Flesh and Blood (20 page)

“Oh, God. Oh, no. What’re you gonna do to me? Please don’t hurt me,” I said frantically, attempting to sound hysterical as I continued edging slowly toward him.

“Settle down. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. We’re just gonna set here about twenty minutes and it’ll all be over. Then I’m gonna leave. And you’re gonna forget I’s ever here.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve forgotten already. You’re right, I do need to pray.”

When I was within reaching distance of him, I said, “In the name of the Father,” beginning to cross myself, up then down. “The Son.” And then to the left, “And the Holy …” Coming from left to right at the same time I said, “Spirit,” I snapped out a hard left jab that connected with his chin. His head jerked back, striking the door, then bounced back. When it did, I hit him again—this time with a hard straight right that hurt my hand. His head repeated the previous motion and he dropped the shank, which hit the thin carpet with a muffled thud a moment before he did.

In less than a minute, I was rushing out of the chapel with Todd Robbins draped over my shoulder, his shank in my pocket. I paused only long enough to lock the door and glance at my watch. It was 2:45 P.M.—nearly time for shift change, evidenced by the correctional officers entering and exiting the institution, many of whom gave me quizzical glances as I rushed passed them carrying Robbins on my way to the rec yard.

“Chaplain, what is it?” a new officer named Dale Johnson asked. “Can I help?”

“Yeah,” I said as I handed him Robbins. “Would you please take him to medical? Tell them I’ll be back in a few minutes to fill out a report. Tell them to watch him. He’s dangerous.”

“Sure, okay,” he said. His face was a small round puzzle and his back bent under the weight of Robbins. “He’s heavier than you made him look.”

Walking as fast as I could, it would take me at least five minutes to reach the rec yard. I picked up my pace, and was soon approaching the center gate.

Every gate in a prison is actually two gates with a holding area in between called a sally port. The gates are controlled electronically by an officer in a tower or control room.

The moment I was buzzed through the two center gates, I sensed it. It permeated the air like a foul odor. The smell was the unmistakable aroma of death, and the vultures had begun to swarm. Energy was in the air. Excitement. And the taste for blood.

The gate leading to the rec yard and the adjacent fence was lined with inmates, all trying to get a glimpse of the body on the softball field. It took a minute for the officers in tower three to see me and buzz me through, and when they finally did, the inmates standing next to it tried to press through. I discouraged them, and ran through quickly before they figured out that I couldn’t stop them if they insisted.

The rec yard was nearly empty, which on a beautiful, sunny day like today meant that the inmates had known there was going to be trouble. I ran over to the softball field, jumping the fence rather than running around to the gate. Inside the fence, on the grassy part of the outfield just beyond the shortstop position, were ten inmates and two officers, which didn’t seem fair to the officers, but one of them was Merrill Monroe—still the biggest, blackest man around— which didn’t seem fair to the inmates. The other officer was a woman named Chappel who worked with George Reed, the recreational supervisor. She was as pale as if her body had been drained of its blood, her eyes were glazed over and unfocussed, and her brown correctional officer uniform trembled on her small shaking frame. Still, she looked better than the bloody body lying at her feet.

The ten inmates were on their knees in a straight line facing away from the body, their hands clasped behind their heads. I recognized most of them. They were all members of the white supremacy gang, Rebel Nation, the very same gang to which Todd Robbins belonged. I had never known them to be violent—ignorance was their specialty.

Only Merrill could get ten racist inmates to kneel in submission without a weapon. The surprisingly compliant inmates were not only all white, but were also all lifers. My guess was they weren’t putting up a fight because they couldn’t possibly escape, they had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. They had only one life to give.

When my eyes met with Merrill’s, he nodded toward the body. “Welcome back,” he said with a smile. “How was chaplain training?”

I moved in for a closer look.

“They didn’t cover this,” I said.

He laughed.

“Where is everybody?” I asked. “I can’t believe there aren’t a hundred officers down here already.”

“Will be any minute,” he said. “Called you first.”

The body, for that’s all it was anymore, had been badly beaten, presumably with a baseball bat, and the blue inmate uniform covering it glistened wetly in the afternoon sun. The face was unrecognizable. The blood-covered bat still lay just a few feet away from the body, next to it a pair of the black brogan boots the inmates wore.

“Why are his shoes off?” I asked.

“They beat ’em off ?” Merrill said with a shrug. “Or maybe he got hit by lightning. I hear that happen sometime when people get struck.” His face remained expressionless, but there was sarcasm in his voice.

As I looked up at him, I was again reminded of how palpable his physical presence was. His upper body was a perfect V, broad shoulders tapering down into narrow hips, the light brown shirt of his uniform stretching tightly over the muscles in his shoulders, chest, and arms, especially the large round biceps which appeared perpetually flexed.

“Hell,” he said with another elaborate shrug, “I don’t know. You the fuckin’ Father Brown around here.”

Returning my attention to the body, I said, “Something’s not right.”

“You mean ’sides the fact he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“He
is
dead, ain’t he?”

“I’m pretty sure,” I said, then glancing over at the Rebels, added, “Whatta they say?”

“They say he dead, too.”

Looking back up at Merrill, I gave him an expression that let him know I was ready for a real answer.

“Say they just found him like this, but they the only ones on the rec yard. Ain’t that a coincidence?”

Returning my gaze to the inmates again, I asked, “So how’d they get that blood on their uniforms?”

“Say they tried CPR and shit to save his life. Say they loved him, he was one of their homies and that they wouldn’t hurt him for anything.”

“Who is he?”

“What’d you say this con’s name is?” Merrill asked the leader of the gang.

“Billy Ray Dickens.”

“Oh, no.” I said, beginning to shake my head.

“You know him?” Merrill asked.

“I know all of them,” I said. “They don’t miss Tuesday night Bible study, and … .”

“That’s right,” the leader said. “Chaplain’s all right, he helps us out when we need it. Like ole Billy Ray, here.” He nodded his head back toward the body of Billy Ray.

Merrill cut his eyes over toward me. “So what’d you do for ole Billy Ray, here?” he asked as he nodded down toward the bloody mass of flesh at his feet.

Standing again, I said, “His nine-year-old daughter was raped this past weekend by the man living with his ex-wife. They called me in Saturday night to try to help him deal with it.”

“You did a good job, too, Chap.” the inmate said again. “You straight up in our book.”

“You sure about that?” Merrill asked. “You know he’s part black, don’t you?”

I glanced over at Chappel, who seemed oblivious to everything that was going on. She stared vacantly in the direction of the body. I walked over and patted her on the back, then led her a few steps away and sat her down on the ground facing away from the body.

“WHAT?” the inmate yelled. “He’s as white as I am.”

“He look white, but he way too cool not to have
some
black blood flowing through his narrow white ass,” Merrill said.

“Right on, bro,” I said in my best uptight white guy voice. Looking over at the inmates, I added, “Of course we’ve all got African blood flowing through our veins.”

Merrill smiled broadly, pure pleasure registering on his face.

“WHAT?” the inmate yelled again. “How the hell you figure that?”

I motioned for Merrill to field his question.

“Two ways,” Merrill said, ticking the points off on his massive fingers. “Your racist great granddaddys fucked their little slave girls and they became your great grandmothers. But more to the point, you dumb son of a bitch, human life originated in Africa.”

The inmates began their protestations, but stopped as they heard the gate buzz open.

“Here comes the cavalry,” Merrill said.

I turned to see thirty light brown shirts pouring through the first gate and into the rec yard sally port. The moment they were all inside, the first gate would be closed, the gate on this side would open, and they would be here.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Merrill said. “Whatta you think? Which one of them did it? Or did they all do it?”

“I really don’t understand,” I said kneeling down beside the body again. “They really
were
close. I can’t see any of them killing one of their own.”

“Unless he did somethin’ they didn’t like,” Merrill said. “Maybe this how they let you out the gang.”

I only vaguely heard him as I concentrated on the body before me. Cigarette papers and a small bag of tobacco protruded from his shirt pocket, above which was the patch that bore his name: Billy Ray Dickens DC# E13334. I had to look closely to see because it was covered with blood.

Starting to get up again, I noticed his hair.

In life, Billy Ray had light brown hair, roughly the color of my own. In death, his hair was nearly black. This was, of course, due to all the blood that covered it. However, when I started to stand, I saw a small piece of hair at the base of his neck that was dark brown— nearly black even, and it lacked the glossy, wet look of the other blood-soaked hair. I lifted his head slightly and pushed back the matted hair to find the strands that had caught my eye. They were dark brown, and they were dry. I moved in closer to smell his hair. It smelled of the artificial fruit flavor found in cheap shampoo.

My mind started racing as I sat up and began examining his hands. They were clean—nails trimmed, fingertips white. I smelled his hands and then his uniform. It was all starting to add up.

“What the hell you doin’?” Merrill asked.

“Here, smell this,” I said pointing to the least bloody spot on the inmate’s blue uniform.

Reluctantly, he smelled it. “Smell like that cheap ass shit they smoke to me.”

“Now this,” I said as I held the inmate’s hand up.

He shook his head as he stood up. “I don’t smell nothin’. And I ain’t smellin’ nothin’ else, so don’t ask.”

Beginning to feel the uniform, I was pulling and tugging at it when the officers arrived. They immediately began to handcuff the inmates, each of them straining to see the victim as they did.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Lieutenant Walker, the highest ranking officer on the scene, said.

“He’s giving him Last Rites,” Merrill said. “He’s looking for the con’s rosary.”

I smiled. I didn’t know Merrill knew what a rosary was.

“It must be in his shoe,” I said as I crawled down to his feet. I grabbed one of the shoes, comparing it to his foot size. It was as least three sizes too small. I stood, looked over at Merrill, and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What about Last Rites?” the Lieutenant asked.

“No rosary,” I said. “I was wrong. He’s must not be Catholic after all.”

When I stood and began to walk away, Merrill joined me without asking why we were leaving or where we were going.

“
That’s
all we were waiting for?” the lieutenant asked. “Where the hell are you two going?”

“I’m going to be sick,” I lied. Alcohol and law enforcement weren’t all I was in recovery from. “I’m going to the infirmary and I don’t know if I can make it.”

“I’ll help him down there,” Merrill said. “Then I’ll be right back. She can tell you everything,” he added, pointing to Officer Chappel who had yet to utter a syllable.

When we had been buzzed through both gates and were back on the compound, Merrill asked, “So which one of them killed Billy Ray?”

“None of them,” I said. I looked around as we moved through the empty compound. All inmates had been sent back to their dorms and the yard had been closed due to the incident on the softball field.

“What?”

“Billy Ray’s not dead.”

“That white boy’s way past dead.”

“Sure,” I said. “But that’s not Billy Ray.”

“Who then?” Merrill asked.

“My guess is George Reed,” I said, glancing down at my watch to see that it was 2:55. “And we have five minutes to stop Billy Ray from escaping.”