Her eyes grew wide. It was obvious she didn’t want to hear me apologize again.
“Sorry,” I said.
“John,” she said angrily, but couldn’t suppress the small smile dancing at the corners of her lips.
I not only ached to be near her, but I longed to talk to her, to tell her about all that had happened, to think aloud about the case with her like I usually did and get her reactions to the words and deeds of the suspects.
Before I could apologize for apologizing again, Pete Fortner walked in the room.
“I got the prelim results back,” he said.
“And?” I said.
He looked at Anna.
“If she’s willing,” I said, looking over at her, “I want her to stay. We could use her perspective.”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said.
As he opened the file and began flipping through it, I closed the door. After studying the pages inside a few minutes, he closed the folder and said, “She was beaten to death. Her right arm was broken, the wrist fractured. Her left shoulder was dislocated. She had blunt force trauma to her abdomen that resulted in massive internal hemorrhaging. She was hit so hard that her liver ruptured.” His voice caught in his throat, and he glanced down at the folder again, blinking back tears as he did. “Her jaw was broken, and she died from an acute subdural hematoma-the result of a severe blow to the head.”
We were all quiet when he finished, shaking our heads and trying to avoid each other’s eyes. Suddenly, the small room had become claustrophobic, and I was having trouble breathing.
I saw Martin Fisher’s crumpled, seemingly sleeping body again.
“Was there any sign of sexual assault?” I asked after we had each regained our composure.
“ME says he can’t tell for sure,” Fortner said.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “There was nothing about the way she was killed that would keep him from-”
“He says there was some inflamation and very slight bruising that could either be from normal childhood activity-riding a bike, climbing a jungle gym-or very careful molestation. He’s just not sure yet.”
“What about old injuries?” I asked. “Any indication of prior abuse or assault?”
“He said she had more old bruises than she should have, but no breaks or fractures,” he said. “Nothing like this.”
“You suspect the parents?” Anna asked.
I nodded. “Have to,” I said. “They were the only ones we know for sure were alone with her inside my locked office.”
“John and Patsy,” she said to herself.
I nodded.
“Any other suspects?” she asked.
“Dexter Freeman, Paul Register, Cedric Porter, and Abdul Muhammin-”
“Two sex offenders and a murderer,” she said. “I can’t believe this. What makes them suspects?”
“They were all out in the hallway during the time Nicole was in my office,” I said.
She nodded. “But getting from a hallway where they can be seen by an officer into a locked office is…”
“A problem,” I said. “We’re working on it. But it’s not impossible.”
“You know how it could’ve been done?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Because it seems impossible to me,” she said.
“The door was locked when I tried to open it,” Pete said. “And there was nobody in the office except you.”
I nodded.
The copier finished its run and the sorter began clicking as the stacks of paper were shifted to the top to be stapled. We were all quiet for a moment waiting for the noisy cha-chinks of the stapler to stop.
“Suspect anybody else?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Roger Coel, Theo Malcolm, and Tim Whitfield were also near my office at various times throughout the service.”
“No shortage of suspects, is there?” she said.
“This is prison,” Fortner said.
“Which,” I said, “is why Nicole should’ve never been allowed anywhere near here.”
CHAPTER 21
Later that afternoon, I taught a class called “Grace: Still Amazing,” and as I did, I noticed several strong reactions from Dexter Freemen, especially when I shared my belief in the absolute, unconditional love of God. It was a strong enough reaction that I felt a follow-up was in order, which also gave me an opportunity to talk to him about the night of the murder, the night when he was one of only a handful of inmates out in the hallway near my office.
I had gotten a haircut recently-as usual from whoever happened to be available at the time-and my too- short hair refused to lie down, a fact that was emphasized by the steady breeze that stood it on end as I was buzzed through the electronic gate and onto the rec yard.
I slowly scanned the penitentiary playground, my eyes searching the blue masses for a black man, who, contrary to his name, was not free.
The fresh air and the warm sunshine were healing, and I knew somehow that the beautiful day was not merely benign, but the evidence of the love, care, and concern of the creator. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and as I did the volume of the vibrating world all around me increased, and I realized again how much I missed as I rushed through my days.
The crack of a wooden bat, the tink of an aluminum one, connecting with the softball, followed by shouts and running, and the clank of the bat falling on home plate. The bounce of the rubber basketball slapping the asphalt court to the beat inside the point guard’s head. The metal clank of a horseshoe striking and then spinning around the small stake in the sand boxes. The shouts of frustration, the obnoxious trash talk involved in the intimidation of an opponent, and the glorious laughter of men having fun, playing like children, oblivious to the world passing them by.
When I opened my eyes, the vivid colors leapt out at me, the incredibly sharp sounds receding, muffled now by my inability to process all the stimuli life offered. I spotted Dexter on the opposite side of the field, walking around the dirt track encircling it. I waited for him to reach me, and then joined him as he went by, matching the pace he had already set.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Not too good,” he said, shaking his head slowly. His face clouded over, his mouth forming a deep, angry, tight-lipped frown. He looked more frustrated than angry.
“What is it?”
“I was disturbed by the class today.”
“Really?” I asked, my voice full of sarcasm. “And you hid it so well.”
His frown relaxed a little, but his mouth refused to make the leap into a smile.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day about the Bible not being true,” he said.
“I never said that.”
“Well, about the events not really happening,” he said.
I smiled. I knew what was happening. He had been exposed to the new wine of unfamiliar concepts and the old wineskin of tradition and rigid religion was unable to hold it. I had been there many times myself. Soon he would have to make a choice-pour out the new wine or find new wineskins.
“All I said was that it’s irrelevant whether they actually happened or not,” I said.
“And what you were saying today,” he said. “I mean, I’m supposed to be a Christian, but not if what you
