Rivers to Blood (15 page)

“We do what we must for justice,” she said.

We returned to our respective searches and a few minutes later Walker announced the arrival of DeLisa Lopez.

When Lisa saw what we were doing, she frowned. “You told her?”

I nodded. “I tell her everything.”

“But—”

“I’m his Flambeau when Merrill’s not around,” Anna said.

“His what?”

“Flambeau to his Father Brown.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow in confusion.

“I’m his sometime Watson,” Anna explained.

When Lisa still seemed lost, I said, “She assists me in investigations, but even if she didn’t, I tell her everything.”

“But this is so—”

“I’m the very soul of discretion,” Anna said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “What’d you find out?”

She hesitated a minute, then sighed heavily. “They all have it.”

“This?” I asked, holding up the drawing I had made for Anna.

She nodded.

“All of them?” Anna asked.

Lisa hesitated again, but not as long this time. “All the ones I talked to.”

“Any idea what it is?” Anna asked.

Lisa shook her head.

“Wanna help us look?” Anna said.

“Do I get sweat pants and sweet tea too?” she asked.

While I fixed Lisa a glass of iced tea Anna showed her the Sagittarius sign. I just assumed she was kidding about the sweat pants.

Perhaps because of fatigue but more likely because she was in such close proximity to Anna, Lisa didn’t look nearly as sultry tonight. Her skin and hair and eyes were just as exotic, just as suited for South Florida summer nights, every bit as out of place in an old North Florida house trailer, but somehow they just weren’t as sensuous, weren’t as spicy.

“That could be it,” Lisa said. “I don’t know.”

She was sitting on the floor, looking at the book on the coffee table.

When I set the glass down beside the book, she said, “Do you have a coaster?”

I shook my head. “It’s not that kind of joint.”

She took a closer look at the wobbly, marred table and nodded.

“Just keep it off the books and no one will get hurt,” Anna said.

I laughed.

For the next fifteen minutes or so we all sipped tea and flipped pages, pretty much in silence, and then I saw two symbols that if joined could actually be what we were looking for.

“Look at this,” I said, holding up the book so they could see.

The page showed the standard male and female gender signs derived from Mars and Venus.

“If you drop the circles and combine them,” I said, holding up my drawing, “isn’t this what you’d get?”

They both studied the page then began to nod.

“Or something very close to it,” Lisa said.

“It’d account for the sexual component,” Anna said.

“It’s like he’s making his own transgender sign,” I said, flipping the page to see if the book showed any.

The transgender sign shown was a male with a stroke.

“That’s it,” Anna said. “Has to be. He’s making his own sign but it’s too similar to that not to mean something like it.”

“He might be trying to express sexual confusion by combining the two,” Lisa said. “Especially when coupled with what he makes them do—the whole self-sodomy thing. He doesn’t know if he’s Mars or Venus. Or maybe he’s trying to become both simultaneously. Making his victims do the same.”

“Forced oneness?” Anna said.

“Or androgyny,” Lisa said.

“If we’re right,” I said, “what does it tell us about him?”

“Probably not your typical rapist,” Lisa said. “The act may be less about rage than sexual confusion and control. I’m not saying there’s not real anger, even rage. Just that it might be more about experimentation. Like maybe he’s exploring his own sexual confusion with real live dolls.”

Chapter Thirty-one

D
riving to work the next morning I thought about all that was going on. There seemed to be too much to deal with, and I was having difficulty focusing on anything. As I tried to think about what the rapist’s mark meant, I found myself worrying about Mom, wondering if it really was the end this time, and when I tried to concentrate on the lynching or Turtle, I’d drift off into thoughts about Anna being pregnant or how it appeared my time as chaplain of PCI was coming to an end.

My thoughts continued to circle relentlessly and I wondered if this was how it felt to have attention deficit disorder.

When I neared the turnoff for the prison, I met Dad going the opposite way. He hit his lights and pulled off the road. I slowed, circled around, and pulled up behind him. A clean cut thirty-something white man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie sat in his passenger seat.

Dad got out and met me between our vehicles. His passenger stayed in the car.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say he’s some sort of fed,” I said.

“Can’t campaign, for all the damn babysitting I’m having to do,” he said. “He’s secret service. Someone got a counterfeit bill at a bar on the beach and as a courtesy I’ve got to drive him down there and back and waste half my day.”

I nodded.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Merrill yet?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not yet but I will.”

He nodded and frowned. “Primary’s less than a week away,” he said. “Hell, I may not even make it into the general election.”

“It’s that close?”

“One of the professors at the college did a poll,” he said.

As the prison personnel passed by on their way to work, Dad waved and smiled. A few waved back. Most didn’t even look in our direction.

“Have you found out anything about that Marianna minister Merrill saw get lynched?” I asked.

He frowned again, nodded very slowly, and let out a long sigh. “There was a Deacon R. L. Jenkins who went missing back then. Some church money vanished too and everyone assumed he stole it and took off with his girlfriend.”

“She go missing too?”

“I’m just telling you what the rumor was,” he said. “The good reverend was married with four kids. Folks always suspected he had a girlfriend and that she lived here, and they assumed she was the reason he stole the money. It’s all just gossip.”

“Except he really went missing. Never showed up again.”

“He could just be across the country scamming some other congregation,” he said.

“Could be but we both know he’s not.”

“Listen,” he said. “This has to stay very quiet until after the election. If this comes out … This thing’s been layin’ around for nearly thirty years. Let’s leave it alone for a few more months.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but if I lose the election, I won’t be able to do anything about it—won’t be able to do anybody any good, and neither will you. A different sheriff’s not gonna let you be involved in his cases.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Fred Goodwin said if he wins he’s gonna ask me to be his lead investigator.”

“I’ve asked you to come work for me a hundred times,” he said. “Are you—”

“I’m just telling you what he said. Not looking for a job.”

I heard a horn honk behind me and I turned to see Chaplain Singer pulling up and rolling down his window.

“Warden wants to see us first thing,” he said. “Wouldn’t be late if I was you.”

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he new warden’s office was as different as it could be and still have the same carpet, wall-color, and furniture. Gone was Edward Stone’s framed crayon-colored drawing his son had made just before he died. Gone were his degrees and Florida Department of Corrections citations. Replacing them were framed photographs of inmates working on the Angola farm, Louisiana Department of Corrections citations, and religious and motivational posters of sentimental images and clichéd sayings.

LSU memorabilia, including a football signed by the team and coaching staff, lined the bookshelves between DOC manuals, religious and law enforcement books, and a handful of Gideon Bibles.

When I had arrived, Bat Matson was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and talking with the colonel, the major, the shift OIC, the inspector, and Chaplain Singer.

“You boys ’scuse me a minute,” he said. “It’s come-to-Jesus time for the chaplain.”

My heart was pounding and I felt angry and embarrassed, and I was disappointed in how I was handling this––especially my ego response to being humiliated in front of the security staff and the man who was supposed to be my assistant.

As the security staff walked out, none of them spoke or even looked at me.

The colonel closed the door, and only Matson, Singer, and I were left in the room.

“Have a seat,” Matson said.

I sat beside Singer in one of the chairs across from Matson’s desk.

“Chaplain,” Matson said, “I’m not sure what kind of asylum Warden Stone ran, and I know a real well-run institution takes some getting used to—especially by the more free thinkers on staff, but I’ve made it clear what I expect.”

He paused, but I didn’t say anything.

“Do you have anything to say?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Chaplain, I think you have real potential,” he said.

Beside me Singer nodded.

“You seem to be pretty popular with the staff and the inmates. And you seem to like being a chaplain.”

I nodded.

“Just not enough to do what I tell you and stop playing detective.”

I didn’t respond. He was obviously going somewhere with this and I decide just to let him get there on his own.

“After repeated verbal warnings,” he said, “you have continued to neglect your chaplaincy duties. I have no choice but to place a written reprimand in your personnel file.”

There were few things more difficult than firing a state employee. Only teachers on continuing contract had more job security. He couldn’t just fire me, but he could make me so miserable I left on my own, all the while establishing a written record justifying a dismissal if I didn’t.

“What exactly am I receiving a reprimand for?” I asked.

“Dereliction of duty,” he said.

I shook my head. “You might be able to argue I do more than what’s in my job description,” I said, “but no one can say I do less.”

“This other stuff you’re doing—the stuff I specifically told you not to do—is taking time away from your ministry.”

“Give me one example,” I said.

Matson looked at Singer. Singer said, “You came in late yesterday and left early.”

“And the reason I was able to do that,” I said, “is because of all the comp time I have from all the overtime I’ve worked. Plus I came back in yesterday and worked late.”

“I didn’t realize—” Singer began.

“That’s because you weren’t here,” I said.

His face turned red and he looked at the warden.

“I gave him the afternoon off to finish moving and unpacking,” Matson said.

“Do you have any idea how many inmates I counseled with yesterday?” I asked.

Neither man said anything.

“Do you know that I’ve been without a staff chaplain assistant for two years, and in that time I haven’t missed a single service or death notification? Did you know that a survey done by the lead chaplain showed that more programs for more religions were taking place in the PCI chapel than any other chapel in the state?”

Both men seemed to be searching for something to say.

“I know you want him to be the senior chaplain here,” I said. “And I know you don’t want me involved in criminal investigations inside or outside the prison, but to accuse me of not doing my job … Let me see if I can put it in a way that you Louisiana boys will understand. That dog just won’t hunt.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“I
live in constant fear,” Sandy Hartman was saying. “I’m not sleeping well. Have nightmares when I do.”

We were in my office in the midst of one of our impromptu counseling sessions.

To my left a light smattering of raindrops from an approaching thunderstorm speckled the window.

“I can’t stand to be alone, but that’s how I spend most of my time,” he continued. “I’m always looking over my shoulder—especially out here. I get physically sick every time I get anywhere close to the medical building.”

The light coming through my window dimmed as the clouds rolled in and thunder rolled in the distance.

“I just keep thinking he’s going to do it again,” he said. “He seems so strong, so powerful—not even human—like he can do whatever he wants to me anytime he wants to, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”