Read Online John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice by Michael Lister - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Lister
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he said to me. “Want some coffee?”
I nodded.
I followed him back up to the small squad room and the coffee maker just outside his office door.
“It’s bad,” he said, handing me a large paper cup full of the steaming black liquid, “but it’s hot and strong.”
He waved to the tired-looking middle-aged dispatcher through the glass of her communications room and we walked back down the flatly lit hallway toward the interview room.
“You’re not gonna do anything in there to hinder me or help him, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just observe.”
A flash of light filled the room and shone at the bottom of the door, and I knew the techs were taking pictures of Father Thomas.
“I like the old guy,” he said. “I’ll give him a fair shake, but we can’t forget what he did.”
“If he did it.”
“You seriously believe it’s even possible he didn’t?”
“If you don’t you shouldn’t be heading the investigation.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep an open mind and all that, but it’s just the two of us talking here.”
“I’m not saying it because it sounds right.”
“Okay,” he said, “but just from what we know, what we’ve seen, statistically—”
“It’s likely he did it,” I said.
“All I’m saying.”
“Is it?”
He started to say something else, but hesitated.
Without seeing or hearing anything from inside the small room, I knew what was happening. The techs were scraping flecks of blood and tissue from beneath Father Thomas’s nails, snipping a sample of his hair, and combing his pubic region.
“Are you really going to pursue other possibilities?” I asked.
“No,” he said with a smile, “but only because I know
you
will.”
“I’m out of it after tonight,” I said.
He laughed. “Even if I charge him and you think he’s innocent?”
“Innocent people’re convicted all the time.”
“Not while John Jordan’s around,” he said, his voice taking on a bitter edge that hadn’t been there before.
The door to the interview room opened and the two techs came out. They were carrying various-sized plastic and paper evidence bags.
“He’s all yours.”
They walked away and we walked inside.
The small room was simple and, to my surprise, not cluttered. Rather than the outdated sterile, austere interrogation room, it was a warm and comfortable interview room. Cushioned chairs surrounded a wooden table, and pastel pictures of beach scenes hung on the walls.
Everything about Steve and his department impressed me.
“Father Thomas,” Steve said, his voice kind and respectful, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
He shook his head.
Steve and I were on one side of the table, Ralph Reid and Father Thomas on the other. His clothes long since placed in plastic evidence bags and taken to be processed, Father Thomas was wearing a pale blue county uniform that transformed his appearance so completely as to make him look like an old-time recidivist.
“I know you’ve been through a lot tonight so I’ll try to make this as brief as possible.”
Joining the fine network of cuts and scratches webbing Father’s face, blue and purplish bruises were slowly developing on his right cheek and around his throat.
“Thank you.”
“Do you mind if I record this? My handwriting is atrocious.”
Father Thomas looked at Reid, who shook his head.
“Is that a ‘no’ or a ‘no we don’t mind’?” Steve asked.
“You may record the interrogation,” Reid said, his tone flat and impatient.
Steve pulled a small recorder out of his pocket and placed it in the center of the table. Clicking it on, he rattled off the date, time, and who was in the room.
“Father Thomas,” Steve began, “we think we know what happened. The physical evidence and crime scenes tell a certain story, and, unlike people, their testimony is objective and accurate.”
“Subject to interpretation, of course,” Reid added.
Ignoring him, Steve continued. “What physical evidence
I nodded.
I followed him back up to the small squad room and the coffee maker just outside his office door.
“It’s bad,” he said, handing me a large paper cup full of the steaming black liquid, “but it’s hot and strong.”
He waved to the tired-looking middle-aged dispatcher through the glass of her communications room and we walked back down the flatly lit hallway toward the interview room.
“You’re not gonna do anything in there to hinder me or help him, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just observe.”
A flash of light filled the room and shone at the bottom of the door, and I knew the techs were taking pictures of Father Thomas.
“I like the old guy,” he said. “I’ll give him a fair shake, but we can’t forget what he did.”
“If he did it.”
“You seriously believe it’s even possible he didn’t?”
“If you don’t you shouldn’t be heading the investigation.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep an open mind and all that, but it’s just the two of us talking here.”
“I’m not saying it because it sounds right.”
“Okay,” he said, “but just from what we know, what we’ve seen, statistically—”
“It’s likely he did it,” I said.
“All I’m saying.”
“Is it?”
He started to say something else, but hesitated.
Without seeing or hearing anything from inside the small room, I knew what was happening. The techs were scraping flecks of blood and tissue from beneath Father Thomas’s nails, snipping a sample of his hair, and combing his pubic region.
“Are you really going to pursue other possibilities?” I asked.
“No,” he said with a smile, “but only because I know
you
will.”
“I’m out of it after tonight,” I said.
He laughed. “Even if I charge him and you think he’s innocent?”
“Innocent people’re convicted all the time.”
“Not while John Jordan’s around,” he said, his voice taking on a bitter edge that hadn’t been there before.
The door to the interview room opened and the two techs came out. They were carrying various-sized plastic and paper evidence bags.
“He’s all yours.”
They walked away and we walked inside.
The small room was simple and, to my surprise, not cluttered. Rather than the outdated sterile, austere interrogation room, it was a warm and comfortable interview room. Cushioned chairs surrounded a wooden table, and pastel pictures of beach scenes hung on the walls.
Everything about Steve and his department impressed me.
“Father Thomas,” Steve said, his voice kind and respectful, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
He shook his head.
Steve and I were on one side of the table, Ralph Reid and Father Thomas on the other. His clothes long since placed in plastic evidence bags and taken to be processed, Father Thomas was wearing a pale blue county uniform that transformed his appearance so completely as to make him look like an old-time recidivist.
“I know you’ve been through a lot tonight so I’ll try to make this as brief as possible.”
Joining the fine network of cuts and scratches webbing Father’s face, blue and purplish bruises were slowly developing on his right cheek and around his throat.
“Thank you.”
“Do you mind if I record this? My handwriting is atrocious.”
Father Thomas looked at Reid, who shook his head.
“Is that a ‘no’ or a ‘no we don’t mind’?” Steve asked.
“You may record the interrogation,” Reid said, his tone flat and impatient.
Steve pulled a small recorder out of his pocket and placed it in the center of the table. Clicking it on, he rattled off the date, time, and who was in the room.
“Father Thomas,” Steve began, “we think we know what happened. The physical evidence and crime scenes tell a certain story, and, unlike people, their testimony is objective and accurate.”
“Subject to interpretation, of course,” Reid added.
Ignoring him, Steve continued. “What physical evidence
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