Decided he’d pimp her out to those horny old bastards.”
Maybe someone really did bring her to embarrass or even blackmail one or more of the men running for office. Maybe Dad wasn’t paranoid, just political.
“Still can’t believe she was killed,” she said. “I mean, fuck. Am I in danger?”
I fell asleep beside Anna later that night thinking about the blonde––wondering who she was, why she was there, why she was killed, why her body was staged next to the prison fence, and why her body would then be stolen on its way to the morgue.
If she never entered the farmhouse what did that change? The suspects? Those with means and opportunity?
I woke up a little while later, mind racing.
Placing my hand on Anna’s bare thigh, I laid there in the dark, listening to her breathing, observing the thoughts ricocheting around inside me.
Two murders.
One premeditated. The other impromptu. Is that right?
Two murderers.
One patient. The other impulsive.
One plots and plans, watches and waits. The other snaps, acts, reacts, lashes out, explodes.
Is one killer mature and the other juvenile? Or does it have more to do with the means, motive, and opportunity than the makeup of the man?
Any of this true? Does it fit the facts, the actions of the killers, the circumstances of the cases? If so, what does it say about them?
Who are these figures I can’t quite make out?
What did they unwittingly reveal about themselves? What signature did they leave? What clues?
What do they want? Why did they do it? Greed?
Lust? Envy? Psychopathology? Fear of being found out? For what?
Will either of them do it again? What’s the key to catching them?
What do their victims reveal about them? I know so little about the ones and next to nothing about the other.
Need more info.
Do you? What if you don’t? What if you already know everything you need to?
Do I?
I awoke the next morning with no insights or answers.
Over breakfast Anna said, “Stealing the body hides her identity and effectively makes it impossible to catch the killer.”
I nodded. “I don’t disagree, but why not just do that from the beginning? Take the body and hide it or dispose of it right after you commit the murder––like many murderers do? Why take the time to load it up, take it to the prison, lean it against the fence, risk being seen or caught, just to steal it a few hours later?”
30
Somebody killing Suicide Kings or just trying to off Phillips?” Merrill asked.
“Not sure. Danny was in Lance’s bunk,” I said. “So . . .”
“Why?”
“Liked the mattress better. It’s thicker or something.
Felt safer in the top bunk.” Merrill shook his head.
It was the next morning. We were standing near the internal gate. Inmates were going to and from breakfast at the chow hall. Most of them were quiet in the coolness of the early morning, moving sleepily through a routine as rote as dressing, but some were already mouthy—miserable and anxious to spread it around.
“Some these bitches wake up lookin’ for a fight,”
Merrill said.
“Not something they can sleep off,” I said.
We were quiet a moment, continuing to watch the long lines of wasting potential. Whatever their lives had been before, whatever they would be again, at the moment, they were on pause, prison a parenthetical in their existence like a drunk’s weekend blackout—except when they woke up from this they’d remember every brutal detail.
“You get the Confinement log from the night of the attempt on Lance?” I asked.
He tossed two sheets of paper toward me and they drifted down into my hand. The top one was a copy of all staff members and officers who visited Confinement that night.
I pulled a pen out of my coat pocket and circled the names of those who’d also made an appearance in A-dorm the night Jacobs was killed.
“Usual suspects?” he said.
“Those in Confinement when the attempt was made on Lance and in A-dorm when Danny was killed are Jamie Lee, Bailey Baldwin, Dr. Juan Alvarez, Donnie Foster, Mark Lawson, and . . .”
“And?”
“Hahn Ling.”
He smiled. “You know how to pick ’em.”
“Pick ’em? We had a few dates—and that’s been a while. And only because the one I really picked wasn’t available yet.”
“Is now, ain’t she?” I smiled.
“How’s it going with you two?”
“Before we got together I had an unrealistic expectation of what it would be like, a fantasy, a dream of perfection.”
He nodded.
“It’s a billion times better than that,” I added.
He smiled. “Happy for you. Y’all both deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
“What about inmates who were at both?” I looked at the second sheet.
When my eyes grew wide, he said, “What?”
“Danny was in Confinement the night the attempt was made on Lance.”
“Doing what?”
“Passing out food trays,” I said.
“No way he got in his cell, but . . . be a hell of a coincidence if it just a coincidence.”
I nodded without looking up from the logs. “Brent Allen was also there,” I said. “Motherfucker can’t kill his own rat ass, but he can kill his friends?”
The captain on duty standing near the food service building called one of the inmates out of the chow line and began to yell at him about needing to shave. The inmate claimed to have a shaving pass, but couldn’t produce it. The captain sent him back to the dorm without any breakfast.
“Allen was actually in Confinement,” I said. “Got out the next day.”
“The plot thickens.”
“It gets even thicker. He was in the cell next to Lance.”
“And he didn’t mention it to you?”
I shook my head. “Lot of that going on.”
He smiled. “’Course, bein’ in the next confinement cell like being in the next state. Not like he could do anything.”
“Not without help.”
“You think maybe the cell defective?”
“Worth checking out,” I said. “Thanks.”
Lance Phillips waved at us as he passed by in the line of inmates heading for the chow hall. I waved back. Merrill did not.
Merrill cleared his throat as a slight flicker appeared in his eyes, and I slid the copies of the logs into the pocket of my coat. When I turned around, I saw Mark Lawson approaching us.
“Chaplain,” he said as he walked up. “Lot of people ’round here say what a good man you are, but I keep on hearing you’re asking questions about my investigation.
I don’t wanna get off on the wrong foot, but seems like that’s what’s happenin’.”
“I’ve been asking a few questions,” I said, “but not about the way you’re investigating.”
Lawson’s white short-sleeve shirt, clip-on tie, and gray cotton pants were wrinkled, a size too small, and his pea-green prison tattoos glowed in the morning sun.
“I don’t mean about me as an investigator,” he said, stepping forward, putting his face a little too close to mine. “I mean you been conducting your own investigation.”
I nodded.
“Well, don’t. This is my first big investigation here and I don’t want the integrity of it compromised.”
“I won’t get in your investigation,” I said. “And I won’t get in your way, but I will continue to ask questions. And if I come across anything that might be helpful, I’ll pass it along.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve already talked to the warden. If I have to, I’ll go to the regional director.”
He then turned and walked away.
I saw Lance Phillips come out of the chow hall and start to
approach us, but when he saw Lawson standing nearby, he turned and went back in.
“Nobody want you workin’ this thing, do they?” Merrill said. “Almost as if they’s somethin’ at stake and they have somethin’ to hide or protect. Speakin’ of . . . seen the Hispanic cowboy again?” Merrill asked.
I shook my head.
“Hope I’m around the next time he ride into town.”
“Dad’s running his prints,” I said. “Maybe we’ll ride into his.”
“Even better.”
31
After leaving Merrill, I walked over to Confinement and asked to inspect the cells Phillips and Allen occupied the night of Lance’s supposed suicide attempt.
I was told by the nervous young officer that he didn’t have the authority for anything like that.
There were inmates in both cells, and it would’ve been a hassle to cuff them, pull them, and place them in other cells while I had my little look around—which, I suspected, was the real reason he wasn’t willing.
“Why not get the warden, colonel, or inspector to do it?” he asked. “Seems more like their job anyway. But, truth is, I can save you the trouble. We done inspections of both cells and there ain’t a thing in the world wrong with either of ’em.”
Back in my office, I made a few calls about the life insurance policies taken out by the Suicide Kings. Each was designed to pay in cases of suicide after two years, but they had all long since lapsed for nonpayment. Because Ralph Meeks’s death had been ruled a suicide and because it was less than two years since the policy had been taken out, the company, Florida Farm Mutual, had refused to pay, instead refunding the price of the premiums.
Lapsed policies meant no money motive. And would make it far, far more challenging to find out what was going on and why.
Next, I checked their general financial situations.
In addition to having been each other’s life insurance beneficiaries, the Kings were also in each other’s wills, but as all of them were destitute, that too provided no motive or insight.
Next, I attempted to obtain information about Ralph Meeks’s death, but after several calls found nothing helpful. Everyone involved treated it like a suicide, so even if there had been evidence to the contrary, it had gone unnoticed, unrecognized, unrecorded.
According to those involved, there was nothing suspicious, no signs of foul play, and no playing cards on his person or in his property.
Every investigation had dead-ends, and you never knew what they would be until you reached them. Over the years, I had followed far more than my fair share of them, so I was used to them, part of the process, but that didn’t make them any less frustrating.
I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders, and was about to call Dad when my phone rang.
It was Dad.
“I was just about to call you,” I said. “How are you?”
“Okay. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.”
We were quiet for a moment.
“I was calling to thank you,” he said. “For?”
“All that you do for your mom.”
I instantly felt guilty for how little I had done recently.
“I went by to see her this morning,” he said. “It’s obvious you’re helping her in so many ways. And I really appreciate it.”
Even after being divorced longer than they were married, Dad kept tabs on Mom, mostly through me. Since she’d gotten sick and sober, he’d done it more directly.
“I should do more. Haven’t done even what I normally do lately.”
“You’re doing a lot––and not just for her.”
I didn’t say anything, and we were quiet another moment.
Dad and I were so different, our relationship so pragmatic—like everything in his life—that it was often awkward between us.
“Well,” he said, “that’s all I wanted to say.”
“Thanks.”
“You were about to call me,” he said. “What’d you need?”
“Wondered if you were makin’ any progress on the case?”
“Not a lick,” he said. “Town talk is it’s the nail in my coffin. It is embarrassing. And I can’t figure it out to save my life––my political one anyway. Did you read the paper this morning? If it’s not about making me look bad, hell, if it’s not about making all of us lose our damn jobs, I don’t know what it could be.”
“Maybe it is,” I said. “I think we need to consider that as a real possibility.”
“So take a closer look at Hugh,” he said. “But I do that and it just looks like I’m playing politics, trying to bully him out of the race.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“Thanks. I really do think this thing could cost all of us our jobs. Me and Judge Cox for sure. Stockton is safe.
Not sure about Ralph.”
“I talked to Carla Jean last night,” I said. “She says she never let the victim in the house.”
“You believe her?”
“I’m inclined to.”
“What does it mean if she didn’t? How does that change anything as far as what might have happened? This thing is going to make me lose my mind.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “Hang in there. Hey, the inmate I told you about who supposedly committed suicide . . . Interim inspector’s shutting me out of the investigation.
Think you could find out what the ME’s report says?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
32
Hahn’s small frame was wrapped up in a black cropped cable sweater, her narrow hips in a loose-fitting black skirt with a draw-string waist, which reached down to black lace-up boots. The skirt was shiny like her hair, and her outfit and complexion made her dark, dazzling eyes pop all the more.
We were walking through the pine forest toward the small pond between the prison and Potter Farm on our lunch break, the tall slash pines above us giving way to shorter pond pines and finally to cypress trees as we drew closer to the water’s edge.
Hahn moved like she did everything, with energy and enthusiasm, often jumping out in front of me, turning to face me as we walked.
“Ready to hear my confession?”
I nodded. “Why now and not before?”
She shrugged. “It felt like such betrayal. Still does, but I don’t . . . I know you’ll . . . I trust you.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I nodded and smiled as if I did.
“Father forgive me for I have sinned. It’s been forever since my last confession . . .”
The grass beneath our feet was still mostly green, thick like expensive carpet, and white and gold flowers were sprinkled throughout the thick foliage on either side of the path.
“I went down to A-dorm the night Danny Jacobs was killed to check on him.”
“Because . . .”
“I was worried about him.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure exactly. It was just a feeling—and it was right.”
I nodded. “Yes it was.”
“I can’t really explain it, but . . . I just think something’s going on in Medical. Something not right. And don’t ask . . . it’s just a lot of little things. I wouldn’t even mention this to someone else. And all the boys on your list have been in and out of there a lot lately.”
“The Suicide Kings?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m not sure what it is . . . but, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything until I know something.”
“If you can’t tell me what you know, tell me what you feel.”
She stopped walking, and we stood there for a moment in the middle of the quiet forest beneath the thin pines.
Finally, she shook her head. “It’s just off.
Something’s going on that’s not . . .”
She started walking again, and I followed.
When we reached the pond, we paused to take in its beauty. The small body of water sat in the bowl of gentle slope, rimmed by cypress trees,
surrounded by pine flats on every side.
I breathed in deeply, taking it in.
We walked down to the edge of the pond and sat down on a thick pad of grass.
“I can narrow it down a bit,” she said. “It’s not all of Medical. It’s . . . Dr. Alvarez and . . .”
“And?”
“Dr. Baldwin.” I nodded.
“She’s my supervisor, and I like her. I really do, but when she’s around him . . . I don’t know . . .”
“They were both in the dorm the night Jacobs was killed,” I said.
“I know.”
“And in Confinement the night Lance was supposed to have attempted suicide.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
The midday sun shimmered on the still surface of the small pond. Spanish moss draped across the branches of the cypress trees surrounding it, waving in the wind like fresh laundry on the line.
“I’d have Bailey help me unlock it if she wasn’t one of the ones making me feel so—”
“Unlock it?”
“Unpack it. You know. Help me think it through.
Maybe even use hypnotherapy.”
“Hypnotherapy?”
“She does it a lot. She’s very good at it. She’s taught me so much.”
“You do it too?”
“I’m just learning.”
I thought about it for a moment, and she let me. “If someone were suicidal—or had been—could you use hypnotherapy to give them a little nudge?”
“You could suggest it, but I don’t think it would—”
“What is it?”
“She’d been using it on Danny, supposedly for addiction recov—Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“That night. I . . . I was across the dorm, so I can’t be sure. I couldn’t hear them, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It looked like she was hypnotizing him.”
I leaned in toward her, energy jangling through me. “Maybe if he was already suicidal, she could’ve gotten him to do it when she wasn’t there.”
“And,” I added, “gotten Lance Phillips to do it inside a locked cell.”
Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Page 33