Rivers to Blood

by Michael Lister

  “A camp. Houseboat. May belong to this guy.”

  “So you think it’s possible?” she asked.

  I nodded. “No one expected him to escape.”

  “And if it’s not him?”

  “Somebody with a boat,” I said.

  “That’s half the population around here,” she said.

  We were quiet for a moment.

  Eventually she said, “Could be the brother or father of the white girl he was dating.”

  She was right. It could be.

  FDLE had lowered the body so that the feet were just above the ground and were now studying and photographing it. As bad as the body had looked hanging high above the ground, it looked even worse now. In addition to the bloodless cuts and gashes in the gray and bloated skin around the head and chest, everything was swollen to grotesque proportions.

  “I hate to be the one to point this out,” she said, “but shouldn’t his hands be covering his genitals?”

  I took a closer look at the body.

  She was right. His bound hands would have covered most of his swollen genitals if they had been allowed to fall naturally. Instead, the killer had tied a length of rope around his neck to the one binding his hands so that they rested higher on his body than they normally would.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “Think it’s intentional?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  We were quiet for another moment, each of us looking at the atrocity inflicted on this man.

  “Any Klan around here?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t exactly be on their mailing list.”

  She laughed.

  “There may not be an organized Klan,” I said, “but there’s plenty of Klanishness.”

  “Klanishness?” she said.

  I nodded.

  It was difficult to tell from here, but it appeared that the front of the victim’s body held the faint purplish tint of fixed lividity. The body had suffered so much trauma and was so swollen, we might not ever know for sure.

  “You dating anybody?” she asked without looking at me.

  I shook my head. “Not at the moment.”

  “You still hung up on what’s-her-name? The lawyer’s wife?”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “FDLE bitches,” she said. “Are you?”

  “Trying not to be,” I said. “But so far they haven’t come out with a patch for that.”

  “If you want to go out sometime,” she said, “just for fun or some amazing sex … let me know.”

  “How amazing?” I asked.

  She laughed.

  As inappropriate as it was, I was grateful for the diversion. I really needed it at the moment and suspected she did too.

  “You often ask guys out at crime scenes?”

  “Not just guys,” she said. “And if I didn’t I’d never get laid. It’s sort of like being an actor on location.”

  I nodded. “So what’re you doing Friday night?”

  She looked up at me. “Really?”

  “You like Cajun food?”

  She nodded. “Love it.”

  Dad walked over to us.

  “How long will it take you to solve this thing little lady?” he said to Rachel.

  “Hoping to have it wrapped up by Friday,” she said. “Got plans Friday night.”

  He looked at me. “Can you believe this?”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t want this to be my last case,” he said.

  “It won’t be,” Rachel said. “We’ll clear this in no time and give you all the credit. You’ll win by a landslide.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Positive,” she said, “and I’m never wrong.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Aren’t you the one who thought John was guilty of assaulting and raping that inmate’s wife?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You think it was racially motivated?” Anna asked.

  I shrugged. “Hard not to.”

  She nodded.

  “Can’t imagine he’d’ve been hanging from a tree if he were white,” I added.

  Off for the past few days, Anna had stopped by the chapel on her first day back to find me in the sanctuary unsuccessfully attempting to meditate.

  The sanctuary was dim, its only illumination the morning sunlight streaming in the exterior door on the side and the few candles I had lit on the altar.

  Finding it far easier to deal with my feelings for her when I didn’t see her, Anna and I hadn’t spent nearly as much time together lately as we had in the past. I hadn’t avoided her exactly, but I hadn’t sought her out like I normally did either.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s probably set race relations back fifty years around here.”

  “And they were already at least that far back to begin with,” I said.

  “What did Merrill say?” she asked.

  “It bothered him more than anything I’ve seen in a long time—just the idea of it. He didn’t even go to the scene. Didn’t even see it and––”

  “And now everybody has,” she said.

  Several area papers had run a color photo from the crime scene on the front page above the fold that showed in detail the horror of what had happened.

  “It would’ve been bad enough if everyone just heard about it,” she said, “but to actually see a picture …”

  I nodded.

  “How’d they get it?” she asked.

  “My guess?” I said. “Someone running against Dad.”

  She shook her head.

  It could have just been the flicker of the candlelight or the dimness of the room, but Anna looked pale, her eyes hollow, large dark circles beneath them.

  “Do you think things will ever get better?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Our generation is far less racist than our parents’. From what I’ve seen of Carla and her friends, their’s is better than ours. But there’s still so much beneath the surface. We’ve got a hell of a long way to go. And there will always be ignorant, hateful holdouts.”

  She shook her head. “Some people are so militant about it. I wonder if it’ll ever get better.”

  “The militant racists are like religious fundamentalists,” I said. “They’re reacting to the change they see. It scares them. We’ll always have them, but they’re in the minority—which is why they’re so desperate.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “You’re usually not this optimistic.”

  I smiled.

  I always felt more optimistic when I was with Anna, as if the world that was meant to be was still possible.

  “I’m not sure what it is,” I said, “but I feel suddenly inspired.”

  “Must be your morning prayers.”

  I looked at her and smiled again, our eyes locking for a long moment.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  Tears formed in her eyes and she attempted to blink them back. When they crested, she wiped at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She started to say something, but stopped.

  “Are you okay?”

  She stood. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Anna.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m just being silly. Really. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I stood and moved toward her. When I reached out for her, she shook her head and backed away.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her voice stronger, her tears and sniffles stopping suddenly.

  The back doors of the chapel opened and I turned to see the warden walk in with who could only be my new staff chaplain.

  He had the permed hair, pinched look that said Pentecostal preacher. At least twenty years my senior, he had large, ovalish glasses, a lot of loose skin, a couple of extra chins, and a gut that tumbled down over his belt.

  Walking out quickly, Anna passed them halfway down the cent
er aisle.

  “Mrs. Rodden,” the warden said, emphasizing the fact that she was married, though Rodden wasn’t her married name.

  “Ms.,” she said, nodding toward them, but not slowing down.

  When the two men reached me, the warden said, “Every time I come in here there’s a woman leaving.”

  “All both times,” I said.

  “John Jordan,” he said, ignoring me, “this is Chaplain Daniel Singer, the best chaplain I’ve ever had the privilege of working with.”

  I extended my hand and Singer’s shot out to meet it aggressively. Though his grip was tight, his pumps violent, his hands were soft and clammy, which sabotaged the statement he was trying to make.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Welcome.”

  “Praise God, brother, it’s good to here,” he said.

  “I know you two have a lot to talk about,” the warden said, “but I need to see Chaplain Jordan for a moment. Dan, why don’t you take a look around the chapel?”

  “Sounds good,” Singer said, and moved off in the direction of the kitchen in the back.

  Before he was out of earshot, the warden said, “Just what the hell’re you doing?”

  I immediately straightened and stiffened, my entire being growing wary and defensive.

  “You know how it looks for you to be in here with a married woman with all the lights off?”

  “All depends on who’s looking,” I said.

  He started to say something, but stopped, pursed his lips tightly, frowned, and shook his head. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is I keep hearing you’re still playing detective even though I told you not to do anything but be the best damn chaplain you can be.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  This seemed to make him even more angry.

  “Consider this your final warning,” he said. “If I find out that you’re continuing to investigate instead of preach, you’ll be able to be a full-time investigator somewhere else.”

  Hovering near the back of the sanctuary, Singer seemed to sense that it was time for him to rejoin us. When he did, the warden patted him on the back and said, “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you here.” Turning to me, he said, “Chaplain, there’s a lot you can learn from this man. I hope you’ll take advantage of this opportunity.”

  Looking down in what seemed to me to be false humility, Singer said, “Well, I’m just a humble servant of the Lord, but I am still on fire just as much after all these years. I’ve got a burden for souls, brother. A burden for souls. We might not keep these men out of prison, but by God we’ve got to keep them out of hell.”

  Speaking of hell. I had just been dropped into it.

  I couldn’t believe what was happening. This was even worse than I had imagined it could be.

  I shook my head, laughed to myself, and said, “Should I go ahead and start cleaning out my desk?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As usual, the kitchen of PCI was hot and humid, its damp air thick with the unappetizing smells of processed food, old grease, sweat, sour body odor, and commercial insecticide. Perhaps because of its association with food, I found it to be the most unpleasant place on the compound. It wasn’t a place I frequented often, and I never stayed any longer than I absolutely had to.

  I had come on this hot August afternoon to see an inmate known as Dil. Most inmates had nicknames. Few fit as well as this one. Named for the character Jaye Davidson played in The Crying Game, Dil was easily the prettiest, most feminine man I had ever seen.

  Dil had many admirers and lovers on the compound, and I was sure one of them worked in the barber shop. Dil did not have a typical inmate buzz cut botch job. Longer than regulation, which meant her admirers weren’t limited to inmates, her curly hair was cut stylishly, even lovingly, and accentuated her beauty.

  I found her bent over a large pan of cinnamon rolls on an enormous industrial stainless steel table. A tub of thin white icing in one hand, a dull rubber butter knife in the other, she was busy slathering each roll with an abundance of the sugary paste.

  When she saw me, her seductive, slightly sad eyes widened and she smiled.

  “Hey, Chaplain,” she said in her most flirty voice. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been keepin’ your fine self?”

  “How are you Dil?”

  “Be better if you give me a job in the chapel,” she said.

  “From what I hear they can’t do without you down here.”

  “Same would soon be true if I worked up there, honey. And I guarantee your church attendance would go up.”

  I laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

  She was leaning over in such a way that her small backside was sticking out, and she wiggled it often as she shifted her weight from side to side.

  “The lady shrink said you might stop by,” she said. “I told her you could come by and see me anytime.”

  DeLisa Lopez had called me earlier in the afternoon and told me that Dil had information about the rapist and was willing to talk.

  “I appreciate that,” I said.

  Beneath her wavy black hair, Dil’s mocha skin was smooth and flawless. Her long lashes were coated with small amounts of mascara, her lids with a light dusting of purplish eyeshadow. Though contraband required to be confiscated if found, she always managed to have makeup. It was rumored to belong to the wife of an officer she was giving blow jobs to.

  “Whatta you wanna know?” she asked, putting down the bowl of icing and tossing the knife into it.

  “Do we have an active serial rapist at work around here?”

  She nodded. “A real rough boy. Prolific prick too. Lots of men around here carry his mark.”

  “His mark?”

  She tilted her head back and put her small balled-up fist at the top of her neck below her left ear. “He holds a shank to their neck while he does it. Always cuts ’em a little bit, but if they squirm or squeal he cuts ’em bad. The pound’s full of punks he’s done turned out.”

  “And they all have a scar right under their jaw line?”

  She nodded.

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “You’d be surprised what the men ’round here confide in me,” she said. “Guess I’m just easy to talk to.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I was just about to tell you all my secrets.”

  She laughed. “Chaplain, you ain’t got no secrets.”

  “Everybody has secrets. You should know that.”

  She smiled. “I was thinking maybe everybody but you.”

  I laughed. “They tell you anything else?”

  She nodded. “Lots.”

  “Does he do the same thing to everybody?”

  She nodded again. “He attacks them from behind, beats them bad on their body beneath their clothes, puts a hood of some sort around their head and a shank to their throat. He only whispers so you don’t ever really hear his voice. They say he’s all calm and shit. Tells them he gonna slit their throat and fuck ’em while they bleed to death if they yell for help or try to get away, but if they cooperate it’ll be over soon and they’ll live. Then he pulls down their pants and makes them rape themselves.”

  “How so?”

  “He spits on their finger and makes them … you know … rape themselves with it,” she said. “Sometimes he makes them insert an object of some kind. Everything that happens he makes them do to themselves.”

  A painting I’d seen somewhere by Salvador Dalí drifting up from my subconscious popped into my head and I tried to recall the title. I couldn’t quite remember, but it was something like “Young Woman Autosodomized by Her Own…” something maybe. I would have to remember to pull down one of the books I have of his work and look it up later.

  “You know of anybody it’s happened to who’ll talk to me?” I asked.

  “You know which cons’ll talk to you,” she said. “Just look for the telltale scars.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After leaving the kitche
n, I decided to see if the inmate library had a book of Salvador Dalí’s work. I was anxious to see it and didn’t want to wait until I got home. On my way I ran into Merrill, who had been called in on his day off.

  “What I get for answerin’ my damn phone,” he said, shaking his head.

  We were standing near the educational building across from the laundry. All around us, inmates were moving about—a steady stream flowing to and from Medical, Psychology, the chapel, and the library. Those assigned to inside grounds were sweeping the asphalt road that ran the length of the compound and the sidewalks to either side of it, while others were kneeling around the rows of flowers in between them—pruning, weeding, and replanting.

  “We operating at critical?” I asked.

  Each shift had critical limits it was not allowed to operate below. When personnel dropped beneath that number, an officer who was told he was needed, could lose his job if he didn’t report for duty—even if he had just completed the shift he was assigned to.

  “You haven’t heard? They scared there might be a riot.”

  “Over what?”

  “The hanging nigger on the front page of the paper,” he said. “They made sure none of today’s papers got on the ’pound, but some of the inmates on the outside work crews saw one and are already sayin’ they’s gonna be an uprising. They called a bunch of us in to be here when the work squads come back in this evening.”

  “To discourage the uprising?” I said, smiling.

  “Stomp the shit out of it was the word I got,” he said.

  Of the many officers passing us on their way down to the compound, a handful were dressed in the special uniforms of the riot squad. Todd Sears and Shane Bryant were among them. In addition to search and rescue and the riot squad, they were also both on the pistol team. Had the prison not been built in Pottersville they may very well be doing time somewhere, but as it was they were well paid to do things they loved.

  As they rushed by they waved to us, Shane yelling to Merrill, “Ready to crack some skulls?”

  When they had passed by, he shook his head. “They love this soldier shit. Redneck take any opportunity to beat a nigger.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. Something was bothering Merrill—and it wasn’t just the normal pain of being a smart, sensitive man of color living in the deep South.