of the hospital or funeral home where he is.”
“Whatcha mean?” she asked in surprise.
“Before we are allowed to give an inmate any information from the outside, especially a death message because of the security risk that it imposes, we must first verify it with an outside official: either a hospital or a funeral home,” I said, but I was thinking:
“That’s bullshit. His son is dead. Just let him call home, dammit.”
“Ma’am, if his son is dead, then he will be at a hospital or a funeral home and all I need is the number to one of them.”
“You son of a bitch. I hate you prison pricks.” And with that she hung up that, phone.
I received approximately six emergency calls a week for inmates. Of those calls, at least two are people who are trying to get in touch with inmates who stopped calling or writing. The inmate probably didn’t have a son.
Daily, I am confronted by inmates who are running scams. They try to manipulate every situation-they know of no other way to operate. Many of their families do the same thing. However, there are those who truly desire help both spiritually and psychologically. The key is not to grow cold and cynical because of the abusers and to be able to discern the difference between the genuine and the con.
After I hung up the phone, I carefully peeled the tape back and opened the letter. I could tell almost immediately that it was produced by the same typewriter as the other one. It said: “Chaplain, if you don’t back off, I’m going to kill you. Just back off, or you’re dead. I will kill you and that girl you love. Killing’s better than fucking. I love it. I will probably fuck her and then kill her. But I might kill her then fuck her. Back off!”
The institutional mail was delivered every day but Sunday. The note had probably been sent the previous night. Who was it about? I loved Anna, but was it that obvious? The other note had spoken of protection, now this one of threat. Were they about two different women? Anna and who? Sandy Strickland? Who else had I been seen with recently?
My office door opened while I was still rereading the letter. When Mr. Smith didn’t say anything, I looked up. Tom Daniels was standing there. I nodded my head toward one of the chairs across from my desk as I carefully folded the letter and stuck it in my desk drawer. He sat down. He looked better than he had yesterday, like maybe this case had breathed some life into him. His face wasn’t as red, and his eyes were not bloodshot. If the case continued to be eventful, he would probably replace his addiction with it for a while. I used to have the same experience from time to time.
He looked down at the clipboard that he was carrying, flipped through a couple of pages, looked back up at me.
“Look, the superintendent said we got to work together. Neither of us is happy about it, but whatcha gonna do, right?” He said it as if we were suddenly pals.
I knew that the superintendent’s words alone were not enough to bring about this change in him, but I said, “Right.”
“So, I say the investigation is more important than our dislike of one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I agree, but I don’t dislike you. And before all of this is over, I wish you would give me the opportunity to talk with you about things.”
“I’ve heard your excuses before.”
“I don’t intend to offer you any excuses, but then again I never have. You’ve only heard things from Susan’s perspective.”
“Listen, I don’t want to discuss the past now or ever. Let’s just concentrate on our jobs and do the work. I don’t care for you, never have much, but we can work together. I can work with anyone.”
“We
He was unable to hide his obvious awkwardness and discomfort at my apology. He’d never been good at dealing with personal things.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s our next move?”
“We need to follow up some of the leads that our physical evidence has produced-some of which you could do without anyone noticing. If the inspector of the prison system walks in and asks to look at things or asks questions, people get nervous.”
So that was it. No wonder he was being almost civil toward me. He needed my help. It had nothing to do with what Mr. Stone said, although that made it so much easier for him.
“Like what?” I asked.
“The lab said there were traces of a chemical on his pants that’s used in floor cleaner and wax in medical and dental facilities. We’ve traced the exact chemical to two types of cleaners manufactured by PRIDE.”
PRIDE is the manufacturer of various products for prisons. It is operated by the Department of Corrections and staffed with inmates. Just one of the many ways taxpayers save money.
“The cleaners,” he continued, “are used in the medical offices, the infirmary, and the dental offices.”
“From what I understand,” I said, “Johnson spent a lot of time in the infirmary.”
“Yes, I think he did, but you couldn’t get it on you from just being in medical or dental, even if he fell on a recently mopped floor.
Besides, the chemical on his pants had not been diluted. He would have had to have been around the actual bottle of cleaner to get it on him, and it had to have been within a few hours prior to his death, according to the lab.”
“Did he ever work with the cleaner?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. He was supposed to have worked on outside grounds. We need to check with his work supervisor,” Daniels said.
“Perhaps I should. We went to school together,” I said. “You know inmates’ uniforms often get switched in the laundry. It may have come in contact with the cleanser when another inmate was wearing it.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. The chemical had not been through the washer and dryer, and the uniform had his name tag on it. It actually stuck to the spear,” he said shaking his head. “Okay. How about medical and dental?” he asked.
“I’ll check them both over the weekend. I can’t today because I have to continue my regular work as well. Also, I’ve been asked to do Ike Johnson’s funeral tomorrow morning.”
“Find out all you can about him from his family,” he said. “They may know something useful and not know they know it.”
“If the opportunity presents itself I will, but they’ve just lost a family member in a horrible way. I’m not going as a detective, but as a minister.”
“You better go as both or some other family is going to lose their son.”
“Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”
“I think it’s best if we’re not seen together. You do those things. I’ll talk with Fortner, make him feel a part of the investigation, and continue to check with the lab. Why don’t we meet again on Monday?”
“Sounds good. Where?”
“If I stop by here, no one really sees. Besides, I could be asking you questions like anybody else. You are a witness.”
“Okay, but don’t believe that nobody sees you. Somebody sees everything that is done in this place. Everything.”
Chapter 13
When Merrill Monroe and I were in elementary school, the history books and the teachers that taught from them painted a benign picture of slaves singing soulfully as they worked on the plantations. It wasn’t that they said slavery was right; they didn’t tell us just how wrong it really was. The slaves were not happy, of course, but only because they didn’t own the land on which they were working. Seeing the inmates, most of whom were black,
