Blood of the Lamb (a John Jordan Mystery)

by Michael Lister

  In an instant, the lights in the hallway were off and someone grabbed my head and slung me into the plate glass window of the classroom to my left.

  While one of them pressed my head to the glass, another pinned me to the block wall with his large, muscular body. Two others coming up behind me on either side grabbed my arms and held them in place against the glass.

  At first, nothing happened. I was trapped, unable to move, and we all just stood there, only the sound of our breathing to break the silence. Then I heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward us, not clicking the way my street shoes had, but padding the way the rubber soles of the inmate boots did.

  When the unseen figure reached us, he leaned in so close that his lips were touching my ear.

  “If you’re not happy being a chaplain and want to be a cop,” he whispered, “join the fuckin’ police force.”

  The voice was vaguely familiar, but shrouded in whisper as it was, I couldn’t be certain who it was.

  In the back corner of the room I was facing, the red glow of the EXIT sign seemed to float in the darkness as if disembodied from time and place.

  “If you go near Mr. Malcolm again, we’ll fuck you up so bad you won’t be fit to be a cop or a chaplain. Understand?”

  I didn’t say anything, didn’t move or give any indication I had heard him.

  “He doesn’t understand,” he whispered to the group.

  The big guy with the muscular body who was pinning the bulk of my body to the wall drove a punch into my kidney so hard that my knees buckled and if they hadn’t been holding me I would have gone down.

  As the pain surged through me, I saw tiny dots of light like a dark, starry night, and I felt dizzy and nauseated.

  “Understand?” he asked again.

  “Now I understand,” I said, trying to swallow back the acid rising up my throat.

  “Good,” he said. “’Cause you’re only going to get one warning.”

  The voice receded, the others following one by one, until only the body and head guys remained. Then, as the big guy pressing my mid-section to the block wall held me in place, the guy holding my head grabbed a handful of my hair, jerked my head back, and slammed it into the glass.

  This time as my knees buckled there was no one to keep me from falling, so I did.

  “I said I understood,” I called after them, but they neither spoke nor slowed down, and before I could say anything else, they were gone and I was lying on the cool tile floor of the hallway alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER 20

  “You okay?” Merrill asked.

  “I’ll live,” I said.

  I was back in the chapel, lying on the floor of the staff chaplain’s office, holding an ice pack to my eye with one hand and the receiver to my ear with the other.

  “How many were there?” he asked.

  “Coupla hundred at least,” I said.

  He laughed.

  It was Merrill’s day off and he had been washing his truck when I called.

  From my unique vantage point on the floor, I could see things that usually went unnoticed for long periods of time—like the small chips and scratches in the ceiling tiles, the marks and proprietary scribblings of “Property of PCI Chapel” beneath the chairs and desk, and the cobwebs in the corners that fluttered like fine hair in a breeze when the central unit kicked on.

  “Six, I think,” I amended.

  “You let six little inmates do that to you?” he asked.

  “Embarrassing, isn’t it?” I said.

  “I wouldn’t let it get out.”

  “Though, in my defense, there was nothing little about them,” I said.

  “’Cept they brains,” he said. “Messin’ with a man of God—what were they thinkin’? ‘Touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm’ or I a have his handsome sidekick find you and fuck you up.”

  “That last part was a paraphrase, wasn’t it?” I asked. “It’s not in any of my translations.”

  “Gospel according to Merrill,” he said. “Thou shalt not fuck with me nor any of my friends, lest thou havest thy ass kickithed.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  The melting ice shifted in the bag and clinked against the plastic of the receiver.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  I told him.

  “And you have no idea who they were?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t see anyone,” I said, “but the voice sounded a little like Abdul Muhammin.”

  “Your library clerk?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but when I got back over here, he was sitting at his desk in the library quietly doing his job, so I can’t be sure.”

  “And you think the teacher sent them?”

  “Well, they only made a move on me after I talked to him,” I said. “And he’s the only one they warned me off of.”

  “They coulda been tryin’ to point the finger at him,” he said. “Knowing you be lookin’ at him a lot harder now.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “And I’d be inclined to believe it if it didn’t give them too much credit.”

  “Oh,” Anna said as she opened the door and saw me. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”

  I turned from the copier to see the woman I most enjoyed seeing in all the world, and my breath caught the way it did every time I saw her.

  “Hey,” I said, heart racing, mouth dry.

  “I can come back,” she said stiffly. “How long will you be?”

  My stomach dropped, and in that moment I felt the pain I must have caused her. “I’m almost finished,” I said, my tone begging her not to leave.

  It was later in the day, and we were inside the small copy room, which had originally been designed to be a storage closet in the inmate library. A dozen or so inmates sat around reading newspapers and magazines while others worked with the inmate law clerks on appeals, grievances, and law suits in the court-mandated law library.

  “I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am,” I started.

  She held up a hand. “Don’t, John,” she said. “Let’s not.”

  “Not what?” I asked, my voice hoarse, even desperate. “I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “I already know,” she said.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I know you are genuinely sorry for what happened, and that you want forgiveness, and you’ll promise never to do it again, but all that’s just part of the sick cycle.”

  I nodded. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes grew wide. It was obvious she didn’t want to hear me apologize again.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “John,” she said angrily, but couldn’t suppress the small smile dancing at the corners of her lips.

  I not only ached to be near her, but I longed to talk to her, to tell her about all that had happened, to think aloud about the case with her like I usually did and get her reactions to the words and deeds of the suspects.

  Before I could apologize for apologizing again, Pete Fortner walked in the room.

  “I got the prelim results back,” he said.

  “And?” I said.

  He looked at Anna.

  “If she’s willing,” I said, looking over at her, “I want her to stay. We could use her perspective.”

  She nodded.

  He shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said.

  As he opened the file and began flipping through it, I closed the door. After studying the pages inside a few minutes, he closed the folder and said, “She was beaten to death. Her right arm was broken, the wrist fractured. Her left shoulder was dislocated. She had blunt force trauma to her abdomen that resulted in massive internal hemorrhaging. She was hit so hard that her liver ruptured.” His voice caught in his throat, and he glanced down at the folder again, blinking back tears as he did. “Her jaw was broken, and she died from an acute subdural hematoma—the result of a severe blow to the head.”


  We were all quiet when he finished, shaking our heads and trying to avoid each other’s eyes. Suddenly, the small room had become claustrophobic, and I was having trouble breathing.

  I saw Martin Fisher’s crumpled, seemingly sleeping body again.

  “Was there any sign of sexual assault?” I asked after we had each regained our composure.

  “ME says he can’t tell for sure,” Fortner said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “There was nothing about the way she was killed that would keep him from—”

  “He says there was some inflamation and very slight bruising that could either be from normal childhood activity—riding a bike, climbing a jungle gym—or very careful molestation. He’s just not sure yet.”

  “What about old injuries?” I asked. “Any indication of prior abuse or assault?”

  “He said she had more old bruises than she should have, but no breaks or fractures,” he said. “Nothing like this.”

  “You suspect the parents?” Anna asked.

  I nodded. “Have to,” I said. “They were the only ones we know for sure were alone with her inside my locked office.”

  “John and Patsy,” she said to herself.

  I nodded.

  “Any other suspects?” she asked.

  “Dexter Freeman, Paul Register, Cedric Porter, and Abdul Muhammin—”

  “Two sex offenders and a murderer,” she said. “I can’t believe this. What makes them suspects?”

  “They were all out in the hallway during the time Nicole was in my office,” I said.

  She nodded. “But getting from a hallway where they can be seen by an officer into a locked office is…”

  “A problem,” I said. “We’re working on it. But it’s not impossible.”

  “You know how it could’ve been done?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Because it seems impossible to me,” she said.

  “The door was locked when I tried to open it,” Pete said. “And there was nobody in the office except you.”

  I nodded.

  The copier finished its run and the sorter began clicking as the stacks of paper were shifted to the top to be stapled. We were all quiet for a moment waiting for the noisy cha-chinks of the stapler to stop.

  “Suspect anybody else?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Roger Coel, Theo Malcolm, and Tim Whitfield were also near my office at various times throughout the service.”

  “No shortage of suspects, is there?” she said.

  “This is prison,” Fortner said.

  “Which,” I said, “is why Nicole should’ve never been allowed anywhere near here.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Later that afternoon, I taught a class called “Grace: Still Amazing,” and as I did, I noticed several strong reactions from Dexter Freemen, especially when I shared my belief in the absolute, unconditional love of God. It was a strong enough reaction that I felt a follow-up was in order, which also gave me an opportunity to talk to him about the night of the murder, the night when he was one of only a handful of inmates out in the hallway near my office.

  I had gotten a haircut recently—as usual from whoever happened to be available at the time—and my too-short hair refused to lie down, a fact that was emphasized by the steady breeze that stood it on end as I was buzzed through the electronic gate and onto the rec yard.

  I slowly scanned the penitentiary playground, my eyes searching the blue masses for a black man, who, contrary to his name, was not free.

  The fresh air and the warm sunshine were healing, and I knew somehow that the beautiful day was not merely benign, but the evidence of the love, care, and concern of the creator. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and as I did the volume of the vibrating world all around me increased, and I realized again how much I missed as I rushed through my days.

  The crack of a wooden bat, the tink of an aluminum one, connecting with the softball, followed by shouts and running, and the clank of the bat falling on home plate. The bounce of the rubber basketball slapping the asphalt court to the beat inside the point guard’s head. The metal clank of a horseshoe striking and then spinning around the small stake in the sand boxes. The shouts of frustration, the obnoxious trash talk involved in the intimidation of an opponent, and the glorious laughter of men having fun, playing like children, oblivious to the world passing them by.

  When I opened my eyes, the vivid colors leapt out at me, the incredibly sharp sounds receding, muffled now by my inability to process all the stimuli life offered. I spotted Dexter on the opposite side of the field, walking around the dirt track encircling it. I waited for him to reach me, and then joined him as he went by, matching the pace he had already set.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Not too good,” he said, shaking his head slowly. His face clouded over, his mouth forming a deep, angry, tight-lipped frown. He looked more frustrated than angry.

  “What is it?”

  “I was disturbed by the class today.”

  “Really?” I asked, my voice full of sarcasm. “And you hid it so well.”

  His frown relaxed a little, but his mouth refused to make the leap into a smile.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day about the Bible not being true,” he said.

  “I never said that.”

  “Well, about the events not really happening,” he said.

  I smiled. I knew what was happening. He had been exposed to the new wine of unfamiliar concepts and the old wineskin of tradition and rigid religion was unable to hold it. I had been there many times myself. Soon he would have to make a choice—pour out the new wine or find new wineskins.

  “All I said was that it’s irrelevant whether they actually happened or not,” I said.

  “And what you were saying today,” he said. “I mean, I’m supposed to be a Christian, but not if what you said about grace is true.”

  Two effeminate black inmates in shorts and T-shirts that were several sizes too small jogged past us. They wore pink Keds tennis shoes with matching sweat bands around their heads and white athletic socks that were rolled down around their ankles. They were both extremely thin and ran like awkward prepubescent girls. One of them pulled slightly ahead of the other and began to wiggle his behind as he ran. “Work it, girl,” the other one said. “You’re looking too fine to dine. I’m gonna have to toss that salad, child.”

  “Do you remember the story Jesus told about the father and his two sons?”

  “The parable of the prodigal son?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Which is true, by the way, though it never happened. Remember when the younger son came home after wasting his father’s money on prostitutes and parties?”

  He nodded.

  “The older son was so furious with his dad he wouldn’t even go into the house. Not only did his dad not reject or punish his younger brother, but he even threw a party for him. The older son said that it was unjust… and he was right. His brother didn’t deserve the warm welcome and the extravagant party. But that’s what grace is—what we need… not what we deserve.”

  “So, God’s unjust?”

  “Thankfully,” I said. “None of us want justice—except for others.”

  “God’s not unjust,” he said. “I can’t accept that.”

  “Neither could the older brother,” I said. “He thought he had earned his father’s love… and he knew his younger brother definitely hadn’t… but so did the younger brother. He didn’t even try to earn his father’s love. And because he realized he couldn’t, he quit trying… and discovered, perhaps for the first time, what love really was. You have children, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  The rec yard we were walking around was so enormous that the hundreds of inmates moving about the softball field, the weight pile, the basketball and volleyball courts, playing ping-pong and checkers under the pavilion looked more like ants than people— especially from Tower III, where an officer with o
ne of the few loaded weapons on the compound stood watch, alert for inmates who wander over too close to the fence or low-flying planes or helicopters. Escape attempts by air most often occur on the rec yard because it has plenty of room for a helicopter to land and it’s more isolated than anywhere else on the compound.

  “Do you love them only when they’re perfect?”

  He shook his head, and a small smile crept across his face. “I’ve got a two-year-old son who’s a rascal,” he said, his whole countenance softening. “That boy stays in time-out. Sometimes his mama has to spank him ten times a day.”

  “And?”

  “And I love him all the time,” he said. “But… there’s a difference in a two-year-old who’s still learning right from wrong and these bastards.”

  He looked out at the other inmates on the rec field. “You don’t know… I live with these people…” he shook his head. “… Most of the time they don’t even act human.”

  I nodded.

  A group of about ten inmates, running the opposite way from everyone else, presumably so they could be seen, approached us. They seemed to glide along, as if not quite touching the ground as they moved in unison, in beauty and grace. They spent most of their time on the rec yard, lifting weights and running around the track, and their lean muscular bodies were rippled with hard knots that barely moved as they ran. Their shirts were off, and the slick layer of sweat covering their hard, black bodies made their smooth, hairless skin look like fine silk.

  “You’re telling me there’s not a difference between them and my son?”

  “Sure there is,” I said, “but not in the way God loves them.”

  He shook his head.

  “If God’s love is based on behavior… if it’s based on anything, it’s conditional,” I said. “Perfect love is not based upon whether the one being loved is lovable, but on the lover’s ability to love, and in the case of God, the love is perfect and complete.”

  “So why do we do all the things we do?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like praying, studying our Bibles, going to church or a class… doing what’s right.”

  “Not to earn something we’ve already got,” I said. “That’s what the father said to the older son when he said he had earned a party, but had never been given one. He told him that he could have had a party anytime… every day at the father’s house is a party…but not because he had earned the right. Because that’s just the way the father is.”