Power in the Blood (John Jordan Mystery) Page 13

  “’s up?” he said when he was seated in front of me.

  “Got me,” I said. “You’re looking at the man who knows the very least about the way things work around here.”

  “It is a different world, but you’s a quick study, boss.”

  “Yeah, I’ve certainly proven to be lightning quick so far.”

  “You doin’ okay. Got a lot of people talkin’. Something or somebody goin’ to snap. Just keep pourin’ on the heat, puttin’ on the pressure, and eventually the cooker gonna explode.”

  “The very fact that people know I am investigating lets you know how poorly I’m doing.”

  “Well, it can work to your advantage,” he said, instantly losing his dialect. “Have you rounded up the usual suspects yet?”

  “Yes, and the butler did it.”

  “He’s black, too, isn’t he?”

  “Of course. Come to think of it, there is really only one suspect of African descent.”

  “Everybody’s of African descent. We were the first people on Earth.”

  “I should have said that there is only one black suspect so far.”

  “The nigga’ got a name?”

  “Name and a number,” I said. “Allen Jones. Inmate who works in the infirmary. He’s not really a serious suspect. He has no motive that I can see, but he was there and in charge of handling the garbage. He also has access to a typewriter. Most inmates don’t. But Anderson says he didn’t take the trash out on Tuesday. Speaking of which, what can you tell me about Shutt?”

  “Not much,” he said. “He’s pretty new. Seems okay. For a white boy, I mean. He a suspect?”

  “Yeah. He picked up the trash, and he’s the one who actually did the deed.”

  “Shook him up like hell, too, though, didn’t it?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Did you ever see Fatal Attraction?” I asked.

  “Did Spike Lee make it, or was Denzel in it?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then, no,” he said as if stating the obvious.

  “Well, anyway, it’s about this lady who goes crazy for this married man she had an affair with. Threatens his family—tries to kill them, even boils their pet rabbit. Anyway, for the longest time, I thought Glenn Close, the actress that played the crazy woman, was really crazy—scary, you know. But a few years later, I saw her in another role, and I was convinced that she was a saint. There are some good actors in this world, and they aren’t all in Hollywood.”

  “Who else?” he said, shaking his head at my Glenn Close analogy.

  “Jacobson, of course.”

  “Of course. But do you really think he’s the one?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Not ready to rule him out yet. He’s very smart. And, then there’s Skipper.”

  “He’s probably involved somehow. He’s a mean bastard. Bad to the bone, and not in the good way either. Anybody else?” he asked.

  “Anybody who was in medical that night—Anderson, Strickland, even Skipper was there. Or anybody else, for all I know.”

  “You’ve really narrowed it down, haven’t you?” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Got a motive?”

  “Seems to be either sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll. Or something else maybe.”

  “You really good at this shit, Sherlock,” he said with a wide grin.

  “Aren’t I, though.”

  “What about racial? Victim was black and most of your suspects are white. Besides, Jacobson is a full-fledged Nazi.”

  “That’s true. See, I really am clueless. There’s something else, too, that I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I all ears, boss,” he said with a big smile.

  “All teeth,” I said. “It’s about Anna. I think she might be in danger. I’ve been getting threatening letters and I think they’re about her.”

  “Have you told her?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but I could tell that she didn’t take it very seriously. Would you help me keep an eye on her?”

  He didn’t say anything, but his nod and the expression on his face told me he would.

  We were silent for a few minutes. Through the thin chapel walls I could hear a group of inmates having an argument. And, although I couldn’t hear what the argument was about, I could guess. Most of their arguments were about either religion or football. Then I told him about Molly Thomas and her experience with Captain Skipper.

  “What do you think of correctional officers?” Merrill asked when I finished my story.

  “I think most of them are good people doing a very difficult job with little resources for little pay.”

  “You don’t think they’re all like Patterson or Skipper?”

  “No, of course not. But, I don’t think they’re all like you either. I know there are very few Skippers or Pattersons in the department—maybe just the two. What concerns me even more is that there are very few Merrill Monroes in the department. The department’s in such a hurry to fill positions that they’re compromising standards.”

  “True enough. What’s the solution?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. That’s why I’m not very critical. It’s a complex problem that requires a complex solution that’s beyond me.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s not? What is it?”

  “A complex solution that includes you.”

  “Be nice to think so, wouldn’t it,” I said.

  Shortly after Merrill left, Mr. Smith brought inmate Jesus Garcia in to see me.

  “Chaplain,” he began, “I been serving the Lord now for about six months. I don’t miss church. I really been gettin’ in the Word, you know. Jesus has changed my life. I’m a new creature in Christ. Since I been serving the Lord, I have been so blessed. I stopped having nightmares, and I been treating my wife a lot better. When we talk or write each other, we really get along. We stopped fighting and everything. I will never hit her again.”

  “That’s really great,” I said encouragingly.

  “Yeah, but, she ain’t saved. I told her that she had to get saved or I could not be with her when I get out.”

  I knew where this was going. “How old are you, Garcia?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Is this your first spiritual experience?”

  “Yes. I played some religious games before, but I’ve never been, you know, saved before.”

  “I see. So, it took twenty-seven years for you to begin your spiritual journey?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “And, who made you begin it?”

  “Nobody. I mean, I guess God did.”

  “That’s right. Nobody and God. And that’s who has to do it for your wife.”

  “But, Chaplain, she’s Catholic.”

  He whispered the word “Catholic” the way people do “cancer” or “death.”

  It never ceases to amaze me how many inmates get a good dose of jailhouse religion and expect their families to get it just like they do. They become obsessive over the minutest details of their chosen faith, and they engage in endless debates and exclude other inmates from their circles if they disagree. It’s probably because they have so much time on their hands, and many of them have severe mental and emotional problems to begin with, but in the words of Jesus, “They strain out a gnat and swallow a camel.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being Catholic,” I said. “It is the oldest Christian church on the planet.”

  “They’re not Christian. I told you they’re Catholic.”

  “Catholicism is one branch of the Christian tree—still the largest, in fact.”

  “It’s the harlot spoken of in the Revelation,” he said with a straight face—something I could not return.

  “Let me give you a little advice,” I said. “Don’t expect everyone to have the same spiritual experiences that you do or to experience spiritual things in the same way that you have. They will not. God is vast and limitless. There is room in God for all of us, and with our different cultures, backgrounds, famili
es, and individuality, we will all experience God differently. So allow God to move in your wife’s life, and don’t try to force her to experience God in the exact same way you have.”

  “There’s only one way,” he said, rising to leave. “You’re not even saved, are you? You need to repent. You are worldly. ‘Come out from among them and be ye separate, saith the Lord,’” he said, and then he slammed my door.

  Religion has numerous dark sides, many of which rear their ugly heads in prison. Not all inmates have shallow, self-righteous jailhouse religion. Some of them are truly becoming men of God. However, the majority of them have a mean-spirited, separatist, militant religion based on hate and prejudice. This was true for all the religions on the compound and not limited to Christianity. I was confronted with this dark face of faith nearly every day.

  In another few minutes, Mr. Smith brought in Sandra Strickland to see me. I was pleasantly surprised.

  “How are you?” she said. Her voice was full of concern.

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Pretty good. I just wanted to stop by and check on you. You seemed very upset yesterday. I was worried about you. Are you really okay?”

  “Well, I am anxious to know the results of the test,” I said, and because she was so warm and compassionate I added, “I found a cut on my leg last night. It shook me up pretty badly. I just don’t know when I got it. It may have happened after the incident Tuesday morning. I just don’t know.”

  “You poor man. I know the waiting’s the worst part, but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Even if you did have a cut on your leg, his blood would have had to seep all the way through your pants.”

  “I know, but it’s just so scary.”

  “We are at such high risk here. It’s not fair. Some of these inmates are the sorriest excuses for human beings I’ve ever seen. They’re breaking our state, our nation, and they’re not just killing each other, they’re killing us, too. They are leeches.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Anyway,” she said as she stood up and walked over to join me behind my desk, “I just wanted to let you know that if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.” She then patted my arm with one hand and rubbed my back with the other—merely friendly expressions of concern as best I could tell. Until she kissed me.

  The kiss started out friendly enough, but then she lingered. I became uncomfortable and pulled away.

  “Thank you, so much,” I said. “I really appreciate it. You are an exceptional nurse.”

  “That’s not all I’m good at,” she said. She was silent a moment, then added, “How about dinner, tonight? My meals will make you want to kiss the cook.”

  “I can’t tonight,” I said.

  “Perhaps later in the week?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And, you really are going to be all right,” she said moving toward the door. When she had opened it and stepped through it, she said, “Anything at all, now, just call.”

  “Okay,” I said. And, as she shut the door and walked away, I mused at all the female attention I was receiving lately—Anna, Bambi, Sandy. They were all like streams in the desert.

  Thank you, Father. And please, please, don’t let me have AIDS. You’ve given me some new reasons to want to live.

  Chapter 20

  My head was swimming. Swirls of consciousness created a whirlpool of thoughts that included Anthony and Molly Thomas, Bambi, Sandy, AIDS, blood, murder, and Anna. There was a powerful undertow in the center of this mental whirlpool, and I was being pulled toward it. In fact, what was happening inside my head was preventing me from hearing what was happening outside.

  “Chaplain. Chaplain,” Stone said. Tom Daniels and I were seated in his office for another round of who-knows-what and what’sgoing-on-around-here, but I didn’t feel like playing.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “About what the inspector said?” Stone tilted his head toward Tom Daniels.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Stone frowned deeply.

  “I said,” Daniels said, “I found out that our very own Officer Shutt has been written up several times on accusations of brutality towards inmates—every one of them black.”

  “What has been done? Did you know about this?” I asked, looking at Edward Stone.

  He frowned at me again. Again deeply.

  “Not much has been done, as you would expect, because the grievances have been written by inmates. It seems that on a couple of occasions, he was reprimanded by his supervisor,” Daniels continued.

  “That’ll teach him,” I said.

  Stone frowned at me again. The man was nothing if not consistent.

  “You both know what it’s like. We get grievances on staff members all the time from inmates. All some inmates do is write grievances. So, they are very often not believed or, at best taken with a grain of salt. And remember, this may still be a case of a good officer being abused by some lowlife inmates. Good officers and staff get written up all the time. It’s almost impossible to know. There’s nobody in the entire department who has not been written up by some inmate at some time or another for something.”

  Both Daniels and Stone could tell that I didn’t like what was being said. Stone frowned at me.

  Daniels said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it? You thinking, ‘Poor, pitiful inmates. Another example of how they’re abused by the man.’”

  “I was thinking how high a price we all pay for the abuse,” I said.

  “There’s no evidence that he abused them,” Daniels said.

  “No. I mean the abuse by inmates of the grievance procedure. Because of the abuse of some, all suffer. Because so many of them lie and misuse the system, none of them are believed. So, those who are abused are not believed because of all those who cry wolf.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded surprised to find himself agreeing with me.

  “However, Inspector, continued and consistent reports of abuse by an officer should be treated quite differently from the rare or even the occasional one. How many charges of abuse has he received?” Edward Stone said.

  “Twelve,” Daniels said.

  “How many years has he been with the department?” I asked.

  “Not quite two.”

  “That seems like a lot of smoke for there not to be a fire somewhere under there,” I said.

  “I agree.” Stone also sounded surprised to be agreeing with me. “Watch him very closely, Inspector. If he’s guilty, I want his ass,” Stone said without emotion. He turned slightly towards me. “Please excuse my language, Chaplain.”

  I merely nodded.

  Daniels started to say something, but I broke in. “Were any of the grievances filed by Johnson?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Edward Stone’s eyebrows peeked several inches above his glasses.

  “Maybe you could call the chaplain at his old institution and ask him about Shutt, Chaplain,” Stone added.

  “Sure,” I said. I then stood to leave.

  “I’ve got more,” Daniels said after he let me get almost to the door.

  I sat back down.

  “About the sleeping pills,” he said, “the doc said they were not given by syringe or with food. It seems as if Johnson just took the pills himself. Some of the capsules were not even fully dissolved yet.”

  “Suicide?” Stone asked, his voice sounding hopeful.

  “Who knows?” Daniels said. “But at least a possibility.”

  “But that rules out the medical staff and the officer, though, right?” Stone said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s just another piece of the puzzle that may or may not lead to a possible solution.”

  Daniels frowned at me. Then to Stone he said, “It probably does remove the suspicion from the employees, yes, sir. Then again,” he continued, “who better to give a patient pills than a member of the m
edical staff or the officer who helps them.”

  “But you’re the one who said,” Stone said.

  “I know, and it may still hold up, but none of this is cut-anddry. It never is. Sometimes things look a certain way and they are not. Sometimes they are.”

  “They are, however,” I said, “almost never what one expects.”

  Chapter 21

  The air in confinement was ten degrees hotter than the air outside and lacked the breeze. The body odor hung in the air like a fog. It was so thick as to be almost visible. There was very little volume to the noise, only the occasional yell or scream, with a small but steady hum of voices sounding like bees at my ear. It was too hot to be loud—the heat had zapped the inmates’ energy, drawing out their poison.

  The officer at the desk, a thirty-something-looking guy with wavy black hair and a slight Latino accent, said that Thomas was in cell 155. When I reached his cell, he was kneeling at the tray hole as if he had expected me, which he probably did. The inmates’ ability to communicate with each other, even in lock-down, was amazing.

  “Anthony, how you doing?” I asked.

  He shook his head slightly and stared up at me, trying to focus on me. His movements were slow and unsteady. When his eyes finally came within the vicinity of mine, he grinned with way too much familiarity.

  “Hello, John,” he said. It was the first time an inmate had ever called me John.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Top of the world. Top of the fuckin’ world.”

  “It appears you may have even left this world,” I said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “How is Molly?” I asked.

  “Molly. Molly. Molly,” he said and zoned out again. Actually he was zoned out when he said it. “Molly is my wife, but you, you are my true love.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure you are. I really love you, man.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend here at the institution?”

  “I have lots of friends.”

  “Like who?”

  “Ike was my friend, but he’s not my friend anymore. He’s dead. He’s like way out there, man.”