“Really?” I ask.
She nods. “I felt so . . . I don’t know. It was just a good night, you know? I hadn’t had a lot of them. I felt so grown up, so with it. Hip and sophisticated. Had my own car. I looked the cat’s ass. It was a magic night for me.”
“You came to the party, but didn’t go inside,” I say. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t stay long, did you?”
“No. Not long.”
“What’d you do?”
“Talked to Ben Tillman mostly. He was all sad and . . . He’d been stood up. He’d been drinking and was gettin’ pretty drunk. He was convinced that Janet had gone to meet another guy instead of come to the party. His ego was hurt. I tried to cheer him up.”
“Who did he think she was with?” I ask.
She looks away and seems to think about it. “Kathy’s boyfriend maybe or some other guy he thought she had been secretly seeing. An older guy. I’m not sure.”
“So you talked to Ben for a while and then he left with you,” I say.
She nods. “He was with me that night,” she says. “I’ve told y’all.”
“What happened? Where’d you go? What’d you do?”
“Drove around for a little while. Eventually found a quiet spot to park.”
“And?”
“And it was a magic night until . . . He wouldn’t look at me when . . . while we were . . . and then . . . he said her name as he . . . finished.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Wasn’t the last time that happened.”
“Then I’m really, really sorry.”
She shrugs. “All’s well that ends well. I’m all good now.” She turns a little to take in her home. “I’ve got everything I always wanted.”
“Where did you take him after y’all . . . when y’all left the . . .” Dad says.
“Dropped him off at his house—well, down the block from it.”
“What time was that?”
Her eyes narrow and get the accessing-memories look again. “I’m really not sure. It was late, but . . .”
“Were you late gettin’ to the party?” I ask.
“A little. Not much.”
“And you didn’t stay long.”
“Right.”
“How long did you ride around? How long did y’all park for?”
“A while. Couple of hours probably. Why?”
“Because you provide Ben an alibi for a little while but not nearly the whole night.”
Chapter Forty-one
We spend the next couple of hours tracking down the witnesses from the farmhouse party the night Janet went missing—including Kathy, Charles, Gary, Ann, Valarie, and others.
Most we see in person. A few we have to talk to via live video—mostly FaceTime, but at least one on Skype.
We show each of them the picture of Sabrina near her aunt’s car and ask if that’s who they thought was Janet at the party that night.
Without exception the ones who had said they saw Janet that night say yes, this is the person they believed to be her.
“So we now know she wasn’t there that night,” Dad says.
We have just gotten back into his truck after questioning the last witness on our list.
“Not for sure, but with a relatively high degree of certainty,” I say. “Which argues for it being Bundy instead of Ben.”
He nods. “Still want to talk to him again.”
“Let’s do.”
Unlike the basement bar Ronnie hangs out in, we find Ben at an actual bar. We just have to drive seventeen miles outside of town to do so.
“Ben wasn’t the one who threatened me in my room,” Dad says.
“How do you know?”
“That guy didn’t smell of booze.”
I smile.
We walk over to the bar and take a seat on either side of Ben.
Ben, who is hunched over his drink, looks up briefly, shakes his head slowly, and returns to the previous position.
The female bartender looks to be in her sixties, but could be younger. She has sun-damaged skin, a smoker’s wrinkles around her mouth, a missing tooth, and wariness.
“What’ll you have?” she says.
“Bud Light,” Dad says.
“Diet Coke and grenadine,” I say.
“You serve cops in here?” Ben says.
“Cops and criminals alike,” she says as she withdraws a bottle of Bud from the cooler beneath her, pops the top, and places it in front of Dad.
“And another one for him,” Dad says, nodding toward Ben.
She smiles. It’s a good smile. “Oh, I’m sure he’s too principled to take a round from a cop.”
“Wait just a . . . just a minute there, Sherry Lynn. Not so . . . fast.”
He turns to Dad. “Take care of my tab and my drinks for the rest of the night and you can . . . and I . . . will . . . talk to you.”
“You’ll answer all our questions honestly?” I say.
He turns toward me. “What’d you say Mr. Diet Coke and grenadine?”
“I bet you have a pretty sporty tab,” I say. “You’ve got to earn it. Answer our questions honestly.”
“Deal,” he says, nodding. “I have nothing to hide. Hell, I . . . also . . . have . . . nothing.”
Dad takes out his credit card and hands it to Sherry Lynn. “You can run it for his tab and drinks tonight when we’re done if he answers our questions honestly.”
She nods, takes the card, turns around, opens her register, puts it in it, and makes a note on a small notepad on the counter beside it.
“You heard the man, Ben,” she says. “Cooperate with them or . . . I ain’t runnin’ it.”
“I have nothing to hide,” he says. “I . . . have . . . nothin’ at all anymore. ’Cept a lawnmower my old man bought me.”
“We know you left the party with Sabrina not Janet that night,” Dad says.
“Hold up . . . hold up. You’re tryin’ to . . . trick me. That’s not a question. That’s a . . . a . . . the other thing.”
“A statement,” I offer.
“It’s just like . . . Junior says,” Ben says. “It’s a . . . it’s a . . . a . . . statement. But not . . . the kind . . . that’s like a . . . bill.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you left with Sabrina?” Dad says. “You had an alibi. You wasted our time and resources. Why?”
“Why?” Ben repeats. “Why? I’ll . . . I’m just drunk enough to tell you why.”
He pauses to take another swig of his drink.
“Because . . .” he continues. “Because . . . while my girl was being . . . being killed . . . I was bangin’ some Janet wannabe.”
He starts crying.
Dad and I look at Sherry Lynn.
“Oh, just wait,” she says. “That’s nothin’. Wait ’til he’s had some more and really gets to opening up. He can be one maudlin motherfucker.”
“I . . . was . . . I was mad,” Ben says. “Thought . . . she stood me up. Thought she was . . . teasing me ’cause she said we were gonna . . . you know . . . for the first time that night. And then she . . . she didn’t show. She . . . I . . . I was fuckin’ Sabrina while she was . . . while Janet was . . . being . . .”
He has carried around so much guilt for so long it’s a part of his molecular structure now. The grief from losing her would have been difficult enough, but together with the guilt it’s debilitating.
“Who do you think did it?” I ask. “Who do you think killed her?”
He looks from me to Dad then back to me, his face a mask of confusion. “Bundy,” he says. “Right? Has to be. He . . . was . . . got her before she . . . She never . . . made it . . . to the . . . party because . . . he . . . I . . . was there when . . .”
“You were where?” Dad asks.
“When he . . . when they . . . fried him. I . . . drove down there. Stayed . . . up all night . . . outside the . . . prison. I . . . was there for . . . her when they . . . juiced his balls and
short circuited his brainpan. Kicked the shit . . . out of some fuckin’ . . . protestor of the . . . death penalty. Told him . . . about what that . . . son of a bitch Bundy did . . . to my . . . girl.”
He starts crying again.
“We . . . wouldn’t . . . we wouldn’t have wound up . . . together. Not . . . not for . . . ever. She was . . . she was too good for . . . me. She was . . . magic. So beautiful . . . so sweet . . . so talented. I worshiped the . . . the ground she . . . walked on.”
“Some witnesses said you seemed distracted at the ball and that you two may have been fighting,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I . . . was . . . nervous . . . and . . . We had . . . we had talked about goin’ all the way that . . . weekend. I . . . I was planning to . . . propose after we . . . or . . . before. I couldn’t—”
“Hey, hey, Sherry Lynn,” an older man at the end of the bar says. “Turn it up. Look at that. Turn it up.”
He’s pointing toward the TV hanging on the wall behind us. We turn to see what he’s referring to, as Sherry Lynn turns up the volume.
It’s a local newscast out of Dothan.
“. . . is believed to be the remains of Janet Leigh Lester,” a young brunette reporter is saying. “Lester went missing on February 12, 1978. Her car, which was covered in blood, was found in a pasture on Highway 71 not far from the I-10 ramp near Marianna. The sheriff leading the original investigation believed serial killer Ted Bundy was responsible for her disappearance. Bundy was known to be in the vicinity the night in question, but the convicted serial killer, responsible for the deaths of some thirty women around the country, maintained his innocence of the crime up until the time of his execution in Florida’s electric chair in 1989. . .”
I look over at Dad.
He shakes his head and frowns. “Guess we can let Eglin know to call off the search over there. Hell, I doubt they’ve even started yet.”
“Where is that?” I ask. “What is she standing in front of?”
Behind the reporter there is a statue or monument of some kind, but it’s mostly obscured by police cars and crime scene techs.
“I don’t recognize it,” Sherry Lynn says.
“They found her?” Ben says. “They found my Janet?”
“Looks like it,” the older man who first saw it says.
As Glenn Barnes fills the screen to give a statement, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A moment later, Dad’s does too.
“Y’all found her?” Anna asks.
“This is the first we’re hearing of this,” I say.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll let you keep watching. Call me later when you can.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“. . . certain at this point, but we have reason to believe there’s a good possibility these are the remains of Janet Leigh Lester. . .”
“How was her—how was she discovered after all this time?” Ben says.
“. . . I can’t get into any specifics,” Glenn says. “This is an ongoing investigation, but I’ll be giving a press conference just as soon as we have information to share. . .”
Dad is nodding, the phone still pressed to his ear. “I’m on my way,” he says.
Disconnecting the call, he stands.
I pat Ben on the back. He’s crying even harder now and looks like he’s about to lean too far forward and fall out of his chair.
“I need to get over to Verna’s,” Dad says. “She just saw this like everyone else. Bastard didn’t notify her or warn her in any way.” Then to Sherry Lynn, “Can you total us up, including Ben’s tab?”
“Sure, sugar,” she says, still shaking her head as she watches the TV. “Can’t believe after all this time they found her. Wonder how?”
“I wonder that too,” I say.
“Me too,” Dad says, “and I plan to find out.”
Chapter Forty-two
When we walk into Verna’s house, we find Darlene Weatherly, the short, thick, muscular deputy Glenn had asked to search for similar cases.
She and Verna are in the den alone. Ralphie is in his bedroom and Ronnie is still in custody.
“John,” Darlene says, nodding to me as we walk into the room.
“Oh, Jack,” Verna says, rushing over to Dad, the two of them embracing. “Can you believe . . . after all this time.”
“This is my dad, Jack Jordan,” I say to Darlene. “Dad this is Darlene Weatherly, the deputy I mentioned to you who’s looking into the similar cases.”
Though embracing Verna, Dad nods. “Nice to meet you.”
“Can you believe we had to find out about this on TV?” Verna says.
“No, I can’t,” Dad says. “I was surprised I didn’t get a call, but I’m shocked you didn’t get a—”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Darlene says. “I’m very sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Sheriff Barnes said to please convey his apologies. He had no idea the media would be there and report on it so soon. He’s very sorry. He said to tell you that he’ll be by in person as soon as he can. Before the press got involved, he wanted the opportunity to verify that it was her before getting your hopes up.”
“This is not how any of this should’ve been handled,” Dad says.
“Where was she found?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
Dad says, “It was on TV for everyone to see but you can’t tell us.”
“Sorry,” she says, frowning and shrugging. “I can tell you that John here’s the reason we found her.”
“What do you mean?” Verna asks, then looks at me. “What does she mean?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“It was him asking us to look for similar cases that led us to her. If I hadn’t been looking at old cases, I would’ve never uncovered the . . . what I needed to . . . in order to find her.”
Verna starts to ask her something else, but Darlene holds up her hand.
“I’m real sorry,” she says. “I am. But I’ve already said more than I was supposed to. The sheriff will be over to talk to you as soon as he can. He’ll have a lot more information for you and can answer your questions. I’m very sorry for your loss, but I am glad we finally found her for you. I’m gonna go now, but—”
“Tell me this before you do,” Verna says. “Is Ronnie getting out of jail tonight?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not.”
“Can you make sure I’m notified when he does? I don’t want to be alone with him. I want someone here with me when he comes home. Preferably the police, who can be here while he packs a few things then escort him out.”
Darlene nods. “I’ll make sure you’re notified, but it won’t be tonight—and probably not even tomorrow.”
“Thank you. And thanks again for your part in helping find my baby girl.”
“You’re so welcome. Good night, ma’am.”
She turns and starts to leave the room.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
Chapter Forty-three
By walking Darlene out, I not only give Dad and Verna a little time alone together but can see if I can get any more information out of her.
We walk back through the open kitchen and living room, through the photograph-covered foyer, and out into the warm, humid night.
As soon as we’re outside she says, “How good are you at keeping shit to yourself?”
“The best. You can tell me anything. It’ll stay between us.”
“I can’t believe that glory-hogging bastard didn’t even let y’all know what we had. He’s such a fuckin’ prick. You know what the extent of the credit you’ll get will be? An anonymous tip. That’s it. You’ll be an anonymous tip. And I won’t be shit. It was your idea and my work that found her, but . . . we won’t get . . . Look at where I am and what I’m doin’ while they’re over there at the crime scene I led them to. I’m sick of it.”
“Where is it? Where’d you find her?”
“A little park on Caverns Road.”
“How
?” I say. “How’d you find her?”
“By doin’ what your ass asked me to do—looking at every crime that’s occurred since she went missing—and a few from a little before.”
“I didn’t say every crime. I said every homicide and missing person case—anything that had any similarities to—”
“Well . . . good thing I misunderstood you, ’cause . . .”
“How sure are you it’s her?”
“As sure as we can be without some sort of DNA confirmation or something like that, but it’s her.”
“How do you know?”
“Clothes. Jewelry. ID in what was left of her wallet. Only bones left of her, but she was wrapped in some sort of blanket or something and then a nylon or polyurethane material around it. Preserved everything about as good as could be expected without a coffin.”
I think about what that means.
“You know I know a lot more about this case than anybody realizes,” she says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s just frustrating. I’ve read and studied it and thought about it for years and . . . nobody ever even asks what I think.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
She smiles. “I didn’t mean you, but . . . I’ll tell you sometime. Anyway, they already got her dental records from her dentist—local guy still in practice, though his son mostly runs it now. They’re checking her records against what they found, but it’s her.”
“Tell me about the park where she was found,” I say.
“It’s very small. More of a monument garden than park. Local black civic group built it back in 2000. It’s called Tree of Peace or the Peace Tree or something like that. I don’t know a lot about it, but I think it has something to do with the last spectacle lynching in the country that took place here back during the Great Depression. Maybe some other racial shit. Dozier maybe.”
“What made you look there?”
“I got lucky. I looked at some shit and made a guess or two.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll tell you, but only because I don’t trust Glenn and I won’t be here much longer. But don’t you do anything to hurt me with this. I’ve applied to work with the highway patrol. Don’t fuck that up for me.”
BLOOD WORK: a John Jordan Mystery (John Jordan Mysteries Book 12) Page 15