CHAPTER 5
That night when I reached the chapel, Bunny and Nicole were singing “Consider the Lilies.” Bobby Earl looked on with pride from his seat on the platform, and it was disconcerting to see him sitting in the chair I had come to think of as mine.
Crisis counseling wasn’t something that could be rushed, and I was much later getting to the chapel than I would’ve liked.
I slipped into the sanctuary past Officer Roger Coel, who gave me a strained nod, and walked to the center aisle to get a better idea of the attendance. The chapel was packed, inmates filling the pews and spilling over into chairs beyond the drawn divider into the overflow room.
“Good turnout,” I whispered when I had eased back over to Coel.
He was a tall, lean, ex-military man with thin blond hair that had a tendency to stand up.
“Someone circulated a picture of Bunny Caldwell around the compound this afternoon,” he said.
“You sayin’ their reasons for being here are more carnal than spiritual?” I asked with mock surprise.
“It’s why I’m here. I volunteered for this assignment.”
The nondescript chapel, meant to accommodate all religions, bore the symbols of none. It was large, with pews on either side of a wide center aisle and had a platform with a wooden pulpit centered at the front. The pews and the pulpit had been built by inmates who lacked the precision their construction required. The tops of the pews were different heights and the pulpit leaned to the left a little.
“Are you the only officer here?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise and anger out of my voice.
He nodded. “Whitfield was here-he loves this shit, but he got pulled to escort the GED class back down to the dorms. Almost made him lose his religion,” he added with an appreciative smile. “He should be back soon.”
Bunny and Nicole finished their song and received a standing ovation. Bunny took several bows, but looked over at Bobby Earl uneasily. Nicole just smiled. Then, as the men were being seated and Bobby Earl was taking the pulpit, Bunny and Nicole slipped into my office through the door near the platform.
“Do you need any help?” I asked Coel.
“You can check the bathrooms,” he said. “I can’t be here and there at the same time, and it’s probably full of these randy bastards beatin’ off to Bunny.”
I nodded, and started to walk out when Coel grabbed my arm.
“Why didn’t you put out a memo for security about this service?” he whispered, his voice harsh, his face pinched. “Control didn’t have anything on it. Were they cleared through the proper channels?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with this program,” I said. “Stone set it up. He said he took care of everything.”
“Yeah, with a phone call at the time they arrived. No advance warning. No chance for us to prepare. Nothing.”
“I’ll look into it,” I said.
My pulse started pounding when I found several inmates, one of whom was a child molester, lurking around the hallway near the water fountain and my office, and I realized again just how vulnerable Nicole really was.
“You need to get back in the sanctuary now,” I said.
Paul Register seemed to shrink in on himself, his short, boyish form becoming even smaller. His eyes blinked sheepishly at me like a small puppy expecting another whack with a newspaper.
“Yes, sir,” he said softly. “My knee’s hurting. I was trying to stretch it out some.”
“You can stand in the back if you need to,” I said. “But you need to be in the sanctuary.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m going.” He glanced through the glass pane in my office door, then limped back into the sanctuary under the hard glare of Officer Coel.
Once Register was out of the front hallway, I walked over and made sure the door to my office was locked. It was. Then I headed to the inmate bathroom next to the kitchen and multi-purpose room in the back.
Obviously designed by someone who had never worked in a prison, the chapel’s inmate and visitor bathrooms were down a short L-shaped hallway that led to the kitchen and meeting room in the back. It was a blind spot, difficult to supervise, and, if not watched closely, the place where the more criminal of our criminal element congregated. For an event like this, there should be a minimum of three officers on duty.
Inside the bathroom, to my shock, I discovered Abdul Muhammin, one of the clerks assigned to the chapel. I had never seen him or any other Muslim at a Christian worship service.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Using the bathroom,” he said. He posture and tone were defiant and challenging, his muscular body flexing as he began to bow up.
“No,” I said. “In the chapel?”
“Hearin’ Bobby Earl,” he said. “Dog’s doin’ good for hisself.”
Suddenly, he was different, his demeanor relaxed and playful, as if he and I were friends just hanging out, talking about old times and people we knew.
“You’re a fan?” I asked.
“Shit,” he said, “I shared a cell with ‘im at Lake Butler. I came to make sure he don’t forget a nigga’.”
“You and Bobby Earl-”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bobby Earl’s my boy. He like the Jimmy Swaggart of jailhouse religion.”
“Well, you need to get back in there,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to miss him.”
He nodded slowly, rubbing his chin as if contemplating something profound. “All right, Chap. I’m on my way.”
“Is anybody else in here?” I asked.
“I am,” a disembodied voice rose from within the stall.
“Who’s that?”
“Inmate Cedric Porter, sir,” he said.
“It’s time to get back to the chapel,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
When I left the bathroom, I checked on Bunny and Nicole through the window of my office door. Nicole appeared bored, Bunny sad and restless, and I wondered how much of their lives were spent waiting on Bobby Earl’s seemingly eternal sermons to end.
I stepped out of the air-conditioned chapel into the humidity and heat of the dark night, and walked up to the control room where I asked to see the memo giving Bobby Earl and his family authorization to enter the institution and conduct the special program.
There wasn’t one. Never had been. No one knew anything about it until Mr. Stone called and told them to let Bobby Earl and his family through the gate and to escort them to the chapel.
I borrowed the phone and called Anna at home.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I said, thinking but you do me all the time.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice full of concern. I never call her at home.
“Did you run a FCIC/NCIC check on Bobby Earl and Bunny Caldwell?”
“Not yet,” she said. “When’re they supposed to be coming in?”
“Tonight,” I said.
“Not gonna happen,” she said. “I haven’t-”
“It already has.”
“What?” she asked in shock. “I haven’t seen anything on it.”
“You still the only one who runs the checks?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Which means they shouldn’t be there tonight. So how the hell’d they get in?”
“Stone,” I said.
“Well, he can do that.”
“Even without a background check?”
“Not supposed to,” she said. “But he can. He has the authority.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Check?” she asked. “Maybe because he knows Bobby Earl so well. Knows he’s not related to any of our inmates. Knows he’s not a convicted felon.”
“Or knows he is.”
“What?”
I told her. As I did, I stared absently into the control room.
The dark night made the light in the control room seem even brighter, putting the two officers inside on display like fish in an aquarium, the condensation on the glass reinforcing the i
llusion.
“And an inmate in the chapel says he was Bobby Earl’s cell mate at Lake Butler.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “John, you better keep a close eye on him.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
Once in the chapel again, I looked into my office. Bunny Caldwell, who was sitting in my chair, waved to me. She smiled, too, which was something to see, and for just a moment the sadness left her eyes. I waved back. She smiled even bigger and I motioned her over to the door, which was still locked.
“You okay?” I asked after she had unlocked the door and I stepped inside.
She nodded, but looked away. When she looked back, she said, “I’m just a little tired. I don’t have Bobby Earl’s stamina.”
“Where’s Nicole?”
“In the bathroom,” she said, nodding toward the narrow door in the corner.
“I’m sorry to do this,” I said, “but I may never see you again.”
As though she knew where I was going with this, tears began to fill her eyes. Blinking them back, she said, “What?”
“I couldn’t help but notice the bruises on your wrists.”
Instantly, she jerked her arms back, and began to shake and move, as if no longer in full control of her body.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I had to ask. Are you okay?”
She nodded, her eyes flattening, her face becoming a impenetrable mask. “I’m fine. But it’s sweet of you to ask.” She glanced down a moment, then back at me. “They look worse than they are. I bruise very easily.”
“They look like they were made by someone grabbing you,” I said.
“Even men of God can lose their tempers,” she said. “Besides, I can be nagging and disrespectful.”
“If-” I began, but she put her fingers over my mouth in a gesture that expressed an intimacy we didn’t share.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Please don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s very sweet of you to care, but they really look worse than they are.”
“Okay,” I said. “But if it ever gets-”
“Then I have friends and family I can call,” she said.
I nodded, embarrassed.
When I walked into the sanctuary, I found Coel still alone and Bobby Earl giving an impassioned altar call.
“Where’s Whitfield?” I asked.
Coel shrugged and shook his head.
“I’m going to check the bathroom again,” I said.
“Ten-four,” he said.
Two steps into the back hallway, I bumped into Theo Malcolm, the institution’s only literacy and GED teacher. Without a word, he shoved past me and rushed out the door.
I turned and considered him, wondering what he was doing here, and why he was in such a hurry to leave. I called after him, but he didn’t even pause, so I decided to go ahead and check the bathroom. I could always talk to him later.
In the bathroom, I found Officer Whitfield washing the sweat off his face with water he splashed from his cupped hands.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I said. “Coel needs some help.”
“I’m heading in there now,” he said.
Tim Whitfield was tall and lean, but seemed soft. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy and sat high on his head. The front of his hair was damp and small rivulets of water snaked out of it and down his long forehead.
“Anyone else in here?”
“Just two convicts,” he said, looking at the dull reflection of the stalls behind him in the sheet-metal mirror bolted above the sink. “You convicts get back in the service.”
“Yes, sir,” Dexter Freeman said, stepping out of the stall.
“Just a minute,” the voice of what sounded like a young black guy called from inside the other stall.
“Just make it fast,” Whitfield said.
When I walked back into the sanctuary, Bunny was singing “Just As I Am” while Bobby Earl finished his altar call.
I searched the stage for Nicole, but she wasn’t there.
“Where’s Nicole?” I asked Coel.
“Who?” he said.
“The little girl,” I said.
“The black one?” he asked.
Making no attempt to mask my anger, I said, “There’s only one little girl in this entire institution.”
“She’s still in your office, I guess,” he said. “She didn’t come out with her mother.”
“Who’s with her?” I asked.
“No one right now,” he said. “The preacher went in while his wife was singing, and since he came back out for the altar call, I’ve had my eyes on both doors. He hasn’t been out of your office long.”
Relief washed over me when I saw that the altar call was over and Bunny was slipping back into my office, Bobby Earl remaining behind to say one last prayer.
Bobby Earl’s prayer was simple, but passionate and persuasive, and I could see why he did well on television. His prayer, which had started off loudly, had now become a whisper and the sanctuary fell into a reverent hush as well.
“In Jesus’ name,” he whispered. “Through the shed blood of the lamb-”
He broke off as the scream erupted.
The entire congregation turned to see Bunny Caldwell stumbling backwards out of my office, her staccato shrieks piercing the silence like stabs. Her screams were not those of fear, but of absolute horror, a horror so dark it seemed to echo from some sudden void in her soul.
For a moment, perhaps as she took a breath, there was absolute silence, and in that one quiet moment, no one moved. Like children slapped for the first time, everyone was too stunned to do anything. Then, after the initial shock subsided, everyone began to scramble as hesitation gave way to panic.
As I ran down the side aisle toward her, I somehow knew what I was going to find. Her scream had told me that, and my mind, as if divided into two parts, was simultaneously telling me it was so and absolutely rejecting that it could be.
Bobby Earl reached Bunny before I did, wrapping her up in his arms while looking into my office. His knees buckled and they both fell as the inmates began gathering around them, all straining to see what the small office held that could elicit such strong reactions.
“Get back in your seats,” I yelled, but no one moved. They stood there transfixed like the Caldwells had been, and when I reached the doorway, I knew why.
Beyond the open door of my office was the crumpled, lifeless body of Nicole Caldwell.
CHAPTER 6
“Go home, Chaplain,” Colonel Patterson said. “The inspector can take your statement in the morning.”
My nerves were humming like high-voltage lines, my eyes and fingers twitching like an addict in need of a fix. Head aching, heart pounding, adrenaline-rich blood coursing through my veins, home was the last place I wanted or needed to be.
It had taken a while to quell the overwrought crowd of inmates, most of whom had rushed my office door in an attempt to see Nicole’s body. By the time they were cajoled and, in some cases, beaten into submission and securely locked in their dorms, Colonel Patterson and Inspector Fortner had arrived.
With the Caldwells being cared for and interviewed by the trauma response team, I had made the mistake of stepping out of the empty chapel to take in some fresh air and collect my thoughts. Now, the colonel was refusing to let me back inside.
“We’ve got a lot to do tonight, Chaplain,” Patterson said, adding, “We know you’re not goin’ anywhere,” as if I were a suspect. “Pete can take your statement tomorrow.”
He knew it wasn’t my statement but the investigation I was worried about, and I could tell he was enjoying my frustration almost as much as the tobacco juice that trickled from the corner of his mouth.
I had to laugh at him trying to be so tough. He just didn’t have the physique to pull it off. He had the body of a bird, his thin, stick-like legs looking incapable of supporting the weight of his enormous belly. The white shirt of his uniform, holding back his belly above his belt, always app
eared about to burst open. Like his legs, the strength of his buttons was a mystery. And he wore boots for height, but they only made him look and walk funny.
All I could think about was Nicole, how I had failed to protect her, how I had let her get killed-in my office. I should’ve never left her. I had to get back in there, had to find out who had done this profane thing.
I stepped forward and said, “But I-”
“You’re not going back inside tonight,” he said. “This is a crime scene now. Whatever you’ve left inside you can get tomorrow.” Then, very slowly, he said, “We will see you tomorrow.”
The previous summer I had been part of an investigation into the death of an inmate that had not only uncovered the illegal activities of some of his officers, but cast him as either inept or corrupt. In fact, my ex-father-in-law, the inspector general of the department, was still investigating him.
“I didn’t leave anything inside,” I said. “I thought the inspector might need my help.”
I could feel myself falling apart, but I was powerless to stop it.
Suddenly, getting inside the chapel became all that mattered, all I could think about. If I could just see her, just be with her, look at the crime scene, examine the evidence, attempt to redeem my negligence by finding her killer.
“I’ll get him all the help he needs,” he said, patronizing me and enjoying it. “You don’t have to worry about it. Just go home and-”
“But I’m a-”
“A what?” he asked, as if he had been waiting for this. “You’re a chaplain. A preacher. You’re not an inspector. You’re not an officer. You’re not an investigator. You are a chaplain. If you don’t like being a chaplain and want to be something else, then maybe you should quit, but until you are one of those other things, you are not going into my crime scene.”
A nearby group of officers perked up when they heard Patterson’s rebuke and a couple of them-his boys, as they were referred to-began to edge toward us.
“You mean Inspector Fortner’s crime scene?” I said.
“My institution,” he said. “My crime scene.”
“What are you afraid of?” I asked.
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