“It wasn’t your fault.”
She nodded. “Thanks to you, I know that now.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” I asked. “Were you two pulled away to do anything for any length of time? Any emergencies? Anyone come to the door? Anything?”
She shook her head. “We never looked away for more than a few seconds at a time. And between the two of us maybe we didn’t even do that. Mom got a phone call. I spilled my drink. We each went to the bathroom at different times, but when one of us wasn’t looking––for whatever reason––the other one was. When Mom went to the bathroom I actually stopped wrapping, got up from the table, walked over to the window, and watched him from there the entire time. Even opened the window and talked to him through it.”
I thought about it.
“We knew what was going on. It was in the newspapers every day, on the TV every night. That’s the unbelievable part about it. I watched with all my might, really took it seriously, but no one watched him like Mom. No mother ever watched her son any closer than she did. No one. So whatever happened had to have happened when I was watching. Not her. It can’t be her. Has to be me. I did something. Missed something. Have forgotten something.”
“I don’t think you did,” I said.
She didn’t respond and we were quiet a while.
“Was LaMarcus’s dad involved with him? Did he ever come around?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can only remember seeing him a couple of times. Stands out because it always involved conflict. You think he––”
“Just considering all possibilities.”
“You’ll have to ask Mom about him. I can’t really remember much of anything about him.”
I nodded.
“Tell me about LaMarcus’s little fort in the bushes.”
“I didn’t even know it existed until he . . . until after he . . . I didn’t realize it at the time, but I can see now that I was too wrapped up in my own little world. There was a lot I didn’t know about LaMarcus, a lot I didn’t appreciate. I was too much of a typical self-centered teenager. Something else I’ve felt guilty for since . . . all this time.”
“Ida told me you were very good to him, like a second mom. Nothing about what she said sounded like a typical teenager.”
“You’re so . . .” she began. “Thank you. You’re . . . you always respond with kindness. It’s very rare.”
“It’s not all that rare,” I said. “I think the company you’ve been keeping has caused you to forget that.”
She nodded. “That’s probably true.”
“Can I ask you something? Can you tell me why you’re with someone like Larry?”
“I . . . I’m not sure I can answer that. I’m not sure I know fully. I know it’s not just one reason. Maybe this hasn’t happened to you, maybe it never will, but there are times . . . Sometimes in life you wind up in a position, a place, a prison cell and you honestly have no idea how you got into it and you have no idea how to get out of it.”
“Could it be . . . Is it possible . . .”
“What? ” she said. “Just say it. It’s okay. Just be honest.”
“The way he treats you . . . the bullying, the abuse, the other women . . . You’ve mentioned how guilty you feel, how you blamed yourself for LaMarcus getting taken, for . . . for not knowing where his hideout was, for being what you called self-centered . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Is it possible you’re punishing yourself?”
She started to say something but instead burst into tears.
She cried for a while.
I waited.
Eventually, she nodded. “I’ve never thought of it that way. No one’s ever . . . I’ve just always thought I deserved any bad thing that happens. He hit me when I was pregnant the first time. I lost the baby. The second time . . . nothing he did to me ended the pregnancy, but he did enough so when the baby was born she had a lot of health issues. She was sickly all of her short life and then she died and I . . . I thought . . . you let your brother get snatched by a serial killer. No way God’s gonna let you have a baby. No way. This is your fault. You did this. You deserve this. When I found out I couldn’t have kids again . . . I thought . . . you deserve that too.”
“But you didn’t,” I said. “You don’t deserve bad things. You aren’t being punished. You’re not . . . You’re punishing yourself.”
“I’ve never seen it before, but you’re . . . You wanna hear somethin’ truly twisted? Part of the reason I’ve stayed with . . . Larry . . . part of what I kept thinkin’ was . . . he lost a child too. I kept thinkin’ we’re the only two people on the planet who lost that child. We share somethin’ no one else in the world does. And I can’t really blame him when I’m the reason it happened. I’m the one being punished.”
“What was her name?” I asked.
“Savannah,” she said. “My little Savannah Grace. Thanks for asking.”
“Yon,” Martin said. “Yon.”
He was crossing the parking lot in pajamas and socks, waving his small hand.
Jordan wiped her eyes.
“I can go over there to meet him if you need––”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Thank you. You’ve helped me more in the short time I’ve known you than anyone has in six years.”
“’Ey Yon,” he said when he reached us. “’Ut ’oo ’oin’.”
“Just talking to my friend. This is Jordan Moore. Jordan, this is Martin Fisher.”
She extended her hand and they shook and spoke.
“It’s nice to meet you, Martin Fisher,” she said.
“What’re you doin’ up?” I asked.
“Where’s your mom?” Jordan asked. “Why are you up so late?”
Martin looked confused, then looked at me and told me he was hungry.
“You’re in luck,” I said. “I’ve got the best dinner rolls I’ve ever had, from the most expensive restaurant I’ve ever eaten at, right over there in my car.”
He looked almost as confused as before.
“Come on,” I said.
We walked over to my car and I offered each of them a roll.
“Half one with me,” Jordan said.
I did.
And we stood there in silence beside the car, each eating our rolls, each seeming to enjoy them equally.
“These are good,” Jordan said. “Where’d they come from?”
I laughed. “I have no idea.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“You heard from your dad?” Frank Morgan asked.
I shook my head.
“Sorry to hear that.”
I nodded.
“You plan on going home anytime soon?”
I shook my head again. “Between school and work and this . . . I can’t right now.”
The this was the LaMarcus Williams case. We were at GBI headquarters to talk to the medical examiner who had worked on the case.
“You can go in now,” the secretary said, smiling in a way that made me think she might find Frank attractive. Then again, she might just be a pleasant person.
Dr. Donald Douglas was an overweight, older grayish man with an overgrown gray mustache, large glasses, and a gray toupee that didn’t move when the skin around and beneath it did.
“Thanks for doin’ this, Don,” Frank said.
“Not a problem. Not a problem at all.”
“This is John Jordan, the young man I was tellin’ you about.”
We shook hands and all took a seat in the small, function-over-form office of hard, cold metal surfaces and wood veneer and leatherette furniture.
“This for some kind of school report or somethin’?” Douglas asked me.
Frank nodded. “It is. This young man has a bright future in law enforcement and I’m trying to encourage him, give him all the help I can get, expose him to experts such as yourself.”
I smiled and nodded, trying to disguise my surprise.
“And you wanted t
o talk about the LaMarcus Williams case?”
“Yes, sir.”
He opened a file folder on his desk and began to glance through it, his small hazel eyes blinking behind his big, thick glasses.
“All right. Very well. Fire away.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can we start with what actually killed him?”
“We can––and it wasn’t the little rope around his neck or any of the external marks on his body. We found high levels of chloral hydrate in his system.”
“Of what?”
“Chloral hydrate. It’s an organic compound, a colorless solid soluble in water. It’s a sedative and hypnotic that’s been used as a sleep-aid for people suffering from insomnia, but it’s now mainly used as an adjunct to anesthesia to help sedate people, especially children, undergoing medical and dental procedures.”
So that's how he was put to sleep.
“I’m not sure how much detail you want me to go into, but . . . it’s derived from chloral by the addition of one equivalent of water and was discovered through the chlorination of ethanol by Justus von Liebig in 1832. Its sedative properties weren’t published until 1869. Soon its use was widespread––even recreationally.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“You’ve heard of a Mickey, right? A Mickey Finn. It’s a solution of chloral hydrate in alcohol. They call ’em knockout drops. It’s potent stuff. Truth is, we don’t even completely understand how it works. It’s believed that a chemical produced by chloral hydrate called trichloroethanol causes a mild depressive effect on the brain. But like I said, we don’t know. It’s been used in date rape and both accidental and intentional death.”
Since I was supposed to be a student working on a school project, I wished I had a composition book to take notes in.
“You remember Jonestown? Their Kool-Aid had chloral hydrate in it. It was in Marilyn Monroe’s system at her death. It was given to Mary Todd Lincoln for her sleep problems. Nietzsche used it for years. Some say it contributed to his nervous breakdown and insanity.”
Hearing the name Marilyn Monroe brought a deep, dull ache I had to the surface and transformed it into a sharp pain, making me realize just how much I missed Merrill. And not just Merrill, but his mom. And not just them but home and family and friends and familiarity and, of course and always, Anna.
“So LaMarcus was given an overdose of chloral hydrate and . . .”
He nodded. “It put him to sleep and he never woke up.”
I wondered if the killer meant to use chloral hydrate to knock LaMarcus out so he could transport him easily, and accidentally gave him too much, unintentionally killing him or killing him sooner than he planned.
“It wouldn’t take much,” Douglas was saying. “Kid that small.”
“So it could’ve been an accidental overdose?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I guess, but––”
Frank Morgan said, “Why give it to him if not to kill him?”
“To sedate and calm him,” I said. “As part of the abduction.”
He nodded, appearing to think about it.
I looked back at Douglas. “Was chloral hydrate found in any of the victims of the Atlanta Child Murders?”
“I . . . I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think so, but I’m just not sure. I didn’t work those.”
“I’ll double check,” Frank said, “but I don’t think so either.”
“Does use of chloral hydrate indicate someone with some kind of medical background?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “No, not necessarily. It could, but just as likely not. It wouldn’t be required.”
“Where would the killer have gotten it?”
“Lots of possibilities, but most likely in a hospital or pharmacy.”
“Which would point to a medical professional or someone with access to those places, right?”
“Maybe, but it could’ve just as easily have been someone with a prescription or someone who stole it from someone with a prescription.”
“What kind of prescription? What would it have been prescribed for?”
“Maybe anxiety or nervousness. God knows there was enough of that going around at the time. But more than likely a sleep aid for the treatment of insomnia.”
“Was he raped?” I asked.
Douglas looked at Frank. Frank nodded.
“There was trauma consistent with aggressive, violent penetration,” Douglas said to me, “but the evidence indicates the assailant wore a condom. There were traces of latex and liquid lubricant but no seminal fluid was recovered in, on, or around the body. And . . . based on the fact that the skin was abraded but not bruised––there was no bruising––what was done . . . to the victim . . . occurred after death.”
“A school project?” I asked.
Frank and I were standing outside GBI headquarters near his car, a boxy blue sedan that screamed cop––particularly when he was in it.
He smiled. “You’re young and unofficial. And you look even younger than you are. He probably thought it was a junior high school project.”
“So what’d you think about what he said?” I asked.
“Interesting. What you said about the killer intending to use the drug to incapacitate him for transport makes sense. Especially snatching him from his backyard.”
“You’ll check to see if any of the victims on the list––or off of it––were given chloral hydrate?”
He nodded.
“Were any of them raped after they were killed?”
He shook his head. “No. But I’ll double check––especially those not on the list. You think it’s still possible Wayne Williams killed LaMarcus?”
I shrugged. “If there’s evidence of chloral hydrate being used or post-mortem rape among other victims, we’ll have to consider the possibility that the Atlanta Child Murderer killed LaMarcus––whether it’s Williams or someone else.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“This your first home-cooked meal since you been in Atlanta?” Ida asked.
“Why?” I said. “Am I eating it like it is?”
She and Jordan laughed.
The three of us were around the dinner table at Ida’s. Before us, country-fried steak in white pepper gravy, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, and cornbread.
I was extremely hungry. It was extremely good. Evidently, I was eating energetically.
“Sorry, but it’s so good my manners just flew right out the door.”
“I like to see a hungry man eat,” Ida said.
“And you haven’t lost your manners,” Jordan said. “You’re just . . . sort of attacking the food.”
“To answer your question, the Paulks have fed me several times.”
Jordan’s eyebrows arched above wide, questioning eyes and a cute, twisted mouth. “Oh have they? Any Paulk in particular?”
Ignoring her, I said to Ida, “Clariece is a very good cook too.”
“Don’t see how she do all she do,” Ida said.
“Me either.”
“Who?” Jordan said.
“Girl, what you goin’ on about?” Ida asked.
Jordan smiled and winked at me.
I smiled back and mouthed, It was just one casual date.
Ida’s small home was simple and unassuming, clean and uncluttered, warm and welcoming. Its walls and surfaces were filled with photographs of LaMarcus and what were obviously gifts from the children she had cared for over the years––Precious Moments porcelain figurines and other child-centered mementos. Joining them were LaMarcus’s framed school certificates, field day ribbons, report cards, and art projects. Mixed in among them were pictures of Jordan, including a heartbreaking mother and child portrait of her holding the tiny Savannah Grace in her own small hands, but none of Larry––not even in those from her wedding day.
Underneath it all, there was an essential sadness, not unlike the one beneath everything else the two women were. It was as if both family and home were host to a foreign en
tity so deeply embedded it was now part of the structural DNA.
“You should’ve brought Martin,” Jordan said. “Mom, John has the most adorable neighbor. He’s––how old is he?”
“Twelve.”
“He’s twelve and they play basketball together and John feeds him and he just adores John.”
“I’d say he not the only one,” Ida said.
“Tell Mom what he said.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“It’s the sweetest thing ever.”
“You’re embarrassin’ him, child.”
Jordan seemed more relaxed, less nervous, more happy, less hopeless than I had seen her before. Though in general she seemed to be improving in nearly every way over the past several weeks.
Larry was at work. He knew Jordan was having dinner with her mom. As far as I knew, he didn’t know I was joining them.
Looking away from them a moment, I glanced around the room again, this time spotting something in the far corner I hadn’t noticed before. Partially wrapped Christmas presents. I knew instantly they were what these two ladies were working on when LaMarcus went missing. A Star Wars lunchbox and Star Trek Communicators were visible, which meant beneath the bows and wrapping paper the other packages must have held a Guess Who game, a GI Joe, a Rubik’s Cube, a train set, and records. Some of the very gifts I was given when I was his age.
“Some of the guys in the dorm are very religious in an old-school way,” Jordan said. “And they were talkin’ to Martin––that’s his name, Martin Fisher––about Jesus, tellin’ him about how much good Jesus did, how he fed the hungry and helped people and taught love. And they asked him if he knew Jesus and he said yes––John. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Ida reached over and patted my hand.
“He’s so small, and kind of frail and vulnerable,” Jordan was saying. “Reminds me of LaMarcus in so many ways.”
Ida nodded but seemed unable to speak, her eyes misting, her lips twitching. Eventually, she said, “I’m glad he’s got you, John. I’d love for you to bring him to dinner sometime.”
No one said anything else for a few moments and we each found our way back to our food, eating for a while in silence.
INNOCENT BLOOD: a John Jordan Mystery Book 7 (John Jordan Mysteries) Page 10