BLOOD CRIES: a John Jordan Mystery (Book 10) (John Jordan Mysteries)

by Michael Lister

  “Hey Kyle, could I get you to do me a favor?”

  “Anything for a brother, brother.”

  “Kill our lights.”

  It took a minute but he did.

  Now we were shrouded in darkness, and the speeding cars didn’t slow or break until they were on top of us—many of them not even then.

  “One little flick of my wrist,” he said. “Wonder how many lives I’d save? How many cops?”

  “Good cops,” Kyle added.

  A car was approaching in the lane closest to us, and I could tell he was about to toss me in front of it.

  I was going to die without knowing what happened to Cedric Porter or whether or not Wayne Williams was guilty, without knowing or learning or experiencing a million other things that really mattered, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Twenty seconds away.

  He adjusted his grip.

  Ten.

  Repositioned his leg around mine.

  Zero.

  He dropped me.

  I began to flail but with my hands cuffed behind me there wasn’t much I could do. Nothing to grab. Nothing to grab with.

  Falling.

  Reaching.

  Grasping.

  Then he grabbed me again and pulled me back.

  Tossing me back in my car, he uncuffed me, dropped a ticket for the largest amount allowed by law on top of me, and walked with Kyle to their cars without saying another word.

  Turning their lights back on to make a hole in the oncoming traffic, they sped off into the dark night.

  I sat there for a long time.

  How had this become my life?

  I had never felt so helpless, so small, so defenseless.

  Eventually I had my breathing back under control. I cranked the car and turned on the lights.

  Taking the next exit, I found the nearest payphone and called Harry Bosch.

  I hadn’t spoken to him in years, but he had said to call him whenever I needed to, and with Frank in a coma and my dad not speaking to me, I couldn’t think of anyone better to call than Bosch.

  Such was my trust for Bosch that even after all this time I felt comfortable to call him collect—the only option available to me at the moment.

  As I dialed, pulse pounding in my throat, I searched the dark side street for patrol cars—far more afraid of them than any other nocturnal urban threats.

  At my request, the operator let it ring a long time, but there was no answer.

  “Is there another number you’d like me to try, sir?” she asked.

  “No ma’am, thank you,” I said. “I don’t have anyone else to call.”

  I climbed back into my car and cranked it.

  Breathe. Calm down. Frank’s not available. Neither is Harry. That’s okay. You have what you need. Find your center. Grow up. You’re not a kid anymore. Here’s your chance to prove it.

  I pulled up the on-ramp and back onto 285.

  I had never driven the entire perimeter at one time before. I was going to tonight. I was going to obey the speed limit and drive far more cautiously than I had before, but I was not going to be deterred.

  I did it without getting stopped again. Sixty-four miles in a little less than an hour.

  Stopping at a Circle K store when I had finished circling the city, literally driving around in a circle because I didn’t know what else to do, I refueled and took off again—this time down 20 toward Grady to check on Frank.

  The city was different at night. It had an ethereal quality, as if it wasn’t the same place it was during the day, as if the night city and the day city weren’t the same city at all.

  Frank was still in a coma, still in ICU, so I did the only thing I could do—I sat alone in the empty ICU waiting room and waited.

  I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. What I was waiting for or how long I would wait for it wasn’t something I was clear about.

  After a while of just waiting, I decided there was something else I could do.

  Locating the small, empty chapel, I went in and prayed. I prayed for Frank, for his full recovery and no lasting damage at all. I prayed for Lonnie and the demon he was battling. I prayed for Summer and the different but equally difficult demon she was battling.

  I prayed for a while, then went back up to ICU waiting, where eventually I fell fast asleep.

  When I woke the next morning, families of very sick patients were beginning to fill the room, preparing for the first of four short visits they were granted each day.

  Easing up out of my chair, I made my way into the hallway and was about to leave when I saw Frank’s wife, Evelyn, and daughter walking up.

  Haggard and sad, the thin, pale skin of their faces looked like parchment stretched too tightly across the bones beneath.

  “John?” Evelyn said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hey, John,” Becca said with a little wave. She was Frank’s thirteen-year-old daughter, and seeing her made me wonder where his twelve-year-old son was.

  “Just came down to be close to him, to stay with him and pray for him last night.”

  “You stayed all night? That means a lot. Thank you.”

  “Wish I could do more.”

  “Becca, would you go down to that coffee machine and get me a cup?” Evelyn asked, handing her daughter a dollar.

  “Can I get one too?”

  “Sure honey,” she said, handing her another dollar. “Help yourself.”

  When Becca was gone, Evelyn turned back to me. “They say if he doesn’t wake up in the next day or so, chances are he won’t. Please pray even more, John. I don’t want to lose him. I can’t. I need to have the big ol’ square thing around. And the kids . . . how would they ever . . .”

  Fighting back tears, she patted me on the arm and pushed past me.

  “Come on Becca,” she called, “it’s almost time for visitation.”

  “Thought you wanted coffee?”

  “After. Let’s put on our best, bright faces for daddy.”

  As I was leaving, I ran into Don Paulk, who was arriving.

  He was here to pray with one of his parishioners prior to her surgery.

  A founder of the church, along with his brother Earl and their wives, Don had been particularly good to me since I moved to Atlanta—especially at the end of the LaMarcus Williams case when everything went so badly. LaDonna, who I had class with, was his daughter.

  “I was planning on coming down to the college to talk to you today,” he said.

  He’s heard about the lawsuit.

  “Your professors are concerned about how many classes you’re missing,” he added. “How are you, John?”

  I shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Can I take you to lunch after your classes today so we can really talk?”

  I hesitated a moment.

  “You are planning to attend your classes today, aren’t you?”

  The truth was I wasn’t.

  “That’s one of the things they wanted me to talk to you about,” he said. “You can’t miss any more and pass.”

  “Maybe I should just drop them for this quarter and start again next one,” I said.

  “I’d hate to see you do that,” he said. “It would mess up your schedule and when you can graduate—and many people who drop out don’t ever seem to start back. Tell you what, go today, then let’s go to lunch together and see if we can’t figure it out, okay?”

  “Remember the little boy who was found dead in my room?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “His mother’s threatening to bring a lawsuit against me,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you––”

  “She plans to name the college and the church since the apartment was being used for a dorm.”

  He didn’t seem surprised.

  “We can talk about that today too,” he said.

  “But—”

  “We can figure everything out, John. I promise.”

 
; Chapter Forty-two

  I had every intention of attending class and going to lunch with Pastor Don.

  Then Mickey called.

  “Found Jaquez Anderson’s dad,” he said. “’Bout to go talk to him. Wanna go?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna solve this thing. I really do. I’ve been working hard on it, but I could use your help. You know I don’t like doing interviews.”

  “How can a reporter not like doing interviews?” I said.

  “I always worked with a partner. I did the writing. He did the research and reporting and chasing down of stories. I can do it. I just don’t like to.”

  “You pickin’ me up?” I said.

  “Ten minutes away.”

  While waiting for Mickey to arrive, I reviewed my notes on the case.

  Cedric Porter, Jamal Jackson, Quentin Washington, Jaquez Anderson, Duke Ellis, and Vaughn Smith. All missing. All between the ages of ten and fourteen. All vanished during the height of the Atlanta Child Murders. All living with single mothers who were neglectful. All of them lived off this end of Memorial Drive—all but Vaughn Smith that was. He had lived up off Wesley Chapel. Cedric and Jamal had both lived here in Memorial Manor. Quentin Washington and Jaquez Anderson had lived in an apartment complex on the other side of Memorial, Duke Ellis in a house down off North Hairston.

  So far every dad we had interviewed except for Cedric’s had articles of his son’s clothing or other items planted in his home or vehicle and had been suspected by the authorities of having taken his son.

  The only parents we had yet to track down were those of Jaquez Anderson and Vaughn Smith.

  I was glad Mickey had found Jaquez’s dad, but believed finding Vaughn’s was more important since he lived outside the pattern area.

  In fact, it was one of three big questions about this case. Why does Vaughn’s location break the pattern? Why does Cedric, Sr. not having items planted break the pattern? Where are the boys or their bodies?

  And then it hit me.

  According to Cedric, Sr., he wasn’t Cedric, Jr.’s real father. Was that true? Did the killer know? Was that why he didn’t have any clothing or other items planted in his home or vehicle? If so, that would explain why—and it might help us identify the killer. I’d have to look into that some more.

  Major Anderson worked at the Richway store on Covington Highway.

  Richway was a discount department store owned and operated by Rich’s. It was known for, among other things, the colorful raised wedge skylights on the roof. Its logo was an orange sunrise with black block letters beneath it, representing the store carried everything under the sun.

  We met Major on a loading dock in the back of the store during his brief morning break.

  The day was cold and clear, a bright but impotent sun high in the sky.

  “Whatch y’all think?” he said. “It gonna snow?”

  He had big, bright eyes and a bushy beard that looked shiny in the morning light. Young, thick, and muscular, he still wore a back brace designed for lifting and I wondered if it was company policy.

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Not gonna happen,” Mickey said.

  The plum-colored smudges beneath Mickey’s small eyes and his pale, drawn skin evidenced his exhaustion. Which when added to his scraggly, untrimmed reddish beard and longish, unkempt strawberry-blond hair made him look a little maniacal, and I could tell the case was getting to him far more than he had let on.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m kinda thinkin’ it will.”

  “We shall soon see,” Mickey said.

  “So, y’all want to talk to me about Jaquez? I pray for that little man every day.”

  He held his work gloves down by his side, bringing them up occasionally when using his hands to talk, the worn-smooth fingers flapping in the breeze as he did.

  “We do,” I said. “Is that okay?”

  “Every day,” he repeated. “Without fail. I don’t mind talkin’ to you, but I don’t know anything.”

  “Any idea where he might be or what might have happened to him?” I said.

  He shook his head. “No idea. First thought I had was his mama got herself into some trouble and the boy paid the price, like maybe she owed somebody somethin’ for some drugs and they took him just to get her to pay up, but . . . after just a few minutes with her I knew that wasn’t the case. So I ain’t gonna be no help.”

  “Did the police look at you?”

  “Sure. Good and hard for a few minutes, but I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, and they moved on.”

  “Did Jaquez ever mention a man in the area who the kids called Creepy?”

  He shook his head. “That who took my boy?”

  “We honestly don’t know,” I said. “Just trying to find out.”

  “I wish I knew somethin’ that would help,” he said. “I’d do anything to get my boy back, but . . . his moms and I wasn’t together so I . . . . just don’t know anything.”

  “Do you recall if some of Jaquez’s clothes or toys were planted in your house or car during that time?”

  His eyes grew wide and he stopped moving for a moment. “Those were his? Never could figure out where those came from or how they got in my place. Why were they—who put them there?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said.

  “I don’t get it. What would that . . .”

  “Maybe try to make the cops think you had him,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  We were quiet a moment as he thought about it.

  “How’d you even know to ask?” he said.

  “It happened in some other cases of missing children,” I said. “Our theory is someone planted them to put suspicion on the fathers.”

  “What other cases?”

  I told him.

  “Any of those names sound familiar?”

  He nodded. “Vaughn.”

  “Vaughn Smith?” I said, my pulse rising.

  “Yeah.”

  “He lived up off Wesley Chapel,” I said. “How’d you know him?”

  “He get taken too?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Oh my God. Was it Wayne Williams?”

  “We don’t think so,” I said. “We really don’t. How’d you know Vaughn?”

  “Used to take Jaquez out for the day sometimes,” he said. “Grab a burger, go for a walk, climb Stone Mountain, go to the mall, shit like that. Sometimes we’d go to a movie right there on Memorial Drive not far from where he lived with his mother. Cordelia Smith worked at the theater. Vaughn, her kid, was always with her. Single mom. No help with him. He’d hang out, watch movies all day. We got to know them. He’d sit with us sometimes.”

  I nodded.

  He looked at the plastic watch strapped to his left wrist.

  “I gotta get back to work,” he said. “Let me know if you find out anything, will you?”

  “We will,” I said, and he rushed back inside the building.

  “So,” I said, “Vaughn Smith lived outside of our geographic pattern, but his mom worked right in the middle of it, and brought him to work with her—a lot from the sounds of it.”

  “Now the only anomaly on our list is Cedric’s dad not having any clothes planted in his place or car,” Mickey said.

  “Maybe he did,” I said.

  “He told us he didn’t.”

  “What he told us was that he wasn’t Cedric’s dad,” I said.

  “Oh shit, that’s right.”

  We were quiet a moment, thinking about it.

  “Whatta we do now?” Mickey said.

  “Would still like to talk to the other mothers.”

  “Can’t believe they’re so hard to find,” he said.

  “Unless Ida’s theory is right—is she still helping you look?” He nodded. “It’s pretty simple really,” I said. “Their names have changed—or were never the same as those of their s
ons to begin with. They’re poor so move around more. Different name in a different location—hell, that’s what people trying not to be found do.”

  “Oh my God this is gonna make such a good story,” he said. “If this doesn’t wind up being connected to the original case, I’ve got two books—one on the Atlanta Child Murders and one on this one.”

  That reminded me of what Frank had said about Mickey and his motives, and made me want to get away from him.

  “I’m gonna keep looking for the mothers and I’ve got a couple of other things to check out,” he said. “Can I drop you somewhere? Don’t you have class today?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Regretting not going to class or lunch with Pastor Don, feeling like a self-sabotaging loser, worried about and experiencing guilt over Frank, I threw myself into my work.

  Quietly, because my roommate was asleep on the other side of the thin wall, I dove into the trace evidence in the Atlanta Child Murders case like never before.

  With my phone off the hook, I sat in the middle of my floor surrounded by massive amounts of data.

  Most violent crimes involve physical contact between perpetrators and their victims. When this occurs, there is often an inadvertent transfer of microscopic debris—a person-to-person cross transfer. This transfer constitutes evidence and most often consists of hairs and fibers. This transfer of hairs and fibers, their discovery, collection, examination, and identification as trace evidence can be critical in linking a suspect to a victim or a crime scene.

  This was certainly true of the Atlanta Child Murders case.

  Textile fibers can be exchanged between two individuals, between an individual and an object, and between two objects. When fibers are matched with a specific source—a fabric from the victim, suspect, or crime scene—a value is placed on the association. This value is dependent on the type of fibers found, their color, variation of color, the quantity found, the location of fibers at the crime scene or on the victim, and the number of different fibers at the crime scene or on the victim that match the clothing of the suspect.

  Whether a fiber is transferred and detected is dependent on the nature and duration of contact between the suspect and the victim or crime scene, the persistence of fibers after the transfer, and the type of fabric involved in contact.