The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Read online

  “I haven’t seen or spoken to you,” I say.

  “That shit’s worth a special call,” he says. “Hell, I’a accept a collect call to get that info.”

  “I should’ve called you,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Especially since you haven’t had anything going on,” he says.

  I laugh and apologize again.

  “The hell she stay around here for?” he says.

  “If I had to guess . . . I’d say she wants to join our family.”

  “Your—”

  “Our friend circle,” I say. “I think she wants to belong, wants what we have, especially since so many of us are involved in some form of investigation work—her favorite thing.”

  “I think you give her too much credit,” he says. “You’re assignin’ her human traits and characteristics.”

  “That’s certainly possible,” I say. “On a bit of a roll in regard to that lately.”

  “In regard to what?”

  “Getting things wrong.”

  “Let’s talk about that over a game of b-ball sometime soon,” he says.

  “Our gym has been repurposed,” I say.

  “Outdoor courts at the high school have been resurfaced,” he says.

  “Not sure when I’ll have any daylight hours free again,” I say. “Probably no time soon.”

  “Then we’ll rig up some lights. Middle of the night’s fine with me. Not like you sleep anyway. And since I now have some free hours on my hands—daylight and otherwise—think maybe I’ll see if I can’t find out what ol’ Randa’s psycho ass is up to.”

  “Be careful,” I say.

  “I’m the last bastard you need to say that to—’cept maybe Daniel.”

  When we end the call, I return my attention to the whiteboard.

  Either I’m missing something or there’s nothing here to miss.

  The timing? The grouping of the killings? The victims? The manner of death? The disposal of the bodies? The bodies themselves? The—

  And then it hits me. It has been right there in front of me in every crime scene and autopsy photo all along—what my subconscious has been trying to tell me.

  If this won’t convince them, nothing will.

  34

  I’m still in our conference room, but now I’m joined by Reggie, Arnie, Darlene, Jill, Raymond Blunt, and Phillip Dean—and by video conference call, Pamela Garmon, Larry Butcher, the sheriff of Bay County, his lead investigator, Ernest Redd, and the ME’s investigator, Leno Mullally.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Butcher says. “Our towns are falling down around us and we all have other things we need to be doing.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Sheriff Butcher,” Reggie says, “but John is a first-class investigator and has earned the right to our undivided attention for a few moments this afternoon.”

  “Well, that’s what he’s got, so let’s get on with it.”

  “As y’all already know,” I say, “my theory is that we have a prolific killer here working among us, taking advantage of our vulnerability—and not just of his victims but of all of us, including our ability to respond.”

  “We’ve already heard this,” Butcher says.

  “I believe this predatory killer is murdering certain of our citizens in ways that can be disguised as accidents within the havoc the hurricane has wreaked on us. He uses blunt force trauma and his weapon is often some of the very debris he uses to conceal his murders within.”

  “We’ve already gone over this,” Butcher says. “Nobody’s saying it isn’t an interesting theory or even out of the realm of possibility, but . . . there’s no evidence.”

  “That’s my theory,” I say. “Here’s my evidence.”

  I unclip one of the autopsy photos from the whiteboard and hold it up.

  “Ellen Lucado has a tattoo on the top left side of her left foot. Her sister Diane swears that she didn’t have that the night before her death.”

  I point to the thick black swirling strokes of the Chinese symbol on her foot in the photo.

  After handing the photo to Reggie for closer inspection, I remove another from the board.

  “Tom Willis, the homeless vet in Wewa who everyone knew as PTSD Jerry Garcia, has this tattoo on his right ankle,” I say, pointing to the solid black circle with the arrows coming out of it.

  I hand this photo to Reggie also, and remove another from the board.

  “This image of swirling, snake-like arrows was on David Cleary’s right shoulder,” I say.

  “Okay,” Butcher says, “so all the victims have tattoos. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “I checked with their closest friends and family members where possible,” I say, “although it wasn’t in the case of PTSD—I mean Tom Willis. But close friends and family members of all the others say they did not have these tattoos the last time they saw them—which in many cases was right before the storm.”

  “So they have new tattoos,” Butcher says. “You’re saying we’ve got a tattoo artist serial killer on our hands? That since you can’t find anything else that links these extremely different victims, you’re saying what they have in common is they all went and got tattoos right before or right after the storm? ’Cause I still don’t buy it.”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t think these are even permanent tattoos. But I do believe the killer is putting them on his victims, that it’s his way of marking them. It’s subtle. It’s virtually invisible—so many people have ink these days.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult here,” Darlene says, “but isn’t the whole point of a serial killer to do things in series? He’d have a series of victims with certain similarities, right? These victims have nothing in common and aren’t anywhere close to the same type. And if he was going to mark them, put his signature on them . . . they’d all be the same. He’d use the same symbol every time.”

  “I believe the whole point of what he’s doing is directly tied to the storm,” I say. “He’s choosing victims that emphasize the chaos and confusion and disarray that our area, his hunting ground, is in right now. There are no patterns left here—no order, no center that can hold in this blood-dimmed tide we find ourselves in.”

  “Again, it’s an interesting theory,” Butcher says, “but it’s just more of the same. This isn’t evidence. It’s just theory.”

  “You could even all it chaos theory,” I say. “In addition to choosing his victims randomly, haphazardly, and killing them with remnants of the storm, he breaks one bone after they’re already dead. I think this is meant to mirror the brokenness of our area. We’re surrounded by broken limbs.”

  “But—” Darlene begins, but Reggie stops her.

  “He breaks a limb of his victims and puts his mark on it,” I say. “He breaks the right radius bone of David Cleary and places the mark on his right shoulder. The fourth toe of Ellen Lucado’s left foot and marks her left foot. PTSD Jerry’s right tibia and places his mark on his right ankle.”

  “I still agree with the girl there,” Butcher says, all of us on this end stiffening at his dismissive name for Darlene, “they’d all be the same mark.”

  “They are,” I say. “From different cultures around the world, these are all the symbols for the same thing—chaos. This is Chinese for chaos. This is Greek for chaos. This is Egyptian for chaos.”

  35

  “Mr. Jordan, where do you work?” Gary Scott asks.

  He’s back in a three-piece suit—and he seems to be feeling pretty good about it.

  “The Gulf County Sheriff’s Office and Gulf Correctional Institution.”

  “I don’t have to ask you what county you work in, do I? It’s right there in the name.”

  It’s not a question so I don’t respond.

  “So why, if you work in Gulf County, were you at Potter High School in Potter County on the morning of Monday, April 23, 2018, the day of the school shooti
ng?”

  “I was there for a meeting with some of the members of our makeshift task force,” I say.

  Scott looks at the judge but before he can say anything, she says, “You deserve that one, Mr. Scott.”

  He turns back to me. “Do you think this is funny, Mr. Jordan? This all a big joke to you?”

  “No, I do not. And neither was our task force. It was a group of determined and dedicated professionals trying to prevent a school shooting. And this . . . this is truly a tragedy and my using your words was in no way to make light of anything but the words themselves,” and, I think but don’t say, the person who said them.

  “So you just happened to have a meeting at a school that is not in your jurisdiction on the morning of the shooting?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You don’t know? What does that mean? How can you not know?”

  “I don’t know if the meeting just happened to be when the shooting took place or if it was planned that way. I didn’t set the time of the meeting or have anything to do with the shooting.”

  “But, in fact, you did, didn’t you?” he says.

  “No, I didn’t,” I say. “Just like I just said.”

  “How can you say that you didn’t have anything to do with the school shooting when you were one of only three people who did any shooting at the school that day?”

  I’ve asked Anna not to object unless she absolutely has to.

  “I’m pretty sure you and everyone else in here knew what I meant and that you’re intentionally being obtuse, but I’ll explain it anyway since you asked.”

  Scott looks at the judge again.

  She says, “Don’t ask the questions if you don’t want the answers. And don’t pretend to be obtuse if you don’t want to be called on it.”

  Without waiting for her or him to tell me it was okay for me to continue my answer, I start back as soon as she’s finished speaking.

  “When you asked about the ‘school shooting,’” I say, “I took you to mean the active school shooter, not Derek Burrell or myself, who though we both fired shots that day, weren’t the school shooter. I was no more a school shooter than Derek was.”

  “And yet in your statement you claim you believed he was, in fact, the school shooter.”

  “That’s because when I arrived in the hallway that morning, he was shooting at the school resource office. I was responding to a school shooting. I came upon a student shooting at a wounded SRO. We both concluded that he was the school shooter.”

  “But you didn’t return fire from where you were with the school resource officer,” he says. “You ran all the way around the circular hallway to come up behind him and shoot him, didn’t you?”

  “The wounded officer wasn’t able to move so we decided it best that I ran around to the other side and come up behind him, but I didn’t run around there to shoot him. I had hoped to subdue him without getting shot or doing any shooting.”

  “But that’s not how it worked out, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “We’ll get back to what you did and why in a moment,” he says, “but for now let’s go back to where you work. Did I understand you to say that you have two jobs?”

  “It’s more like one and a half,” I say. “I was a full-time investigator with the sheriff’s department and a part-time chaplain at the prison.”

  “Was?”

  “Hurricane Michael damaged Gulf Correctional so badly it’s closed right now.”

  “Oh, but at the time you shot Derek, you had two jobs in Gulf County?”

  “One and a half, yes,” I say.

  “I’m surprised you could find the time to shoot a child in another county,” he says.

  I can see Anna about to stand to object, but when our eyes meet I shake my head just enough to let her know not to.

  I look at Scott but don’t answer since it wasn’t a question and was only him trying to score cheap points.

  “There are two other investigators in your department, aren’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have second jobs?”

  “No, sir, they don’t.”

  “So you’re the exception,” he says. “Do you think having two jobs divides your focus and attention so much that you don’t do either job adequately?”

  “No,” I say. “I wouldn’t do them both if I did.”

  “And you said one of them is as a minister?” he asks.

  “Prison chaplain, yes,” I say.

  “So you’re a religious man?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I am.”

  “Not many cops are also preachers,” he says. “Not even part-time prison preachers.”

  I continue looking at him but don’t respond.

  “Well?” he says.

  “Was that a question?”

  “Yes. Are many cops also preachers?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but not in my experience,” I say.

  “And do you talk to God?” he asks.

  “Sometimes,” I say.

  “Does he ever talk back?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Sounds like a pretty one-sided conversation,” he says.

  Not unlike this one, I want to say, but am able to refrain.

  “As a religious man, are you a good person?” he asks. “Do you do what’s right?”

  “I certainly try.”

  “Was it right to shoot Derek Burrell?”

  “No,” I say.

  His reaction shows he wasn’t expecting that response and he pounces.

  “So it was wrong? You were wrong to do it?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It depends on how you mean it, but yes.”

  “Really? What kind of equivocation is that? I thought wrong was wrong.”

  “Most people would agree that shooting back at someone shooting at you is not in and of itself wrong,” I say. “But when Derek fired at me, he was firing at the wrong person—meaning I wasn’t who he thought I was. When I returned fire—something you could argue I didn’t have much choice about—he had missed me twice. I truly did not believe he was going to miss again. What I’m trying to say is . . . as a law enforcement officer in an active shooter situation, I wasn’t wrong to shoot back at someone shooting at me. But, like Derek, I was wrong about who I thought he was. And it’s wrong that he was shot and killed. And I don’t think any of that is in any way equivocation.”

  “I keep hearing your defense attorney, your wife, say that this was a tragic accident,” he says. “I believe you’ve used the same term. Have you not?”

  It’s such an awkward way to ask, but I say, “I have.”

  “So you didn’t mean to shoot Derek?” he asks. “It was an accidental shooting? Did your firearm discharge accidentally?”

  “No,” I say, “my weapon didn’t go off accidentally. I’ve explained this, but I’ll explain it again. When Derek shot at me and I returned fire we were both mistaken about who we were shooting at. We each thought the other was the school shooter. That’s what made it an accident. That and the fact that I was aiming to wound and disarm him, not to kill him.”

  “But that’s not really an accident, is it?” he asks. “Accidents are defined as something that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, but surely when you ran around the hallway to come up behind Derek you expected to find him there. Both running up behind him and discharging your firearm were intentional acts. Were they not?”

  “They were.”

  “And speaking of running up behind Derek and shooting him—”

  “That’s not what I did.”

  “Sir, that is exactly what you did.”

  “It’s a circular hall and though he was firing mostly in the direction of the SRO, he was continually moving and shooting in every direction,” I say. “But by far the more important point is that I didn’t run up behind him and shoot him. I ran toward him and he shot at me and I returned fire.”

  “You ran toward him with a gun. Did you not?
”

  “I did.”

  “And did running toward a teenager while pointing a gun at him startle him?”

  “I didn’t run toward him while pointing a gun at him,” I say. “My weapon was pointed down. And though I can’t testify to Derek’s state of mind, I think it’s reasonable to say I startled him.”

  “Someone runs at me with a gun, you bet I’m gonna be startled,” he says. “And I’m a grown man who’s seen a thing or two, not a child acting heroically in a terrifying situation.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Mr. Jordan, did you roll Derek over and handcuff his hands behind his back as he lay bleeding to death?”

  “I didn’t know he was bleeding to death,” I say. “But yes, I kicked his gun away from him and cuffed him to make sure he wasn’t any longer a threat, and then I ran to check on the wounded SRO.”

  “And did you ever identify yourself as a police officer—not just then, but, more importantly, before you shot Derek?”

  “When I came around the northeast corner of the hallway he started firing at me,” I say. “The only thing I did at that point was return fire.”

  “So that’s a no?” he says. “You didn’t identify yourself as police officer prior to shooting Derek. Is that right?”

  I nod. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you identify yourself as police officer before you rounded that northeast corner?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you at any time—anytime at all while you were running through Potter High School with a gun—identify yourself as a police officer?”

  “No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “Should you have?” he asks. “I mean according to policy and procedure and protocol, should you have identified yourself as a police officer?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir, I should have.”

  “Now, you testified that Derek was wrong about who you were when he shot at you. Did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “But aren’t you saying now that that mistake could’ve been easily corrected if you had just followed protocol and identified yourself as a police officer?”

  “I can’t say for certain because there was so much noise and smoke, chaos and confusion from the explosions, and with how fast everything happened . . . but I should have done it and if I had it could’ve made a difference.”