MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  Within seconds, Anthony had pounced on her like a leopard and begun to rape her. She didn’t scream very loudly, but you could tell that she was in pain. In between the screams, she tried to reason with Anthony. They both seemed unaware of the camera’s presence in the sanctuary. One time Anthony looked straight at it without looking into it. His eyes were wild, darting back and forth, as glazed over as a frozen pond and just as cold. In a few moments, before climax, Skipper came in and broke up the little party.

  The small video did two things. It showed that I was not involved and that Skipper was. However, Skipper was only shown as breaking up the violation and not as instigating it.

  Within another minute, the chapel was empty, and the camera stopped recording. The monitor went blue. I stopped the tape. The whole incident lasted less than five minutes.

  “Looks like you’ve just been cleared,” Merrill said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Ain’t no maybe about it. You be just like Rodney King. Got the shit on tape.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said. “Things didn’t turn out too well for Brother Rodney.”

  “Now you know how we feel. Guilty until proven guilty.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I think I’ll show this tape to the superintendent and the inspector.”

  “Not the others?” he asked.

  “They don’t prove Skipper did anything. And the fact that I have them makes it look like maybe I did it,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Not much in this world’s for sure.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Chapter 44

  The Department of Corrections of the state of Florida incarcerated just under 65,000 inmates at a yearly cost of roughly 1.5 billion dollars. The number of people required to operate this department was 23,732. I was now one of those people again.

  It was an overcast Tuesday morning, and I was sitting at my desk, again active as the chaplain of Potter Correctional Institution. I had been reinstated thanks to the videotape of the chapel incident, or I should say a VHS copy of that video that Uncle Tyrone had dubbed for me in about ten minutes. Being at work again was not only a result of the tape, but also of a feisty, blond FDLE investigator named Rachel Mills, whom I showed the tape to first and who was by my side as I showed it to Daniels and Stone.

  It was nice to be back at work. It was even nicer to see Daniels so disappointed at my return.

  As I had expected, Stone and Daniels, and even Rachel Mills, were not willing to say that Skipper did anything but break up an illegal activity. The superintendent did, however, demand a full investigation, especially since, as they said, Molly Thomas had committed suicide. They even allowed Skipper to assist in the investigation since he had been acquitted by the grand jury. The man had nine lives.

  A few members of the staff seemed genuinely glad to see me back, but most, like most of the inmates, were tentative and seemed reserved around me. Mr. Smith was excited. Well, as excited as he ever gets. He said he knew I was innocent and was hoping Skipper wouldn’t kill me. I had hoped that myself, still did in fact. What I didn’t say, because I was trying not to think about it, was that someone had already killed me.

  I called Laura to tell her the good news. She was, at the same time, happy for me and scared, too. She asked if I had changed my mind about finishing the investigation. I realized that I had started investigating again without consciously deciding to do so. I determined that I had decided to do it for Molly. She deserved better than what she got. I intended on finding out who took her life from her—not that I could get it back and not that I could take theirs, but just because I needed to know, and so did the authorities. No doubt the killer would face a higher court and give an account to the Most High Judge one day, but I wasn’t willing to wait that long. I guess I’ve not perfected my passivity yet, nor my patience. Nobody’s perfect.

  After talking with Laura and coming to the realization that I was indeed still trying to figure out whodunit, I was more determined than ever to find out what happened that Monday night, just two weeks ago, in the infirmary. Two weeks ago, there were four people alive who weren’t alive now, and I wanted to know why. I think better around smart people, so I decided to go think with Anna in her office. When I opened my door, Officer Charles Hardy was standing there.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see you, sir,” he said. “Several people told me you wanted to talk to me about the morning Johnson was killed, but I’ve been out of town. I’m in the reserves, and they sent us to help with some hurricane damage in Charleston.”

  Charles Hardy was an excellent correctional officer. Like most of his fellow officers, he was a good, decent man doing a difficult job. His crisp uniform and patent-leather shoes betrayed his military training, so did his comfort with authority. He accepted the authority of those above him with honor, and even more noble was the fact that he never abused his authority over the inmates.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I appreciate you stopping by. I realize this is not your shift, and you don’t have to talk with me. I’m looking into this very unofficially.”

  “I understand, sir,” he said. “I’ll answer any question you ask.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But please call me John. I was just about to walk down to classification. If you’re headed that way we could talk while we walk.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “That would be fine.”

  We walked down Main Street Institution, alone because it was still early and the inmates had not been released from the dorms yet. The cloud-covered compound was even more depressing than usual, and the humidity came at you like the small side spray from a slight breeze blowing through the stream of a water hose.

  “In the early morning hours of Tuesday, two weeks ago from today, two inmates started fighting, according to Nurse Strickland,” I said. “She said that you were not at your desk and that she and Captain Skipper broke them up.”

  He nodded.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t tell you,” he said. “When Captain Skipper came into the infirmary, he sent me to confinement to pick up an incident report. When I got back, he was gone. Nurse Strickland told me that Captain Skipper had left word for me to take Jacobson to confinement. So I turned right around and went back to confinement, this time with Jacobson in tow.”

  “So you took Jacobson to confinement per Nurse Strickland’s message that Captain Skipper said to do so, but you never heard it from the captain.”

  “Right,” he said. “The strange thing was she made me fill out the DR. Said Captain said for me to do it. I didn’t want to, but I did it. I know how to follow an order. Later, when everything went down in the sally port, I was glad that I was not in the infirmary just before it happened.”

  “What time did you get back to the infirmary that morning?” I asked.

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I was in confinement until a few minutes before seven. When I walked back up to medical, Officer Straub was about to go in to begin his shift. I gave him a report of the night’s events. He went in. I walked up front.”

  “Who else was in the medical building that night?” I asked.

  “Nurse Anderson, and the orderly, Jones . . . and another inmate was there for a while.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes to concentrate on recalling the nearly forgotten name. “Thomas. Anthony Thomas was there for a while, and that’s it.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your help and the way in which you do your job.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” he said. “And thank you, sir.”

  I felt as though I should salute. I did, however, suppress the urge.

  When I entered Anna’s office, I told her about all the things that were twirling around in the whirlpool, or perhaps cesspool, of my head—all the th
ings related to the case. I didn’t mention that I was dying.

  “Even before you realized that Skipper didn’t have the opportunity to commit the murders, you thought he was innocent,” she said. “Why?”

  “I never said he was innocent, just that he didn’t commit those particular murders. The reason had to do with motive. I couldn’t see how killing Johnson or Maddox could have benefited Skipper in any way. Maddox was his best customer, and Johnson was his best product. He was making his own kind of killing on the little arrangement, so there was no reason for him to do any killing. He would have been putting an end to a serious paycheck, so why do it?”

  “Maybe they were going to tell.”

  “I don’t think so. Maddox wouldn’t because it was his secret, too. A secret that he more than anyone wanted to keep quiet. Not to mention that it was a crime and he would have lost everything. And Johnson’s an inmate. Nobody would believe him, and he didn’t seem to mind it too much. He was being treated like a king: drugs, alcohol, no work, and no trouble.”

  “There’s always the possibility of a motive that we can’t see.”

  “There’s always that, but I don’t think so. It feels wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it were just motive, that would be one thing, but it’s means, as well. I mean, if someone like Skipper wanted to kill an inmate, he wouldn’t do it in the garbage truck. He would do it by having him killed on the rec field or shot during an escape attempt or beaten to death in confinement.”

  “Like he tried with you.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “But, there’s more. All but one of the murders were particularly bloody, and the third would’ve been. I think Skipper interrupted that one. They were all stabbed and disfigured. It’s personal, not business. A business kill is a dispassionate single gunshot wound to the back of the head, but personal is more like beatings, knives, and pain. This is a nice cold dish of revenge. It reminds me of love,” I said. Anna looked puzzled. “What is the opposite of love?” I asked.

  “Hate,” she said.

  “No. Disinterest is the opposite of love. Hate is closely related to love. Both are passionate; both burn white-hot. Those we hate most are often those we’ve loved most at some point.”

  “Like a parent that betrayed us or a spouse,” she said.

  “Right. Divorce, when amicable, is because there is no passion, but when it is heated, it means at least one still cares or is hurt so deeply precisely because he or she cared so deeply.”

  “Damn, you are good. I can see why your dad wants you to be a cop. You have the mind for it. And, yet, you’re far too sensitive and caring to be a cop. Besides, you’re such a good minister. Maybe you really are meant to be a modern-day Father Brown.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just be lucky to get out of this one alive and should go back to just ministering.”

  “There is a distinct contradiction in the two things,” she said, “but you are both of them. You, like most of us, are not just one person. I think you must do both or you will be miserable.”

  “There’s always that,” I said.

  “So who do you think did it?” she asked.

  “Someone who has a very personal stake in all of this,” I said. “This is about love and hate, not money or cover-up. Unless, of course, it was made to look like something it wasn’t.”

  Anna’s eyebrows shot up into twin peaks. “Do you think all the brutality could be a cover?”

  That same bolt of enlightenment surged through my head. That was it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “But it could be. I still think it’s twisted love, passionate revenge. Because even when something is made to look like something it’s not, it usually still feels like what it really is. I said something to Molly Thomas the other day that reminds me of this. When she was explaining why she had made the accusation against me, I told her that Anthony was lucky to have someone who loved him so much, and I had the same feeling I’m having now. Like that’s the key.”

  “You don’t think Molly had it done, do you?” she asked.

  “No, but she wasn’t the only one who loved him. I need to find out who else did.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “This is prison. People know things, and people can be persuaded to talk about things.”

  “In other words, you don’t know,” she said.

  “In other words, I don’t know,” I said.

  After leaving Anna’s office, I walked out into the waiting room where a dozen inmates stared at the blank wall in front of them in silence. A couple of them nodded to me. I nodded back. A few of the inmates were engrossed in paperbacks. I recognized Zane Gray, Robert B. Parker, and Stephen King. I started to walk out when I heard the faint tappings of an electric typewriter coming from behind the door to medical. I pulled out my keys and opened the door.

  Standing next to the storage room where the typewriter was, Nurse Anderson jumped when I opened the door. The door to the storage room was parted slightly, and she moved in front of it.

  “Chaplain,” she said as the typing stopped. “How are you today?” she asked, her tone returning to its normal loud volume.

  “Who’s in there?” I asked.

  She looked puzzled. “Wh—”

  I pushed past her and opened the door. Inside, Allen Jones was stuffing a sheet of typing paper into his pants pocket. I reached out and ripped it from his grip, tearing the corner of the paper as I did.

  One glance let me know it was another letter warning and threatening me. I looked at Jones.

  He was looking down at the floor, his weary shoulders slumped forward, his head downcast. “I’s just trying to protect her,” he mumbled.

  Nurse Anderson appeared behind me. “What’s this all about? What is that?”

  “Another piece of the puzzle,” I said and walked out of the room.

  “Chaplain, wait,” she called after me. “You don’t understand. I was only—”

  Her voice stopped abruptly when the door to medical closed behind me.

  Chapter 45

  I now knew or thought I knew who was responsible for the murders. I also thought I knew why. But why kill all of them, and why now? I pondered these and other questions that plagued my mind as I paced up and down the length of my trailer. I was just getting used to walking well again, and the more I walked, the more the muscles in my legs and even in my upper body began to loosen and relax. I knew that I needed to go jogging again soon, but I wasn’t quite up to it yet.

  There was something else bothering me, something my subconscious picked up on that hung onto the edge of my memory like a name once known, but now forgotten.

  Before finally giving in to pacing and thinking, I had tried to do many things when I had come home after work, among them, watching the local news, which had yet to clear my name; reading Crossan’s book, The Essential Jesus; and cooking a real meal, which I later abandoned in favor of a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

  As I paced through the tight quarters that I called home, I occasionally bumped into the thin walls or the cheap furniture.

  As I walked and thought and bumped my way along, I wondered how Molly’s death figured into all of this. Skipper most likely killed her in order to keep her quiet. She was the only one who could link him to all of the crimes he was involved in, and she had nothing to lose by telling all. Nothing to lose, that was, except her life. I should’ve thought about that. I felt responsible for her death. Had I not been on such a pity-party binge, I probably would’ve thought of it. I was to blame. Just then it came to me. The thought at the edge of my consciousness slowly drifted in. I saw the stack of videotapes. Images of Maddox, Johnson, and Thomas flickered on the screen of my mind. What was it? What had I missed when I previewed the tapes?

  I walked over and pulled the tapes out of the linen closet. I placed them on the floor in front of the TV stand and pulled a chair, my only chair, over in front of the TV. I turned on the TV and VCR and popped the first tape
in. As it began to play, the images that had been floating around in my head the last few days came back to life, accompanied by the tape’s dull moans of both pleasure and pain.

  I tried to watch other parts of the frame this time, forcing myself to look away from that which most drew attention to itself in each frame. Nothing. I did this with all the tapes and still nothing.

  I sat there staring at the TV screen, now playing the late news. The anchorperson was saying that Molly’s car accident was believed to be suicide. She went on to say how distraught she had been over the death of her husband, an inmate in the local state prison.

  I wasn’t really listening to her, though. I was still trying to think of what I had missed. I was sure it was on one of the tapes. What had it been? And, then it hit me like a tire iron across the face. I jumped up and ran toward my bedroom, bumping into the walls of the narrow hallway as I went. I retrieved the other tape—the eight-millimeter one—from the drawer in my bedside table and ran back into the living room, where the light was better.

  While pastoring in Atlanta, I had helped our church begin a television ministry. We had a very small budget to begin with so, we used high eight tapes and equipment and did most of the work ourselves. I learned a lot about video production during that time. One of the things I learned was that it is best to fast forward a new tape all the way to the end and then rewind it to the beginning before you begin to record with it. This caused all of the loose magnetic particles on the tape to drop off so there would be fewer fade-outs during recording and playback. Most amateurs, however, did not practice this technique.

  Therefore, you could tell how much tape they had used in recording because once the tape had been rewound, the part that had been used was not level with the part that hadn’t been used on the spool. This was because the tape that had been used was looser and uneven, whereas the tape that was unused was still wound tight and smooth.