Chapter Ten
“I still can’t figure out how it was done,” Pete Fortner, the institutional inspector was saying. “I mean, it seems impossible. He’s alone inside a locked cell.”
Tom Daniels and I were sitting across from Pete in his office inside the security building of the institution. Tom had just given Pete the butt-chewing of his correctional life for not taking the flyer about the murder in PM seriously, and to make up for his negligence Pete was now trying to be helpful.
“It’s just impossible,” Pete added.
Daniels nodded. “That’s what I’ll put in my report, Pete. Inspector Fortner says it’s impossible.”
A short, pudgy man with unruly hair and a bushy mustache, Pete Fortner wore glasses, which he blinked behind a lot, out-of-date and too-tight slacks, and black athletic shoes left over from his former life as a coach and teacher at the local high school.
“What if somebody reached through the door?” he offered.
“Reached through the door?” Daniels said. “Solid steel?”
“Through the food slot. If Menge—
He pronounced it as if it rhymed with hinge.
“It’s Menge,” I said. “Like thingy.”
“If Menge was bent over or squatting down near the food slot the way they do, someone could’ve slit his throat while walking by.”
“Sure,” I said, “then Menge lies on the floor, bleeds out, then hops up and gets on his bunk.”
I felt sorry for Pete, but his incompetence also made me angry. Perhaps if I weren’t so sleep-deprived and frustrated I could have shown more patience, but as it was I had none of my usual restraint.
“Well, couldn’t he?” he asked. “I mean not bled out all the way, but—”
I shook my head. “He was dead before he was moved to the bed—and had been for a while. Lividity was fixed.”
“Besides,” Daniels said, “the food tray slot was locked. We checked it.”
“It could’ve been locked afterwards,” Pete said.
“You mean after the guy reached through with his eight-foot Stretch Armstrong arms and lifted the body onto the bed?”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
Slumping in his chair with his head down added extra chins to Pete’s fleshy neck and made him look as if he had C-cup size breasts.
“It was a good thought, Pete,” I said. “We’ve just got to keep tossing them out and working through them until we find one that’ll fit.”
Pete’s office, like most of those in the prison, was cramped and nondescript. Four square cinder block walls painted pale gray, cold tile floor, one window, one door, one desk, one filing cabinet, and three chairs. He was seated behind his dented metal desk, which had been painted pea-green to match the two uncomfortable chairs Daniels and I sat in across from him.
Pete cleared his throat. “Did Potter tell you about the spoon thing?”
“Yeah,” Daniels said. “But it’s irrelevant. We know inmates got out of their cells to go to church. Getting out’s not an issue. How the killer got in Menge’s cell is.”
“What if a spoon was used to keep his cell door from locking?”
“Yeah,” Daniels said. “Menge came in and before he slammed his cell door shut, he put a spoon into the locking mechanism so he could get murdered. So you’re saying I gotta charge him with conspiracy and as an accessory?”
Fortner started to say something, but stopped, blinked a couple of times, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and looked down. When he looked up again, he said, “Maybe he was supposed to meet someone. Let them into his cell briefly on their way to church or later that night after lights out.”
“We were right there,” Daniels said, jerking his head toward me. “We’d’ve seen.”
Pete sat up a little and adjusted his glasses. “I still think it’s the food slot,” he said.
“That’s because you’re an idiot, Pete,” Daniels said. “Even if he was killed through the food slot, which he wasn’t, how was the body moved from the floor to the bed?”
Pete suddenly lit up.
“You havin’ a thought or a wet dream?”
“What if the sister slipped him something during the visit? Some kind of poison that made him bleed through all his—”
“He only bled through the big slit in his neck.”
“What if it wasn’t a slit from the outside, but the poison eating a hole in his throat from the inside?”
Daniels sat up, his face growing animated. “I think you’re onto something,” he said.
Pete smiled and sat a little straighter.
“But what if rather than poison, she impregnated him with some sort of alien that gestated awhile before bursting out of his neck. Remind me to have someone check the cell for aliens.”
“You think there could be more than one?” I asked.
Daniels nodded.
I thought about how often Daniels, Pete, and I had sat in similar circumstances discussing a case, tossing out ideas, and how tense it used to be. This was different. Daniels was different. Everything, including his anger and frustration with Pete, was out in the open. There was none of the usual subtext or underlying tension. It was refreshing. I was actually enjoying working with him, and it gave me real hope for my relationship with his daughter. Maybe we could be the family Susan wanted after all.
“Anything else you want to run past us, Pete?” Daniels asked.
“How about my resignation?”
“No, you hang around a while and take your medicine. A man is dead because you didn’t take the threat seriously. I’m not saying we could’ve stopped it, but the chaplain shouldn’t’ve been the only one who tried.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Daniels said. “We know the door was locked when Pitts checked it.”
“No,” I said. “We know that’s what he says.”
“Good point.”
Pete smiled.
“And why’d he leave the officers’ station and come down to the quad to do a walk through during the service when you, me, and Potter were already down there?”
“Good question.”
“Maybe he was coming down to lock the door,” I added. “It’s possible that the killer had an accomplice. It’s a somewhat sophisticated crime.”
“God, I hope an officer’s not involved,” Fortner said.
“We know when Menge arrived back at the dorm and went into his cell,” Daniels said. “We saw him. What else do we know?”
“That approximately twenty-five minutes later he was found murdered alone in a locked cell,” I said.
“Yeah?” Daniels said.
“That’s it.”
“Then we don’t know shit,” Fortner said.
“Yeah,” I said, “but at least we’re used to it.”
“We also know who went anywhere near his cell,” Daniels said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Inmates: Chris Sobel, Milton White, Jacqueel Jefferson, Carlos Matos, Juan Martinez, and Mike Hawkins. Staff: Tom Daniels, John Jordan, Michael Pitts, and Billy Joe Potter. Volunteer: the priest, James McFadden.”
Pete smiled. “The priest did it,”
“I hear there wasn’t any love lost between them,” Daniels said.
“You say Hawkins?” I asked.
“Yeah. He came in from medical while we were there and went to his cell. Why?”
“Menge’s sister said Mike Hawkins was a deputy in Pine County where his dad’s sheriff and that they’re the ones who set Justin up.”
Daniels narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly, then turned to Fortner. “Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“Why the hell not? How could you not know a cop was in the same unit with a man his department put away?”
“Only way I’d know is if an investigation had been initiated by a classification officer because one of the inmates involved requested it.”
“Well, whoever missed this can kiss his correcti
onal career goodbye.”
Please don’t let it be Anna, I thought.
“Did Martinez know Justin was going to testify against him?” I asked.
Daniels shrugged. “I didn’t think so, but there’s really no way to know for sure. We have to consider it a possibility. After all, the notebook with his notes and written testimony was taken. As far as I can tell, that’s the only thing missing from the cell.”
I nodded. “So Hawkins, Martinez . . . and we know Sobel had a connection with him.”
“Of the most intimate kind,” Fortner said.
“There’re probably all kinds of connections we’re not even aware of yet.”
“We’ve gotta divide ‘em up and do interviews,” Daniels said.
“But it doesn’t really matter who’s got a motive,” Fortner said, “if none of ‘em have means or opportunity. We still don’t have any idea how it was done.”
“That’s true,” Daniels said, “but the chaplain’s working on it.”
“I am?”
“At least we know when it was done. And just maybe we can find out who did it by the time we find out how they did it.” He looked over at me. “You know how they did it yet?”
“Not quite. Give me another minute.”
“We’ve got to figure out how that cell door was unlocked,” Pete said.
“And how it was locked back,” Daniels said.
“And how a room full of people, including the inspector general of the department didn’t see it,” I said.
We grew silent a moment, and a possible scenario occurred to me.
“What if the door wasn’t unlocked after Menge went in?”
“Huh?” Pete said.
“Maybe the killer didn’t have to get in at all—merely get out.”
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up.
“Maybe the killer was already in the cell waiting for Menge to return.”
“All the cells were open earlier in the day,” Pete added.
“Speaking of which,” I said to Daniels. “Did you see a woman in the quad when you were in there earlier?”
He shook his head. “Why?”
“Father James said there was one down there,”
“Whoever she was, she didn’t come out of Menge’s cell while we were there.”
“Still like to talk to her.”
“Sure, but you were saying the killer was waiting inside Menge’s cell when he got back from his visit. He kills him, then when it’s time for Mass, he calls out the cell number and goes like everybody else.”
“Just thinking out loud, but it doesn’t fit.
“Why not? It’s the best theory so far.”
“If an inmate had been in Menge’s cell rather than his own, count wouldn’t have cleared.”
“Could’ve been faked,” Daniels said.
“Maybe.”
“Officer counting could be an accomplice.”
“The killer would’ve been covered in blood. Besides, Potter didn’t call out Menge’s cell number.”
Pete said, “If it was the woman the priest saw, there any way she could’ve snuck out while you guys were looking at something else?”
Daniels shook his head. “One of us was watching the area the whole time.”
I added, “Couldn’t’ve gotten past all of us, through the quad door and the dorm door without being seen.”
“Empty cells on the end,” Pete said. “She could have slipped into one of them.”
“Yeah?”
“Could’ve waited until later and slipped out of the dorm.”
Daniels pulled back and considered Pete. “That’s not bad. You trying to make up for your earlier stupidity?” He looked at me. “Whatta you think?”
I smiled at Pete. “It’s possible she’s still hiding in there right now. I’ll go check.”
Chapter Eleven
Ducking beneath the crime scene tape, I entered the PM unit to find Merrill Monroe inventorying the property in each man’s cell. A light sheen of sweat covered his dark brown skin and glistened in the light when he moved. He held a clipboard with one hand and a pen in the other, and his massive biceps stretched the short sleeves of his light brown uniform as he worked.
“‘S up?” he said, looking up from his clipboard.
“Not the life-expectancy of PM inmates.”
One of my favorite people on the planet, Merrill Monroe was the best friend I’d ever had. Our friendship had been forged over two decades of being outsiders in our own homes and town. Though we’d known each other nearly all our lives, and his mom had kept me for a while when I was a child, it wasn’t really until early adolescence that we gravitated toward each other—neither of us fitting in with the rednecks, thugs, geeks, or jocks.
“You haven’t seen an exotic woman in civilian clothes hiding out down here have you?”
“Exotic women don’t hide from me.”
“What I’ve heard.”
“What’s her story?” he asked.
“Priest said he saw one last night.”
“And you think she’s still down here?”
“Not really. Mind if I look around?”
“It’s your crime scene,” he said with a smile. “I just work here.”
I walked slowly around the quad, the events of last night drifting up from my subconscious—fractured images, out of sync and sequence, flickering in the dark theater of my mind.
I saw Justin Menge walk from the quad door to his cell. Heard the electronic buzz and metallic pop of the lock. Saw him walk in. Heard the cell door clang closed behind him. Saw his blood seeping out from beneath the cell door.
How? How could I’ve seen and heard all that? But I had. I knew I had.
Justin Menge had died alone in a locked cell. How could it be murder? But it was.
I became aware of being stared at, and looked up through the inside glass wall of the quad and into the wicker beyond to see the day-shift officer eyeing me suspiciously.
I waved to him.
He returned my wave and went back to work.
Michael Pitts had been up there—well, some of the time—with a better view than anyone involved. Had he seen more than he had let on?
In addition to Pitts’ God’s-eye view, Potter, Daniels, Father McFadden, and I were right here in the quad. The killer took an awful chance committing the crime when he did. Why? Was it the risk that excited him? Was this crime as much about how he did it as who he killed?
Walking over to Justin’s cell, I stood staring at the bloodstained floor. How had his blood wound up in one place and his body in another? Was there religious significance to the crime as the flyer suggested or was that just a cover?
Glancing over at Chris Sobel’s cell, I thought again about how suspiciously he’d acted—coming to Mass late, shoeless, taking so long to get his shoes that he missed most of the service. Had Pitts really not unlocked his cell door? No one was closer to Justin—physically or emotionally.
I became aware of Merrill standing beside me. At six feet, I wasn’t a small person, but standing next to Merrill I felt like one. And it wasn’t that he towered over me. He was only a few inches taller than I was. And it wasn’t his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and enormous muscles. It was his presence. His strength—not limited to his physique—was palpable.
“Got it figured out yet?” he asked.
I smiled and shook my head. “So many problems to work out.”
“Like what?”
“Like the procedures Pitts and Potter followed—well, failed to follow—are they involved or are they really that incompetent? Why do it when we’re all down here? Must’ve wanted an audience, but why? And how did Menge, Martinez, and Hawkins wind up in the same quad? Was that just an oversight? Not to mention I can’t figure out for sure how it was done.”
“Whatta Martinez and Hawkins got to do with it?”
I told him.
“I’m surprised Daniels ain’t arranged for Martinez to slip in the shower and fall on a shank o
r something. Mike Hawkins is Howard’s son?”
“You know the esteemed sheriff of Pine County?”
He nodded. “Menge may’ve been innocent after all.”
My eyebrows arched.
“Just ‘cause it usually a person of color Howard be fuckin’ over, don’t mean he don’t know how to do it to a white boy.”
Merrill’s speech patters confounded most people. He was capable of nearly flawless formal register and pitch perfect rural South Ebonics, and he shifted between them effortlessly, often to punctuate a point or to be funny, but occasionally for no discernable reason at all.
“So he’s not down with the brothers?” I asked.
He shook his head. “More into keepin’ a brother down.”
“How well you know him?”
“We’ve had a run-in a time or two. Wouldn’t mind renewing our association. He’s got that whole absolute power, absolute corruption thing goin’. Small county. Do what the hell he want. Never been caught doin’ shit—how the hell he let his son get caught?”
I shrugged.
“To make sure when Menge got out it in a bag?”
“Could be.”
“How the hell they both wind up in PM?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
We were quiet a moment.
“Why they got you searching the cells?” I asked.
“You know,” he said with an elaborate shrug and an attempt at nonchalance.
Because of an investigation he had helped me with last spring, Merrill’s correctional career had stalled. He was paying the price for something I did, but what bothered me even more was that Merrill not only accepted but expected it. Injustice was part of his existence. It was his world view, forged in the fires experience, hammered into him day after day by a nation that dared to affirm his equality with a straight face.
“Sorry,” I said.
He shook his head.
I gestured toward the quad. “Found anything interesting yet? Anything out of the ordinary?”
He looked down at his clipboard. “Sobel’s missing his boots and a shirt.”
I nodded as I thought about it.
“A clue?”
“Just might be,” I said. “Menge missing anything?”
The Body and the Blood Page 7
