Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon

by Michael Lister

“Bobby, this young man’s gonna close your case for you and you can’t spare a few minutes.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m just sayin’ we need to get on with it.”

  I nodded.

  “And,” Battle added, “if this case could be closed it would be.”

  Frank smiled and winked at me.

  “I need to start with my fuckup,” I said.

  “Another one?” Battle said.

  “More of a continuation.”

  Battle blew out a frustrated sigh and shook his head.

  “Relax, Bobby,” Frank said, “you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. And then what would happen? Criminals would take over the entire town.”

  Battle took a sip of his coffee and seemed to settle down a bit.

  The restaurant was loud, the clanking of plates, the clinking of cups, the constant hum and occasional outburst of conversation making it difficult to concentrate.

  “Raymond Pelton and Vincent Storr paid me a little visit last night,” I said.

  I then went on to tell them the rest in detail.

  “Told you, didn’t I?” Battle said. “Goddamn it. Frank, I told him to stay away from them. And this is why. Now you got them coming where you live to threaten you.”

  “Means he hit a nerve,” Frank said.

  “Nobody ever questioned guys like them being stirred up in all kind of bad shit. Of course they’re gonna come out swingin’. Doesn’t mean either of them had anything to do with what happened to LaMarcus.”

  “There’s more,” I said.

  “The fuck?” Battle said. “What more could there be?”

  “They threatened the sister.”

  Both men looked confused.

  “LaMarcus’s sister?” Battle said. “Jordan Moore? A cop’s wife? Why? How would she even––Was she there? She was there with you? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? What the fuck is the wife of a cop doing at your apartment, John?”

  “She . . . we had just come from talking to Carlton Fields. Actually, she talked to him. I just listened.”

  “You’ve got the wife of a cop mixed up in this cluster fuck.”

  “Long before she married an abusive asshole cop, she was LaMarcus’s stepsister. She wants to find out who killed him more than anybody.”

  He shook his head. I had him on that.

  “Doesn’t explain why she was at your apartment,” he said. “Does her abusive, asshole of a husband know?”

  “We were goin’ to talk about what Carlton said. Which you two need to hear, by the way.”

  “What happened?” Bobby said. “Tell me exactly what happened––what was said, what was done, all of it, every detail.”

  I did.

  The midday sun shone brightly through the plate glass windows that served as walls, shafts of light streaking the tile floor, emphasizing random objects indiscriminately––jukebox, bubblegum ball machine, an empty chair, a napkin holder, part of a tabletop.

  “Now I’m gonna have to come down hard on Pelton and Storr,” Battle was saying. “Have to find something on them to send them away for a long, long time.”

  “That won’t be hard, Bobby,” Frank said. “And you know it.”

  “Can’t have them runnin’ around threatenin’ to cut the tits off a cop’s wife. Fuck. I don’t have time for this shit right now.”

  “I’ll help you,” Frank said.

  “I do it and you’re goin’ to do two things for me,” Battle said to me. “Stay out of my case and away from Larry Moore’s wife.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. “I won’t.”

  “Are you fuckin’ her?”

  I shook my head again. “I’m not. And I won’t.”

  “Come on, Bobby,” Frank said. “Stop all this and let’s hear what he has for us on the case. He’s doin’ great work, helpin’ us a lot. And you know it. Nothin’ was happenin’ on this case and nothin’ was goin’ to. Show him the appreciation he deserves.”

  Battle shook his head. “Unbelievable. Appreciation, huh?”

  “What did Carlton say?” Frank asked.

  I told them.

  “Said it was a secret,” Frank said, “that his dad was going to come get him and take him away?”

  I nodded. “And that lines up with what Anthony told me, that he’d do anything he had to to make a man out of his son.”

  They both seemed to think about it.

  “That’s good,” Frank said. “Isn’t it, Bobby? It’s real good.”

  “I looked long and hard at Anthony Alex Williams, Jr. back when it happened,” Battle said. “You know what really broke in his favor––I mean, apart from there being no evidence against him at all? The rape. Couldn’t see him doin’ all this, includin’ bringin’ a condom, to rape his own son. Be one thing if he lived with him or if he had any history of pedophilia, but he didn’t and I just couldn’t see him stagin’ this whole elaborate thing to kill then rape his own son.”

  I nodded. “What if he didn’t?”

  He looked at me like I was in need of electroshock therapy. “Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

  “What if he committed the first but not the second crime? What if he killed him––by accident––and someone else moved him and raped him? Anthony plans to come and take his son, just like he told me and LaMarcus told Carlton, but he gives him too much of the sleep aid, accidentally overdoses him. He panics. Leaves LaMarcus in the bushes. Flees. Then someone else comes along and moves the body to the drainage culvert and rapes him. That would allow for the time LaMarcus spent lying in the one position on the ground before being moved, and would mean his dad didn’t rape him.”

  “That’s good,” Frank said. “Really good. That could really be it. Think about it, Bobby. That makes a lot of sense.”

  Battle nodded absently, his unfocussed eyes staring at nothing in the distance as his cop mind worked the theory around.

  “You got anybody in mind?” Frank asked me. “For the doer. The rapist.”

  I nodded. “Pelton. Storr. Carlton. Ralph Alderman.”

  “Alderman?” Bobby said.

  I told them about Carlton’s reaction to Ralph.

  “Could mean nothin’,” Battle said.

  “But it could mean somethin’,” Frank said. “It really could.”

  “Yeah, and it could be nothin’.”

  “Why did Ralph leave the force?” I asked.

  “GBI did the investigation,” Battle said. “Ask him.”

  I looked at Frank.

  “I’ll find out,” he said.

  “And while he’s doin’ that, I’ll try to make the world a safer place for people like you and a fellow cop’s wife by cleaning the streets of Pelton and Storr. And while we do that, how about you don’t do anything? Nothin’ else to get somebody killed or fuck up my case. Okay? Except . . . get a pager so I can keep tabs on you. I’m serious. Get one today.”

  35

  What the hell is wrong with you?” the small woman yelled.

  She was standing at the fence in front of Safe Haven, having just screeched up in her car and stormed up to the chain-link barrier, and was yelling over it at Jordan.

  Jordan and I were sitting on the center bench on the breezeway. Besides Ralph we were the only two outside. It would be another twenty minutes or so until the kids crashed the playground.

  “Oh no,” Jordan said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Carlton’s mom,” she said. “Vanessa.”

  So short she could barely see over the fence, the tiny woman had straight black hair and a darkish complexion that made her look part Native-American.

  “How could you . . .” Vanessa was saying.

  Ralph was moving in her direction but from inside the fence.

  “You stay the hell away from me you evil son of a––”

  “Vanessa,” Jordan said as we reached her. “What’s going on? What is it? Why’re you doing this?”

  “How could you, Jordan?” she said.


  “How could I what?”

  “You’re supposed to protect children, especially the ones like Carlton.”

  “Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” Ralph was saying.

  His shaky voice betrayed his nervousness, and though it was a cool morning, his shirt was now soaked through with sweat.

  “Get this fat piece of shit away from me right now,” Vanessa said, “or I swear to God I’ll have this place shut down by nightfall.”

  “Give us a minute, Ralph,” Jordan said.

  “But––”

  “Now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, backing away. “I’ll be right over here if you––”

  “Ralph,” she said, “stop talking and go. Now.”

  He did, backing away awkwardly over to his sentry post position near the main gate.

  “I can’t believe you let that fat creepy bastard around my son.”

  “I didn’t. I mean . . . not on purpose. And all he did was see him for a second from about twenty-five feet away.”

  “Well that was enough to upset him as bad as I’ve ever seen him . . . except when . . . your . . . brother died.”

  “My brother didn’t just die. He was the victim of a violent murder.”

  “And you’ve got the man who most likely did it working for you, supposedly protecting other children. You bring him around my son. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  The conversation wasn’t pleasant, but the day was. Cool, crisp air, no humidity, orange and brown burnished leaves emblazoned on the trees, and the overall good feeling of fall.

  “Why is Carlton so afraid of Ralph?” I asked.

  “Fat bastard terrorized the hell out of them when they were little.”

  I couldn’t imagine Carlton ever being little, which was somewhat odd to think because his mom was an extremely petite woman, smaller even than Jordan.

  “How?”

  “In a thousand different ways. He bullied the bejesus out of them. Made them do things. He’s creepy as hell. Never have been able to get the full story out of Carlton, but it was bad.”

  “I had no idea,” Jordan said.

  “Are you serious? How could you not know something like that? How could you have him working here? What the hell kind of haven you running here? Sure as shit ain’t safe.”

  “Did you bully my brother?” Jordan asked Ralph.

  The moment Vanessa had turned to leave, we had walked directly over to where he stood.

  “What? No. Is that what that crazy bitch said?”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Watch it with that, Ralph,” Jordan said.

  “Sorry, but . . . it’s insane.”

  “It’s not insane,” I said. “You’re a bully.”

  “I’m not. I’ve never . . . All I did was teach them some discipline. That’s it. Neither of them had a dad around. I was the only man in their lives, the only adult to take an interest in them, in how they turned out, in what kind of men they would become.”

  “You never touched them?” I said.

  “What? No. Oh God, no. See? I told you. If she said that then she’s insane. I swear to God. I never. That’s so sick. I would never. Not ever. Not anybody.”

  He was in full panic mode––red faced, raised, tight, shrill voice, wide, wild eyes.

  “Did you kill LaMarcus?” Jordan asked.

  “Jordan,” he said, his wounded voice as saddened as shocked. “Of course not. How could you even ask. I never laid a finger on him. Never. I didn’t bully him or hurt him or Carlton in any way. Not ever. I swear to God. Strap me up to a polygraph right now. I’m tellin’ the truth. I swear it.”

  Ida sat quietly thinking for a long moment, chewing her lip as she did, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Jordan had just finished telling her what Vanessa had accused Ralph of and Ralph’s response.

  Kids and staff out on the playground under the watchful gaze of Ralph Alderman, the three of us were alone inside the large, empty main room of the daycare center.

  The room smelled of sleep and sweat, of glue and paint, of cleaning chemicals and air freshener, every surface moist and sticky.

  “Whatta you think I should do, John?” she asked. “Let him go right now? Give him a chance to respond? Try to line up a polygraph?”

  I shrugged.

  Before I could answer, she added, “I’d find it very hard to fire a man over an accusation. I mean, that’s all we have, right? He’s never given me one minute of trouble. He’s overzealous sometimes, but that’s it.”

  “It’d be nice to be able to have him here so we could watch him,” I said. “Dig a little deeper into his life while keeping an eye on him, but . . . the stakes are just too high.”

  “You think it’s possible he killed my boy?”

  I nodded. “It’s possible he had something to do with what happened to LaMarcus––even if someone else was involved too.”

  “Someone else?”

  “We think it’s at least possible that two people were involved.”

  “Well find out fast,” she said. “’Cause I can’t fire a good employee and family friend because of an accusation.”

  “I will,” I said, thinking that if I didn’t and something happened to one of the kids in their care . . .

  36

  You okay?” Frank Morgan asked.

  I was walking to my car when he pulled into the Safe Haven parking lot and rolled down his passenger side window.

  I shrugged.

  “Get in,” he said.

  I did.

  “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

  “Not sure. Last night I guess. But I’m okay.”

  “Let’s grab a burger. We’ll just run through a drive-thru. Eat in the car. I’ll bring you right back here in a few minutes.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. “But you eat. I’ll go along for the ride.”

  “How much money you got?” he asked.

  “On me? None. But . . .”

  “But,” he said, “somewhere else you have plenty?”

  “Well, not plenty, but . . .”

  “Any?”

  I nodded.

  “How much? And don’t lie to me.”

  “Gas money for the rest of the week.”

  “That much, huh? So you can get where you need to go––including work and working this case and Grady to help someone else, but you can’t eat if you do.”

  “I can eat. I’m eating.”

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said. “I’m gonna buy you one of these awful Cindy’s burgers up here and you’re gonna eat it just like it’s decent. Then I’m gonna give you this crisp fifty dollar bill in my wallet and you’re gonna eat the rest of this week––every day, hell, twice a day––and the only thing you’re going to say is what you like on your burger. Understand?”

  I had to swallow hard against the lump in my throat and blink back the tears stinging my eyes.

  The relief I felt was indescribable.

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  “Thank you Frank is not a condiment. Tell me what you want on your knockoff burger.”

  “It means more than you’ll ever know.”

  “It’s just food. It’s not love.”

  “The hell it’s not,” I said. “The hell it’s not.”

  He pulled up and we ordered. While we waited, advancing around the building one car length at a time every few minutes, he handed me the fifty out of his wallet and said, “So now that your money troubles are temporarily over, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “This case. When I’m not making rookie mistakes, I’m not gettin’ anywhere. I suck at this. And that’s not just a shame because this is what I want to do with my life, but because somebody really needs to find out who killed LaMarcus and do something about it.”

  He nodded. We finally got our food and we pulled back out onto the road.

  “Thing is,” I said, “I have too many not too fe
w suspects. I can’t exclude anyone.”

  “Often the case,” he said. “Tell you what . . . between bites of that burger, why don’t you walk me through it.”

  I did.

  “I can see it being one perp or two,” I said. “I can see it being the biological father or Pelton or Storr or Alderman or Carlton or some combination of them––one to do the killing, another the rape, but . . . I can’t exclude any of them. Hell, I can’t even completely rule out Wayne Williams. It’s driving me crazy.”

  He nodded, his expression telling me he knew exactly what I meant.

  “It’s that way far more often than you’d think,” he said. “Sometimes there’s several people who could’ve done it and you can’t pinpoint which one. Others you know exactly who did it and just can’t prove it. And far too often you can never be certain about exactly what happened or who did what. Think about Wayne Williams. I’m pretty sure he’s the Atlanta Child Murderer, but I’m not certain. You’ve looked at most of the evidence and you’re not certain one way or the other. It’s the job. Can you reconcile ambiguity? Can you live with not knowing? Move on.”

  “I don’t know that I can.”

  “You can live with far more than you think you can,” he said. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

  It was maybe the first time he’d treated me like anything other than a peer. I didn’t like it. He was probably right. I was pretty sure he was. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  We ate in silence a few moments as he drove back down Flat Shoals toward Safe Haven.

  “You know,” he said, “it’s at least possible that the doer is someone else entirely.”

  “Why I’m not gonna stop looking,” I said.

  “Never doubted that,” he said. “Not for a minute.”

  37

  I would’ve committed suicide if it weren’t for this group,” a nervous, emaciated, sunbaked young woman said. “I’m not just being melodramatic. I mean it. If I didn’t have you guys . . . if I didn’t have this work to do . . .”

  “It works if you work it,” an older man with a wet, gurgley smoker’s voice said. “You did the work. We just supported you.”

  I had come with Jordan and Ida to the support group for grieving parents held in a meeting room of the K Center at Chapel Hill.