“Have you seen the news?” Pete Fortner, the institutional inspector asked.
Obviously uncomfortable in dress shirt and tie, Pete was a short man with a round middle, thick wavy black hair going gray, glasses, and a couple of chins. He looked like a little boy playing grownup as he sat in Stone’s enormous executive chair at the head of the table.
I shook my head wearily.
We were sitting in the conference room in the admin building where, in a few minutes, he was going to take my witness statement and interview me, recording both on audio and video tape.
Pete was sitting where Nicole had, and my mind intermittently superimposed her image over his. When we weren’t talking, I could hear the sounds of crayons rubbing paper and the echo of Nicole’s voice in the room.
“Top story on every station,” he said. “Front page of several papers. Governor issued the Caldwells an official apology and condolences and thanked them for all they’re doing for God and our great country.”
I shook my aching head in disbelief. I still couldn’t believe it. Perhaps I was in shock. Maybe it was just denial. Whatever it was, I was experiencing a disconnect, a form of spiritual self-preservation, for nothing made me question my faith in goodness-in God-like the death of a child.
The admin conference room was adjacent to the warden’s office. In fact, one of Stone’s doors opened into it. It was a large, plush room with an oak bookcase with glass doors built into the back wall and a massive matching conference table in the center. The handcrafted table and bookcase, with their detailed carvings and smooth, glossy finish, were far too extravagant for a state agency, especially a prison, but it was precisely because this was a prison that we had them. Like most things around here, including the prison itself, the furniture had been built by inmates-these by the best craftsmen available at the time.
“Amazingly enough, Stone’s still got a job,” Pete continued. “Somebody’s lookin’ out for him. Regional director, I guess. Of course, if he hadn’t followed proper procedure to the letter, no one could’ve saved him.”
“Proper procedure?” I asked.
“NCICs, clearance memos, approval of the regional director.”
“He had all that, did he?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Unless you know something I don’t, which has been known to happen from time to time.”
“He didn’t do the background checks or run a single thing through the proper channels.”
Behind his glasses, Pete’s eyes slowly grew wide.
“You know Bobby Earl’s head of security is Stone’s nephew,” I said.
He nodded. “What I just learned this morning is that Bobby Earl’s related to the regional director.”
“So they let their relatives come into a maximum security prison with a minor without following proper procedure and a little girl got killed,” I said, more to myself than Pete.
We were silent for a moment, then I said, “I know you don’t have to, but I’d appreciate it if you’d call Dad occasionally and let him know what’s going on out here-especially when there’s a murder.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said. “I’ve thought I should do that, but I just forget. I’ll start doing it. I promise.”
“Thanks.”
As usual, the conference room was cold, its window covered with condensation. Through it, the officers standing in front of the control room and the inmates cleaning the visiting park looked distorted, like objects seen through a raindrop-dotted windshield.
“Okay. You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, and he turned on the recorders, introduced himself, noting the date and time.
“Let’s start with what you did when Mrs. Caldwell came out of your office screaming,” he said.
And, cognizant of the red record lights on the audio and video devices, I told him my story:
“I motioned for Coel to get backup, my mind splitting into two halves, and I heard two distinct voices. One said, preserve the crime scene. The other, preserve her dignity. So, I tried my best to do both.
“I stepped into the office and closed the door. I then knelt beside her and checked her pulse, though it was purely academic. There was no question that the battered body before me was lifeless.
“Reaching into the garbage can next to my desk, I withdrew part of a plastic sandwich bag and used it to pick up the receiver and punch in the security emergency number.
“Within seconds, security officers poured into the chapel and helped Coel quiet the crowd of unruly and upset inmates, a few of whom had gathered around Bobby Earl and Bunny and had begun to pray for them.
“In a matter of minutes, the chapel was empty of inmates, and only Coel, myself, and the Caldwells remained. I helped them up off the floor and onto the front pew where they sat in silence, tears rolling down their cheeks.
“I stepped back into my office to look around when the trauma support team’s first responders ushered the Caldwells out of the chapel.
“Then I heard a sound like someone attempting to open the door, which was followed by a quick knock and I looked up to see the institutional inspector, Pete Fortner, through the glass pane in the door that opened in from the hall. I noted that the door was locked. The inspector came in. You know the rest.”
Through the moist window behind Pete, I could see that the small group of officers standing in front of the control room were laughing and cutting up like this was any other day. Their insensitivity and the inappropriateness of their actions enraged me, and I had the urge to go out and pick a fight with them so they could beat me up.
“Did you notice anything unusual at the crime scene?” he asked. “Or on or about the victim?”
I thought about Nicole again-saw her drawing, pictured her wide smile, heard her small voice.
“The corner of something sticking out from underneath her left side.”
“Any idea what it was?” he asked.
“A greeting card, I think. I give them out to the inmates each month. There was a stack on my desk at the time of… the murder. I assume they’re still there.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Over on the floor under the window was what looked to be a small pink marble.”
“Do you know what it was?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Could it have been a piece of candy?”
I thought about it. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it could’ve.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good… Had you worked with the Caldwells before?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know them. Still don’t, not really. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV a time or two, but Mr. Stone set up this program. I wasn’t notified about it until the day it was scheduled to take place.”
“So you had nothing to do with the program?”
“Nothing.”
“Why were you there?”
“Just checking in on them,” I said. “When a program’s being conducted by someone I don’t know, I try to stop by. And since this service had the unprecedented dimension of having a child involved…”
“Did you disturb anything at the crime scene?”
I shook my head. “Just what I told you. I closed the door, felt for a pulse, and used the phone.”
“Thank you,” he said. He then switched off both recording devices and sat back down. “So what the hell really happened?”
“The warden approved an ex-offender and a minor to enter the institution without going through the proper procedure or providing adequate security,” I said, “and the minor got killed.”
“While in a locked room by herself,” he added.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Was there anybody in the room when you went in?”
I shook my head. “The only places to hide are the bathroom and under the desk,” I said. “I checked
