Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Read online

  “Baptist or Pentecostal . . . I . . . think. Should’ve seen . . . him. Put . . . on . . . a . . . hazmat suit to come . . . in and tell . . . me . . . I was an abomination . . . and going . . . to hell.”

  I shook my head. “I’m so sorry. Wonder why they let him in?”

  “Some of the doctors . . . and . . . nurses agree with . . . him.”

  “Guess religious assholes don’t have a corner on the market on stupid.”

  His smile looked more like a grimace but his eyes showed the intent of the expression.

  “You . . . really don’t think I’m . . . going to hell?” he asked. “Sorry I ask you every time.”

  “If God’s love is conditional, if she loves you less than I do and capriciously and vindictively flings people into hell, would you even want to go to heaven?”

  “I . . . don’t want . . . to go to . . . hell.”

  I realized how theoretical and unhelpful my question had been. There was nothing comforting or reassuring about it. It was too abstract, too academic, and I felt bad, felt as if I was failing him.

  “You won’t.”

  I genuinely and sincerely believed he wouldn't. But that's all it was––belief. It occurred to me that the preacher telling him he was going to hell and me telling him he wasn't weren't nearly as different as we seemed. We were men of conviction, of faith, of belief, and I found it deeply disturbing that we differed not in kind but type.

  “I’m so scared,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I want my mama to love me again.”

  And more than anything in the world at that moment that’s what I wanted too.

  “I appreciate your approach,” LaDonna said when we were back in the car, flying down I-20 toward Decatur.

  I laughed. “Am I being mocked?”

  “Only a little. Just in the way I said it.”

  I shook my head.

  “I mean it though,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “No, I really do. I mean you’re too earnest, too serious, and I think you hold yourself to a standard that’s too . . .”

  I laughed. “The whole appreciating my approach thing is not coming through.”

  “’Cause I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

  “If you’ll recall, that was the only part when I said it to you.”

  “You’re so . . . real,” she said, ignoring me. “And . . . sincere. So compassionate . . . you seem so passionate about God, but you’re one of the least religious people I’ve ever met. You’re a . . . I was gonna say contradiction . . . but I’m not sure you are. It’s just . . . you seem equally passionate about finding LaMarcus Williams’s killer as you do ministering to Roger Lawson.”

  She’s right, I thought. I am.

  “Thank you,” I said around the lump in my throat. “That’s very . . . Thank you.”

  “You just might be really and truly unique, John Jordan,” she said. “And how many people can you say that about.”

  “He who would be a man must be a nonconformist,” I said.

  “Or woman,” she said.

  “He who would be a woman is undoubtedly a nonconformist,” I said.

  22

  When I pulled up in front of my apartment in Trade Winds, Jordan Moore was waiting for me.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I just wanted to talk to you some more.”

  “What about Larry?” I said. “Is it okay for you to be here?”

  “He’s at work. Or with one of his women. And Trade Winds is the last place in the world he’d look for me.”

  “Home sweet home,” I said, looking around.

  “You look nice,” she said. “Were you on a date? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  I shook my head. “No girlfriend. Just a . . . casual date.”

  “With who?”

  I told her.

  “I know I have no right to be,” she said, “but I’m jealous.”

  Touched by what she said, disarmed by her honesty and openness, moved by her vulnerability, I took her in my arms and hugged her for a very long time.

  “Wow,” she said. “Didn’t realize just how much I needed to be . . . I can’t remember the last time I was hugged. And don’t think I’ve ever been hugged like that.”

  As she spoke, I realized how much I needed it too, how much touch, warmth, contact, connection was missing from my life.

  I was far from home, in a city not my own, surrounded by strangers and acquaintances.

  I tried to remember the last time I had been hugged. Not the sideways, chest bump, double back tap of bros or the lean back, breast-avoiding, quick motherly kind in church, but a real, tight, intimate embrace where something like love and humanity passes between the huggers.

  The last hug like that I had received and given was with Anna and it had been months before.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” she asked.

  “How about those swings over there,” I said, nodding over between the tattered tennis courts and the basketball court Martin and I played on.

  “Is it safe?”

  “I seriously doubt it,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  We walked across the parking lot, up the small slope, through the damp grass, and sat in swings like I hadn’t been in since childhood.

  Facing each other, we both instinctively reached up and wrapped our hands around the chains.

  “This is nice,” she said.

  “Luxury apartments come with a lot of perks,” I said.

  For a long moment we just moved back and forth a bit, enjoying the night, sounds of the unseen city all around us receding even further into the distance.

  “It’s not my fault he was taken, is it?” she said.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “And wouldn’t’ve been even if you had been looking down and there was time for someone to run in and grab him.”

  “I could never figure what I had done wrong but I’ve lived with such . . . with so much guilt.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She nodded. “Thanks to you, I know that now.”

  “Did anything out of the ordinary happen?” I asked. “Were you two pulled away to do anything for any length of time? Any emergencies? Anyone come to the door? Anything?”

  She shook her head. “We never looked away for more than a few seconds at a time. And between the two of us maybe we didn’t even do that. Mom got a phone call. I spilled my drink. We each went to the bathroom at different times, but when one of us wasn’t looking––for whatever reason––the other one was. When Mom went to the bathroom I actually stopped wrapping, got up from the table, walked over to the window, and watched him from there the entire time. Even opened the window and talked to him through it.”

  I thought about it.

  “We knew what was going on. It was in the newspapers every day, on the TV every night. That’s the unbelievable part about it. I watched with all my might, really took it seriously, but no one watched him like Mom. No mother ever watched her son any closer than she did. No one. So whatever happened had to have happened when I was watching. Not her. It can’t be her. Has to be me. I did something. Missed something. Have forgotten something.”

  “I don’t think you did,” I said.

  She didn’t respond and we were quiet a while.

  “Was LaMarcus’s dad involved with him? Did he ever come around?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I can only remember seeing him a couple of times. Stands out because it always involved conflict. You think he––”

  “Just considering all possibilities.”

  “You’ll have to ask Mom about him. I can’t really remember much of anything about him.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about LaMarcus’s little fort in the bushes.”

  “I didn’t even know it existed until he . . . until after he . . . I didn’t realize it at the time, but I can see now that I was too wrapped up in my own litt
le world. There was a lot I didn’t know about LaMarcus, a lot I didn’t appreciate. I was too much of a typical self-centered teenager. Something else I’ve felt guilty for since . . . all this time.”

  “Ida told me you were very good to him, like a second mom. Nothing about what she said sounded like a typical teenager.”

  “You’re so . . .” she began. “Thank you. You’re . . . you always respond with kindness. It’s very rare.”

  “It’s not all that rare,” I said. “I think the company you’ve been keeping has caused you to forget that.”

  She nodded. “That’s probably true.”

  “Can I ask you something? Can you tell me why you’re with someone like Larry?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure I can answer that. I’m not sure I know fully. I know it’s not just one reason. Maybe this hasn’t happened to you, maybe it never will, but there are times . . . Sometimes in life you wind up in a position, a place, a prison cell and you honestly have no idea how you got into it and you have no idea how to get out of it.”

  “Could it be . . . Is it possible . . .”

  “What? ” she said. “Just say it. It’s okay. Just be honest.”

  “The way he treats you . . . the bullying, the abuse, the other women . . . You’ve mentioned how guilty you feel, how you blamed yourself for LaMarcus getting taken, for . . . for not knowing where his hideout was, for being what you called self-centered . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is it possible you’re punishing yourself?”

  She started to say something but instead burst into tears.

  She cried for a while.

  I waited.

  Eventually, she nodded. “I’ve never thought of it that way. No one’s ever . . . I’ve just always thought I deserved any bad thing that happens. He hit me when I was pregnant the first time. I lost the baby. The second time . . . nothing he did to me ended the pregnancy, but he did enough so when the baby was born she had a lot of health issues. She was sickly all of her short life and then she died and I . . . I thought . . . you let your brother get snatched by a serial killer. No way God’s gonna let you have a baby. No way. This is your fault. You did this. You deserve this. When I found out I couldn’t have kids again . . . I thought . . . you deserve that too.”

  “But you didn’t,” I said. “You don’t deserve bad things. You aren’t being punished. You’re not . . . You’re punishing yourself.”

  “I’ve never seen it before, but you’re . . . You wanna hear somethin’ truly twisted? Part of the reason I’ve stayed with . . . Larry . . . part of what I kept thinkin’ was . . . he lost a child too. I kept thinkin’ we’re the only two people on the planet who lost that child. We share somethin’ no one else in the world does. And I can’t really blame him when I’m the reason it happened. I’m the one being punished.”

  “What was her name?” I asked.

  “Savannah,” she said. “My little Savannah Grace. Thanks for asking.”

  “Yon,” Martin said. “Yon.”

  He was crossing the parking lot in pajamas and socks, waving his small hand.

  Jordan wiped her eyes.

  “I can go over there to meet him if you need––”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Thank you. You’ve helped me more in the short time I’ve known you than anyone has in six years.”

  “’Ey Yon,” he said when he reached us. “’Ut ’oo ’oin’.”

  “Just talking to my friend. This is Jordan Moore. Jordan, this is Martin Fisher.”

  She extended her hand and they shook and spoke.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Martin Fisher,” she said.

  “What’re you doin’ up?” I asked.

  “Where’s your mom?” Jordan asked. “Why are you up so late?”

  Martin looked confused, then looked at me and told me he was hungry.

  “You’re in luck,” I said. “I’ve got the best dinner rolls I’ve ever had, from the most expensive restaurant I’ve ever eaten at, right over there in my car.”

  He looked almost as confused as before.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We walked over to my car and I offered each of them a roll.

  “Half one with me,” Jordan said.

  I did.

  And we stood there in silence beside the car, each eating our rolls, each seeming to enjoy them equally.

  “These are good,” Jordan said. “Where’d they come from?”

  I laughed. “I have no idea.”

  23

  You heard from your dad?” Frank Morgan asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I nodded.

  “You plan on going home anytime soon?”

  I shook my head again. “Between school and work and this . . . I can’t right now.”

  The this was the LaMarcus Williams case. We were at GBI headquarters to talk to the medical examiner who had worked on the case.

  “You can go in now,” the secretary said, smiling in a way that made me think she might find Frank attractive. Then again, she might just be a pleasant person.

  Dr. Donald Douglas was an overweight, older grayish man with an overgrown gray mustache, large glasses, and a gray toupee that didn’t move when the skin around and beneath it did.

  “Thanks for doin’ this, Don,” Frank said.

  “Not a problem. Not a problem at all.”

  “This is John Jordan, the young man I was tellin’ you about.”

  We shook hands and all took a seat in the small, function-over-form office of hard, cold metal surfaces and wood veneer and leatherette furniture.

  “This for some kind of school report or somethin’?” Douglas asked me.

  Frank nodded. “It is. This young man has a bright future in law enforcement and I’m trying to encourage him, give him all the help I can get, expose him to experts such as yourself.”

  I smiled and nodded, trying to disguise my surprise.

  “And you wanted to talk about the LaMarcus Williams case?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He opened a file folder on his desk and began to glance through it, his small hazel eyes blinking behind his big, thick glasses.

  “All right. Very well. Fire away.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can we start with what actually killed him?”

  “We can––and it wasn’t the little rope around his neck or any of the external marks on his body. We found high levels of chloral hydrate in his system.”

  “Of what?”

  “Chloral hydrate. It’s an organic compound, a colorless solid soluble in water. It’s a sedative and hypnotic that’s been used as a sleep-aid for people suffering from insomnia, but it’s now mainly used as an adjunct to anesthesia to help sedate people, especially children, undergoing medical and dental procedures.”

  So that's how he was put to sleep.

  “I’m not sure how much detail you want me to go into, but . . . it’s derived from chloral by the addition of one equivalent of water and was discovered through the chlorination of ethanol by Justus von Liebig in 1832. Its sedative properties weren’t published until 1869. Soon its use was widespread––even recreationally.”

  I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “You’ve heard of a Mickey, right? A Mickey Finn. It’s a solution of chloral hydrate in alcohol. They call ’em knockout drops. It’s potent stuff. Truth is, we don’t even completely understand how it works. It’s believed that a chemical produced by chloral hydrate called trichloroethanol causes a mild depressive effect on the brain. But like I said, we don’t know. It’s been used in date rape and both accidental and intentional death.”

  Since I was supposed to be a student working on a school project, I wished I had a composition book to take notes in.

  “You remember Jonestown? Their Kool-Aid had chloral hydrate in it. It was in Marilyn Monroe’s system at her death. It was given to Mary Todd Lincoln for her sleep problems. Nietzsche used it f
or years. Some say it contributed to his nervous breakdown and insanity.”

  Hearing the name Marilyn Monroe brought a deep, dull ache I had to the surface and transformed it into a sharp pain, making me realize just how much I missed Merrill. And not just Merrill, but his mom. And not just them but home and family and friends and familiarity and, of course and always, Anna.

  “So LaMarcus was given an overdose of chloral hydrate and . . .”

  He nodded. “It put him to sleep and he never woke up.”

  I wondered if the killer meant to use chloral hydrate to knock LaMarcus out so he could transport him easily, and accidentally gave him too much, unintentionally killing him or killing him sooner than he planned.

  “It wouldn’t take much,” Douglas was saying. “Kid that small.”

  “So it could’ve been an accidental overdose?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I guess, but––”

  Frank Morgan said, “Why give it to him if not to kill him?”

  “To sedate and calm him,” I said. “As part of the abduction.”

  He nodded, appearing to think about it.

  I looked back at Douglas. “Was chloral hydrate found in any of the victims of the Atlanta Child Murders?”

  “I . . . I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think so, but I’m just not sure. I didn’t work those.”

  “I’ll double check,” Frank said, “but I don’t think so either.”

  “Does use of chloral hydrate indicate someone with some kind of medical background?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “No, not necessarily. It could, but just as likely not. It wouldn’t be required.”

  “Where would the killer have gotten it?”

  “Lots of possibilities, but most likely in a hospital or pharmacy.”

  “Which would point to a medical professional or someone with access to those places, right?”

  “Maybe, but it could’ve just as easily have been someone with a prescription or someone who stole it from someone with a prescription.”

  “What kind of prescription? What would it have been prescribed for?”

  “Maybe anxiety or nervousness. God knows there was enough of that going around at the time. But more than likely a sleep aid for the treatment of insomnia.”