I called Laura to tell her the good news. She was, at the same time, happy for me and scared, too. She asked if I had changed my mind about finishing the investigation. I realized that I had started investigating again without consciously deciding to do so. I determined that I had decided to do it for Molly. She deserved better than what she got. I intended on finding out who took her life from her-not that I could get it back and not that I could take theirs, but just because I needed to know, and so did the authorities. No doubt the killer would face a higher court and give an account to the Most High Judge one day, but I wasn’t willing to wait that long. I guess I’ve not perfected my passivity yet, nor my patience. Nobody’s perfect.
After talking with Laura and coming to the realization that I was indeed still trying to figure out whodunit, I was more determined than ever to find out what happened that Monday night, just two weeks ago, in the infirmary. Two weeks ago, there were four people alive who weren’t alive now, and I wanted to know why. I think better around smart people, so I decided to go think with Anna in her office. When I opened my door, Officer Charles Hardy was standing there.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see you, sir,” he said. “Several people told me you wanted to talk to me about the morning Johnson was killed, but I’ve been out of town. I’m in the reserves, and they sent us to help with some hurricane damage in Charleston.”
Charles Hardy was an excellent correctional officer. Like most of his fellow officers, he was a good, decent man doing a difficult job. His crisp uniform and patent-leather shoes betrayed his military training, so did his comfort with authority. He accepted the authority of those above him with honor, and even more noble was the fact that he never abused his authority over the inmates.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I appreciate you stopping by. I realize this is not your shift, and you don’t have to talk with me. I’m looking into this very unofficially.”
“I understand, sir,” he said. “I’ll answer any question you ask.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But please call me John. I was just about to walk down to classification. If you’re headed that way we could talk while we walk.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “That would be fine.”
We walked down Main Street Institution, alone because it was still early and the inmates had not been released from the dorms yet. The cloud-covered compound was even more depressing than usual, and the humidity came at you like the small side spray from a slight breeze blowing through the stream of a water hose.
“In the early morning hours of Tuesday, two weeks ago from today, two inmates started fighting, according to Nurse Strickland,” I said. “She said that you were not at your desk and that she and Captain Skipper broke them up.”
He nodded.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“I’m surprised they didn’t tell you,” he said. “When Captain Skipper came into the infirmary, he sent me to confinement to pick up an incident report. When I got back, he was gone. Nurse Strickland told me that Captain Skipper had left word for me to take Jacobson to confinement. So I turned right around and went back to confinement, this time with Jacobson in tow.”
“So you took Jacobson to confinement per Nurse Strickland’s message that Captain Skipper said to do so, but you never heard it from the captain.”
“Right,” he said. “The strange thing was she made me fill out the DR. Said Captain said for me to do it. I didn’t want to, but I did it. I know how to follow an order. Later, when everything went down in the sally port, I was glad that I was not in the infirmary just before it happened.”
“What time did you get back to the infirmary that morning?” I asked.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was in confinement until a few minutes before seven. When I walked back up to medical, Officer Straub was about to go in to begin his shift. I gave him a report of the night’s events. He went in. I walked up front.”
“Who else was in the medical building that night?” I asked.
“Nurse Anderson, and the orderly, Jones . . . and another inmate was there for a while.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes to concentrate on recalling the nearly forgotten name. “Thomas. Anthony Thomas was there for a while, and that’s it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your help and the way in which you do your job.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” he said. “And thank you, sir.”
I felt as though I should salute. I did, however, suppress the urge.
When I entered Anna’s office, I told her about all the things that were twirling around in the whirlpool, or perhaps cesspool, of my head-all the things related to the case. I didn’t mention that I was dying.
“Even before you realized that Skipper didn’t have the opportunity to commit the murders, you thought he was innocent,” she said. “Why?”
“I never said he was innocent, just that he didn’t commit those particular murders. The reason had to do with motive. I couldn’t see how killing Johnson or Maddox could have benefited Skipper in any way. Maddox was his best customer, and Johnson was his best product. He was making his own kind of killing on the little arrangement, so there was no reason for him to do any killing. He would have been putting an end to a serious paycheck, so why do it?”
“Maybe they were going to tell.”
“I don’t think so. Maddox wouldn’t because it was his secret, too. A secret that he more than anyone wanted to keep quiet. Not to mention that it was a crime and he would have lost everything. And Johnson’s an inmate. Nobody would believe him, and he didn’t seem to mind it too much. He was being treated like a king: drugs, alcohol, no work, and no trouble.”
“There’s always the possibility of a motive that we can’t see.”
“There’s always that, but I don’t think so. It feels wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it were just motive, that would be one thing, but it’s means, as well. I mean, if someone like Skipper wanted to kill an inmate, he wouldn’t do it in the garbage truck. He would do it by having him killed on the rec field or shot during an escape attempt or beaten to death in confinement.”
“Like he tried with you.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But, there’s more. All but one of the murders were particularly bloody, and the third would’ve been. I think Skipper interrupted that one. They were all stabbed and disfigured. It’s personal, not business. A business kill is a dispassionate single gunshot wound to the back of the head, but personal is more like beatings, knives, and pain. This is a nice cold dish of revenge. It reminds me of love,” I said. Anna looked puzzled. “What is the opposite of love?” I asked.
“Hate,” she said.
“No. Disinterest is the opposite of love. Hate is closely related to love. Both are passionate; both burn white-hot. Those we hate most are often those we’ve loved most at some point.”
“Like a parent that betrayed us or a spouse,” she said.
“Right. Divorce, when amicable, is because there is no passion, but when it is heated, it means at least one still cares or is hurt so deeply precisely because he or she cared so deeply.”
“Damn, you are good. I can see why your dad wants you to be a cop. You have the mind for it. And, yet, you’re far too sensitive and caring to be a cop. Besides, you’re such a good minister. Maybe you really are meant to be a modern-day Father Brown.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just be lucky to get out of this one alive and should go back to just ministering.”
“There is a distinct contradiction in the two things,” she said, “but you are both of them. You, like most of us, are not just one person. I think you must do both or you will be miserable.”