Power in the Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

comment or expression. Like I said, he’s into conservation.
    “Superintendent Stone . . . Yes . . . okay, send him over to the chapel right away,” he said into the phone and then turned to me. “It would seem that your new partner has arrived. Before he gets here, I just want to make clear your responsibilities. You are to assist him in the investigation in any way that you can.”
    “Got it,” I said. I could tell that arguing was futile.
    “But, that’s not all. I also want you to look out for the interests of this institution and its administration—and report to me every step of the way.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said and immediately wondered if he had something to hide.
    As I heard the front door to the chapel opening, I whispered to myself, “This will not go well.”
    “Make it go well, Chaplain,” he said, confirming that I had not said it softly enough.
    “Or?” I said.
    “There is no ‘or’—just make it go well.”
    The superintendent stood to open my office door for the inspector. I remained seated, preparing for the worst. This was definitely shaping up to be one of those half-empty days.
    “Good morning, Inspector. I’m Edward Stone.” He rose as the IG entered.
    “Good morning. I’m Inspector Tom Daniels.” The inspector was fifty-five, but looked sixty-five. His battleship-gray eyes matched his hair, which still showed no sign of receding.
    When they had finished shaking hands, Stone sat down again, pulling his pants legs up slightly and crossing his legs—the way sophisticated men in expensive suits do. He then steepled his hands together in front of his face as if praying, the tips of his fingers at his lips. Daniels just sort of collapsed into his chair.
    Tom Daniels had the look of an alcoholic; I knew, being an alumnus myself. His face was red and swollen; his step was hesitant, matching his slow-moving gray eyes. He was, however, a socially acceptable drunk. He never missed work; in fact, he was an overachiever. Yet he was often late, and, though he worked hard, he didn’t produce the results he once had. Most people attributed that to age, but I knew better. Also, he made a great salary, lived modestly, and yet had financial problems. His nose was pink and puffy, offering contrast to its blue broken veins. He dressed in gray slacks, which matched his hair and eyes; white shirt, which matched his pale skin; and a red tie, which matched his bloodshot eyes. No doubt his enabler, in this case his wife, made sure his clothes were cleaned and pressed to aid in the deception. All that effort, and still so obvious.
    The effect of alcoholism on Tom Daniels was severe; however, its effect on his family could scarcely be overexaggerated—not because they were beaten or abused, but because they were neglected. Not only did his children have no father who was emotionally available for them, but their inheritance was turmoil and pain. This caused his son to begin drinking at the ripe old age of fourteen. Nine treatment centers and ninety-four thousand dollars later, he was still a religiously devoted addict. His daughter, though a teetotaler, lacked confidence and any idea how to relate to men in general and a husband in particular. She attracted, and was only attracted to, alcoholics. I knew. I had been married to her.
    “I believe you know our chaplain, John Jordan,” Stone said.
    “Yes,” Daniels said without so much as a glance in my direction.
    “As I am sure you are already aware, he will be the official from this institution who will be assisting you in this investigation. He grew up here and knows many of the employees of the institution,” Stone continued.
    Actually, I had been away for so long that I didn’t know many of the people anymore, but the point was moot.
    “I have been told that I don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said irritably.
    “So has he,” Stone said nodding toward me.
    Daniels cut his eyes in my direction. They were cold, dull steel. He smirked.