inquiry.
“Swimmingly,” I said as he buzzed me into the classroom.
“Hey, here’s who’s in charge,” said Daryl when I walked in.
“Hello, Tattoo King,” I said without missing a beat, and for a moment stood there gawking at my students. Daryl was a balding, bulky guy with Harley-Davidson flames inked up and down his arms and on his neck all the way up to his ears. He’d had a disagreement with a cousin over a lawn equipment transaction, and while they were out riding their motorcycles, he was observed running the poor fellow off the road. The cousin died and Daryl was convicted of manslaughter. Everyone else in my group was tattooed but to a lesser degree, except one-legged Jess, who, up on a rooftop in Rutland, had an altercation with a drug dealer, stuck a knife into his adversary’s thigh, then was pushed off and fell five stories—luckily into shrubbery—and shattered one of his legs. When the police found him he was carrying six ounces of cocaine. He now got around either on crutches or in a wheelchair. Then there was Peter, a doughy seventeen-year-old who, in the midst of doing his biology homework, went into a fuguelike rage, grabbed his father’s shotgun and, finding both his parents in bed having TV dinners, murdered them with many more rounds than was necessary. After the fact he was unable to remember his act of slaughter, and this was a source of constant torment to him.
I looked around, nodding at Raul, a quiet Latino who’d taken a piece of lead pipe and smashed in the kidneys of a man vying for the same woman. And then the new guy, who apparently liked preening his manhood in front of ladies working at convenience stores and whose name I’d learned was Jones: a corpulent fellow in his mid-thirties who could have passed for an insurance salesman out of Boston. I couldn’t help looking between the legs of his orange prison pants, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I got riled up when I thought of him trying to sexually intimidate a poor twenty-one-year-old girl. He did have a family crest sort of tattoo on one arm, definitely an old-school tattoo.
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that any of these men who took my class could possibly have it in them to murder a woman like Angela Parker.
“Only six of you today?”
“Jimmy’s in lockdown,” Jess said, wearing a semi-toothless smile.
“Ah … and Bo?”
“He volunteered for laundry,” said Daryl. “Didn’t think you were going to be here anyway.”
“Why not?” I put down my books and papers. All throughout this exchange, I noticed that seventeen-year-old Peter was staring down at the floor, seeming almost catatonic. He looked up at me suddenly and I could see his blank eyes narrow. “Because you found a dead woman,” he said with a questioning lilt to his voice.
“Trauma, you know,” Jones spoke up, meeting my gaze with a devilish expression.
It was unusual for a newcomer to speak up so soon. Beyond this, “trauma” was a word that made me wonder if he was fairly well educated, not that educated people can’t stoop to homicide. Most of my guys hadn’t finished high school, but nearly all of them had areas of expertise. Daryl could take apart and put together car and two-stroke engines. Jess, who’d been in the merchant marines, knew everything about boats.
“So what was it like, finding a murdered girl?” Daryl murmured.
“You know,” I said. “You’re the first person who’s had the nerve to ask me that.”
“Hey, honey, come closer,” he said with disgusting lasciviousness.
“Don’t push your luck,” I told him.
“So then you’re okay,” Jess said.
“Don’t I look okay?”
“Well, just so you know,” Jones said, shocking me, “none of us are that kind of guy.”
The other inmates were glaring at him; his outburst struck them as impertinent.
I scrutinized this inmate, whom I found to be both flabby and slovenly. “And what kind of guy is that?” I said.
Raul cut in,
“Swimmingly,” I said as he buzzed me into the classroom.
“Hey, here’s who’s in charge,” said Daryl when I walked in.
“Hello, Tattoo King,” I said without missing a beat, and for a moment stood there gawking at my students. Daryl was a balding, bulky guy with Harley-Davidson flames inked up and down his arms and on his neck all the way up to his ears. He’d had a disagreement with a cousin over a lawn equipment transaction, and while they were out riding their motorcycles, he was observed running the poor fellow off the road. The cousin died and Daryl was convicted of manslaughter. Everyone else in my group was tattooed but to a lesser degree, except one-legged Jess, who, up on a rooftop in Rutland, had an altercation with a drug dealer, stuck a knife into his adversary’s thigh, then was pushed off and fell five stories—luckily into shrubbery—and shattered one of his legs. When the police found him he was carrying six ounces of cocaine. He now got around either on crutches or in a wheelchair. Then there was Peter, a doughy seventeen-year-old who, in the midst of doing his biology homework, went into a fuguelike rage, grabbed his father’s shotgun and, finding both his parents in bed having TV dinners, murdered them with many more rounds than was necessary. After the fact he was unable to remember his act of slaughter, and this was a source of constant torment to him.
I looked around, nodding at Raul, a quiet Latino who’d taken a piece of lead pipe and smashed in the kidneys of a man vying for the same woman. And then the new guy, who apparently liked preening his manhood in front of ladies working at convenience stores and whose name I’d learned was Jones: a corpulent fellow in his mid-thirties who could have passed for an insurance salesman out of Boston. I couldn’t help looking between the legs of his orange prison pants, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I got riled up when I thought of him trying to sexually intimidate a poor twenty-one-year-old girl. He did have a family crest sort of tattoo on one arm, definitely an old-school tattoo.
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that any of these men who took my class could possibly have it in them to murder a woman like Angela Parker.
“Only six of you today?”
“Jimmy’s in lockdown,” Jess said, wearing a semi-toothless smile.
“Ah … and Bo?”
“He volunteered for laundry,” said Daryl. “Didn’t think you were going to be here anyway.”
“Why not?” I put down my books and papers. All throughout this exchange, I noticed that seventeen-year-old Peter was staring down at the floor, seeming almost catatonic. He looked up at me suddenly and I could see his blank eyes narrow. “Because you found a dead woman,” he said with a questioning lilt to his voice.
“Trauma, you know,” Jones spoke up, meeting my gaze with a devilish expression.
It was unusual for a newcomer to speak up so soon. Beyond this, “trauma” was a word that made me wonder if he was fairly well educated, not that educated people can’t stoop to homicide. Most of my guys hadn’t finished high school, but nearly all of them had areas of expertise. Daryl could take apart and put together car and two-stroke engines. Jess, who’d been in the merchant marines, knew everything about boats.
“So what was it like, finding a murdered girl?” Daryl murmured.
“You know,” I said. “You’re the first person who’s had the nerve to ask me that.”
“Hey, honey, come closer,” he said with disgusting lasciviousness.
“Don’t push your luck,” I told him.
“So then you’re okay,” Jess said.
“Don’t I look okay?”
“Well, just so you know,” Jones said, shocking me, “none of us are that kind of guy.”
The other inmates were glaring at him; his outburst struck them as impertinent.
I scrutinized this inmate, whom I found to be both flabby and slovenly. “And what kind of guy is that?” I said.
Raul cut in,
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