Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“Son of a bitch,” Merrill said in disgust. “He sat there and watched the whole thing-like the fool who filmed Rodney King getting the shit kicked out of him by some Cracker cops-and didn’t do a damn thing about it.”

“There’s more,” I said. “Look just over his right shoulder.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said again. Standing just behind Skipper in the doorway to the caustic storage room was Allen Jones, the inmate orderly. “Jones.”

“Uh huh.”

“Why would Skipper record them doing that rather than cracking their skulls?”

“Because Maddox would pay mucho dinero for something like that,” I said. “Plus, he can use it against them.”

“He’s one sick bastard.”

“And then some,” I said, “but he didn’t kill those inmates and Maddox.”

“No? Who did then?”

“Who had the motive to kill them? Only Strickland,” I said, but I was wrong.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. “I’m going to have a little chat with Sandy Strickland,” I said. “Her shift is just getting started.”

“You want me to come along?” Merrill asked.

“There’s no need. I think I can handle her,” I said. “Remember, you’re not the only badass around here who’s had defensive tactics training.”

Seeing her die haunts me still.

The veil of darkness covering the compound seemed spiritual as much as natural. I was alone in that darkness. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was in the darkness or if the darkness was in me. I had entered the institution just a few minutes before to the amazement of the control room officer, who asked why everybody was working so late tonight. I told him that duty called and that I would be in the infirmary. He said, “Ten-four.” And then I asked him who else was working late tonight.

He responded, “That tall, pretty classification officer. Medical called her in on an emergency transfer.”

Immediately my heart started racing. I jerked my entire body around and quickly scanned the parking lot with my eyes. In about ten seconds, to my horror, they locked on her car.

Why had she come? Hadn’t I warned her? God, please let her still be alive.

The noise and movement of inmates and officers during the day was replaced by an eerie silence and the lonely stillness of night. I quickly walked to the medical building. The officer’s desk was vacant. I walked past the nurses’ station to find one elderly nurse dozing with her head on the counter.

I continued toward the infirmary to find that there was no officer in the infirmary control room either. I walked through the control room and discovered that there were no sick inmates in the infirmary, which explained why there was no need for an officer.

When I walked into the infirmary, I saw Sandy Strickland sitting alone on an exam stool beside one of the beds. Her upper body was slumped down on the bed, her right hand extended, rubbing the bed gently. I could hear her crying from the moment I entered the room. Between sobs she said a single word: “Tony.”

As I approached, she must have heard my footsteps. She jerked up, looked puzzled, and began wiping her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

“I just came from viewing a videotape of what Thomas and Johnson did to you here in this very room.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said nervously. “What video? What do you mean?”

“I mean Skipper recorded a video of Thomas and Johnson’s attack on you.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound outraged, but her voice broke, and she began to cry.

“Skipper got it all on videotape, so there’s no point in denying it,” I said.

“That son of a bitch,” she said, expressing the same sentiment that Merrill had. And then it hit her. “Oh, my God, he could have stopped it. That sick bastard.” She was silent as she contemplated what he had done to her. Her face expressed the horror of what she was experiencing. After a long time she said, “Why?”

I couldn’t answer that question.

She cried.

I was trying to be gentle and patient with her. I had to keep reminding myself that she was a murderer. “I think I know why you killed them, but I still don’t understand why you just didn’t turn them in. They would’ve been punished.”

“I didn’t want Anthony to be punished. I loved him. I just wanted to free him from that nigger inmate and that fat bastard banker’s grip. They turned Tony into a monster. He used to be so gentle and kind. They took that away from him. He never made love to me again,” she said and began to cry even more. After crying for about two minutes, her face turned hard and bitter. “He would only fuck me after they sunk their claws in him. They gave him AIDS.”

“What?” I asked in shock.

“Yeah, me too. It’s just a matter of time for me anyway. I’m dying. You’re not. They gave it to me, not you.”

“But you said . . .”

“I know, but I had just found out, and I was so angry, and I knew you were looking into what had happened. So . . .”

“So you lied to me.”

“Yes, I blamed you. I blame everybody at this fucking place.”

“You didn’t blame Skipper for what happened to Anthony?” I asked.

“Yeah, I blame him the most. He’s hard to get to though, but eventually I will.”

“No you won’t,” I said. “I’ve got to turn you in.”

She looked at me with pure rage. “Of course you do, you’re a man, aren’t you? All you pricks stick together, when you’re not sticking each other,” she said as the bitterness and guile spewed out of her mouth. “Sick pricks, everyone of you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I loved him. He was different. You should understand that, you’re a preacher. I’d do it all over again for him. I loved him.”

“Then why did you kill him?” I asked, but what I was thinking was, I don’t have AIDS. I’m going to live-a little longer, anyway. Thank you. I’m sorry for being so angry with you. Please forgive me.

She looked confused. “I loved him,” she yelled. “I didn’t kill him. I killed those other buttfuckers to protect him. I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, the courts will have to decide that.”

“The hell they will. You won’t turn me in. I’ve got that bitch from classification that you’re in love with. I’ll kill her. I’ll slice her open, you prick,” she yelled.

She spun around on her stool to face the bed behind her, pulling off the sheet in one fluid motion.

On the bed behind her, Anna was bound and gagged. Her eyes, filled with tears, expressed the terror she was experiencing. For one brief moment, when our eyes met, there was a quick flash of relief. But that soon changed when Sandra Strickland pulled out a scalpel from her pocket and placed it at Anna’s throat.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Strickland asked. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have her when I’m finished. You know, a little souvenir. A forget-me-not. I won’t be around, but I bet you’ll think of me every time you see her. You think she’ll be as pretty in death as she is in life?

I want to cut her. I want to slice her open,” she said her voice becoming that of a sadistic child.

“No, Sandy. Don’t. I’ll do whatever you want. I won’t tell anybody. Just let her live. Take me. Cut me instead. I’m a man. I know you’d rather cut a man, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” she said excitedly, and as she did she pressed the knife too hard against Anna’s throat. As Anna began to scream, muffled by her gag, blood started pouring out of a small opening on the right side of her neck.