Michael Lister - Blood of the Lamb

“I wrote some more letters,” he said. “And I got three more back. The one from my sister was great. She said she forgave me and that she really believed I was well.”

I eyed him suspiciously.

“I already wrote her back and told her I’d never be well, and that she should never think that. I shared with her my commitment to recovery and how it’s a lifestyle and not a fix.”

“Good,” I said.

The cell had the sour sweet smell of sweat and cheap cologne. Occasionally a foul odor from the lidless toilet wafted between us, cutting violently through the other odors like a hostile intruder.

“The other letters weren’t so good,” he said. “One said I was a bottom feeder and a robber of innocence, and the other one said I should have my, ah, private parts cut off and crammed down my throat.”

“And?” I asked.

“And I was expecting it,” he said. “It still knocked me for a loop. I mean, I understand their feelings, but… I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you come to my office this afternoon,” I said. “Bring the letters and we’ll talk about them.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Now, whatta you want to know about last night? Let me help you for a change.”

“When did you go to the bathroom?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I just went to get some water. To get out of the service mainly. Bobby Earl was hard for me to take. I just needed a break. I mean, he was so mean-spirited and his solution to everything was an oversimplified formula. You know?”

I nodded.

The huge dorm had an open, airy quality about it outside the cells, the cement floors and high, unfinished ceiling amplifying every sound. It was noisy, but none of the sounds were distinguishable.

“How long were you out there?” I asked.

He shrugged. “About ten minutes,” he said. “Long water break, huh? Like I said, I was stalling. Am I a suspect?”

I nodded.

“I guess I got to expect that,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel any better. Especially having you think it.”

He took a deep breath, dug a fire ball out of his pocket, pinched the clear plastic wrapper between his thumb and forefinger, and popped it in his mouth.

“Want one?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I said.

The hard red candy sold in the canteen was all the rage on the compound, but was way too hot for me. I was convinced something that brought tears to my eyes could not be all that good for my taste buds.

“How much-”

And then it hit me. That was what was on my office floor. It looked like a pink marble, but it was a partially dissolved fire ball.

“What?” he asked.

“How much of the sermon did you hear before you got up?” I asked.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe,” he said. “Couldn’t’ve been much longer than that. He didn’t preach very long, which surprised me.”

“That surprised me, too,” I said. Was it because he was too busy killing his adopted daughter, I wondered. “Did you see anyone else in the hall?”

“Dexter Freeman was hanging around,” he said. “Sort of close to your office door. He was probably trying to get another look at Bunny. A lot of them were.”

“Anyone else?” I asked.

“Mr. Malcolm came in,” he said. “And Cedric Porter.”

“Have you heard anything on the compound since it happened?” I asked.

He nodded. “Everything,” he said. “You know how it is. Rumors’re flying. I’ve heard everything from Bunny to Officer Coel to you did it.”

“Me?”

“That surprise you?”

I shook my head. “Unfortunately,” I said, “nothing much surprises me anymore.”

“A lot of inmates say they’ve been with Bunny before,” he said. “Say she’s got a thing for black men. Used to be pretty wild when she and Bobby Earl first hooked up. Probably not true, but you never know.”

“Anything else?”

“They say Bobby Earl has serious mob money from New Orleans,” he said. “That he had to pay some debts, so he brought Nicole in just to murder her. Say he had a lot of life insurance on her. They say that’s why he preached such a short message. He really came in just long enough to do it. And then left.”

I nodded. “Will you listen out for anything else and let me know what you hear?”

He nodded.

Drifting into the cell with the snippets of inmate conversations that ricocheted off the cinder block walls was the acrid smell of cigarette smoke from the cheap tobacco sold in the canteen. Someone was smoking in his cell, hoping to get a little nicotine in his bloodstream before the dorm officer could determine where it was coming from. Within just a few moments, the inmate conversations bouncing around the dorm halted abruptly as the officer began to yell threats at whoever was stupid enough to smoke in his dorm.

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But a safe bet would be Abdul Muhammin.”

I smiled.

“What is it?” he asked. “I know he’s one of your chapel clerks, but-”

“No, it’s just he said the same thing about you.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice full of surprise and a touch of outrage, but he looked away, nervously averting his eyes from mine. “I wonder why.”

“Had you heard Bobby Earl preach before?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure,” he said, pausing a moment and forcing himself to look at me. “Lots of times-on TV, on tapes, and here about a year and a half, two years ago. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you were familiar with his message and style.”

“Sure,” he said. “He’s so self-righteous, so rigid, so-”

“So you knew what to expect?”

“Yeah,” he said, growing impatient. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, “if you knew what to expect and you didn’t care for it, I’m wondering what your real reason for going was.”

Walking out of G-dorm, I ran into Cedric Porter as he and the other inmates were coming in for the noon count. Porter was about three inches taller than my six feet, and he weighed about one-ninety. He had the height of a basketball player, but the build of a football player, his tall lean body cut with defining lines and rippled with muscles.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said, his voice soft and respectful. “You looking into who killed Nicole?”

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “More than anything in this world, I want her killer caught.”

Although his voice was respectful, his eyes were distrusting, even scared.

“Really,” I said. “Why’s that?”

“Because she was…” he started, then looked away.

“She was what?” I asked softly.

“She was my daughter,” he said, his eyes softening momentarily to match his voice, tears moistening their corners.

“What?” I asked in shock and disbelief, my mind unable to accept what he was saying. I’d have to follow it up like any lead, but I didn’t believe him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Your daughter,” I said. “Are you sure?”

He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe what I had just asked. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, and his voice took on an edge that contradicted his eyes.

He then pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and showed it to me. It was a crayon-colored picture of Jesus like the one Nicole had made for me.

“She sent me one every month,” he said.

Maybe she was his daughter. The picture had obviously been done by her. I felt bad for how I had responded when he told me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He waved off my apology with the sweep of his large hand.

A glazed, faraway glare filled his eyes. “I never really got to know her,” he said to himself.