Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  Anna told Weaver what was going on.

  “Don’t know anything about it. I came on at three, but we can step in my office and call Captain Weeks.”

  I stayed behind and talked to Rosetta Jackson at her request.

  “Merrill said I should talk to you,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “I worked in PM for two years before makin’ sergeant.”

  And though I figured she was about to tell me what I already knew, I said, “Yes ma’am?”

  “Inmates in PM the worst kind there is,” she said. “They in PM ‘cause they made too many problems for theyselves with the other convicts on the ‘pound.”

  We were surrounded by inmates and their loved-ones who were talking, but not touching, smiling, but not laughing, as they ate junk food they had gotten out of the vending machines. Seeing them eating the candy bars, chips, and microwave sandwiches made me wonder if Justin and Paula had eaten anything during their visit that might help us better establish time of death. I made a mental note to talk to Paula and Daniels about it.

  “Most of ‘em pissed off another inmate and now they hidin’ from him,” she continued. “It’s usually over gamblin’ debts. Sometimes sex. They play games like the rest of the convicts, but then when it’s time to pay the bill, they skip out on the check.”

  At a table in the back corner, a young Latin woman slid her hand up an inmate’s thigh and began giving him an on-the-clothes hand job beneath the table.

  Who said Florida no longer has conjugal visits?

  I wondered how long it would take the other officers to spot it. Probably longer than it would take him to reach climax. I started to say something to Sergeant Jackson, but just couldn’t bring myself to.

  “You know how irresponsible and immature all these men are?”she said. “Well, just multiply that by about a thousand and that’s a PM inmate. They come runnin’ to us, say somebody tryin’ to rape them or some shit like that and all along they just owe him money.”

  When I looked back over at the Hispanic inmate in the corner, he had a smile on his face and he looked far more relaxed than before. Beside him, his Latin under-the-table lover seemed thrilled to have been of service.

  “There’s ex-law enforcement,” she said. “And a few baby-rapers or high profile cons, but for the most part it’s the lowest scum in the prison pond.”

  “What about the inmate who was killed?” I asked.

  “Menge? He was one of the better ones. Quiet. Stayed to himself mostly. Never gave me no trouble. And paint. That boy could paint.”

  “Any ideas about who could’ve killed him?”

  She shrugged. “Take your pick. Like I said, it coulda been any of them and it coulda been over a card game or pack of cigarettes. Or just because one of those other sorry bastards owe him some canteen. Or he owe them. Whatever it was, it wasn’t over much. I can tell you that. It’s the way PM inmates are. Whoever did it, it won’t take you long to find out. They all snitches. Every damn one of ‘em. They’ll sell each other out for a smoke. Or less. Just a few weeks ago, we noticed they were all requesting Sudafed. It was allergy season—hell, it’s always allergy season ‘round here—but it was suspicious. Sure enough they were all requesting it and selling it to this one dude so he could get high. Thing is, we didn’t even have to threaten them. All we had to do was ask. They told us. No fuss. No muss.”

  I nodded.

  “Half of ‘em down there’re homosexual,” she said. “That’s part of the reason they like being in there. They get to be with each other. Shit, they have more sex than we do.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I said. “I’m on my second honeymoon.”

  “Then what the hell you doin’ here?”

  “Good question.”

  An elderly inmate with a half halo of white hair around a reddish bald head sat at a table surrounded by his children and grandchildren, two of whom sat in his lap. They looked happy together. Not as happy as the Hispanic inmate, but happy nonetheless. It made me sad to think of the old man spending his later years in a place like this, seeing his loved-ones, at most, eight hours every other weekend.

  “Who was on duty down there the night Menge was killed?” she asked.

  “Pitts and Potter,” I said.

  “Well, add them to the list of suspects. At least Potter—he’ll do anything if the price is right. He been bringin’ drugs in here for years. I don’t think Pitts does anything like that, but he not very bright, so no tellin’. I’m just glad I’m not down there anymore. “That’s the biggest bunch of—”

  Before she could finish, Anna appeared at the door and motioned for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “More honeymooning to do?”

  When I reached her Anna said, “Six o’clock and no Sobel.”

  “Probably just running late.”

  We were buzzed out of the security building, through the sally port, and out of the prison. We sat down on the aluminum bench under the covered area in front of the control room and alternated between watching for Sobel and watching the clock.

  “What’d Weeks say?” I asked.

  “Sobel’s attorney showed up with an order from a federal judge saying Sobel could go to the funeral.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would a federal judge—” I started, but broke off as headlights shown on the road leading up to the prison.

  “It’s not him,” Anna said.

  The car parked in the lot and an officer got out.

  I glanced back at the clock. It was six-thirty.

  By seven all the visitors had left, the inmates returned to their dorms. By seven-thirty, the citizen volunteer who was doing the Sunday night worship service had entered the institution. By eight, the food service staff had gone. By nine, FDLE had been contacted, Sobel’s escape reported, and an APB posted. By eleven, the shift change was completed. By midnight there was still no sign of Sobel, which was no surprise. Over seven hours earlier, we had known there wasn’t going to be.

  25

  I loved to watch Anna work.

  Actually, I loved watching her do anything, but seeing her work was something special.

  Like everything she did, it consumed her. Her concentration was amazing, her focus complete. She was confident without being cocky, tenacious without being tyrannical, persistent without being pushy.

  She was on the phone, the federal judge’s order allowing Sobel to go to Menge’s funeral on the desk in front of her. Trying to reach the judge who had issued the order, she was getting transferred from one end of Atlanta to another—and not liking it.

  Refusing to relent, she continued to speak calmly, saying the same thing over and over to different people as if it were the first time she’d said it.

  When I’d entered her office on this rainy Monday morning, she looked up and smiled, but quickly returned to the task at hand. Now, still consumed, she picked up the court order from her desk and tossed it to me.

  I looked at it. It looked real to me, but I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t. Anna, soon to finish her law degree, said it looked legit to her.

  Finally, after nearly an hour, she got through to the chambers of the judge who issued it. While she talked with an assistant, Tom Daniels walked in.

  He looked tired and stressed, but still sober.

  Anna hung up.

  “We go away for a weekend and y’all can’t keep track of our prime suspect.”

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m just a girl.”

  Anna had always accused Daniels of being sexist, which he was, though seemingly less so these days. The recently sober Tom Daniels was far less racist, sexist, and homophobic. In fact, he was generally just less of an ass. It was probably less a result of a change of heart than the return of inhibitions, but whatever the cause I was in favor of it. Maybe fake it ‘til you make it could work for tolerance too.

 
“Fuckin’ feds,” he said.

  Expecting his faux-tolerance to extend to feds was just too much to ask.

  “‘Scuse my French,” he said to Anna.

  “No,” she said, “I agree.”

  “What’d you find out?” I asked.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It was issued on Friday by Judge Joe Paul in response to Sobel’s attorney’s petition.”

  Daniels shook his head. “I’d like to know what the hell he was thinkin’.”

  “Well, you never will. He died on Wednesday.”

  “Two days before he issued the order?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  We each sank back into our seats in silence.

  “How the hell do they explain that?” Daniels asked.

  “I faxed a copy of it to Judge Paul’s secretary,” Anna said. “It didn’t come from there—before or after he died. It’s a forgery. A very good forgery, but forgery nonetheless.”

  “That’d take some juice,” I said.

  Anna nodded. “His secretary said it was almost good enough to fool her. And there’s something else. Chris Sobel doesn’t have a brother.”

  I nodded.

  “With what’s happened, doesn’t come as much of a surprise,” Daniels said. “Just who in the hell is this Chris Sobel?”

  “I plan to find out,” Anna said.

  “Any thoughts?” Daniels asked, looking over at me.

  “None worth mentioning,” I said. “If she’s willing, I think we should let Anna continue to work Sobel’s past while we work the other aspects of the case.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “just because he escaped doesn’t mean he killed Menge—he could just be scared.”

  “Would you mind?” I asked Anna.

  “You kidding? I’m gonna do it anyway. No reason for both of us to.”

  “Thanks.”

  Almost to himself, Daniels asked, “Why do it now when he was so close to getting out?”

  “Well, either he killed Menge,” I said, “or he’s afraid of who did and he’s trying to get away from him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t plan to escape at all,” Anna said.

  Daniels looked puzzled.

  I thought about it. “Someone could’ve gotten him out just so they could get to him,” I said, nodding. “That’s good. If it were just an escape, why go to the memorial service?”

  “Exactly,” Anna said.

  “Of course,” I said, “he could’ve loved Justin so much he was willing to risk it.”

  Daniels said. “Are we sure he did?”

  “So far I only have Paula Menge’s word for it,” I said. “But I felt like she was telling me the truth.”

  “Felt?” he asked.

  I nodded and smiled.

  “His intuition is as good as mine is,” Anna said.

  Daniels frowned.

  “If Sobel’s out of the picture Paula gets everything,” Anna said.

  “Oh,” Daniels said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small pad. “With all the excitement about Sobel, I forgot to tell you. We found a uniform with blood on it.”

  Anna and I exchanged wide-eyed looks.

  “Inmate or officer?” I asked.

  “Officer,” he said.

  Beyond the streaks of rain on Anna’s window, the rose bushes in the beds between classification and the center gate were rocked back and forth by the force of the wind, their leaves curling, their rain-soaked petals tearing off and littering the soggy ground beneath.

  Because of the weather, the yard was closed, the inmates locked in the dorms. We had all the time in the world.

  “Where?”

  “In a garbage can in the parking lot of the institution. Blood’s same type as Menge’s.”

  The effects of Daniels fully immersing himself in the case and maintaining his sobriety were obvious. His eyes were clear and bright, his clean-shaven face, taut and still tanned.

  “Who found it?” I asked. “When?”

  “Outside grounds crew officer named Melvin,” he said. “Friday afternoon.”

  “And you didn’t mention it this weekend?”

  “I promised Sarah I wouldn’t say a word about work. I’m too worried about her right now to risk—well, anyway, she means more to me than any goddam case.”

  I realized the real reason he hadn’t retaliated against Martinez. He was too worried about her to risk getting caught. She was in no condition to lose him after having lost so much.

  “So,” Anna said, “a CO uniform with Menge’s blood on it—does that mean Sobel didn’t escape because he did it?”

  Daniels shrugged.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Any of it. If an officer killed Menge, why leave the uniform here?”

  “Keep blood out of his or her car.”

  “Her?” Anna asked.

  “Why not?” Daniels asked.

  “Because there wasn’t one down there.”

  “There was one.”

  “She wasn’t wearing a uniform,” I said.

  “She could’ve been when she was killing Justin. Put it over her clothes to keep the blood off. I don’t know; it feels like a woman to me.”

  “Feels?”

  “You’re rubbing off on me.”

  “Thank God,” Anna said.

  “I keep coming back to Paula Menge,” he said. “She was here. She could’ve done it. Maybe even worked with Sobel and is now double-crossin’ him. We know she benefits the most from her brother’s death.”

  “She already has, but there’s no way she could get down to the PM unit from the visiting park. Besides, we were down there. Did you see her?”

  “We didn’t see anybody do it, but somebody killed him. So the fact that we didn’t see her doesn’t mean she didn’t do it.”

  “She was leaving the institution when I was coming back in,” I said.

  “Doesn’t mean she did,” he said. “Besides, she could’ve just come in to slip her brother a drug or somethin’.”

  “I’m not ruling her out,” I said. “She might even be behind it, but no way she could actually get down there to do it. It’d be next to impossible from the VP. It’s impossible from outside the front gate where I saw her when I was coming back in. No way a civilian got through the four gates and three doors required to kill Menge in PM.”

  Daniels said, “Dorm and the quad doors were unlocked.”

  “Still got two gates,” Anna said.

  “Sure,” Daniels said, “but if she had a uniform on . . . . It was a very dark night.”

  “Speaking of her drugging him,” I said, “was there anything in his stomach that might help us establish time of death?”

  He shook his head. “He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, so if she did drug him it went to work fast.”

  “Too early for us to have tox tests back, isn’t it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “They’ve finished the presumptive, but the confirmatory will be a while longer.”

  When testing for drugs, toxins, or poisons, most labs follow a two-tier approach. They do initial screenings known as presumptive tests, which are faster, easier, and cheaper than those of the second tier. If the first tier tests are negative for a particular substance, further tests are unnecessary. If any of them are positive, indicating that a particular substance is possibly present, then confirmatory testing is done. The second tier testing is more accurate, but more expensive and time-consuming—and though a lot had happened, we were still less than five full days from the murder.

  “So the screening showed something?” I asked.

  “Guy was real vague. Used the word ‘possibly’ a lot. Doesn’t want to commit to anything until he’s finished, but yeah, my guess is they’ve found something. We should know for sure by the end of the week. Of course, I hope we’re finished with this thing before then.”

  “If Justin was drugged it’d explain a lot.”

  �
��Yes it would.”

  We were quiet a moment, and the raindrops pelting the window seemed suddenly louder.

  “You realize that whether it’s Michael Pitts or Paula Menge helping him,” he said, “we still keep coming back to Sobel.”

  I nodded.

  Anna’s phone rang, and we waited while she answered it. As she listened her eyes grew wide. When she hung up, she spoke very softly. “Maybe it wasn’t Sobel or Paula.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because,” she said, “they just found the shank they believe may be the murder weapon in Mike Hawkins’s cell.”

  26

  “I’m bein’ set up,” Hawkins said. “Which means somebody’s fuckin’ with the wrong white man.”

  I was locked in Mike Hawkins’s cell with him, but a short Asian correctional officer with wet-looking spiky black hair was just outside the door. Thinking I would get further with Hawkins alone, Daniels was having FDLE test the blood on the blade while I did the interview. Anna was waiting for me by the quad door.

  “Excuse the language, preacher, but I’m mad as hell right now. I know it ain’t you, but you’re a part of this corrupt system, and that big black boy that killed the white officer is a good friend of yours.”

  The weak light from the gray day filtering through the narrow pane of thick glass was inadequate to illuminate the cell and only added to its illusion of colorlessness. The only advantage to the cell being a pale gray haze was that the absence of light also de-emphasized its smallness.

  “You think there’s a racial motivation behind your being set up?” I asked.

  “He is the one who searched our cells.”

  “Sergeant Monroe didn’t find the weapon. Another officer did.”

  “I didn’t say he found it—how would that look? I’m saying he planted it. The views of my family and the good people of Pine County aren’t exactly a secret. Now, don’t get me wrong, we don’t go lookin’ for trouble, but if it comes our way, by God, we know how to deal with it.”

  Mike Hawkins was maybe five inches shorter than my six feet, with a stocky build and a full face and neck. His inmate haircut was worse than most with nicks and gashes that revealed virgin white scalp. His eyes were big and dark, but not really a color I could define in the dim light. They were hard and slightly crazed.