INNOCENT BLOOD: a John Jordan Mystery Book 7 (John Jordan Mysteries) Read online

  INNOCENT BLOOD

  Books by Michael Lister

  www.MichaelLister.com

  (John Jordan Novels)

  Power in the Blood

  Blood of the Lamb

  Flesh and Blood

  The Body and the Blood

  Blood Sacrifice

  Rivers to Blood

  Innocent Blood

  (Michael Connelly Intro)

  Written in Blood

  Blood Money

  (Jimmy “Soldier” Riley Novels)

  The Big Goodbye

  The Big Beyond

  The Big Hello

  In a Spider’s Web (short story)

  The Big Book of Noir

  (Merrick McKnight / Reggie Summers Novels)

  Thunder Beach

  A Certain Retribution

  (Remington James Novels)

  Double Exposure

  (includes intro by Michael Connelly)

  Separation Anxiety

  Three Killer Thrillers

  (Sam Michaels / Daniel Davis Novels)

  Burnt Offerings

  Separation Anxiety

  Three Killer Thrillers

  (Love Stories)

  Carrie’s Gift

  (Short Story Collections)

  North Florida Noir

  Florida Heat Wave

  Delta Blues

  Another Quiet Night in Desparation

  (The Meaning Series)

  The Meaning of Jesus

  Meaning Every Moment

  The Meaning of Life in Movies

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  www.MichaelLister.com and receive a free book.

  Innocent Blood

  a John Jordan Mystery

  by Michael Lister

  Introduction by

  Michael Connelly

  Pulpwood Press

  Copyright © 2015 by Michael Lister

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Inquiries should be addressed to: Pulpwood Press

  P.O. Box 35038

  Panama City, FL 32412

  Lister, Michael. Innocent Blood / Michael

  Lister. -----1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-888146-49-3 Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-888146-50-9 Paperback

  Book Design by Adam Ake

  Printed in the United States

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  First Edition

  Table Of Contents

  Introduction by Michael Connelly

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  About the Author

  For

  For those I first encountered and who quickly became family upon my arrival in Atlanta:

  The Paulks: LaDonna, Don, Clariece, Earl, Norma, and DE; Rick Howington, Randy Renfroe, Dana Harris, Deanna Har- ris, Richard Gaydos, Jeff Moore, Lance Young, Arie Rumph, Richie Haynes, Keith Philips, Dawn Brewer, Rick and Cheryl Busby, Adrian Bailey, Lonnie Holloway, Ken and Janice Mc- Farland, Greg and Cindy Hall, Russ Butcher, Bob Blackwood, Dan Rhodes, Pete Aycock, Jim Oborne, Duane Swilley, Tricia Weeks, Chip Wood, Jack Hammonds, Laura Gunter, Pam Palmer, Amy Palmer, Sue Skipper, Cheryl McGuire, John and Dottie Bridges, George Anthony, Don Ross, John and Derinda Hembree, Jeff and Lisa Gabriel, Vicki Howington, Rebecca Howington, Barry Smith, Don Kreglewicz, Lesley Ferguson, Dana Blackwood, Roger Foat, Cassius Turner, Kirby Clements, James Powers, Lynn Mays, Dawn Bagwell, Hannah Holmes, Suzanne Mays, Angie Martin, JulieMartin, Tonya Oborne, Bobby Brewer, Mike Stanborough, Rob Stan- borough, Chip Poole, Teresa Bridges Lucas, Karl Horstmann, Gino Zalunardo, Misty Stephens, JohnWiese, Jim and Dee Felt, Pedro Torres, Mike and Mozelle Cole, Gary Moore, Jerry Moore, Jon and Janice Stallings, Benny and Marla Grizzell, Raye Varney, David Pulaski, Matt Lucas, Rhonda Price, Teri Legg, Kristin Lee, Teresa Cozart, Dan Shives, Cheryl Blalock, Greg Maxwell, Dean Wild, Michael Yates, Michelle Gonzales, Randy Puckett, Sally Nicholson, Bubba and Kathi Wilson, Bob Hunter, Barry Smith.

  And for Tony and Kim Bolton for making the introduction.

  Special thanks to

  Dawn Lister, Jill Mueller,

  Adam Ake, Samuel Lourcey,

  Lou Columbus, LaDonna Paulk Diaz, Randy Renfroe,

  Don and Clariece Paulk,

  and Michael Connelly

  Introduction by

  Michael Connelly

  The reading of a novel is a mysterious and sacred thing. A solely internal process, it relies totally on one’s empathy, the ability to connect with another being – the story’s protagonist. To me it’s like thumbing a ride and getting into a car with a stranger behind the wheel. Except this driver doesn’t ask where you’re headed because you are going wherever he goes. So you head off and over time you get to know the driver. You can’t help it. You learn all about him as he drives. You pick up little stories, little moments of character. And yet he won’t tell you where he’s taking you. But that’s okay because not knowing the destination is the key to a good ride. And if you are lucky the conversation and the scenery along the way is equally as interesting as the final destination.

  It is a massive investment of time and creative energy to read a novel. You have to build characters in your imagination, even if they’re villains and you don’t like them. You create landscapes and emotions. It’s all very risky. Because the emotions are real even if the story isn’t. A sacred bond develops between the reader and the stranger behind the wheel.

  All of that is why you are in for a great ride with this book and why the following pages hold such a treat. If you are like me you’ve already invested heavily in the driver of this car. I had been in the car with John Jordan before on several journeys. I had picked up the vibe of his past. Something dark and damaging. They say the
past informs the present. Well, this man’s present seemed to be overwhelmed at times by the past. It hung out there just off the edges of each page.

  Now, with this novel, Michael Lister brings the past across the margins and onto the page. Now you get to know things. Now you get to understand. It’s a bold move by an author. The man with a mysterious past is a tried and true literary archetype. It worked with John Jordan for many years. Why mess with a good thing? Well, maybe because as a creator Lister wants to push things in from the margins and examine them and not rely on familiar archetypes. It’s risky but the pay off can be high. It is here in Innocent Blood. Lister gives a unique edition to the John Jordan story. Another great ride with a very assured driver behind the wheel.

  -- Michael Connelly

  Chapter One

  In 1980 I came face to face with the Atlanta Child Murderer.

  I was twelve years old. The same age as many of his victims.

  This singular experience not only forever changed me, but actually altered the course of my life.

  But long before this seminal visit to the city of Atlanta as a child, long before this encounter with evil, I was obsessed with the monster who was littering the woods of the metro area with the broken bodies of little black boys.

  It had begun on July 21, 1979, when Edward Hope Smith went missing.

  He was last seen leaving the Greenbriar Skating Rink on Stone Street, parting ways with his girlfriend at the intersection.

  His body was discovered seven days later in a wooded area in a ravine just off Niskey Lake Road by a woman looking for cans. He had been shot with a .22 in the upper back. The area, surrounded by loblolly pines, white oaks, an occasional dogwood, and creeping kudzu vines, was a popular spot for people to dump their trash.

  It was said that by the time his body was discovered, a vine from a nearby tree had already wrapped itself around the boy’s lifeless neck.

  My obsession had continued through the disappearance and death of Timothy Hill, a thirteen-year-old boy and friend of an earlier victim, Jo-Jo Bell. Timothy went missing on March 13, 1981, and was last seen in the area of Lawson Street and Sells Avenue. His body was found seventeen days later on March 30th––the same day Ronald Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr.––by a boater in the Chattahoochee River near Cochran Road. His partially submerged body was some twenty-five feet from the bank. The cause of death was determined to be asphyxia by suffocation.

  There were other victims, of course, but they weren’t children and I wasn’t nearly as obsessed with them.

  Children disappearing, dying, being discarded––some seventeen so far––held my developing mind hostage, seized my attention, captured my preteen imagination like nothing before ever had. And it was only partially because of the cruel and capricious nature of the killings, the fragility and vulnerability of childhood, and the fact that my dad, the sheriff of the small Florida Panhandle town were we lived, had a friend on the task force that was so ineffectually working the case. It was mostly because of how each and every little boy looked like and reminded me of my best friend in all the world, Merrill Monroe.

  My fateful confrontation with the killer took place during the final weekend in November 1980, surrounded by gaudy gold Christmas decorations and to the soundtrack of traditional Christmas carols played through cheap speakers, the thin, electronic noises of video games, the wooden pop of pinball machines, and the desultory sounds of the city Sherman had burned to the ground.

  Our parents had brought us to Atlanta, on what would be our final family vacation, to stay in the Omni hotel, to ice skate and shop, to play in the arcade and ride the gigantic escalator to the carnival in the clouds, to experience the spectacle of a hotel that could hold more people than lived in our entire little town.

  While Nancy, Jake, and I skated and played, Mom drank and Christmas shopped, and Dad watched TV in the room when he wasn’t meeting with his friend on the task force.

  The Omni fit its name––all or of all things––for the mammoth structure seemed to my twelve-year-old self to contain all things. Whether shooting up several stories in seconds in the elevator or riding the enormous escalator to the fair or looking out the window of our room at the tiny figures ice skating below, the hotel held so very many larger-than-life and unexpected attractions, and yet retained an open and airy quality of hushed tones and lost sounds into which it seemed everything else in the world could easily fit.

  Outside the hotel, fear and palpable racial tensions pulsed through the city. Inside, everyone whose job it was to cater to our comfort tried to pretend there was no world outside this one, but an uneasy anxiety coiled beneath the surface betrayed them––not unlike the one I sensed just behind the strained civility displayed by my parents.

  It was during the afternoon of our second day that I saw him, the monster dressed like a man. And not just any man, a soft, slightly effeminate, light-skinned black man in a long-sleeved, large-collared silk shirt with thick wire-framed glasses and a big afro––only part of which was visible beneath a Braves baseball cap.

  Nancy was teaching Jake to ice skate in the large round rink right in the center of the hotel. I was in the video game arcade trying to beat my best score on Space Invaders.

  I had just failed to prevent the invasion when he walked in carrying a handful of flyers.

  Unhurriedly and unapologetically he scoped out the arcade.

  After identifying his marks, he began approaching black kids by themselves, handing each one a flyer, asking them if they wanted to be a star.

  The flyers read: CAN YOU?? Sing or Play an Instrument * If YOU Are Between “11-21” (male or female) And Would Like to Become A Professional Entertainer, “YOU” Can Apply for POSITIONS with Professional Recording Acts No experience is Necessary, Training is Provided. All Interviews Private & FREE!! *

  There was something off about the man, some seeming contradiction between his arrogance and neediness, something loose and lascivious in the way he moved and looked at the kids around the arcade.

  When he approached a short, scrawny kid of about ten years old in a blue turtleneck playing a KISS pinball machine, the kid shook his head without looking at him.

  “Look at me, little brother,” he said.

  Continuing to play the game with intense concentration, he shook his head again without taking his eyes off the ball.

  The creepy man then laid the flyer on the glass top of the pinball machine, blocking the boy’s view and causing him to lose the turn.

  “You heard of the Jackson Five, ain’t ya? You could be like little Michael.”

  That stood out to me because I had just seen Michael Jackson in a silver-and-black sequined suit, backlit by a shimmering green light, performing Rock with You in the room before I came down, and he wasn’t little anymore.

  The boy abandoned his game and walked away with his head down.

  When the dull-eyed, doughy young man followed, I stepped away from Space Invaders and in front of him.

  “He said he’s not interested,” I said.

  “Whoa, little man,” he said, holding the hand without the flyers up in a placating gesture. “I’m just trying to help the youth of our city reach their potential.”

  I didn’t say anything, just stood there.

  On the same day all this happened, little LaMarcus Williams was murdered less than fifteen miles away from where we were standing at that moment. It would happen just six hours later in a place that would come to hold great significance for me, but it would be a full six years before I knew anything about it––when it became the first murder investigation I ever conducted.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

  He had been leaning back considering me, eyeing me up and down, a bemused expression on his wrinkled black face.

  I didn’t respond, just held his gaze.

  “Where you from?” he asked. “Ain’t here, is it?”

  Anger flashed in his face when I still refused to respond.
r />   “Just ’cause I prefer chocolate don’t mean I couldn’t go for some vanilla,” he said.

  I still didn’t respond, just stood there, every muscle in my undeveloped body tense. I wanted to look around, to see if there were any adults close by who might help, but I didn’t want to break eye contact with him.

  “I can make you talk little man,” he said. “Make you do other things too.”

  My pounding heart was pumping adrenaline through me and I could feel myself beginning to shake.

  He stepped toward me.

  Just before I took a step back, there was a flash of movement behind me.

  “What’s going on here?” a security guard asked.

  He had just come up behind us, a pale, thin, older white man in a too-big hotel security uniform.

  “Nothin’. I’s just leavin’. Little man here misunderstood my intentions. That’s all. It’s cool.”

  With that he turned and slowly swaggered away, down the game aisle and out the door.

  If I had known then what I found out later––that the latest victim, Patrick “Pat Man” Rogers, had told Mary Harper that a man wanted to record his songs right before he went missing, I might have been even more suspicious, might have said something to someone about the soft man with the handful of flyers harassing kids in the arcade of the Omni hotel, and I might have actually saved the several victims still to come.

  But I didn’t know and I didn’t act and it has haunted me ever since the moment when––seven months later, on June 21, 1981––Wayne Williams was arrested, and the satan who had laid siege to South Atlanta and frightened a nation finally had an all too human face.