurant, and gas receipts. You can even ask the keynote speaker—the governor—who had a couple of drinks with Mr. Price following the conference.”

  “The more we learn, the more guilty I look,” I said.

  With just a few calls, Dad had confirmed that Taylor Price had been at a conference in Jacksonville and had not returned before Laura had been killed.

  “Still the father,” Merrill said.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got a feeling he’ll be my third strike.”

  “Then there’s the random serial killer stumbling on the scene,” he said. “Odds still better than it being you.”

  My phone rang and I answered it.

  “John,” Dad said, “remember the scenario we talked about earlier.”

  “FDLE finding out about me and taking over the investigation?”

  “It’s just happened,” he said. “Special Agent Scott wants you here as fast as you can or he says he’s coming after you.”

  “I’m on my way now,” I said.

  When I stepped out of Merrill’s truck in front of the Potter County courthouse, two FDLE agents were waiting for me. I could tell who they were because of their caps and windbreakers, both of which had FDLE printed across them in large block letters.

  I walked toward them.

  As I did, a man carrying a small revolver jumped out of a car and rushed me. With only a quick glance, I knew it was Teddy Matthers, Laura’s father.

  “You murdering cocksucker,” he shouted. “You think you gonna kill my little girl and keep breathing? You sick motherfucker.”

  He began firing the gun, rounds ricocheting all around me.

  Unable to move, I just stood there. He obviously hadn’t killed his daughter, which meant I had.

  The two agents turned and pulled their weapons.

  “No,” I yelled, and stepped in front of them.

  One of them pushed me aside, knocking me to the ground, but before they could fire at Teddy, Merrill had come up behind him and wrestled him to the ground, relieving him of the revolver in the process.

  “You keep saying you don’t remember what happened,” Special Agent Fred Scott was saying.

  He was a middle-aged white man with a toughness about him. He hadn’t spent his career in a classroom or behind a desk, but on the street. His balding head reflected the dull light of the florescent bulbs and his cold gray eyes were in a state of perpetual squint.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “But you had the presence of mind to bring her into your dad’s jurisdiction before you finished her off.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he was right. The fact that we wound up in Potter County made me look all the more like a cold-hearted, calculating bastard who had committed premeditated murder.

  “You were smart to bring her here,” he said. “And if we hadn’t gotten involved in the case, who knows, you might have gotten away with it. But we are involved and we’re gonna fuckin’ fry your fuckin’ ass if you don’t come clean and admit what you did.”

  We were in an interview room in the Potter County Sheriff’s Office. We appeared to be alone, but I knew we weren’t. I wasn’t sure who was beyond the plate glass mirrored window, but I knew we were being observed and recorded.

  “Come on,” he said. “We got your blood and cum and prints. The evidence is overwhelming. We’ll get a conviction. Piece-a-cake, but be a man and tell us in your own words what happened. Don’t make her family suffer through a long, drawn-out trial. At least give them that.”

  “I wish I could,” I said.

  After letting me sit in a holding cell for a couple of hours, they had dumped me in here where I sat for a while longer. My head throbbed. My eyes stung. I was weak and weary, and felt like I might fall over any moment.

  “I want you to see what you did to her,” he said, stepping over to the door. Opening it, he yelled, “Why’s it taking so long to get the goddam crime scene photos down here? ... What? ... Why the hell not? ... Who the fuck—”

  Slamming the door, he took three quick steps and bent down in my face.

  “Why’d you take your dad’s copies of the crime scene photos?” he asked. “Couldn’t stand for him to see what his son had done to a sweet, innocent, kind, vulnerable, beautiful young woman?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “She wasn’t beautiful when you finished with her, was she?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything, images of Laura’s bruised and beaten face flashing in my mind.

  “After you strangled and sodomized her,” he continued. “And beat her until her own mother couldn’t recognize her. Hell, she’s still hoping her little girl’s gonna come home to her, but she’s not, is she? Her parents and her little sister are gonna have to have a closed casket funeral for her, aren’t they? You made good and goddam sure of that, didn’t you? You piece of shit. How could you do such a thing? What’d she do to you? Tell me. I want to know. She make fun of your little pecker? She tell you she was fuckin’ other men? She tell you no when you told her you wanted to fuck her up the ass?”

  I took a very deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding myself to remain calm. “I honestly don’t know what happened,” I said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Give me a polygraph,” I said. “If it proves I’m not lying, then hypnotize me to see if what happened is locked inside my head somehow. I want to know as much as you do.”

  Before he could respond, there was a tap on the door and it was opened by another FDLE agent who asked to speak with him.

  He was gone a while, and as I sat there in the small cold room alone, I became overwhelmed and began to cry.

  It was embarrassing. I knew people were watching, but I couldn’t stop. When I thought about what I had done, I just couldn’t imagine it. How could I live with myself? How could I not do to myself what Laura’s father had failed to do? My life was over. Everything was gone. Nothing would ev
er be the same again.

  The pressure bearing down on me was crushing. Until this moment, I had hoped I might find out that I hadn’t done it after all, that I really wasn’t capable, but now I knew. Now, confronted with the man I was, I just couldn’t take it.

  I thought about Anna, about Mom. What must they think of me?

  I couldn’t blame this on alcohol. This was me—who I was.

  The door opened, and Scott walked back in.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Jordan,” he said. “I was just doing my job. I hope you can understand.”

  I didn’t say anything, just wiped the tears from my eyes and sniffed.

  “You’re free to go,” he said.

  “What?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Think I’ll let your friend tell you about that,” he said. “And again, I’m very sorry.”

  When I stepped out of the interview room and started down the hall, I saw Merrill standing at the end of it in a dark suit and tie, a detective shield on his belt, a .45 clipped on the side.

  I walked toward him.

  “What’s going on?” I asked when I reached him.

  “Told you,” he said. “You didn’t do it.”

  He turned and began to walk toward the door, and I fell in step with him.

  “You impersonating an officer?” I asked.

  “I made an arrest,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “At the time, it was false arrest and imprisonment and I’s impersonating an officer, but your dad backed me up and even deputized me eventually—which was good of him considerin’ I stole his crime scene photos.”

  “You solved the case?”

  “And got a confession,” he said.

  “How?”

  “It was easy,” he said. “All I did was WWJJD. What Would John Jordan Do?”

  I smiled.

  “I thought about how obsessed Laura was with you,” he said. “By the way, found out some more about that. You really was the prey, not the predator. She never was followed or harassed. Only thing Taylor did was break up with her.”

  I nodded.

  We reached the door and walked outside into the darkness and over toward his truck, but didn’t get in.