The Body and the Blood (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

Rows and rows of pine trees stood where once had grown tobacco and before that cotton. They abruptly stopped and opened up into a five-hundred acre farm enclosed by a freshly painted white wooden fence. At the center of the fence that ran along the highway, a gated entrance of cypress and wrought iron with a sign above it reading THE H. H. CORRAL guarded a blacktop driveway lined on each side with royal palms.

When I turned into the drive, the gate opened. I was expected.

It was late Tuesday afternoon. Merrill had been missing for two days, and on one, not even Dad and his deputies had been able to turn up anything.

I had come to Pine County to look for myself.

Beyond the palms, herds of Black Angus and Holsteins searched the cold ground for something to eat though there were several bails of hay and feed troughs filled with grain in a portable corral at the center of each field.

At the end of the private drive, in a large pecan grove, beyond a red brick driveway and parking area, sat an enormous Mediterranean home with mahogany balustrades, cypress beams, arches with keystone surrounds, and a variegated barrel tile roof. It was the nicest house I had seen in the panhandle—maybe in the southeast. It was the home of Howard Hawkins and judging by it, the sheriff in Pine County did a whole lot better than the sheriff of Potter County.

As I got out of my truck and walked toward the door, pecan shells crunching beneath my feet, a middle-aged man with silver hair and red cheeks pulled up in a golf cart. He was a big man, over six feet and about fifty pounds overweight, but he hid it well with good posture and nice clothes.

“You must be John,” he said, extending his hand to me. “Howard Hawkins. Hop in. I’ve got to go open the feed gates. You can ride with me. When we get back, we’ll have cocktails and dinner with my family.”

He was charming, confident, and personable, nothing like the redneck right-wing simpleton I had expected. I liked him immediately.

“Thank you,” I said and climbed into the cart.

He drove the cart faster than was safe, faster than I thought possible, weaving in and out of trees and bushes and crushing pecans, pine cones, and leaves under the small tires.

“I met your dad a couple of years ago,” he said. “He’s been the sheriff of Potter for—how long?—twenty years?”

“Longer,” I said.

“He’s a hell of a sheriff. Hell of a sheriff. Good man, too. I’ve heard the same about you.”

He brought the golf cart to a stop in front of the feeding corral I had seen on my way in and hopped out quickly. The moment we pulled up, the cows gathered around. Now that he had opened the gate, they began to pour in, rushing the grain, ignoring the hay.

The herd was one of the best in the area, their bodies and the coats that covered them thick and healthy. They were gentle, too, and Hawkins was gentle with them, patting and talking to them as they filed by, calling them by name.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “And so gentle.”

“I’ve raised every one of them since they were born. They’re like my children. Speaking of children . . . should I be worried about my son? I hear an inmate was killed in his dorm.”

“Everyone in prison’s at risk, but so far I don’t see that your son’s in any real danger. In fact, the other inmates may be in danger from him.”

He smiled and nodded appreciatively. “That’s my boy.”

When he looked at me and I wasn’t smiling, he said, “You don’t suspect him, do you?”

I shrugged. “His name keeps coming up. He’s one of only a handful who
could’ve
done it, and the murder weapon was found in his cell.”

“Well, that’s because he’s being set up,” he said, sitting back down behind the wheel. “I’m glad you came to see me. I can see we’ve got a lot to talk about. But let’s save it until we’re back at the house, sitting down over drinks. Who knows? Maybe you can get me drunk, and I’ll do a lot of confessing to you.”

His smile was broad, his eyes wide, his expression charming. He had the southern politician thing down. Anti-Christ or not, this man could get votes and win elections.

We sped through the pasture and into another one across the drive, dodging cows and trees and tractors as we did. Two times we actually came off the ground as we bounced over bumps and ditches.

While he was opening the gates, I said, “This whole place yours?”

He nodded. “Over six hundred acres. Beautiful, isn’t it? I think when the good Lord comes back he may actually touch down right here.”

“Are there oil rigs on some part of the property I haven’t seen yet?”

He smiled again. He did that a lot. Each time he did, the fine smile lines in his face went from wind-chapped red to bloodless white and you could see just how deep they were.

“You haven’t heard my story? Well, I’ll have to tell it to you over drinks. I try to do everything I can over drinks.”

“I
used
to,” I said, and smiled right back at him.

Chapter Thirty-seven

We had drinks on an interior courtyard that overlooked the heated swimming pool. I knew it was heated because as we were being seated, Sharon Hawkins, Howard’s daughter-in-law and Mike’s wife, jumped out of the pool and apologized to Howard for being in it when he had a guest. He told her it was all right, but there was something that passed between them that let me know it wasn’t.

The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by the house, tall archways leading to French doors beneath a second-story balcony supported by cypress beams. As it grew dark, small atmospheric lights began popping on in various places to set just the right mood, and I had to keep reminding myself this was a private residence and not an exclusive resort.

“I own most of Pine County,” he said. “Well, most of it that hasn’t been developed. The rows of pine that fill this beautiful parcel of north Florida all belong to me, and since paper is the primary industry in these parts, I’m a very wealthy man. My great-grandparents first owned it. They grew cotton on it. After the slaves were freed, my grandparents grew tobacco and supported sharecroppers. My parents planted it in pines and now I’m reaping the benefit of their foresight.”

“It’s quite an inheritance. So why be sheriff?”

“I’ve got a vision. I’m building a community here. You could say that Pine County is the closest thing to the Kingdom of God on earth there is. Do you know what our homicide rate was last year?”

I shook my head.

“Zero.”

One of your citizens has been murdered now.

“We have no crime to speak of. I mean a few small things from people passing through or some of the lower class day-workers, but it’s only petty stuff and they’re swiftly and severely punished. We have the best schools in the state. Highest SAT scores. You know how many resource officers we assign to our schools?”

I shook my head.

“None. Our kids don’t carry guns to school. They don’t do drugs. They respect their teachers and their peers.”

“I’m surprised more people aren’t pouring in here,” I said, though I was really wondering what would make someone like Justin Menge move to such a beige and banal place.

“Oh, they’d like to. Believe me. But we’ve worked too hard to let people who have no idea what we’re all about come in and destroy it. We’ve paid a price to have safe streets and schools. To have happy children who want to contribute to society, to give something back like me, not live on welfare checks or get rich quick by selling their souls.”

“How can you keep them out?”

“Told you, I own nearly all of the undeveloped land. And I’m not selling.” He paused for a moment to light a long, thick cigar. He twirled it around in his mouth several times, then puffed vigorously as he held his gold lighter to the other end. “Oh, we let in the occasional family. If we need a doctor or a dentist, but we vet the hell out ‘em first.”

He walked over behind the wet bar and fixed himself another rum and Coke and me another Cherry Coke. “I distrust a man who doesn’t drink. You sure you won’t join me?”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “I know I have a lot of critics,” he said. “But what man or woman doing something different doesn’t? I’m sure you have critics.”

“A few,” I said with a smile.

“Jesus certainly did,” he said. “Anyway, what person wouldn’t want to live in a safe place with good schools and a real sense of community?”

I didn’t answer. I assumed it was rhetorical.

“Exactly. Like Jesus or the founders of this country, I take the criticism gladly and am honored to be in such good company.”

“But Jesus’ vision of the inclusive Kingdom of God was inclusion, filled with drunks, prostitutes, the poor. The Kingdom is built on compassion, not righteousness—and it’s filled with ‘whosoever will.’”

“Maybe so. But I haven’t figured out how to get everyone in
and
maintain what we have. Maybe we’re not supposed to until the kingdom finally
does
come. I’m just trying to take good care of my family and the good people of this great county. If I do that, then I sleep good at night. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to save the world. I just lost that kind of idealism long ago.”

I didn’t respond.

“Come on. Let’s eat. Then we can talk about Mike.”

We walked through a foyer with a serpentine staircase crafted of stone, oak, mahogany, and wrought iron. Hanging on the wall behind it were four antique Indian tribal screens with carved teak frames.

In the Old World kitchen beneath a chandelier of burning candles, we found the Hawkins family: Sharon, Mike’s wife, Julie, Kevin’s wife, Charlotte, Howard’s wife, and Julie’s two pre-schoolers, Sam and Sandy.

“Kevin’s still on patrol,” Charlotte explained. “He’s sorry he can’t join us.”

“See,” Howard said. “For everything we enjoy, there’s a sacrifice to be made. Kids today don’t understand that.”

“They do in Pine County,” Sharon said, and I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“True.”

Beneath the flicker of the candles, we ate a wonderful southwestern meal and enjoyed lively conversation about everyone’s day. It was something out of Norman Rockwell. Everyone seemed relaxed and genuinely respectful and loving of one another—except for Sharon.

“How’s my Mike?” Charlotte asked.

“The chaplain here thinks he may’ve been involved in the murder,” Howard said.

She shook her head. “Not Mike. He’s not even supposed to be in there. He’s innocent. He’s not violent. And this isn’t just a mother talking. Ask anyone.”

“You know who the victim was?” I asked, glancing over at Sam and Sandy.

“Yes,” Charlotte said in a strained voice. “We know, but Mike wouldn’t’ve done that. They all had a chance to do that when that man
was sitting in
our
jail. And they could’ve easily covered it up then.”

Sharon made a scoffing sound that made me think they
had
done something to Justin Menge in their jail. And it probably wasn’t the first time either.

“Our lives are open books, John,” Howard said. “We’re politicians. We live in a glass house. Feel free to take as close a look as you want to at us. We’re clean. We’re rich and a lot of jealous people start rumors, but being wealthy isn’t a crime.”

After dessert, Charlotte and Sharon started clearing off the table while Julie took Sam and Sandy upstairs for a bath.

“You ought to consider moving out here with us,” Hawkins said. “There’s a couple of really nice places available and we’ve been looking for a new pastor for our chapel. I think you’d really like it. Especially if you and Susan are thinking about having kids.”

An alarm sounded inside me when he used Susan’s name. I hadn’t mentioned her to him. I hadn’t even told him I was married.

“I’ll think about it. I had a friend who came out here last weekend looking around. Did you happen to see him? Merrill Monroe. He’s a rather large African-American in his mid-thirties.”

Sharon dropped a plate in the kitchen and it shattered against the tile floor, echoing through the large open room.

“No,” Hawkins said. “I sure didn’t.”

“He’s missing now. This was the last place he was known to be.”

“Was he looking at property?” he asked, his calm demeanor never wavering. “I’d give the local real estate agent a call.”

“No, just looking.”

“Well, we’ll keep our eyes open for him. I’ll tell my deputies.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks for the hospitality—the good company and the delicious meal. You have a lovely family and such a nice place out here beneath the pecan trees.”

“You come and visit anytime. I’ll walk you to the door.”

At the door, he stepped out onto the porch with me and pulled the door shut behind him. “Remember what you said in there about my family and my place? About how special they are?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they are. I’d do anything to protect them. Anything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep what’s mine. Nothing.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

“Juan did not kill Justin Menge,” Carlos Matos said. “I swear it on the soul of my children.” He crossed himself, then continued. “We were together the whole day. Even after we were back in the cells, we were talking back and forth the entire time. And I lied about him cutting me. I was trying to get him in trouble at the time. I was cut by someone else on another matter, but that has all been taken care of now.”

It was the following afternoon, a Wednesday—one week since Justin Menge had been murdered. I’d joined Carlos Matos in the waiting area of the medical department where he was required to sit until the doctor could see him. We were the only two people in the large room. The officer assigned to watch it was leaning out the partially opened door smoking.

I held a file folder with logs from the night of the murder and was on my way to confront DeLisa Lopez when I ran into Matos.

“You lied?” I asked.

“
Si
. I am very sorry, Father.”

“Or did Martinez get to you again and you’re lying now?”

“No,
señor
. I swear.”

“Or were you lying then
and
now? I’m beginning to think I can’t trust you.”

“I am telling the truth. Juan did not kill Justin.”

“He could’ve had it done,” I said, suppressing a yawn.

After leaving the Hawkins’s, I had driven around Pine County looking for Merrill for much of the night and had felt my sleep deficit all day.

“He did not have a reason.”

“Menge was going to testify against him,” I said.

“No, he was not, and everyone knew it. Juan was not afraid of that. They did not have anything on him. Nothing. You think Juan told Menge something—confessed some crime to him. Why?”

I shrugged.

“Well, he didn’t. He would not. Why would he?”

“Then why was Menge going to testify against him?”

“I already told you,
señor
,” he said. “The inspector’s trying to set him up.”

“Fortner?”

The medical officer might as well have been smoking in the waiting room for all the good leaning out the open door was doing. Every gust of the cool October wind blew his smoke directly at us. I coughed, attempted to breathe shallowly, and began to fan myself with the file folder I was holding.

“No,” he said, shaking his head as if the thought defied all logic. “He could not do something like that. It was the big inspector. What is his name? Daniels? He has been screwing with Juan since he has been here.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, looking at me as if wanting to tell me but thinking better of it.

As I looked at him—at his thick shiny, black hair and dull black eyes, and the way his blue inmate uniform strained to hold in his thick body—I wondered what DeLisa Lopez was thinking. Could such a beautiful woman really be involved with such an average man?

“Tell me,” I said. “It may be the only way to save your friend from a murder charge.”

He leaned in close, looked around, then whispered, “Daniels’s thinks Juan raped his wife.”

“Daniels’s wife or Juan’s?”

“Juan does not have a wife,” he said. “Daniels’s.

“Did he?”

“He did not, but the inspector thinks that he did.”

A large black nurse whose pants swished together as she moved, walked into the room and over to the vending machines in the corner closet. The soft hum of the machines grew louder as she opened the door and went inside. It took her a while, but she finally coaxed a diet Dr. Pepper and two Snickers out of the machines.

“Menge was not going to testify against Juan. He did not know anything. Even if there was something to know, Menge did not know it. He and Juan never even spoke.”

I nodded.

The officer glanced back in our direction, blowing smoke out of his nose as he did. I waved to him, signaling everything was fine, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Was Ms. Lopez in your cell around the time of the murder?”

Eyes growing wide, jaw dropping, he was stunned into silence.

He started to say something, but stopped.

The officer opened the front door all the way and Anna walked inside, waving the cloud of smoke away with her hand as she did. As she walked over to the door leading to psychology and classification, she gave me a polite nod and strained smile.

“If you can give her an alibi, you should,” I said, “otherwise she could get charged with murder.”

“She was not.”

“I already know she was in the PM unit that night,” I said, holding up the file folder, “and I know you were one of the men she was there to see.”

“
Si.
She came by earlier, but this was way before Menge got killed.”

“You two having an affair?”

“She would not . . .” he began, shaking his head as he trailed off.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said with a smile.

“No, I mean . . .”

I knew what he meant, but as he explained it, I wondered if he and DeLisa could fit in the roles of David and Bathsheba. If they were having an affair, they might. What if Menge caught them and was going to report it in his attempt to get out early to be with Sobel? They could’ve killed him to cover it up.

I felt like a real bastard for what I was about to say next, but I figured his reaction would tell me more than his words ever would. Besides, I was angry at myself for what I had done to Anna, hurting inside, and felt like spreading some it around.

“Listen,” I said, “you’re not going to get her in trouble. We’ve already got her for sex with inmates. Evidently, she’s carrying on with several in the institution. I just want to know if you can provide her with an alibi during the time Menge was murdered.”

The muscles in his neck and arms tensed, his jaw flexed, his black eyes burned.

Very slowly and deliberately he said, “She was down there that night, but she was not with me. If she needs an alibi, I am not the one to give it to her.”

“So she could’ve killed him?” I asked.

“Sounds to me like she could do anything,” he said, still seething, his knuckles cracking from how tightly he was clenching his fists.

When Matos was taken into medical, I walked out of the waiting room and down the long corridor toward DeLisa Lopez’s office. On the way, I passed Anna in the hall. We both smiled and spoke, but it was strained and awkward, and I wasn’t prepared for how much more angry and empty it made me feel.

My heart hurt, and I felt disconnected, adrift.

I turned and called after her.

When she slowly walked back toward me, I said, “Are you okay?”

She nodded without really looking at me. “Any word from Merrill yet?”

I shook my head. “I think Howard Hawkins is involved.”

“I’m worried about him.”

“Me, too.”

“Please let me know when you find out anything.”

“Sure.”

She nodded, her full lips twisting as she frowned, and began to walk away.

“Hey,” I said. “We don’t have to ignore each other.”

She turned around slowly, her head down. “I can’t do this,” she said, lifting her deep brown eyes, wounded and sad, up to meet mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never meant—”

“I’ve put in for a transfer.”

“
What
?” I asked, loss and longing gripping my heart.

“Central Office. There’s a position open and they think I can just lateral in. I won’t even have to interview.”

“But—”

“It’d make it easier,” she said. “I need a change anyway.”

“Anna, I never meant—”

“I’ll miss you,” she said, lifting her hand and touching my cheek, before turning and walking away.

For a long moment I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I just stood there, the scent of her perfume swirling around me.

When I was able, I walked over to DeLisa Lopez’s office door and looked inside. Through the narrow pane of glass I could see that she was intently engaged in counseling an inmate. I watched for a moment before walking away. She was obviously a caring and compassionate counselor.

As I waited, I opened the file folder I was carrying and pulled out the copies I had made of the control room logs from the night of the murder and looked through them again.

Before, when I had studied the logs, I had concentrated on the ones from G-dorm, but my subconscious must have registered something wrong in the control room logs that my conscious mind, concentrating on G-dorm, missed.

I found where DeLisa Lopez had been logged in that morning. It was just a few minutes after me. As I followed the list down, I saw the comings and goings of the staff and visitors of the institution.

Anna and Merrill were logged in just a few minutes after Lopez, Fortner a few minutes after that. In the early afternoon, Tom Daniels was logged in and Merrill was logged out as his shift came to an end. I saw where I was logged out at the normal time and then back in for the PM unit Catholic Mass that night.

I ran my finger down the page, examining every entry for the entire day and the following morning. I found where Daniels and I had been logged out in the early morning hours after we had secured and processed the crime scene. And then I saw where staff members began to be logged in the next morning. However, what I didn’t see was where DeLisa Lopez had been logged out.

It wasn’t there.

She had come into the institution early Wednesday morning and not left it again until the end of her shift on Thursday evening. She had spent thirty-two long hours inside the institution.

It could go unnoticed easily enough. I wouldn’t have found it had I not been trying to identify the woman who was seen in G-dorm the evening of the murder. There was no other reason to look at the logs. Well over a hundred people entered and exited the institution every day, arriving when one set of officers were in the control room, leaving when there was another. Unless someone was really studying the logs, looking for discrepancies, like I was now, no one would ever know—and, even if someone asked, the person could claim that the control room officer simply failed to log him or her out. I thought about how many times I had worked late, catching up or covering a special program, and how surprised the control room was to see me when I walked through the gate because they had no idea I was still inside the institution.

The how was easy. What I needed to know was the why? Why, on the night of the murder, had Lisa Lopez never left the institution.

That’s what I was about to go in and ask her when the officer in the waiting room opened the door and told me I had an emergency telephone call. Rushing down the hall and through the door, I picked up the phone. It was Sharon Hawkins, and in a surprisingly flat, matter-of-fact voice she told me Merrill was in Howard Hawkins’s jail and would not survive the night.