Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

In the bathroom, I found Officer Whitfield washing the sweat off his face with water he splashed from his cupped hands.

“I’m glad you’re back,” I said. “Coel needs some help.”

“I’m heading in there now,” he said.

Tim Whitfield was tall and lean, but seemed soft. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy and sat high on his head. The front of his hair was damp and small rivulets of water snaked out of it and down his long forehead.

“Anyone else in here?”

“Just two convicts,” he said, looking at the dull reflection of the stalls behind him in the sheet-metal mirror bolted above the sink. “You convicts get back in the service.”

“Yes, sir,” Dexter Freeman said, stepping out of the stall.

“Just a minute,” the voice of what sounded like a young black guy called from inside the other stall.

“Just make it fast,” Whitfield said.

When I walked back into the sanctuary, Bunny was singing “Just As I Am” while Bobby Earl finished his altar call.

I searched the stage for Nicole, but she wasn’t there.

“Where’s Nicole?” I asked Coel.

“Who?” he said.

“The little girl,” I said.

“The black one?” he asked.

Making no attempt to mask my anger, I said, “There’s only one little girl in this entire institution.”

“She’s still in your office, I guess,” he said. “She didn’t come out with her mother.”

“Who’s with her?” I asked.

“No one right now,” he said. “The preacher went in while his wife was singing, and since he came back out for the altar call, I’ve had my eyes on both doors. He hasn’t been out of your office long.”

Relief washed over me when I saw that the altar call was over and Bunny was slipping back into my office, Bobby Earl remaining behind to say one last prayer.

Bobby Earl’s prayer was simple, but passionate and persuasive, and I could see why he did well on television. His prayer, which had started off loudly, had now become a whisper and the sanctuary fell into a reverent hush as well.

“In Jesus’ name,” he whispered. “Through the shed blood of the lamb-”

He broke off as the scream erupted.

The entire congregation turned to see Bunny Caldwell stumbling backwards out of my office, her staccato shrieks piercing the silence like stabs. Her screams were not those of fear, but of absolute horror, a horror so dark it seemed to echo from some sudden void in her soul.

For a moment, perhaps as she took a breath, there was absolute silence, and in that one quiet moment, no one moved. Like children slapped for the first time, everyone was too stunned to do anything. Then, after the initial shock subsided, everyone began to scramble as hesitation gave way to panic.

As I ran down the side aisle toward her, I somehow knew what I was going to find. Her scream had told me that, and my mind, as if divided into two parts, was simultaneously telling me it was so and absolutely rejecting that it could be.

Bobby Earl reached Bunny before I did, wrapping her up in his arms while looking into my office. His knees buckled and they both fell as the inmates began gathering around them, all straining to see what the small office held that could elicit such strong reactions.

“Get back in your seats,” I yelled, but no one moved. They stood there transfixed like the Caldwells had been, and when I reached the doorway, I knew why.

Beyond the open door of my office was the crumpled, lifeless body of Nicole Caldwell.

“Go home, Chaplain,” Colonel Patterson said. “The inspector can take your statement in the morning.”

My nerves were humming like high-voltage lines, my eyes and fingers twitching like an addict in need of a fix. Head aching, heart pounding, adrenaline-rich blood coursing through my veins, home was the last place I wanted or needed to be.

It had taken a while to quell the overwrought crowd of inmates, most of whom had rushed my office door in an attempt to see Nicole’s body. By the time they were cajoled and, in some cases, beaten into submission and securely locked in their dorms, Colonel Patterson and Inspector Fortner had arrived.

With the Caldwells being cared for and interviewed by the trauma response team, I had made the mistake of stepping out of the empty chapel to take in some fresh air and collect my thoughts. Now, the colonel was refusing to let me back inside.

“We’ve got a lot to do tonight, Chaplain,” Patterson said, adding, “We know you’re not goin’ anywhere,” as if I were a suspect. “Pete can take your statement tomorrow.”

He knew it wasn’t my statement but the investigation I was worried about, and I could tell he was enjoying my frustration almost as much as the tobacco juice that trickled from the corner of his mouth.

I had to laugh at him trying to be so tough. He just didn’t have the physique to pull it off. He had the body of a bird, his thin, stick-like legs looking incapable of supporting the weight of his enormous belly. The white shirt of his uniform, holding back his belly above his belt, always appeared about to burst open. Like his legs, the strength of his buttons was a mystery. And he wore boots for height, but they only made him look and walk funny.

All I could think about was Nicole, how I had failed to protect her, how I had let her get killed-in my office. I should’ve never left her. I had to get back in there, had to find out who had done this profane thing.

I stepped forward and said, “But I-”

“You’re not going back inside tonight,” he said. “This is a crime scene now. Whatever you’ve left inside you can get tomorrow.” Then, very slowly, he said, “We will see you tomorrow.”

The previous summer I had been part of an investigation into the death of an inmate that had not only uncovered the illegal activities of some of his officers, but cast him as either inept or corrupt. In fact, my ex-father-in-law, the inspector general of the department, was still investigating him.

“I didn’t leave anything inside,” I said. “I thought the inspector might need my help.”

I could feel myself falling apart, but I was powerless to stop it.

Suddenly, getting inside the chapel became all that mattered, all I could think about. If I could just see her, just be with her, look at the crime scene, examine the evidence, attempt to redeem my negligence by finding her killer.

“I’ll get him all the help he needs,” he said, patronizing me and enjoying it. “You don’t have to worry about it. Just go home and-”

“But I’m a-”

“A what ?” he asked, as if he had been waiting for this. “You’re a chaplain. A preacher. You’re not an inspector. You’re not an officer. You’re not an investigator. You are a chaplain. If you don’t like being a chaplain and want to be something else, then maybe you should quit, but until you are one of those other things, you are not going into my crime scene.”

A nearby group of officers perked up when they heard Patterson’s rebuke and a couple of them-his boys, as they were referred to-began to edge toward us.

“You mean Inspector Fortner’s crime scene?” I said.

“My institution,” he said. “My crime scene.”

“What are you afraid of?” I asked.

Stepping forward and bowing up his short, fat body, he got very close to me, looked up and said, “I ain’t afraid of you . I tell you that.”

“You afraid an officer’s involved again? Is that it?” I asked. “What are you trying to cover up?”

“I’m giving you five seconds to leave this institution on your own,” he said, “and then I’m gonna have you escorted out. And if you resist, I’ll have you locked up.”