Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery) Page 12

  “Every inmate gets to eat every time,” Coel said when he reached me again. “Every inmate gets the same amount regardless of when he eats. There’s no logical reason to break the line. None.”

  I could tell that the inmates’ insistence on breaking the rules offended Coel’s military sensibility and bothered him more than it would most.

  “Unless there’s just something in you that has to break the rules,” I said.

  “Criminal mentality,” he said. “We’re surrounded by it. All we do is keep them a while until they get out and rather than skip line, they rob banks. Rather than disrespecting a female officer, they’re gang-raping a woman in their neighborhood.”

  “Some change,” I said.

  “They’re the exception,” Coel said.

  I didn’t say anything. He was right, of course, but if I dwelt on it I wouldn’t be able to do my job.

  In the silence that followed the grim reality we had just discussed, I could hear numerous inmates complaining about their food, the force of their negativity palpable.

  “I don’t have anything to add to what I’ve already said about what happened,” he said.

  “Well, can I just ask a few questions?”

  He shrugged, his eyes leaving mine briefly to scan the noisy chow hall. When he got the attention of a group at a table in the corner, he pointed to his watch signaling their fifteen minutes were up.

  “Did Bobby Earl, Bunny, or Nicole go anywhere in the chapel beside my office and the sanctuary?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “Positive.”

  “They never left my office by the hallway door during the service?”

  “How many different ways can I say the same thing?” he said. “No, they didn’t leave your office. No one went in and none of them came out—except to go the platform.”

  “What if I said we found evidence that suggests they might have gone into the back during the service?”

  “What if you did?” he asked.

  “Listen,” I said. “If you’re gonna change your story, now’s the time to do it. Get in front of this thing and it’ll go a lot easier on you.”

  He turned his attention away from the inmates and fully onto me, his pale, lightly freckled face a mixture of anger and incomprehension.

  “You tryin’ to help Stone set me up?” he asked. Then patting my chest, asked, “You wearin’ a wire?”

  “I’m only trying to find out what happened,” I said.

  “Well, then why won’t you hear what I’m sayin’?” he asked.

  “I just want you to be sure,” I said.

  He laughed coldly. “I think I’m the only one who is,” he said. “And I am. I’m certain that no one went in and no one came out of that office. Strap me to a polygraph right now and take my statement. I tell the truth all the time. I swear to God what I’m saying is true. And I’m willing to back it up by beating the box.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I believe you.”

  “Oh, that’s such a relief,” he said.

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked, “Did the Caldwells go into the chapel before you got there?”

  He shook his head. “I unlocked the chapel for them, let them in, searched the place—including your office and bathroom. No one was in there. No one. I did my job. I did my best to protect that little girl and I’ll swear under oath, I’ll take a polygraph on national television that everything I’ve said is the truth, so help me.”

  “So what do you think happened?” I asked.

  “There’s only one or two things that could have happened,” he said. “Either Bobby Earl or Bunny Caldwell killed their daughter or they did it together. No one else could have.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Tell me about Bobby Earl and Bunny Caldwell,” I said into the receiver.

  I was seated at the desk in the staff chaplain’s office in the chapel, collar and shoes off, enjoying the cool air and solitude.

  “I heard what happened,” Chaplain Rouse said. “What was that little girl doing in your chapel?”

  Jeremiah Rouse, one of the oldest and most respected chaplains in the state of Florida, was a thick-bodied, balding black man of indeterminate age—one of those people who looked middle-aged their whole lives.

  We had become fast friends when I met him at a statewide chaplaincy meeting in Orlando, which was why I didn’t mind calling him now.

  After answering his question, I said, “You were the chaplain when Bobby Earl was there, weren’t you?”

  As I recalled, he had been the chaplain at Lake Butler for as long as they had a chapel at Lake Butler.

  “Uh huh,” he said, “and Bunny was my secretary.”

  “So they met in the chapel?” I asked.

  “I’d’ve never had them working together if I’d known what was happening, but I didn’t even suspect anything until he was about to EOS,” he said, referring to Bobby Earl’s release date or End Of Sentence.

  “How long did she stay after he was released?”

  “She didn’t leave right away,” he said. “She had to pay the bills until Bobby Earl could get his ministry established.”

  “What kind of inmate was Bobby Earl?”

  “Perfect in every way but one,” he said.

  “Which was?”

  “He tried to run my chapel.”

  “And he had an affair with a staff member,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Every way but two.”

  “So you think his conversion was genuine?”

  “Who am I to judge?” he asked. “But look at the fruit. All he’s done. I’d say it was genuine. You don’t think he killed his…” He trailed off as if unable to say it.

  “Do you think he’s capable?” I asked.

  “I’ve worked inside too long not to know anybody’s capable of anything,” he said. “But I’d have to see evidence to be convinced.”

  “What about Bunny?” I asked. “Could she—”

  “Same answer,” he said. “I’d have a very hard time believing it of either of them.”

  “There’s a rumor going around that Bunny had or has a thing for black men,” I said, “that Nicole was actually her biological daughter.”

  He hesitated before speaking again. As I waited, I could hear the little bits of static and white noise that were undetectable when we were talking.

  “I did see in Bunny an especially strong interest in black men,” he said, “but primarily as forbidden fruit. The interest was in illicitness more than anything else, I think. The way she was raised, black men were off limits.”

  “Did she ever…”

  “Come on to me?” he said. “She did. Which, with our age differences, my position of authority, and me being a married man, confirms what I said about it being stolen bread.”

  “Do you remember another inmate there around that time named Cedric Porter?” I asked.

  “I always suspected they were involved,” he said. “He was a chapel clerk for a while, too. He was one smooth dude. Full of himself like nobody’s business.”

  “Cedric Porter?” I asked, my voice conveying my disbelief.

  I thought about the broken and beaten-down man I knew and wondered if his transformation was the result of lengthy incarceration or a relationship with Bunny Caldwell.

  “Yeah,” he said. “He was very charismatic—and I don’t mean in the spiritual sense. All the cats who knew him from the street said he was a real player.”

  “He’s nothing like that now,” I said. “I know growing up, and especially doing time, can take the starch out of a man, but—”

  “He fell apart when I had him reassigned,” he said, “and until this moment I never could figure out why it changed him so much, but now…”

  “You think it had to do with Bunny?”

  “She’s the one who asked me to reassign him,” he said. “They had been close up until then—a lot closer than I knew at the time, I guess—but then Bobby Earl
came to work for me and they began to get close. One day she came to me and said Cedric was making her uncomfortable. Being too familiar and forward with her. I hated to hear it because he was one of my best clerks, but she was staff and I had to let him go.”

  “So she gets involved with Bobby Earl and, to break it off with Cedric, she has him reassigned, which leaves him devastated because he really loved her?” I asked.

  “I’d never thought about it that way until now, but it fits,” he said.

  We both grew quiet a moment, and as I thought about what he had told me, my other line buzzed.

  “Can I put you on hold a moment,” I said. “I don’t have a secretary—and now I’m not sure I want one.”

  He laughed and I took the other call. It was the infirmary. They had an inmate who needed to see me.

  When I punched in Chaplain Rouse’s line again, I said, “If Cedric is Nicole’s biological father and Bobby Earl or Bunny killed her, do you think they’d go after him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Why?”

  “He’s in the infirmary,” I said. “He’s just been attacked.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I watched from the nurses’ station through the steel reinforced glass as Cedric Porter was wheeled into the infirmary and helped onto one of the beds. His head was wrapped in a large white bandage quickly turning red from the blood seeping into it.

  The infirmary was a rectangular room with two rows of beds on each side and an open bathroom area at the end. Windows on all sides prevented any privacy, and bright white tile floors made it seem cold, sterile, and uncomfortable. It was not a pleasant place. Inmates were not encouraged to come here. Cedric was the only inmate in the infirmary. Through the windows on the far side I could see that the suicide cells running along the hallway were empty, and in the hushed quiet of the enclosed space there seemed to be no sound.

  When the nurse had returned to the station, I asked, “What happened to him?”

  “Assault,” she said. “Somebody tried to kill him.”

  Like an unusually high percentage of the nurses at PCI, she was obese, perpetually breathing heavily and moving slowly.

  “How?”

  “An old standard,” she said. “Lock in a sock. Happened in the bathroom of his dorm.”

  “Do they know who attacked him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “The officer heard something from inside his station—that’s how hard the lick was—everyone else was at chow. Anyway, he ran out of the wicker, interrupting the attack, and the killer ran away. The officer saved Porter’s life.” As I turned to walk back into the infirmary, she added, “He wasn’t too happy about it either.”

  “The officer?”

  “Porter.”

  I understood the feeling well. I often encountered it in the bereaved. But, as much as Cedric may not want it to, the feeling would pass. He would want to live again. We just had to keep him alive until then.

  “How are you?” I asked as I walked up to him.

  He opened his eyes slightly, closed them again, and said, “Not quite bad enough.”

  “Did you see who did it?”

  He started to shake his head, winced in pain, and said, “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  “Well, I’m gonna find out,” I said. “Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

  “Get him to come back and finish the job,” he said. “I’d rather be with Nicole.”

  “You will be,” I said. “But let’s not rush it. You just lie here and rest. We’ll find out who killed her, and though that can’t bring her back, it’ll help you feel better. I guarantee it.”

  He frowned his disbelief.

  “I just spoke to Chaplain Rouse,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything.

  From the open bathroom at the far end, a slow, steady drip echoed out across the tile floor of the mostly empty room, the source, no doubt, of the damp air and the smell of mildew.

  “Why haven’t you applied for a chapel clerk position since you’ve been here?” I asked.

  “Don’t want one.”

  I nodded. “He said you were never the same again after you lost your position there.”

  “I didn’t lose it,” he said. “It was taken away from me so that Bobby Earl and Bunny could have some privacy.”

  “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Carrying on with him up there when my baby’s in her belly,” he said. “Yeah, I loved her, but all she love is money. Why they perfect for each other.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Like most small southern towns, there was no shortage of churches or bars in Pottersville. And both institutions were divided along lines of doctrine, class, and race. Some believed in sprinkling; others in baptism by immersion. Some preferred contemporary music while others would accept nothing but traditional. Some were extremely exclusive, while others were inclusive to the point of completely blurring any discernable distinctions. And leading each, whether behind the pine pulpit or the oak bar, were spirit-men who ranged from evangelist to counselor to one of the crowd.

  The Sports Oasis was more of a mainline main street establishment, its congregation boasting the upper crust of the faithful. Unlike an east side or south side congregation, there was social status to being a member of the chosen who attended its gatherings. It was located downtown in the second story of a converted turn of the century inn with an assortment of store fronts beneath it attempting to be quaint.

  Atop a florist, beauty shop, and antiques boutique, the Sports Oasis had the open feel of a converted warehouse. A curving bar ran the width of one wall and a stage dominated the other, tables and a large dance floor in between. All this, and there was still room for three pool tables and four dart machines along the wall on the left side of the bar.

  I arrived at the Oasis at a little after five, hoping to talk to Alice Taylor before she got busy, but the place was already hopping with the after-work crowd. Even before I ascended the stairs, I could hear the distorted blare of Allan Jackson from a jukebox being asked to perform above its volume capacity. When I opened the door, I was enveloped in a whirlwind of country music, spirits, and smoke; and it carried me to the far end of the bar. This was definitely a full immersion congregation.

  Scattered along the bar, men and women in their early thirties lounged casually, their loosened neck ties, coat-draped chairs, wrinkled shirts and skirts evidenced their tough day at the office. They all spoke or nodded to me, though I knew most of them only in passing. When I left Pottersville over a decade ago, I knew everyone; now, I seemed to only recognize vague resemblances to founding families in certain faces. Two young guys in jeans and T-shirts earnestly shot pool while a single couple in cowboy boots shuffled across much of the huge dance floor.

  Seated around some of the tables were older Pottersvillians whose concerned looks let me know they were old enough to remember my past. The bartender, an early middle-aged man with coarse salt and pepper hair combed back, gave me the same look as he approached though I didn’t recognize him. When he reached me, he didn’t speak, but merely raised his eyebrows in a wary expression that asked me what I wanted.

  “Cherry Coke,” I said. I had to say it loudly to compete with Allan, but he seemed to be able to read lips. It was probably a job requirement.

  He looked instantly relieved and smiled as he hustled off to fix it. When he brought it back, he said, “On the house,” and gave me a wink.

  “Thanks,” I said and gave him a couple of dollars for his trouble. “Is Alice working tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He got very close to me, so that he wouldn’t have to shout and I smelled Polo Sport on his skin and peppermint on his breath. “She gets here about seven. Serves finger foods and does Karaoke.”

  “Karaoke?” I said, and feigned embarrassment.

  He snickered. “Yeah, I know.… Why?”

  “I need to talk to her,” I said. “Just for a few minutes. She told me to meet her here.”

  �
�She usually gets here early,” he said. “You can see her first thing. That way you won’t have to be here later when it gets rough.”

  I nodded and failed to suppress a smile. “It doesn’t get much rougher than Karaoke,” I said.

  “You have no idea,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Are you helping your dad? Alice ain’t in no kind of trouble, is she?”

  “No kind,” I said.

  “She’s a good girl,” he said, adding, “she’s single, too,” as he walked away to wait on other customers.

  Hanging from the ceiling in various conspicuous places around the room, twenty-five inch TVs showed a wide range of sports events, and I got so wrapped up in a Lakers/Celtics game that I didn’t notice someone had plopped down on the stool beside me until the bartender approached him. When I turned, I was looking into the familiar blue eyes of a high school acquaintance whose name I couldn’t remember.

  “Hey, man,” he said warmly. “How ya doin’?”

  “Good,” I said. “How are you?”

  He nodded slowly, pursing his lips as he did. “Can’t complain. Can’t complain. What’re you doin’ back in this neck of the woods? Just home for a visit?”

  “No,” I said. “I live here now.”

  “No shit?”

  “None,” I said.

  “Whatta you do?”

  “I’m a chaplain out at PCI,” I said.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Not if he has anything to do with it,” the bartender said, nodding toward me as he placed the bottle of Corona in front of my nameless high school friend and another Cherry Coke in front of me.

  “Right. Right,” he said and started laughing. He took a long drag on his bottle and shook his head. “When we were in school, you were one of the craziest sons a bitches I ever seen. Seems like somebody said you had a religious side, but hell, I never saw it.”

  “Not many did,” I said. “You had to look pretty hard. Some would say you still do.”