Power in the Blood jj-2 Read online

  Stone kicked his desk, pushing his chair backwards, and stood up. “What? That can’t be right. There must be some kind of mistake.”

  “It’s no mistake,” he said.

  “Chaplain, what the fuck has been going on in your chapel?” Stone yelled.

  “It sounds like you answered your own question, but that’s exactly what I am trying to find out. That’s why I asked the inspector to take the samples. I assure you it is not happening when I am here. I was told that things like this are going on at night.”

  “I just can’t believe this,” Stone said again. He was shaking his head, which he had turned to look out the window behind his desk. His back was to us. “Inspector, I want you to look into this personally. This kind of shit does not happen in Edward Stone’s institution. I want daily reports from you. I want to be informed every step of the way. Now, you two get out of here and go find out what’s going on in my institution.”

  Daniels and I both rose to leave. I walked quickly, trying to avoid any interaction with him. I was far too upset to even talk to him. In fact, it would have been better for me to go to the chapel and pray awhile before I talked to anyone. In the corridor of the administration building about fifteen feet from the superintendent’s office, he caught up with me.

  “Jordan, I need to ask you some more questions about the chapel evidence,” he said. I was amazed at his audacity.

  “I think it best if you don’t attempt to do it now,” I said. I reached the door and proceeded out of it without slowing. When I stepped outside, the heat overtook me like an attacker. It was brutal, making my walking labored and my vision nearly nonexistent.

  “Listen, you little prick, consider yourself under investigation. If you refuse to cooperate, I can have you suspended or worse, so don’t fuck with me.”

  “I have no intention of doing so,” I said, continuing to walk.

  “What’s your problem? We are supposed to be working together.”

  “That’s right. We are, and you deliberately brought up the chapel incident without talking with me first.”

  “No, I didn’t. But this is not a game, boy. If you’re holding back, you better come clean before you take the fall for someone else. And, if you’re guilty, I will find out about it eventually, so you better tell me now. I’ll go easy on you,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. I uncovered this in an investigation that you are supposed to be conducting. So from this point forward, I’m going to allow you to conduct it. I’m going to get out of your way.

  I wouldn’t want to hold you back. I’m sure you’re about to crack this thing wide open.”

  “I’ll crack your head wide open if you’re not careful. I’ll stop by to interview you later. If you want to, you can call your lawyer. But, I wouldn’t get that clown you had during the divorce. Susan’s kicked his ass,” he said. He then laughed obnoxiously and turned back toward the administration building.

  The truth was I told my lawyer to let Susan have everything she wanted. I hadn’t counted on her wanting everything, but no matter. I was free.

  After closing the chapel’s sanctuary doors behind me, I paced some more, but this time I prayed, too. I walked and prayed until I found peace. Then I walked back out again to finish this thing I had begun.

  I was walking out of the chapel on my way to medical when I heard my phone ringing. It was the quick double rings of an outside call, so I unlocked my office door and answered it.

  “Dad wanted you to know that it was murder,” Jake said when I answered.

  “What?”

  “Hello, is anybody there? Stay with me, okay? Russ Maddox’s preliminary autopsy results are back. He was poisoned.”

  “With what?”

  “I don’t know why Dad wants you to know all this. He must want you to work the faggot connection.”

  “Jake, what was used?”

  “Chloral hydrate,” he said not knowing what he was saying or how to say it.

  “Do you have the time of death?” I asked.

  “Doc says it was between twelve thirty and one thirty A.M.,” he said.

  “That’s pretty accurate,” I said. “How can he be so sure?”

  “Russ ate at Rudy’s that night. Doc could tell by the stomach contents.”

  “And it wasn’t Rudy’s food that killed him?” I asked.

  “That’s a good one,” he said, laughing a little too much “I’m going to tell Dad that one.”

  “Do you know anything else?” I asked.

  “No, but Dad wants to know if you think the deaths are related?”

  “Yes, I do. Tell him I’ll call him tonight when I know more.”

  “Listen, you better remember that you ain’t no cop, okay? Don’t screw around with this thing. Leave it up to us. Best thing you can do is to forget about all of this and concentrate on not missing your meetings,” he said patronizingly.

  He always used that against me. I was the first and only Jordan to admit I was an alcoholic, which is not to say that I was the only alcoholic. It is ironic how the one that breaks out of the unhealthy cycle is viewed not only as the sick one, but the traitor as well.

  “You got your bags packed for Atlanta yet?” he asked. “Think you’ll say good-bye this time?”

  “Jake,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’m also not going to interfere with your relationship with Dad. I know you all are close, and I’m very glad … for both of you. You have no reason to feel threatened by me.”

  “Threatened? By you?” He started laughing. “Drunk ass faggots who tuck their tails and run anytime there’s trouble don’t threaten me.” His breathing was heavy and his voice tight. “Oh, there’s one more thing.” He paused, taking in a breath and letting it out slowly. “Something that you and Maddox had in common.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “He had AIDS,” Jake said and started laughing again. “He’s a queer, too.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t speak. I was overcome with anger, fear, and embarrassment.

  How could he know? Did she tell? Who else knows? Oh, God, please help me.

  “Hey, Dickhead, are you there? Didn’t you think that was funny? Come on now, you know all you boys wearing your collars backwards are either fags or child molesters. Which are you? Y’all all going to die of AIDS sooner or later.”

  I hung up the phone. Actually, I slammed it down and began to cry.

  I walked back into the chapel, fell on my knees at the altar, and began to pray again.

  Chapter 31

  As I approached the medical building, I could see Julie Anderson out front smoking again. It seemed at times that was all she did. She perked up when she saw me coming.

  “Hey, Chaplain, come here,” she said. Her voice changed, and she began to whisper, which was roughly the volume most people use in ordinary conversation. “I really felt bad yesterday because of our log book not having Thomas and all. Anyway, I called the sarge at the center gate to see if he could remember who went through on their way to medical that night, and guess what, he did. He said that Thomas didn’t come through the gate but that he did go to medical that night-just from the other side of the compound.”

  “Did he remember anyone else going in or out?”

  “Yeah, he did. I didn’t ask him or anything, but he said that later, after my shift was over, he let another inmate through the gate to go to medical, but that he came back in just a few minutes and said he couldn’t find anybody in medical, and, anyway, he didn’t want to be charged the three dollars.”

  Because of all of the abuse of the medical facilities by inmates who just want to get out of the sun or see a pretty nurse, the department had instituted a policy that made inmates pay three dollars to the department if they declared a medical emergency and they really didn’t have one.

  “Did he say who it was?” I asked.

  “He couldn’t remember,” she said.

  “Thank you. I sure appreciate it.”r />
  “You’re welcome. I’m just sorry somebody was so careless. You going to say anything to anybody about it?”

  “No, don’t worry. I’d like to talk with Nurse Strickland though. What time does she come in tonight?”

  “You’re in luck. We’re both pulling a double. So, she’s here today.”

  “You’ve both been doing a lot of that lately,” I said and began to walk into the medical building. “Thanks again for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome, and thank you for not making a big deal about the mistake,” she said and turned to take one last draw from her cigarette.

  I walked through the waiting room, where twenty-five inmates were staring at the wall in front of them in silence. A few of them whispered greetings to me. A couple asked to see me later in the day. I entered the door on the left, which led to the exam rooms and the infirmary.

  Strickland was not in any of the exam rooms, nor the nurses’ station, nor the infirmary, but standing outside of the infirmary, I heard her. She was seated in the break room at the end of the hall talking with someone I couldn’t see. As I approached, she glanced my way and then quietly said something to the person she was with. I couldn’t hear what she said, but then that was the point. When I reached the door, inmate Jones walked through it. He didn’t speak, but his body language was loud enough.

  “Hello, Chaplain,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. How are you doing?”

  “Right as rain, thanks,” she said and started to get up.

  “Before you go, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions?”

  She looked at her watch, “I can give you a couple of minutes. I’m sorry. We’re just very busy today.”

  “Then I’ll talk fast. I’m still trying to find out what happened the night and morning before Johnson was killed. Can you tell me anything else about that night in the infirmary?”

  “I heard that you were conducting the investigation, but I didn’t believe it. You’re the chaplain, not the inspector.”

  “That’s true. The inspectors are in charge of this case. I’m primarily a gopher for them,” I said, wondering how many people knew what I was doing and how they knew.

  “Well, anyway, there’s not a lot more to tell. It was an unusually quiet night in the infirmary. I forget why Johnson was there. Something related to his AIDS case, but it was in no way critical. Like I said, it was just quiet.”

  “Too bad they can’t all be like that,” I said.

  “That’s true,” she said.

  “I’m still not clear on when Thomas came to the infirmary that night,” I said, “and how long he stayed.”

  She sighed impatiently. “I told you Thomas wasn’t there,” she said. “Not on my shift. On my shift Johnson and Jacobson were the only inmates down here, and it’s a good thing because, like I said, I was alone.”

  “Where was Nurse Anderson?” I asked.

  “Where she always is,” she said angrily. “Waddling around, flirting with inmates and avoiding work.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?” I asked.

  “No. It was quiet,” she said, sliding her chair back and standing up. “Well, I’ve got to run. You have a good day, Chaplain, and when you finish playing Sherlock Holmes, we have some inmates down here that need you to talk and pray with them.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see them today. You have a good day, too,” I said to her back as she walked down the hallway. Not nearly as helpful as she once had been. She seemed scared, though. I had an urge to rush to her and offer to protect her. I do not, however, give in to all of my urges.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I said to her as she reached the door. “Is there a typewriter down here that you all use?”

  “We have a typewriter, but we all use the computer.”

  “Does your inmate orderly use it?”

  “Jones? I don’t think he knows how to type very well, but I’ve seen him pecking away on it before.”

  “Does he have access to it at all times?” I asked.

  “Yes, I guess so,” she said.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “It’s in the first office on the left when you enter the medical department. Just before the nurses’ station.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “Oh, no. We just keep some extra furniture and a few office supplies in there. It stays unlocked all the time.”

  “I see. Thanks again. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m just so far behind in preparing for our ACA inspection, but you’re no bother at all. In fact, I enjoy seeing you. You are like a breath of fresh air around this place.”

  “Thank you. I think the same of you.”

  Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and yet loses his soul? After typing these sentences on the typewriter I found in the empty medical office, I pulled out one of the letters I had received and compared them. They looked identical-the t’s were missing the right side of the crossbar. The o’s were missing a small place in the bottom center. And, the a’s, as in angel or Anna, were darker than all of the other print.

  The letters I had been receiving were typed on this machine, but that didn’t tell me who’d been typing them. I suspected it was an inmate, however. Any other medical staff member would have typed the letters on some other machine-or at home maybe. But, an inmate wouldn’t have access to any other machine.

  I walked out of the office and down the hallway to the nurses’ station. There I found an elderly white nurse who seemed to be dozing.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She jumped slightly. “Hello,” she responded after recovering.

  “How are you today?” I asked.

  “Just fine, thanks. How are you, Chaplain?”

  “I’m okay. I was wondering if I might ask you a question.”

  “Sure, sweetie. What is it?”

  “Have you ever seen anybody use that old typewriter in the front office up there?”

  “No, I sure haven’t. I don’t think it works.”

  “Nobody? Not even an inmate?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Sorry,” she said, sensing my disappointment.

  “Oh, that’s okay. It’s no problem. I appreciate your time.”

  “Anytime, sweetie. Anytime.”

  Chapter 32

  Whether it was the presence of a spiritual entity or the collective soul of its inhabitants, confinement felt oppressed by the dark forces of slothfulness and depression. The thick, pungent air seemed to me to be a natural manifestation of the spiritual condition. I signed in at the sergeant’s desk, told the officer that I had received a note from the first shift sergeant asking me to check on an inmate named Larkins, and began walking down the long hallway toward Larkins’s cell. Halfway down the corridor, about a hundred feet from where I was, I saw a small group of inmates. Something was wrong. If these were confinement inmates, they should have been in their cells. If they weren’t, they shouldn’t have been here at all. As I looked at the inmates, I thought about what Hunter had said about the hit out on me. Ordinarily, I walked among the biggest baddest inmates in this place without giving it a single thought; now I was getting paranoid.

  I didn’t like what I was thinking. I wasn’t going to give in to fear; I continued to walk. I was also not going to be stupid; I glanced back at the sergeant’s desk. He was gone. When I looked forward, the group of inmates was walking towards me, seven of them-all black, all big.

  A loud, familiar voice in my head screamed for me to run, but I couldn’t, and I don’t know exactly why. I began to pray. The line “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” crossed my mind. So did “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” I was not particularly comforted by either of them.

  They were closing in on me, which means they must have picked up their pace, because I hadn’t sped up. As th
ey walked toward me, I could see the white shirt of an officer just behind them. As they got closer, I could see that it was Matthew Skipper.

  At first, I was relieved to see him, but almost immediately thought better of it. For all I knew, he was the one who put out the hit on me. For all I knew, he was about to do it himself and save the money. In another five seconds, we came face to face. The inmates surrounded the two of us, putting Skipper and me in a circle of black and blue-most likely the color I was about to be.

  The inmates, none of whom I recognized, were panting with excitement. They smelled blood. They also smelled.

  “Chaplain, I hear you’re confused about exactly what your job is around here,” Skipper said. His breath had the overpowering smell of tobacco and coffee.

  He stood probably six-four, but he slumped, as if the weight of his belly pulled him down and forward. We would have been eye to eye, but he wore mirrored sunshades, which were at least a decade out of date, not to mention totally unnecessary in the dark hallway. So rather than staring into his eyes, I was staring into my own. In them I saw fear.

  “My job is to do the work of God, which involves both justice and mercy,” I said, my voice sounding much stronger than I thought it would. A pleasant surprise.

  “Your job is to give this bunch of inmates some religion. Not to be sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  I was silent. It seemed a wise move at the time.

  “Well, boy,” he yelled, “whatcha need, some job counseling?”

  “Is that what these men do, job counseling?” I asked.

  “When it’s needed.”

  “And I thought I was doing such a good job here. I really thought that I had found my vocation, a reason to live.”

  “Funny,” he said, “how your purpose for living is gonna get you dead.”

  “That is funny,” I said sarcastically. “Come to think of it, though, the same thing happened to Jesus.”

  “You boys do crucifixions?” he asked.

  They laughed. It was a mean, humorless laugh.

  “Perhaps we should go speak with the superintendent about my job description,” I said and started to move away from him. The inmates closed in tighter around us. There were less than six inches between us.