Blood Oath Page 2

  Detective Lieutenant Joe Davis, a 1975 graduate of Denton High School, had joined the Morrison County Sheriff’s Department after serving three years in the army as a member of first the military police, then the army security agency, ASA.

  Joe was a bulldog of a cop; once he got his teeth into a case, he was reluctant to turn it loose. His percentage of crimes worked and solved was high above the national average, and the sheriff, T. L. Roberts, considered Joe his best investigator, usually letting him work at his own pace, without interference. Joe would be up for detective captain within the next three years, and few had any doubt that he would make it.

  Joe had no interest in running for sheriff; he was too blunt, and had made some enemies. He was a cop, not a politician.

  On his desk, in the station house, was a small 5x7 black-and-white photo of a very pretty girl. Her name was Judy Evans, and she had been dead a very long time. Joe remembered the sensational murder well, though he had been a sophomore in high school at the time. He had known Paul and Judy Evans, but not well, and their deaths had saddened him, reenforcing his desire to become a police officer, something Joe had wanted to be since small boy.

  The case was still unsolved. And Joe did not like unsolved murder cases. They were so ... untidy, unprofessional.

  For reasons, even he could not name, Joe had never, even as a boy, believed some vagrant had raped, tortured, and then killed the Evans girl-and the boy, although his body was never found. No, even as a boy he believed it had been a person, or persons, living in the Red Bay/Denton community. Further, although he kept his theory private, sharing it with only a very few close and closemouthed friends, he believed that the rich bunch of kids from the Hill Section, that group who had called themselves the Club of the Elite (which had, for some reason, disbanded shortly after the killing of the Evans twins), had something to do with it. And some day, if Joe lived long enough, he would prove his theory.

  Over the years, Joe had carefully compiled a dossier on each member of the group. That is how he knew Howard Jordan had incestuous relations with his daughters, Ruth and Donna. He had listened to the rumors, tracked down the source, nailed it shut, and spoken with several nurses at both Red Bay and Denton hospitals. Joe kept those dossiers in a locked desk in his study at home. Occasionally, he studied them, making new notations in his neat script.

  Joe knew the lives and the carryings on of the offspring of the Elite Eleven better than any person on earth. Each good man has a fault, and Lieutenant Joe Davis was no exception: he had a dislike-bordering on hatred—for each member of the old Club of the Elite. He disliked them for the taunts he had taken from them as a child from the wrong side of the tracks, their fine new cars (for which they hadn’t lifted a finger), new clothes, ski vacations, summers in France, Spain, England, winter vacations in Mexico, Florida—it all came too easily to them. And he disliked them because of who they were. Old reputations in this part of Missouri. Old money. Some wealthier than others, but all very, very comfortable: Jordan, Hartman, Wooten, Rick, Stagg, Harkins, Pike, Lewis, Richard, Kennedy.

  They were factory owners, attorneys, landowners, resort owners, highly successful businessmen. And they were snobs. They almost always married within their social group.

  Also, Joe knew through hours of legwork, most of their ancestors had made their money through shady, if not downright illegal, business dealings. And the offspring carried on in exactly the same manner.

  For all his dislike, Joe never used his position in the sheriffs department to hassle or roust any of them, and he could have very easily done so. He was known throughout the state as an “up and up” cop, unapproachable with any kind of shady deal or bribe, solid and unyielding. He had earned, twice, the highest medal offered peace officers by the state of Missouri, and the highest peacetime medal for bravery offered by the military.

  Joe had killed one man while an MP in the army, and wounded another. He had killed one man in his fourteen years as a member of the sheriff’s department, and wounded two. He had broken the arm of one assailant, the wrist of another, and both arms of yet another.

  Joe Davis had very little compassion for poor punks. He had risen-pulled himself up-from almost abject poverty, and believed strongly that anyone else could do the same, if they had the desire. If they didn’t: to hell with them.

  He had absolutely no compassion for rich punks.

  Joe was five-feet, ten-inches tall, and at first glance appeared to have an average physique. But on a second, much closer look, one noticed his huge wrists and forearms. His upper arms were heavily muscled. Joe boxed in the police gym, practiced whenever possible on the unarmed combat range, and was wicked in a stand-up, bare-knuckle fight. His hair was brown, cut short. His eyes were blue-friendly or agate mean. He was a bachelor, forty-one years old. There was only a touch of gray in his hair.

  * * *

  Before going to the Jordan house in the Hill Section, Joe went to the county morgue to see if Doctor Williams, the coroner, had returned from Jeff City from a meeting. He had not. He spoke with Doctor Williams’ assistant, a young pathologist named Perkins. The pathologist seemed to be flustered about something.

  “Uh ... Joe. I got a confession to make.”

  Joe allowed one of his rare smiles to crease his face. “What? You gonna tell me you killed the girl?”

  “Huh? Hell, no, Joe!”

  “Okay, okay, not funny. What confession do you have to make?”

  “We . . . I mean, I missed something in my preliminary workup on the Jordan girl.”

  With a cop’s patience, Joe waited; Perkins would get to it in time-he hoped.

  “I, ah ... well, I was so flustered, first job without Doc Williams looking over my shoulder, you know, I didn’t notice the marks on her back. I mean,” he corrected himself, “I did notice them, but I thought she probably got them when she was raped. On her back. You know what I mean, Joe, damn! ”

  Inwardly, Joe came to attention. “What marks?”

  “Come on. I want you to see this firsthand.”

  In the “Stiff Room” (as it was called by the law enforcement personnel of Morrison County, among themselves), Perkins rolled out the locker containing the body of Ruth Jordan. He gently turned the body over on its side, exposing the back and buttocks of the girl. That area was crisscrossed with welts. Perkins was clearly embarrassed by his mistake.

  “Uh ... Joe? You gonna tell Doc Williams that I screwed up on this one?

  “No, what’s the point in that? I know you won’t let it happen again, will you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Joe was on his knees by the body, examining the welts, making notes in his small pad.

  The marks had been made, probably, with a heavy leather belt, about two inches wide. “You’re sure she was not anally abused.”

  “Not recently, Joe.” Perkins’s voice was hard, and full of contempt.

  Joe looked up at him. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed, getting to his feet. “It happens in the best of families, partner.”

  “Isn’t there anything anyone can do about it, Joe? I mean, you’re the lawman.”

  “It’s hard to prove, Charlie. There are centers being set up around the country, but I don’t know where the nearest one is around here. And like I said, God, it’s tough to prove without all parties coming forth.”

  Joe walked to the door, tucking away his pad in his hip pocket. He turned around at the door. “You finish with the report on stomach contents yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Purple Passion, mostly.”

  “What?”

  “Vodka and grape juice. A lot of it.”

  “I heard that,” Joe said, and walked out the door.

  PAUL

  Oh, Judy. I’ll make them pay. Every one of them. They’ll pay for that night so long ago. They’ll pay dearly. I’ll hunt them for you, and I’ll avenge you. As surely as there is a God in heaven and a devil in hell, they’ll pay. I’ll make them scream out their pain just as you screamed out your pain
and humiliation that night. I’ll make them pay as you paid, and our parents paid. Our mother, who died of grief; our father, who went insane. I saw him last month, Judy.

  I know you did, she answered him. I was with you, remember?

  Yes, of course, you were. We saw him, but he did not see us. He put his eyes on us, but did not see us. Poor, pitiful wretch of a man. Don’t dwell on this, Paul.

  They’ll pay, Judy. Oh, my, yes, how they will pay. I give you my word.

  I know, Paul.

  On our mother’s grave, Judy. By the mental devils that put our father in that awful place. I swear on all those things, Judy. They will pay.

  I know, Paul. I know.

  * * *

  “Howard, Sissy, tell me, if you can, where Ruth went night before last.”

  Sissy Jordan began to weep, face in her well-manicured and lotioned hands. Joe waited patiently, his face impassive. He had played this scene many times before.

  “She was supposed to have had a date with Dan Hartman,” Howard answered. “They were going to one of the senior parties.”,

  “Where?”

  “Red Bay.”

  Joe nodded. “Go on.”

  “But Dan came down with some kind of stomach bug; his father called and told us. Ruth then said she didn’t want to go to the party alone, so she said she’d drive over to Karen Rick’s house, to watch TV. I’m tired of telling this story, Joe. My patience is wearing thin over this. Why do we have to keep going over and over it?”

  Joe evaded the question. “And that’s the last time either of you saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  Sissy began her crying.

  “Did Ruth drink much?”

  “Certainly not!” Sissy said indignantly, through her tears. “She was only seventeen.”

  Joe closed his notepad and sighed inaudibly. It was always the same with parents: all the other kids drank and doped, but not their own. Deaf, dumb, and blind, Joe thought. And arrogant, vain, and stupid. Producing perfect children.

  Howard stood up. “I think that will be all, Lieutenant Davis,” he announced majestically, as if dismissing a servant.

  Which I am, Joe thought, rising from his chair. A public servant. “Of course, Mr. Jordan. I think I have all I need.”

  “When can we ... get the body?” Howard asked. His wife continued weeping.

  Joe looked at Howard and felt the old hate and new contempt rise in him like hot bile. “When Doctor Williams says you can,” he answered shortly, much more so than he intended. You may not like these people, he reminded himself, but they have lost a daughter and at least one of them is shocked with grief. “I know my way out,” Joe said, then left.

  * * *

  “I’m taking you off all other assignments, Joe,” the sheriff said back at headquarters. “The Jordan case is yours. Pull as many extra men as you need.” He knew Joe would work alone, or at the most, use one or two other men.

  “For how long?”

  The sheriff met his gaze, then, very unlike him, lowered his eyes. “Until you solve it, Joe. Howard Jordan, Senior, requested you specifically.”

  “Old Man Jordan hates my guts, T. L., and you know it. This is his way of discrediting me, if I don’t break this case.”

  The sheriff sighed. “Joe, get the chip off your shoulder. You’ve been carrying it around for too many years. You’re the best investigator I’ve got. You’re among the best investigators in this state. Howard Jordan, Senior, does not hate you. Repeat he does not hate you.”

  “He killed my father.”

  “Your father died of a heart attack, Joe.”

  “And you’re conveniently forgetting all the story.”

  “Just drop it, Joe.”

  “He was worked to death by Old Man Jordan, then kicked out without a pension or a medical plan, while that fat cat sat on his money bags and purred.”

  “Times have changed, Joe.”

  Joe glared at him. “I heard that, T. L.”

  * * *

  Erica Johansen was shocked when Joe approached her desk at headquarters and said, “Give your other cases to someone else, Erica. You’re working with me on this Jordan case.”

  She looked at Joe through pale blue eyes, a wisp of honey blonde hair hanging, as it almost always did, over one eye. She stood up, only two inches shorter than Joe’s five-ten. “Would you mind repeating that statement, oh great Morrison County investigator?”

  “You heard me,” Joe said, then walked into his office.

  “Wow!” another detective said, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t believe my ears.”

  “I’ll bet,” Erica said, “that in the four years I’ve been with this department the Mighty Joe Davis has not spoken ten words a year to me. He was friendly enough when I first came, and then, boy, did the deep freeze come on.”

  The third detective on this shift of the day watch leaned back in his chair and smiled up at Erica, his eyes not failing to take in all her highly visible charms. Erica, a beautiful woman of Scandinavian descent, had a lot of charms to be viewed. “If you had but asked, Erica, I would have told you what the problem was.”

  She looked down at him. “So I’m asking-four years later.”

  “You went out with Bates Pike when you first got to town. Several times. Joe hates Bates. That dislike goes back to childhood. You’d have to have lived around here to understand.”

  She sat on the edge of his desk. “So tell me about it.”

  The detective shook his head. “If Joe wants you to know, Erica, he’ll tell you. Right now, you’d better get your tail in his office. As you well know, Joe’s all business around the office.”

  “I never see or hear of him dating anyone, Mike. Does he?”

  A slight smile flitted across the cop’s face. “Occasionally. Never the same woman more than twice, maybe three times. I think Joe’s gun-shy around women.”

  “Sounds interesting and very elusive. That all you’re going to tell me?”

  “Ms. Johansen!” Joe’s voice blasted through the intercom, with a great deal of emphasis on the Ms. “Get a copy of the Jordan file and get in here!”

  She grimaced and said, “I think I’ll report him to the local chapter of women’s lib.”

  “We don’t have one.” Mike laughed. “Relax. Joe’s bark is worse than his bite. He likes you, Erica.”

  “Oh? And how do you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  Erica, file folder in hand, knocked on Joe’s door, entered at his brusque command, and sat down. “Here I am, Lieutenant Davis. I’m ready.”

  Joe looked up from his paperwork, a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh?”

  This was a side of him Erica had never seen. “To work, lieutenant. To work.”

  “You can knock off the lieutenant B.S. We’re going to be working together on this case-and related cases-for a long time, I’m afraid, so let’s make it Joe and Erica, okay?”

  She smiled. “That sounds good to me, Joe. What do you mean by ‘related cases’?”

  “In time, Erica. All in due time.” His eyes dropped to the swell of her full breasts then roamed back up to her flawless face. He fished for a cigarette and fumbled for a match, looking in every pocket. He hid smokes and lights in different pockets. Joe had quit smoking eight times in as many years, and was down to less than half a pack a day—with a lot of effort on his part. He met her pale blue eyes. “You know the way I work?”

  “Day and night.”

  “When I’m on a case, sixteen hours a day is not uncommon. Doesn’t leave much time for a social life. You object to that?”

  “No.” She had always been teamed with other detectives, but never with Joe, and she looked forward to working with him. Erica had her degree in criminology, and several minors in related fields. She had worked with the KCPD for four years before seeing and answering an ad in a police publication. The ad requested applicants to send a re-sumé to the Red Bay/Denton office. Erica, tired of city life and its hassles, applied and
was hired. She was twenty-nine.

  Joe, on the other hand, had no college except for a few hours at a local junior college, but he was rated as a good investigator. A very private man, not known for chitchat, he was a loner. Self-educated, a voracious reader of good books, he loved all kinds of music, from Willie Nelson to Dvorak, and bass fishing.

  Other than that, Erica knew very little about Joe Davis except she was attracted to him, and not just in a sexual way. She wanted to understand him-his moods, what drove him, what made him tick. And she fully intended to find out.

  Pale blue eyes dropped from off-blue as the phone rang. Erica listened to the one-sided conversation with Doctor Williams.

  “Sit on the stomach contents of the Jordan girl, Doc,” Joe said, and Erica’s eyes widened. “For as long as you can. And when you put it in the official report, play it down, if you will, without making a big deal of it.”

  “Why?” The crusty old man almost shouted the word. Doc Williams wore two hearing aids and had learned to lip-read from necessity.

  “You remember the Paul and Judy Evans case, Doc?”

  Erica cocked her head to one side and listened, trying to make some sense out of this.

  “Of course I remember. Hell, Joe, that was twenty-six years ago. You were just a snot-nosed kid at the time, probably beating your donger three times a day and looking for hair to grow in your palm. What’s the Evans case got to do with the Jordan girl?”

  “The Evans girl was beaten with a belt, marked badly, remember? She had been raped, and her stomach was full of vodka and grape juice.”

  “Wait a minute, Joe, you’re getting ahead of this old man. I got the report from the lab on the Jordan girl right here-someplace. Dammit! Oh, yeah, here it is.” The sounds of breathing for a few seconds. “Holy shit!” the old ME said. “The same MO.”

  “Exactly, Doc. See what I mean?”

  “Who have you told about this, Joe?”

  “You. And I’m about to tell Erica Johansen. She’ll be working with me on this. She’ll be the only one working with me.”