Flesh and Blood by Michael Lister Page A

paddles and balls. There was nothing for anyone to hide behind.
     
    Stepping out of the closet, she paused and waited for me, then closed and locked the doors.
     
    “After I check and lock the bathroom, I go into my office, and that’s it,” she said. “Nowhere else anyone could hide.”
     
    Just down from the closet door was the office door for the rec yard supervisor. Through its steel-mesh plate glass window I could see that the small office of a desk, filing cabinet, and three chairs was empty. The inmate bathroom was on the outside of the building, but there was no need for us to look at it. She was obviously very thorough.
     
    “It’s the same every day,” she said. “Check every area and lock up.”
     
    “You were working yesterday?” I asked.
     
    She nodded. “And the day before and the day before that. And there ain’t been no woman down here.”
     
    “Where’s Jeff?”
     
    Jeff Bruen was the new rec yard supervisor.
     
    “He’s off this week,” she said. “He’s in Key Biscayne for his daughter’s wedding.”
     
    “He hasn’t been here at all this week?”
     
    She shook her head. “That’s two people you can check off your list,” she said.
     
    “Two?”
     
    “Yeah,” she said. “Him and me. ’Cause I didn’t kill the bitch and he couldn’t’ve.”
     
    “I hear Stone’s out,” Pete said.
     
    He had been standing near the center gate and fell in step beside me when I entered the upper compound.
     
    “Don’t count him out just yet,” I said.
     
    “You actually trying to help him?” he asked. “He hasn’t exactly been your biggest fan over the past few years.”
     
    “How long before you’ll have the prelim?” I asked.
     
    “Should be soon,” he said. “They’ve made this thing a priority.”
     
    “Would you mind letting me know when you know?”
     
    “Sure thing,” he said.
     
    As we passed by the medical building, a small African-American female officer opened the door and called out to us.
     
    “Phone for you, Chaplain,” she said. “You can take it in here if you want.”
     
    I veered off toward her as Pete continued on to the front gate.
     
    “I’ll holler at you when I get the prelim,” he said.
     
    I walked inside the waiting room for medical, psychology, and classification, the cool air greeting me, and picked up the phone.
     
    “John, it’s Gwen Clark.”
     
    “Hey, Gwen,” I said.
     
    “Sorry to call like this,” she said, “but something’s been bothering me.”
     
    “That’s okay,” I said. “What is it?”
     
    “There’s more you should know about Melanie,” she said. “Roy was just too embarrassed—especially in front of the warden. We really don’t know him well, and Roy gets embarrassed so easy anyway, but I think you need to know. Could just the two of us meet? I’d be happy to come out there. I know you’re in the middle of this thing.”
     
    “Sure,” I said.
     
    “It’s no big deal,” she said, “and I doubt it’ll help you find out who killed her, but it might—and it certainly will give you insight into her and her struggles.”
     
    “That’d be very helpful,” I said. “Thanks.”
     
    “During our sessions, she shared so much with us,” she said. “Intimate, detailed things.”
     
    “Such as?”
     
    “Her fantasies,” she said. “At least some of them. The one that keeps swirling around in my head is … well, she said she always wanted to be raped by a gang of inmates.”
     
    When I got back to the chapel, I called Mr. Smith, my inmate or derly, into my office and closed the door.
     
    “You know what’s going on?” I asked.
     
    “Heard a female officer got killed on the rec yard,” he said.
     
    Mr. Smith was an old black man of indeterminate age with graying hair, dark skin, tapered fingers, and a slow, cautious manner.
     
    “Anybody braggin’ about doing it yet?” I asked.
     
    He shook his head. “No, but there will be. Just a matter of