Of Superior Design

by Matt Rogers

  Chapter 16

  They were walking around the prison yard getting acquainted with the place. It was large, clean and surreal with guards nowhere to be seen but prisoners everywhere.

  “I can’t believe this” Smith said yet again and Wesson nodded for he was tired of verbally agreeing.

  Warden Tiffany allowed them the use of the entire prison as Ishmael ran down whatever information he could find about Bob Simpson’s incarceration. The detectives asked if it was safe to roam the grounds and she laughed at the idea. She literally laughed. To her it was the utmost in ignorance to assume those entrusted to her care would do anything to a visitor. For some reason Smith got the impression she was not only telling the truth as she saw it but stating a fact of unwavering conviction. They’d decided to postpone questioning her for she told them she neither remembered the ex-convict nor would have dealt with the man while he was on the premises. Those duties fell to the guards who were under the supervision of Ishmael. He remembered Bob but only because the man had been so gloomy. The guard with more direct knowledge was named Lattimore and it was he whom Ishmael went in search of.

  “You don’t have radios?” Wesson asked.

  “We don’t need them” was the giant man’s reply as he left.

  Tiffany had suggested they walk around and get a feel for why the prisoners acted as though they were house-guests and since the detectives were curious they took her up on the offer. They even asked if they needed to leave their side-arms in a safe place since so far no one had relieved them of their pistols nor even asked if they possessed them. Her answer astonished them further.

  “Why?”

  ‘Why?’ Wesson thought. ‘Why?’ He thought again. ‘Because the prisoners could take them and use them to escape!’ he screamed internally. He said nothing aloud because he was unsure exactly what he was dealing with.

  “What the heck have we stumbled upon?” he was going to ask Smith but couldn’t because Smith asked him the exact same question first. So instead of asking Wesson was relegated to replying so he blurted out what he felt was the most reasonable answer.

  “I think we’ve found some kind of secret government experiment.”

  The fact Smith considered the possibility was good for Wesson’s psychology. He was not prepared for giant men, amazingly attractive women, super-authorized butlers and dead men in closets who’d previously died in prison. He was prepared for most everything else just not those particular things. Furthermore, while they’d been on the case the world had lost its marbles. The Alamo had been attacked, Texas was facing eviction, Disney’s Castle had fallen and instead of rebuilding the people in the streets seemed to be taking pleasure in its demise. He’d heard on the radio there were block parties celebrating the end of the Mouse’s reign and he was still having a hard time grasping Pluto was not a celestial orb.

  “Wesson?”

  “Yes, Smith?”

  “You’re talking about Pluto again.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just I can’t figure out how we could mis-categorize an entire planet? It’s a planet for crying out loud!”

  They walked around and marveled at the efficiency of the place. Everywhere they looked prisoners were running around tightening, cleaning or inspecting things. It wasn’t only the oil rigs they were working on, they were actually taking care of the prison itself. There were people sweeping, wiping, polishing and doing everything else needed to keep a prison looking like a modern-day castle and they seemed to be doing it voluntarily. Finally, Smith had enough.

  “Excuse me?” he asked a man in black and white striped convict attire.

  “Yes, sir?” the man replied politely.

  “I’m sorry, we’re visitors here and we were wondering…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has everyone gone insane?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why aren’t you escaping? Are there guards I’m not aware of because it looks to me like they’re just asking you to walk on out of here!”

  The man was looking at Smith the way he figured he looked at others who screamed at total strangers in the middle of a prison yard; like it was he who was insane.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just…” Smith said.

  “Just what, sir?”

  Wesson decided it was time to help his partner out.

  “Can you please tell us why you don’t make a run for it?” he asked and the man’s eyes widened in surprise, widened in such a way Wesson felt he’d said something so profoundly dangerous the man was scared to even be within earshot when it was uttered.

  “Because we can’t, sir.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why, are you being monitored or something? Are there sensors in the ground?”

  The man looked around for a second, paused, stared at his feet and then looked Wesson directly in the eye.

  “Because there’s wolves in the tree-line” he whispered

  Wesson wasn’t sure he’d heard the man correctly so he went for a clarification.

  “Wolves?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Real wolves? Like the ones in the national forests?”

  The man started to laugh and Wesson felt relieved for he really had thought the man said wolves.

  “No, sir, not like no wolves in the forests. These wolves is nothing like them.”

  The way he said it kind of freaked Wesson out. The man was actually serious. He actually believed there were wolves in the tree-line.

  “You’re not serious?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’m dead serious.”

  By now even Smith had regained enough of his senses to once again lose them.

  “You’re saying there’s wolves in the tree-line? Wolves? And that’s why no one is making a break for it?”

  The man glanced around again and both detectives did the same. There was no one within earshot, no guards anywhere in sight but still the man appeared to weigh his words warily.

  “These aren’t your everyday wolves, sir.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No, sir, these wolves stalk, these wolves wait, these wolves want you to run.”

  Both detectives had interrogated enough people to know when they were lying, telling the truth or something in-between. What they were seeing on the convict’s face was complete and total belief in the words emanating from of his mouth.

  “Are you saying the prison is using wild animals to keep you in?”

  “No, sir, these wolves aren’t wild. No one’s ever seen them, no one’s ever met them… well, no one’s met them and returned but sometimes you can get a feel for them. You know, kind of like when someone’s watching your back and you can feel they’re gaze?”

  The detectives nodded their heads for they knew the experience.

  “Well, it’s kind of similar. When you come out here, daylight or nighttime it doesn’t matter, you can feel them watching you. You know they’re there. And you know what?”

  “What?” both asked a bit mesmerized with the man’s description.

  “You can tell they want you to try.”

  The detectives looked to the tree-line and wondered if it was possible what the man said was in fact happening. Was the prison employing trained wolves to guard the perimeter? It didn’t seem exactly legal to Wesson but he’d never heard its use before so had no idea if it was a violation or not. There was another thing the man had said which Wesson wanted a bit more explanation but was denied for the man abruptly turned away and before either detective could ask why he was leaving a voice boomed over their shoulder.

  “Smith and Wesson?”

  They turned around, looked up and stared into the eyes of another colossus of myth.

  Lattimore was around the same size as the gate-guard but with a little more personality.

  “So you two are detectives?” he asked as they walked through the yard.

  “Yes” Smith replied.

  “What do you detect?�
��

  “Huh?”

  “Well, do you detect murders or robberies or what?”

  “Oh, we usually work on cases of a sensitive nature. Generally art thefts or corporate secrets, stuff like that.”

  “Cool!”

  Smith liked the guy, he couldn’t help it, Lattimore was the most laid-back prison guard he’d ever come across. After scaring them to death with his voice and appearance he turned out to be a really enjoyable guy to be around. As they were walking through the yard he would yell out greetings to the prisoners and they would reply back, and not in the somewhat insincere way prisoners usually did. They wouldn’t yell ‘Hi, boss!’ or ‘Hello, sir!’ instead they’d yell ‘Hey, Lattimore!’ and they appeared to mean it. The man was employed to keep them locked away and they treated him like some long lost cousin. Now, it could’ve been because he was the size of a bison but Smith didn’t think so. Smith thought what he was witnessing was one of those rare individuals who was gifted with extraordinary talents but thought he was the same as those around him. It made Lattimore pleasant to be around for you weren’t worried about insulting the guy accidentally because he truly couldn’t be insulted accidentally. He could be insulted on purpose but why someone would want to do something so amazingly ignorant was beyond Smith’s comprehension.

  “Lattimore?”

  “Yes, Smith?”

  “How did Bob Simpson die?”

  They were asking him questions about Bob Simpson because he was their only lead on Mr. Johnson. They still couldn’t access anything on the LeTorque family so they went with what they had.

  “He died from Bird Flu” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Wesson asked.

  “He died from…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to repeat it. I meant, well, was there even an outbreak of Bird Flu around here?”

  “Not that we found, no. It seems old Bob was just the most unlucky guy ever.”

  The statement obviously called for further questions.

  “What do you mean?” Wesson asked.

  “Just what I said. Bob Simpson was the unluckiest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “How?”

  “Well, for starters, this prison we’re sitting in and the oil wells surrounding it…” he said then paused.

  “Yes…?”

  “The land they’re sitting on previously belonged to him.”

  Both detectives were stunned. Nothing in their report on the man indicated he had money. Of course, the redacted version they were handed didn’t really give them all too much to go on except for his previous criminal history and the two correctional facilities he’d been assigned to. Bob Simpson had first been incarcerated in Huntsville, just a little trek down the road. He’d been convicted of tax evasion by providing lodging and small goods to migrant workers who farmed the fields near his mother’s land. The government found out and he was sentenced to ten years. He got out in two, went home and was later returned to Huntsville for first degree arson. He was then transferred to the facility they were visiting.

  “This land here was once Bob Simpson’s home?”

  “Yep. Well, it was his mother’s but she was pretty far gone so he would’ve inherited it if he hadn’t murdered her.”

  Again, stunned.

  “What?”

  “The first degree part of the arson, it was his mother who died in the fire he set.”

  “You mean this is the land Bob killed his mother on?”

  “Yep, in fact, on this very same spot. You see, there was a Reformatory for Wayward Youth which was previously here. Bob found out there was oil under the Reformatory and set it ablaze.”

  Neither detective could believe their ears.

  “And they transferred him here?”

  “Yep, the place was built after old Bob did the deed and when it was finished he was transferred here.”

  “Why?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe because he killed his own mother?” Lattimore replied.

  It seemed kind of cruel but also had a ring of justice to it. Bob had killed to get at oil under a reformatory so he was sentenced to a life of reformatory-living on the very same land pumping out what had caused him to enter.

  “So let me get this straight. Bob Simpson, the guy found bound and dead with his head on backward, spent the last years of his life in a prison cell staring at rigs pumping oil which could have been his if he didn’t set a fire which killed his mom to get rid of a Reformatory which was in the way, correct?”

  Lattimore thought about it for a second.

  “Correct, and then he died of Bird Flu.”

  “That must have been hard. Staring at all the money which could’ve been yours” Smith said.

  Wesson whole-heartedly agreed.

  “Yeah, and it was even worse because he wasn’t the only one who knew” Lattimore added.

  The detectives’ ears perked up. Maybe Mr. Johnson also knew? Maybe Bob never died of Bird Flu? What if it was some elaborate hoax to somehow regain the oil-field and Bob was subsequently killed to keep him quiet?

  “Someone else knew?” Wesson asked.

  “Yep, his cell-mate.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Steve Wazziznaim.”

  Both Smith’s and Wesson’s hearts sank a bit because both were hoping for the name of Johnny Johnson. It would’ve meant they were looking for a wanted killer and probably would’ve put an end to the ‘unlimited funds’ but it would at least have been a break in the case.

  “How’d he know?” Smith inquired.

  Lattimore thought about it for a second.

  “Well, this is what I mean about old Bob being the unluckiest guy in the world. You see, Steve Wazziznaim was actually this pyramid scheme guy who was caught, convicted and sent to prison. While in prison he met Bob.”

  “Hold on. This prison?” Wesson interjected.

  “Nope, the other one, Huntsville. You see, Stevie-boy was in jail for swindling people out of money by selling claims to land he said contained oil. They didn’t, of course, and that’s why he went to the slammer but a funny thing happened while he was running his scam. He actually found land with oil. He couldn’t buy it because the owner wouldn’t sell so he bought the property next to it and, I suppose, tried to wrangle the land out from under the little old lady who refused to part with her land.”

  “Hold up. Was the little old lady Bob’s mom?”

  Lattimore smiled.

  “Yep, good guess. So anyway, it was about this time when Bob got caught in his migrant worker tax scam and Stevie-boy got caught in his pyramid scheme. Both ended up in Huntsville and Steve must have seen an opportunity because when Bob got out he set fire to the Reformatory.”

  “Huh?” Wesson said.

  “What?” Lattimore replied.

  “Why would Steve see an opportunity?”

  “Oh, well, you see, Steve knew there was oil under the land but Bob didn’t. Bob still thought the land was only good for his migrant worker program but Steve knew better so when he found himself locked up with the owner of the land adjacent to his…”

  “Hold on” Smith interjected.

  “Yes?”

  Lattimore seemed to be having fun telling the story. The detectives were rather interested , after all.

  “How did Steve know who Bob was?”

  “Good question! He knew because he set the whole thing up. You see, Bob was getting away with his guest-worker program until someone, I’m thinking Steve, informed the authorities. Steve then went to Bob’s mom and offered to assist in Bob’s defense if she would sign over the rights to her land.”

  Wesson was fully intrigued.

  “Sneaky” he said.

  “Yes, but it didn’t work because Bob’s mom received an offer from the State. They wanted to put a Reformatory for Wayward Youth on her land and were willing to lease a portion of her estate so she cut a deal with Steve. She would take his offer to fund Bob’s defense but would only use the la
nd as collateral in case she couldn’t repay. Steve accepted because he figured there was no way she would be able to pay because he didn’t know about the State’s Reformatory offer. Anyway, Bob lost his case, his mom made payments to work off her debt to Steve, Steve got busted with the pyramid scheme and joined Bob in Huntsville knowing exactly who Bob was.”

  “So Steve tells Bob about the oil…” Wesson began.

  ”… who gets out and set fire to the Reformatory…” Smith added.

  “… which kills his mom and sends him eventually back to the place it all started” Lattimore finished.

  The detectives were a little stunned but not necessarily amazed at the coincidences for they’d had experience with convicts before. Convicts had a lot of time on their hands and little to do except talk. They’d learned in any prison there would be quite a number of co-conspirators from earlier times who were subsequently caught and returned to jail. Since most prisons were State-run they’d eventually meet up with the same person they initiated the conspiracy with and usually plan a whole new enterprise. Almost all ended up running in circles and doing most their life’s time behind bars.

  “Okay, so why was Steve in here? I’m assuming he wasn’t sentenced to life for a pyramid scheme?” Smith said.

  “You’re assumption is correct. He was here because Bob sent him here.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bob swore he didn’t set the fire. He said he had an alibi but when it became obvious he was going to lose he did the one thing he thought would stop a tragedy from happening.”

  “Huh?” both detectives said at the same time.

  “Bob thought he was being set up by the one guy who knew there was oil under his land because during his trial the oil was revealed. Bob thought he was being scapegoated by the one guy who would benefit both from the loss of a Wayward Youth Facility and the incarceration of the heir to the land it was sitting on.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because Steve still held the land as collateral from Bob’s earlier trial. His mom hadn’t paid off the debt.”

  “So Bob thought…?”

  “Bob thought Steve set him up. Steve was in prison so he obviously couldn’t set the fire but it didn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do it and plant evidence incriminating Bob. Well, Bob thought it over and did what he could to prevent Steve from getting the land.”

  Wesson was all in now. He was riveted and waiting for the outcome.

  “What did he do?”

  “He said it was all Steve’s idea.”

  Chapter 17

  Zombie Ralph drove with Andrew in front and the rest in back. The limousine was nothing new to those riding but it was still a unique experience for wherever it went eyeballs followed. Johnny and Daemon shared one seat, the two Matriarchs the other.

  “It is still a strange feeling.”

  Melissa could mentally understand Victoria Beech’s situation, she just couldn’t physically experience the sensation. Scent was different from all other senses for it was always there, ever pervasive, even if only the subconscious was aware.

  “What does it feel like?” she asked.

  “It feels as though a portion of me is hollow, as though an echo I cannot hear is trying to break through.”

  The answer was vague enough for Melissa to get a generalized feeling so she let it go. They were driving down the freeway at the speed of walk for they were nearing their destination.

  “Are we sure this plan will work?” Victoria asked.

  Melissa took time to answer the question.

  “No, we’re sure of nothing at this point. We really thought the people liked the castle more than it appears they did so we’re trying what we feel is the next best option.”

  Victoria sat back and digested the information.

  “It’s harder than it was in the past, isn’t it?”

  “Starting a war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s got a few more wrinkles than the previous times but I think we can work through them. It seems the problem we’re running into is the whole globalization thing. Who would’ve thought a little ease of travel and better communication would have brought on so much tolerance?”

  The limo was exiting the freeway and its speed increased as side-road travel replaced highway crawl. Andrew kept vigil in front directing the Zombie where to go. At the same time across the entire South similar parties were performing similar measures.

  “Pull over here” Andrew directed and Zombie Ralph complied.

  “Put this on” he said and again the Zombie followed orders.

  “Give this to the clerk and wait for our reply” was his last command and Ralph nodded his already dead head, got out the limo and went to repay his debt.

  Andrew slid over into the driver’s seat and waited.

  “I will miss him, he was a good Zombie” Victoria said with what appeared true affection in her voice and Melissa felt for her new-found friend.

  Ralph was unaware he would be missed. In truth Ralph was unaware of anything. He’d been Zombified; given up his blood for a chance to perform one last chore before life passed him by. He’d done it with enthusiasm.

  Charles Schneider had always been a snide individual, always found fault in others and never saw any in himself. He’d become a financial advisor for one reason and one reason only; he couldn’t pass the CPA exam. He’d studied and crammed until his eyes bulged out but was still unable to master the one test which his college had attempted to prepare him for. He blamed his professors, all of them, for their incompetence and then blamed the test itself. It was rigged. Set against him for he was a danger to their field. He was smarter than them, wiser in the ways of the world and on to their schemes. He would change the world by finding the solution to tax avoidance. He would become the CPA to the stars! But they denied him his chance. They gave him a harder test than the others, a test impossible to pass, a test designed exclusively with him in mind for they feared what he would do to their bottom line. He knew it to be true so he became a financial advisor because it, unlike a CPA, needed no piece of paper to practice.

  Charles met Ralph at a Las Vegas casino. Ralph was rich, successful and the worst poker player at the table. Charles took him for three-thousand dollars. That would’ve been it for Ralph and Charles if not for one small detail; Charles was cheating, the casino caught him and he, in turn, caught Ralph’s eye. While they’d been betting against each other both discussed, as many do when playing a game of cards, what they did for work. Charles mentioned financial advising, Ralph lost most his money to Charles, Charles got caught cheating by the casino and Ralph found exactly the right person to hide his money from the feds. He’d been using a certified accountant who had some weird affliction which wouldn’t allow him to find a tax shelter Ralph knew had to exist. The fact no other CPA’s were willing to admit there were indeed tax shelters Ralph could use to keep his hard earned money away from the greedy government was ignored. He knew they existed, he just couldn’t find them. When he found Charles he found his answer.

  Charles’ solution was simple. Buy an apartment complex and have middlemen sign on as the tenants. He then rented out the four hundred square foot rat-holes to as many illegals as he could possibly stuff into each one. He accepted only cash and went directly to every pawn shop and trade show he could find after the rents were paid. He bought everything from gold to rubies and placed them in safe-deposit boxes where they were reported as antique family heirlooms. Ralph’s money was safe for he was still reporting rent from the middlemen who were paid a kickback to sign their names to the checks each month but he generally collecting twice as much from each individual unit in the complex because he was sleeping four to a room. Everything was going splendidly and no one was the wiser until Ralph got sick, Charles got greedy and seven hundred hard working day-laborers were evicted from two hundred one-room apartments because the land-lord quit paying the property taxes.

  Victoria found Ralph in a hospit
al after he told his story of the cheating financial advisor, Ralph found Charles sipping martinis at a beach-bar in Acapulco and Charles found the inside of a hammerhead shark as Ralph slowly and methodically cut him up and used him for chum.

  On the upside, those who ate the Swordfish caught using Charles-chum all agreed it was an extra-ordinary delight.

  “How much longer, Andrew?” Victoria asked.

  “He’s entering now” came the reply.

  No one paid him any heed for he was dressed as the others and they in turn were all dressed the same. Baseball cap, jeans, t-shirt and sneakers were the attire. It didn’t matter the design for the end product would be the same. Who cared about the messenger when the message itself was so explosive?

  “Hello, may I take your order?”

  He looked up and smiled, handed her the note and waited for their reply. All over the southern states the message was the same.

  I HAVE A BOMB STRAPPED TO MY BODY

  YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO EVACUATE

  In every location their reactions were predictable.

  “He’s got a bomb!”

  “Yaaagh!”

  In every situation the result was the same for their reply came with conviction.

  KA-BOOM!

  They didn’t care who got the blame because symbolism was the key. It had to be something both cared about deeply even if their feelings ran in opposite directions.

  “Hello folks, this is Nick Price with Channel Five News. We have a breaking development brewing and will return you to your regularly scheduled programming as soon as possible. We are going live to our award winning on-the-beat reporter, Tim Tidbit. Tim, are you there?”

  “Yes, Nick, I’m here.”

  “Tim, can you tell us what is going on?”

  “Yes, Nick, there has been a rash of explosions at various fast-food restaurants throughout the south. From Florida to California the same accounts are pouring in.”

  “What are those accounts, Tim?”

  “Eyewitnesses are reporting customers walking up to the cashiers and handing them notes saying they have bombs attached to their bodies and everyone has five minutes to evacuate.”

  “My goodness! And have those reports proven to be true?”

  “Yes, the police say they believe the witnesses.”

  “No, Tim, I meant have there been reports of bombs going off?”

  “Oh, well, yes Nick there have. In every instance where a note was presented a bomb did, in fact, explode.”

  “Oh my! And were there any casualties?”

  “Yes, the people who had the bombs strapped to their chests were all reported to have perished with the explosions.”

  “Wow! And were there any more reports of casualties?”

  “You mean other customers?”

  “Or other workers. Let’s not forget the workers, Tim.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry about that. Um, the answer to your question is no, Nick.”

  “No what, Tim?”

  “There were no other casualties, Nick.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I’m not the one counting the bodies, Nick, so I’m not proof positive they’re telling the truth when they say only the bombers blew themselves up but I can’t imagine why the authorities would hold that information from the public.”

  “Maybe to quell our fear?”

  “Um, yeah, I suppose that’s a possibility but…”

  “But what, Tim?”

  “Well, Nick, the bombs appear to have been made in just such a way the only ones really in danger at the time were the bombers themselves.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say the bombs were designed solely to blow the bombers up?”

  “Yes, that appears to be the case, Nick.”

  “Thank you, Tim. Well there you have it folks…”

  “Nick?”

  “Yes, Tim?”

  “There was one other small detail which I suppose the public should know about.”

  “What’s that ,Tim?”

  “All of the fast-food restaurants had the name ‘Taco’ in them.”

  “Thank you, Tim. Well, there you have it folks. A rash of suicide bombers with an extreme dislike for tacos has brought terror to the homeland. We will have more at five on the Channel Five News at Five. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.”