Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  By 1930, some four thousand black men had been lynched nationwide, most in the Deep South, and though Alabama and Mississippi had more total lynchings, Florida had the highest per capita rate during the first thirty years of the twentieth century.

  Like most cities in the Deep South, systemic racism and brutality are part of Marianna’s shameful blood-stained history, but this little town seems to have been a place of heightened savagery and wicked extremes.

  Four years after the Civil War ended, Marianna and Jackson County were the center of a low-level guerrilla war conducted by the Ku Klux Klan known as the Jackson County War. Members of the Klan, many of them Confederate army veterans, murdered over one hundred fifty government officials and African-Americans.

  Another racial blight on the small town of Marianna is that of the Florida School for Boys, or Dozier School for Boys, the reform school operated by the state of Florida from 1900 to 2011. The school had a reputation for abuse, beatings, rapes, torture, and even murder—all of students by staff. A staff it seems was made up of many Klan members. From 1932 to 1936, twelve young African-American boys died inside Dozier. According to school officials, all twelve died of pneumonia. Over the course of its corrupt history, at least sixty-five young boys died. Many, many more lived cruel little lives of rape and torture, humiliation and degradation.

  The garden monument where Janet’s remains were discovered is meant to be a reminder of all of this plus a place of peace and hope for a better, more civil future.

  An image of Janet appears in my mind, unbidden, and sparks a series of thoughts that lead to a series of questions.

  I pull out Janet’s picture and look at it again.

  It’s so subtle but it’s there.

  I push myself up off the couch and walk out into the living room.

  As I begin to head down the hall toward Verna’s room, I see a large dark figure near the front door.

  45

  The figure doesn’t move.

  His back is to me.

  Placing my hand on the weapon holstered at my right side, I slowly move toward him.

  As I get closer, I see that it’s Ralphie’s Iron Man costume standing near the front door.

  The suit looks amazingly like the one from the movie—though much larger. Ralphie isn’t in it. It’s just the suit, and even in the dimness of the foyer it looks like metal.

  Walking down the hall toward Verna’s room, I stop at Ralphie’s room to check on him.

  As I stand there looking at him, he opens his eyes. “Everything okay?”

  I nod.

  “Iron Man still watching the front door?” he asks.

  “He is.”

  “Ralphie you have some amazing costumes.”

  “Not Ralphie. Tony Stark.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Let me know if there’s any trouble. Sheriff Jack said there might be.”

  “I’m staying on the couch, buddy,” I say. “I’ll keep watch tonight. You just get some sleep.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Be very vigilant,” he says. “Ronnie is a very bad villain.”

  “I will.”

  I continue to the last door at the end and tap on it.

  The light is on so I’m hoping she’s awake.

  “Verna?” I say. “It’s John. Are you awake?”

  She opens the door, a robe wrapped around her. “What is it? Is everything okay? Where’s Jack?”

  “Yes. Everything’s fine. Dad’s asleep. I’ve just been studying the case some more and have a couple of questions for you. They can wait ’til morning—I just didn’t want to.”

  “No, of course,” she says. “I appreciate you working on it. Please come in.”

  She leads me over to a small sitting area in the far corner of her room and we sit in the two high back chairs there.

  Between the chairs on a small round table is a stack of newspapers and magazines.

  “We used to read books here,” she says. “Now I’m the only one who uses it—and just for short reading.”

  I nod and think again about how everything in her life changed on that February night so long ago.

  “Did you uncover something else in the file?” she says. “I still can’t believe they found her. I know they never would have if it weren’t for you and Jack. Thanks so much for all you’re doing. Thanks for helping him, for taking care of him. He’s very lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry you two didn’t have more . . . of each other over all these years.”

  “You are?” she asks in surprise.

  I nod.

  “It surprises me you’d feel that way,” she says. “Your mom and—”

  “I wish both of them could have had more happiness over the years,” I say. “Wasn’t something they were going to have together.”

  Tears glisten in her eyes and she pats my hand. “So much sadness in this world. So much . . . suffering.”

  We are silent for a moment.

  “Anyway. Thank you,” she says. “What questions did you have?”

  “It’s about Janet’s biological father,” I say. “There’s no mention of him in the book.”

  “The book?”

  “The file.”

  “Oh. Well . . . he was never part of Janet’s life. He didn’t even live here at the time. Ronnie’s the only father the kids have ever known.”

  “But we should at least talk to him,” I say.

  She shakes her head and frowns. “He actually passed away a few years back,” she says. “Outlived his daughter, but . . . still managed to die relatively early. He had a hard life. But there’s no way—absolutely no way he could kill his child. Some people aren’t capable of that. Your dad couldn’t harm you. You couldn’t harm your daughters. Janet’s dad and I couldn’t harm her. Not ever. No way.”

  I nod. She’s right. I can tell what she’s saying is true. But after what Ralphie said and the way Ronnie acted earlier in the day I want to ask her if she believes the same to be true of stepparents.

  “Most parents would do anything for their children. Anything at all. I’ve always been that way. So was Janet’s father.”

  “But he wasn’t in her life in any way, was he? He . . . I noticed his name is not even on the birth certificate.”

  “That’s what he did for her,” she says. “He stayed away.”

  “Because he was black?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen. “How did you . . .”

  “I was reading about all the racial issues this little town has had,” I say. “I was thinking about that when I started wondering about why Janet’s father wasn’t in the file and . . . then I looked at her picture again. The hint of caramel in her skin, certain features, her stunning beauty. I just . . . most everything I do in this kind of work involves a mental, psychological, or spiritual leap.”

  “It happened when we were in school,” she says. “In a very different time. We had genuine attraction and affection for each other, but knew we could never . . . that nothing could ever come of . . . and then I got pregnant. As far as I know, he never knew. I never told him. We stopped seeing each other and I dropped out of school, went to stay with my aunt in Montgomery to have her. He had nothing to do with it. I asked your dad not to investigate him, told him he was dead back then.”

  I nod.

  “He had nothing to do with it,” she says. “He was one of the most gentle and loving men I’ve ever known. There’s something about your and your dad’s spirit that reminds me of him. Probably why I clung to your dad when it happened.”

  “Even if he didn’t kill her—”

  “He didn’t,” she says.

  “Remember what I said about connections? About making leaps?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You say that Janet’s father had nothing to do with her death, but think about where her body was discovered. Think about the racial history of this place and the fact that she was a biracial chil
d and where someone buried her.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Her father may not have killed her,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean her death has nothing to do with him.”

  46

  Look, you know how these things work,” Glenn Barnes is saying. “They move fast. Don’t always have time to call everyone or . . . worry about everybody’s feelings.”

  Dad and I are in his office. It’s early the next morning.

  “Y’all said y’all didn’t care about who gets credit,” he says. “I thought y’all meant it.”

  “We did,” Dad says. “It’s not about credit. You won’t find us talking to the media or trying to take any credit for anything. That’s not what we’re talking about.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just to be involved,” Dad says. “To have the chance to collaborate, to share information. We’re uncovering quite a bit. Feel like we’re getting close and—”

  “You’re supposed to be sharing everything you come up with,” Glenn says. “But you know how it is. It’d be the same way if I was in your county conducting a private investigation. It’s a one-way street. You’re supposed to turn over anything you find to me, but I don’t have to report to you.”

  “I know,” Dad says. “But under the circumstances . . . I just thought you might . . .”

  “Look, I’ve got enormous respect for both of you. I do. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I do. But even if I wanted to . . . the DA is . . . I’ll be honest with you. When y’all showed up here saying you were going to ask a few questions, see if you missed anything the first time, I didn’t think anything would come of it. Things are different now. Now this is an active investigation again. Like it hasn’t been in thirty some years. We found her. After all this time. We found her. We may actually be able to close this thing.”

  “You’d have a better chance of doing it with our help,” I say.

  “You found her,” Dad says. “But how?”

  “I can’t get into it. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “And finding her now, when you did, has nothing to do with what John and I have been doing? It’s just a coincidence that you found her remains after thirty-eight years while we’re here conducting an investigation?”

  “See, Sheriff,” Glenn says, “that sounds like you’re looking for credit again.”

  “I’m not looking for any goddamn credit,” Dad says, his voice rising, though still weak and not very loud. “I want to close this case.”

  “You want it closed?” Glenn says. “Or you want to close it? Because you can’t issue any subpoenas, you can’t serve any search warrants, you can’t make any arrests. So how exactly would you close it?”

  “I just want it done and done right.”

  “Oh, the way you did it the first time? Right like that? Are you—you of all people—questioning my abilities? Are you saying you lack confidence in my department?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “You know how much this means to him,” I say. “You know how personally invested he is in finding Janet’s killer.”

  “Thought he already had,” Glenn says. “Thought Bundy did it.”

  “Maybe he did,” Dad says.

  “Oh yeah? Then how the hell did he move the body eleven years after he died in the arms of old sparky’s warm embrace?”

  47

  Come again?” Dad says.

  “You heard me. Her remains were moved over a decade after Bundy was executed. The Tree of Peace monument was built in 2000. She wasn’t there when they started. The ground where we found her remains had been dug up and bulldozed and leveled and sodded—as the garden was being built. She wasn’t there. Someone moved her and buried her there just as they were completing work on the monument.”

  “Where was she moved from?” I ask.

  “We don’t know. And I’m not going to get into all the details of this whole thing with y’all. I just wanted you to know that your Bundy theory was bullshit.”

  Dad doesn’t say anything, just sits there stunned, speechless, saddened. Eventually, he frowns, shakes his head, and looks down.

  “Sorry to be so . . . but . . . I’m just being truthful,” Glenn says. “And if you really care about justice for Janet, you’ll be happy I am, because I’m gonna solve this thing.”

  “We still gonna be able to meet with your brother Brad?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t see any point in it now. But don’t you worry, I’m reinterviewing everyone—including him.”

  “Are you saying he won’t talk to us?”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve been about as patient and accommodating as I can be. But you guys just don’t stop pushing, do you? What I’m sayin’ is you need to go back and work on solving cases in Gulf County. We’ve got Jackson County covered.”

  I start to say something but stop.

  I want to ask him if it’s true his brother worked on the garden installation and actually operated the backhoe it now looks like was used to bury Janet’s remains there, but know it will only serve to cause problems for Darlene Weatherly.

  “I’ve got a man in custody,” Glenn says. “A man who in every way that matters was the father of the victim, and he says that instead of working the case like you should have back then you were carrying on with his wife, the mother of the victim out of her mind with grief and still in shock. Is that true?”

  Dad doesn’t respond, just holds Glenn’s gaze.

  “That’s not just negligence,” he says. “That’s gross misconduct. You know what . . . I wasn’t going to say anything else about the case, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell you a little something else about the case you botched back then. Guess who worked on both the golf course project where the backhoe was stolen from and the Peace Tree project where Janet was buried? Hell, he’s still the yard man there to this day. That’s right. Janet’s boyfriend, the most obvious suspect. Oh, and the son of the man who asked you to come in here and take over the case. What was it, only on the condition that you set up someone else? Hell, who better than fuckin’ Ted Bundy for that? Ted Bundy. You might as well have said the goddamn boogeyman did it.”

  “Why move the body?” I ask.

  Dad doesn’t respond. He’s still despondent, defeated, disheartened.

  “I was feeling so hopeful this morning,” Dad says. “Was thinking I might just beat back the cancer for a while and maybe even find a little happiness with Verna for whatever time we have left, but . . .”

  “Come on. Help me. We’ve got to figure this out before Barnes does irreparable harm to it.”

  “I’m the one who did irreparable harm to it. Me. Not him. Not anyone else. Just me.”

  “We can still do this,” I say. “We’re close. Think about how much we’ve learned.”

  He shakes his head. “Take me back to the hotel. I’m tired. Need to rest.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather go to Verna’s?”

  He shakes his head again. “I’m . . . All I do is make her difficult life all that more difficult. Take me to the hotel now.”

  “Okay,” I say, and start the truck.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m just . . . I don’t feel very . . . Sorry.”

  While Dad rests, I drive out Caverns Road to try to take a look at the Tree of Peace memorial garden again.

  On the way, I call Daniel Davis.

  “Hey man. How’s it going? How’s Sam today.”

  “Little improvements every day,” he says.

  “How about you? How are you holdin’ up?”

  “Enjoyed y’all’s visit,” he says. “Always does me good.”

  “We’ll be back soon. Promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Got a quick question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you or Sam have any friends in the FDLE lab who would talk to me?”

  “About the Bundy thing?”

  “The victim’s remains were found, and now the
sheriff has shut us out. I just have a couple of questions about what was found, very unofficially.”

  “I know just the person,” he says. “I’ll call her and get back to you.”

  “Thanks man. I really appreciate it.”

  48

  The Tree of Peace memorial is both majestic and disturbing. At its center is a life-size bronze tree similar to the one in front of the court house that Claude Neal’s mutilated corpse hung from. On one side of the tree a series of nooses hang from the branches, on the other black and white children climb the branches and push each other in a rope swing that looks like a larger version of one of the nooses.

  It’s as if in this Eden the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil are now one tree.

  Around the tree are stone steps with inspirational quotes and markers with historical information on them.

  Well-watered and cared for by Ben Tillman, the garden is verdant, both green and flowering.

  Though it’s still taped off with crime scene tape, the FDLE crime scene techs are gone. Only a single deputy remains to guard the perimeter.

  When I see that it’s Darlene Weatherly, I pull up, park, and get out.

  “You do a little of everything, don’t you?” I say.

  “Just the shit detail,” she says, then her voice changes, taking on an upbeat sarcastic tone. “‘It’s something nobody wants to do—I know, let’s give it to the lesbian. Maybe we can get her to quit.’ But I won’t.”

  “Good for you,” I say. “And I’m sorry it’s that way.”

  “Won’t be forever,” she says.

  I nod. “Nothing is. Some things just feel like they are.”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie there,” she says.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. It’s a Tallahassee number and I figure it’s someone from FDLE calling me back.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I need to take this.”

  “No problem. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I step a few feet away. “Hello.”