He shook his head. “No markings or symbols on the ground or trees. And not a single footprint.”
I looked past the body at the seemingly impenetrable woods beyond.
“How far to the nearest road?” I asked.
“A few miles,” he said, following my gaze. “No way he brought him through there.”
“Unless the killer didn’t bring him. They could have walked together.”
He shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, “but it’s more likely they came by boat.”
I nodded. “Why do it in such an isolated area?” I said. “He killed him in a way that is meant to be seen––to shock and horrify.”
He looked to be thinking about it, then said, “That’s what I want you to figure out.”
FDLE arrived and began to process the scene. As they took pictures and set up their equipment, Dad gathered all the local law enforcement together.
“What we’ve got here is a murder,” he said, “and that’s what we need to call it. This investigation will require far more sensitivity than most.”
As Dad spoke, I looked around the group of mostly men listening to him. Between the deputies, the search and rescue team, and the correctional officers, there were three men present who were running for sheriff. Standing next to Todd, Shane, Sandy, and Jake who had just joined us, Fred Goodwin looked bored with what Dad was saying and distracted by the FDLE techs behind him.
“I realize what this looks like,” Dad was saying, “but for now this is just a murder. Until we’re absolutely certain, I don’t want to hear anything about race or mobs or lynching. Understand?”
I looked to see the reaction of the handful of African-Americans mixed in among all the white faces. There wasn’t one—beyond drawn faces, hollow eyes, and clenched jaws.
“And one more thing,” he said. “I realize this is an election year and some of you here want my job. That’s fine. If you win and get it, I’ll shake your hand and help you in any way I can. You can count on that. But until that happens, I’m still the sheriff and I’m in charge. Understand?”
Only a few within the crowd nodded or gave any indication they were even listening.
“We’re all professional law enforcement officers first,” he said. “You clear everything through me. You bring everything to me—no matter how small it may seem. And I better not hear of anyone trying to use this or any other case for political purposes. This isn’t political. This is life. This is death. The man hanging up there in that tree is someone’s son, maybe someone’s husband or father. He deserves the best we can give him, not what we can get from him.”
Fred Goodwin began clapping slowly. “Well said, Sheriff,” he said. “Well said. Now let’s all work together to catch the son of a bitch who did this, and this time let’s share the credit for solving the case when we’re done.”
13
“Could your inmate have done this?” Rachel Mills asked.
I looked over at the body. Having processed the scene, FDLE was now lowering it and I could see it better.
“My inmate?”
“The one you let escape,” she said with a smile.
It was dark now. Large halogen lights powered by generators partially illuminated the crime scene, but next to me much of Rachel’s short frame, pale skin, straight blond hair, and light blue eyes were in shadow.
“From the little I’ve learned about him so far I’d say no.”
An aggressive FDLE agent, who was now a friend, Rachel had once investigated me because of allegations made by the wife of an inmate—allegations she was sure were true. It’s how we met. In this case, Rachel would serve as FDLE’s lead investigator and liaison to the sheriff’s department.
Having sent most of the other law enforcement agencies home, Dad had only a few deputies posted around the perimeter of the crime scene, and he, Fred Goodwin, Jake, and Robert Pridgeon stood together opposite Rachel and me on the other side of the body.
As the sheriff’s department’s lead homicide detective, Fred Goodwin would head the investigation, and as the senior game warden, Robert Pridgeon would represent the game and freshwater fish commission on the makeshift task force.
“If not him, who?” Rachel asked.
I shrugged.
“Of course, where would he get the rope?” she said.
“A camp. Houseboat. May belong to this guy.”
“So you think it’s possible?” she asked.
I nodded. “No one expected him to escape.”
“And if it’s not him?”
“Somebody with a boat,” I said.
“That’s half the population around here,” she said.
We were quiet for a moment.
Eventually she said, “Could be the brother or father of the white girl he was dating.”
She was right. It could be.
FDLE had lowered the body so that the feet were just above the ground and were now studying and photographing it. As bad as the body had looked hanging high above the ground, it looked even worse now. In addition to the bloodless cuts and gashes in the gray and bloated skin around the head and chest, everything was swollen to grotesque proportions.
“I hate to be the one to point this out,” she said, “but shouldn’t his hands be covering his genitals?”
I took a closer look at the body.
She was right. His bound hands would have covered most of his swollen genitals if they had been allowed to fall naturally. Instead, the killer had tied a length of rope around his neck to the one binding his hands so that they rested higher on his body than they normally would.
“You’re right,” I said.
“Think it’s intentional?” she asked.
I nodded.
We were quiet for another moment, each of us looking at the atrocity inflicted on this man.
“Any Klan around here?” she asked.
“Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t exactly be on their mailing list.”
She laughed.
“There may not be an organized Klan,” I said, “but there’s plenty of Klanishness.”
“Klanishness?” she said.
I nodded.
It was difficult to tell from here, but it appeared that the front of the victim’s body held the faint purplish tint of fixed lividity. The body had suffered so much trauma and was so swollen, we might not ever know for sure.
“You dating anybody?” she asked without looking at me.
I shook my head. “Not at the moment.”
“You still hung up on what’s-her-name? The lawyer’s wife?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“FDLE bitches,” she said. “Are you?”
“Trying not to be,” I said. “But so far they haven’t come out with a patch for that.”
“If you want to go out sometime,” she said, “just for fun or some amazing sex . . . let me know.”
“How amazing?” I asked.
She laughed.
As inappropriate as it was, I was grateful for the diversion. I really needed it at the moment and suspected she did too.
“You often ask guys out at crime scenes?”
“Not just guys,” she said. “And if I didn’t I’d never get laid. It’s sort of like being an actor on location.”
I nodded. “So what’re you doing Friday night?”
She looked up at me. “Really?”
“You like Cajun food?”
She nodded. “Love it.”
Dad walked over to us.
“How long will it take you to solve this thing little lady?” he said to Rachel.
“Hoping to have it wrapped up by Friday,” she said. “Got plans Friday night.”
He looked at me. “Can you believe this?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want this to be my last case,” he said.
“It won’t be,” Rachel said. “We’ll clear this in no time and give you all the credit. You’ll win by a landslide.”
“You sure?” he
asked.
“Positive,” she said, “and I’m never wrong.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Aren’t you the one who thought John was guilty of assaulting and raping that inmate’s wife?”
14
“You think it was racially motivated?” Anna asked.
I shrugged. “Hard not to.”
She nodded.
“Can’t imagine he’d’ve been hanging from a tree if he were white,” I added.
Off for the past few days, Anna had stopped by the chapel on her first day back to find me in the sanctuary unsuccessfully attempting to meditate.
The sanctuary was dim, its only illumination the morning sunlight streaming in the exterior door on the side and the few candles I had lit on the altar.
Finding it far easier to deal with my feelings for her when I didn’t see her, Anna and I hadn’t spent nearly as much time together lately as we had in the past. I hadn’t avoided her exactly, but I hadn’t sought her out like I normally did either.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s probably set race relations back fifty years around here.”
“And they were already at least that far back to begin with,” I said.
“What did Merrill say?” she asked.
“It bothered him more than anything I’ve seen in a long time—just the idea of it. He didn’t even go to the scene. Didn’t even see it and––”
“And now everybody has,” she said.
Several area papers had run a color photo from the crime scene on the front page above the fold that showed in detail the horror of what had happened.
“It would’ve been bad enough if everyone just heard about it,” she said, “but to actually see a picture . . .”
I nodded.
“How’d they get it?” she asked.
“My guess?” I said. “Someone running against Dad.”
She shook her head.
It could have just been the flicker of the candlelight or the dimness of the room, but Anna looked pale, her eyes hollow, large dark circles beneath them.
“Do you think things will ever get better?” she asked.
I nodded. “Our generation is far less racist than our parents’. From what I’ve seen of Carla and her friends, their’s is better than ours. But there’s still so much beneath the surface. We’ve got a hell of a long way to go. And there will always be ignorant, hateful holdouts.”
She shook her head. “Some people are so militant about it. I wonder if it’ll ever get better.”
“The militant racists are like religious fundamentalists,” I said. “They’re reacting to the change they see. It scares them. We’ll always have them, but they’re in the minority—which is why they’re so desperate.”
“What’s going on?” she asked. “You’re usually not this optimistic.”
I smiled.
I always felt more optimistic when I was with Anna, as if the world that was meant to be was still possible.
“I’m not sure what it is,” I said, “but I feel suddenly inspired.”
“Must be your morning prayers.”
I looked at her and smiled again, our eyes locking for a long moment.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
Tears formed in her eyes and she attempted to blink them back. When they crested, she wiped at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips.
“What is it?” I asked.
She started to say something, but stopped.
“Are you okay?”
She stood. “I’ve got to go.”
“Anna.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m just being silly. Really. I’ll talk to you later.”
I stood and moved toward her. When I reached out for her, she shook her head and backed away.
“I’m okay,” she said, her voice stronger, her tears and sniffles stopping suddenly.
The back doors of the chapel opened and I turned to see the warden walk in with who could only be my new staff chaplain.
He had the permed hair, pinched look that said Pentecostal preacher. At least twenty years my senior, he had large, ovalish glasses, a lot of loose skin, a couple of extra chins, and a gut that tumbled down over his belt.
Walking out quickly, Anna passed them halfway down the center aisle.
“Mrs. Rodden,” the warden said, emphasizing the fact that she was married, though Rodden wasn’t her married name.
“Ms.,” she said, nodding toward them, but not slowing down.
When the two men reached me, the warden said, “Every time I come in here there’s a woman leaving.”
“All both times,” I said.
“John Jordan,” he said, ignoring me, “this is Chaplain Daniel Singer, the best chaplain I’ve ever had the privilege of working with.”
I extended my hand and Singer’s shot out to meet it aggressively. Though his grip was tight, his pumps violent, his hands were soft and clammy, which sabotaged the statement he was trying to make.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Welcome.”
“Praise God, brother, it’s good to here,” he said.
“I know you two have a lot to talk about,” the warden said, “but I need to see Chaplain Jordan for a moment. Dan, why don’t you take a look around the chapel?”
“Sounds good,” Singer said, and moved off in the direction of the kitchen in the back.
Before he was out of earshot, the warden said, “Just what the hell’re you doing?”
I immediately straightened and stiffened, my entire being growing wary and defensive.
“You know how it looks for you to be in here with a married woman with all the lights off?”
“All depends on who’s looking,” I said.
He started to say something, but stopped, pursed his lips tightly, frowned, and shook his head. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is I keep hearing you’re still playing detective even though I told you not to do anything but be the best damn chaplain you can be.”
I didn’t say anything.
This seemed to make him even more angry.
“Consider this your final warning,” he said. “If I find out that you’re continuing to investigate instead of preach, you’ll be able to be a full-time investigator somewhere else.”
Hovering near the back of the sanctuary, Singer seemed to sense that it was time for him to rejoin us. When he did, the warden patted him on the back and said, “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you here.” Turning to me, he said, “Chaplain, there’s a lot you can learn from this man. I hope you’ll take advantage of this opportunity.”
Looking down in what seemed to me to be false humility, Singer said, “Well, I’m just a humble servant of the Lord, but I am still on fire just as much after all these years. I’ve got a burden for souls, brother. A burden for souls. We might not keep these men out of prison, but by God we’ve got to keep them out of hell.”
Speaking of hell. I had just been dropped into it.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. This was even worse than I had imagined it could be.
I shook my head, laughed to myself, and said, “Should I go ahead and start cleaning out my desk?”
15
As usual, the kitchen of PCI was hot and humid, its damp air thick with the unappetizing smells of processed food, old grease, sweat, sour body odor, and commercial insecticide. Perhaps because of its association with food, I found it to be the most unpleasant place on the compound. It wasn’t a place I frequented often, and I never stayed any longer than I absolutely had to.
I had come on this hot August afternoon to see an inmate known as Dil. Most inmates had nicknames. Few fit as well as this one. Named for the character Jaye Davidson played in The Crying Game, Dil was easily the prettiest, most feminine man I had ever seen.
Dil had many admirers and lovers on the compound, and I was sure one of them worked in the barber shop. Dil did not have a typical inmate buzz cut botch job. Longer than regulation,
which meant her admirers weren’t limited to inmates, her curly hair was cut stylishly, even lovingly, and accentuated her beauty.
I found her bent over a large pan of cinnamon rolls on an enormous industrial stainless steel table. A tub of thin white icing in one hand, a dull rubber butter knife in the other, she was busy slathering each roll with an abundance of the sugary paste.
When she saw me, her seductive, slightly sad eyes widened and she smiled.
“Hey, Chaplain,” she said in her most flirty voice. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been keepin’ your fine self?”
“How are you Dil?”
“Be better if you give me a job in the chapel,” she said.
“From what I hear they can’t do without you down here.”
“Same would soon be true if I worked up there, honey. And I guarantee your church attendance would go up.”
I laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”
She was leaning over in such a way that her small backside was sticking out, and she wiggled it often as she shifted her weight from side to side.
“The lady shrink said you might stop by,” she said. “I told her you could come by and see me anytime.”
DeLisa Lopez had called me earlier in the afternoon and told me that Dil had information about the rapist and was willing to talk.
“I appreciate that,” I said.
Beneath her wavy black hair, Dil’s mocha skin was smooth and flawless. Her long lashes were coated with small amounts of mascara, her lids with a light dusting of purplish eyeshadow. Though contraband required to be confiscated if found, she always managed to have makeup. It was rumored to belong to the wife of an officer she was giving blow jobs to.
“Whatta you wanna know?” she asked, putting down the bowl of icing and tossing the knife into it.
“Do we have an active serial rapist at work around here?”
She nodded. “A real rough boy. Prolific prick too. Lots of men around here carry his mark.”
“His mark?”
She tilted her head back and put her small balled-up fist at the top of her neck below her left ear. “He holds a shank to their neck while he does it. Always cuts ’em a little bit, but if they squirm or squeal he cuts ’em bad. The pound’s full of punks he’s done turned out.”
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