Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery)

by Michael Lister

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I had his gate pass pulled a week ago.”

  As she typed in information and clicked through the screens, she said, “What makes you think he did it?”

  “Her face was very badly beaten, which usually indicates the killer knew the victim,” I said. “Parents are the most likely suspects, which is why so many people thought it was the Caldwells. It was a parent—just not either of them.”

  She shook her head as she thought about it, lines of pain drawn across her face.

  “Plus the body had been staged.”

  “Been what?”

  I told her.

  “But after staging it to look like a sexual murder,” I said, “he undermined his own production by turning her over to cover her. I knew it had to be someone who knew her well, and of course Bobby Earl and Bunny knew her very well, but it really looked to be an impulsive act. Bobby Earl or Bunny could have done it impulsively, but they were more likely to have planned it, and if they had, they’d’ve had a much better alibi and not been anywhere near her at the time.”

  “How’d he get into your office?”

  “I think Bunny let him in,” I said. “I think they prearranged a visit between Nicole and her real father because he demanded it—probably blackmailed her. Bunny goes to the inner door that leads to the chapel and calls Coel over so he won’t see Porter slip in the outer one from the hallway.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Coel had a blind spot of about ten seconds each way—walking to the door and then walking back to his post. But when did he kill her? Was Bunny in there?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think he did it shortly after Bunny went back on stage.”

  “But Bobby Earl went in there.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And he thought Nicole was in the bathroom, but really Porter and Nicole were. Daniels said they found blood in the bathroom.”

  “The sick son of a bitch,” she said.

  “No one else had a motive,” I said. “And it wasn’t a sexual crime. It was pure rage. She said something or did something, or Bunny did, to set him off.”

  “You really think he’s capable of doing that to his own daughter?”

  I nodded. “He really loved Bunny,” I said. “When she had him transferred out of the chapel at Lake Butler and began her relationship with Bobby Earl, he was devastated. He’s been on a downward spiral ever since.”

  “What about evidence?” she asked. “What do you have?”

  “Everyone in the hallway and bathroom that night remembered seeing Porter. He stayed out of the service longer than anyone— almost the entire service. He was out there when I came in the first time and still out there after I returned from the control room.”

  She nodded slowly, and I continued.

  “Then there was the evidence inside the office itself,” I said. “A greeting card, a wad of cash, and a piece of hard candy. At first I thought the greeting card just fell off my desk during the struggle, but all the cards on my desk had envelopes. Since there wasn’t an extra envelope, I knew it had to have been brought in. Only an inmate would bring in one of the cards I give out—he wouldn’t have access to any others. But he didn’t sign it. That was smart. That way he could give it to Nicole, but Bobby Earl wouldn’t know it was from him. Or if she lost it, he wouldn’t be implicated.”

  “He’s bringing it as a gift for his daughter,” she said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “And that’s not all. He brought candy, too—a fire ball from the canteen. He was trying to endear himself in the only ways he knew. He was trying to be her father, buy her love. He didn’t know what else to do, and didn’t have anything else to give.”

  “What about the money?”

  “DeAndré brought that in to pay off Whitfield,” I said. “It couldn’t’ve been for an inmate—and Porter didn’t take it—because it wouldn’t do him any good in the cashless canteen system on the compound. If a staff member or either one of the Caldwells had done it, I think they would have picked it up.”

  “Porter also stole Nicole’s crayons and coloring book,” I said. “He’s in the same dorm as Register, so he planted the crayons on him, but he held onto the pictures. He showed me one he kept in his pocket, but according to the mail room he’s never received anything from her—or from anyone—not a single letter. The picture was obviously from the same book mine was. He could’ve only gotten it from her the night she was here, but he said he didn’t see her. Then later, he returned to the crime scene and slid another picture she had colored under the door between the sanctuary and my office. As a memorial I guess. He’s the only one who could have.”

  She shook her head. “Not a single letter—from anyone. No wonder he’s so angry.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The woman he loves and their child won’t have anything to do with him. They’re living indulged lives and he has no life at all.”

  She nodded. “Well, I’m convinced.”

  “But would a jury be?” I asked.

  She frowned, pursing her lips tightly together. “Hard to say, but I doubt it.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “So what’re you gonna do?”

  I shrugged. “Depends how much time he has left,” I said.

  She looked down at her monitor again. “Mandatory twenty on a third offense drug charge,” she said. “He’ll be with us quite a while.”

  CHAPTER 53

  It was June now, nearly three weeks since Nicole had died, and the full heat of the day bore down on Cedric Porter as he picked up trash along the fence near the front gate. The road leading away from the institution, toward freedom and opportunity, shimmered like a mirage, waves of heat rising from the sizzling asphalt.

  Walking toward Porter, I noticed how often he paused from picking up the trash to gaze down the road, as if continually making sure it was still there.

  “I heard you had my gate pass pulled,” he said, when I reached him.

  I shuddered inside as I recalled how close he had worked to the children at the elementary school, and though, like most parents, he probably wouldn’t hurt any child but his own, we couldn’t take the chance.

  I nodded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You know why,” I said.

  As he stooped to pick up another piece of trash, I noticed his futile attempt to endue his menial task with dignity.

  “I want to know why you did it,” I said.

  “What?” he asked, standing and facing me haughtily.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He started to say something, but I continued.

  “I could let it be known on the compound that you’re a child killer and you wouldn’t last much more than a day,” I said, “so don’t play games with me.”

  Joining the thick sheen of sweat, a tear rolled out of his eye and down the shiny black skin of his cheek.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said, his body slumping and more tears coming as the dam of denial broke within him. “I… ” he began, but broke off. “That son of a bitch was using her,” he began again in a trembling voice. “My daughter. To get some bunch of convicts to think he not the most racist motherfucker on the planet. My daughter. Her mother’s a whore. They not better than me.”

  He paused and I waited in silence, standing firm as a witness against his evil act, allowing him to face his accuser.

  “They usin’ her,” he said again, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard before adding, “And she think they all she got. She say I not her daddy. Say Bobby Earl her daddy. Look at me like I’s not worthy to be in the same room with her. Like I a nigga. Like the thought of my blood runnin’ through her veins make her wanna slit her little wrists.”

  When he paused again, this time to wipe tears from his eyes and sweat from his face, I noticed how much smaller he seemed, as if he were imploding from the emptiness the absence of his denial was causing.

  “’Cause she think she white,” he said. “They straight
en her hair and keep her away from little black children and got her convinced she white. That she his daughter. I loved her. I not gonna let her be used by that bastard. He not gonna take what mine. I told her to say she was mine,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “To say it with pride. ’Cause Cedric Porter somebody to be proud of.” The defiance was back in his eyes, joined by hardness and madness. “She wouldn’t say it. She say she gonna tell her daddy. I say, ‘I’m your daddy,’ and I said to say it. But she won’t.”

  All around us the world had faded for me and unaware of anything else, I entered his world and relived with him the last moments of Nicole’s life.

  “She say she not gonna say it no matter what I do,” he said. “So I spank her. ’Cause my daughter gonna do what I say, but she don’t. So I spank her again. Hard this time. And I spank her again. But she still won’t say it.” Now tears were flowing as fast as his words. “She never would say she mine. Never would say, ‘Cedric Porter my daddy.’”

  When he finished, I still didn’t say anything, just remained a silent witness to things I could only see in my mind.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” he said. “I loved her. I just wanted her to say she mine. That I her daddy and she love me, too, but she wouldn’t.”

  Inept and aberrant as it was, what Cedric Porter was trying to do was be a daddy to his daughter, to love her in his twisted way and get from her the love he so needed.

  For a long time after he finished his story, neither of us said a word.

  I though about Nicole, about what he had done to her. The compassion I had for him felt like a betrayal of her, but there was nothing I could do for her now. I had failed her. I had failed Dexter. I would try not to do the same with Cedric.

  Finally he asked, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You gonna tell the compound?”

  I shook my head.

  “I am going to turn everything I have over to the inspector and DA,” I said. “But I doubt what I have is enough for them to bring you to trial.”

  He nodded slowly, seeming to think about it.

  “You could tell them,” I said. “Confess to them like you have to me.”

  He didn’t respond, but seemed to be considering my suggestion.

  “It’d be the right thing for you to do—the best thing you can do now,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “You’ve lost your daughter,” I said. “Don’t lose your soul, too.”

  As repulsive as I found his act, I couldn’t help but feel compassion for this wounded man, and I knew where it came from—knew I had to tell him, though it would most likely come out as awkward and contrived as an altar call at a funeral service.

  “But regardless of what you decide to do,” I said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  He turned and really looked at me full on for the first time.

  “What you’ve done is horrible,” I said. “It’s evil in so many ways, but… it doesn’t change the fact that God loves you. Your actions, ungodly though they are, don’t—can’t separate you from the love of God unless you allow them to.”

  His tears started streaming again, his body beginning to convulse as they did.

  “The best way you can receive and respond to God’s forgiveness and grace is to take responsibility for what you’ve done and accept the consequences it brings, but no matter what you do, it won’t—it can’t change the fact that God loves you. Nothing can.”

  That night I went to bed early.

  The only light came from the bathroom down the hall, and the dim room was a chalky gray like moonlight defused through thick clouds. I lay on my bed staring up at the gray, thinking about all that had happened. Concluding a murder investigation—no matter how seemingly successful—is always incomplete and bittersweet, and, as usual, I was depressed. I had found the murderer, solved the mystery, but that did nothing for Nicole. It couldn’t bring her back, couldn’t undo what had been done to her, couldn’t wake her from the nightmare she had lived through, had died in. It couldn’t absolve me from failing her in the first place, from failing Dexter. Only God could do that, and, as I lay there looking up at nothing, I prayed for forgiveness.

  Later, when I answered the phone, my mouth was dry, my voice sleepy, though I was still wide awake.

  “Hey.”

  It was Susan.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  I told her. And as I did, the three hundred miles between us shrank to nothing, our connection seeming to bypass circuits and lines and everything mechanical to become direct and intense and intimate.

  “My God,” she said.

  “That’ll teach you to ask.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m glad you told me. I want you to tell me everything.” She was silent a beat before asking, “Do you think he’ll confess?”

  “Already has,” I said. “Went with me right then and did it.”

  “How do you feel about the inmate—what was his name?”

  “Dexter,” I said. “Guilty.”

  “I figured you did,” she said.

  “If I hadn’t staged the whole memorial service in the first place,” I said, “or confronted him in such an uncontrolled environment or dove for the gun…”

  “Have you talked to anyone?”

  “You mean besides you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No,” I said. “Not about how I feel.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little startled. “Thank you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Sounds like you need to get away for a while,” she said. “That’s the reason I was calling—to invite you up for the weekend. I’d really love to see you and—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t. I—”

  “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. I let you know how I felt, and I was going to just wait on your response, not push it. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not it at all. I’d love for us to get together. Really. I’m just not ready to come back to Atlanta yet. It’s too soon, wounds too fresh. Could we go somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  “What about that bed and breakfast we stayed at near Charleston?” I asked.

  “Oh, John,” she exclaimed. “That sounds wonderful.”

  After we made the plans, she said, “I feel so hopeful about us,” she said. “But I want you to know that even if we don’t wind up together, I’m glad we’re doing this… getting to know the real us.”

  “Me too.”

  We were quiet for a while and I could hear her breathing. It reminded me of making love in sweet silence, caught up in passion beyond words, and it made me want her even more.

  “I don’t need you, John,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t need you,” she said. “For over a year now, it’s been just me. And I’m comfortable with that. I’m learning who I really am and I like me very much. I don’t have to have someone in my life—that’s why I haven’t been looking. I’m not looking for someone to rescue or complete me.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s really good.”

  “I’m not finished,” she said. “I don’t need you… but I do want you. I want you very badly. I want you in my life, in my body, in my soul.”

  Images of being in all three filled my mind, and I lost myself in the sound of her breathing.

  “I don’t want to hang up,” she said after a long, comfortable silence.

  Lying in the dark, listening to her words, her silences, reminded me of when we were first dating, the hours we spent tethered together by phone cords, unseen radios playing the same songs in the background, the darkness keeping the rest of the world at bay. Like everything about her, this felt familiar, comfortable, like a home I had only briefly known.

  “So, don’t,” I said.

  “I don’t really have anything else
to say,” she said.

  “Just breathe,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I like listening to you breathe,” I said.

  “But I’m about to fall asleep,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I like listening to you sleep.”