JJ08 - Blood Money (21 page)

“I’ve been asking a few questions,” I said, “but not about the
way
you’re
investigating.”

Lawson’s
white short-sleeve shirt, clip-on tie, and gray cotton pants were wrinkled, a size too small, and his pea-green prison tattoos glowed in the morning sun.

“I
don’t
mean about me as an investigator,” he said, stepping forward, putting his face a little too close to mine. “I mean you been conducting your own investigation.”

I nodded.

“Well,
don’t.
This is my first big investigation here and I
don’t
want the integrity of it compromised.”

“I
won’t
get in your investigation,” I said.
“And
I
won’t
get in your
way,
but I will continue to ask questions. And if I come across anything that might be helpful, I’ll pass it
along.”

“No,”
he said, shaking his head. “I’ve already talked to the warden. If I
have
to,
I’ll
go
to the regional director.”

He then turned and walked
away.

I saw Lance Phillips come out of the
chow
hall and start to approach
us,
but when he saw Lawson standing
nearby,
he turned and went back in.

“Nobody want you
workin’
this thing, do they?” Merrill said.
“Almost
as if
they’s
somethin’ at stake and they
have
somethin’ to hide or protect. Speakin’ of . . . seen the Hispanic cowboy again?” Merrill asked.

I shook my head.

“Hope I’m around the next time he ride into
town.”

“
Dad’s
running his
prints,”
I said. “Maybe we’ll ride into
his.”

“Even
better.”

A
fter leaving Merrill, I walked
over
to Confinement and asked to inspect the cells Phillips and Allen occupied the night of
Lance’s
supposed suicide attempt.

I was told by the nervous young officer that he
didn’t have
the authority for anything like that.

There were inmates in both cells, and it
would’ve
been a hassle to cuff them, pull them, and place them in other cells while I had
my
little look around—which, I suspected, was the real reason he
wasn’t
willing.

“Why not get the warden, colonel, or inspector to do it?” he asked. “Seems more like their job
anyway.
But, truth
is,
I can
save
you the trouble.
We
done inspections of both cells and there
ain’t
a thing in the
world
wrong with either of ’em.”

B
ack in my office, I made a few calls about the life insurance policies taken out by the Suicide Kings. Each
was
designed to pay in cases of suicide after
two
years, but they had all long since lapsed for nonpayment. Because Ralph
Meeks’s
death had been ruled a suicide and because it
was
less than
two
years since the policy had been taken out, the
company,
Florida Farm Mutual, had refused to
pay,
instead refunding the price of the
premiums.

Lapsed policies meant no money
motive.
And
would
make it far, far more challenging to find out what was going on and
why.

Next, I checked their general financial situations.

In addition to having been each
other’s
life insurance beneficiaries, the Kings were also in each
other’s
wills, but as all of them were destitute, that too provided no motive or insight.

Next, I attempted to obtain information about Ralph
Meeks’s
death, but after several calls found nothing helpful. Everyone
involved
treated it like a suicide, so even if there had been evidence to the contrary, it had gone unnoticed, unrecognized, unrecorded.

According to those involved, there was nothing suspicious, no signs of foul
play,
and no playing cards on his person or in his
property.

Every investigation had dead-ends, and you never knew what they
would
be until you reached them. Over the years, I had followed far more than my fair share of them, so I was used to them, part of the process, but that
didn’t
make them any less frustrating.

I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders, and
was
about to call Dad when my phone
rang.

It was Dad.

“I was just about to call
you,”
I said. “How are you?”

“Okay.
How about you?”

“
Can’t
complain.”

We
were quiet for a moment.

“I was calling to thank
you,”
he said.
“For?”

“All
that you do for your mom.”

I instantly felt guilty for how little I had done
recently.

“I went by to see her this morning,” he said.
“It’s
obvious
you’re
helping her in so many
ways.
And I really appreciate
it.”

Even after being divorced longer than they were married, Dad kept tabs on Mom, mostly through me. Since
she’d
gotten sick and sober,
he’d
done it more
directly.

“I should do more.
Haven’t
done even what I normally do
lately.”

“You’re
doing a lot––and not just for
her.”

I
didn’t
say anything, and we were quiet another moment.

Dad and I were so different, our relationship so pragmatic—like everything in his life—that it was often awkward between
us.

“Well,”
he said,
“that’s
all I wanted to
say.”

“
Thanks.”

“You
were about to call
me,”
he said.
“What’d
you
need?”

“Wondered
if you were makin’ any progress on the case?”

“Not a
lick,”
he said.
“Town
talk is
it’s
the nail in my coffin. It
is
embarrassing. And I
can’t
figure it out to
save
my life––my political one
anyway.
Did you read the paper this morning? If
it’s
not about making me look bad, hell, if
it’s
not about making all of us lose our damn jobs, I
don’t
know what it could
be.”

“Maybe it
is,”
I said. “I think we need to consider that as a real
possibility.”

“So take a closer look at
Hugh,”
he said. “But I do that and it just looks like I’m playing politics, trying to bully him out of the
race.”

“I’ll see what I can
do,”
I said.

“Thanks. I really do think this thing could cost all of us our
jobs.
Me and Judge
Cox
for sure. Stockton is safe.

Not sure about Ralph.”

“I talked to Carla
Jean
last
night,”
I said. “She says she never let the victim in the
house.”

“You
believe her?”

“I’m inclined
to.”

“What does it mean if she
didn’t?
How does that change anything as far as what might
have
happened? This thing is going to make me lose
my
mind.”

“We’ll
figure it
out,”
I said. “Hang in there.
Hey,
the inmate I told
you
about who supposedly committed suicide . . . Interim inspector’s shutting me out of the investigation.

Think you could find out what the
ME’s
report says?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

H
ahn’s
small frame was wrapped up in a black cropped cable sweater, her narrow hips in a loose-fitting black skirt with a draw-string waist, which reached down to black lace-up boots. The skirt was shiny like her hair, and her outfit and complexion made her dark, dazzling eyes pop all the more.

We
were walking through the pine forest
toward
the small pond between the prison and
Potter
Farm on our lunch break, the tall slash pines
above
us giving
way
to shorter pond pines and finally to cypress trees as
we
drew closer to the
water’s
edge.

Hahn moved like she did everything, with energy and enthusiasm, often jumping out in front of me, turning to face me as
we
walked.

“Ready to hear my confession?”

I nodded. “Why now and not before?”

She
shrugged.
“It felt like such betrayal. Still does, but I
don’t
. . . I know you’ll . . . I trust
you.”

I
wasn’t
sure I believed
her,
but I nodded and smiled as if I did.

“Father forgive me for I
have
sinned.
It’s
been forever since my last confession . .
.”

The grass beneath our feet was still mostly green, thick like expensive carpet, and white and gold flowers were sprinkled throughout the thick foliage on either side of the path.

“I went down to A-dorm the night Danny
Jacobs
was killed to check on
him.”

“Because . .
.”

“I was worried about
him.”

“
Why?”

“I’m not sure
exactly.
It was just a feeling—and it was right.”

I nodded.
“Yes
it
was.”

“I
can’t
really explain it, but . . . I just think something’s going on in Medical. Something not right. And
don’t
ask . . .
it’s
just a lot of little things. I
wouldn’t
even mention this to someone else. And all the boys on your list
have
been in and out of there a lot
lately.”

“The Suicide Kings?”

“Yeah,”
she said. “I’m not sure what it is . . . but, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything until I know something.”

“If you
can’t
tell me what you
know,
tell me what you feel.”

She stopped walking, and we stood there for a moment in the middle of the quiet forest beneath the thin
pines.

Finally,
she shook her head.
“It’s
just off.

Something’s going on
that’s
not . .
.”

She started walking again, and I followed.

When we reached the pond, we paused to take in its
beauty.
The small body of water sat in the bowl of gentle slope, rimmed by cypress trees, surrounded by pine flats on every side.

I breathed in
deeply,
taking it in.

We
walked down to the edge of the pond and sat down on a thick pad of grass.

“I can narrow it down a
bit,”
she said.
“It’s
not all of Medical.
It’s
. . .
Dr.
Alvarez and . .
.”

“And?”

“Dr.
Baldwin.” I nodded.

“She’s
my supervisor, and I like
her.
I really
do,
but when
she’s
around him . . . I
don’t
know . .
.”

“They were both in the
dorm
the night
Jacobs
was
killed,” I said.

“I
know.”

“And
in Confinement the night Lance was supposed to
have
attempted suicide.”

“So was
I.”

“I
know.”

The midday sun shimmered on the still surface of the small pond. Spanish moss draped across the branches of the cypress trees surrounding it, waving in the wind like fresh laundry on the line.

“I’d
have
Bailey help me unlock it if she
wasn’t
one of the ones making me feel so—”

“Unlock it?”

“Unpack it.
You
know.
Help me think it through.

Maybe even use
hypnotherapy.”

“
Hypnotherapy?”

“She does it a lot.
She’s
very good at it.
She’s
taught me so
much.”

“You
do it too?”

“I’m just learning.”

I thought about it for a moment, and she let me. “If someone were suicidal—or had been—could you use hypnotherapy to
give
them a little nudge?”

“You
could suggest it, but I
don’t
think it would—”

“What is it?”

“She’d
been using it on
Danny,
supposedly for addiction recov—Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“That night. I . . . I was across the dorm, so I
can’t
be sure. I
couldn’t
hear them, but . .
.”

“But what?”

“It looked like she was hypnotizing
him.”