The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22)

by Michael Lister

  “Yeah, I was surprised to get your message, but I really appreciate y’all getting to it so quickly.”

  “Just how the bodies bounce sometimes.”

  That’s such an odd remark, I’m not sure how to respond.

  We are quiet an awkward moment, which consists mostly of me listening to him chew.

  In the absence of conversation I imagine what he’s eating. In my imaginings it’s exotic and pungent, leftover from a meal he made for himself the night before.

  “Well,” he says finally, “I can tell you . . . there’s not much I can tell you. This is a strange one. The body is banged up pretty bad. Got all manner of injuries, but mostly internal. There are very few lacerations, abrasions, or even brushing on the skin. It’s mostly blunt force trauma, and it occurred so close to when he died that his heart stopped and therefore blood flow stopped and therefore not much bruising. And there was very little blood loss because of how few lacerations there were. Meaning whatever hit him wasn’t sharp, which fits with the large, rounded tree limb we found the blood on. That came from a particularly nasty blow to the back of the head, which is what killed him—fractured his skull and gave him a massive subdural hematoma. Like I say, it’s likely it happened as a result of the limb striking him or his head striking the limb. What I’m saying is that I can’t really say it wasn’t caused by the tree limb—or that all his injuries weren’t caused by the pile of limbs he was found in, though to be honest I can’t really figure out how exactly it would happen. It’d be one thing if it had just happened. If he had just died and there was blood everywhere and fresh injuries—then we’d know it happened when the grappler lifted him and the debris. But with him already being dead—and I’d estimate he’d been dead a while—it’s hard to see how just being in the pile of limbs could have resulted in the trauma to his body. And yet his blood and brain matter was found on one of the limbs and the fixed lividity fits the position his body was found in. So . . . I don’t think it was moved after death—at least not hours after death. I’ll tell you this . . . if someone did kill him and put him in there . . . they did a damn good job of making it impossible to prove it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Can you give me an estimate of how long he’s been dead?”

  “Best guess is between forty-eight and seventy-two hours.”

  “And there are no injuries inconsistent with an accident caused by those limbs?”

  “No, not really. I don’t know. It just seems a stretch that they could’ve done it, but . . . I can’t say they didn’t.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  “There is one other anomaly . . . and it could’ve happened in the pile or as he was being picked up by the grappler, but . . . his right tibia bone was broken . . .”

  I recall the unnatural way his right leg bent to the side at the bottom.

  “It was broken after death,” Mullally is saying. “The only bone that was broken. And the more I think about it the more I think it confirms accidental death. It’d be very difficult for a person to do—and why would they after he was already dead?”

  13

  “I’m Randal Todd. My stepmom was the art teacher at Potter High School.”

  He’s a tall, thin, fair mid-twenties man with very faint freckles and short, wavy light brown hair. Sincere and soft-spoken, he’s likable and easy to empathize with.

  I didn’t know Janna all that well, and apparently I didn’t even know her as well as I thought I did. I had no idea she had a stepson.

  “Was?” Gary Scott asks, his emphasis on the word increasing his voice’s nasality.

  “She was killed in the school shooting that happened here last spring.”

  I’m surprised Scott has called Janna Todd’s stepson to testify, and I’m wondering what he can possibly offer as evidence that wouldn’t be hearsay.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Scott says. “You have my deepest sympathies. So the makeshift task force investigating and trying to prevent the school shooting failed to prevent it from happening and failed to keep students and faculty from being killed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, Randal, did your stepmom have a second job?”

  “Yes, sir. She did. When she and my dad split up, she needed to make some extra money, so she started bartending at the Oasis.”

  “What is the Oasis?”

  “Kind of like a sports bar here in town.”

  “How well are you acquainted with the place?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Are you a big drinker?” Scott asks, as if he doesn’t know the answer already.

  Randal lets out a low laugh. “Actually, I don’t drink. I’ve seen firsthand how stupid some people get when they’ve had too much.”

  “So, if you don’t drink, how can you be well acquainted with this drinking establishment that your stepmom worked at?”

  “I worked there too. Still do.”

  And now I think I know why he has been called to testify, and as my heart begins to simultaneously beat faster and sink into my stomach, I wonder if Anna has figured it out and is prepared. She has talked to me about many aspects of the case, even had me help prep her for some of the witnesses, but not this one.

  “Doing?” Scott asks.

  “Lots of different stuff, but mostly I’m a barback.”

  “A what?”

  “What’s known as a barback. I back up the bartender—mostly restocking. Changing out kegs. Reloading the coolers. Making sure the bartender has everything she needs.”

  “Did you and your stepmom work the week of the school shooting?”

  “Yes, sir, we did. Every night that week.”

  “What, if anything, do you remember about it?”

  “I remember the defendant coming in and drinking with some of the other cops and people involved in the investigation. Heard them talking about it. Plus Janna told me about it.”

  A new wave of guilt crashes over me, a new level of embarrassment and self-consciousness. My face feels like I have a sudden sunburn, and my heart races as beads of sweat pop out all over my body.

  I remember a lot about that night, but I don’t remember this young man being there.

  “You saw the defendant drinking alcohol? The week of the shooting?”

  “The night before.”

  “The night before?” Gary asks in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It surprised me and Janna ’cause he’s an alcoholic and usually doesn’t drink.”

  For a variety of reasons, only some of which I’m even aware of, alcohol has not been an issue for me since shortly after the shooting. It’s odd and strange and wonderful and in some ways inexplicable, but after decades of playing a prominent role in my life—whether I was drinking or not—alcohol, its use or abuse, alcoholism, the fetishizing of liquor and its power, is no longer an issue for me. At all. But that wasn’t the case during the time that Randal is testifying about.

  “And you’re absolutely certain that the night before the shooting you saw the defendant drinking alcoholic drinks at the Oasis?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  14

  “Mr. Todd,” Anna begins, “let me start by saying how very sorry I am for your loss. I mean that. John and I both are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I saw firsthand how hard John and the others worked to prevent any of this from ever happening. Were you and your stepmom close? Even after she and your dad divorced?”

  He nods. “Yes, ma’am. We were. She was always more like a cool older sister to me than a stepmom.”

  “I figured you must be,” she says. “Makes this even that much harder. Sounds like y’all had a very special relationship. She was quite a talented artist as well. I’ve seen some of her work. I understand she was a good teacher too.”

  I know Anna means every word she’s saying, and I’m glad she’s taking the time to empathize with this young man who lost someone h
e cared about. I also know she’s not doing it as part of some cross-examination strategy and isn’t going to try to use it to any kind of advantage whatsoever.

  “She was. All that. And more.”

  “Such a shame,” Anna says. “So tragic for her life to be cut short the way it was. Such a loss.”

  “Really was.”

  “You mind if I ask you . . . I hadn’t planned on doing this and it just occurred to me, but . . . who do you think is responsible for that?”

  He looks confused for a moment. “Her killer,” he says as if it should be obvious to everyone. “The sick fuck who shot her in cold blood.”

  Anna nods. “I just wondered if you blamed anyone else or held anyone else responsible.”

  He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “I know others, including the plaintiffs in this case, think those who were part of what Mr. Scott so dismissively calls the ‘makeshift task force’ bear some of the blame for not preventing the shooting from happening. But you don’t?”

  “No, I appreciate all their efforts. I really do.”

  I believe what he’s saying. It’s very convincing.

  “Even that of John Jordan, who you just testified was drinking the night before?”

  “I don’t blame him for my stepmom’s death,” he says. “Even if he shouldn’t’ve been drinking.”

  “If he was drinking at all, and we’ll get to that, you’re saying he shouldn’t have been drinking in the evening when he was off duty?”

  “Well . . . I mean, I guess it’s okay when he’s off duty. Yeah, I hadn’t really thought of it like that. But . . . you know . . . as long as it didn’t affect him the next day.”

  “‘The next day,’” she says. “We’ll get to that in a moment, but before we do . . . Do you know what O’Doul’s is?”

  “Sure. Near beer. Like a fake beer for people who don’t drink.”

  Suddenly, I’m back at the bar that night in my mind. I can smell the beer, feel my fatigue and frustration from the day—a day in which we had worked so hard to stop a shooting that never happened. I can hear the jukebox in the background, the quiet conversation, punctuated occasionally by the overly loud laughter of the chemically uninhibited. I can see Kimmy and LeAnn at the table with me, Ace Bowman across the way, and even Janna behind the bar, but I can’t see Randal anywhere.

  “Does the Oasis serve it?” Anna is asking.

  “O’Doul’s? Yes, ma’am. Sure do.”

  “And if that’s what John had been drinking that night, would you still testify that he was drinking alcoholic beverages that might have impaired his ability to do his job on what you testified was the next day?”

  “Well, no, but . . . Was he? Is that what he—?”

  With that one, simple question—Was he?—Anna has undermined everything he has testified to, and the jury takes notice. It’s obvious in their expressions and body language.

  “What if I told you that that’s what the receipts from that night will show and what those who were with him will testify to?”

  “Then I’d owe John and everyone here an apology,” he says. “I’m not trying to . . . I don’t have an ax to . . . I was just answering the questions I was asked. But . . . Janna did say that John took at least one shot that night. I’d bet my life on it.”

  I remember the shot I snuck while no one was looking—the shot that only Janna knew about, and the bottle I bought later that night. I remember the guilt I felt then, and it just compounds the guilt I feel now. I had been drinking O’Doul’s, but that’s not all I had.

  “Interesting,” she says. “Okay. Well, let’s talk about that night. You’re testifying that it was the night before the shooting.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Stands out on account of losing Janna the next day.”

  Anna nods. “Well, yeah. That would. But of course, memory is a funny thing—funny and unreliable.”

  “You saying . . . I’m wrong about the day too?”

  His use of the word too implies he had been wrong about the alcohol, and though he tries not to show it, Gary Scott’s reaction at the plaintiff’s table reveals what a blow it is.

  “The drinks and the day too,” Anna says. “But even if you’re partially right and in addition to drinking O’Doul’s that night, John had one shot, it wouldn’t matter because of when it was. And I don’t just mean because it was in the evening and he was off duty.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Scott says. “Does Ms. Jordan have a question or is she just going to testify for the witness?”

  “Sustained,” Wheata Pearl says. “Ask the witness questions, Ms. Jordan, or cut him loose.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” she says. “And I’m sorry to you too, Mr. Todd. I really was just trying to make this as easy on you as possible. What night are you testifying that John and his coworkers on the makeshift task force came in and did this alleged drinking?”

  “Thursday night, April 19, the night before the shooting.”

  Anna nods as if what he has just said confirms what she thought. “Your Honor, I have two exhibits I’d like to introduce into evidence,” she says, handing photocopies to Scott, then the bailiff.

  After the judge looks at them and they are entered into evidence with no objections from Scott, she hands them to Todd.

  “The first exhibit is a copy of a receipt with an affidavit from LeAnn Dunne stating that this is her receipt from the one and only night that the members of the makeshift task force went to the Oasis. It was the night after what they thought was going to be the day of the school shooting, the anniversary of Columbine. What is the date on the receipt, Mr. Todd?”

  “April 20th. But that still fits . . . because the shooting happened the next day after they thought it was going to happen. I remember.”

  “It happened the next school day, but not the next day. April 20 was a Friday. John and the group he was with were there on a Friday night. The next day was Saturday, so even if he had had a single shot or many it wasn’t the night before the shooting. The shooting took place on the next school day, which was Monday. I’m very sorry to have to ask you this . . . but was your stepmom killed on the day of the shooting?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She wasn’t injured and then died a few days later?”

  “No, ma’am. She died at the school.”

  “The second exhibit you have is your stepmom’s death certificate. I’m so sorry to have to put you through this, but really it’s the plaintiffs that are making us do this. Not only that but their investigator or attorney should have looked into this before calling you to testify. What is the date on your stepmom’s death certificate?”

  He hesitates for a moment, then actually looks at me, shaking his head and apologizing.

  An act that only makes me feel far more guilty.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says. “The date is April 23.”

  “And just so there’s no misunderstanding or confusion about anything,” Anna says, “is the Oasis open on Sundays?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not.”

  “So there’s no way John was in the Oasis drinking anything the night before the shooting at Potter High School. Is that right?”

  It’s right and he says so, but as right as it is, as true as it is that I wasn’t at the Oasis drinking the night before the shooting, it doesn’t tell the whole truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth is that I had been drinking the night before the shooting—at home, alone, out of the view of bartenders and barbacks and everyone else, hidden in my own little mental isolation cell of shame and self-recrimination.

  Tampa Bay Times Daily Dispatch

  Hurricane Michael in Real Time

  By Tim Jonas, Times Reporter

  As the heat beats down from the North Florida sun’s meridian, families huddle under sets and tarps and makeshift tents in a hotel hallway strewn with shards of glass and roofing fragments.

  The hotel is damaged so severely it will be condemned. There is no electricity.
No running water. But the people here have nowhere else to go.

  The night brings a modicum of relief from the heat, but with it the threat of looters and other nocturnal predators.

  The residents here are the new post-storm homeless, and though the hotel they’re in has huge holes in the roof and is missing windows and doors and huge swaths of it are uninhabitable, they are the lucky ones. Many of their fellow citizens have no shelter at all.

  Despite all the efforts of recovery workers and volunteers, post-Michael life in the Panhandle is perilous. Where are you, FEMA? Where is the help, Mr. Trump? Congress? US citizens are barely subsisting on the absolute fringes of existence and are in desperate need of the kind of relief only you can provide.

  15

  What once was hundreds of thousands of acres of slash pines on a thirty-year rotation is now no more. What remains, the few severely leaning smaller trees and the broken larger ones, looks like the partially cleared underbrush left behind by a dull machete.

  In every direction, the destruction resembles the debris field of the hard crash landing of a massive Airbus A380 passenger airliner.

  After our eventful day in court we are once again making our pilgrimage back into the war-torn world of our bombed and battered home.

  I’m driving, but instead of working in the seat next to me as she has so often been doing lately, Anna is just sitting there decompressing.

  “You were brilliant,” I say.

  “That’s sweet, but Gary Scott is lobbing softballs so far. He’s testing me before he brings out his real firepower.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s known for it. If he had gotten these two by me, he’d know he can do anything.”

  “You’re amazing,” I say. “Truly. How’d you know what Randal Todd was going to say?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You seemed like you did—like you knew exactly what he was going to say.”