Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“It is a different world, but you’s a quick study, boss.”

“Yeah, I’ve certainly proven to be lightning quick so far.”

“You doin’ okay. Got a lot of people talkin’. Something or somebody goin’ to snap. Just keep pourin’ on the heat, puttin’ on the pressure, and eventually the cooker gonna explode.”

“The very fact that people know I am investigating lets you know how poorly I’m doing.”

“Well, it can work to your advantage,” he said, instantly losing his dialect. “Have you rounded up the usual suspects yet?”

“Yes, and the butler did it.”

“He’s black, too, isn’t he?”

“Of course. Come to think of it, there is really only one suspect of African descent.”

“Everybody’s of African descent. We were the first people on Earth.”

“I should have said that there is only one black suspect so far.”

“The nigga’ got a name?”

“Name and a number,” I said. “Allen Jones. Inmate who works in the infirmary. He’s not really a serious suspect. He has no motive that I can see, but he was there and in charge of handling the garbage. He also has access to a typewriter. Most inmates don’t. But Anderson says he didn’t take the trash out on Tuesday. Speaking of which, what can you tell me about Shutt?”

“Not much,” he said. “He’s pretty new. Seems okay. For a white boy, I mean. He a suspect?”

“Yeah. He picked up the trash, and he’s the one who actually did the deed.”

“Shook him up like hell, too, though, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Maybe. Did you ever see Fatal Attraction? ” I asked.

“Did Spike Lee make it, or was Denzel in it?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then, no,” he said as if stating the obvious.

“Well, anyway, it’s about this lady who goes crazy for this married man she had an affair with. Threatens his family-tries to kill them, even boils their pet rabbit. Anyway, for the longest time, I thought Glenn Close, the actress that played the crazy woman, was really crazy-scary, you know. But a few years later, I saw her in another role, and I was convinced that she was a saint. There are some good actors in this world, and they aren’t all in Hollywood.”

“Who else?” he said, shaking his head at my Glenn Close analogy.

“Jacobson, of course.”

“Of course. But do you really think he’s the one?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Not ready to rule him out yet. He’s very smart. And, then there’s Skipper.”

“He’s probably involved somehow. He’s a mean bastard. Bad to the bone, and not in the good way either. Anybody else?” he asked.

“Anybody who was in medical that night-Anderson, Strickland, even Skipper was there. Or anybody else, for all I know.”

“You’ve really narrowed it down, haven’t you?” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Got a motive?”

“Seems to be either sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll. Or something else maybe.”

“You really good at this shit, Sherlock,” he said with a wide grin.

“Aren’t I, though.”

“What about racial? Victim was black and most of your suspects are white. Besides, Jacobson is a full-fledged Nazi.”

“That’s true. See, I really am clueless. There’s something else, too, that I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I all ears, boss,” he said with a big smile.

“All teeth,” I said. “It’s about Anna. I think she might be in danger. I’ve been getting threatening letters and I think they’re about her.”

“Have you told her?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I could tell that she didn’t take it very seriously. Would you help me keep an eye on her?”

He didn’t say anything, but his nod and the expression on his face told me he would.

We were silent for a few minutes. Through the thin chapel walls I could hear a group of inmates having an argument. And, although I couldn’t hear what the argument was about, I could guess. Most of their arguments were about either religion or football. Then I told him about Molly Thomas and her experience with Captain Skipper.

“What do you think of correctional officers?” Merrill asked when I finished my story.

“I think most of them are good people doing a very difficult job with little resources for little pay.”

“You don’t think they’re all like Patterson or Skipper?”

“No, of course not. But, I don’t think they’re all like you either. I know there are very few Skippers or Pattersons in the department-maybe just the two. What concerns me even more is that there are very few Merrill Monroes in the department. The department’s in such a hurry to fill positions that they’re compromising standards.”

“True enough. What’s the solution?” he asked.

“Don’t know. That’s why I’m not very critical. It’s a complex problem that requires a complex solution that’s beyond me.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not? What is it?”

“A complex solution that includes you.”

“Be nice to think so, wouldn’t it,” I said.

Shortly after Merrill left, Mr. Smith brought inmate Jesus Garcia in to see me.

“Chaplain,” he began, “I been serving the Lord now for about six months. I don’t miss church. I really been gettin’ in the Word, you know. Jesus has changed my life. I’m a new creature in Christ. Since I been serving the Lord, I have been so blessed. I stopped having nightmares, and I been treating my wife a lot better. When we talk or write each other, we really get along. We stopped fighting and everything. I will never hit her again.”

“That’s really great,” I said encouragingly.

“Yeah, but, she ain’t saved. I told her that she had to get saved or I could not be with her when I get out.”

I knew where this was going. “How old are you, Garcia?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Is this your first spiritual experience?”

“Yes. I played some religious games before, but I’ve never been, you know, saved before.”

“I see. So, it took twenty-seven years for you to begin your spiritual journey?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And, who made you begin it?”

“Nobody. I mean, I guess God did.”

“That’s right. Nobody and God. And that’s who has to do it for your wife.”

“But, Chaplain, she’s Catholic.”

He whispered the word “Catholic” the way people do “cancer” or “death.”

It never ceases to amaze me how many inmates get a good dose of jailhouse religion and expect their families to get it just like they do. They become obsessive over the minutest details of their chosen faith, and they engage in endless debates and exclude other inmates from their circles if they disagree. It’s probably because they have so much time on their hands, and many of them have severe mental and emotional problems to begin with, but in the words of Jesus, “They strain out a gnat and swallow a camel.”

“There is nothing wrong with being Catholic,” I said. “It is the oldest Christian church on the planet.”

“They’re not Christian. I told you they’re Catholic.”

“Catholicism is one branch of the Christian tree-still the largest, in fact.”

“It’s the harlot spoken of in the Revelation,” he said with a straight face-something I could not return.

“Let me give you a little advice,” I said. “Don’t expect everyone to have the same spiritual experiences that you do or to experience spiritual things in the same way that you have. They will not. God is vast and limitless. There is room in God for all of us, and with our different cultures, backgrounds, families, and individuality, we will all experience God differently. So allow God to move in your wife’s life, and don’t try to force her to experience God in the exact same way you have.”