The Body and the Blood (21 page)

Chapter Forty-three

The PCI inmate library was larger and had more books than the Potter County Public Library, the Pottersville High School library, and the Pottersville Elementary School library put together. With use-or-lose funds appropriated each year by the state, the librarian and her assistant flung purchase orders like seeds in the wind, producing an annual harvest of computers, audiovisual equipment, CDs, DVDs and, of course, books.

In addition to fiction and nonfiction, hardcovers and paperbacks, the inmates were required by law to have access to a full law library, which had its own room in the back of the building. With all of this, plus specially trained inmate law clerks and orderlies, the library of PCI was one of the highest traffic areas on the compound.

When Merrill, Daniels, and I entered, the library was filled to capacity, and there were inmates waiting at the center gate for their turn to come up.

Passing the magazines and periodicals, we continued through rows of shelving lined with every genre of fiction, the most popular of which were the romance, western, and mystery. Inmates browsing for a book they hadn’t already read several times tried to eye Merrill and Daniels without being noticed, many of them grabbing the closest title to them and heading toward the door.

Clerks in the law library looked up from helping inmates file appeals to see what we were doing. The young bookish-looking assistant with glasses on his nose, phone to his ear, and feet on his desk didn’t even notice.

When we finally stopped at the video counter in the back, a collective sigh of relief seemed to be released from the inmates behind us, while the two orderlies working the video counter had the opposite reaction. Behind them, lining several high shelves, were nonviolent feature films and educational videos on nearly every subject imaginable. Above them, on a DVD/VCR mounted to the wall, a mystery show I had seen on PBS played silently, and scattered all around us were inmates with headphones who seemed to be only half watching it.

“How’s it goin’?” I asked.

The orderly closest to me, still eyeing Merrill and Daniels warily, gave me a nod and a grunt.

“You got a National Geographic video about gorillas?” I asked.

“We did,” he said, “but it’s missin’.”

“Any idea what happened to it?”

“None.”

“Let me see the case,”

He glanced back at the wall behind him and, too quickly, said, “It’s missin’, too.”

“What is that?” I said, pointing to the case I had just asked for.

“That’s somethin’ else.”

“Let me see.”

When he hesitated, Merrill growled, “Bitch, give him the damn case.”

He turned, using his body to block our vision, but I could hear him slide a disc out of the case and drop it to the floor.

When he turned back around, he handed me the empty case I had asked for.

“Now let me see the disc that was in it.”

“There wasn’t one,” he said, sliding his foot back to better conceal it.

“Hand him the disc ‘fore I jump over this counter and shove your ass into that TV up there,” Merrill said.

I pointed down at the disc on the floor behind his foot.

He looked at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Must’ve slipped out when I picked up the case.”

“Must’ve.”

When he handed me the disc, I took it and started walking away.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked.

“Borrowing it,” I said.

“It’s just a blank disc,” he said.

“
Oh
, I hope it is,” Merrill said. “‘Cause if it is, I’m gonna come back and kick your lyin’ ass all over this place.”

“Why’d you try to hide it?” I asked. “Justin Menge ask you to protect it for him?”

“I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout. Got nothin’ to do with no disc. Like I say, shit look blank to me.”

I walked out of the library, now far less crowded than when we came in, Merrill and Daniels following me. We crossed over the asphalt road that led from the front to the center gates, and entered the chapel.

When we were in my office, I inserted the disc and we all sat down to watch it.

Glancing around my office, I realized again how impersonal it was. Unlike every other office I had ever had, this one didn’t really feel like mine. The shelves were filled with theology texts—mostly reference books I used when studying. The walls were covered with art, the desk with objects, but none of them revealed much about my personality or tastes. There were no pictures of family or friends—nothing an inmate could use to manipulate or intimidate me—nothing very meaningful with one exception.

On the wall directly across from my desk was a framed color crayon picture of Jesus colored for me by Nicole Caldwell. It was a memorial of sorts to her. She had been murdered in this very office while waiting for her televangelist father to finish his service in the chapel. Perhaps the reason I didn’t feel completely comfortable in this office had less to do with how impersonal a prison office had to be than the way in which it was haunted for me.

When the first image came on the screen it was of the cement floor of the PM quad in G-dorm. The lighting was bad, and the shots, jerky and largely out of focus, were worse. In the background, Pitts could be heard outside the backdoor in the exercise area yelling at Jaqueel Jefferson.

The camera angle was suddenly raised and there was a fast zoom to the shower cell where Justin Menge was cuffed to the door, Billy Joe Potter standing behind him.

“I thought Pitts was the fool caught in this Rodney King shit.”

“What he told me.”

“Why would Pitts say it’s him?”

“Maybe he thought it was. Maybe they both went at him.”

At first just the bars were in focus, then the bars softened as the deep distress lines on Justin’s contorted face sharpened.

Suddenly, his face was slammed into the cell bars as Potter delivered a powerful blow to his kidneys. He let out a yelp and a string of blood-laced spit splattered on the bars.

I winced.

Several more blows, similar, but more severe, followed.

Rage disfigured Potter’s face into something I didn’t recognize, more of his humanity leaving each time he committed another act of violence.

I grew nauseated, the donuts and coffee in my stomach threatening to come up, as I saw some part of myself in Potter’s angry face and glazed eyes.

“Goddam,” Merrill exclaimed. “It was just a matter of time before he killed Menge. I didn’t think Potter had it in him.”

“Something Menge said or did or wouldn’t do set him off.”

I thought about Justin’s art, about the sensitive soul inside the body being savagely beaten and my eyes stung.

What’s wrong with us?
How can we do such things to each other? How could
I
have ever done that to another human being?

When the disc was finished, Daniels stood up. “Why would Jefferson tell you he recorded Pitts instead of Potter?”

“Maybe Potter paid him. It’s probably not a coincidence that he left for outside court the day after the murder.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t stop the investigation and arrest Hawkins. This fucker just moved to the top of my list.”

Merrill and I didn’t say anything.

“Am I wrong? Doesn’t he move to the top of our list?”

“Beatin’ and cuttin’ two different things,” Merrill said.

“Yeah. Cuttin’s easier.”

They looked at me. “Whatta you think?” Daniels asked.

“Long list no matter who’s at the top.”

“You’re right. It really could be any of them. They all had a reason to do it.”

I nodded. “We’ve got to figure out which one of them crossed the line between wanting him dead and killing him.”

As Daniels and I talked, Merrill seemed distant and preoccupied, and I wondered if he was reliving his time in the dungeon or planning his retaliation.

“Let’s go through them again,” Daniels said. “starting with the sister.”

“She inherited most of what Menge couldn’t take with him.”

“All of it—as long as Sobel’s out of the picture,” Daniels added.

“And it just so happens that he’s murdered on her first visit in four years, but if it were her, she had to have a partner.”

“Before he escaped, I’d’ve said it was probably Sobel,” Daniels said.

“Could still be.”

“Him escaping could’ve been part of the plan all along.”

“She drugs him, Sobel kills him, and they both inherit.”

“Don’t count a nigga out just ‘cause his ass didn’t make Candid Camera,” Merrill said.

“Ike Turner?” I asked.

Merrill smiled.

“Who?” Daniels asked.

“Pitts.”

“He expected to be on the disc. He’s already told us about all the tune-ups he gives.”

“And he don’t just hit inmates,” Merrill said.

“He came down and walked around to all the cells after the service started when he was supposed to be in the officers’ station. We were down there. There was no reason for him to do it.”

Daniels nodded. “But what about Martinez or Matos? We can’t leave them out.”

“Martinez certainly has the motive. If Chris was going to testify.”

“He was,” Daniels said.

“Matos could’ve helped Martinez or killed him for his own reasons. Did Chris mention anything about a staff member having an affair with an inmate?”

Daniels shook his head. “Not that I remember, but with all that was going on, I probably wouldn’t’ve given it the proper attention.”

I nodded.

“We leaving out anybody?”

“The holy man,” Merrill said.

“Father James,” I said.

Daniels shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. “You know what this is? This is one of those cases that never gets cleared. The kind that haunts you the rest of your life.”

“Can you imagine the reasonable doubt a defense attorney could create with this list of suspects?”

Chapter Forty-four

Late afternoon.

Alone in my office.

Phone.

“I’m sending over the book you asked for,” Dr. Diaz said.

Still bothered by several nagging questions about murder and how it was committed, I had asked Dr. Diaz, the prison physician, if I could borrow a book on blood a couple of days ago. He told me he had just what I was looking for at home and he’d bring it in the next day.

“Sorry I’m late getting it to you,” he said. “It took me longer than I thought to find it.”

While he was talking, an inmate orderly in a white uniform appeared at my door, and I motioned him in. He handed me the book, I nodded my thanks, and he left.

“Let me know if you have any questions after you read it,” he was saying.

“I will. Thanks.”

The book was oversized and heavy with pages marked by sticky notes and passages highlighted in bright pink and yellow. The margins were filled with notes difficult to decipher. It took a while, but I finally found the section I needed and began to read, imagining Justin’s cell floor as I did.

After reading the relevant page several times, I wrote the following on my notepad:

Blood usually clots in about five to fifteen minutes after exiting the body and will initially be dark maroon, gelatin-like, and sticky to the touch. Over a couple of hours it will separate into a dark maroon-blackish clot surrounded by a pale yellow serum. This is due to some contraction of the clotted blood and a “squeezing out” of the serum, which is not involved in the clotting process.

Blood on a floor will usually dry to a crusty brownish state over a few hours to 3 or 4 days, depending upon the actual temperature, humidity level, and the degree of ventilation. Warmer, drier, and breezy conditions will dry it faster. Blood on clothing is likely to dry much faster—the clothing serving as a wick and spreading the blood out over a larger area. This leads to faster drying. If the clothing is placed inside a container or is wadded, it will take much longer to dry than if it is spread out on the floor or draped over a chair or other object.

I thought back to the night of the murder, trying to remember the color and consistency of the blood in the cell. I remembered seeing the dark maroon and blackish clot, the yellowish serum surrounding it, but it was still wet and tacky too. Instead of answering my questions, this gave me more. How does the state of the body and the blood confirm or contradict what we know and what does it tell us about who may have done it?

It just didn’t add up, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.

My phone rang, and I snatched it up, resentful of the interruption, though the truth was I was more frustrated with my inability to make sense of how the crime was committed than anything else.

“Chaplain Jordan,” I said, still preoccupied by my thoughts.

“Chaplain, it’s Chris,” he said. “Chris Sobel.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m scared. In real trouble. I wanted you to know I didn’t kill Justin. I loved him. I miss him so much.”

“Where are you? Let me come get you.”

“And bring me back there? You want me dead?”

“Who wants to kill you?”

“Whoever killed Justin.”

“And who’s that?”

“It wasn’t me. I swear.”

“They found a set of your prints on his door,” I said.

“I was in and out of his cell a thousand times.”

“That’s why the fact that they only found one bothers me so much.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Your prints were on his light.”

“I swear. I didn’t do it.”

“Why’d you run away?” I asked.

“I’m scared.”

“Yet you went to Justin’s memorial service.”

“I had to. I love him. He’s all I think about. I want whoever killed him found and punished. He was a very special person. Best man I’ve ever known. You know he was innocent. He could never harm a child. Justin was my soul mate. We were going to build a life together.”

His voice broke and he began to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

I was tempted to respect his grief, but I knew I couldn’t. Too much was at stake. And at the moment, like nearly every other one during a homicide investigation, being a chaplain had to take a backseat to being an investigator.

“So you and Justin were exclusive?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“He wasn’t involved with Officer Pitts or Potter?”

“
What
? No. Who said that?”

“More than one inmate.”

“Of course they did, what else they got to do? Pitts used to beat his ass. He never fucked it.”

He had talked to me longer than I thought he would already. Any moment he could hang up the phone, and there was nothing I could do about it. So why hold back?

“Why was Mike Hawkins afraid of you?”

“What? You don’t think a faggot can be a badass?”

“You know me better than that.”

“There’s more to me than meets the eye. I have special skill sets. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Do you have a relationship with Ms. Lopez?”

“No. Why?”

“She was down there the night Justin was killed?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she in your cell?”

“At one point, yeah.”

“How long?”

“Not very long. I’m not sure exactly.”

“Give me an estimate. Was it before Mass?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a witness who says she went into your cell and didn’t come out before the murder happened.”

It was a lie. There was no such witness.

“I’ve got to go, Chaplain. I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it. And I’m sorry I had to run out on you, but please find Justin’s killer.”

“I will,” I said. “Even if it’s you.”