Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But I bet you’ve thought about it.”

  “I’m not sure I was even doing it. If I was, it’s not on purpose. I don’t know. I just feel so fuckin’ isolated. So alone. Always have. Don’t know if it’s something I’m doing or just the way I am––or the way most people are––but if I can change it I want to.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s not all the time, but it’s too much of the time. And it’s particularly acute right now.”

  “So you suffer from acute loneliness?”

  “I do.”

  “I want us to come back to that. It’s something we need to explore. There are probably lots of reasons you feel that way, and we’ll look at them all, but just know this: Part of the reason you experience the isolation you do is your desire for true connection––to have authentic interactions and real intimacy. Small talk and surface distractions are never gonna do it for you, but we’ll come back to that. For now, let’s stick with your divorce.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe your holding back—or the way you are versus the way she is—did contribute to your breakup. Perhaps Susan sided with her dad as a way to get back at you. If she felt you were holding back—and I’m sure she did, even if on a subconscious level—perhaps she decided to do the same. Or maybe she really didn’t think she had a choice. She might have felt she couldn’t make the leap required to be with you because she knew you weren’t really there and her father was.”

  I thought about it. She was probably right.

  When Susan ended our relationship the last time, she refused to even take my calls. Eventually, I stopped calling, stopped all attempts at making contact. Now I wondered how hard I had really tried. Was I guilty of just making a few half-hearted attempts and then quickly giving up, relieved she was so unresponsive? Maybe Sister was right. Maybe Susan only held back because she knew I had been—knew I always would. I needed to call her, not in an attempt to reconcile our marriage, but our relationship, to accept responsibility, ask for forgiveness, seek peace, give healing a chance to begin.

  “You may be right,” I said. “Probably are. But I honestly felt at the time I had gone all in, given her everything, given our marriage every chance. Saying goodbye to Anna was a big part of that. So maybe you’re right or maybe she had a sick dynamic with her dad.”

  “Or,” she said, “possibly both.”

  “Who do you think killed Tammy?” I asked, attempting to turn her abrupt transition ploy on her.

  Her eyes grew wide and her head snapped back slightly. “What?”

  “You said you’re convinced it’s not Father Thomas. And I take it you don’t believe the devil did it.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think the devil did it. I’m not sure I even believe in the devil.”

  I nodded. “But is that just a product of misguided modern thinking?”

  “Well, obviously, if I thought it was, I wouldn’t think it,” she said.

  “Kathryn said something to that effect to me earlier and I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve always seen myself as a postmodern thinker. I certainly don’t think science has or will ever have an answer for everything. I know existence is profoundly mysterious and there are forces we can’t even fathom, but...”

  “You can’t really believe the devil did it.”

  “Is that just ignorance or arrogance? It’d be ironic for someone who hates dogma as much as I do to be just as dogmatic as the religious right—just about different things.”

  “Something else for you to think about.”

  “I wonder if that’s part of the problem,” I said. “I spend so much time in my head. I think things through, even though I know the limitations of reason and logic. Maybe Kathryn’s right and I need to be more intuitive in my approach to both types of work I do—and to life.”

  “Something for you to feel your way around,” she said with a wry smile.

  I nodded.

  “Just remain open. Question everything. Including yourself, your beliefs and assumptions.”

  “If you don’t think it was a demon, you’ve probably got someone in mind.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. Apart from the fact that it has to be one of us.”

  “Someone at St. Ann’s last night?”

  She nodded.

  “Of those of us who were here, who’s most likely?”

  “Under the right circumstances, we’re all capable,” she said. “I’d be very hesitant to point the finger at one person over another.”

  “What about those having a sexual relationship with the victim? Wouldn’t you agree they’re more likely than—”

  “Those who weren’t, but wanted to?” she asked. “Hardly.”

  “Who wasn’t, but wanted to?” I asked.

  She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. “Rumor has it, Ralph Reid—who not coincidentally works for her family—has always carried a torch for her.”

  “And they’ve never... I didn’t get that she was discriminating.”

  “That’s what added insult to the injury,” she said. “Which, of course, is why she did it. It was a game. Her way of torturing him.”

  “Did you put her diary in my room?” I asked.

  “Her what?” she asked, sitting back in her chair again.

  “Father asked her to keep a journal while she was here,” I said. “Apparently she did, and someone left it in my room last night—or this morning.”

  “I wasn’t aware of its existence. Is it helpful?”

  “I think it will be,” I said. “I haven’t finished it yet. Who besides Reid?”

  “Is a frontrunner?” she asked. “I’m not sure. As you say, perhaps her harem.”

  “What about Keith Richie?” I asked.

  “Why him more than the others?”

  “He’s an ex-offender for starters,” I said.

  “How did you—” she began, “but of course you’d know.”

  “What did he do time for?”

  “I don’t know. Even if I did I doubt I’d tell you. He’s paid his debt. He’s come here for healing—same as you.”

  “I’m not talking about a previous debt,” I said. “I’m looking for a pattern.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said, “I really don’t. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think I will.”

  21

  On my way to interview Keith Richie, I called the institution. The coverage was poor, the reception filled with static, and I could barely hear when the control room officer said, “Good morning, Potter Correctional Institution.”

  “Hey, Officer Williams, it’s Chaplain Jordan. How are you?”

  “Where are you? You sick?”

  “On vacation.”

  Shrouded by thick gray clouds, the diffused light of the sun had yet to burn off the low-lying fog or dry up the dew, and the moist air felt wet on my face and caused bits of damp sand and grass blades to cling to my shoes.

  “Well, we miss you,” she said. “Hurry on back.”

  “Thanks. Merrill working today?”

  “Yeah, but he’s on a transport to Liberty CI.”

  “Okay. If you see him, would you ask him to call me? And can I have Classification?”

  “Sure, sugar. Hold on one minute for me.”

  I was on hold for maybe ten seconds before the familiar but unexpected voice answered the phone. “Classification, Anna Rodden.”

  I stopped walking. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Anna?”

  She hesitated, then softly said, “John.”

  Several things ran through my mind and I wasn’t sure which one to say.

  “I’m surprised to find you there,” I said.

  “I was surprised to find you gone.”

  “Had to get away for a while,” I said. “What’re you doing there?”

  “I work here.”


  “You do?”

  “For a little while longer anyway,” she said. “I’m still toying with the idea of going back to school full-time. I’m never gonna finish at this rate.”

  I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. I was walking again, though I couldn’t recall making a conscious decision to do so.

  “John?” she asked. “You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You broke up. What’d you say?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said.

  “‘Let me stand here till thou remember it.’”

  I was surprised––not that she knew the quote, but that she said it given our estrangement.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Instinct.”

  “‘I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, remembering how I love thy company.’”

  “‘And I’ll stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home but this.’”

  Suddenly the world was warm again and I felt less lonely.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  We were silent a long moment. Around me, St. Ann’s seemed to grow more green, more lush, more vivid.

  “Well,” she said finally, “who were you calling?”

  I felt dizzy and disoriented, as if my world were rotating on the wrong axis.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Anna, I’m sorry for what I did,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything, and we just listened to static for a long moment.

  Walking around the chapel and toward the dining hall, the cold, stiff grass crunched beneath my feet. I took in as much of St. Ann’s as I could, but saw no one. It was as if the abbey were empty, and maybe it was.

  “I was just trying to—”

  “I know what you were trying to do,” she said. “Maybe we should talk about it when you get back.”

  “Okay.”

  “You remember why you called yet?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, but didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want our conversation, awkward and painful though it were, to end.

  “John?”

  “Sorry. I need some information on an ex-inmate named Keith Richie.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m investigating a suspicious death and he’s one of the suspects.”

  “I thought you were on a spiritual retreat?”

  “I am.”

  “So how are your vacations different from work?”

  “I’m not surrounded by a few thousand felons,” I said. And you’re not here.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about him and let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “John.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  Pressing the tiny button that severed our connection, I walked through the dim dining hall to the brightly lit kitchen in the back.

  Above the hums of ice machines and refrigerators, the mechanical sprinkler-system sound of the dishwasher, and the distorted music of a small radio, the loud banging, scraping, and chopping of Keith Richie’s food preparation seemed violent.

  Deciding to try to knock him off balance first thing, I turned off his radio and said, “How long you been out?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Where’d you do your time? You ever at PCI?”

  “You done time?” he asked, dropping his large knife on the stainless steel table and wiping his hands on his soiled apron.

  “Still doing it,” I said. “I’m the chaplain at PCI.”

  “Well, you may want to think about doing something else,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re treating me like an inmate.”

  He was right. I was doing something I swore I never would—treating a person differently because he had been incarcerated.

  “Bet you won’t question any of the others so rudely,” he said. “Didn’t say hey or anything, just began to ask me invasive questions about my past. Only way you can do that is if you don’t see me like everybody else. I’m not a person. I’m a convict. You said you’re a chaplain?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

  Keith Richie was so tall I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. Freckles flecked the pale skin of his face and his thick reddish hair was long and straight. Tattoos of vastly varying quality peaked out from beneath his clothes.

  “You gonna offer an explanation or an excuse or something?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Just an apology,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you’re right. Congratulations, you win the prize. I am what you think I am—a convict, a menace to society, state property.”

  “State property?” I asked. “You got paper following you?”

  He nodded. “And I’m clean. I’ve got this good job in this quiet place and I’m putting my life back together. Growing spiritually. Getting my head together. I didn’t kill that girl and I don’t know who did. Know nothing about it.”

  “Were you two involved?” I asked.

  He let out a little laugh, cold and ironic. “You know the funny thing? I was told PCI had a good chaplain. Guys said he was different. Really cared. Treated you with respect. Like a human being. You don’t get a reputation like that inside without it being true.”

  I didn’t say anything, just waited.

  He considered me intently, his eyes squinting, brow furrowing.

  “Don’t be offended by it. I’m asking everyone, even Father Thomas. Were you and Tammy involved?”

  “She wasn’t involved with anyone,” he said. “You’re asking if we were fuckin’.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Were you?”

  “No,” he said. “We were not. She was far too into Brad.”

  22

  I found Brad Harrison installing sensor lights on the main gate. He was on a ladder screwing a lightbulb into one of the sockets. His large body was covered by faded jeans and a camouflage jacket, both of which were flecked with primer and paint, and spotless work boots that appeared new.

  “Little late for this,” he said, nodding toward the lights, “but Sister Abigail said it was better late than never.”

  “These wouldn’t’ve made a difference,” I said, “but they make people feel safer.”

  “It’s not this kind of light that drives out Satan,” he said.

  I waited for him to smile, but he didn’t.

  His movements flexed his upper body muscles and they pressed against his tight clothes. He was thick and muscular with the quiet confidence of a man who knew he could figure out a way to build or repair anything.

  “It’s the darkness in our hearts that’s the problem,” he continued. “And stringing up lights along the perimeter and putting locks on the doors ain’t gonna deal with that.”

  He finished tightening the bulb and flipped on the switch behind it. When he ran his hand in front of the sensor, the lights came on. Snatching up a screwdriver and a pair of pliers from the top rung, he shoved them in his jacket pocket and climbed back down the ladder.

  Standing in front of me, he cocked his head and studied me intently. “You a preacher and a detective?”

  The pungent smells emanating off him were a sour mixture of sweat, testosterone-tinged body odor, cheap cologne, a bland, ineffectual deodorant, dirty hair, and the greasy metallic scent of tools and labor, of screwing and unscrewing, tightening and loosening, of repairing and installing.

  “Prison chaplain. I was a cop for a while. Still help with investigations occasionally.”

  “With all the souls that need to be saved?”

  The only responses I could come up with were smartass ones, so I didn’t respond.

  Shaking his head slightly to himself, he turned, grabbed the ladder, and dragged it to the other side of the massive wrought iron gate.

  “You close and lock this every night?�
� I asked.

  He nodded. “Nine o’clock.”

  “Every night?”

  “Haven’t missed one in five years,” he said.

  “And last night?”

  “Every night,” he said.

  He pulled a box with another light fixture in it off the ground and carried it up the ladder with him. Placing it on the top rung, he withdrew the pliers and screwdriver and began fastening a bracket to the top bar of the gate.

  “How did the police cars and ambulance get in?” I asked.

  “I let them in.”

  “How’d you know to?”

  “Sister Kathryn.”

  “I thought she wasn’t a nun?” I asked.

  He stopped what he was doing and looked down at me with a perplexed look on his face. “She’s still our sister in Christ,” he said. “Right brother?”

  “Did she call you?”

  “We don’t have phones in our rooms,” he said. “She sent Brother Keith to tell me.”

  “Who all has a key to it?”

  “The gate? Myself, Father Thomas, Sister Abigail, Sister Kathryn, and there’s a few in the front office of the counseling center.”

  “If someone needs to get in or out after nine, what do they do?” I asked.

  “They don’t,” he said.

  “You’re saying the chief of police was trapped in here?”

  “If he was inside he was.”

  My next question was for personal and not investigatory purposes, but he didn’t know that.

  “Had he ever been locked in before?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Someone said the night before Tommy Boy was found, he was seen leaving with Tammy,” I said. “Did you see them leave together?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Our best guess is that he didn’t die until late that night or early the next morning,” I said. “If Tammy was with him, I’m wondering how her car got back into St. Ann’s.”

  “She must not’ve been with him,” he said. “I locked the gate at nine.”

  “Did you see her return?”

  He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

  Having finished mounting the sensor light, he descended the ladder, exchanged the empty fixture box for one holding lightbulbs, and ascended the ladder again.