Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “You know a lot about your case,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve studied a lot of others like it, probably know far more than most about these kinds of things.”

  “Unfortunately, I guess I do.”

  “If there were a series of similar murders—young boys like so many of the victims in the missing and murdered children case—but no bodies were ever found, why do you think that would be?”

  “How many we talking?”

  “Not sure. Say six or more.”

  “Well, now, no body no murder,” he said. “No evidence. Missing kids cases don’t get much attention, but a murdered kid . . .”

  I nodded. “But how could the killer keep the bodies from being discovered?”

  “Think about the clown killer from Chicago,” he said. “Gacy. Hid the bodies right in his house. Serves another purpose too. Keeps them close. Don’t have to give them up when you’re . . .”

  I thought about it.

  “Or he could just be buryin’ them in a place no one has looked yet,” he said. “Woods. Foundation at a construction site. Graveyard. Crematorium. What if there’s nothing left of them because he used acid or something like that?”

  “Can you explain why you failed a polygraph?” I said.

  Actually, he had failed three.

  “Well, now, yes, I think . . . I believe I can. Some people . . . those tests aren’t a certain science, not one hundred percent accurate. Some people can pass ’em and others fail ’em no matter what. Just one of those things.”

  Just one of those things.

  “What about Cheryl Johnson?” I asked.

  She was the woman he claimed he was supposed to meet the morning after his arrest. Said he was out looking for her address the night he was stopped on the bridge. All this time and she had never come forward. One of the biggest, most high profile cases in history and she didn’t hear about it, didn’t know everyone was looking for her? None of her friends or family members stepped forward and even asked if it could be her?

  He gave me a half frown with a small smile peeking out behind it. “I have no answer for that. She probably just didn’t want to get involved. Maybe it was a prank from the beginning. Maybe somebody was trying to set me up—and it worked.”

  There were so many things I wanted to ask him and we were running out of time.

  What do I ask? What can I say to get him to reveal something new, something that would help with the case? Think. Come on. You don’t have long.

  “There were reports that you and your dad burned all kinds of items—documents, pictures, clothing, things like that—after you became a suspect. What did you burn and why?”

  “It was just trash,” he said. “Nothing more. Nothing sinister. I can see how it would look, but at the time . . . I just didn’t think about it.”

  You’re lying.

  “How do you explain all the trace evidence connecting you to so many of the victims?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Look, I was set up. I don’t know by who or what all they did, but they did enough to make it happen, right? Fake a phone call from somebody claiming to be Cheryl Johnson. Manufacture evidence. Hide evidence of other suspects. Hide evidence that contradicts the story they’re weaving. I don’t know. I just know Wayne Williams is innocent and no eyewitness says otherwise.”

  35

  Well?” Frank asked.

  He had waited until we were back in his car, a GBI-issued boxy navy-blue Ford LTD, to say anything.

  It was raining when we walked out of Georgia State Prison near Reidsville, a cold, hard rain that turned the late afternoon gunmetal gray and pelted us as we ran toward the vehicle.

  The same hard rain was now pelting the car as we drove up I-16 toward Macon.

  I shrugged.

  “Not ready to talk about it?” he said.

  “I’m not sure what I think,” I said. “Or feel. It was very interesting—and I got to do what I wanted to do. I looked into his eyes.”

  “Did you see his soul?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t have one,” he said.

  Though on high, the wipers couldn’t keep up with the water sluicing down the windshield, but traffic was light and Frank drove like he was ready to be home.

  “I just feel like I . . . like it was a missed opportunity,” I said.

  He let out a little burst of laughter.

  “’Cause you didn’t get him to confess?” he said.

  I smiled. “Yeah maybe. I don’t know. I just . . .”

  “It’s all about expectation,” he said. “You went in there thinkin’ you were actually goin’ to get him to confess or prove to you his innocence.”

  “I’m not so sure it was like that, but I did want to gain something, learn something new, something to justify the time and effort you put into making it happen.”

  “You probably got far more out of it than you know,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if things he said didn’t keep coming to you for a while. I get you––”

  His pager vibrated at the same time dispatch called for him on his radio.

  He radioed in and was informed that a last known address had been located for Daryl Lee Gibbons. It was on Old Conyers Road near Stockbridge. Daryl Lee and his mother were believed to be renting a basement apartment from an elderly couple.

  “I’ll try to swing by and pay a visit to ol’ Daryl Lee tomorrow,” he said.

  “Or,” I said, “we could swing by tonight. We’ll be coming in on 75. It’d only be ten minutes or so out of our way.”

  “Do you know what you see when you look up the word relentless in the dictionary?” he said.

  “A picture of me?”

  “No, the definition of relentless. And do you know what it says after that?”

  “No, what?”

  “See also John Jordan.”

  “Is that a no?” I asked.

  “No, it’s not a no.”

  The house was a split-level ranch–style built on a hill—one story showing in the front, two in the back. It was made of beige brick and had a swimming pool behind it.

  Though it was around eight in the evening when we arrived, the house was completely dark and there were no signs anyone was home.

  The sweep of Frank’s headlights as we pulled in to the circular drive showed a once nice home now in disrepair, a yard in need of maintenance, and a car with two flat tires that looked abandoned.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Frank said.

  “Or that anyone lives here any longer,” I said.

  “It was just a last known,” he said. “They could’ve moved on long ago. But we’re here, so let’s knock on the door.”

  We did.

  Then we banged.

  Eventually we heard movement inside.

  And a while after that, an obese middle-aged woman with very bad teeth appeared in the darkness through the partially opened door.

  Frank flashed his badge.

  “Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “You are?”

  “Mrs. Tilda Gibbons.”

  “We need to speak to your son, Mrs. Gibbons.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “Then we’ll speak to you,” he said. “Turn on some lights and let us in.”

  “Lights been shut off,” she said. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Frank pulled out a small flashlight that looked like a thick writing pen and shone it in the woman’s face.

  “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Ward?”

  “Who?”

  “The owners of this home?”

  “Oh, them. They moved to Florida.”

  While she was still speaking, he pushed on the door and stepped inside.

  I followed.

  She stumbled backward, gasping and grunting as she did.

  In the small spill of Frank’s tiny light, I could see a once elegant, if outdated home, filled with filth and crammed with clutter.

  We hadn’t made it very far in
to the foyer when the odor hit us—a complex, layered reek of rotting food, competing fruity air-freshener flavors, dust and decay, body odor, and the unmistakable sickly sweet stench of death.

  Frank drew his weapon.

  36

  Why does it smell like someone died in here?” Frank asked.

  “Our old cat,” she said. “Crawled up in some small space and died. We can’t find it. That’s all. Come back tomorrow when there’s light. Daryl Lee be home by then.”

  “Come in here and have a seat,” he said, motioning her toward the den with his light.

  We followed her through the foyer and stepped down into a shag-carpeted den with a fireplace, an enormous old dark wooden cabinet console television, and custom bookshelves that filled an entire wall.

  “Sit,” Frank said.

  “I ain’t no dog,” Tilda Gibbons said, but plopped down onto the green vinyl sofa along the wall across from the fireplace, nearly eclipsing it as she did.

  “John, I need you to go to the car and radio for backup,” he said. “Explain the situation as best you can. Have them call Clayton County Sheriffs in. Oh, and tell them we need lights.”

  He shone his light at me and tossed me the keys, but I was unable to see them because of the light and they bounced off the side of my arm and fell to the floor. He shone the light on the floor until he found them, then I grabbed them and rushed out to make the transmission.

  I was gone for maybe five minutes.

  When I got back in, Frank was standing in the doorway between the den and kitchen, alternating between keeping an eye on Tilda Gibbons and sweeping the kitchen with his light.

  “They’re on the way,” I said. “Should only be a few minutes.”

  “I should’ve had you grab my flashlight out of the trunk,” he said.

  “Want me to go—”

  From somewhere in the house, we heard a child yell and begin to cry.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Frank asked.

  I strained to hear.

  Suddenly Tilda Gibbons erupted from the couch and screamed, “Daryl Lee, cops are here!”

  She then began moving toward the hallway on the opposite end of the room from where we stood, which led to what looked to be about four closed doors.

  We both began to run after her, but Frank held out his arm and said, “Stay behind me.”

  I did.

  At the end of the hallway was a large window.

  Tilda Gibbons never slowed.

  Running as fast as her size would allow, she dove through the window, splintering the wood frame and shattering the panes of glass.

  When we reached it and looked down, the wind blowing the bullet-like raindrops through the open hole in the house, we could see that she had fallen two stories down to a second driveway leading to a two-car garage below.

  The fall had not killed her.

  She lay there moaning, splayed out, unable to move, the halo of blood around her head turning pink in the thumping rain.

  “Listen,” Frank said. “We’ve got to find that kid.”

  We followed the sounds back down the hallway.

  “Let’s just try all the doors,” he said.

  I grabbed the knob of the door closest to me, turned it, and pushed. It was unlocked and gave a little, but something on the floor kept it from opening all the way. I shoved harder, and it gave a little more. Using my foot at the bottom, I pushed again.

  Death was on the other side of the door. I could smell it.

  “This one’s clear,” Frank said.

  “Need your light,” I said. “Got a bad one.”

  I had the door open enough to squeeze inside, and could see that a towel at the bottom was what had been impeding my progress. It was obviously there to block the smell from coming out beneath the door.

  Easing in, I stood there a moment and waited for Frank to arrive with the light. He handed it to me and I scanned the room.

  Beneath a ceiling fan, each blade of which was covered with hanging car deodorizers, an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ward was my guess, were dead in their bed, their bodies in an advanced state of decay.

  Coughing and gagging and suppressing the vomit at the back of my throat, I shoved my way back through the door and closed it behind me.

  When I was sure I wasn’t going to throw up, I told Frank what I had seen.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Two more doors.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and reached for the next door.

  It was locked.

  Taking a couple of steps back toward the center of the hallway, I lowered my shoulder and jumped into the door.

  It gave and I tumbled inside. The faint light from a distant streetlamp streamed in through the small window and illuminated the tiny room.

  It was a bathroom.

  There in a sunken tub, a small, naked, thin white boy of about five lay on a blanket soiled with his own urine, feces, and blood.

  37

  He was no longer crying, but he was alive.

  “Frank,” I yelled.

  Reaching down, I lifted the child. I had the urge to cover his nakedness with the blanket, but it was far too foul.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  Frank appeared at the door.

  “Oh dear God,” he said.

  I blinked back tears as a memory mosaic of Martin Fisher formed in my mind. I had been too late to help him, but not this little fella.

  Of course, that was only partially true. In a very real sense we were too late. Way too late.

  “Find him,” I said. “Find him and put him down. Or give me your gun and let me do it.”

  A sound came from the kitchen and Frank turned toward it.

  “Take the boy outside and wait for the Clayton County Sheriffs to arrive,” he said. He then ran down the hallway, chasing the small beam of his light through the den and into the kitchen.

  As soon as he entered the kitchen there were two quick flashes of light, two loud explosions. Shotgun bursts. Followed by Frank falling to the floor.

  I tried to set the child down on the couch, but he would not let go.

  Clinging to him, I ran over to the kitchen and peaked in, using the cabinets near the door for cover.

  Frank was on the floor, blood blooming out around him, his .45 still in his hand.

  Crouching down, I leaned in just beyond the bottom cabinet and looked around.

  There was no sign of Daryl Lee Gibbons. There was an open door on the other end leading into darkness.

  With the boy still clinging to me, I leaned in, grabbed Frank’s ankle, and began pulling him toward the den.

  I could hear Daryl Lee Gibbons running down the stairs to the basement, so I moved in to get a better grip on Frank, grabbing his gun and checking for signs of life as I did.

  Then footfalls. Running. Fast. Toward us.

  Standing, turning, bringing up the gun, I could see Creepy Daryl Lee Gibbons running toward us, his shoulders lowered like he was going to tackle us.

  I squeezed off a round of Frank’s .45.

  The boy screamed.

  Then we were hit. Hard. At the legs.

  Up. Airborne. Flying. Floating.

  Clinging to the kid.

  Banging into the window, breaking boards and glass, flying through the cold, wet, air, raindrops hitting us like scattershot.

  Falling, flailing, trying to find purchase on anything.

  Nothing.

  Crab-crawling through the night air.

  Two stories down.

  Then hard, wet hit.

  Sinking.

  I had landed on my back on the pool cover.

  Cold rain. Colder pool water.

  Breath knocked out of me. Sucking air that wasn’t there.

  Cover collapsing onto us, sinking into the freezing dark wetness, still holding on to the small child who was no longer holding on back.

  Corner of my eye, cement pad around the pool, very edge, Creepy Daryl Lee
Gibbons facedown, unmoving, rain falling crimson around him.

  I tried to stand, to swim, to do anything but sink, but sink was all I could do. I was wrapped in the mesh pool cover, unable to move in any meaningful way, unable to do anything but lift the child, try to hold him above the water for as long as I could.

  So cold. So dark. So deep.

  Sinking.

  Submerged.

  Engulfed.

  Then . . . miraculously . . . rising.

  Up out of the water.

  Turning my head, I could see two Clayton County sheriff’s deputies, one on each side of the pool, lifting the cover and us with it, out of the water and up into the night rain.

  38

  The boy, whose name was Bradley, had been abducted from the Kroger grocery market in Stockbridge a few days before.

  His mom had an altercation with a fat woman matching Tilda Gibbon’s description, and when she turned back around, Bradley was gone.

  He was going to be okay—in one way. In many others he was not, and would not ever be.

  He was taken to Henry General Hospital. His mom had been waiting for him there, and there was no doctor, nurse, or authority on heaven or earth that could make her leave his side—even if she had to scrub in for any procedures he needed.

  There were two other children missing in the area, and crime scene techs were taking apart the house on Old Conyers right now, hoping they had been taken by family members instead of Creepy Gibbons and his pederast-enabling mother.

  I was interviewed by a detective with the Clayton County Sheriff’s Department and an agent with GBI, going over every detail of every second since we left Georgia State Prison earlier in the afternoon.

  I had been allowed to dry off and change into some extra sweats they had, and though I had a blanket draped around me and the heat was on in the interview room, I still shivered.

  After about two hours, Tommy Daughtry, the sheriff, walked in.

  He was a tall, thick man with a bit of a belly. He wore cowboy boots and a hat, and talked with one of the thicker Southern accents I had heard in a while.