Michael Lister - Blood of the Lamb

“I stepped into the office and closed the door. I then knelt beside her and checked her pulse, though it was purely academic. There was no question that the battered body before me was lifeless.

“Reaching into the garbage can next to my desk, I withdrew part of a plastic sandwich bag and used it to pick up the receiver and punch in the security emergency number.

“Within seconds, security officers poured into the chapel and helped Coel quiet the crowd of unruly and upset inmates, a few of whom had gathered around Bobby Earl and Bunny and had begun to pray for them.

“In a matter of minutes, the chapel was empty of inmates, and only Coel, myself, and the Caldwells remained. I helped them up off the floor and onto the front pew where they sat in silence, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I stepped back into my office to look around when the trauma support team’s first responders ushered the Caldwells out of the chapel.

“Then I heard a sound like someone attempting to open the door, which was followed by a quick knock and I looked up to see the institutional inspector, Pete Fortner, through the glass pane in the door that opened in from the hall. I noted that the door was locked. The inspector came in. You know the rest.”

Through the moist window behind Pete, I could see that the small group of officers standing in front of the control room were laughing and cutting up like this was any other day. Their insensitivity and the inappropriateness of their actions enraged me, and I had the urge to go out and pick a fight with them so they could beat me up.

“Did you notice anything unusual at the crime scene?” he asked. “Or on or about the victim?”

The victim .

I thought about Nicole again-saw her drawing, pictured her wide smile, heard her small voice.

“The corner of something sticking out from underneath her left side.”

“Any idea what it was?” he asked.

“A greeting card, I think. I give them out to the inmates each month. There was a stack on my desk at the time of… the murder. I assume they’re still there.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Over on the floor under the window was what looked to be a small pink marble.”

“Do you know what it was?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Could it have been a piece of candy?”

I thought about it. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it could’ve.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good… Had you worked with the Caldwells before?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t know them. Still don’t, not really. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV a time or two, but Mr. Stone set up this program. I wasn’t notified about it until the day it was scheduled to take place.”

“So you had nothing to do with the program?”

“Nothing.”

“Why were you there?”

“Just checking in on them,” I said. “When a program’s being conducted by someone I don’t know, I try to stop by. And since this service had the unprecedented dimension of having a child involved…”

“Did you disturb anything at the crime scene?”

I shook my head. “Just what I told you. I closed the door, felt for a pulse, and used the phone.”

“Thank you,” he said. He then switched off both recording devices and sat back down. “So what the hell really happened?”

“The warden approved an ex-offender and a minor to enter the institution without going through the proper procedure or providing adequate security,” I said, “and the minor got killed.”

“While in a locked room by herself,” he added.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Was there anybody in the room when you went in?”

I shook my head. “The only places to hide are the bathroom and under the desk,” I said. “I checked both.”

“And?”

“And there was a killer, but I failed to mention it until now,” I said, the sarcasm in my voice harsh and angry.

“Jeez,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just… I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “I know I ask stupid questions,” he said. “But I’m lost. I don’t even know where to begin.”

I nodded my understanding without saying anything.

“So,” he said, “tell me where to begin.”

“With the parents,” I said. “Their statements. And any physical evidence gathered off them or from the scene.”

He looked as though I were speaking a language he didn’t understand. “You suspect them?” he said at last.

“Of course, “ I said. “You know the drill, it could be anyone, but statistically they’re far more likely to have done it than anyone else. Plus, they were the only ones-that we know of anyway-who were in there alone with her.”

He fell quiet for a long time.

When I let my weary eyes fall shut, I pictured Nicole sitting at the end of the table coloring with the passion of an artist, her small fingers curled around the crayon. Is she your girlfriend? Chips don’t have chocolate. You’re silly. We’ll pray for you, Chaplain JJ.

“They were treated as victims-grieving parents, not suspects,” he said. “They weren’t checked for evidence. Hell, we didn’t even make them give statements.”

Suddenly, I no longer had the strength to hold my head up, and it fell into my hands.

“Maybe I need a new job,” he said.

“Have you considered the Boulder Police Department?” I said.

A former football coach at Pottersville high school, Pete had no previous investigative experience. Like many locals, he saw the building of the prison in our area as the best job opportunity he was likely to ever have. His only qualifications for the job were a losing season and a county commissioner cousin.

“But she was like a zombie,” he said. He then shook his head and sat in silence for a long time before saying, “My case is over before it began. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can still get a statement from them,” I said.

“The governor issued them a personal apology for not protecting their daughter while they were our guests,” he said.

“Still has to be done,” I said. “But you could start with the inmates.”

“What inmates?”

“The ones who went out in the hall that night during the time Nicole was in my office,” I said. “We know only Bobby Earl and Bunny went in the door from the sanctuary, but what about the hallway door?”

“It was locked,” he said.

We were quiet a moment, then he lowered his voice and said, “We found a stack of hundred dollar bills near the body.”

“What?” I asked, the surprise obvious in my voice. Money wasn’t something you saw much of in prison.

“Yeah,” he said. “They were under your desk. It looks like they may’ve been knocked off along with a greeting card and some papers during the struggle.”

“I don’t see how,” I said. “I don’t keep hundreds on my desk.”

“You think someone was paid to kill her?” he asked.

“Then decided to do it for free and left the money?” I asked.

“Maybe they just didn’t see it. It appeared to have been in an envelope. Some of the bills still were. It was a lot of money.”

I was silent a moment, thinking about what he had said and its implications.

“We’re pretty much finished here,” he said. “If you want to go, you can.”

“Have you taken Coel’s statement?” I asked.

“It’s next,” he said. “You wanna sit in on it?”

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” I said, “he was the only one in the whole building who could see both of my office doors at the same time.”

Before Fortner could begin his interview, Edward Stone barged in and began firing questions at Coel. In stark contrast to his normal immaculate appearance, he looked ragged and unkempt, on edge. His eyes were bloodshot beneath drooping lids, and his countenance was that of an old and weary man.