The Hand of God by John Isaac Jones

Author:John Isaac Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Chillingworth, True Crime, Crime Fiction, Crime of the Century, Bobby Lincoln, Murder at sea
Publisher: John Isaac Jones
Published: 2017-05-20T00:00:00+00:00

Jail

Twenty minutes later, Bobby and the sheriff were riding quietly along Sand River Road in a county squad car. Finally, the sheriff spoke. Bobby could hear the quiet anger in this voice.

“Bobby, I can’t believe you would get involved in something like this,” he said. “What got into you?”

“I don’t know, sheriff,” he said. “I guess I messed up pretty good, didn’t I?”

“It couldn’t be much worse,” the sheriff said. “My God, Bobby. Yo daddy would turn over in his grave if he knew you were involved in something like this.”

Bobby didn’t answer.

“What got into you?” the sheriff asked again.

Bobby didn’t reply.

“I guess it’s too late to do anything now,” the sheriff said. “It’s going to break yo mama’s heart.”

Bobby didn’t reply.

***

The Wakoola County Courthouse was a whitewashed stucco structure that stood five blocks due west of Old Dixie Highway in the heart of Wakoola Springs. Surrounded on all sides by melaleuca trees, the courthouse, at four stories, was the tallest building in Wakoola County and could be seen up to five miles away in any direction. To the south, adjacent to the courthouse, stood the county jail. Between the two structures, a sheltered walkway had been built along which prisoners were taken to and from jail.

Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Cunningham was escorting Bobby along the walkway. In the booking room, a sleepy-eyed, middle-aged white man made a mug shot and fingerprinted Bobby, then gave him a striped jail uniform and a pair of sandals. Finally, with chained hands and feet, Bobby was led up the stairs to the cellblock on the fourth floor. The jail was a dingy affair. The smell of urine hung in the air, the lighting was poor, and, as the cellblock door clanged shut behind him, Bobby saw a rat skitter across the floor.

“No. 3,” the deputy said.

Bobby stopped in front of the designated cell. The deputy unlocked the door.

“Go on!” he said.

Bobby shuffled inside and the deputy removed the chains.

“Breakfast at seven,” the deputy said. “If you ain’t up to get your food, you don’t get none.”

Then he turned and, seconds later, Bobby heard the steel door clang shut behind him.

Bobby looked around. The cell was an eight-by-ten rectangle with steel walls on either side, a sink and a toilet, and a barred window at the rear with heavy mesh wire on the outside. The bunkbed was made of steel springs and a thin mattress. It was cold. Bobby grabbed a blanket off the top bunk, removed his clothes to his shorts, and crawled under the blanket. The only light was in the hallway and Bobby peered down at the shadow of the bars on the cell floor. I guess you’ve done it now, he told himself. This will be your home for the rest of your life. Somehow, now that he had confessed, the nagging monster of the past three weeks was gone. By telling someone, by revealing the terrible secret he had been hiding, he felt immeasurably better about himself. At least he wasn’t running anymore.

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