Of Superior Design

by Matt Rogers

  Chapter 13

  They were instructed to park and a van arrived to take them in. The parking lot was surrounded by tall trees and a one-lane road appeared the only path. The van arrived, they hopped in and away they went. Through the trees they drove until they could sense a clearing ahead. They were curious by nature so were anticipating seeing the structure. When they broke the wood-line they gasped in astonishment.

  “Holy…!”

  “Is this for real?”

  The scene in front of them was authoritarian rule taken to the extreme. The enormous prison sat in a meadow encircled with oil rigs. They could see activity humming all around and noticed with amazement the attire of those performing the work.

  “Are those prisoners?”

  “Yes, sir. Welcome to the future” the driver responded.

  The venture had taken shape as business entered the picture. Private prisons run with corporate precision and manned with housed labor. The wells were pumping, the inmates maintaining and the prison population exploding.

  “Is this even legal?” Smith asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, sir, the Governor signed off on it about three years ago and we’ve been working here ever since.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Wesson asked.

  “The convicts is ‘we’, sir” he responded and Wesson looked closer at his clothing.

  The man had on overalls, under it was a white t-shirt and he wore workman’s boots. He appeared to be a handyman, not a jailbird.

  “You’re a prisoner here too?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, been here from the beginning.”

  Smith was troubled because something wasn’t quite right with the picture. He finally realized what was bothering him.

  “Where’s the fence?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  The idea had been nagging at him from the second they turned off the highway. He’d seen no sign of perimeter fencing. All they’d done was drive down a tree-lined route until they encountered the guard shack with the Ogre standing sentry. From then on they’d seen nothing else save trees and a prison lined with oil wells and a hundred workers milling around with cleaning supplies.

  “Is this a minimum-security facility?” Wesson asked although he already knew the truth.

  Bob Simpson had been convicted of first degree arson. Unless, all of a sudden, death by fire was somehow no longer judged a horrendous act then there was no way he would’ve done time in anything other than maximum enforcement.

  “No, sir, this here’s the top of the line. The number one place for us violent offenders.”

  Wesson saw no guard towers, the prisoners did not appear shackled and they moved as though on a mission. He glanced in the front of the van and surmised it too was of simple and convenient stock.

  “What’s to keep you from driving this van out the entrance?” he asked.

  “You met the beast at the gate, I suppose?”

  They had indeed. He was possibly as large as the cop they’d met earlier.

  “Yes” Wesson replied.

  “Well, he’s not alone” their convict chauffeur informed them and Smith picked up on the underlying assertion.

  “Are you saying there’s more guards as large as him?”

  “Yes, sir, and they love themselves some escapees.”

  The van pulled into the prison proper and both Smith and Wesson marveled at the lack of supervision apparent everywhere. No one was cuffed, no one was restrained, in fact, no one was anything. It was as if the prison was not a holding facility but a housing one. If they didn’t know better they’d have sworn the purpose of the place was not the protection of society but the production of energy. The van entered the courtyard and they exited.

  “Where do we wait?” Wesson asked.

  “Go through them doors and you’ll find the secretary. Her name’s Juliet and she’s pretty as a picture but don’t go getting no ideas, she’s spoken for” the man said as he put the van in gear and left the two detectives alone inside the prison’s walls without escort.

  The detectives looked at each other, once again scanned their environs and followed the man’s advice. They entered through the doors he’d indicated and found themselves in a nice, plush office where a desk sat on lint-free carpet with a beauty seated behind it. She was everything the convict-driver reported except pretty didn’t do her justice for she was downright captivating.

  “Hello. May I help you?” she asked as though they were visiting a place of business.

  “Hello, my name is Detective Smith and this is Detective Wesson. We’d like to see the Warden if at all possible.”

  “May I ask the reason for the visit?” she said.

  “We’re on a case and one of your previous inmates has become involved. We’d like to gather as much information as we can to see if he has anything to do with it” Smith replied.

  She smiled and the world smiled with her. The room appeared to glow brighter and Smith could swear he felt a shimmer emanate from his insides. She was the story of dreams, the reason men toiled under a hot and burning sun; perfection personified.

  “Please take a seat and I’m sure the Warden will see you shortly.”

  They sat on chairs made for comfort. The place was the last thing they’d expected and it was becoming increasingly more difficult for them to fathom. They’d been inside numerous holding facilities throughout their career at Craft and Sons but had never encountered anything like what was before them.

  “Can you believe this?” Smith asked.

  “I’m starting to think I’ve lost my mind” Wesson answered.

  The air of the place was one of relaxation and comfort. Every few minutes an inmate would enter and the incredibly sexy secretary would smile and greet them kindly. The convicts responded accordingly and it was that aspect which was even more troubling to the detectives for they’d known men like those jailed in maximum security prisons and the last thing they were was cordial to a beautiful woman. Furthermore, there appeared to be no precaution taken to protect the woman. There was no metal detector at the entrance, no iron-barred gate between her and the hardened criminals, no nothing. It was just her and her radiance sitting behind a desk acting as though crime and those who commit the deeds did not exist in her world. Smith was seriously thinking about looking for hidden cameras in the hopes they were part of some gigantic hoax when the secretary called to them.

  “The Warden will see you now.”

  They were directed down the hallway until they encountered a door made of frosted glass and on it was stenciled ‘Warden Tiffany Delany’.

  “Tiffany?” Smith said as he looked at Wesson in further confusion.

  “Maybe it’s a misprint” he replied.

  They knocked and the responding answer proved the door correct.

  “Enter” came the delightfully womanly sound from the Warden of Mabank Correctional Facility.

  She was, if it were possible, even more striking than the woman manning the desk at the entrance. Warden Tiffany Delany was of colored ancestry and jaw-dropping imagery. She was five-feet-ten, one-hundred fifty pounds of pure Amazon delight and boyhood fantasy. The two detectives were so far down the rabbit hole they took her appearance in stride.

  “What was his name?” she asked after they’d introduced themselves and told her the reason for their visit.

  “Bob Simpson” Smith replied in a trance for he could not escape the woman’s seduction. She was everything he could’ve possibly wished for except he knew not how to ask. He hadn’t known magnificence came in such forms. If he’d known he would’ve looked! Everything about her was impossible. Her looks were such they were actually painful to his eyes. His imagination wandered as her aroma overwhelmed his senses. He believed he might’ve broken protocol and declared his love for the lady right there on the spot if something hadn’t interceded. It came in the form of the Beast.

  “Mistress Warden, I heard we had guests” the brute said as he entered without knocking.


  “Yes, Ishmael, these are Detectives Smith and Wesson. They are here investigating a case and one of our previous residents has appeared on their radar.”

  The man who faced them was not as large as the two monstrosities masquerading as law enforcement but he was in the same neighborhood. He was well over six and a half feet, definitely pushing two-fifty and had about him an aura of authority. Neither Wesson nor Smith could put their finger on it but they both got the impression if left to fend for themselves, of the three giants, he would be the one to prevail. Fortunately he was also polite.

  “What was his name?” he asked.

  “Bob Simpson” she replied.

  “Bob Simpson! I knew Bob. He was the fire-bug, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s him” Wesson responded and then immediately wished he hadn’t for the man turned to face him and Wesson felt in the presence of something he wished to avoid.

  “Well, why would he come up in your investigation?” Ishmael inquired.

  “He was found dead in the apartment of a man we are attempting to locate.”

  Wesson didn’t know what he’d said or why he got the feeling he’d said the wrong thing but it was apparent he did.

  “That’s not possible” the brute replied.

  “Why?” Wesson asked in a quiver.

  “Because Bob Simpson died here in prison.”