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

by Michael Lister

  As I looked at the eight-millimeter tape from Maddox’s collection, I could tell that an amateur had done the recording. Over half of the tape was loose and uneven, while the other half was smooth and tight. This meant that only half of the tape had been used before it was rewound. This also meant that an hour of footage was on the tape because it was a two-hour tape. However, we had only viewed a few minutes of it. There was more footage on the tape. I called Merrill, and in twenty minutes he was at my trailer with Uncle Tyrone’s eight-millimeter VCR.

  “This better be good, man. I’s already asleep. I pulled a double today,” Merrill said as he entered the front door carrying the VCR.

  “No promises, but a lot of potential. A lot of potential.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I think there’s footage on this tape we didn’t see.”

  “What? You called me over here for this. It could be Russ Maddox’s family reunion or something.”

  “No, it’s not Maddox’s tape. He doesn’t have an eight-millimeter machine or camera.”

  “So whose is it?” he asked.

  “I think it’s Skipper’s. He would be able to shoot footage in the prison, and most people wouldn’t.”

  “Well, let’s see, Sherlock,” he said and plopped down on the couch, the couch squeaking in protest as he did.

  I put the tape in and pushed the fast forward button. After passing through the chapel scene at rapid speed, the screen turned to white noise and then to blue. I continued to fast forward it. In about three minutes, an image appeared on the screen again. It showed the infirmary at night. The camera was actually positioned in the hallway outside the infirmary and shooting through the glass windows. Inside the infirmary, Johnson and Thomas were the only patients. They were both on the far wall, and there were three beds in between them. The screen turned to snow again and then to blue, but before I could hit the fast forward button, an image flickered back on again.

  It was a close-up of Johnson and Thomas having violent sex together on one of the beds in between them. They looked like animals, gnawing and pawing at each other. I saw no evidence of love or affection; they were both fully intoxicated. In about another minute, Strickland entered the room and caught them. She walked right up to where they were before they knew she was there. No sound could be heard from inside the infirmary, but there was a lot of sign language to hear. She addressed all her rage at Anthony. She obviously cared for him, but she looked as disgusted as anyone I had ever seen. She looked sick from her disgust and rage.

  At first, Tony bowed his head and looked like a wounded little boy, but as she continued to blast him, something began to change. He glanced over at Johnson for his response to the whole scene, and that set him off. He punched Strickland hard in the stomach. She bent over and stepped back. Within seconds, Johnson was behind her forcing her down on the bed.

  Like animals, they hit her some more, never on the face though. Experienced batterers. They ripped her clothes off and began to beat her and rape her. It seemed surreal to watch all of this violence and brutality in silence, and though there was no sound at all, the expressions on the faces of the men said it all. They smiled and laughed wickedly. They had become sadistic. I thought of Skipper—they had a good teacher. Within ten minutes, both Thomas and Johnson had raped, beaten, and sodomized Strickland.

  First, Molly Thomas and then Sandra Strickland—Skipper was making his own little rape tape. I could tell that the second rape had actually occurred before the first one—Jacobson wasn’t in the infirmary like on the night of the murder, and Sandra Strickland wore the old gray nurse’s uniform that had since been abandoned by the department for something a little brighter. Why was it second on the tape? Skipper must have recorded a lot of footage during the first rape that he deemed unworthy, so he erased it and taped over it.

  As I continued to watch something caught my eye—two things actually.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Merrill.

  “Yeah, they beat the hell outa that white woman,” he said. “They both beat and raped her, but she killed the black one first.”

  “No, not that. Look,” I said as I rewound the tape. I played it back. At some point near the end, a door opened into the hallway where the camera was positioned. “Did you see it?”

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “Watch,” I said. I rewound the tape and played the same footage again. This time when the door opened and the light poured into the hallway, I pushed the still button. There he was. When the light came into the dark hallway, it made the glass the camera was shooting through reflect images like a mirror. It showed who the cameraman was. It was Matthew Skipper.

  “Son of a bitch,” Merrill said in disgust. “He sat there and watched the whole thing—like the fool who filmed Rodney King getting the shit kicked out of him by some Cracker cops—and didn’t do a damn thing about it.”

  “There’s more,” I said. “Look just over his right shoulder.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said again. Standing just behind Skipper in the doorway to the caustic storage room was Allen Jones, the inmate orderly. “Jones.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Why would Skipper record them doing that rather than cracking their skulls?”

  “Because Maddox would pay mucho dinero for something like that,” I said. “Plus, he can use it against them.”

  “He’s one sick bastard.”

  “And then some,” I said, “but he didn’t kill those inmates and Maddox.”

  “No? Who did then?”

  “Who had the motive to kill them? Only Strickland,” I said, but I was wrong.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked.

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. “I’m going to have a little chat with Sandy Strickland,” I said. “Her shift is just getting started.”

  “You want me to come along?” Merrill asked.

  “There’s no need. I think I can handle her,” I said. “Remember, you’re not the only badass around here who’s had defensive tactics training.”

  Chapter 46

  Seeing her die haunts me still.

  The veil of darkness covering the compound seemed spiritual as much as natural. I was alone in that darkness. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was in the darkness or if the darkness was in me. I had entered the institution just a few minutes before to the amazement of the control room officer, who asked why everybody was working so late tonight. I told him that duty called and that I would be in the infirmary. He said, “Ten-four.” And then I asked him who else was working late tonight.

  He responded, “That tall, pretty classification officer. Medical called her in on an emergency transfer.”

  Immediately my heart started racing. I jerked my entire body around and quickly scanned the parking lot with my eyes. In about ten seconds, to my horror, they locked on her car.

  Why had she come? Hadn’t I warned her? God, please let her still be alive.

  The noise and movement of inmates and officers during the day was replaced by an eerie silence and the lonely stillness of night. I quickly walked to the medical building. The officer’s desk was vacant. I walked past the nurses’ station to find one elderly nurse dozing with her head on the counter.

  I continued toward the infirmary to find that there was no officer in the infirmary control room either. I walked through the control room and discovered that there were no sick inmates in the infirmary, which explained why there was no need for an officer.

  When I walked into the infirmary, I saw Sandy Strickland sitting alone on an exam stool beside one of the beds. Her upper body was slumped down on the bed, her right hand extended, rubbing the bed gently. I could hear her crying from the moment I entered the room. Between sobs she said a single word: “Tony.”

  As I approached, she must have heard my footsteps. She jerked up, looked puzzled, and began wiping her eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.


  “I just came from viewing a videotape of what Thomas and Johnson did to you here in this very room.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said nervously. “What video? What do you mean?”

  “I mean Skipper recorded a video of Thomas and Johnson’s attack on you.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound outraged, but her voice broke, and she began to cry.

  “Skipper got it all on videotape, so there’s no point in denying it,” I said.

  “That son of a bitch,” she said, expressing the same sentiment that Merrill had. And then it hit her. “Oh, my God, he could have stopped it. That sick bastard.” She was silent as she contemplated what he had done to her. Her face expressed the horror of what she was experiencing. After a long time she said, “Why?”

  I couldn’t answer that question.

  She cried.

  I was trying to be gentle and patient with her. I had to keep reminding myself that she was a murderer. “I think I know why you killed them, but I still don’t understand why you just didn’t turn them in. They would’ve been punished.”

  “I didn’t want Anthony to be punished. I loved him. I just wanted to free him from that nigger inmate and that fat bastard banker’s grip. They turned Tony into a monster. He used to be so gentle and kind. They took that away from him. He never made love to me again,” she said and began to cry even more. After crying for about two minutes, her face turned hard and bitter. “He would only fuck me after they sunk their claws in him. They gave him AIDS.”

  “What?” I asked in shock.

  “Yeah, me too. It’s just a matter of time for me anyway. I’m dying. You’re not. They gave it to me, not you.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I know, but I had just found out, and I was so angry, and I knew you were looking into what had happened. So . . .”

  “So you lied to me.”

  “Yes, I blamed you. I blame everybody at this fucking place.”

  “You didn’t blame Skipper for what happened to Anthony?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I blame him the most. He’s hard to get to though, but eventually I will.”

  “No you won’t,” I said. “I’ve got to turn you in.”

  She looked at me with pure rage. “Of course you do, you’re a man, aren’t you? All you pricks stick together, when you’re not sticking each other,” she said as the bitterness and guile spewed out of her mouth. “Sick pricks, everyone of you.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I loved him. He was different. You should understand that, you’re a preacher. I’d do it all over again for him. I loved him.”

  “Then why did you kill him?” I asked, but what I was thinking was, I don’t have AIDS. I’m going to live—a little longer, anyway. Thank you. I’m sorry for being so angry with you. Please forgive me.

  She looked confused. “I loved him,” she yelled. “I didn’t kill him. I killed those other buttfuckers to protect him. I didn’t kill him.”

  “Well, the courts will have to decide that.”

  “The hell they will. You won’t turn me in. I’ve got that bitch from classification that you’re in love with. I’ll kill her. I’ll slice her open, you prick,” she yelled.

  She spun around on her stool to face the bed behind her, pulling off the sheet in one fluid motion.

  On the bed behind her, Anna was bound and gagged. Her eyes, filled with tears, expressed the terror she was experiencing. For one brief moment, when our eyes met, there was a quick flash of relief. But that soon changed when Sandra Strickland pulled out a scalpel from her pocket and placed it at Anna’s throat.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” Strickland asked. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have her when I’m finished. You know, a little souvenir. A forget-me-not. I won’t be around, but I bet you’ll think of me every time you see her. You think she’ll be as pretty in death as she is in life?

  I want to cut her. I want to slice her open,” she said her voice becoming that of a sadistic child.

  “No, Sandy. Don’t. I’ll do whatever you want. I won’t tell anybody. Just let her live. Take me. Cut me instead. I’m a man. I know you’d rather cut a man, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said excitedly, and as she did she pressed the knife too hard against Anna’s throat. As Anna began to scream, muffled by her gag, blood started pouring out of a small opening on the right side of her neck.

  “Here I am, Sandra. Cut me. I have all the evidence. She knows nothing. If you kill me, then all of this will be over. Cut me, Sandy.”

  “I will,” she said as she stood up. “I’ll cut you bad. I’ll cut you good. So good. But it won’t bring Tony back, will it? WILL IT?” she screamed.

  “Miss. Sandy, you okay?” Allen Jones asked as he stepped into the infirmary.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said as he walked over towards her and stood between us. Her knight in shining armor. He quickly glanced at Anna, but made neither expression or comment.

  She looked back at me. “I was on vacation, out of town, when my Tony was killed. I didn’t do it. I loved him. I couldn’t kill him. I want him back.”

  I thought about what she said. She was right. She couldn’t have killed him. I glanced at Anna, the blood still oozing out of her precious neck.

  God, help me save her. Don’t let her die.

  I decided to go in a different direction to see what would happen. “That’s what killed him,” I said. “Your love for him got him killed by someone who loves you.”

  “What? Who?” she asked, shocked that someone would kill her Tony because of her.

  “Him,” I said and gestured with my head toward Allen Jones.

  The moment of truth was upon us. It hung in the air like a bad smell. I saw the look of revelation and realization on her face. I pressed on.

  “He was watching that night,” I said. “He can be seen just behind Skipper watching what they did to you on the video. So he decided to kill them, but you beat him to the punch on Johnson, so he waits for his chance to get Thomas. When you were away, his wife got him out of confinement by her accusations against me, and it got him killed. Her, too.”

  Jones looked away from me and back toward her. She looked at him with pure contempt.

  She said, “I loved him, not you. I loved him, and you killed him. You stole him from me.” She started toward him on the offensive. When she reached him, she slapped him hard across the face. He didn’t flinch. “You dumb nigger, you took him from me. I loved him. I didn’t love you. I DON’T LOVE YOU,” she yelled even louder.

  Strickland swiped at Jones’s face with the scalpel, slicing his cheek open about three inches. As the blood began pouring out of his cut, it spilled onto the ground and mixed with Anna’s blood, his blood defiling hers.

  And then it happened. Jones brought both of his arms up in one quick motion, wrapped his hands around her neck, and snapped it like a twig. Her body went limp, her head fell unnaturally to the side, and when he let go of her, she crumpled onto the floor as if all her bones had been removed. Jones spun around and ran straight for me.

  Not so long ago, I had made a vow not to injure another person ever again as long as I lived. But, what I did, I did out of instinct and training, not pledges or promises. It was strictly action and reaction, nothing more. And it was more in hopes of saving Anna, who lay unconscious now, than defending me.

  Just before he reached me, I snapped out a hard right jab square on his nose. It stunned him, and blood started to pour out of it, but he was not about to stop. He came again, this time ducking his head down and tackling me like a football player. I was still sore from my last beating and I felt it everywhere as I hit the floor. He sat back onto my chest now, brought his left hand down hard on my chin.

  I brought my midsection up, rocked forward, then back, and brought my legs up and wrapped them around his neck. I jerked them back down again hard, and he went down with them.

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nbsp; I jumped to my feet and looked around. There was still no one in sight. Anna’s entire bed, once white, was now crimson. She was dying. I ran over to the door. It was closed, which meant it was locked— it locks from the outside. Normally, just inmates were in here.

  I turned around to see Jones getting to his feet and reaching into his back pocket. In another moment he produced from his back pocket a surgical knife similar to the one he had used to kill Thomas.

  “You get my letters, fucker?” he hissed at me.

  “Yeah, but you just killed the woman those letters were meant to protect,” I said in a voice that said, You’re not only a psychopath; you’re an idiot, too.

  “Well, think about this,” he said. “When I finish with you, she’s mine.” He slung his head toward Anna.

  “You won’t touch her,” I said, rage pouring out through my tone more than my words. “I won’t let you touch her. IT’S OVER!” I yelled.

  He rushed me again. I braced myself for impact and crouched in a defensive stance with my knees bent slightly and my arms up. About halfway to me, his feet flew up into the air and he came crashing down to the floor in a hard thud. He had slipped on Anna’s blood. Her blood saved my life.

  He got to his feet again, though, his face registering the stunned feeling he was experiencing. He rushed me again, only slower this time. Just before he reached me, he stopped, his eyes focusing on something behind me.

  I spun around to see Merrill Monroe, my friend.

  Merrill pushed open the door and stood with an officer’s baton ready to do battle against the forces of darkness.

  “Come on, nigga’,” Merrill said in his don’t-fuck-with-me voice as he stepped in front of me. “Let’s get it on.”

  Jones’s eyes widened, and just before he started his run towards Merrill, he looked like a rabid dog I had once seen. He ran towards Merrill with his knife in his right hand, extended up and pointing towards Merrill’s heart, unaware that Merrill didn’t have one when he was in these situations. Merrill seemed to wait until it was too late. Jones was right on him before he brought the baton down on his head furiously. Jones stopped, bent down, and dropped the knife. Blood continued to pour from his nose and cheek. He did not, however, fall to the ground. His mistake.