Loneliness and thoughts of death dog Matthew Jade's steps as he hears a call to do more than be an accountant - minister to those in jail. But his deepening involvement in jail ministry bring him even closer to death as three inmates die under mysterious circumstances. Who is the killer, and who will be the next victim in the cages of Coffin County Jail?
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Ralph Allen has led a challenging life as a sailor, corporate vice president and treasurer, and as a jail chaplain. A native of Wichita, Kansas, Allen graduated from Friends University in Wichita and served in the US Navy from 1950-54. He saw three years of service in Korea, and has the UN Service Medal, Korean Ribbon with six combat stars, and the Korean Presidential Unit Citation. He is a Certified Addictions Counselor.
Allen was the first official jail chaplain of Sedgwick County Jail, appointed in 1979 by Sheriff Johnnie Darr. He was designated Chaplain Coordinator by Sheriff Mike Hill on March 1, 1984. He received a retirement plaque from Mike Hill in 1993 for almost nineteen years of service.
He was awarded the Liberty Bell Award from the Wichita Young Lawyer's Association, 1985; the Citizen Recognition Award from the Kansas Correctional Association, 1987; and the Bronze Medal for Outstanding Service by the Sheriff's Department, 1988.
Allen lives with his wife, Verla. They have five children and seven grandchildren. He is the author of two non-fiction books, Flight of a Wandering Sparrow and Sparrow's Song, and his favorite hobby is writing short fiction and poetry in his book-lined study.
Matthew Jade's guilt-ridden memories of his wife's fatal accident drive him away from women who might comfort him and toward some kind of expiation in church and work with the homeless and imprisoned. Though an excellent accountant, he spends an increasing amount of time as a volunteer in the local jail, where the murders of three drug dealers heighten tension. Matthew does not investigate, however: things just happen. Basically a static work, for the most part characterized by stilted prose, maudlin filler, unnecessary explanation, and borderline proselytizing, until the violent denouement occurs, this work is not recommended.
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Late that night-a night spent trying to understand why society seemed either unaware of or hardened to conditions that existed in this very community-Matt helped his companion walk down the alley toward the back door of his room. They stopped to rest, sitting down on a wooden siding.
Suddenly a moaning cry overlaid by harsh curses came from the narrow alleyway between the pawnshop and a vacant building, and Burt shouted, "Hey, there, what ya doin'?"
Matt jumped to the ground, moving quickly toward the sounds. He was confronted by the sight of a large, hulking figure, shrouded in the dim light from the adjacent street, bending over a twitching, convulsing form propped up in the weeds and trash beside the pawnshop foundation. Before Matt could utter a word, the huge apparition was gone to the street, moving strong and straight, not like a wino. A thief?
There in the shadows, hands at his own throat as his life's blood spurted through gnarled fingers, lay the wino known to skid row only as Jimmy the Con. The man didn't have even two cents to rub together, Matt was sure.
"Jimmy! Who was it? Do you know?" What could he do for the man? Matt took the tormented man in his arms, attempting to quiet his movements, slowing the grisly flow, but there was no hope for him. His throat had been slashed cruelly, deeply. The body soon began twitching, then thrashing, followed by the guttural, gurgling sounds of a man drowning in his own blood. In a macabre spectacle framed in the faint light, the terrified eyes of Jimmy the Con froze, glazed in a look Matt had hoped to forget-he had seen it before in the Corps-then the figure jerked once, followed by a sigh, and lay still.
Nauseated, Matt looked down at the blood-soaked derelict and wondered what had brought him to such a savage end. On his biceps were faded and wrinkled tattoos, a skull and a swastika. Both may have once been colorful on a muscular young arm, but now they were only crude green markings in the diary of a wasted, hate-filled life. Poor drunken devil, Matt thought, why would someone kill him? Certainly not for his money. Jimmy the Con? Would that be his epitaph? Would anyone mourn him?
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