I shook my head and frowned.

“What is it, Chaplain?”

“Will you call Sergeant Monroe and ask him to meet me in Medical?” I said, rushing down the compound before he responded.

The daytime noise and movement of inmates and officers was replaced by the eerie silence and lonely stillness of night.

When I reached the medical building, the officer’s desk was vacant.

I walked down the hallway past the nurses’ station where an elderly nurse dozed with her head on the counter.

I continued toward the infirmary to find that there was no officer stationed here either. There were no inmates in the infirmary so there was no need for an officer.

When I walked into the infirmary, I saw Sandy Strickland sitting alone on an exam stool beside one of the beds. Her upper body was slumped down on the bed, her right hand extended, rubbing the bed gently. I could hear her crying from the moment I entered the room.

As I approached, she jerked up, looked puzzled, and began wiping her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

“I just came from viewing a videotape of what Thomas and Johnson did to you here in this very room.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said nervously. “What video? What do you mean?”

“I mean Skipper recorded it. Thomas and Johnson assaulting you.”

She began to cry and I could tell she was on something. Something strong.

“Oh my God,” she said. “He could’ve stopped it. That sick . . . prick. He just watched . . . stood there filming as they . . .”

“I understand why you’d want to kill them,” I said, “but why not just turn them in. Why not let the—”

“I didn’t want Anthony punished. I loved him. I just wanted him free of that little nigger faggot and that fat bastard banker faggot. They turned him into . . . He used to be so . . . They infected him. Fucked . . . HIV . . . right into his . . . Gave him AIDS. Then he gave it to me. Or maybe it was Johnson. I . . . I’m . . . I’m dying. Fucker killed me too. I’m dying. Me. Not you. You’re not.I . . . I gave you my results, not yours. I was just so . . .”

The room around us, the building around it, was still and night-quiet.

“I blamed you,” she said. “Blame everybody . . . at this fuckin’ place. Y’all are all part of the . . . Skipper’s the worst but . . . you’re all to blame. All you pricks stick together—when you’re not sticking each other.”

“Sandy, I want you to come with me,” I said. “Let’s go talk to . . . some people who can help. Let’s go tell them what you did to Anthony and the others. I’m sure they’ll understand. I’m sure they’ll help you.”