Blood of the Lamb (10 page)

“That’s not the John I know,” she said, still without looking at me. “It’s not anyone I want to know.”

I nodded.

“I’m doing my best to forget last night,” she said. “I’m gonna try and just remember the John I knew, the John that could never talk to me like that.”

“Just a little too flawed for you?” I asked.

“You can believe that if you want,” she said, looking up at me for the first time, her eyes swimming in the mixed drink of anger and pain.

“So if it happens again,” I said, “you won’t come looking for me?”

“No, John,” she said. “I won’t. I’ve got a sober husband at home, and though he doesn’t need taking care of, I think I’ll do it anyway.”

At three, when his shift had ended, Merrill Monroe stopped by the chapel.

He found me in the hallway outside my office, looking in.

“Lock yourself out?” he asked with a smile.

I laughed.

We had been friends since junior high school, and though on the surface we had little in common, with the exception of Anna there was no one whose company I enjoyed more.

“Actually,” I said, “I was trying to remember where everybody was last night. Walk through it and try to follow everyone’s movements. Pete just walked into the library to get Whitfield.”

“Library?”

“Listening to Bobby Earl tapes,” I said. “Feedin’ his soul before he takes his post.”

Merrill smiled to himself appreciatively as if at an inside joke.

Standing in front of the main doors, he eclipsed the light coming through their glass panels. His upper body was a perfect V, broad shoulders tapering down into narrow hips. His light brown CO shirt stretched tightly over the dark brown skin that covered the muscles in his shoulders, chest, and arms—especially the large round biceps which appeared perpetually flexed.

A moment later, Pete and Tim joined us in the hallway.

“It’d help me to have a visual as I’m thinking through this whole thing,” I said. “I’ve called for Coel, but until he gets here, why don’t you be him, Merrill?”

Merrill snapped to attention, saluted, and did his best whiteman’s walk into the sanctuary.

“Was the door closed?” he asked.

I nodded, and he closed the door. Through the glass of the door, he could still see the entire main hallway and we could see him, which meant the murderer could, too.

“He can see everything from there,” Pete said.

“Yeah, that’s the point of the glass,” Tim said.

“So how could anyone get into that locked office without him seeing them?” Pete asked.

“That is the question,” I said, then, turning to Whitfield, asked, “How long were you here?”

“I got called out almost immediately,” he said. “The service hadn’t even started yet.”

“To escort the education inmates back down to the dorms?”

He nodded.

“And when’d you make it back?” I asked.

“I had just gotten back when you saw me in the bathroom,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “For now, you just be one of the inmates.”

“Which one?”

“Register,” I said. “And, Pete, you be Freeman. Go in the sanctuary, sit down, and then in a moment, slip out here again.”

The door behind me opened, and I turned to see Roger Coel walking in. In another moment, Coel was in his place inside the sanctuary and Merrill was playing Muhammin.

One by one, Tim, Pete, and Merrill slipped out of the sanctuary and into the hallway. They got water, stretched their legs, and went down the smaller hallway to the bathroom.

“Now, Bobby Earl was preaching,” I said to Coel, who was still in the sanctuary, “and he’s pretty loud and dramatic. Could you have gotten wrapped up in his performance and not seen what was going on out here?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “I didn’t get caught up in Bobby Earl. Not even for a second. Now, Bunny’s a different story.”

“Okay,” I said. “So just watch like you did that night.”

He did.

And as he did, Tim Whitfield darted out of the small hallway, crossed the main one, and into my office.

Coel wasn’t even looking into the hallway at the time, but still saw him in his peripheral vision.

“He wasn’t even looking and he saw him,” Pete said. “And that was with the door unlocked, which we know it wasn’t.”

I nodded.

“I take it you were a little more distracted when Bunny and Nicole were singing.” I said.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Bunny’s a beautiful woman, but not enough not to see the hallway at all times. Besides, if I ever did get distracted by Bunny, it was when Nicole was on stage with her, and she wasn’t killed on stage.”

“The only time you left your post was when Bunny called you to the other office door?” I asked.

“Which was less than twenty seconds,” he said. “And I was looking in the office at her.”

“So no one got in that office from this hallway,” Pete said. “Which means we know who killed Nicole.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Bobby Earl or Bunny.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“Both, maybe,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t know. But it’s got to be one of them. No one else could have.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” I said.

“Of course it is,” he said. “No one could’ve gotten into your office without Coel seeing him.”

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean they did it.”

“Who else?” he asked in frustration.

“There’re a lot of possibilities,” I said. “But the most obvious is that the killer could have already been in there.”

Pete looked like he had been hit. He started to say something, but stopped.

“Where?” Tim asked.

“Hiding in the bathroom,” I said. “Or under the desk. It’s not likely, but it is a possibility. And there are others. We’ve got to figure out what really happen, not just assume it was Bobby Earl or Bunny by process of elimination.”

Since I couldn’t work where Nicole’s blood still stained the floor, Merrill and I went into the staff chaplain’s office, which was vacant now and would be until we actually got funds appropriated to hire a staff chaplain.

Merrill was sweating heavily, and the dark skin of his face and arms glistened under the harsh flourescent light. When he sat down, his large frame dwarfed the chair across from the desk, and he looked like a parent sitting down to a child’s tea party.

I opened the bottom right drawer of the desk, withdrew a couple of paper cups, and poured orange juice from a can into them.

“So,” he said. “You know whodunit yet?”

I shook my head.

“I can’t even get my mind around a motive,” I said. “I mean the most obvious would be sexual—”

“She been messed with?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen the prelim autopsy report yet, but— ”

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout her murder,” he said.

I had been so focused on her murder, I hadn’t even considered that she might be the victim of molestation, which would be a powerful motive.

“Bobby Earl?” I asked.

He nodded.

My mind began to race.

“Whacha thinkin’?” he asked.

“That if a public figure wanted to kill his adopted daughter because she was about to tell the world his dirty little secret, bringing her inside prison to do it would be… brilliant.”

“Nobody said Bobby Earl was stupid,” he said. “If he was messin’ with her—”

“Which is a very big if, but certainly something we need to file away for consideration if the autopsy shows—”

“What’s this
we
shit, white boy?” he asked.

I smiled. “I’ve got to interview them,” I said.

“When you talkin’ about Bunny, you can say we.”

I laughed.

“You notice the way Bobby Earl’s handling the death of his daughter?” he asked.

“You mean in as public a way as possible?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Now, I hate to be cynical, but I bet he receive one hell of an outpouring of well-wishes and financial support because of it.”

“Word on the compound is he had a very large life insurance policy on her, too,” I said. “And that he’s mobbed up and in need of a quick stimulus package for his struggling economy.”

“If he brought that little girl in our house to kill her for money… for any reason…” he began, but was unable to finish.

“I know,” I said.

“Just do me a favor and don’t be askin’ me to give the motherfucker mercy.”

I didn’t say anything.

My religion, what little I practice of it, is compassion. Merrill’s if he has one, is justice. More often than not, they compliment each other, but occasionally they throw us into conflict. I couldn’t imagine this would be one of those times, but when they came they almost always surprised me.

“
Could
it have been anybody else?” he asked. “I mean really.”

I nodded. “I can think of a couple of ways it could be one of the inmates or staff members that were here.”

He nodded. “I almost hope it
is
somebody else.”

We both grew silent a moment, retreating into the disturbing thoughts inside our heads, comfortable with each other’s quiet company. I thought about what he had said about mercy, and realized I wasn’t feeling any at the moment either. I wondered if I would before we caught whoever committed this unimaginably dark deed.

“Cedric Porter says he was Nicole’s real father,” I said.

“You believe him?”

“Looking into it,” I said. “Says Bunny was a chapel secretary at Lake Butler and they had an affair. That’s where she met Bobby Earl.”

“He saying Bunny was her mother?”

I nodded. “Says Bobby Earl just found out and that’s why he killed her and now he’s trying to have him killed.”

Looking off in the distance as he thought about it, Merrill took another big swallow of his orange juice. It was the way he did everything. Without meaning it to be, most everything Merrill did was big. It wasn’t bravado or for show, it wasn’t even conscious. Noticing the way the paper cup was nearly completely hidden in his huge hand, I realized again that it could not be otherwise.

“I realize I ain’t no ecclesiastical sleuth,” he said with a smile, “but I don’t see how anybody but Bobby Earl benefits from her death.”

“We’ve got to figure out a way to interview him,” I said.

“Big Easy ain’t far from here,” he said. “Just ride over and pay him a little visit.”

“Got no jurisdiction over there,” I said.

“If he killed that little girl, fuck jurisdiction,” he said.

“Good point,” I said.

“And it ain’t like we got any jurisdiction here.”

“An even better good point,” I said.

The phone on my desk rang. I picked up after two rings and no one was there. I hung up and it started ringing again. This time someone was there. But no one I would’ve ever expected.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said, and within the split second of recognition came a flood of old familiar feelings. It was as if a secret door somewhere in my heart had been unlocked and all the vanquished spirits it held had rushed out at once.

The ‘me’ of, “Hey, it’s me,” was my ex-wife, Susan.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she said, pausing awkwardly before adding, “Really.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s good. Really.”

We both laughed small, slightly nervous laughs.

I looked over at Merrill. I was sure he could read the awkwardness in my expression and voice, but he gave no indication, just sat there staring at nothing.

Susan and I had shared a life together once, but that had been a lifetime ago.

“How long’s it been?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “At least a year. I’ve been down here that long.”

“It doesn’t seem like that long,” she said. “Does it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it doesn’t… but in some ways it seems a whole lot longer.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re right, I guess. I’ve been going to an ACOA support group for about nine months now.”

I was shocked. It hadn’t been my drinking as much as my sobriety that had ended our marriage. The child of an alcoholic, Susan knew how to cope with addiction. It was recovery, the absence of problems, that had given her the biggest problem. To hear now, a year after our marriage had ended, that she was in a recovery group of her own left me stunned, my mind reeling.

“Really?”

“Really,” she said, adding with a laugh. “I’m not lying.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, though of course I did. “It’s just… I’m so… surprised.”

“No one’s more surprised than me. I’ve been in an ALA-NON group, too.”

“That’s really great,” I said.

We were silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?” I asked. “I’m glad you called.”

“For everything,” she said. “I was wrong.”

I was speechless. After a moment, I managed, “I was, too.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But you’ve already admitted that. I haven’t. You attempted to make amends. I wouldn’t let you.”

Where’s my wife? What have you done with her?

“I’d like for us to get together and talk,” she said. “I think we really need to.”

“Sure,” I said. “But now’s not such a good time.”

“I can come there,” she said. “I’ve got a couple of days off. I was thinking about going to the beach anyway.”

“Okay,” I said. “We could have dinner.”

She laughed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Have you noticed anything funny about our divorce papers?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t noticed them at all.”

“That’s what’s funny.”

“What?”

“We don’t have any,” she said. “I never signed them. Legally, we’re still married.”

She was right, that was funny, but not in any way that made me want to laugh.

When I hung up and sat there in stunned silence, Merrill said, “Who was that?”

I told him.

His eyes lit up as a broad smile spread across his face.

I started to say something, but was stopped by a thought about Bobby Earl and Bunny. Snatching up the receiver, I punched in Pete Fortner’s extension and waited.

“You callin’ an attorney or a marriage counselor?” Merrill asked, a look of self-satisfaction joining the genuine pleasure already on his face.