BLOOD WORK: a John Jordan Mystery (John Jordan Mysteries Book 12)

by Michael Lister

  “About the party that night,” Dad says. “You still certain you remember seeing her there?”

  “I am. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. She was this amazing, electric person. I’d’ve been aware of her even if she wasn’t my best friend. She was there.”

  “Did you talk to her?” he says.

  She shakes her head. “She never came inside. I’m not sure why exactly. I only saw her from the upstairs window. She didn’t stay long. She pulled up. She and Ben talked for a little while, then he left with her.”

  “What were you doing upstairs?” he asks.

  “I hope you won’t think too badly of me if I tell you that my boyfriend and I had just made love. There was a bedroom up there with an old mattress on the floor. I shudder to think of how dirty it must have been now, but . . . He had gone down the hall to the bathroom and I was getting dressed near the window when I saw her pull up.”

  “We don’t think badly of you at all,” I say. “He was a very lucky young man. Brad Barnes, right?”

  “Gosh, this is really going to sound bad, but . . . I was young and . . . he wasn’t really my boyfriend . . . anyway . . . Brad broke up with me at the ball.”

  “Really? Wow. What a terrible thing to do.”

  “It really was,” she says. “I was hurt and I was young and impulsive and . . . I had been drinking. I was up there with a guy named Gary Blaylock. It wasn’t a one-night stand or anything. We dated for a long time after that, even lived together for a while after high school.”

  “He also saw Janet there, didn’t he?” Dad says. “I didn’t realize y’all were together.”

  “We weren’t. I was in the bedroom. He was in the bathroom. We didn’t know we’d both seen her ’til later.”

  “Why’d you and Brad break up?” I ask.

  The color drains from her face, she takes a deep breath, and it appears as though it physically hurts her to say it. “He was hung up on Janet. He sensed something was wrong between her and Ben and he thought . . .”

  Dad and I exchange a look she doesn’t see.

  “That never came out back then either,” Dad says.

  “Sorry. I was embarrassed, but I wasn’t trying to hide anything. If I’d thought it had anything to do with what happened to Janet . . . I would’ve . . . said something, but . . .”

  “It may have been the key to solving the whole thing,” Dad says.

  “What?” she asks, her voice rising. “How? I don’t understand.”

  “What if Brad tried something and she shot him down and he lost it and . . .” I say. “What if she and Brad got together? What if Ben found them?”

  “Oh my God. No. There’s . . . no way. Believe me, I’m not fan of Brad Barnes but there’s no way he or Ben could do what was done to Janet. Not in a millions years. No way. It has to be Bundy. Do something like that. Has to be. I just wish we knew where he hid her body.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “How are you holding up?” I ask.

  Dad and I are back in his truck, driving away from Sunland.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What do you need? You ready to eat? Need something to drink? Take something?”

  “What I need is a new body,” he says. “Short of that . . .”

  “Figured we go see Janet’s family now, then get some lunch, and I’ll track down a few things while you take a nap.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He’s been resistant to the idea of going to see Janet’s family, though he hasn’t come out and said so, and I wonder what his hesitation is about.

  “Do you not want to go see Janet’s family?” I ask.

  “We’ve got to see everybody,” he says.

  “You just seem hesitant to go there.”

  “It’s a sad place,” he says. “And a reminder of my biggest fuckup and failure.”

  I nod slowly and give him an understanding look. “I can go alone if you’d rather.”

  “Nah. Thanks. I’ve got to face them again. Just . . . not looking forward to it.”

  “Then we should do it next and get it out of the way.”

  He nods. “Fine. What about what Kathy said?”

  “Sheriff rushes us out of his office this morning and now we find out his brother had a thing for the victim and made a play for her the night she disappeared.”

  “Got to add him to our list of people to interview,” he says. “But what about two of the main witnesses who say they saw Janet there that night and saw her leave with Ben having the kind of connection they do?”

  “A love connection?”

  “Angry, revengeful, I-just-got-dumped-because-my-boyfriend-has-a-thing-for-my-best-friend sex is not love,” he says.

  “You speaking from experience?”

  Ignoring my question he asks one of his own. “Why not tell us they were together upstairs that night?”

  “Maybe out of embarrassment. Like she said.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe they’re lying. One saw from the bedroom window at the same time one saw from the bathroom window down the hall. You heard what Sabrina said. Kathy was obsessed with Janet. Was jealous of her, wanted to be her—or at least take her place.”

  “If it was someone Janet knew and not Bundy or another stranger,” I say, “why take the body? Why hide it? Why do that to her family? Seems like an excessive level of hate and anger.”

  “Yes it does. And that’s worth remembering.”

  We ride along in silence a moment, Dad trying to get comfortable in his seat.

  “You heard from Jake?” I ask.

  “No. Why?”

  “I tried calling him last night and this morning and it goes straight to voicemail, which is full, and he hasn’t called me back.”

  The Lester place is an old two-story wooden house on some former farmland. It sits at the end of a wooded, white rock and pebble driveway, an old barn where Janet used to keep her horse in the back. The yard, like the house and the barn and the family, is in disrepair, in need of care and restoration.

  One look at Verna Lester and I can see why Dad was averse to the idea of coming here. She wears her brokenness like a burial shroud and the sadness in her eyes is difficult to take in, though I don’t look away.

  “Jack,” she says to Dad when she opens the door, her voice filled with surprise and something else—more pain maybe, or maybe something a little more subtle and complex than that, something bittersweet with streaks of pain and pleasure.

  “Verna,” Dad says, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands. “Mind if we come in? This is my son, John.”

  “Hi John. It’s so nice to meet you. Yes. Sorry. Please come in.”

  She leads us through a cathedral-ceilinged foyer filled with huge framed photographs, mostly professional portraits, of Janet and Ralphie, through an immaculate and nicely furnished open-concept living room/dining room/kitchen, to a den beyond.

  Unlike the rest of the rooms, the den actually looks lived-in—a comfortable, well-worn couch and chairs, a TV showing cartoons, a small stack of mail that includes a newspaper and a couple of catalogs on the coffee table.

  Ralphie, a soft, overweight man with glasses, hearing aids, and other obvious impairments, is seated in a recliner snickering and repeating certain words and lines from the cartoon on the television.

  “Ralphie, you remember the sheriff,” Verna says, muting the TV with the remote from the coffee table.

  “Hey Ralphie,” Dad says.

  “Sheriff Jack,” Ralphie exclaims, clearly happy to see Dad. “Sheriff Jack.”

  “Hey,” Dad says. “How’s my old crime-stopper buddy?”

  Dad’s demeanor and tone of voice take on a certain quality of kindly condescendence that is sweet and endearing.

  Not only is this extra time with Dad such a gift, the opportunity to help him so rewarding, but I’m getting to see and appreciate him in ways I never have before.

  With the help of a cane, Ralphie pushes himself up and awkwardly hugs Dad.


  Ralphie is large and crippled, Dad weak and sore, and I step over toward them to catch Dad if Ralphie’s weight and clumsiness is too much for him.

  “He’s always loved your dad,” Verna says. “Sheriff Jack is his hero.”

  “Mine too,” I say.

  “Okay, Ralphie,” she says. “Let him go now. Sit back down and I’ll turn your show back up.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Ralphie lets go and returns to his recliner.

  I look over at Dad. He’s breathing heavily but seems okay.

  “Why don’t we step out onto the porch so we can talk?” Verna says as she turns up the volume on Ralphie’s cartoon.

  “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 . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  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.”