“He was a . . . gay. Had AIDS. There were traces of semen around his . . . on him. It is being processed at FDLE. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get something from it. Who knows?”

“How about you, Chaplain?” Stone asked. “You discovered anything useful?”

“I have more,” Daniels said.

“Let’s have it.”

“The lab also found some unusual trace evidence—a PRIDE chemical on his blues. May give us an idea of where he was before he wound up in the trash heap.”

PRIDE is a state-authorized not-for-profit company that operates inside Florida state prisons, training inmates for general manufacturing and services. Many of the products created by PRIDE are used inside the prison.

“Chaplain? What about being our prime witness? Can you tell us anything else about the actual stabbing yesterday?”

“I really don’t think I can add anything to what I’ve already said.”

“Should Shutt be looked into?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said, and then he looked at Daniels again. “Have you ever heard the old saying, ‘You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”

“Sure, I’ve heard it,” he said.

“Well, the chaplain here is your honey. He is well liked and respected, and he knows at least half of the staff pretty well. So, you are to work with him and not without him or you are not to work in this institution at all. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“Understand, Chaplain?” Stone said to me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go find out what’s going on in my institution.”

11

Nights were the worst.

The tin man alone in his tin house.

Loneliness, fear, isolation, guilt. An unquiet mind.

The inability to sleep.

Earlier in the evening I had attended an AA meeting, driving to the next county to ensure anonymity. It had helped, but not enough. I returned home and, in the absence of the prospect of sex with anyone other than myself, went jogging.

At midnight I had turned off the lights.

That’s when the neon lights inside my head came on.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before the phone rang.

“This the chaplain what work for the Potter prison?” an elderly black woman’s voice asked. I could hear a loud television and a dog barking in the background.

“Yes, ma’am, it is. John Jordan.”

“This is Miss Jenkins. Ike Johnson’s aunt.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m so sorry about Ike.”

“Thank you. We planning the funeral and wondered if you would do it.”

I was stunned.

“We not really church peoples,” she said.

I’m not either, I thought.

“Ike’s grandma, Miss Winger, said you’s real nice to her.”