and clean.”
My anger at Pete’s ineptness and Patterson’s obstruction flared as I thought about them not including the two bathrooms back here as part of the crime scene.
“So you’re saying all of this is from the night of Nicole’s murder?” I asked.
He frowned, the wrinkles snaking across his face like rivers deepening, and he suddenly looked even older. “I’m sayin’ that the only night they could be from.”
“If the killer wore a condom to rape that little girl before he killed her,” Dad said, “how’d it get in the trash in the back of the chapel?”
Though I genuinely believed in the afterlife, and believed Nicole to be in a safe, loving environment now, far from the carnal concerns we were left to deal with, I still shuddered inside when I considered what her last moments in this life had been like.
I shrugged. “The two things may not be related,” I said. “Especially since there are three. He could’ve worn it or carried it into the back in order to dispose of it away from the crime scene. But Pete says the prelim’s inconclusive about whether or not she was sexually assaulted.”
“But if she was-” he began.
“I think if she were raped or sodomized there wouldn’t be any doubt,” I said, cringing to have to think, let alone say, such things.
Dad and I were standing on an old twin-trail logging road beneath rows of slash pines not far from the institution. Pete had agreed to let Dad’s department coordinate with the lab to have the evidence processed, and Dad had driven out to collect the evidence. Not wanting to be seen making the exchange, we had opted to meet on the small trail used in years past to harvest the trees growing here previously.
“If not the little girl,” he said, “what about the woman? The mother?”
“Could be,” I said. “There’s talk about her having a thing for black men and she obviously has a history with inmates, but…”
“But what?”
“They were found in the visitor’s bathroom and if someone saw her leave my office, they’re not saying,” I said.
Squinting as he gazed into the distance, I could tell that what he was straining to see was behind, not before, his eyes.
As usual, being caught in the mire of human depravity that accompanies a murder investigation made me feel tainted, my soul soiled, and I longed to be, if not innocent, for surely I would never be that again, at least cleansed.
“What if she weren’t meeting an inmate, but an officer?” he said. “Of course Coel would say she never left the office if he was the one she left it for.”
The interest on his face and light in his eyes made Dad look younger, and seeing him so fully engaged made me glad we had involved him.
“That’s a good point,” I said. “Have you ever considered a career in law-enforcement?”
He smiled. “Sometimes I think I should,” he said. “Most of the time I feel like a damn politician.”
The rows of trees all around us were tall and fat, ready to be harvested again, which probably explained why the logging road was so overgrown. It had been many years since it was last used.
“You thinking these two were used for vaginal intercourse and this one for anal?” he asked, nodding toward the two bags of condoms I had just given him.
“Maybe,” I said. “But as far as we know, there were only two females in the chapel that night and they were inside a locked office.”
“Inmates?” he asked.
“Possibly,” I said, “but a visitor or a staff member had to bring them in.”
“What about Bobby Earl?” he asked. “Could he have slipped in the back and had sex with one of the inmates while he was supposed to be in your office?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think there was enough time,” I said, “but I guess it’s possible.”
We both grew quiet a moment.
The midmorning sun was bright and hot, and the tall slash pines offered little shade, and as we both began to sweat, I noticed that we did so in the same places-our hairlines and the bridges of our noses.
“Of course, the condom used for anal intercourse wasn’t necessarily used to have sex with a man,” I said, and felt awkward talking about such things with my dad.
His eyebrows shot up. “The woman?”
“The presence of a tampon might suggest that Bunny or whoever the hypothetical woman was, was on her period and she and her partner opted for anal intercourse instead.”
“That makes sense,” he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “That might just be it.”
“It’s just one of many possibilities,” I said. “I’m hoping the lab can tell us which one it really was.”
“Doesn’t look like there’s much of anything in these two,” he said. “Looks like more residue’s on the outside than the inside. Maybe our guy can’t close the deal.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I said, “but if that’s the case, why two?”
“Maybe he wore three-left the outer two and took the one with the evidence,” he said. “Bobby Earl’s smart enough to do that. We’ve just got to find out if he, Bunny, or Nicole left your office or if anyone got in.”
“There’s only one person who can tell us for sure,” I said, beginning to ease back toward my truck.
“Where’re you goin’?”
“To ask him.”
CHAPTER 23
The chow hall of Potter Correctional Institution was a cross between a cafeteria and an enlisted men’s mess hall, combining the very worst elements of both. Inmates were lined up against the wall and spilling out the back door where they entered to be served. At the opposite side, inmates poured out of the exit door after dumping the remainder of their food in a trash can and dropping off their trays.
In between the line of inmates entering and the line of inmates exiting, the tables were filled with inmates eating. Each stainless steel table was bolted to the floor and had four stools attached to it so that neither table nor chairs could be snatched up and used as weapons.
A few of the inmates scattered throughout the crowd had their heads down, elbows working, shoveling in their food. However, most of them ate lazily in between conversation, bursts of laughter, and making deals under the table. Prison economy is one of beg, bully, and barter, and every inmate at PCI was well versed in the art of the deal.
Near the entrance, leaning against the back wall, Roger Coel stood stiffly, keeping an eye on the inmates as they ate.
“Did you know Stone’s blaming me for what happened?” he asked without preamble.
I shook my head.
“He’s written a report that recommends my immediate dismissal,” he said. “I’m under investigation. My attorney says if they put this on me, I could face criminal and civil charges in outside court.”
Roger Coel had been a soldier before becoming a correctional officer and it still showed in his erect posture, his precision, rigidity, and affinity for uniformity.
“Tell me again exactly what happened that night,” I said.
He sighed heavily and shook his head.
From the corner of my eye, I saw an inmate sneak in on the other side of the line and take a place close to the front. I wondered if I should say something to Coel, who seemed to be concentrating on me.
“Excuse me a second,” he said, and strode over to the line.
“Gibbs, I told you if I caught you skipping in line again I’d write you up,” he said. “Come on.”
“But Officer Coel, I-” Suddenly, the inmate saw something in Coel’s face that said resistance was futile. He
