“Don’t want any more than my fair share.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Of course, sir.”
“Chaplain Jordan, how are you?” he said.
He said chaplain the way he always said it––with a hint of ironic derision. He had told me on more than one occasion that my belief in grace and the absolute unconditional love of God was misguided and dangerous, and that what he called my cheap grace, social gospel, works theology was leading weak and vulnerable people astray, away from instead of unto God.
“Good,” I said. “How are you?”
“Blessed,” he said. “You read any of the books I recommended to you yet?”
I shook my head.
I’d read books like them before, both in my youth and in seminary, and had no desire to ever read any like them again. They were all judgement-filled Fundamentalist rhetoric that took a literalist, exclusive approach to sacred texts and religion and were antithetical to everything Jesus taught, lived, and died for.
Dressed far more formally than anyone else in attendance, he wore a gray suit, white shirt, and black wingtips. His only concession to the casualness of the setting and event was to unbutton his top button and loosen his tie ever so slightly. His idea of letting loose.
One of his lapels held an American flag pin, the other a white button with the silhouettes of a man and a woman, an equals sign, and the word marriage.
“Well, if you boys’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take these shrimp to go,” he said. “Have a lot of people to see and a speech to prepare for and pray about.”
Each of the four candidates would have five minutes to address the crowd tonight after the pledge and prayer and before the meal.
“You think Dad is praying about his speech?” Jake asked when he was sure Cox was far enough away not to hear.
I smiled.
“He asked me to do it,” I said. “Have you?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“The hell you waitin’ on?”
Blood Money Chapter 3
The speeches were what you’d expect.
They took place on a makeshift stage consisting of a flatbed trailer that had been towed here for just that purpose. In addition to the speakers, the yellow lowboy trailer held the American and Florida flags, a Republican Party of Potter County banner, a mic on a stand, and a PA speaker on each end.
Each candidate was truly honored to serve God and the best county in the best state in the best country in the world. Their doors were always open. Small government.
Answerable to the people. Washington was bad, bad, bad. Local was where it was at. Honesty. Integrity. Humility.
In the sea of white faces, I saw two black ones. One belonged to the county commissioner from the “black” district, the other, an activist minister and the pastor of the largest African-American church in Potter County.
Dad didn’t do a bad job, but public speaking wasn’t where he excelled.
After each candidate spoke and the host and the organizer and the head of the party recognized and thanked everyone several times and took the opportunity to promote themselves and their projects and agendas, dinner was served at a little after five.
Large, tender, juicy steaks, baked potatoes, a salad, and a roll.
The rest of the evening consisted of excessive eating, drinking, and talking––and me regretting not having driven myself.
The night wore on.
Eventually a few of the overly full, inebriated men began to stumble to their trucks and take their leave, most of them far too under the influence to drive but driving anyway.
I missed Anna. Ached for her.
But there were still voters present and Dad showed no sign of stopping until he had spoken to everyone individually.
As I scanned the still not insubstantial crowd for someone to talk to, I saw only one face that looked even more miserable than I felt.
Richard Cox, Jr. was sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the event tent alone, nursing what looked to be a Tom Collins.
I found him staring blankly into the bottom of his glass.
“Richie, if you’re contemplating suicide just remember they’ll run out of food and booze eventually,” I said as I walked up to stand across the table from him.
“John, I didn’t know you were here. How are you?”
“Been better,” I said, indicating the event.
“I’m being punished for my sins,” he said. I smiled.
“I’m truly shocked he even wants me here.”
Though not out, there was no doubt about Richie’s sexual orientation––something that must keep his homophobic dad up nights.
He was a talented actor and theater director, frustrated by the few opportunities the Panhandle offered him.
“Pretty sure the demographic I appeal to isn’t here,” he added. “Though I did see one or two public servants I’ve serviced before.”
“If my dad’s one of ’em don’t tell me,” I said. “Honey, you can smell the straight on him.”
“Actually, it’s Old Spice,” I said, “but I can see why you’d confuse the two.” He laughed.
“Your dad’s all right,” he said. “Mine’s the prick.”
I started to say something but Richard Cox, Sr. called to him from across the way.
“Richie, come over here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Duty calls,” he said, rising wearily and a bit unsteadily. “By the way, when you gonna let me write and direct a play about your life?”
He had asked before and like before I just laughed it off.
Walking beside him for several steps to make sure he was okay, I broke off and wandered down in the direction of the lake, passing the barn, leaving the pandering and promise-making behind.
The moon was just a small silver sliver in a cloud-tinged sky, but was enough to shimmer on the glass surface of the lake.
The air was damp and cool and the dew on the ground caused sand and small blades of grass to cling to my shoes as I followed the slope down to the water’s edge.
As I neared the closest bank, I became aware of a figure leaning against a pond pine, the red glow of a cigarette tip blazing in the dark.
“Showin’ any sign of stopping?” she asked.
“The shindig?” I said, nodding. “Food and booze are nearly all gone. Won’t be long now. You waiting for someone?”
“Sort of,” she said. “Waiting for this farce to end so the real party can begin. You stayin’ for it?”
It was dark. Her disembodied voice all there was of her save for red lips, pale skin, and blond hair seen intermittently in the red glow accompanying big, long drags.
“It?”
“The after-party. You’re cute. You should stay.
There’s poker, real liquor, cigars, and me.”
“You’re . . .”
“The entertainment,” she said. “Won’t be the only one. There’ll be others if I’m not your type.”
“Only have one type,” I said. “And she’s waiting at home for me.”
“Ah, that’s so sweet. Is it true?”
“As true as anything you’ll ever hear.”
“Well, damnation honey, a simple yes would’ve sufficed.”
I smiled, but shook my head. “No. It really wouldn’t’ve.”
“Gotcha handsome,” she said. “You’re a one-woman man and you don’t care who knows it. Not many of those left these days. And I’m in a position to know.”
“Hey John,” Richie yelled. “You down there?”
He was standing near the barn, backlit by the bank of halogen lights.
“Yeah.”
“I talked my sister into comin’ to pick me up. You wanna ride?”
“There’s your big chance to get home to your one-and-only type,” she said. “You gonna take it?”
“Thanks,” I yelled back to Richie. “I’ll be right there.”
“There’s a shocker,” she said.
�
�Can we give you a lift somewhere?” I asked. “Have you been listening, sugar?”
“I have,” I said, “which is why I’m offering you a ride out of here.”
“Whatta you know,” she said, “an honest to God good Joe. Thanks, but I got work to do.”
I took out one of my cards and handed it to her. “You change your mind,” I said, “just give me a call.
I’ll come back out and get you.”
She shined the light from her cellphone onto the card.
In the spill and reflection from the light, I could see that she was a shortish, thickish, heavily made-up blonde with large breasts dressed and like a TV prostitute.
“Prison chaplain?” she said. “No shit?”
“None.”
“Okay, Chap,” she said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
Start BLOOD CRIES NOW
BLOOD CRIES is the direct sequel to INNOCENT BLOOD.
And you can start it right now by turning the page!
Also by Michael Lister
Join Michael’s Readers’ Group and receive 4 FREE Books!
Books by Michael Lister
Sign up for Michael’s newsletter by clicking here or go to
www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.
(John Jordan Novels)
Power in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
(Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)
The Body and the Blood
Double Exposure
Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood
Burnt Offerings
Innocent Blood
(Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Money
Blood Moon
Thunder Beach
Blood Cries
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Work
Cold Blood
Blood Betrayal
Blood Shot
Blood Ties
Blood Stone
Blood Trail
(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)
The Big Goodbye
The Big Beyond
The Big Hello
The Big Bout
The Big Blast
In a Spider’s Web (short story)
The Big Book of Noir
(Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)
Thunder Beach
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Shot
(Remington James Novels)
Double Exposure
(includes intro by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Shot
(Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)
Burnt Offerings
Blood Oath
Cold Blood
Blood Shot
(Love Stories)
Carrie’s Gift
(Short Story Collections)
North Florida Noir
Florida Heat Wave
Delta Blues
Another Quiet Night in Desperation
(The Meaning Series)
Meaning Every Moment
The Meaning of Life in Movies
BLOOD WORK
Copyright © 2016 Michael Lister.
Written by Michael Lister.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Books by Michael Lister
Sign up for Michael’s newsletter by clicking here or go to
www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.
(John Jordan Novels)
Power in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
(Special Introduction by Margaret Coel)
The Body and the Blood
Double Exposure
Blood Sacrifice
Rivers to Blood
Burnt Offerings
Innocent Blood
(Special Introduction by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Money
Blood Moon
Thunder Beach
Blood Cries
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Work
Cold Blood
Blood Betrayal
Blood Shot
Blood Ties
Blood Stone
Blood Trail
(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)
The Big Goodbye
The Big Beyond
The Big Hello
The Big Bout
The Big Blast
In a Spider’s Web (short story)
The Big Book of Noir
(Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)
Thunder Beach
A Certain Retribution
Blood Oath
Blood Shot
(Remington James Novels)
Double Exposure
(includes intro by Michael Connelly)
Separation Anxiety
Blood Shot
(Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)
Burnt Offerings
Blood Oath
Cold Blood
Blood Shot
(Love Stories)
Carrie’s Gift
(Short Story Collections)
North Florida Noir
Florida Heat Wave
Delta Blues
Another Quiet Night in Desperation
(The Meaning Series)
Meaning Every Moment
The Meaning of Life in Movies
Sign up for Michael’s newsletter by clicking here or go to
www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.
51
Before being arrested, tried, convicted, and ultimately executed by the state of Florida, Ted Bundy, perhaps the most notorious serial killer in American history, cut a bloody swath across my part of the Panhandle.
It began at dawn on Sunday, January 8, 1978, when Theodore Robert Bundy arrived at the Trailways bus station in Tallahassee and began to blend in among the tens of thousands of college students returning for the spring semester.
After only a week in Florida’s capitol city, in the early morning hours of January 15th, shrouded by dark of night, Ted Bundy entered the Chi Omega sorority house at Florida State University through a rear door with a faulty lock.
In less than fifteen minutes, and within earshot of some thirty potential witnesses, he viciously assaulted four young coeds.
Sometime around two forty-five in the morning, he bludgeoned Margaret Bowman with a piece of oak firewood while she slept, after which he garroted her with a pair of nylon stockings.
Moments later, he stole into Lisa Levy’s bedroom and beat her unconscious, strangled her, tore one of her nipples nearly off, bit her so deeply in her left buttocks that it left his bite mark impression, and sexually assaulted her with a hairspray bottle.
A few moments after that, he entered the adjoining bedroom occupied by Kathy Kleiner and broke her jaw and deeply lacerated her shoulder.
A short while later, he snuck into Karen Chandler’s room and brutally assaulted her, knocking her teeth out, breaking her jaw, crushing her finger, and leaving her with a concussion.
In less time than it takes water to boil, Ted Bundy savagely attacked four young women inside the Chi Omega sorority house, murdering two of them, but he wasn’t finished yet.
Eight blocks away, Bundy broke into a basement apartment and attacked another FSU student, Cheryl Thomas, dislocating her shoulder and fracturing her jaw and skull in five places, leaving her with permanent deafness and an equilibrium complication that ended her dance career.
On February 8th, Bundy stole an FSU van and drove east on I-10 to Jacksonville, where he unsuccessfully attempted to get fourteen-year-old Leslie Ann Parmenter into the van with him.
On February 9th, in Lake City on his way back to Tallahassee, Bundy abducted
twelve-year-old Kimberly Diane Leach from Lake City Junior High School.
On February 12th, Bundy stole yet another car and left Tallahassee, heading west on I-10 across our part of the Panhandle for Pensacola.
On February 15th at one in the morning, Bundy was pulled over by Pensacola police officer David Lee after the Volkswagen Beetle he was driving came back stolen in a wants and warrants check.
This is what we know of what Ted Bundy did, but what about what we don’t know?
Before his execution in Florida’s electric chair in 1989, Bundy confessed to killing some thirty women in seven states, but in a recently released memoir, Bundy’s former attorney, John Henry Browne, revealed Bundy confided in him that it was more than three times that.
Did Ted Bundy kill over one hundred women?
If so, when? And where? And who?
What did he do, who did he attack and kill between arriving in Tallahassee on January 8th and the slaughter at Chi Omega on January 15th?
Who did he murder and rape between his attack of Cheryl Thomas on January 15th and his abduction of Kimberly Diane Leach on February 9th?
Who did he brutalize and butcher between leaving Tallahassee on February 12th and his arrest near Pensacola on February 15th?
Could Ted Bundy be responsible for the disappearance of Janet Leigh Lester near Marianna in the early morning hours of February 12th following her Valentine’s Day Sweethearts’ Ball, as he made his way west on I-10?
Could he be the monster responsible for the open, unsolved case that devastated an entire town, utterly shattered two families, and still haunts Jack Jordan, my dad and the man who many believe let the killer get away?
True Crime Fiction Page 23