Power in the Blood (4 page)

When they had finished shaking hands, Stone sat down again, pulling his pants legs up slightly and crossing his legs—the way sophisticated men in expensive suits do. He then steepled his hands together in front of his face as if praying, the tips of his fingers at his lips. Daniels just sort of collapsed into his chair.

Tom Daniels had the look of an alcoholic; I knew, being an alumnus myself. His face was red and swollen; his step was hesitant, matching his slow-moving gray eyes. He was, however, a socially acceptable drunk. He never missed work; in fact, he was an overachiever. Yet he was often late, and, though he worked hard, he didn’t produce the results he once had. Most people attributed that to age, but I knew better. Also, he made a great salary, lived modestly, and yet had financial problems. His nose was pink and puffy, offering contrast to its blue broken veins. He dressed in gray slacks, which matched his hair and eyes; white shirt, which matched his pale skin; and a red tie, which matched his bloodshot eyes. No doubt his enabler, in this case his wife, made sure his clothes were cleaned and pressed to aid in the deception. All that effort, and still so obvious.

The effect of alcoholism on Tom Daniels was severe; however, its effect on his family could scarcely be overexaggerated—not because they were beaten or abused, but because they were neglected. Not only did his children have no father who was emotionally available for them, but their inheritance was turmoil and pain. This caused his son to begin drinking at the ripe old age of fourteen. Nine treatment centers and ninety-four thousand dollars later, he was still a religiously devoted addict. His daughter, though a teetotaler, lacked confidence and any idea how to relate to men in general and a husband in particular. She attracted, and was only attracted to, alcoholics. I knew. I had been married to her.

“I believe you know our chaplain, John Jordan,” Stone said.

“Yes,” Daniels said without so much as a glance in my direction.

“As I am sure you are already aware, he will be the official from this institution who will be assisting you in this investigation. He grew up here and knows many of the employees of the institution,” Stone continued.

Actually, I had been away for so long that I didn’t know many of the people anymore, but the point was moot.

“I have been told that I don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said irritably.

“So has he,” Stone said nodding toward me.

Daniels cut his eyes in my direction. They were cold, dull steel. He smirked. “What about the inspector of this institution?” he asked. “He’s all the help I need at this time.”

“He’ll be working with you as well, but you are to limit his knowledge of the investigation and its revelations.”

“You better have a damn good reason for that,” Daniels shot back at Stone.

“I do.”

When he didn’t explain, Daniels said, “And what’s that?”

“A good reason.”

“No. I mean what is your good reason?”

Stone smiled. That was all Daniels was going to get.

“I understand what you’re saying, Ed,” Daniels said patronizingly, trying to be patient with the dumb colored, “but if you’re keeping something from me or if I want to change our little agreement for any reason, I will. You know I have the authority. Now, why don’t you brief your little chaplain, here and let’s begin.”

“You have copies of all the files and reports that I have. You know as much about it as I do. So, I’m going to let you brief Chaplain Jordan. At the end of the day, report back to me. Both of you.”

With that, Edward Stone stood to leave me alone with Tom Daniels, which resembled an old nightmare of mine. I stood as the superintendent left. His steps were slow, deliberate, dignified; however, an unmistakable rhythmic step was present as well. Edward Stone, God bless him, was a large chunk that refused to melt in the American pot. The inspector remained seated.

I sat back down, every muscle in my body tightening again. I felt like a guitar string being wound too tightly, ready to snap at any moment.

“Before we even begin this little exercise in futility,” he began, “I want to get a few things straight.”

I merely nodded, trying not to break and run. It wasn’t that I was scared of him, although I wondered what he was capable of doing to me when I wasn’t looking, but it was the enormous guilt I felt about his daughter. I could almost taste the bile that burned in his throat for all the things he wanted to say to me.

“One,” he said, raising his fingers to count his items off as he came to them, “I don’t like you. Two, I’ve never seen a more hypocritical sight in all my life than you in a clerical collar, except for the fact that it makes you look like the little candy-ass faggot you really are.”

Amazingly enough, I began to relax. The anticipation proved far worse than the actual confrontation, and, like a child who had disobeyed Dad, I found punishment brought with it release.

“Three,” he continued, “this is my investigation, and you better stay the hell out of my way. Four, I’ll be watching you—hoping, even praying, that you screw up. Five, when you do, and I know you will, I will personally bury your ass.”

“Six,” he hesitated. He looked desperate to find a sixth point. “Six,” he said again, “don’t forget one through five.”

He stood up and walked out. As he reached my door, he began to whistle. I recognized the tune. It was “Amazing Grace,” the song he knew to be my favorite hymn. He had threatened me in my own office, and now he taunted me with a song that was sacred to me. I’m not often right, but when I am, I usually am in a big way. I had been right in a big way: this was not going to go well.

In an institution like PCI, there are all kinds of inmates. There are those who received a DUI and resisted arrest, those who sexually abused children, those who committed murder, rape, or theft—the last usually in the pursuit of drugs. There are inmates who are very dangerous and others who are themselves in danger in open population. Putting all these various individuals in one institution is a very precarious endeavor. Some of them are violent; some are not. Some of them are escape risks; some you couldn’t make leave. Others need close medical or psychological supervision. And, all inmates must be assigned a job that they are qualified to do, even if it’s picking up trash.

The department that is responsible for giving inmates a security evaluation and a job assignment, as well as determining whether or not they are a risk or are themselves at risk in open population, is the classification department. Since Inspector Daniels made it clear that he did not want me working with him, and because the feeling was mutual, I decided to conduct a little inquiry of my own, beginning with a classification officer named Anna Rodden.

Anna Rodden, God bless her, was Potter County’s only true feminist. She was intelligent, strong, spiritual, and beautiful. The last she tried to conceal behind the first, saying, “I do not wish to be judged by the shape of my ass, but on my true assets.”

I once asked, “And once you’ve been judged on your true assets?”

“Then one may, if one is so inclined, evaluate the shape of my ass, which I must admit, is truly an asset” was her reply.

Anna, who in many ways was like my sister, was in fact my sister Nancy’s best friend all through school. She had always been successful at nearly everything she did, with the exception of hiding her beauty. In fact, her attempt at repression made the subtle fire of her sensuality smolder. Her sexuality, buried just beneath the surface, threatened to make men lose their religions and, in the process, find new ones. Judging by her husband’s expression of eternal bliss, it was not an idle threat.

“Anna,” I said after tapping on her door.

She was seated behind her desk wearing a sleeveless white silk blouse, a fire-engine red skirt, with the matching jacket draped over the back of her chair. Her long brown hair was gathered in a single long ponytail at the nape of her neck held by a red-and-white bow. The white of her shirt made her olive skin look even darker. She was dark in other ways too. She was, like most women, dark and mysterious, only more so. As she looked up from her work, I was again amazed at the depth of her seemingly bottomless brown eyes.

“John,” she said, sounding happy to see me. I loved the way she said my name. “Come in. How are you? I heard what happened yesterday.”

“I’m okay, really. How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’ve certainly had better days. Escape attempts produce a shipload of problems and paperwork, but when the inmate gets killed in the process, it produces an oceanload.”

“Was he one of yours?” I asked.

“Unfortunately,” she said with a quick shake of her head and roll of her eyes. “Which means everyone from central office on down wants to know why I didn’t know he was an escape risk. Like I’d be willing to read his sick little mind if I could, which I obviously can’t, because I thought he was an institutional man.”

“I don’t see how you do it all,” I said. And then added, “And so well.”

“Don’t do that,” she said shaking her head but smiling at me.

“What?” I asked, shrugging as if unaware I had done anything.

“Don’t give me compliments or understanding. I can’t afford to be distracted.”

“Whatever you say, but a little understanding never hurt anyone.”

“Thanks,” she said and then put her pen down and stared at me.

“What is it?” I asked, resisting the urge to wipe my face.

“I’m just so proud of you. . . . Serving her the way you do agrees with you.” As long as I had known Anna, she had only referred to God in the feminine form. “You’re really doing what you were created to do now.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“
Thank you
,” she said emphatically. “You are a much-needed breath of fresh air around this place. And, I suspect, everywhere you go. You know,” she said in a playful manner with a smile on her soft face, “if I weren’t married . . .”

“If you weren’t married . . .” I said and let it hang there like a dream.

“Are you dating yet? Found anyone special in Potter County?” she asked.

“Yes, to the second question, but she’s married. As to the dating, I’m not quite ready yet, but almost.”

“Don’t rush it. That’s the worst thing you could do. Take care of you for now, and worry about a
her
later.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve rushed it. If anything, I’ve been dragging my heels.”

“No, I guess you haven’t. Still, you can never be too careful these days. Especially considering what you’ve been through. Probably best to let me pick someone out for you.”

“Could you please? If she won your approval, she would most certainly have mine.”

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open.”

How could such an extraordinary woman work in a prison in a one-horse county? Living in Pottersville, for Anna, had to do with a promise she made to her grandmother just before she died. Working in prison is the result of a promise she made to herself when her younger sister was murdered. Besides, it was temporary. She was in the final stages of finishing her law degree from Florida State University. I had every suspicion that she was going to be the toughest prosecutor that our state would ever see. She was as strong and as tough as she was beautiful. And, though she acted like she needed her husband or me in her life, the truth was she did that for our benefit. I was grateful nonetheless.

“Listen, I’ve got this little problem I need some help with,” I said.

“Name it,” she said, sounding excited at the prospect of helping me.

“Mr. Stone has asked me to look into what happened yesterday. Unofficially, of course.”

Before I had finished my sentence, she was shaking her head rapidly. “No, I won’t help you. You are already doing what you were meant to do. You are called to be a minister, not Father Brown, Bishop Blackie, or Brother Cadfael,” she said, using my favorite fictional ecclesiastical sleuths against me.

“But . . .”

“But, nothing,” she snapped. Her eyes had narrowed and seemed to glow. “Surely you haven’t forgotten what Atlanta was like. Is your sobriety—your serenity—not worth whatever it takes?”

“It is, but I think I’m ready. Besides, this is nothing. Just a simple inquiry, that’s all.” I said it with so much conviction I almost convinced myself.

“I will not help you with something that will really wind up hurting you.”

“I was told not to tell anyone about this. I decided that I had to tell the two people here that I would trust with my own life.”

“Well, if Merrill is the man I think he is, he won’t help you either.”

“What do you suggest I do?” I asked.

“You’re going to tell Stone you can’t do it,” she said without hesitation.

“I can’t do that.”

She was telling me that not only could I do it, but that I must do it, or she would, … when there was a knock at her door. It was Tom Daniels.

“Yes,” she said as he stuck his head in the door.

“Hello. My name is Inspector Daniels.”

“Really? Your mother named you Inspector? How awful,” she said as she sat up in her chair. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. This was going to be good.

“No ma’am. My first name is Tom. I am the chief inspector of DOC. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she said and winked at me. “I’ve heard all about you. What can I do for you?”

Daniels jerked his head toward me like someone suddenly getting a whiff of a foul odor. “It’s a private matter. Can I talk to you alone?”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t. You see, the chaplain and I are having an affair, and since he’s my secret lover, I keep no secrets from him. So, he stays.”

My mouth dropped open—for two reasons really. First, I couldn’t believe that she would say that we were having an affair, just in case he might possibly think she was serious. Secondly, and more importantly, I knew that as the chief inspector he could give her a world of trouble if he wanted to. She was more than just a little confident. And that was more than just a little appealing.

“Whatever,” he said as he came in and took the seat beside me, careful not to look at me. “I’m looking into the death of inmate Ike Johnson. Is he yours?”