The Body and the Blood (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

On my way back from Atlanta that afternoon, I drove through downtown Panama City and stopped by Paula Menge’s art gallery for an exhibit of Justin’s work.

Her gallery was just off Harrison Avenue behind the old Martin Theater. The crowd was small, but the art was extraordinary.

Justin Menge was a gifted artist with an eye for the spirit of the people and places he captured on canvas. His speciality was beach landscapes and children. Though not strictly an impressionist, Justin was obviously influenced by the movement. His landscapes brought to mind Monet’s water lilies, his children, Degas’ dancers.

He painted the Gulf Coast’s beaches to perfection, capturing the great curves of powdery white sand and blue-green waters in a still frame that seemed to move somehow. His depictions of the Gulf were more accurate than any I had ever seen, finding the delicate balance between its beauty and danger, its transparency and mystery.

The children in Justin Menge’s paintings seemed alive, their soft skin and innocent eyes animated by the peculiarity of personality. His powerful paintings did nothing less than expose the young souls to the voyeuristic adults who found the distant wonder of childhood only faintly familiar.

It was no wonder he was so easily convicted of lewd and lascivious acts on a minor. I was sure his art alone was enough to convince a Pine County jury, but these weren’t abused or exploited children. He understood them. He loved them. He didn’t harm them, not in any way—not if you believed the truth of his art. And I did.

As I studied one painting in particular of a small girl running naked in the incoming tide, her blonde hair spun gold against the rich green of the sea, the actual little girl of the picture, older now, walked up with a woman who seemed to be a taller version of her.

“There it is, Mommy,” the little girl said. “There I am. See? That’s me.”

“Yes,” the woman said softly. “It’s beautiful.
You’re
beautiful.”

“Where’s Justin?” the little girl asked. “I don’t see him. I want him to do another one.”

“He’s not here, honey,” the woman said. “He had to be somewhere else today. But we’ll see him again real soon. I promise.”

“It really
is
magnificent,” I said.

“Thanks,” the woman said. “You a fan of his work?”

“Quickly becoming one.”

“I’m Katherine Kirkland and this is Emily.”

“Hi, Emily. I’m John. You sure are pretty. That’s one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen.”

“Justin did it.”

“Do you know the artist well?” I asked Katherine.

She nodded. “We went to school together. He even took me to the prom. He was great back then, but he just keeps getting better and better. Do you know him?”

I nodded.

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should tell her he was dead. I couldn’t believe that she didn’t know. Daniels had done a great job of keeping it out of the media. I decided not to reveal his secret.

“I’m the chaplain of Potter Correctional Institution.”

Across the room, I saw Paula slink in, head down, shoulders up, and look around, as if for prey. When she saw me, she waved. I waved back.

“Oh,” she said in surprise. “Wow.” She hesitated a minute, studying me more closely. “Well, how’s he doing?”

I shrugged and gave her my best as-well-as-can-be-expected look.

“I can’t imagine what a place like that is doing to a sensitive soul like his.”

Beside her, Emily twirled around in a small circle, humming to herself, and I saw the same free spirit Justin had somehow managed to freeze in a single frame of time and space with paint and canvas.

“I hope he can survive intact,” she continued. “Not let it change him. Not let it change his heart—his art. That would be the greatest crime of all.”

“Did I hear Emily say she was going to work with him again?” I asked.

Behind us, a steady, but small stream of people slowly walked past, each glancing from the program in their hands to the paintings on the wall, many of them gasping when they saw the painting of Emily by the sea.

She nodded. “I hope so.” She looked up at the painting of Emily hanging in front of us. “Don’t you think she should?”

Looking at the painting, I nodded. “But what about what he was charged with?”

Three overweight elderly ladies passed by us in too tight dresses, their pinched expressions indicating how seriously they took art.

One of them whispered: “I heard he’s not here today because he’s in prison.”

“Really?” another one said. “How exciting.”

Katherine shook her head. “It’s not possible. If there were any chance, I wouldn’t let Emily go anywhere near him. But there’s not. Trust me. Justin Menge is one of the purest souls I’ve ever encountered.”

I looked down at Emily who had stopped twirling and was now studying the parade of adults around her. Her fine blonde hair outlined her small round face like an expensive gold frame, her deep green eyes the color of the Gulf in the painting.

“But—”

“I’m a psychologist. I’ve worked with abused kids and those who’ve abused them. Believe me, I’d know.”

I nodded.

“Just look at his work. You can see for yourself.”

After Katherine and Emily had wandered away, Paula walked up. “Thanks so much for coming.”

“It’s incredible . . . and your gallery’s great.”

“That’s sweet of you to say. But I’m about to redo it. Come back in about six months, it’ll really be something then.”

“Justin’s work selling well?” I asked.

She smiled. “Actually, everything I was willing to sell sold before the show began.”

“What?”

“A collector from Sarasota bought them all when she heard Justin had died.”

“Everything?” I asked, looking around.

She nodded and smiled. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“You can certainly afford it.”

We walked up to Harrison Avenue to a new coffee shop. At the end of Harrison beyond the marina, the sun sat low in the sky, casting a soft rose-colored glow on the buildings lining both sides of the street.

I had coffee and a slice of coconut cake. She had a large Java Royale, quiche, and a bagel with cream cheese. I paid.

We sat at a table outside.

“I haven’t eaten anything today,” she said. “I’m starving.”

There was very little traffic on Harrison, and a Sunday evening hush rested on downtown. The shops were closed, the visitors few, the cool air calm and quiet.

She ate without inhibition, enjoying every bite, yet shoveling it in as fast as she could.

“Most of the people at the gallery didn’t seem to know about Justin,” I said.

“It’s not public knowledge,” she said, wiping her mouth with the small paper napkin. “And I didn’t tell them.”

“How’d the collector who bought all his paintings find out?”

“She didn’t buy them all. Just the ones I was willing to part with. I called and told her. She had acquired several of his pieces before, and I knew she loved his work. She had the means to buy the collection I was offering.”

I nodded, wondering again at her lack of grief.

“A lot of the people there today were friends or regular customers,” she continued. “If they’d known Justin had died, they would’ve tried to buy something, but it would’ve been awkward because they couldn’t have afforded it.”

“You seem to be doing good.”

“I have my moments, but, yes, overall I’m doing fine.”

“When’s the funeral?” I asked. “Have you made the arrangements yet?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Did you want to come? I’m sorry. I decided just to have a memorial service. He’s just going to be cremated when they release his body, and I didn’t want to wait ‘til then for all of us to get closure. It was earlier this afternoon.”

“
I’m
sorry. I would’ve been there.”

“I should’ve let you know. It was just me, Mom and Dad, a few cousins, and Justin’s partner, Chris.”

“Chris
Sobel
?” I asked.

She nodded. “Said they let him come since he was minimum custody with very little time left.”

“But he’s also one of the leading suspects in your brother’s murder.”

“Really? Chris? I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do—he loved Justin.”

“How’d he even know about it?”

“I made sure he knew. I know how close they were.”

I said, “I thought you hadn’t talked to Justin in four years?”

She shook her head. “I hadn’t
seen
him for four years, but he never stopped writing me, letting me know everything that was going on in his life. He told me all about Chris in his letters, even sent me a picture of the two of them together.”

“Didn’t you think he and Justin looked like twins?” I asked.

She squinted and looked away as she seemed to consider it, then shrugged. “I guess they favored some in the picture, though it was a long time ago. Now, it’s hard to tell since he doesn’t have hair.”

“Who doesn’t have hair?”

Her expression was one of confusion. “Chris. He shaved his head.”

“That’s something new,” I said, wondering if it were a sign of grief or an attempt alter his appearance in order to escape. “Was he cuffed, shackled, and in the custody of a sheriff’s deputy?”

She shook her head. “His brother was able to sign him out.”

My heart started racing. One of our leading suspects was out of prison, and I doubted he would ever come back again—not willingly anyway.

“Did he tell you when he had to be back?” I asked, hopping up from the table.

She shrugged. “Sometime tonight . . . before count, I think.”

Chapter Twenty-four

When I pulled into the PCI parking lot, Anna was waiting for me.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

I’d called her on my drive back and asked her to meet me, but was unwilling to tell her why on the cell phone since a favorite Potter County pastime was listening to cell and cordless phone conversations on emergency scanners.

“Chris Sobel,” I said. “Did you approve him for a furlough?”

Her face grew alarmed, then angry. “Of course not.”

“He went on one.”

“There’s no way.”

On the rare occasions furloughs were approved for inmates who had a nonviolent charge, a minimum custody level, and very little time left, they were only granted for the funerals of immediate family members.

“He went to Justin’s memorial service, according to Paula Menge.”

Turning toward the control room, she said, “Let’s find out just what the hell’s goin’ on.”

When we reached the control room we were greeted with a wave by the officer and the sergeant inside.

Lifting the lid of the document tray, Anna said, “Hey, Sarge, are there any inmates out on furlough right now?”

He nodded, glancing down at the log. “Two. A Russell and a Sobel.”

“Chris Sobel?” she said, concealing the alarm I knew she felt.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who approved Sobel’s furlough?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. He left before I came on duty.”

“What time is he scheduled back?”

He glanced at the log book again. “Six.”

I looked at the clock on the back wall of the control room. It was five-forty-five. He should be pulling up any minute—if he were coming back.

“Who’s the OIC on duty right now?” Anna asked.

“Captain Weaver.”

“Would you please radio him and ask him to meet me up here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

While he did, Anna turned back to me. “Fifteen minutes. Whatta you think?”

“I think it could be fifteen days—wouldn’t matter.”

She nodded.

“Somethin’s way off about this whole thing,” I said.

Before she could respond, Sergeant Bryan said, “Ms. Rodden, Captain Weaver’s in the VP. He said for me to send you two on back.”

And so, without our ID badges, he buzzed the gate and we walked in the institution when we were off-duty—something we were never supposed to do.

We found Weaver sitting with Rosetta Jackson, the sergeant in charge of supervising visitation, at a table in the corner of the visiting park.

The PCI visiting park was a large room, maybe 50 x 75, with cinder block walls and a tile floor. Folding tables with plastic chairs around them filled the center of the room and vending machines lined two of the walls. For safety and security, there were separate bathrooms for inmates and visitors and the pavilion out back was enclosed by its own fence and razor wire.

Anna told Weaver what was going on.

“Don’t know anything about it. I came on at three, but we can step in my office and call Captain Weeks.”

I stayed behind and talked to Rosetta Jackson at her request.

“Merrill said I should talk to you,” she said.

“About what?”

“I worked in PM for two years before makin’ sergeant.”

And though I figured she was about to tell me what I already knew, I said, “Yes ma’am?”

“Inmates in PM the worst kind there is,” she said. “They in PM ‘cause they made too many problems for theyselves with the other convicts on the ‘pound.”

We were surrounded by inmates and their loved-ones who were talking, but not touching, smiling, but not laughing, as they ate junk food they had gotten out of the vending machines. Seeing them eating the candy bars, chips, and microwave sandwiches made me wonder if Justin and Paula had eaten anything during their visit that might help us better establish time of death. I made a mental note to talk to Paula and Daniels about it.

“Most of ‘em pissed off another inmate and now they hidin’ from him,” she continued. “It’s usually over gamblin’ debts. Sometimes sex. They play games like the rest of the convicts, but then when it’s time to pay the bill, they skip out on the check.”

At a table in the back corner, a young Latin woman slid her hand up an inmate’s thigh and began giving him an on-the-clothes hand job beneath the table.

Who said Florida no longer has conjugal visits?

I wondered how long it would take the other officers to spot it. Probably longer than it would take him to reach climax. I started to say something to Sergeant Jackson, but just couldn’t bring myself to.

“You know how irresponsible and immature all these men are?”she said. “Well, just multiply that by about a thousand and that’s a PM inmate. They come runnin’ to us, say somebody tryin’ to rape them or some shit like that and all along they just owe him money.”

When I looked back over at the Hispanic inmate in the corner, he had a smile on his face and he looked far more relaxed than before. Beside him, his Latin under-the-table lover seemed thrilled to have been of service.

“There’s ex-law enforcement,” she said. “And a few baby-rapers or high profile cons, but for the most part it’s the lowest scum in the prison pond.”

“What about the inmate who was killed?” I asked.

“Menge? He was one of the better ones. Quiet. Stayed to himself mostly. Never gave me no trouble. And paint. That boy could paint.”

“Any ideas about who could’ve killed him?”

She shrugged. “Take your pick. Like I said, it coulda been any of them and it coulda been over a card game or pack of cigarettes. Or just because one of those other sorry bastards owe him some canteen. Or he owe them. Whatever it was, it wasn’t over much. I can tell you that. It’s the way PM inmates are. Whoever did it, it won’t take you long to find out. They all snitches. Every damn one of ‘em. They’ll sell each other out for a smoke. Or less. Just a few weeks ago, we noticed they were all requesting Sudafed. It was allergy season—hell, it’s always allergy season ‘round here—but it was suspicious. Sure enough they were all requesting it and selling it to this one dude so he could get high. Thing is, we didn’t even have to threaten them. All we had to do was ask. They told us. No fuss. No muss.”

I nodded.

“Half of ‘em down there’re homosexual,” she said. “That’s part of the reason they like being in there. They get to be with each other. Shit, they have more sex than we do.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “I’m on my second honeymoon.”

“Then what the hell you doin’ here?”

“Good question.”

An elderly inmate with a half halo of white hair around a reddish bald head sat at a table surrounded by his children and grandchildren, two of whom sat in his lap. They looked happy together. Not as happy as the Hispanic inmate, but happy nonetheless. It made me sad to think of the old man spending his later years in a place like this, seeing his loved-ones, at most, eight hours every other weekend.

“Who was on duty down there the night Menge was killed?” she asked.

“Pitts and Potter,” I said.

“Well, add them to the list of suspects. At least Potter—he’ll do anything if the price is right. He been bringin’ drugs in here for years. I don’t think Pitts does anything like that, but he not very bright, so no tellin’. I’m just glad I’m not down there anymore. “That’s the biggest bunch of—”

Before she could finish, Anna appeared at the door and motioned for me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “More honeymooning to do?”

When I reached her Anna said, “Six o’clock and no Sobel.”

“Probably just running late.”

We were buzzed out of the security building, through the sally port, and out of the prison. We sat down on the aluminum bench under the covered area in front of the control room and alternated between watching for Sobel and watching the clock.

“What’d Weeks say?” I asked.

“Sobel’s attorney showed up with an order from a federal judge saying Sobel could go to the funeral.”

“
What
?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would a federal judge—” I started, but broke off as headlights shown on the road leading up to the prison.

“It’s not him,” Anna said.

The car parked in the lot and an officer got out.

I glanced back at the clock. It was six-thirty.

By seven all the visitors had left, the inmates returned to their dorms. By seven-thirty, the citizen volunteer who was doing the Sunday night worship service had entered the institution. By eight, the food service staff had gone. By nine, FDLE had been contacted, Sobel’s escape reported, and an APB posted. By eleven, the shift change was completed. By midnight there was still no sign of Sobel, which was no surprise. Over seven hours earlier, we had known there wasn’t going to be.