Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19)

by Michael Lister

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Help me up,” I say.

  She tries to.

  Eventually, with her help, I sit up, roll over on my hands and knees and push up from there.

  She grabs the .357 Derek’s uncle left on our lawn and helps me back inside and locks the door behind us.

  Leading me straight into the downstairs guest bathroom, she eases me down on the side of the tub and begins to clean the cuts on my face with peroxide, evaluating the damage done as she wipes the blood and dirt away.

  “Do you wish you hadn’t married me?” I ask.

  “What? Of course not. Why would you say something like that?”

  “He’s right. I’m pathetic. You didn’t sign up to be with a . . . with . . . for all this. Drunk . . . child . . . killer. No one would . . . blame you for finding the nearest . . . exit. Hell, I think . . . you should.”

  She shakes her head. “I guess I never realized you’re such a maudlin drunk,” she says.

  I actually start laughing out loud at that, though to do so hurts my face.

  “I hope you’re not too drunk to hear this now and remember it tomorrow,” she says. “You’re the love of my life and the best man I’ve ever known and wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  Later that night I fall asleep with The Sundays’ cover of Wild Horses playing in my head and when I wake the next morning I still remember what Anna said.

  52

  Everybody gets bullied—even bullies. Especially bullies. What do you think turned them into bullies? What, so you can’t take a little bullying without blowing up your fuckin’ school?

  It’s the evening of the next day. Merrill and I are at Lake Alice Park watching Johanna and Taylor climb on the playground equipment from a nearby wooden bench.

  “You said you wanted to know what the kids are sayin’ since it happened,” he says. “Most all of ’em think Mason Nickols and Dakota Emanuel did it. A few have said they’ve heard them brag about doing it and about how they’re going to be the only ones in history who get to do it again.”

  I nod, continuing to keep an eye on the girls.

  “Lots of crazy shit bein’ talked too,” he says. “Conspiracy theory shit. Pizzagate government child-sex-ring type shit. Some talkin’ ’bout this whole thing a ploy to make the first black principal look bad. Others sayin’ a contractor in town did it so he can build a new school. Somebody said that kid Zach Griffith is making a movie and did it all for it. That he and Tristan and Denise were in on it together, that the play and protest were part of it. Just inane shit. Tell me this. Why do people believe crazy conspiracy theories? Especially about dramatic or traumatic events.”

  “Research says it comes down to three main reasons,” I say. “Desire for understanding and or certainty, desire for security and or control, and for a positive self-image.”

  “Care to elaborate a little?”

  “Uncertainty is uncomfortable,” I say. “We crave answers and avoid ambiguity. And answers that fit our worldview, confirm our biases, or that we have some emotional investment in are particularly appealing. Some people would rather have wrong answers than no answers at all. The more powerless or out of control or socially marginalized a person is, the more attractive conspiracy theories become. Believing in them can cause a person to feel more secure because it explains why the deck is stacked against them, it gives them what they see as secret knowledge and it provides a community of sorts for them, a place to belong.”

  “Explains a lot about our political culture these days,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say. “Corrupt and manipulative politicians and their pundits prey on the most vulnerable in order to keep their money and power. The black man or the brown man or the gay man or the woman or the person with different beliefs, philosophies, or customs than you is conspiring against you. It’s their fault you don’t have the life you want and they’re coming to take the little that you do have.”

  His nodding head transitions into shaking. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

  “And teenagers are some of the most powerless and vulnerable people on the planet,” I say. “It’s not surprising so many of them are grasping for explanations for the trauma they’ve just gone through.”

  “It’s funny,” he says, “The jocks are sayin’ it was an attack on them while the art kids and nerds are sayin’ it was an attack on them.”

  I nod. “What did you find out about the victims?”

  “Kids that got injured run the gamut,” he says. “Seems to be equal number of each tribe—jocks, popular, nerds, artists, druggies, goths, et cetera. The two students who got killed were foster kids—twin brothers, Hayden and Hunter Dupree. Had the kind of lives that’d make you believe in conspiracy theories. Emotional, verbal, physical, and sexual abuse—by their parents, then by their first set of foster parents. They were relatively new to town. The two teachers or the coach and the teacher were well liked and respected. They were viewed as good at their jobs and known for treating all the kids the same. More than one non-athletic kid said Bowman treated them just as well as he did his football players.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I say.

  “And it relates to something else I keep hearing,” he says. “Everybody and I mean everybody I’ve talked to says Potter High doesn’t have a bullying problem. Says Tyrese and Bowman and the other faculty set a good tone and the cool kids and jocks got along and that nobody is bullied.”

  “That’s even better to hear,” I say.

  “But what does that say about the motive?” he asks.

  “That it’s probably ol’ garden variety psychopathology,” I say.

  “Which again would point to Mason and Dakota, right?”

  I nod.

  A car pulls up behind us and I turn to see that it’s Reggie in her black sheriff’s SUV.

  “I came to talk to John, but I’m glad you’re here, Merrill,” she says. “This concerns you too.”

  “You want to sit?” I say.

  She shakes her head. “Rather stand. Won’t be long.”

  Merrill and I stand with her—partly out of respect and courtesy, partly so she’s not blocking my view of my girls.

  She looks at Merrill first. “I hear you’re asking questions about the case over in Pottersville, investigating it as if you’re more than a private detective.”

  “Don’t know what more than a private detective means,” he says, “but Tyrese asked me to look into it and because he’s my favorite cousin and that’s my school those little bitches shot up, I am.”

  “Which as a licensed PI is your right,” she says. “But you know what my concern is . . . It’s that you’re bringing the info you uncover back to John so he can still work the case without appearing to work the case. And lo and behold I come to talk to John about it and here I find you two together in what looked like some deep-ass conversation.”

  “You can ask Tyrese,” Merrill says. “He asked me to look into it. He really cares about the kids and the school and doesn’t want to reopen without the killers being caught.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” she says. “Don’t doubt any of it.”

  “I’m not working the case,” I say.

  “What the hell happened to your face?” she says.

  “Derek Burrell’s uncle,” I say.

  “Why haven’t I heard anything about it?” she says.

  “Because I sympathize with his point of view,” I say. “I’ve done enough to that family. I’m not going to press charges against the distraught uncle of the kid I shot.”

  “But you’ll damn sure try to figure out who put the two of you in the position to be shooting at each other in the first place, won’t you?”

  “I’m not working the case,” I say. “I’m only leaving the house to bring the girls here and go to funerals.”

  “Do you have any idea of the pressure I’m under to fire you?” she says.

  I shake my head. “I guess not. I wasn’t aware of any.” />
  “FDLE and everyone else, including the fuckin’ FBI is telling me what a shitty sheriff I am and how I don’t have control of my own people, and what the hell was one of my investigators doing at a school shooting in another county, and haven’t you always done just what you want to and—”

  “I’ve always showed you the upmost respect and have done what you’ve told me to,” I say. “You’ve actually thanked me for that before.”

  “Both can be true,” she says. “I know I came into this job with very little experience and I know you’re one hell of an investigator, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be made a fool of, if I’m going to be the laughing stock of the entire world—and that’s who’s looking at us right now. The entire fuckin’ world. And if you’d get your drunk head out of your ass long enough you’d know that.”

  I start to say something but she cuts me off.

  “Now, we still don’t know where the investigation into your use of deadly force is going to go, but even if it goes your way, I’m not sure you should come back to my department. But between now and the ruling you think long and hard if you even want to and if you can follow my goddamn rules like everybody else. Because if you can’t I can’t work with you—no matter how much I like you personally or how good an investigator you may be.”

  53

  We all do it, but only fools try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night. Clearly, we’re all fools.

  That night I had a dark night of the soul.

  Unable to sleep, I pass the hours in silent contemplation, considering myself as objectively and honestly as I am capable of at this time.

  It’s the first night in a week I haven’t had a drink.

  I think about the shooting and my part in it and what I might have done differently to avoid shooting Derek.

  After considering every scenario I can come up with I conclude that, while tragic, what happened with Derek was an accident and that he was as likely to be hit by Kim or the SWAT team as me.

  It doesn’t make me feel any better about it, but regardless of what the FDLE investigation concludes or how public opinion sentences me, I’m clear on my role and responsibility.

  What concerns me far more is my spiritual life and sobriety.

  In my happiness and high life satisfaction level to be with Anna and for us to be raising our girls together, I’ve been neglectful over my soul.

  I’ve deceived myself that addiction was no longer an issue for me, that I had no need for meetings or a sponsor or a more active spiritual life.

  It’s the oldest trap out there and I stepped right into it.

  I convinced myself of my own self-sufficiency and strength. I removed far too many forms of accountability from my life and have spent far too much time listening to my ego tell me how good and strong and capable I am.

  I have rationalized.

  I have justified.

  I have been guilty of the most egregious forms of moral equivalency.

  I have surrendered my sobriety and forfeited my serenity and have no plan in place to get either of them back.

  I have overvalued and been overly dependent on the relative power of my own mind.

  I have played to my strengths and ignored my weaknesses.

  I haven’t just done all these things. I’m still doing all these things.

  Knowing is nothing. It’s not enough to know what I’m doing wrong. It’s not enough to take a searching and fearless moral inventory. Action is required. And it’s not as if I don’t know what to do. I do. But if I’m completely honest I have to admit to myself and my higher power that I’m not sure I’m ready to do anything just yet.

  That makes me weak and lazy and unrepentant but there it is.

  54

  When the shooting was happening I swore to myself that if I survived I was going to retire and never come back. I meant it too. I’m never stepping back into that building. If this is the world y’all are willing to put up with then y’all can have it. I want no part of it.

  “The hell happened to your face?” LeAnn asks.

  “You should see the other guy’s fist,” I say.

  It’s the next morning, the day before the memorial service at the high school, and Kim and LeAnn have come by to check on me.

  LeAnn isn’t dressed much differently than on any other day, but out of uniform, her hair down, in a sundress and carrying a big handbag, Kimmy bears little resemblance to Deputy Miller.

  Though moving slowly, Kim has discarded her cane and the only evidence of her injuries is the bandage on her leg and the cast on her wrist.

  Anna and Carla and the kids are in Panama City running errands and grocery shopping, so the three of us sit at the kitchen table and have tea and biscuits and tupelo honey.

  “We’re worried about you, ’ol son,” LeAnn says.

  “That’s sweet of you but—”

  “We feel like we pulled you into this mess,” Kim says.

  “Actually that was Chip Jeffers,” I say.

  “It was, wasn’t it?” LeAnn says, her bright red lips forming a huge smile. “Fuckin’ Chip. Son of a bitch. Why isn’t he over here checking on you? Never thinks about anybody but himself, does he?”

  “Seriously,” Kim says. “How are you?”

  “How are you?” I ask. “You’re the one who got shot.” And lost your boyfriend, I think but don’t say.

  “I’m still in shock or in some form of postpartum depression.”

  LeAnn says, “Think you mean post-traumatic stress.”

  “It’s nothin’ like I imagined it would be,” Kim says. “I’m just sort of out of it all the time. Feel distant from everything, including my own body. Keep wantin’ to talk to Ace about it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “I miss the shit out of that big ol’ lug,” she says. “We were more like comfortable old friends than anything else. I could tell him anything. And that’s what I miss most—how he could comfort me no matter what I was going through. Weren’t exactly the last of the red hot lovers, but he was my best friend.”

  “Hey,” LeAnn says. “I thought I—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve heard some really good things about him,” I say. “Kids liked and respected him. Said he treated everyone the same.”

  She nods. “He did. Didn’t matter how little athletic ability they had. I’m glad you heard good things.”

  LeAnn says, “There’s some bad things being said too. Gossip. Small town, small mind shit.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Saying he was a bully.”

  “I heard just the opposite,” I say. “That he prevented bullying from happening at the school.”

  “Exactly,” Kim says. “Thank you.”

  “The craziest ones are that he was sleeping with students and stealing money from the athletic programs,” LeAnn says.

  “Yeah,” Kim says, “poor fella had some plumbing issues and—”

  “Couldn’t get it up very often,” LeAnn explains.

  “Yeah, I caught that,” I say.

  “And he lived in a rundown old trailer, drove a piece of shit old Camaro, and never had more than a few dollars to his name. I hate this town sometimes.”

  “It’s better than the stuff they’re saying about John,” LeAnn says.

  “True,” Kim says.

  “Or poor Janna.”

  “That’s true too.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s being said about me,” I say.

  “You can guess it,” LeAnn says. “You’ve probably heard it all.”

  “What about Janna?” I ask.

  “Kind of stuff you’d expect. Took a different man home from the bar every night. Slept with Tyrese to get her job. Gang bang with students out in the art building.”

  “Why do people gossip?” Kim says. “Especially about the dead. Why do people believe it, spread it?”

  LeAnn shakes her head, frowns, and looks wistfully. “Just a little later
and she would’ve been safe and sound out in the art building.”

  Kim looks at me. “Is everything as random as it seems? It all just seems so fuckin’ full of chance, so like blind fuckin’ luck.”

  I frown and nod.

  “That wasn’t rhetorical,” she says.

  “I’m probably not the person to be asking at the moment,” I say. “I’d have a hard time coming up with the meaning and grand design behind me shooting a kid.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “Exactly.”

  “You haven’t lost your faith, have you?” LeAnn asks me.

  I shake my head. “My faith embraces chaos.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “Now’s probably not the best time, but . . . let’s just say that for me, faith means trust and faithfulness to certain principals and truths. It’s a practice, not belief or make-believe. And my trust in goodness and love and God is far more at the macro than the micro level.”

  “Let’s change the subject,” Kim says. “He said he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m happy to talk about it another time,” I say. “When I’m in a better place.”

  “Let’s change the subject back to gossip and the real reason we came here,” LeAnn says.

  “I thought y’all came to check on me,” I say with a smile.

  “Yeah, yeah, we did,” LeAnn says, “but listen to this. There’s talk among the kids that there’s going to be another attack—at the memorial service tomorrow.”

  55

  Let me tell you, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is real. I have nightmares, anxiety, hyper-arousal, irritability, flashbacks, avoidance, and a hundred other things no one has even told me about yet. I will never ever be the same again.

  When Anna walks in and sees my badge and guns on the kitchen counter her eyes open wide and her mouth drops open in excitement.