Chapter 47
Perception is reality.
Like the family member who breaks out of the dysfunctional cycle, Merrill and I were viewed as troublemakers at best and traitors at worst. We had delved into the sewer, and we wreaked of it. Those investigating the matter felt that the smell of the sewer on us pointed to our guilt. Like rape victims, we were being blamed for what had happened.
The next three days were filled with interviews, inquiries, and reports with both the DOC and the FDLE. They grilled us for hours- they smelled smoke and were diligently searching for fire. Merrill and I were treated with suspicion and sarcasm. It was as if we were inmates who were suspected of committing a crime. When they finally finished with us, they said that although they couldn’t prove that we had committed crimes, they did, however, hold us responsible for Sandra Strickland’s death.
I held me responsible, too. I just didn’t see it coming. Not once did they mention her crimes. Through it all, Tom Daniels avoided being in the same room with me, and when that failed, he avoided eye contact and interaction.
I did not, however, lose any sleep over Tom Daniels.
It was late Friday afternoon, and I was seated on the edge of Anna’s hospital bed. The sun, refusing to go quietly into the night, shone brightly through the open shades, striping the bed and warming the room with a natural heat that made me long for an afternoon nap in a hammock. The door was closed, and we were alone.
Anna was wearing an oversized cotton nightshirt with bouquets of violets against a soft yellow background. Her hair hung straight down to the smattering of dark freckles just above her breasts and had the fluffy look of having just been blown dry. The bandage on her neck was smaller than the one the day before, and when we had hugged, I had smelled the slightest hint of her perfume.
“Thank you,” she said when I had pulled back from our embrace. Her voice was soft and had a sleepy quality that matched her relaxed mood and heavy, slightly hazy eyes. She was seductive without trying to be, a rare combination of purity and sensuality.
I reached out and ran the back of my fingers across her face and down over her wound. When I reached the wound, I let my hand linger on it lightly while I prayed for her. When I finished praying and opened my eyes, I saw the faint outline of her breasts pressing against the soft cotton of her nightshirt. My hand wanted to continue its journey . . .
I pulled my hand back to safety, but before I had it on the bed beside me again, Anna grabbed it.
Pulling my hand up to her mouth and kissing it gently, she said, “You’re blood’s in my veins.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I can’t quit thinking about that.”
“Me neither.”
We were silent for a long time as we experienced a connection beyond words.
Later, after the moment had passed, an elderly man in a pale blue hospital outfit brought a food tray and set it on the table beside Anna’s bed. When she smiled at him, he blushed, and I could tell he did not want to leave her room. When he left, she asked me about the events that led up to my confrontation with Strickland in the infirmary on Tuesday night.
After I had given her a brief account of what had happened, she said, “You suspected Strickland over the other nurses, even before you saw the tape. Why?”
“There were several reasons,” I said. “She was the first one to appear on the scene that Tuesday morning in the sally port. At first I thought that the medical department had just responded quickly, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew there’s no way they could have gotten there that quickly.”
“Why was she there?”
“I think she was there to make sure that Johnson was dead. If he were just injured, she could finish the job. And that’s exactly what she did. She smashed his windpipe. She was the only one who could have. She climbed on the back of that truck not as a healer, but as a killer.”
Anna was silent as she pondered what I was saying. Then she said, “What else?”
“Julie Anderson could have only done it if she and Jones were connected somehow, and that didn’t seem likely. Also, she really just didn’t seem capable.”
“Exactly how did Strickland it?”
“She had Hardy take Jacobson to confinement so she could drug and dispose of Johnson. She put him in the caustic storage room, then locked it so that Jones couldn’t get in. Then she spilled a urine sample in the exam room and had Anderson supervise Jones cleaning it up. When Shutt pulled up and knocked on the door, she didn’t answer it. When he walked over to laundry she carried the bags out and put them in his truck.”
“My God,” Anna said. “She was so cold-blooded.”
“I kept remembering what Strickland said to Officer Shutt. She said, ‘I am
As she nodded, she squinted slightly and I could tell that she was picturing everything I was saying.
“And also, I really had a feeling,” I said. “You know, an impression, that she was involved somehow.”
“That’s not fair. You cannot use divine intervention and expect the criminals to have a fighting chance.”
“Of course, when I saw the video, I knew it had to be her and then I also knew why. And it doesn’t mean as much as it once did, but poison is historically a woman’s method of murder. Both of her victims were poisoned or drugged. The violence was never direct, except, of course, for Anthony Thomas.”
“What about Thomas?”
“Well, I suspected Jones of being involved, too. I knew he had typed the letters to me and Johnson’s request threatening suicide or escape-come to think of it, Strickland could’ve typed the request after she killed him-one of them did it to divert suspicion. Anyway, I knew Strickland hadn’t killed Anthony Thomas. Again, it was direct and brutal violence, the kind she really wasn’t capable of. That night when it all went down, I was just playing them against each other, which is what got Strickland killed.”
“I’d have to disagree with you about Strickland being incapable of direct violence, and so would my neck,” she said, rubbing her bandage gently.
I nodded. “I think she was degenerating fast. She certainly seemed to have had violence planned for Maddox, had the knives out and everything, but Skipper and Thomas banging on the front door scared her off.”
“And John, sin got Strickland killed. The wages of sin are death. She was reaping what she had sown. You didn’t kill her. She killed herself. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said, though it would be a while before I did. “You know, you just preached a powerful little sermon with one incredible object lesson.”
“I was just trying to talk in a language you’d listen to.”
“I always listen to you,” I said.
“Then listen to this,” she said gravely. “Take it slow with this thing with Laura Matthers.”
“I will,” I said and mused at her reason for saying it.
“Now, what about Molly Thomas? Who killed her?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. It’s Dad’s case. I personally think Skipper did it, but I can’t prove it.”
“So Skipper had a prostitution ring, sold drugs, had you beaten up, and has maybe murdered someone, and he gets away with it? Why don’t you show Stone and Daniels the tape?”
“I did,” I said. “They’re meeting with him on Monday morn-ing-if he lasts that long. Word’s gotten out about his systematic abuse of power. But, physician, heal thyself. Have you already forgotten the little sermonette you just preached? He’s not getting away with anything. You reap what you sow. The wages of sin is death. There is a justice that is higher than any we can exact. Nobody gets away with anything. Some just get away with it for longer than others. Besides, think of the price he’s paying for his sin right now. He’s not enjoying anything he’s doing. He’s not living at this point; he’s just surviving. And, he probably won’t do that for long.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Do you think Stone or Patterson were involved somehow?”
