the one who stopped the Stone Cold Killer.”
“As impressive as that is,” I said sarcastically, and this time he caught it, “wouldn’t our own prison inspector be the more logical choice? I don’t get it. Why me?”
“To be completely honest, I don’t trust Pete Fortner. Ordinarily, I would have the colonel assist in this kind of investigation, but he’ll be gone for over three weeks.”
“Why don’t you trust Fortner?” I asked.
“First of all, I need to know if you’ll do it,” he said, his voice reminding me I really didn’t have a choice.
I thought about it. I had, after leading a violent life, dedicated my life to a nonviolent struggle against violence. Fighting fire with fire had only gotten me burned. Conducting an investigation was a part of the violence I had walked away from, but . . .
I could feel the strong pull of what was being offered to me. It was seductive. Like an inmate continuing to do the same things and expecting different results, I was going to play with fire again, hoping not to get burned.
“I’m a chaplain,” I said. “That comes first. But if I can do both, I am willing. I will. But I will not work closely with the IG. I don’t trust him.”
“Okay, the reason I’m asking you is because Daniels is Fortner’s boss. Fortner’s looking for a promotion, and he’d sacrifice my institution to get it. I don’t trust the two men together. You, on the other hand, Daniels hates. You’re the man for the job.”
“God help us,” I said.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” he said.
At that moment, my phone rang. As I lifted the receiver, I half-expected it to be God saying that he was too busy just now to help me conduct an investigation at PCI.
“Good morning. Chaplain Jordan,” I said into the receiver.
“Chaplain, this is Officer Jones in the control room. Is the superintendent in your office by chance?”
“Yes,” I said, but I thought,
“Superintendent Stone . . . Yes . . . okay, send him over to the chapel right away,” he said into the phone and then turned to me. “It would seem that your new partner has arrived. Before he gets here, I just want to make clear your responsibilities. You are to assist him in the investigation in any way that you can.”
“Got it,” I said. I could tell that arguing was futile.
“But, that’s not all. I also want you to look out for the interests of this institution and its administration-and report to me every step of the way.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and immediately wondered if he had something to hide.
As I heard the front door to the chapel opening, I whispered to myself, “This will not go well.”
“Make it go well, Chaplain,” he said, confirming that I had not said it softly enough.
“Or?” I said.
“There is no ‘or’-just make it go well.”
The superintendent stood to open my office door for the inspector. I remained seated, preparing for the worst. This was definitely shaping up to be one of those half-empty days.
“Good morning, Inspector. I’m Edward Stone.” He rose as the IG entered.
“Good morning. I’m Inspector Tom Daniels.” The inspector was fifty-five, but looked sixty-five. His battleship-gray eyes matched his hair, which still showed no sign of receding.
When they had finished shaking hands, Stone sat down again, pulling his pants legs up slightly and crossing his legs-the way sophisticated men in expensive suits do. He then steepled his hands together in front of his face as if praying, the tips of his fingers at his lips. Daniels just sort of collapsed into his chair.
Tom Daniels had the look of an alcoholic; I knew, being an alumnus myself. His face was red and swollen; his step was hesitant, matching his slow-moving gray eyes. He was, however, a socially acceptable drunk. He never missed work; in fact, he was an overachiever. Yet he was often late, and, though he worked hard, he didn’t produce the results he once had. Most people attributed that to age, but I knew better. Also, he made a great salary, lived modestly, and yet had financial problems. His nose was pink and puffy, offering contrast to its blue broken veins. He dressed in gray slacks, which matched his hair and eyes; white shirt, which matched his pale skin; and a red tie, which matched his bloodshot eyes. No doubt his enabler, in this case his wife, made sure his clothes were cleaned and pressed to aid in the deception. All that effort, and still so obvious.
The effect of alcoholism on Tom Daniels was severe; however, its effect on his family could scarcely be overexaggerated-not because they were beaten or abused, but because they were neglected. Not only did his children have no father who was emotionally available for them, but their inheritance was turmoil and pain. This caused his son to begin drinking at the ripe old age of fourteen. Nine treatment centers and ninety-four thousand dollars later, he was still a religiously devoted addict. His daughter, though a teetotaler, lacked confidence and any idea how to relate to men in general and a husband in particular. She attracted, and was only attracted to, alcoholics. I knew. I had been married to her.
“I believe you know our chaplain, John Jordan,” Stone said.
“Yes,” Daniels said without so much as a glance in my direction.
“As I am sure you are already aware, he will be the official from this institution who will be assisting you in this investigation. He grew up here and knows many of the employees of the institution,” Stone continued.
Actually, I had been away for so long that I didn’t know many of the people anymore, but the point was moot.
“I have been told that I don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said irritably.
“So has he,” Stone said nodding toward me.
Daniels cut his eyes in my direction. They were cold, dull steel. He smirked. “What about the inspector of this institution?” he asked. “He’s all the help I need at this time.”
“He’ll be working with you as well, but you are to limit his knowledge of the investigation and its revelations.”
“You better have a damn good reason for that,” Daniels shot back at Stone.
“I do.”
When he didn’t explain, Daniels said, “And what’s that?”
“A good reason.”
“No. I mean what is your good reason?”
Stone smiled. That was all Daniels was going to get.
“I understand what you’re saying, Ed,” Daniels said patronizingly, trying to be patient with the dumb colored, “but if you’re keeping something from me or if I want to change our little agreement for any reason, I will. You know I have the authority. Now, why don’t you brief your little chaplain, here and let’s begin.”
“You have copies of all the files and reports that I have. You know as much about it as I do. So, I’m going to let you brief Chaplain Jordan. At the end of the day, report back to me. Both of you.”
With that, Edward Stone stood to leave me alone with Tom Daniels, which resembled an old nightmare of mine. I stood as the superintendent left. His steps were slow, deliberate, dignified; however, an unmistakable rhythmic step was present as well. Edward Stone, God bless him, was a large chunk that refused to melt in the American pot. The inspector remained seated.
I sat back down, every muscle in my body tightening again. I felt like a guitar string being wound too tightly, ready to snap at any moment.
“Before we even begin this little exercise in futility,” he began, “I want to get a few things straight.”
I merely nodded, trying not to break and run. It wasn’t that I was scared of him, although I wondered what he was capable of doing to me when I wasn’t looking, but it was the enormous guilt I felt about his daughter. I could almost taste the bile that burned in his throat for all the things he wanted to say to me.
“One,” he said, raising his fingers to count his items off as he came to them, “I don’t like you. Two, I’ve never seen a more hypocritical sight in all my life than you in a clerical collar, except for the fact that it makes you look like the little candy-ass faggot you really are.”
Amazingly enough, I began to relax. The anticipation proved far worse than the actual confrontation, and, like a child who had disobeyed Dad, I found punishment brought with it release.
