“The thing is, he is not here right now,” I said talking very slowly. “It will take a few minutes, but I will have him called up right away. So, why don’t we talk until he gets here. Would that be okay?”
“That would be okay,” she said softly. She was beginning to sound calmer.
“I have to ask you to hold on just a minute while I call down to his dorm and have him sent up here, okay?”
“Okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m all right, Preacher. I just want to talk to my husband. I won’t do anything foolish,” she said as if we had switched rolls and now she was trying to reassure me.
As quickly as I could, I pressed the hold button, then the second-line button, and punched in the number to the control room. Without going into much detail, I told the sergeant in the control room to find Simpson and get him to my office ASAP.
I then punched line one again, praying that she was still there. She was. We talked for about five minutes, waiting for her husband to come to my office. Our conversation dealt primarily with all the pressures she faced being a single mom whose husband was incarcerated. I actually felt as if I did her some good, but chances were I’d never know.
When Simpson finally did arrive, after what seemed like days, I quickly put him on the phone and went into the other office where I called the Tampa Police and reported her threat of suicide. While talking to her, I had discovered where she lived, and I told them. I then jotted down a few notes about what had transpired and called the OIC and filled him in. He advised me to fill out an incident report, which I did. I then walked back into my office and sat down at my desk.
Noticing that Simpson was crying, I busied myself with opening the rest of my mail. My mail consisted of roughly fifteen requests from inmates for everything from Bibles and greeting cards to phone calls. There were also two letters from citizen volunteers who ministered at the prison saying what a blessing they themselves were, a memo from the chaplaincy administrator about upcoming religious holidays that were to be observed by the Jewish, Muslim, and Christian inmates, and a single piece of typing paper trifolded and taped together on the end with the word “Chaplain” typed on the outside.
I unfolded the typing paper, tearing it slightly while removing the tape. It read simply: “I’ve seen you talking to her. I watch over her. If you don’t stay away from her, I will kill you like I did that punk. She’s an angel, and I’m her guardian angel. She’s mine. Stay away from her.”
I reached into my desk and pulled out the request from Ike Johnson. I laid them both on the desk in front of me and began to compare them. Within seconds, I could tell they were typed on the same machine.
I thought of Anna as I reread the note a final time-when I realized that Simpson was talking to me. “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”
“Thank you, Chaplain. I thinks she going to be all right. I should have called her or written or something. It’s my fault, but this place is getting to me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Why don’t you start coming to see me every week for a while, and you might want to think about seeing our psychologist as well.”
“Okay,” he said. “I will.”
“And, stay in touch with your wife. It’s tough in here, but it’s tough for her out there, too.”
“I know. I will. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I should have said more. I should have talked to him right then and there, but I couldn’t. All I could do was think about Anna. Was she in danger? I talked to her more than anyone. Johnson had been assigned to her. Was he killed because of her? It was probably because I had just been with her, but I thought of Sandra Strickland, too. I could think of no other female staff members I had talked to recently.
Those questions would have to wait for now. I glanced at my watch and realized that I was already fifteen minutes late for my meeting with the inspector and the superintendent.
Chapter 10
The superintendent’s office was neat, orderly, and as conservative as he was, with one exception. In the center of his wall of fame, amidst the diplomas, merit certificates, and department commendations, was a hand- drawn picture of a family: husband, wife, and child. The artist used crayons and showed great potential-potential he never got to live up to because of his untimely death at eight years old. Mr. Stone and his wife never tried to have children again after that, or so I’m told; I had been waiting for an opportunity to present itself for discussing it with him. However, since Edward Stone was involved, I realized it might not come in this lifetime.
When I arrived, Tom Daniels was already there. The two men grew silent when I walked into the room. Daniels looked as if a day’s work felt like a week’s. His shirt ballooned out just over his belt, the way you would expect it to if it had been worn all day without a retuck. His face was red. And large conspicuous drops of sweat trickled down the sides of his cheeks.
Stone looked as if he had just finished getting dressed-morning-fresh and military-crisp. His shoes, which were just visible underneath the desk, gleamed as the sunlight from the window, the only window in his office, spilled onto them.
“Good afternoon, Chaplain. You’re late,” the superintendent said as I was taking my seat beside Daniels, who neither looked at nor spoke to me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stone. I’m sorry I’m late. How are you doing?” I replied.
“Better now that something is being done about this situation we have on our hands,” he said, nodding his head toward Daniels.
“Let’s have a full report,” Mr. Stone continued. “But first, shut the door.”
He said this to no one in particular, but I quickly responded. Daniels never even flinched in that direction.
“Inspector, what do we have so far?” Stone asked.
“In some ways, a great deal of information,” he said sitting up and leaning forward slightly. “But in other ways, not very much at all. I am finding your people very uncooperative.”
“Surely the chaplain has been helpful with this,” Stone said.
Daniels began to speak, but I beat him to the draw. “Mr. Stone, as soon as you left us this morning, the inspector expressed his desire to work alone.” I could feel Daniels’s anger; it was palpable, but he never looked in my direction.
“Inspector?” Stone asked, raising an eyebrow, which caused his glasses to rise slightly.
“I’ve made it clear from the very beginning that I do not wish to work with him,” Daniels said, the sweat on his forehead increasing. “I am fully capable of conducting this investigation on my own. I certainly do not need someone who is not even an investigator helping me. He would only botch up the case.”
“If, as you say, you are fully capable of conducting this investigation on your own, how is it that you are having difficulty doing any investigating?” Stone asked.
“I’m not having difficulty investigating. I am having difficulty with these mother-loving rednecks around here. I have gathered a lot of information about the inmate who was killed, though.”
“But that is only one investigation or one part of a larger investigation,” Stone said.
Daniels withdrew a wrinkled, soiled handkerchief from his back left pants pocket and wiped his forehead. It merely smeared the sweat around. It also left some lint on his eyebrow.
“That’s true, but,”
“But, you will work together, or I will call the secretary. Understood?”
Daniels did not respond.
“Understood?” Mr. Stone asked again.
Daniels made a slight nod with his head.
“Understood?” Mr. Stone looked at me.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I understood it the first time.”
“Now, tell me what you have, Inspector,” Stone said.
“I can tell you that Johnson was murdered,” Daniels said with a swell of pride that changed his posture.
“Murdered? Being killed while trying to escape is justifiable homicide not murder,” Mr. Stone said.
