“Not the inmates in cells?” Sandy asked.
She shook her head.
“Do you object to me crossing my name off the list?” I asked.
She smiled and shook her head.
“Am I on here as a victim or a suspect?” Sandy asked.
“I’m sorry,” Lisa said. “I wasn’t even thinking. I’ll need to take the other victims off before we go any further. Give me those and let me redo the list.”
She held out her hand.
“We’ve looked at these a good bit already,” I said. “If you take them off now, chances are we’ll notice that they’re missing. The only way to ensure their anonymity is to just leave them on.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should’ve thought about that before. I was just in such a hurry.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I just appreciate you doing it.”
We spent the next hour or so going through the list line by line, examining inmate files, discussing the staff we each knew well. When we were finished, we had narrowed our list to a dozen inmates.
“I really don’t think we should exclude staff,” Sandy said. “I see a few names on here—like Shane—that … I don’t know. I just think we need to look real hard at staff too.”
“We will,” I said. “But we’ve got to start somewhere. And since he uses a shank …”
He nodded. “So of these who do we start with?”
I glanced at the list again.
“Ronnie Taunton,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-five
Ronnie Taunton, an inmate orderly assigned to Medical, was a stocky white man of a little over five and a half feet with pale skin and bushy mouse-brown hair. He was quiet in a creepy way. A loner. Intelligent. He was serving time for aggravated assault, but on more than one occasion had been accused, arrested for, but never convicted of, rape.
His white meant-to-be-loose inmate uniform was stretched tightly over the large frame of his muscular body. His smile, on the rare occasion he flashed it, was wolfish, and if the dull eyes behind his big black glasses were windows to his soul, he either didn’t have one or the one he had was as vacuous as dark matter in a black hole.
I found him mopping the back hallway of Medical outside the infirmary. I had come alone. Lisa has suggested that I might get more out of him this way, and there was no way I was going to let Sandy interview someone who might possibly be the monster who had scarred him for the rest of his life.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
He stopped mopping and raised up.
“Hey, Chaplain,” he said. “How are you?”
“Good,” I said. “You?”
He shrugged.
Expecting me to pass by like I normally did, he began to mop again, but stopped when he noticed I was still standing there.
The tile floor gleamed—even in the dull, greenish light of the Fluorescents overhead—and didn’t appear to need cleaning.
“You down here playing detective?” he asked.
“Why do you say that?”
“You got the look,” he said. “You always speak, and if any of us got something to say, you’ll stop and listen to us, but when you stop on your own …”
I nodded. “Pretty perceptive,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve thought about it.”
“What else I got to do?”
With his green-and-black prison tats, his hospital-pale skin, and his thick, big-framed glasses, Ronnie Taunton looked like a rapist, and I was trying not to let that have too big an impact on my impression of him.
It wasn’t easy.
“Some people say talkin’ to you’s no different from talking to a cop or CO,” he said.
I laughed. “Not even close. I have very different priorities, a lot less restrictions, and I just help out occasionally. I’m strictly amateur hour.”
Down the hallway not far from where we stood, the suicide cells were empty and dark, their doors slightly ajar, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
“You seen or heard anything strange down here?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
He shrugged. “Always something strange goin’ on. I just try to keep my head down and do my time so I can get out.”
“How much longer you got?”
“Couple a years.”
“What’re you in for?” I asked.
“A misunderstanding.”
“People usually don’t go down for those,” I said.
“This one put the other guy in the hospital.”
I nodded.
We were quiet a moment.
Through the windows of the left wall, I could see that the rows of beds in the infirmary were empty, their bright white sheets and pillow cases crisp and clean.
The infirmary bathroom, like the inmate bathrooms in the dorms, was open, its entrance and stalls as devoid of doors as the inmates were of privacy. From it came the constant monotonous, watery thump of a leaky shower head dripping onto the tile floor.
He leaned in and said in a low voice, “Listen, Chaplain, I see and hear a lot. It’s almost like I’m invisible. But I don’t want to say somethin’ about somethin’ you’re not here about, so why don’t you just tell me what it is and I’ll tell what I know.”
“You’re a helpful guy, aren’t you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Do what I can. ’Specially for a man of the cloth.”
“You religious?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said with a half shrug. “As far as it goes.”
From the break room at the end of the hallway, I heard a can drink dislodge, roll through the machine, and bang out at the bottom. It sounded like a cue ball hitting a pocket and rolling through a pool-table. After a moment a large African-American nurse in a bright pink uniform strolled slowly out of the room with a Coke and a Snickers.
When she had made it past us and through the door at the other end of the hall, I said, “You familiar with Salvador Dalí’s work?”
“Salva-what?” he asked. “She got something to do with something going on down here?”
“What about assaults?” I asked. “You know of any unreported assaults taking place down here?”
“Could you be more specific?” he asked. “All kinds of assaults.”
“Have you heard anyone mention the mark of the beast?” I asked.
He smiled his wolfish grin. “That’s what you’re here about? Some boys being made to butt-fuck themselves? Why didn’t you just say so.”
“I heard it’s a lot more than that,” I said.
He shrugged. “That’s all I’ve heard.”
“Who’d you hear it from?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just around. Here and there.”
I smiled.
Another inmate orderly emerged from the infirmary bathroom, a bottle of cleaning solution in one hand, a white rag in another. Like the nurse, I had no idea he was even in the vicinity, and I was reminded again of how many places there were to hide in this building.
“What can you tell me?” I asked.
“Guy’s very good,” he said. “Seems invisible.”
“You think he’s gay?” I asked.
I knew from his file he had only been accused of raping women and that one of the things he was charged with was a hate crime for assault on a gay couple. If he was the rapist, being reminded his victims were men should trigger him in some way.
“The fuck should I know?”
“Just asking what you think. Why’d it make you so mad?”
“It didn’t,” he said. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me all this.”
“I was told you were a guy who knew things,” I said. “Especially things that happened in Medical.”
“I’m not one of these ignorant assholes around here you can flatter into telling you what you want to know,” he said.
I nodded. “Anything else you’re willing to tell me?”
&nbs
p; He smiled. “Sure,” he said, “but you won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I know you think I’m the one doing it, but I’m not. You made the faggot comment to try to get me to react, but it didn’t work because it isn’t me. Got no interest in any part of a man—least of all his anus.”
I nodded.
“You believe me?”
I shrugged.
“I can make you,” he said.
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
He turned his head and pulled back his collar to reveal the scar on his neck.
“I’m not the beast,” he said. “I just bear his mark.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Rachel and I were back on the river.
Bouncing between the three cases––the escape, the rapes, and the murders––was difficult, and it kept me from gaining a normal rhythm or much momentum, but there wasn’t much I could do about it––especially with my chaplaincy duties and everything I was doing being scrutinized by Matson and Singer. It was as if this entire thing was a complicated offbeat jazz piece. The key was to play it as it arose––not rush it, not drag behind, and to do so I’d have to fight frustration every step of the way. Impatience was the enemy.
Rachel had commandeered a boat from a fellow FDLE agent and was driving us toward Turtle Mason’s houseboat a lot faster than she should.
It had rained recently and the leaves shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, beneath them steam rising off the hot earth. The waters of the Apalachicola seemed clearer and greener, resembling more closely the bay and beyond it the Gulf they were flowing toward than the Chattahoochee and Flint rivers they were flowing from.
As we raced down the wide waterway, I took in the radiant river and felt myself begin to relax, the tension and turmoil in my mind and body being released and carried away, as if washed out to sea.
I took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly, surrendering to my surroundings and a more primal way of being.
Without slowing she turned toward Turtle’s and cut the engine, the boat rising on its own wake and riding it in.
Beyond the sagging crime scene tape the small porch area held several of the aquariums and croaker sacks from inside.
“They say all the snakes are out,” she said.
“Be sure to let me know,” I said.
She punched me in the arm. “I brought you for protection.”
“Why are we here again?” I asked.
“They’re towing it in today.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“I want one more look before it’s moved. No telling what evidence might be lost or destroyed when they do that.”
Lifting the crime scene tape and stepping beneath it, we climbed aboard the boat, each of us careful not to step too close to the croaker sacks.
Pulling a small knife from her pocket, she slit the crime scene tape near the handle and pushed the door open with her foot. Pocketing her knife, she withdrew two pairs of latex gloves and a small flashlight.
“You got anything else in there?” I asked, nodding toward her pocket. “Snake-proof boots? First-aid kit?”
She laughed and handed me a pair of gloves.
We snapped on the gloves and she shined the small light inside.
“Oh, that’s a big help,” I said.
Standing there side by side, I was reminded again of the difference in our height. She was nearly a foot shorter than me but it seemed like more.
“Don’t see anything moving,” she said.
“And with that light you definitely would.”
“Nobody likes a smart ass,” she said.
“I’ve always wondered what it was,” I said.
We stood there looking in for another moment.
“We ready to do this?”
“Sure,” I said, “but there’s no way they got them all.”
We slowly edged our way inside, looking closely, stepping carefully, and began our search.
Much of what had filled the room the first time we were here was now gone. Someone had removed a board from the top of the rear wall to let in more light and we could see more than before.
Most of the aquariums were gone, but the board and cinder block shelves that held them remained. Most of the croaker sacks were gone, but a few still littered the uneven plank floor. The smell of stale smoke still tinged the edges of the air, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been.
In the back left corner of the room, a stack of plastic milk crates facing outward held Turtle’s clothes—faded T-shirts with beer and rock band logos and well-worn blue jeans and cutoffs, the ends frayed. We looked through every crate, but turned up nothing.
“If this were your house,” Rachel said, “where would you hide your JOM?”
I turned and looked down at her. “Where’d you hear that expression?” I asked.
“Jack-off material? I have four older brothers. I’m an investigator with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
I nodded.
“Plus,” she added with a smile, “why would you think I didn’t have some of my own hidden in my house? My brothers never went blind from what they did but I might as well have.”
“Alanis,” I said. “Classic.”
She smiled appreciatively. “You know a lot of shit for a chaplain.”
“I’m not just a chaplain,” I said. “I’m a human being too.”
With the body removed the flies were gone but mosquitos swarmed in and out of the holes in the boards and the spaces between them. Both of us were continually swatting—occasionally slapping ourselves and smearing blood on our cheeks, necks, and hands.
“So back to my question,” she said. “Where would you—”
“Where would you?” I asked. “You’re the only one present who’s admitted to having any.”
“You’ve studied autoerotic asphyxiation,” she said. “How many cases of accidental death caused by it involved women?”
“Good point. Somewhere hidden but easy to get to. Of course if it wasn’t anything more explicit than a Victoria’s Secret catalog, it wouldn’t have to be hidden—speaking of which, did the one he was using have a shipping label on it?”
She shook her head. “It had been torn off.”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at her.
She nodded. “Suspicious, huh?”
“Any way to trace the catalog without the label?”
She shook her head.
“Anything helpful from the prelim?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. His injuries aren’t inconsistent with accidental strangulation.”
I nodded and frowned.
“So,” she said again, “back to my question.”
“Give me a minute to look around,” I said. “Did the techs find anything?”
She shook her head.
“What about other possible nooses?”
“Not a single one,” she said.
“Why don’t you look for them while I look for the other stuff?” I asked.
“What if I pick one up only to find out it’s a snake?”
“Apologize and put it down,” I said.
We each began our respective searches but always in close proximity to one another.
“Shouldn’t we spread out?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The stuff’s probably all together. Besides, I know how freaked out you are by this place.”
It took a while but we finally found what we were looking for—a small door in the floor beneath one of his homemade shelves. When we opened it, we discovered a plastic container nailed to the bottom of the boat. It held Turtle’s valuables—some cash, a few keys, a couple of family photographs, a few documents, and his porn.
Evidently Turtle liked his women big, big breasted, and hairy. He had quite a collection, and if what was in the hidden crate was what did it for him, Victoria held no secret that would.
“The killer underestimated Turtle,” she said.
I smiled and nodded.
“Going from material this explicit to an underwear catalog would be like going from actual intercourse back to upstairs outsidesies.”
“Upstairs outsidesies?”
She smiled. “And you know what that means,” she said.
“Old Turtle was murdered.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The small, sterile room was dim and quiet, only the sounds of Mom’s labored breathing and the hum of the air conditioner keeping it from complete silence.
It was late. I was tired. But unable to sleep.
Continuing to be concerned about the state of my spiritual life, I was still making my way through Thomas Moore’s Dark Nights of the Soul again, hoping that’s all this was, and not how I would be fated to live out the rest of my sentence. I was reading about what Moore says are the links between creativity, spirituality, and struggles, and the need the deep soul has for the darker beauty of our existence.
I found his words soothing, his encouragement to give in to this Saturn state comforting, but my mind continued to drift, pulling me back again and again to the recent events I was searching for a brief reprieve from.
Eventually I closed the book and stood up. Rubbing my eyes and stretching, I walked over to the window and looked out.
It was a dark night. Small pools of light beneath street lamps dotting the darkness, illuminating only the limited area directly under them. The hot night’s humidity clung to everything, leaving a damp sheen that glistened like early morning’s dew-covered grass.
Standing there looking out at the darkness, seeing both it and a faint reflection of myself in the window, I thought about what it would be like not to have a mom.
We weren’t close. She hadn’t been a big part of my life for a long time. She wasn’t someone I relied on in any way, but the thought of not having her was nearly unbearable.
There was no way to know what the loss of her would be like, how it would impact me, the residual and lasting effects it would have on my life. How much would I miss her? How raw would her death leave me, how vulnerable and exposed her utter and complete and final absence?
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