Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “Let me know when you need my help to get the bad guys,” Ralphie says. “I’ll be ready, Sheriff Jack.”

  “Will do, Ralphie,” Dad says. “Will do.”

  “Mama’ll be right back here on the porch if you need me, baby,” she says.

  “I’m gonna go put on my supercool special crime-fighting uniform,” Ralphie says.

  “Okay. Come show it to us when you come back, okay?”

  “Roger that,” he says, and hurriedly hobbles out of the room and toward the back of the house.

  Verna leads us through a set of French doors and out into a glassed-in Florida room where we sit on white wicker furniture with thick cushions.

  “You okay, Jack?” she says, patting Dad’s arm affectionately.

  He nods.

  The color has drained from his face and his breathing is labored.

  “You sure?” I say.

  “Yeah. Just need to catch my breath.”

  “Let me get you a glass of water,” Verna says, pushing herself up and leaving the room.

  “You really okay?” I ask.

  He nods. “Just winded. It’s hard for me to be back in this house. And I feel so bad for not staying in touch, especially with Ralphie. I . . . just . . . out of my own discomfort I stayed away.”

  Verna returns with a glass of water.

  Beneath her life-long grief, there is an attractive, stately older woman. In glimpses, I can see the poised, even regal woman she would be if not for the shroud of sadness, the loss of faith and hope and joy.

  Handing the glass to Dad, she rubs his shoulder, then touches his forehead with the back of her hand. “I think you may have a little bit of a fever,” she says.

  I wonder if her comfort and intimacy is merely maternal and she would treat anyone the same way, or is the result of the time they spent together back when Dad was working the case. Her concern, her attentiveness are clearly expressions of appreciation and affection.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “Stop making a fuss. Thank you for the water. Now sit down and relax.

  She does, but not before slapping him on the shoulder. “Jack . . .” The slap and the use of his name express equal parts frustration and fondness.

  How many hours had they spent together, grieving mother and the lawman here to find her daughter’s killer and avenge her death?

  When Verna sits down, the little lilt and light from when she had been interacting with Ralphie and Dad are gone and the dead-eyed, sallow-faced, too-soon old woman who had first opened the door to us is back.

  A crime, particularly murder, always leaves far more victims than is at first apparent.

  Verna is as much a victim as Janet was—maybe even more so.

  In some ways, some more obvious than others, everyone involved, both families—Janet’s and Ben’s—Dad, this entire small town, is in some sense a victim of this violent crime and will never fully recover. But no one more than Verna.

  We’ll never know exactly what happened to Janet. We won’t know what her last hours, minutes, moments were like, not fully. And we don’t know what happened, if anything, once her life here ended. We don’t know what happens to those who are taken, but for those left behind, we do know. We witness the sort of half life they are left with, shadowed by grief and loss, dogged by death, both in the monotony of daily existence and the excruciating pain of memories and those moments where the absence of the dead is particularly acute, is a fate, if not far worse than death, a death all its own.

  Janet died once. Verna has died a million times.

  Would she still even be here if she hadn’t had Ralphie to care for, to take care of?

  Ralphie appears at the door in a too-small Zorro costume—complete with pressed-on mustache, ornate sword, and black mask.

  “Zorro,” Dad says. “One of my favorites.”

  “I’ll be right in here if you need me Sheriff Jack,” he says, and disappears again.

  Verna smiles. “You’ve always been so good with him, Jack,” she says. “He doesn’t get a lot of that from anyone but me. Thank you.”

  “How’s Ronnie?” Dad asks.

  She shakes her head. “Not good. Wasn’t doing particularly good before the . . . But what happened to Janet crushed him as much as anyone . . . except maybe me. He lost his business. I guess you probably didn’t know that, did you?”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. No, I didn’t know. I should’ve stayed in touch more, Verna. I’m sorry.”

  “We almost lost our house, but he owned some property around town. We’ve had to sell it just to hang on, that and the little bit of disability we draw. Did you know they built a new high school?”

  Dad nods, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand why she’s asking. “Back in 2005, wasn’t it?”

  She nods. “That’s when it opened. That was our land out on Caverns Road they built it on. I didn’t want him selling it, but if he hadn’t we’d’ve lost our house and no telling what else. That was a bad time. I guess all times have been bad. ’Cept maybe for a little while on a certain day back in ’89. Other than that . . . they’ve all been bad.”

  Ted Bundy was executed on January 24, 1989. I assume that’s the day she means.

  “Where is Ronnie?” Dad asks.

  She frowns and shakes her head. “He starts drinking pretty early these days. It’s . . . so . . . sad . . . pathetic really—he’s gotten so many DUIs he doesn’t have a license anymore, so he rides a bike to his bar. Seventy-year-old man on a bicycle on his way to get wasted because life is too unbearable if he’s not. It’s absurd.”

  Dad shakes his head. “What did I abandon you to? I should have stayed.”

  “Ronnie was getting bad before Janet was killed,” she says. “Drinking. Gambling. Lost a lot of money to the wrong people. We had threats and . . . it was bad.”

  Dad says, “I should have finished the case, should have found who did it, should have—”

  “How much difference you think that would’ve made?” she says.

  He shrugs his bony old shoulders. “Some. Maybe. I . . .”

  “We’re gonna do our best to solve it now,” I say. “That’s why we’re here.”

  They both look over at me as if they forgot I was in the room with them.

  Then Verna looks back at Dad, a confused look on her face. “I thought you said Ted Bundy did it?”

  “I believe he did, but I want to be sure. As sure as I can be. Want to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Miss . . . anything?” she says very slowly. “Seriously? You told me it was Ted. I wrote him all those years. You told me it was him. I believed you. I . . .”

  “I believed it was,” he says. “Still do. I just want to be sure.”

  Tears form in her eyes and begin to stream down her cheeks. “It’s never going to end, is it?”

  “Verna, I—” Dad begins.

  “I need you to go,” she says. “I . . . can’t . . . right now. I need to be alone.”

  “But—”

  “Jack, I need you to go now,” she says. “We can talk later, but right now I need to be alone.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m just trying to . . . I’m . . .”

  28

  I drop Dad off at his hotel and drive to the sheriff’s department.

  Since I’ll be staying in Dothan with Anna and her folks, Dad decided to get a room up here for the week, something that will help facilitate his need for rest and cut down on his time in the car.

  While he naps, recuperating both physically and emotionally, I decide to talk to Glenn Barnes again.

  I find him out in the lobby shooting the breeze with a few of his underlings.

  “Hey, John,” he says, as if he’s happy but surprised to see me. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  “You got a minute?” I say.

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  As we walk back to his office, he says, “Where’s your dad?”


  “Catchin’ a little rest. Not feeling too well.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he says. “He’s a good man. Hope all this isn’t too much for him.”

  “He’s tough and resilient. He’ll be okay. I just thought I’d run down a few things while he’s resting.”

  We arrive at his office.

  “Sure,” he says as we sit down. “What can I do for you?”

  “Three things if you will.”

  “I’ll do what I can. What’s the first?”

  “Have you ever worked this case over the years or read the file?” I say.

  He nods. “A few different times in a few different capacities. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered what you thought,” I say, “wanted your take on it.”

  His eyebrows shoot up and he cocks his head back a bit. “I really appreciate that, John. I do. Tell you what I think, and I hate to say it, but there are some cases that just go cold. And they stay cold. And I’m afraid this is one of ’em. I don’t want it to be. And maybe I’m wrong. Hell, I hope I am. I really do. But this case is pushing forty years old. Hard to see it getting solved now if it hasn’t already. Know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I say. “And you’re probably right, but I hope we can figure it out and get some sort of peace for everyone involved. But as far as the case itself, do you have a theory or prime suspect?”

  He shrugs. “I can see why they thought it was Bundy. Probably was. Problem is, whole damn thing is circumstantial. That’s why I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure. If it wasn’t Bundy . . . I don’t know. I don’t think Ben did it. Hell, I’d have a hard time thinkin’ any of her friends could do it, but if one of ’em did it, I’d have to think it came down to an altered state—drugs or alcohol from the party that night—that made him go crazy. Either way, Bundy or a boy from the party fucked up on bad drugs, is the act of a madman.”

  “The second thing is . . . I wondered how to get in touch with your brother. Someone said they thought they saw him talking to Janet the night of the party but I haven’t been able to track him down.”

  No one had said they saw him talking to her, but I thought it was a nice touch to toss in.

  “Brad? Brad is on the road a lot for work but should be back in town later in the week. I’ll put you in touch with him the moment he returns. Hell, if you want to talk to him in person, face-to-face like, you can do it right here. I’ll let y’all borrow an office or use an interview room.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”

  “No problem. I can’t imagine he knows anything, but I know he’ll be happy to help if he can. So what’s the third?”

  “I was wondering if there have been any other similar cases in this area either before or after what happened to Janet?”

  “That’s a great question. I don’t think there have been. And there’s no question that anything obvious would’ve stood out to us, but it’s not a bad idea for us to take a look at all our unsolved cases and see. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll have one of my investigators work on it and see if we come up with anything.”

  “Thank you. But I think it’s important not to just look at the unsolved cases. Need to look at all of them, even the ones that were cleared.”

  “That’s a good point. You’re exactly right. We may have caught the bastard and not even know it.”

  “Or,” I say, “someone else could’ve been charged for another one this guy did.”

  “Oh shit. You’re right. I didn’t even think about that. Like I said, it’s a long shot but I think it’s good to look at all possibilities. Tell you what, I’ll walk down and talk to Darlene about it right now. You can go with me if you want to.”

  29

  Darlene Weatherly is built like a high school linebacker. She is a squat, muscular, powerful fireplug of a young woman.

  “Got something I need your help with,” Glenn says as we walk into her office.

  “Sure, Sheriff. What’s up?”

  “This is John Jordan. He’s an investigator with the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.

  Her hand is iron-hard, her grip a force of nature.

  “He and his dad, Jack Jordan, the former sheriff of Potter County and the man who originally headed up the Janet Leigh Lester investigation, are taking another look at that case.”

  She nods appreciatively. “That’s good. Someone needs to.”

  “John had an idea that I should’ve thought of,” Glenn continues. “Would you go back through our homicides and missing persons and see if there are any before or after Janet that are similar in any way?”

  “That is a good idea, John,” she says. “Not just another pretty face, are you? Sure, Sheriff, I don’t mind, but I think we’d know if there were any.”

  “Maybe we missed something,” he says. “Or whoever here before us did.”

  “Everybody in this town is just so familiar with the case,” she says, “there’s no way it wouldn’t’ve stood out.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but there’s no reason not to check.”

  “No, there’s not,” she says, then lowering her voice, “unless I’ve got other shit on my plate that I don’t have enough time to get to.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said you’re exactly right, boss. I’m on it. It’s a long period of time, but it’s a small county with not many homicides or missing persons, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “John made another good point,” Glenn says.

  “Did he now?” she says, tilting her head back and considering me under raised eyebrows.

  “Don’t just look at unsolved cases,” he says. “Look at all the cases. See if there are any that have any similarities at all.”

  She doesn’t look happy about it, but she says, “Yes sir. Will do.”

  “As soon as you finish let me know,” he says to her. Then to me, “I’ll give you a call if we turn up anything.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

  We shake hands—his is nowhere as powerful as Darlene’s—and he leaves. I hang back to talk to Darlene for a moment.

  “I appreciate you doing this,” I say.

  She nods, but says, “No need to thank me. I wasn’t given a choice.”

  “Sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to make more work for one person. I just . . . Can I help in any way?”

  “It’s not a problem. Got nothin’ to do with you. I’d just like to be asked occasionally—or assigned something real. Like I said . . . being the only lesbian in the department has nothing to do with you.”

  I nod and frown. “I understand and I’m sorry it’s like that, but this is something real. Very real. And it could be the thing that helps solve it.”

  “How likely is that?” she says. “But I’ll give it my best. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Can I ask another favor?”

  She sighs and scratches her head. “Sure, John,” she says, her voice full of false enthusiasm. “I’d really like that.”

  “Actually, it’s two favors. Sorry. I just wondered if you’d pull anything that looks like it could be even remotely similar. Even the longest of long shots.”

  “I will, but I’m telling you there won’t be any. What’s the other?”

  “We’re not having any luck locating one of the witnesses from that night,” I say. “Loner with a juvenile record named Clyde Wolf. He didn’t go to the party, just watched it from the woods across the way. Could you help me locate him?”

  “I can tell you exactly where he is,” she says. “He’s in prison. And you may want to take a closer look at him, because he’s in there for stabbing his ex-wife.”

  30

  I don’t know what we could’ve done any differently,” Ken Tillman is saying. “But I’d give almost anything for all of it to have turned out differently.”

  It’s midafternoon and K
en Tillman is already drinking. A lot.

  He has coarse, closely cropped gray hair, a deeply tanned, deeply lined face, and bright blue, bloodshot eyes. He’s sitting in a folding canvas lawn chair out in front of his dilapidated trailer in a yard that is filled with junk—a couple of old cars on blocks, a random refrigerator, an old dryer, some rusting bicycles, small mountains of crushed aluminum beer cans.

  He is smoking and drinking, which is how he fills most of his days.

  We are seated across from him in rickety lawn chairs of our own between his trailer and an old, rotting wooden storage shed beneath the canopy of an enormous oak tree.

  While we are here talking to him, Anna is making some calls to her previous coworkers in Classification for more information about Clyde Wolf.

  “For that poor girl, of course,” he says. “But after it happened, once she was gone, then at least for all of us. Hell, it’s the reason I brought you in, Jack. Tryin’ to save us from somethin’ like what happened.”

  A gold chain shows in the wild spray of gray hairs springing forth from the top of his loose-fitting wife beater.

  This sad, smelly, shiftless man used to be the chief law enforcement officer of this entire county because a majority of the population here thought he should be. He was once respected and admired. He was once athletic and attractive.

  The ripples of violent crime, of murder, seem to never end. Here is another life capsized by the wake of what happened to one girl on one night nearly forty years ago. Except it didn’t just happen to one girl on one night, but to all involved, night after night—every night since the initial crime was committed.

  “If we could’ve done anything else, I wish I knew what it was,” he says. “Wish I could go back and do it.”

  A silver bracelet moves up and down his right wrist every time he drinks from his tall glass of whiskey, which is often.

  “Ruined all of our lives,” he says. “Ben and me have no life. Sent Mary, his mom, to an early grave. She’s like Janet there. Got off lucky compared to the rest of us.”