“I agree, but I don’t dislike you. And before all of this is over, I wish you would give me the opportunity to talk with you about things.”
“I’ve heard your excuses before.”
“I don’t intend to offer you any excuses, but then again I never have. You’ve only heard things from Susan’s perspective.”
“Listen, I don’t want to discuss the past now or ever. Let’s just concentrate on our jobs and do the work. I don’t care for you, never have much, but we can work together. I can work with anyone.”
“We can work together, and I apologize for any pain I’ve caused you and your family, especially Susan. I really loved her. Still do.”
He was unable to hide his obvious awkwardness and discomfort at my apology. He’d never been good at dealing with personal things.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s our next move?”
“We need to follow up some of the leads that our physical evidence has produced-some of which you could do without anyone noticing. If the inspector of the prison system walks in and asks to look at things or asks questions, people get nervous.”
So that was it. No wonder he was being almost civil toward me. He needed my help. It had nothing to do with what Mr. Stone said, although that made it so much easier for him.
“Like what?” I asked.
“The lab said there were traces of a chemical on his pants that’s used in floor cleaner and wax in medical and dental facilities. We’ve traced the exact chemical to two types of cleaners manufactured by PRIDE.”
PRIDE is the manufacturer of various products for prisons. It is operated by the Department of Corrections and staffed with inmates. Just one of the many ways taxpayers save money.
“The cleaners,” he continued, “are used in the medical offices, the infirmary, and the dental offices.”
“From what I understand,” I said, “Johnson spent a lot of time in the infirmary.”
“Yes, I think he did, but you couldn’t get it on you from just being in medical or dental, even if he fell on a recently mopped floor.
Besides, the chemical on his pants had not been diluted. He would have had to have been around the actual bottle of cleaner to get it on him, and it had to have been within a few hours prior to his death, according to the lab.”
“Did he ever work with the cleaner?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. He was supposed to have worked on outside grounds. We need to check with his work supervisor,” Daniels said.
“Perhaps I should. We went to school together,” I said. “You know inmates’ uniforms often get switched in the laundry. It may have come in contact with the cleanser when another inmate was wearing it.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. The chemical had not been through the washer and dryer, and the uniform had his name tag on it. It actually stuck to the spear,” he said shaking his head. “Okay. How about medical and dental?” he asked.
“I’ll check them both over the weekend. I can’t today because I have to continue my regular work as well. Also, I’ve been asked to do Ike Johnson’s funeral tomorrow morning.”
“Find out all you can about him from his family,” he said. “They may know something useful and not know they know it.”
“If the opportunity presents itself I will, but they’ve just lost a family member in a horrible way. I’m not going as a detective, but as a minister.”
“You better go as both or some other family is going to lose their son.”
“Like I said, I’ll do what I can.”
“I think it’s best if we’re not seen together. You do those things. I’ll talk with Fortner, make him feel a part of the investigation, and continue to check with the lab. Why don’t we meet again on Monday?”
“Sounds good. Where?”
“If I stop by here, no one really sees. Besides, I could be asking you questions like anybody else. You are a witness.”
“Okay, but don’t believe that nobody sees you. Somebody sees everything that is done in this place. Everything.”
Chapter 13
When Merrill Monroe and I were in elementary school, the history books and the teachers that taught from them painted a benign picture of slaves singing soulfully as they worked on the plantations. It wasn’t that they said slavery was right; they didn’t tell us just how wrong it really was. The slaves were not happy, of course, but only because they didn’t own the land on which they were working. Seeing the inmates, most of whom were black, harvesting the crops outside the institution brought this memory to mind, and I wondered if slavery really ever ended in this country. The two obvious differences between now and then were that they were harvesting watermelons and potatoes, not cotton and tobacco; and they were doing it under the watchful eye of a black man, who, as he put it, was the Head Nigga In Charge.
Being a black man in a small Southern town is not easy. Being an intelligent and ambitious black man in a small Southern town is nearly impossible. I first noticed Merrill’s strength and intelligence in elementary school when I was learning about slavery. Merrill didn’t learn anything during that unit; he already knew it all too well. Our friendship began then, and since that time I’d not had a better friend.
Merrill was a correctional officer sergeant in charge of the outside grounds of the prison. Inmates assigned to him were not considered to be an escape risk and, therefore, allowed to work outside the gate.
I found him in a garden to the left of the institution down on his hands and knees showing an inmate just how to plant the potatoes. The light brown sleeves of his short sleeve CO uniform were stretched tightly over the dark brown skin of his arms. Every time he moved, his muscles flexed, straining his shirt to the point of ripping.
As he instructed the inmate on exactly how to do his job, he spoke in slow, even tones. I had seen him stare down a gang of inmates, two with shanks, the same way. I had also seen him wipe out an entire gang by himself, never raising his voice and never acting as if it required much effort either.
“Sarge, you got a minute?” I asked as I came up behind him.
He stood, nodding at me and pointing at the row of potatoes to the inmate.
We walked away from the garden and the inmates who hear all and see all.
“I was thinking of planting some potatoes and needed some help.”
“Sure, I can help you. Us colored mens knows how to toil under de sun. It what make us so brown and earthy,” he said.
“I am really about to put some sod around my trailer. Want to help?”
“I’ll help with some advice,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Put the green side up,” he said, and then a broad smile crept across his face revealing startling white teeth.
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Us coloreds live to serve y’all, sir,” he said. “It’s what we here for.”
We were both silent a minute. He glanced back in the direction of the garden. I could tell he was not happy with how the inmate was planting the potatoes.
“It’s hard to get good help these days,” I said.
“Yeah. Speaking of which, I heard about what you did in the sally port the other day. Very impressive for a skinny white boy.”
“I’m not skinny,” I protested. “I’m fit.”
“You’s fit before the Atlanta thing,” he said, “Now you skinny.”
He stood directly in front of me, positioning himself between me and the sun. The shadow he cast kept me from needing the shades I did not have. He was always doing things like that and never mentioning it. Any other white person in America, except maybe for Anna, he would have left squinting in the sun.
I could see my reflection in his glasses. I looked distorted, like my face was too big for my head and body. Merrill towered over my six feet by about four inches, totally eclipsing the sun.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you did good. Showed some of these rednecks that a man can be civilized, even holy, and have balls, too.”