Blood of the Lamb (8 page)

He took a deep breath and sat more upright in his chair. As he straightened the vest of his dark suit, the bony fingers of his hands shook. He always wore a three-piece suit, and I had never seen him take off his coat. His suits weren’t expensive or particularly nice, but they didn’t have to be. The way he held himself, the way they fit him, made them look as though they were—at least until today. Today his suit looked cheap and ill-fitted for his narrow frame, as if in the course of one night he had shrunk somehow.

“Why not?” he asked. “Abraham did.”

“God wasn’t asking for Isaac’s blood, but for Abraham’s love. In the story God provides a lamb.”

“That reminds me,” he said, opening the center drawer of his desk and withdrawing a page from a coloring book. “This is for you. It was found in your office near… ah, her body. They gathered it with the rest of the evidence.”

Tears stung the edges of my eyes as I took the wrinkled picture from him. The color-crayon image, made blurry by my tears, was of Jesus just as Nicole had promised. It was her rendition of the portrait that hung in the Sunday School rooms of my youth: Jesus, his dark eyes intense, his long dark hair flowing, with a lamb draped across his shoulders. In the bottom corner in red that glistened like blood as one of my tears fell on it, it read: To: Chaplin JJ. From: Nicole.

Images of Jesus praying alone in the Garden of Gethsemane flashed in my mind. I heard his trembling voice begging for his life, and the cold, cruel silence that followed. Where was God then? Where was God now?

Where are you?

“I realize you have a job to protect,” I said. “One that would be in jeopardy if central office finds out what really happened, but why did you let an ex-offender and a minor into the institution without proper background checks and safety procedures?”

“So you know,” he said, shrinking in his chair without any outward movement.

I nodded, waiting, watching, measuring his response.

“You’re right, I did all that, but there’s a good reason. I’ve known Bobby Earl for many years. He’s conducted services in all my institutions.”

“And he’s related to—”

“The regional director,” he said.

“Your boss?”

His nonverbal admission was a few small nods of his head.

I waited for a moment, but instead of saying anything, he took off his glasses, withdrew a silk handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, and slowly wiped them with it. Without his large glasses to cover much of it, I could see more of his face. His skin was dark—not quite the blued-black of a Nigerian, but very black, and shiny, and far more lined than I remembered.

“But your enthusiastic endorsement of him led me to believe that you two—”

“He was incarcerated at Lake Butler when I was the assistant warden there,” he said. “I’ve never seen such a dramatic change in anyone. He made a believer out of me. He’s the real deal.”

“Still,” I said, “it seems more personal than that.”

Stone glanced down at the picture I held in my hands and then turned and looked at the one behind him on the wall. “Bobby Earl helped me and my wife through a very difficult time in our lives.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.

Still staring at the picture as though it gave him the strength to be vulnerable, he said, “He’s given my nephew, DeAndré, who became like a son to me when mine died, a place to belong, a purpose. Got him off the streets. Kept him out of prison. I owe Bobby Earl Caldwell more than…”

“I understand,” I said.

“I made a mistake,” he said, as he turned back to face me. “And I don’t want to lose my job, my career, over it. But more than that I want to find and punish the man who did it.”

He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and let out a long sigh. “Will you—”

“I will,” I said. “No matter who it is or how it makes you, me, or this institution look.”

He swallowed hard without saying anything, his nod seeming not one of approval, but of recognition, as if reconciling himself to the statement’s inevitability.

When I got to the chapel, I tried to say my morning prayers, but found I was unable to concentrate on anything except what had happened to Nicole. Leaving the silence of the sanctuary, I walked to the storage closet next to the unoccupied office I was using since mine became a crime scene and grabbed a handful of sharpened pencils and a new legal pad. Back in the small office, I sat down at the desk and began to make some notes on the case.

Making a list of the suspects, I considered each of them carefully.

Paul Register, Dexter Freeman, Cedric Porter, Bobby Earl and/ or Bunny Caldwell, Abdul Muhammin, Roger Coel, Theo Malcolm, Tim Whitfield, and DeAndré Stone.

The Caldwells were the most likely of the lot.

Even if they didn’t actually kill their daughter, they could be behind it. Why didn’t DeAndré come back in with them? Why have security if you’re not going to guard your daughter when she’s surrounded by several hundred convicted felons?

And then it hit me like the hardest punch in boxing—the one you don’t see coming.

What if Bobby Earl gave DeAndré the night off precisely because he didn’t want his daughter to be guarded? Could he be that wicked? Was this crime that calculated and premeditated?

I’d have to figure out a way to ask Bobby Earl, but for now I could start with the suspects at my door.

I found Abdul Muhammin at his post in the chapel library, preparing to open it to the inmate population. Like most inmate orderlies in the prison, he had a proprietary interest in what he believed to be his library, but that was okay, because it motivated him to do a good job. Only on occasion did I have to remind him that the people using the library were more important than the library itself.

“Bet we’ll be busy today. Everybody wantin’ to see the scene of the crime,” he said, shaking his head to himself. “Sick bastards. I still can’t believe it happened.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“It’s all they’re talkin’ about on the pound.”

“I bet.”

I sat on the edge of a folding table across from the small desk where he continued to stamp cards and insert them into books.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

Muhammin was a thick, light-skinned black man in his late twenties. He had bulk, but no muscle, and he was fleshy, almost puffy, without being fat.

“I’m still not sure,” I said. “You have any ideas?”

“Has to be Bobby’s bitch, doesn’t it?” he asked, and I could tell he wasn’t even conscious of how demeaning he was being to Bunny. In fact, I was sure to him he wasn’t being. In his world the sky is blue, water is wet, and women are mamas, bitches, or whores. “Who else could’ve done it?”

Like most libraries, this quiet room smelled of dust, glue, and ink, but unlike most libraries, there was a monotonous uniformity to the materials it held. Try as I did to compensate with the small budget I was given each year, the majority of books and tapes that lined the shelves were donated by puritanical people with a particular point of view—for the evangelistic compulsion to convert and proselytize was felt most strongly by those most conservative. Ironically, those with the least to say usually say the most and the most outwardly religious were often the most theologically unsophisticated.

“What about Bobby Earl?” I asked.

His face wrinkled into a slack-jawed mask of incredulity, as if what I had suggested defied a natural law that everyone knew to be as certain as gravity.

“Bobby’s no child killer,” he said. “His conversion was real—I saw it—but even before he was born-again or whatever y’all call it, he was no killer. People either are or they ain’t, and he ain’t.”

“Did you get to talk to him?” I asked.

He shook his head and frowned. “After what happened, I didn’t even try.”

An unopened box from Bobby Earl Caldwell Ministries sat next to a rack of pamphlets and tracts, and I wondered again about the complex motivations of a man like him—why he did what he did the way he did it, but soon found myself contemplating the more pertinent subject of what a man like him was capable of doing.

“I was surprised to see you without your koofi,” I said, attempting to make it sound like curiosity and not accusation.

“Just showin’ a little respect,” he said. “Keepin’ everything on the down low.”

I nodded as if I not only understood but appreciated what he had done.

As if just making a casual observation, I said, “I saw a lot of people last night I don’t normally see—especially in those type services.”

“Lotsa men here to see Bunny,” he said. “But a few of the sick pricks were here to see that little girl. Did you see the way that little Chester was hanging around outside your door? Hell, he’s pressing his nose against the glass like it’s the fuckin’ candy store.”

“Paul Register?”

“You shoulda seen the bulge in his pants when she was singing on stage,” he said. “He looked like he was goin’ to whip it out any minute and lay hands on it. Hell, if the door wasn’t locked, I’d say he did it. You know how those nasty bastards can’t resist little chicken tenders. Break in there, Chuck and Buck her, then ice her ass so she can’t tell.”

I could tell he was disappointed that I didn’t react to his callous comments or ask what Chuck and Buck meant, but long before I heard the term on the compound, I’d seen the low-budget independent film it had come from. Even if I hadn’t been familiar with it, I wouldn’t have asked. I wasn’t about to give him the perverse pleasure of saying anything else so crude about Nicole.

“I ain’t tellin’ you how to do your job—or whatever it is you’re doin’, Chap,” he said, “but you see a little Chester motherfucker dry humpin’ the door a little girl’s on the other side of, and a few minutes later she dead, you start with him.”

Paul Register was the kind of inmate for whom prison was most difficult. He was small, resembling a teenage boy more than a twenty-three year old man, and, like his hands, his voice was soft. His pale skin, curly light blond hair, and weak gray eyes made him look colorless, which is what he might as well have been, for he remained nearly invisible among the colorful inmates at PCI, as nondescript as the pale gray walls of the institution.

But he preferred it that way. When unable to blend into the nothing gray of uniformity, he stuck out like a small buck in an open field during hunting season, which at PCI was year-round.

He was easy prey.

Paul Register was a sex offender, not a vicious rapist of women who demanded jailhouse respect, but a molester of the little boys he so closely resembled.

“Hey, Chaplain,” he said, the tone of his voice matching his welcoming smile. “What are you doin’ here?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

I had talked to Paul on several occasions, though never in his cell, but more than talking, I had listened to him; listened for hours as he recounted his abuse and how he became an abuser. Tearfully, with what seemed to be a genuinely contrite heart, he had made his confession—telling the truth and finding what I had hoped was at least a spiritual freedom, but now I wasn’t so sure.

Suddenly his face clouded over, distress replacing happiness. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed. “Is it my mother? It’s my mother, isn’t it? Oh, God. I thought I’d be ready, but I’m not.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not your mom. Nothing to do with any of your family. I just wanted to ask you some questions about what happened last night.”

The relief rose over his face like the sun reappearing after a storm. “Oh, thank God. I’m sorry. It’s just I’m so worried about her, and I know it won’t be long until I get that call to your office.”

That call
, I thought.
What would my job be like without that call?
And then I realized again as if for the first time:
I spend my days dealing with other people’s crises.
And I wondered if it was just an elaborate way of avoiding my own.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I get that reaction a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know one day you’ll be calling me up there. I’m obviously not ready. But ready or not, I’m glad you’ll be the one.”

“Thank you,” I said. “How have you been?”

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re back. I’ve missed our sessions.”

I nodded.

The cell seemed smaller than its six by nine foot dimensions— perhaps it was the bunks, sink, and toilet closing in on us—and we stood closer than we normally would have because of it.

Unlike closed custody cells, Paul was in a cell only because the open bay dorms were full, so his door stayed open, permitting him the freedom afforded to the entire open population.

“I wrote some more letters,” he said. “And I got three more back. The one from my sister was great. She said she forgave me and that she really believed I was well.”

I eyed him suspiciously.

“I already wrote her back and told her I’d never be well, and that she should never think that. I shared with her my commitment to recovery and how it’s a lifestyle and not a fix.”

“Good,” I said.

The cell had the sour sweet smell of sweat and cheap cologne. Occasionally a foul odor from the lidless toilet wafted between us, cutting violently through the other odors like a hostile intruder.

“The other letters weren’t so good,” he said. “One said I was a bottom feeder and a robber of innocence, and the other one said I should have my, ah, private parts cut off and crammed down my throat.”

“And?” I asked.

“And I was expecting it,” he said. “It still knocked me for a loop. I mean, I understand their feelings, but… I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you come to my office this afternoon,” I said. “Bring the letters and we’ll talk about them.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, whatta you want to know about last night? Let me help you for a change.”

“When did you go to the bathroom?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I just went to get some water. To get out of the service mainly. Bobby Earl was hard for me to take. I just needed a break. I mean, he was so mean-spirited and his solution to everything was an oversimplified formula. You know?”