The Body and the Blood (5 page)

Chapter Seven

“You’re
not
?” I whispered back to her, looking at him again.

“I’m not,” she said. “I never realized how much they looked alike before they started wearing their hair the same way. Could Menge have killed Sobel and taken his place because he’s about to get out?”

“Prints say no. It possible their records were swapped?”

“It’s next to impossible.”

It occurred to me again just how many of the inmates look alike. Like the girl “band” in Robert Palmer’s iconic video of “Addicted to Love,” very disparate looking people can look nearly identical when dressed and made-up alike. With inmates, it’s even more extreme. Not only do they have the exact same uniforms, but they all have the same bad haircuts, pale skin, and the thickness that comes from too much starch and too little exercise. But for all the similarities of inmates in general, the particular likeness of Chris and Justin was staggering.

Like all couples, the time Chris and Justin had spent together enhanced their similarities. Not only did they look alike, but their mannerisms, voice, speech, gestures, expressions had all become eerily identical.

It was like talking to a dead man.

“You know you don’t have to talk to us,” I said to Chris.

“No, I want to. I really do.”

“Okay. Start with why you
really
missed the first part of Mass.”

“I told you. I was asleep. I’ve never missed Mass before—”

“Exactly. On the one night you miss most of the service a murder is committed.”

“I know how it looks, but I swear. That’s why I think someone’s setting me up.”

“I can’t help you if you lie to me.”

“I’m not. Please.”

“And what was that shit about holy ground? You’ve never attended the service without shoes before. Now all of a sudden you decide the ground is holy and you can’t wear shoes to Mass.”

“Ah, I’m, I’d been reading about Moses. I know it sounds crazy, but I really did have a sense that God was meeting with us in that quad and that I needed to hallow the fact.”

I shook my head. “Even if I believed that, which I don’t. I’d expect you to wear your shoes to the service, then take them off when it started.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You sayin’ the whole quad’s holy ground?”

“I don’t know. I’s just trying to honor God.”

“Think about the timing. You did this on the night that Justin was murdered. Never before. It means you passed by Justin’s cell at least three times. That’s more than anyone else.”

He shook his head, appearing frustrated. “I know how it looks, but I swear I didn’t kill him.”

“We’re going to test your boots for blood. Sure you don’t want to tell me now?”

“I don’t have boots, just tennis shoes, but they don’t have blood on ‘em. I swear it. I went back, put them on and then came back to the service. If they had blood on ‘em, I’d’ve tracked it out onto the floor.”

“We’re checking it, too,” I said.

“Well, if you find any, it won’t be from my shoes. I loved Justin. We were planning on spending our lives together. Hoping to get married someday soon.”

“That’s great. And I’m sorry that won’t happen now. I truly am. But your story doesn’t add up. Sure you don’t want to change it to the truth? It’ll go a lot better for you, if you get in front of this.”

“I can’t believe you don’t believe me,” he said. “I’m telling the truth.”

“Then, tell me this. Officer Pitts didn’t buzz your cell open when you went back for your shoes, so how’d you get in?”

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Tears formed in his eyes and he began to shake.

“Tell me.”

“Just believe me,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I’m gonna need a little more than your word.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

* * * * *

When he’d left the room, Anna sat tapping a pencil against her pursed lips for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Whatta you think?”

“He’s not giving us much,” I said, “and lying about what he is. Gonna have to figure out a different way to come at him.”

She nodded, then dropping the pencil down on the table, stood up and said, “What’s next?”

“I’ve got to go tell Paula Menge her brother was murdered, and—”

“How’re you able to switch gears between investigating and ministry so easily?” she asked, shaking her head.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“So finish. You’re going to tell Paula Menge her brother was murdered
and
. . .”

“And ask why it happened on the only night she’s visited him in the past four years.”

* * * * *

As I pulled up in front of Paula’s house, my phone rang.

It was Susan.

“Morning handsome.”

“Morning,” I said.

“How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t.”

“Because I’m not there? That’s so sweet.”

“Can I call you back in a little while?”

“Sure. I miss you.”

“I miss
you,
”I said, and as I walked up Paula’s driveway, I thought about just how much.

Having a second chance with Susan was a grace, and I was doing my best to be truly grateful for the opportunity. I was falling in love with her all over again, feeling in many ways like I had when we were newly together—except far more mature and selfless, far less desperate and needy.

Chapter Eight

“I knew something was wrong,” Paula Menge said. “It’d been a long time, but I could still tell.”

One of the more difficult parts of my job involved death notifications. As the chaplain, I notified inmates of deaths in their families and families of the deaths of inmates. Each had its own ministerial challenges, but when the bereaved was also a suspect it was especially difficult. I still had yet to find a way to fully integrate the seeming incompatibility of compassion and suspicion.

I was seated in Paula Menge’s small living room in the soft glow of the early morning light streaming in through the windows.

Her house was small, but in the right neighborhood not far from downtown Panama City, and very nicely decorated with spotless white carpet and exquisite furniture with surfaces so polished they looked like mirrors.

Both the house and furniture looked inherited. Nice, but old—not old enough to be antique and too uniform to have been bought piecemeal recently.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t help thinking that if I’d just checked on him sooner . . .” She shook her head.

We sat in silence for a moment, tears trickling down her cheeks.

She was wearing long white silk pajamas, her delicate tanned feet gathered up beneath her in the chair. Only the tips of her toes were still visible and I could see that the perfectly applied pink polish matched that of her fingernails.

Not for the first time I regretted not carrying a handkerchief. “Can I get you some tissues or—”

I broke off in mid-sentence, my awe-struck eyes coming to rest on the painting across the room.

She turned and followed my gaze.

The white frame on the white wall held Chagall’s “White Crucifixion.”

Oil on canvas, the painting stood over five feet tall. At its center, an unblemished Christ is on a cross, a prayer shawl wrapped around his waist. He is surrounded by revolutionary red flags, a Nazi desecrating a synagogue, Ahasverus, the wandering Jew stepping over a burning Torah scroll, refugees in a boat, as figures from the Hebrew Bible hover overhead, lamenting in the desolation and darkness.

“You like it?” she asked, wiping her cheeks.

“It’s my favorite Chagall, and I
love
Chagall.”

“At first I thought it didn’t provide enough contrast for . . . but now—”

“It’s perfect. It’s not the—”

“Original? No.”

“It looks like it.”

“Justin did it,” she said.

I shook my head. “I knew he was talented, but I had no idea he was . . .”

“He can paint like anybody,” she said. “But to me, his own stuff blows them all away. I own a small gallery downtown, you should drop by. I have a lot of Justin’s work.”

Interviewing women was never easy, but when they were beautiful, bereaved, and vulnerable—and wearing white silk pajamas, it was virtually impossible.

“How do you have so many of his paintings?”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you hadn’t seen him in four years. I didn’t think you were close.”

“I had them before he went in. Justin’s not one to hold a grudge. He’s written me this whole time—even when I wouldn’t write him back. Even when I wasn’t sure whether he was guilty or not, he still let me be the exclusive rep of his work. I guess if I had more integrity I wouldn’t have been making money on a man I thought might be guilty of child molestation, but . . .”

She sniffled.

“I was going to ask you if I could get you a tissue or . . .”

She shook her head.

“I would imagine his paintings will bring far more now.”

She frowned as she nodded.

I waited, but she didn’t say anything.

From out of the kitchen, an elegant all-white Turkish Angora cat strolled into the living room and over to Paula’s chair. The white fur coat covering the animal’s thick body was so shiny and silky it didn’t look real. As the cat approached, Paula put her feet back on the floor, and with one graceful motion, the cat leapt into her lap.

“You suspect me of having something to do with his death, don’t you?” she asked, her gaze leveled at me, her green eyes narrowed and intense.

I shrugged. “Haven’t ruled anyone out.”

She smiled. “I appreciate honesty, but I was nowhere near the institution when it happened. And it didn’t happen in the visiting park, but in the PM unit where I’ve never been nor could ever go.”

She didn’t seem too upset, didn’t seem like she was capable of getting too upset over anything, so I decided to press her a bit.

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t have something to do with it.”

“And I’m the one with the money motive.”

“Are you?”

“His half of this house, his half of the gallery, his place in Pine County, and all his art.”

“People’ve killed for less,” I said.

“A
lot
less. A conservative estimate would be over two million, and if his paintings take off like I think they will, it could be ten.”

“That’s a lot of cat food,” I said.

She smiled, and seemed to purr contentedly, though I was pretty sure I was just imagining that.

“You haven’t even told me how it happened.”

I rectified that.

She listened to me intently, resting the full weight of her attention on me. She had a sultry, sleepy quality about her, a seeming unapologetic languidness that heightened her beauty and allure.

“So
you
don’t even know
how
it happened. Not really.”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Would you find out
who
did? For me.”

“Why would you ask
me
?”

“Justin told me all about you. Said you used to be a cop and if I ever needed anything or if anything ever happened to him you were the one to call. He trusted you.”

I felt a pang of guilt for not doing more for Justin—and not just last night.

“Why didn’t you mention that when we spoke last night?”

She pulled back from me, body tensing, eyes wide, looking like a child in trouble. “I wish I had. I guess I just thought . . . well, Justin always had a little of the drama queen in him, you know? I just didn’t take it as seriously as I should. I
did
ask you to check on him.”

I nodded. She had and I had not—at least not soon enough.

“Will you find his killer for me?” she repeated, absently stroking the cat.

“I’ll try to help . . . where I can.”

“Thanks. I feel better already.”

“Talk to me about him. I’d like to hear about him, his case, anything from your perspective.”

“He was gay. I say that first because he would. It was often the first thing out of his mouth. He was very comfortable with it—with himself. Please don’t hold that against him.”

“I don’t.”

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as her head came forward slightly.

“You don’t, do you? I thought . . . I mean as a preacher I’d expect you to . . .”

“I’m not that kind of preacher.”

“But—”

“I wish a minister was the last person you’d associate with judgment and condemnation.”

“He was like that, too. Full of love for everyone. That was part of his downfall. He was too trusting. Thought everyone was basically good. But they’re not, are they?”

“No,” I said. “They’re not.”

“He was caged up with some real animals. At first, I was glad to hear he was in that protective unit thingy. At least until . . . . It didn’t protect him, did it?”

She lifted the cat, shifting her weight in the chair in order to reposition her legs, and as she did, I was reminded again that all her movements had a distinctive feline quality. Sitting there together, animal and owner, the two favored in ways that could only be the result of spending an enormous amount of time together.

“He said that he was about to get out. Was gonna testify, get a reduction in his sentence. He was nervous about it—no, that’s not it. Well it is, but there’s more to it. He was nervous about testifying. But he was scared, too. He said if anything happened to him to tell you that it would be related to him testifying. I could tell he didn’t want to do it. But someone he loved was getting out soon and he wanted to be with him.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Chris.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Last night you said he didn’t seem like your brother. Is it possible that he wasn’t?”

Her face lit up. “You mean Justin may not be dead?”

“Sorry. I meant during your visit.”

“I didn’t mean it literally. He was just so different.” She paused for a moment, then locked her eyes onto mine. “Is there any chance that Justin’s still alive?”

I shook my head slowly. “I would’ve never come here and told you he was dead if I wasn’t sure. I even had FDLE compare his prints with his file after what you said about him being so different.”

She nodded and looked away.

“If you still have any doubts or think it would help, I can arrange a viewing for you.”

Without any warning, the cat leapt out of her lap and onto the floor next to me. Then, in one fluid motion, she stretched out and rolled over on her back. When she looked up at me, I took it as a signal that I was supposed to rub her, which I promptly did.

“That won’t be necessary. It was him.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Well, maybe I better. I don’t want to, but it’ll be the best way to get it out of my head.”

“I’ll set it up.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what he was testifying about?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Is there anything else you can think of?” I asked.

“Rest of the time we spent catching up on personal stuff.”

Every time my hand neared the cat’s head, she lowered her nose and nuzzled it, pressing her head hard against it. Anytime I stopped rubbing, she would tenderly drape her paws across my hand for a few moments, then nudge her head against my hand until I started caressing her again.

“What can you tell me about his case?”

“He was innocent. Set up by the sheriff of Pine County. Howard Hawkins—corrupt son of a bitch.”

Something in the way she hissed the words made me think of a cat.

“It’s why I wasn’t happy about him being in the protective unit. He was in on a sex offense. But he was set up. Hawkins’s own grand kids were the victims. I think it was somebody in the family, and Hawkins, homophobe that he is, set up Justin to take the fall because he wanted him out of Pine County. Justin was getting quite renowned—he couldn’t just run him out or kill him without attracting a lot of attention.”

“I’ve hear rumors about Pine County over the years. Why would Justin live there if it’s so—”

“My mom’s dad left him some land and a small house there. I told him to sell it and put the money toward a place somewhere else, but it was a beautiful place to paint—and he had been so happy there as a kid. It was my grandfather’s place. Been in the family a long time.”

“You really think he was innocent?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time checking things out. Even hired a PI who found out a good bit before taking off with my retainer. I know it in my heart, but I couldn’t prove it. Not in court. It’s Howard’s brother. He’s lost several jobs and now his family over it. But Howard protects him.
Protection
. I can’t believe they put Justin in there with . . .”

“With who?” I asked, expecting to hear the name Juan Martinez.

She gave me a strange look. “I hear they keep all ex-law enforcement in there.”

“Most. Yeah.”

“Mike was a deputy.”

I tried to recall an inmate named Mike in the PM unit, but was unable.

“Howard’s son,” she said. “Mike Hawkins.”

At first, I couldn’t respond. The whole reason for protective management was to keep inmates like Mike Hawkins and Justin Menge away from each other.

“You sure?”

She nodded.

We sat in silence a moment as I wondered how something like this could’ve happened.

Eventually, the cat got up and slowly sauntered out of the room and into the kitchen.

After a while, she said, “You don’t do Catholic funerals, do you?”

I shook my head. “Pope won’t let me. He’s got this whole rule about having to be Catholic. I figured Father James would do it.”

She shook her head, her jaw clenching, anger burning in her eyes. “He actually told Justin the Catholic Church would be better off if he were dead. I know it sounds crazy, but I keep thinking if Hawkins didn’t kill Justin then that evil old priest did.”