Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

As she began to walk away, I looked to see who had spooked her. Across the square, seething beneath a street lamp, was DeAndré Stone, a look of unadorned rage on his face. When I turned to stop her, Bunny was gone, having disappeared in the darkness. Deciding to settle a little business with Stone, I spun around, but found that he had vanished, too.

“Where the hell you been?” Tom Daniels asked as he stormed into my office.

I was back in my office because he had removed the crime scene tape and had it cleaned, and he had asked me to meet him there.

“Miss me?” I asked.

There was no evidence that an unspeakable act of violence had taken place here, no blood crying out from the ground about the murder of innocence, but I felt uncomfortable, as if a residue of horror hung in the room like a lost spirit hovering aimlessly.

“You better not have been screwing around in my investigation,” he said.

“Wasn’t within a hundred miles of it,” I said with a smile.

“Don’t get cute with me, dammit,” he said. “I’m not your buddy.”

“We may not be buddies,” I said. “But we are family.”

He shook his head.

“Susan and I-”

“That’s just a technicality,” he said.

“Actually, Dad, we’re trying to patch things up,” I said.

He started to say something, but instead shook his head, his contempt seeming to indicate the comment wasn’t worthy of a response.

“I’m not your enemy,” I said. Then amended, “Well, you’re not mine. Why’d you even notice I was gone?”

“I’ve got some questions for you,” he said, pulling a pen out of his wrinkled suit coat and opening a file folder. His movements, like his words, were often exaggerated, a compensation for his alcoholinduced unsteadiness. “You’re a witness. This thing happened right here in your office. Hell, you’re a suspect.”

“A suspect?”

“You had access to this office. Hell, it’s yours. You were here. What can you tell me?”

“I didn’t do it,” I said.

He laughed. “Well, who did?” he asked.

Outside my window, the last of the first shift officers ambled past the last of the second shift arrivals rushing to their post. Both groups carried lunch boxes or small coolers to help them get through their eight-hour shifts in posts they could not leave.

“Was she sexually assaulted?”

“Let me explain how this works,” he said, holding up his pen. “I ask the questions, you answer them.” When he noticed that his pen was shaking, he pulled his hand down and rested it on the folder. “Now, let’s try that. I ask. You answer. Got it?”

“Is that one of your questions?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed into bloodshot slits, his face turning red and strained as if his blood had become mercury and was rising.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve just got a couple of questions. If you answer them, I’ll answer all of yours.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out very slowly. He then sat there in silence for a long time before he opened his eyes again. When he did, they seemed calmer, if not clearer.

“I’ll cooperate either way,” I said. “But I’d really like to know just two small things.”

“You got anything really good you could trade me for them?” he asked as if we were on a school yard.

I nodded.

“Let’s have it,” he said.

“Was Nicole sexually assaulted?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Was there any indication that she ever had been?”

“Inconclusive,” he said. “But we don’t think so.”

“Was-” I began.

“That’s two questions,” he said.

“Actually,” I said. “That was two parts of the same question.”

“You really are a sneaky SOB,” he said wearily. “What’s your other question?”

“Was there blood in my office bathroom?” I asked. “Nicole’s blood?”

“Yes,” he said.

“There was a greeting card and a wad of cash under the desk,” he said. He pointed at the small stack of greeting cards on the corner of my desk. “Tell me about those.”

“Each month I give the inmates cards to send to their families and significant others,” I said. “Did it match one of the ones on my desk?”

He nodded. “I think it fell off while they were struggling,” he said. “But what about the money?”

“I don’t give it out,” I said.

A metallic clanging drew my attention toward the window. Outside two inmate-powered push mowers were beginning to cut the grass between the chapel and visiting park. The dew on the blades of grass and rose petals glistened in the morning sun, and the wet clippings stuck to the metal mowers.

“So where’d it come from?” he said.

“Sounds like a payoff to me,” I said.

“Yeah, I came to that same conclusion,” he said. “Any idea who?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe Bobby Earl’s paying off someone to do his business behind bars or to turn their heads while someone else does it.”

“Maybe,” I said.

He didn’t respond, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

“I didn’t look for very long,” I said. “But it looked like her face had been beaten very badly.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“So her killer probably knew her pretty well,” I said.

“Possibly,” he said, pulling a small plastic bag from his coat pocket. “We found this on the floor near the door.” Handing me the bag, he added, “I think he hit her so hard it flew out of her mouth and across the room. It’s a piece of candy.”

I held up the plastic bag and examined its contents. It held a round pink piece of hard candy that was circled by red and white streaks.

I swallowed hard, my heart and stomach in my throat, my forehead breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Not finding very much about the Caldwells,” he said. “We need to get them back down here, but that’s not gonna happen.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m doing a memorial service for Nicole,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up along with the corners of his lips and he nodded in appreciation. “That just might work, but I thought you were against her coming in-why memorialize her in front of all the inmates?”

“To see what happens,” I said. “And not all -just those who were here the night it happened.”

“I like it,” he said. “Still, we don’t have any real evidence yet.”

“We will,” I said.

“We?” he said.

“You,” I corrected. “You will.”

“When is the service?”

“ This afternoon ,” I said.

“This afternoon,” he yelled, jumping to his feet and heading toward the door. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Where’re you going?” I asked.

“To try to get enough evidence to build a case by then.”

As I began to study for my homily, I noticed again the stack of greeting cards on my desk. I picked them up and rifled through them. To my surprise, all the cards had envelopes. More to the point, all the envelopes had cards. Finding an actual clue, I almost didn’t know what to do. And before I could do anything, Pete Fortner knocked on my door and walked in.

Sitting down, he looked around my office uneasily. As he stared at the spot where Nicole’s body had lain, I remembered that he had been the second one at the scene, and I knew he still saw her broken little body there just as I did.

“How can you-” he started, but stopped when his eyes rested on the picture Nicole had colored for me. I had framed it and hung it on the center of the wall behind me. The most prominent place in my office.

“How can you work in here?” he asked.