The Body and the Blood (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“How the
hell
a inmate make a video of a officer?” Merrill asked.

I had run into him at Sal’s Pizzeria, a small storefront next to the Dollar Store with a kitchen and a takeout counter, the three round tables placed next to the plate glass window an afterthought. It was noisy, dusty from yeast and flour, and cramped. Sal preferred carry-out customers.

Merrill and I, the only patrons in the establishment, were sitting at the center of the three tables near the front window.

“How the hell an inmate video
anything
?” he said again.

I recounted Pitts story to him.

About a year ago, video cameras were placed throughout the institution to record all use-of-force incidents because of the number of inmates alleging abuse and retaliation by correctional officers. What they captured was intended to corroborate the written reports and witness statements that had previously been all that was entered into evidence.

Permanent surveillance cameras were mounted only in confinement—one on each end of the hallway, showing the front of the cell doors but not inside them. Every other post in the institution was dependent on handheld camcorders, which were kept, along with blank discs and batteries, in a case with a seal on it in a secure location. Each week the seal was broken, the camera and battery checked, and the broken seal submitted along with an incident report to Central Office.

Of course, only a few of the cases of use-of-force can be predicted. Most erupt with little warning and no time to wait for a video camera to be retrieved from a secure location. Consequently, most of what was captured was after an inmate had been subdued. But once the camera was out it must follow the inmate through his post use-of-force medical exam and his placement in an appropriate cell. And occasionally, as in the case of tune-ups, the officers involved delayed the retrieval of the camera until what it captured wouldn’t get them indicted.

Still, they had to video at least some portion of every use-of-force, which was how Justin Menge caught Michael Pitts in the act.

Justin had orchestrated every aspect of it from the very beginning, but he had to have help to accomplish it, which Chris Sobel, Jacqueel Jefferson, and Milton White gladly provided.

Pitts had taken Menge into the empty shower cell, which was where most tune-ups took place so any blood spilled could be washed down the drain. The door to the shower cell, unlike the others, consisted of bars—bars through which Menge’s cuffs had been threaded.

Leaving an officer in the wicker, Potter had brought the video camera down into the PM quad and sat it on the table to wait until, at the end of the tune-up, Pitts would uncuff the beaten and provoked Menge and video him fighting back.

But while Pitts was busy with Menge, Potter got distracted by a fight between Milton White and Jacqueel Jefferson just behind the quad on the small PM rec yard. The staged fight provided enough time for Chris Sobel to grab the camera and video Michael Pitts beating, some would say torturing, Justin Menge.

“Real smart sons a bitches working G-dorm,” Merrill said shaking his head.

“It was a good plan.”

“Not if it got his ass killed.”

“True.”

Sal had finished Merrill’s pizza before mine, and he offered me a slice while we talked, but, being the purest I am, I declined. A pizza should have meat—preferably pepperoni and bacon—but no vegetables, and certainly no form of fruit, and I told him so.

“You think the disc really exists?” Merrill asked.

I shrugged.

“Sounds like prison legend to me.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but the scenario he described seems plausible. And if there’s not a disc, why would Pitts make it up? An inmate trying to deflect suspicion off himself onto Pitts, sure, but why Pitts? Why tell a lie to implicate yourself?”

Outside, a woman in a faded flowery house coat, soiled white tube socks, pink slippers, and a white straw cowboy hat with a Rebel Flag button pinned to it, pulled up in her motorized wheelchair, which she drove around town in like a car. Her sun-damaged skin was wrinkled and leathery, making her look far older than she was, and she had the soft, shapeless mouth of a person with no teeth.

“So where’s the disc now?” Merrill asked.

“No one seems to know. Pitts thought he’d confiscated it from Menge’s cell during a shakedown, but later when he tried to watch it at home it was a National Geographic disc about gorillas.”

Merrill smiled appreciatively. “Even money Pitts and Potter missed the message.”

I nodded.

When the woman in the wheelchair reached the door, I stood and held it for her, and she spoke to me by name as she rolled into the restaurant. Like many people around town, I knew of her, knew quite a bit about her, but couldn’t recall her name—if I ever knew it. Years ago, perhaps before I was even born, her father had kicked her out of their house at the age of seventeen because she was in love with a young black man. Her dad had died recently—without ever having reconciled with his daughter, though thirty years later she and the young man he hadn’t approved of were still together.

“Where you think the disc is?” Merrill asked as I returned to the table. “I’ve been over every inch of G-dorm.”

I shrugged. “Don’t know, but I bet it turns up before this thing is over.”

“You think Pitts coulda killed Menge?”

I nodded.

“Why tell you about the disc?”

I shrugged. “Pre-emptive strike? May think we already have it or figures we’ll find it eventually. If he killed Justin, it was a smart move.”

* * * * *

When I got home that night, the Prairie Palm II, the abandoned second phase of a planned mobile home community I live in, was still and quiet. That was just the way I liked it—which was a good thing since it was rarely anything else. The trailer I lived in was the only one in the failed park. I picked it up cheap when I first moved back down here after the divorce—or what I thought was the divorce—and it had steadily grown on me since.

Now that I had a few more options—just a few on a state prison chaplain’s salary—I could move if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to. There was something very appealing, and appropriate I felt, about living in a rundown house trailer that hadn’t been nice even when it was new. I liked that I, who so often felt like a failure, lived in a failed subdivision. I liked the peace and quiet, and much of the time, I liked the solitude.

After putting the pizza box, half a pizza still in it, into the refrigerator, I carried Thomas Moore’s
Dark Nights of the Soul
to the living room and collapsed onto the couch with it. For a long moment, I just laid there, clutching the book to my chest, my weary mind trying to process thoughts, my slow, steady breathing the only sound in the room.

All around me were stacks of books—on shelves, on the floor, on the tables, and I felt comforted just being back in their presence.

For a while I thought about the counseling sessions I had squeezed in between the first steps of the investigation today. I had been distracted, preoccupied with Justin’s murder and the pursuit of his killer, and I felt guilty. Much of the time, I felt like an adequate enough chaplain, and there were many inmates and staff members who told me I was good, but when I was involved in a homicide investigation I was nearly useless.

Murder cases were overwhelming. They had a tendency to engulf every facet of life, and I knew Justin’s would be no different. I also knew I’d be involved—and would’ve been even if Daniels hadn’t asked me. I’d put a temporal mystery ahead of my work helping people investigate and experience eternal ones. I’d be neglectful of many of my duties and distracted while performing the others, and I’d feel guilty, but I wouldn’t stop. The best I could hope for was a quick resolution to the case so I could return more of my attention to the needs of my wayward flock.

But when I did, what would I have to offer them?

I felt dead inside—and did before Justin’s murder, my missed night of sleep, and all that had transpired today. I had gone through periods like this before, the winter seasons of my life and relationship with God, but this seemed different, more severe, more a state than a season. I was concerned. I opened the book hoping Moore could give me some encouragement, reassurance, and answers, and was asleep before I had reached the end of the page.

* * * * *

I was aware of the phone ringing a few moments before I could resurface into consciousness and answer it.

“I wake you?”

It was Susan. Even in my groggy state, I was instantly happy. Just hearing her voice did something deep inside me. Buoyed me up somehow.

“I was reading.”

“In your dreams?”

“Sorry I haven’t called you back.”

“But you’ve been too busy reading?”

“I love you.”

“I’m so glad we got another chance,” she said.

“Me too. Not many people do.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking how lucky we are. I mean really,
really
lucky.”

We were quiet a moment.

Eventually, I said, “We’re gonna get it right this time.”

“Already are. Now, go back to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Chapter Fifteen

When I reached the chapel the next morning, Daniels and Fortner were waiting for me. Like mine, Daniels’s bloodshot eyes had a glazed look underscored by dark circles. He moved slowly like a man with a hangover, which I hoped was just the result of sleep-depravation. Pete just looked his normal unkempt self, his ill-fitting clothes slightly wrinkled, his curly hair all over the place.

As we neared my office, I could hear my phone ringing.

“Hello, handsome,” Susan said when I answered it.

“Hey.”

With Pete and especially Daniels present I was guarded and restrained, and I wondered if she could hear it in my voice.

“Are you naked?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t want me to be. One, I’m in a prison. And two, I’m with your dad.”

Mentioning Daniels to Susan in his presence caused a palpable tension, though I wasn’t sure if it were in the room or just in me. There was something about their relationship, an undercurrent beneath the overt and often demonstrative love—something found in the dynamic between most addicts and their children—a contradiction between the text and subtext that gave me a dull ache deep inside.

Part of the problem was that Susan had never been completely honest about her feelings. In fact, I often thought her fierce loyalty and effusive affection were the result of the guilt she felt at what seemed to her to be betrayal.

“He said you two were working together again. How’s that going?”

“Better than usual.”

“That’s not saying much.”

“Far better.”

“I so want you two to get along.”

“I’ll do what
I
can,” I said.

“Hey, this investigation going to mess up our weekend together?”

“You’ll have to ask the boss.”

“You ask him.”

I moved my mouth away from the receiver, but didn’t cover it. “Is this investigation going to mess up my plans with your daughter this weekend?”

He shook his head. “I value my life too much to let that happen.”

“Good,” she said. “See you tonight?”

“Or tomorrow,” I said, floating it out there to see what her reaction would be.

“
Tomorrow
?”

“And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

“Good try, but you’re not gettin’ off that easy. I still want you to move back up here.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We’ll talk about it this weekend. Don’t wait until tomorrow. Come tonight. I love you.”

“I love
you
,” I said, and we hung up.

It felt awkward telling Susan I loved her in front of Daniels, but when I looked at him, he was smiling.

“Got the prelim autopsy results.”

“Yeah?”

“And you’re not gonna believe this. The victim bled to death.”

“They sure?” I asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell with these things. That’s why we have the professionals. They used words like death occurred as the result of excessive blood loss—”

“I’ll say it was excessive,” Fortner said.

“Due to lacerations of the jugular vein and carotid artery.”

“So, he got his throat cut,” Fortner said.

“Yeah,” Daniels said. “It means he got his throat cut.”

“What about time of death?” I asked.

“Say they can’t be sure.”

“What about the lividity and blanching? Condition of the blood?”

He shrugged. “Got an approximate time of death from what we saw. And it’s a lot closer than they could’ve gotten if we hadn’t been there.”

I thought about it. There was something about the body and the blood that bothered me, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. “Doesn’t add up.”

“It will. Soon as we figure it out. I mean, not everything will. It never does in a homicide investigation—you know that, but we’ll know most of the particulars. But let’s back up and get real basic. Why do people commit murder?”

Pete seemed to think about it. “Possible motives for murder are profit, revenge, jealousy, to conceal a crime, or avoid humiliation and disgrace.”

“You forgot one. What about homicidal mania?”

“Always a strong possibility in here,” I said.

“Exactly. Now how about some theories on how.”

“One way or another the cell door had to be opened,” Pete said. “Either somebody was already in the cell and had to get out after he killed him or he had to get in after Menge went in.”

“And just because we didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Daniels said, looking over at me.

I nodded.

“I know we probably won’t come up with something that’ll answer all the questions, but I’d like to have a couple of working theories.”

“You’ve got them,” I said. “Someone already inside who had to get out or someone outside who had to get in and out again.”

“Don’t you think the first one is the most likely?”

I shrugged.

“Here’s a theory,” he said. “There’s not one killer, but two—or a killer and an accomplice. The killer waits in the cell. Kills Menge. His accomplice opens Menge’s cell door along with the others for Mass, even though its number is not called out. Then later, when he’s doing a walk-by of the cells, he ducks in and moves the body to the bed. Count clears because the accomplice is the one doing it. Wouldn’t that explain everything?”

I nodded. “Very nice.”

“So that would make Sobel our prime suspect,” Pete said, “and Michael Pitts his accomplice.”

“I guess,” Daniels said.

I said, “If so, they’re heading up a long line.”

“Martinez—my personal favorite—and Hawkins?” Daniels asked.

“Among others. Who put Hawkins and Menge in the same quad?”

“Hawkins was just put in there recently. Menge’s been in there a pretty long time. George Dunn, the classification supervisor, is taking full responsibility. Says it was just an oversight. If either one of the men had mentioned anything to their classification officers or him, they would’ve special reviewed them against one another. Neither of them said anything.”

“Was there blood on Sobel’s shoes?” I asked.

“Not a trace, but he doesn’t have any boots, just shoes.”

Every inmate was assigned a pair of black brogan boots and had the option of ordering blue canvas tennis shoes through the canteen.

“He say why?”

“Says he wore out his last pair and is scheduled to get a new pair this week. And get this. The shoe prints we found in the blood were made by a pair of boots that belonged to Justin.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“He wasn’t wearing them when we found him,” he said. “He had on tennis shoes. Boots were under his bunk.”

I said, “So, what, he lost most of his blood, got up, stood in it with his boots on, then changed into tennis shoes before he got into his bunk?”

“This one’s a dandy, isn’t it? Can’t imagine we’ll ever figure out exactly what happened. Be daises if we do.”

My head hurt, I was tired, and the continual conundrums of this case were getting to me. After a while, I said, “He had on boots when he returned from his visit.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. “I can still picture him walking in.”

Daniels shook his head. “The hell we gotten ourselves into?”

“Did you talk to Hawkins?”

“Yeah,” Daniels said. “Says he didn’t do it.”

“You cross him off the list? How many we down to now?”

“Says he came in from medical, went straight to his bunk, and went to sleep. Didn’t even stir until the officer woke him up, searched him, and took him to a cell in the other quad. Said he knew about Menge, of course, but didn’t work his case. Says if he did what they said he did, he’s sick, but he wouldn’t kill him over it.”

“Compassionate guy. What about Martinez?”

“He was at Mass because he’s been a good Catholic since he was a boy. He’s very devout—when he’s not committing murder and violating women. Says if Menge was gonna testify against him it’s because I was settin’ him up. Says he’s an innocent man who’ll be gettin’ out soon and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

“I see a pattern emerging,” I said. “Everyone’s innocent and being set up.”

“It’s alarming. How could our criminal justice system have come to this?”

I held my hands up, palms facing him. “One mystery at a time.”

I found myself relaxing around Daniels, enjoying his company. The very fact that we were able to quip and banter showed how far we had come. Previous times with him—both at family gatherings and in work situations—had been strained and humorless. If any humor had occurred it was mean spirited and at my expense.

“I should’ve talked to Martinez,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking. You shouldn’t’ve had to do that.”

“It’s okay. I’m still gonna get him the right way. Now, if I saw him on the street . . .”

“Any word on the woman who was in there before the service yet?”

They both shook their heads.

I looked at my watch, then glanced out the window toward the sally port.

“We keepin’ you from somethin’?” Daniels asked.

I shook my head.

“Be sure to let us know when we are,” he said. “Wouldn’t want a little thing like a murder investigation to get in the way of your plans.”

“Thanks.”

He shook his head. “How about you? You got anything?”

I nodded, and told them about Michael Pitts.

“There’s Pitts’ motive,” Daniels said. “Concealment of a crime.”

“We gotta find that fuckin’ disc,” Pete said.

“If it exists,” Daniels said. “Sounds like penitentiary lore to me.”

“Merrill thought the same thing,” I said.

“You’re talking with him about my case?” Daniels asked.

I glanced at my watch again, then nodded.

“I’d rather you not do that.”

“I know.”

“So you’re going to stop?”

I smiled. “Right away.”

I stood up.

“Where’re you going?” Daniels asked.

“To see if I can find out about the disc.”

“You need backup?” Pete asked.

“Not likely,” I said. “It’s Jacqueel Jefferson.”

“Why don’t we come anyway?” Daniels said, starting to stand.

“Because,” I said, “there’s a chance he might talk to a chaplain. There’s no chance he’ll talk to an inspector. If you really want to help, you can fill in here. Do some counseling, say some prayers, spread some love.”

“Think my time would be better spent taking another crack at Sobel and Pitts,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’m goin’ to hell, but if I did what you suggest there’d be no doubt.”