The officers finished checking the inmates in and they all began to move toward the internal gate of the sally port to be buzzed back in to their dorms.
We fell in line with the others and walked through the gate after it was buzzed open by the officer in the tower.
He shook his head. “People thinking I’m a Suicide King mean I’m in danger?”
The large gate rolled back into place, clanging loudly as it reached the other side. Everyone was locked in again. Another day without an escape.
It was dark now, the only light coming from a street lamp near the maintenance building on the other side of the fence and a flood light shining down into the sally port from one of the tall poles supporting the south gate.
“You think of any reason someone would want to kill the Kings?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
“Well, I’d keep thinking about it, I were you. Might turn out to be valuable information one day.”
26
You didn’t tell me you were in A-dorm the night Danny died.”
Across the table from me Hahn stiffened, then sat perfectly still for a moment.
She had come to my office to go over the list of Suicide Kings and tell me what she knew about each one. “I didn’t?” she asked.
“Why didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “It never came up, I guess. I’m not sure.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t mention it.”
“You don’t suspect me, do you?”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.”
“Sooner? You didn’t say anything at all. I brought it up, remember? You don’t think that’s a little suspicious?”
“I think you’ve been around criminals too long. The only suspicious thing is your mind. What’s so odd about me visiting A-dorm?”
“You don’t do it that often, it was at night so you were off, and it just happened to be the night someone was killed down there.”
“Can we talk about something else?” she said. “Seriously?”
“There’s nothing to tell . . . and I have information for you that might actually help you figure out who’s doing it.”
I shook my head, but she looked down at her notes and pressed on.
“Of the original Suicide Kings, only three are left inside—Lance Phillips, Brent Allen, and Emile Rollins. One, Myer Goodis, finished his sentence and now lives in Fort Walton Beach. And two are dead—Danny Jacobs and Ralph Meeks. According to everything official, they both committed suicide. Everyone I spoke to says there was nothing suspicious about Meek’s death. It was definitely suicide.”
“How long ago did—”
“Nearly two years. Hard to see it having anything to do with what’s going on now.”
I nodded.
“What is going on now?” she asked. I shrugged.
It was evening, just minutes after the end of our work day, and we were at a little convenience store not far from the prison.
In addition to the normal beer, gas, junk food, and lottery tickets, the small store had a deli that served fried chicken, pizza, and hot wings––all of it as bad as any I had ever tried.
There were two booth-style tables in the back corner not far from the deli. We were in one of them. No one was in the other.
White ceramic cups of coffee in saucers sat in front of us on the table but Hahn was the only one actually drinking any.
The only person on duty, a middle-aged woman with red fro-ish hair was behind the counter, her attention focused on her phone.
“You think someone’s trying to kill all the remaining Suicide Kings or just Lance and Danny? Or just Lance?
Did Danny kill himself ?”
“The ones that are left, what are they in for?”
“Drugs or drug-related robbery for Jacobs and Rollins. Phillips, conspiracy and fraud. Allen for manslaughter.”
“Who’d he kill?”
“Sister. There’s family money—both were due to inherit. Now, just him. It was a boating accident. Prosecutor suspected murder, could only get criminal negligence. Allen had been drinking. Says he didn’t mean to kill her.”
“Whatta you think?”
“I think he did.”
I nodded. “What about the staff members in the dorm? Anything come up?”
“Dr. Alvarez has had some trouble on the street.
Malpractice stuff. All the cases settled with his insurance, so no convictions, but he doesn’t practice anywhere but here.”
“They don’t really care who does the doctoring on inmates, do they?”
She smirked, raised her eyebrows, and tilted her head. “Just a position that has to be filled. Not many successful doctors lining up to work inside.”
“Is the same true of us? We inside because we failed or ran into trouble on the street?”
“True of a lot of people who work inside, not all. Some of us just live in a small area without a lot of opportunity. Doctor can make a lot more money outside. Same’s not true for a minister or nurse or counselor.”
I nodded.
“Though Alvarez is making money—lots of it. He can’t practice—or doesn’t, but he owns a clinic.”
“Interesting.”
“Baldwin’s clean—legal-wise, anyway. She does have constant man trouble. So many neuroses, so much drama. Donnie Foster’s clean. So’s Jamie Lee.”
“What about you?” She didn’t say anything.
She wasn’t on the list because I didn’t know she was down there, but—
I abandoned the thought as a young Hispanic man in a black cowboy getup walked in carrying a gun.
27
The small bell above the door had not even caused Red to look up, and I hoped she would remain oblivious for whatever happened next.
He scanned the store slowly until his eyes came to rest on me.
I waited.
With no weapon and two women in close proximity, I didn’t have a lot of options.
He moved toward me and Hahn, which meant he was moving away from Red and the cash register.
He wasn’t here to rob the place. “You Jordan?” he asked.
He wore black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a long-sleeve black button-down shirt. A white vest with black stitched designs was open to reveal a horse-head bolero at the top and matching belt buckle at the bottom.
“Yeah,” I said. “Not the basketball player, the nobody.”
He smiled. “Only one M.J.”
“King of pop might not agree,” I said.
He nodded very slowly as he seemed to consider what I had said with far more earnestness than it was worthy of.
“True,” he said. “Very true, señor.”
“You consider everything that carefully?” I said. He seemed to consider that.
“Seriously?” I said.
He sat down across from me and next to Hahn, but didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She slid over as far as she could.
He leveled the .45 at me, but I only saw it in my peripheral vision. My eyes didn’t leave his.
The pungent odor pouring from his pores mixed with the scent of what I recognized to be a popular body spray. The unpleasant alchemical affect was one of aging ethnic food and drugstore deodorizer roasting in a hot car.
The body spray was advertised to drive women wild.
So far Hahn had somehow found the strength to resist. “Pretty calm,” he said. “That come from spending so much time with guys like me?”
“What kind of guy is that?”
“Type does what needs to be done, amigo—sometimes for other people.”
“Oh,” I said. “An errand boy.” He smiled. “Been called worse.”
“I bet.”
Hahn was obviously scared, but she was holding her own just fine.
Without acknowledging her, he lifted her coffee cup and drank from it, wincing as he did.
“That is very bad, jefe,” he said
.
“Everything here is,” I said. “It’s sort of their thing.”
“Somebody needs to shoot the clown behind the counter,” he said.
I looked over at Red, who was still unaware that anything was going on, then back at the cowboy.
“So what errand brings you to this joint? Chicken, pizza, beer?”
“You,” he said. “I am here for you, jefe. I have been asked to gently remind you that you are a chaplain not a . . . Just mind your own business and not that of others. Only trouble for you in it.”
“Others and trouble are my business,” I said.
“This is just a warning,” he said. “But you only get one.”
“Then could you be a little more specific?” I said. “I got a lot goin’ on right now. It’d be embarrassing if I got killed for stopping the wrong thing.”
“Let us just say it involves issues of life and death, which is a good thing for you to remember.”
When he glanced back at Red, his eyes came alive for the first time. “Goddamn, but I like gringo redheads.” He glanced back at Hahn. “I mean no offense, señorita.”
“You delivered your message,” I said. “Any particular reason you’re still here?”
He seemed to contemplate that for a long moment, rubbing a thumbnail against his smooth jawline as he did.
“You see this?” he said, lifting the gun. “This lets me do whatever I want. Stay where I want for as long as I want.”
He held the gun like they did in the movies. “You ever shot anyone?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“It’s harder than it looks,” I said. “Even at a target, but especially at a living human being. And to kill a man. It’s like nothing you’ve ever known.”
“The hell kind of preacher are you?”
“The convict kind,” I said. “But I wasn’t always that.”
He nodded appreciatively. “Explains a lot. Well . . . is what it is. Just remember what I said. Okay, amigo?”
He stood and moved away quickly. A moment later, he was out the door, the small bell jingling causing Red to look up for the first time.
“You okay?” I asked. Hahn nodded.
“Sorry about all that.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay.”
Without thinking, she started to take a sip of her coffee, but I stopped her.
“His prints are on your cup,” I said. “Safe money says he’s got a record.”
28
If he Hispanic,” Merrill said, “possible he connected to Miguel Morales? Like maybe it was about him?”
We were standing in front of the convenience store in the nearly empty parking lot.
“Could be,” I said. I hadn’t considered it, but I should have. “Couldn’t find a connection between him and Lance but . . .”
“What about the other Kings?”
“Didn’t even know they existed at the time,” I said.
“Need to find out now we do.”
The night was dark and damp, grayish clouds intermittently obscuring a small wedge of moon.
Hahn had gone home. Red remained oblivious.
In my right hand was a paper bag with the coffee cup the gunman had touched in it.
Hahn had been shaken up when she left, but she was more angry at my persistence in asking what she was doing in Danny’s dorm the night he was killed, than anything else.
Driving home later, my phone rang.
“Hey.”
It took me a moment to place the soft, sad voice. It was Cheryl Jacobs.
“Hey. How are you? I was going to call to check on you, but—”
“I’m struggling. Would you mind . . . I mean . . . Is there any way . . . Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
“Sorry to be a bother.”
“Absolutely no bother at all.”
“Nights are the worst. I do okay during the day. Get through. But . . . when the sun sinks . . . so do I.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’ve been there.”
“I have no one now. There’s . . . no one. A mother’s supposed to die before her son. He’s supposed to be at my funeral with his wife and kids there to comfort him, supposed to console himself that I had a long life, that it’s the natural order of things.”
I wasn’t so sure the natural order of things helped all that much. I thought about Mom, about how difficult I was finding her imminent death.
Thou know’st ’tis common; all that live must die. You must know that your father lost a father. That father lost, lost his.
A hollow argument. At least Hamlet found it so.
Convention, tradition, the natural order of things offer little consolation in the devastating face of deep grief.
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me, and continued listening, and I was struck by how much of my life I spent doing those two things. Nodding and listening. Listening and nodding. Wasn’t much else to do most of the time—particularly in situations like this.
“In my entire life I’ve never wanted to die before,” she said.
“You do now?”
“I do,” she said, and paused for a moment before continuing, letting her words hang there in the dark, damp night between us. “Don’t worry, I’m not . . . I don’t mean . . . I’m not really considering it. I’ve just never even had the feeling before.”
“I understand.”
“You ever felt like killing yourself ?”
“I’ve never had that exact feeling, no.”
“I now understand a little better what Danny went through. I couldn’t at the time. And I couldn’t do anything for him. Just got him a good counselor and kept loving him.”
“How many actual attempts did he make?”
“A few. Not sure exactly. Some may’ve been accidents . . . or . . . I don’t really know. But he got better, got past all that, and . . . I just hope he didn’t sink back down into . . . You don’t think he did, do you?”
“I don’t.”
“It’s so cruel . . . I mean if someone made it look like . . . they must’ve known he had been . . . You’re so easy to talk to, so nonjudgemental and understanding. I feel like I can tell you anything.”
“You can.”
“I feel like such a failure as a mom. Everyone else has always thought that. This is the first time I have.”
“Why do you?”
“I don’t know. I guess . . . even if he was murdered . . . he wouldn’t have been in prison if it weren’t for . . .”
“Addiction,” I said. “My mother is an addict—or was, but she’s not responsible for my addiction.”
“Yours?” I nodded.
“But you’re—”
“In recovery . . . It’s far less of an issue in my life now, but I’ll always be an addict—and that’s not my mom’s or anyone else’s fault.”
“Thanks. Thank you. Could you . . .” she began, then trailed off. “You think you could . . . Would you mind helping me with Danny’s memorial service?”
“Of course. I’d be honored.”
“You’re kind of all I’ve got right now.”
29
Everybody’s a whore,” Carla Jean said. “I’m just honest about it. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no street walker. Not some Meth Head Mandy, do anything for a fix. Just keepin’ it real by sayin’ I get paid for services rendered like any other job.”
We were at a mostly empty no-name bar just outside the city limits.
It was late.
I was at the end of the bar, a Dr. Pepper with grenadine in front of me. Carla Jean, who was the weeknight bartender, was behind the bar, leaning in toward me as we talked, her braless breasts pressing against the countertop.
People referred to Carla Jean Columbus as the town’s most brazen whore, but I found her unapologetic truthfulness refreshing. I just wondered if her brazenness was born of self-acceptance and peace or defensiveness and self-delusion.
“Everything comes
down to money,” she said. “Everything. It’s how the world works. What are we willing to do for money. Well guess what. I’m willing to fuck for money. I like to fuck. I’m gettin’ paid to do something I like. And I don’t do it if I don’t want to. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”
“You say who and you say when . . . and you say who,” I said in my best Julia Roberts.
She looked confused. “Huh?”
“Line from Pretty Woman.”
“Oh.”
At the opposite end of the bar, a distance that seemed worlds away, an extremely wrinkled old lady with a faded pink golfer’s hat on and a middle-aged man in a blue mechanic uniform sat next to each other drinking alone.
“What can you tell me about that night at the farmhouse?”
She couldn’t tell me much. It was the same as all the rest. Men taking turns with her, mostly good guys, an occasional asshole, easiest money she’d made in months.
“Did you know the blonde girl?”
“The one that got killed? No. Least I don’t think so.
Who was she?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out,” I said. “That and what happened to her.”
“I didn’t even see her,” she said. “Didn’t know she was there ’til y’all showed up askin’ questions about her.”
“I thought you let her in.”
“Let her in what? It’s not my club.”
“The farmhouse. I was told you let her in the back door.”
“Well I don’t know who told you that but I didn’t let anybody in. And I didn’t see no blonde girl.”
“You didn’t let her inside? You sure?”
“Positive. I didn’t let anyone in at any time the whole time we were there.”
I thought about what it meant that Carla Jean hadn’t let the victim inside and how it impacted the inquiry.
“So you have no idea who she was or why she was there?” I asked.
“My guess . . . she was crashin’,” she said. “Bet you anything. Tryin’ to make a buck, tryin’ to take money out of my pocket. She heard about the party and figured she could sneak in on our action. That or someone brought her.
Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Page 32
