Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery) Page 5

  Sighing heavily and shaking my head, I cranked the truck and put it into gear.

  “It’s Dad,” he said.

  I killed the engine.

  “He radioed and told me to stop you. He said he needs to talk to us. He’s on the way.”

  He then swaggered back to his car, where he stayed, his lights still flashing, until Dad arrived a few minutes later.

  My first thought was that something had happened to Mom, for it wouldn’t be much longer until someone’s needing to talk to me would involve the news no child wanted to hear. When Dad pulled up without the lights of his Blazer flashing, I could feel a little of the tension leave my body.

  As he pulled in behind Jake, I got out of my truck, and we met beside Jake’s car where he leaned against it the way cool cops do, the toothpick back in his mouth.

  “Sorry to hold you up, Son,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “What is it?”

  Jack Jordan, the longtime sheriff of Potter County, Florida, looked younger than he was, his thick gray hair parted on the side, his dark skin deeply lined, but not wrinkled, and his deer-brown eyes soft and kind. He was fit and trim, especially for a man his age, and strong, but humble, content with a simple life of service, his authority resting gently on him like comfortable clothes.

  “Tell me about what happened last night,” he said.

  I did.

  “Why weren’t we included in the investigation?”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t either,” I said. “They sent me home.”

  “Do you know how I found out?”

  I shook my head.

  “At the coffee shop,” he said. “I’m tired of not being included in the cases that involve the prison.”

  “It’s as bad as havin’ a fuckin’ military base in our jurisdiction,” Jake said.

  Waiting with nothing to say, I shifted my weight, noticing the wet grains of sand that stuck to the sides of my shoes and the dewbeaded grass blades clinging to the tassels on top. All around us, in the midst of seemingly endless rows of pine trees, the forest was waking up. Birds darted between the trees, piercing the last of the sun-filtering fog.

  “I’m not saying I have to run the investigations,” Dad said, “but not to ever even be included makes me wonder if maybe something’s being covered up. I don’t know, it’s just disrespectful and…”

  “You’re right. It is,” I said. “I should’ve called you, but I was in no condition. I’m sorry.”

  The peaceful morning sounds of the rousing woods were interrupted by the crude mechanical noises of a diesel engine as a loaded log truck flew past us. We all turned our heads and closed our eyes as its wind-wake swirled sand and bits of trash around us, stinging our faces and tossing our hair.

  “I’m not blaming you,” he said.

  “I know,” I said, “but you’re right. You should be included.”

  “Hell, yeah, he should,” Jake said. “It’s his county.”

  Ignoring Jake, Dad said, “I’ve got a meeting scheduled with your warden, the secretary of the department, and a representative from the governor’s office.”

  I nodded, not knowing quite what to say.

  “Sorry to hold you up,” he said again, hesitating, and I knew there was something else he wanted to say.

  I waited.

  He looked down the long stretch of empty highway, then back at me. “In the meantime we’ll be doing a little investigation of our own.”

  I nodded.

  “And I’d like your help,” he said.

  I could tell he found it difficult to ask, and I felt an awkward embarrassment for him.

  “You helping with their investigation?” he asked.

  “Whether they want me to or not.”

  “Will you keep me informed?” he asked. “Let me do my job and be involved?”

  How could I say no to the man who had never said no to me?

  Nodding vigorously, I was amazed at how, even as a grown man, I still longed to please him and yearned for his approval.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Have you seen the news?” Pete Fortner, the institutional inspector asked.

  Obviously uncomfortable in dress shirt and tie, Pete was a short man with a round middle, thick wavy black hair going gray, glasses, and a couple of chins. He looked like a little boy playing grownup as he sat in Stone’s enormous executive chair at the head of the table.

  I shook my head wearily.

  We were sitting in the conference room in the admin building where, in a few minutes, he was going to take my witness statement and interview me, recording both on audio and video tape.

  Pete was sitting where Nicole had, and my mind intermittently superimposed her image over his. When we weren’t talking, I could hear the sounds of crayons rubbing paper and the echo of Nicole’s voice in the room.

  “Top story on every station,” he said. “Front page of several papers. Governor issued the Caldwells an official apology and condolences and thanked them for all they’re doing for God and our great country.”

  I shook my aching head in disbelief. I still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps I was in shock. Maybe it was just denial. Whatever it was, I was experiencing a disconnect, a form of spiritual self-preservation, for nothing made me question my faith in goodness—in God—like the death of a child.

  The admin conference room was adjacent to the warden’s office. In fact, one of Stone’s doors opened into it. It was a large, plush room with an oak bookcase with glass doors built into the back wall and a massive matching conference table in the center. The handcrafted table and bookcase, with their detailed carvings and smooth, glossy finish, were far too extravagant for a state agency, especially a prison, but it was precisely because this was a prison that we had them. Like most things around here, including the prison itself, the furniture had been built by inmates—these by the best craftsmen available at the time.

  “Amazingly enough, Stone’s still got a job,” Pete continued. “Somebody’s lookin’ out for him. Regional director, I guess. Of course, if he hadn’t followed proper procedure to the letter, no one could’ve saved him.”

  “Proper procedure?” I asked.

  “NCICs, clearance memos, approval of the regional director.”

  “He had all that, did he?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Unless you know something I don’t, which has been known to happen from time to time.”

  “He didn’t do the background checks or run a single thing through the proper channels.”

  Behind his glasses, Pete’s eyes slowly grew wide.

  “You know Bobby Earl’s head of security is Stone’s nephew,” I said.

  He nodded. “What I just learned this morning is that Bobby Earl’s related to the regional director.”

  “So they let their relatives come into a maximum security prison with a minor without following proper procedure and a little girl got killed,” I said, more to myself than Pete.

  We were silent for a moment, then I said, “I know you don’t have to, but I’d appreciate it if you’d call Dad occasionally and let him know what’s going on out here—especially when there’s a murder.”

  “Sure, no problem,” he said. “I’ve thought I should do that, but I just forget. I’ll start doing it. I promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  As usual, the conference room was cold, its window covered with condensation. Through it, the officers standing in front of the control room and the inmates cleaning the visiting park looked distorted, like objects seen through a raindrop-dotted windshield.

  “Okay. You ready?” he asked.

  I nodded, and he turned on the recorders, introduced himself, noting the date and time.

  “Let’s start with what you did when Mrs. Caldwell came out of your office screaming,” he said.

  And, cognizant of the red record lights on the audio and video devices, I told him my story:

  “I motioned for Coel to get backup, my mind splitting into two hal
ves, and I heard two distinct voices. One said, preserve the crime scene. The other, preserve her dignity. So, I tried my best to do both.

  “I stepped into the office and closed the door. I then knelt beside her and checked her pulse, though it was purely academic. There was no question that the battered body before me was lifeless.

  “Reaching into the garbage can next to my desk, I withdrew part of a plastic sandwich bag and used it to pick up the receiver and punch in the security emergency number.

  “Within seconds, security officers poured into the chapel and helped Coel quiet the crowd of unruly and upset inmates, a few of whom had gathered around Bobby Earl and Bunny and had begun to pray for them.

  “In a matter of minutes, the chapel was empty of inmates, and only Coel, myself, and the Caldwells remained. I helped them up off the floor and onto the front pew where they sat in silence, tears rolling down their cheeks.

  “I stepped back into my office to look around when the trauma support team’s first responders ushered the Caldwells out of the chapel.

  “Then I heard a sound like someone attempting to open the door, which was followed by a quick knock and I looked up to see the institutional inspector, Pete Fortner, through the glass pane in the door that opened in from the hall. I noted that the door was locked. The inspector came in. You know the rest.”

  Through the moist window behind Pete, I could see that the small group of officers standing in front of the control room were laughing and cutting up like this was any other day. Their insensitivity and the inappropriateness of their actions enraged me, and I had the urge to go out and pick a fight with them so they could beat me up.

  “Did you notice anything unusual at the crime scene?” he asked. “Or on or about the victim?”

  The victim.

  I thought about Nicole again—saw her drawing, pictured her wide smile, heard her small voice.

  “The corner of something sticking out from underneath her left side.”

  “Any idea what it was?” he asked.

  “A greeting card, I think. I give them out to the inmates each month. There was a stack on my desk at the time of… the murder. I assume they’re still there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Over on the floor under the window was what looked to be a small pink marble.”

  “Do you know what it was?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Could it have been a piece of candy?”

  I thought about it. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it could’ve.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Good… Had you worked with the Caldwells before?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t know them. Still don’t, not really. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV a time or two, but Mr. Stone set up this program. I wasn’t notified about it until the day it was scheduled to take place.”

  “So you had nothing to do with the program?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Just checking in on them,” I said. “When a program’s being conducted by someone I don’t know, I try to stop by. And since this service had the unprecedented dimension of having a child involved…”

  “Did you disturb anything at the crime scene?”

  I shook my head. “Just what I told you. I closed the door, felt for a pulse, and used the phone.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He then switched off both recording devices and sat back down. “So what the hell really happened?”

  “The warden approved an ex-offender and a minor to enter the institution without going through the proper procedure or providing adequate security,” I said, “and the minor got killed.”

  “While in a locked room by herself,” he added.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Was there anybody in the room when you went in?”

  I shook my head. “The only places to hide are the bathroom and under the desk,” I said. “I checked both.”

  “And?”

  “And there was a killer, but I failed to mention it until now,” I said, the sarcasm in my voice harsh and angry.

  “Jeez,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just… I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “I know I ask stupid questions,” he said. “But I’m lost. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  I nodded my understanding without saying anything.

  “So,” he said, “tell me where to begin.”

  “With the parents,” I said. “Their statements. And any physical evidence gathered off them or from the scene.”

  He looked as though I were speaking a language he didn’t understand. “You suspect them?” he said at last.

  “Of course, “ I said. “You know the drill, it could be anyone, but statistically they’re far more likely to have done it than anyone else. Plus, they were the only ones—that we know of anyway—who were in there alone with her.”

  He fell quiet for a long time.

  When I let my weary eyes fall shut, I pictured Nicole sitting at the end of the table coloring with the passion of an artist, her small fingers curled around the crayon. Is she your girlfriend? Chips don’t have chocolate. You’re silly. We’ll pray for you, Chaplain JJ.

  “They were treated as victims—grieving parents, not suspects,” he said. “They weren’t checked for evidence. Hell, we didn’t even make them give statements.”

  Suddenly, I no longer had the strength to hold my head up, and it fell into my hands.

  “Maybe I need a new job,” he said.

  “Have you considered the Boulder Police Department?” I said.

  A former football coach at Pottersville high school, Pete had no previous investigative experience. Like many locals, he saw the building of the prison in our area as the best job opportunity he was likely to ever have. His only qualifications for the job were a losing season and a county commissioner cousin.

  “But she was like a zombie,” he said. He then shook his head and sat in silence for a long time before saying, “My case is over before it began. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can still get a statement from them,” I said.

  “The governor issued them a personal apology for not protecting their daughter while they were our guests,” he said.

  “Still has to be done,” I said. “But you could start with the inmates.”

  “What inmates?”

  “The ones who went out in the hall that night during the time Nicole was in my office,” I said. “We know only Bobby Earl and Bunny went in the door from the sanctuary, but what about the hallway door?”

  “It was locked,” he said.

  We were quiet a moment, then he lowered his voice and said, “We found a stack of hundred dollar bills near the body.”

  “What?” I asked, the surprise obvious in my voice. Money wasn’t something you saw much of in prison.

  “Yeah,” he said. “They were under your desk. It looks like they may’ve been knocked off along with a greeting card and some papers during the struggle.”

  “I don’t see how,” I said. “I don’t keep hundreds on my desk.”

  “You think someone was paid to kill her?” he asked.

  “Then decided to do it for free and left the money?” I asked.

  “Maybe they just didn’t see it. It appeared to have been in an envelope. Some of the bills still were. It was a lot of money.”

  I was silent a moment, thinking about what he had said and its implications.

  “We’re pretty much finished here,” he said. “If you want to go, you can.”

  “Have you taken Coel’s statement?” I asked.

  “It’s next,” he said. “You wanna sit in on it?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because,” I said, “he was the only one in the whole building who could see both of my office doors at the same time.”
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  CHAPTER 10

  Before Fortner could begin his interview, Edward Stone barged in and began firing questions at Coel. In stark contrast to his normal immaculate appearance, he looked ragged and unkempt, on edge. His eyes were bloodshot beneath drooping lids, and his countenance was that of an old and weary man.

  “How the hell could you let this happen?” he asked.

  Coel spun around, eyes widening, mouth dropping open, face reddening, and started to say something, but stopped himself, shook his head and sighed heavily.

  Fortner had just turned on the recording equipment and he let it continue to run.

  “You were responsible for her safety,” Stone continued.

  Having gathered himself, Coel sat perfectly still, his rigid composure the result of many years of military discipline. With great restraint, he seemed to be showing Stone the respect a senior officer was entitled. Swallowing hard, he didn’t say anything, just simmered in silence, but I could tell Stone’s words were fanning his smoldering anger into flames.

  The wall behind Coel was filled with various plaques, all of which were engraved with the FDC logo and small employee nameplates. I saw my name on the Employee of the Year plaque and wondered how long it would be before it was on the Deceased plaque. I thought about death often. Probably because for most of my adult life I’ve been surrounded by it. You can’t conduct murder investigations and funeral services without being reminded of just how short life is, how quickly death comes.

  For me, the contemplation of my mortality is not morbid, not an obsession with death, but a call to life. Living with a sense of the brevity of my existence and a heightened awareness of the fragility of life reminds me to live each day to its fullest, to learn, become, and experience all I can, to truly live before I die. As far as we know, in the carnival of life we only get to ride once. The problem is, I’ve yet to figure out how to live that way on any kind of consistent basis. As with most things, my intentions far exceed my actions.

  Nicole’s ride had been far too short, and I grieved inside for the child who would never grow up, never be a boy-crazy adolescent, or a passionate young woman, a wife or a mother, never know the unspeakable joy and exquisite pain the seasons of life bring.