The Prison Guard's Son

by Trace Conger

  "You still plan on hanging out with shady people who like to shoot at one another?"

  "It probably sounds corny and stupid to you, but I like the feeling of helping people who can't help themselves."

  "Corny, yes, stupid, no. Look, you don't have to sell me on it. I know you wouldn't be doing this…" She waved her hands in the air. "Whatever this is if it didn't mean something to you. I guess I'd rather live with you and your job than not be in your life."

  "I have to go to Texas tomorrow morning and might be gone for a while. It'll give me some time to think about everything. Let's chat about it when I get back."

  "Sounds good to me. I'm not going anywhere."

  The waitress collected the cash and I told her to keep the change. Albert materialized a moment later with Becca, who wore a wide smile.

  "Why is it you always disappear when the check comes?" I said.

  "Just a coincidence."

  Becca clinched her teeth together like she was trying to hold back a secret that was trying to get out. "Papaw fed the fish some M&Ms. They swallowed them whole."

  Albert gently elbowed her in the side, as if she had spoiled the twist ending to a movie.

  "I don't think fish are supposed to eat M&Ms," I said.

  Albert shrugged. "They fell out of my pocket."

  Becca giggled.

  "Right. Well, I think it's time to wrap this up."

  We retuned to my apartment and spent the night playing board games and watching a Disney movie. At one point I turned to see Albert, Brooke and Becca laughing at the television. We almost looked like a family again, something I hadn't seen in a long time. After the movie I tucked Becca into bed and walked Brooke to the door. She kissed me, then walked down the breezeway clutching her coat tight around her.

  I climbed into bed and closed my eyes and thought about my trip to Texas in the morning.

  Sixteen

  ON SATURDAY I LEFT CINCINNATI before Becca and Albert woke up and drove until I crossed the Arkansas border, where I grabbed a hotel room for the night. On Sunday, I arrived in Flower Mound, Texas, around two in the afternoon.

  According to the pay phone record from South Land and the results from the reverse phone search, the calls to the King Kwik parking lot originated from a pay phone at a grocery store near the corner of Shiloh Road and Cross Timbers Road in Flower Mound.

  I checked into a Travelodge five miles from the pay phone. I assumed Vance lived somewhere in the area, as I didn't think he'd intentionally drive out of his way twice a week to make a phone call, especially if he didn't think someone was watching him. I wasted a few hours in my hotel room before grabbing my binoculars and returning to my car.

  I arrived at the grocery store at seven o'clock and found the pay phone at the corner of the parking lot. I compared the telephone number from the South Land report to the label on the phone. It matched. I felt my pulse jump at the thought of Jacob Vance picking up that receiver in the next two hours.

  There was a buffet restaurant across the street from the grocery store, a good location to wait until Vance arrived. After getting a bite to eat, I returned to my car and waited. Jacob Vance, or at least the person I assumed was Jacob Vance, was as punctual as his mother. At 8:55 p.m. a dark blue Toyota SUV pulled into the grocery store lot and parked a few spaces from the phone. I yanked my binoculars from the console and watched for whoever was in the car to approach the pay phone.

  A few minutes later the SUV backed out of its parking spot and rolled next to the phone so the driver could make the call without getting out of the vehicle.

  Damn. No visual.

  I peered through the binoculars and jotted the SUV's license plate number on my pad. When I got back to my hotel I could run the license plate through the DMV database and get Jacob Vance's new name. I'd use that name to build a new profile, and if my gut was right I would find a slew of information that began in 1992, the year Jacob Vance vanished.

  I was eyeballing the Toyota through the binoculars when three tractor-trailers blew by blocking my line of sight. I wiped the sweat from my brow and peered back through the lenses only to see the SUV pulling away from the phone and onto Cross Timbers Road. I tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat and fired up my engine as the SUV passed in front of me. A moment later I was on the road, about ten cars behind it.

  The Toyota traveled east and I was able to hang far enough behind it to blend in with the other traffic. It took a left onto Long Prairie Road and the two cars directly behind it followed. I made the turn as well and was now only a few cars back. Had it been daylight, I would have been more concerned about Vance burning me in his rearview mirror. Tailing someone requires a complicated dance to avoid being made, but most of those steps go out the window when night falls.

  About two miles later he veered onto Dixon Lane. I turned behind him and eased off the accelerator to give him some distance. That's when a gray Ford Explorer slammed into the front passenger side of my Navigator knocking my messenger bag and most of Willie's files into my lap and sending my two-and-a-half-ton SUV into the median. After plowing me into a guardrail, the Ford spun 90 degrees and came to a stop in front of me. The Explorer nailed me hard and I couldn't shake the feeling this was an omen that I shouldn't be looking for Vance.

  I wasn't sure if my head actually hit the driver's window, but it felt like it. I wiped my hand across my forehead expecting to find blood, but it was clear. I took a moment to clear the cobwebs from my noggin, clean up the files that littered the floor in front of me, and reached for the door handle. When I stepped out of the vehicle a slender black woman was standing in front of me.

  She had long wavy black hair that reached the middle of her back and she wore red-framed eyeglasses that looked expensive. She was dressed like she wanted to be noticed but not leered at. She looked important.

  "Are you okay?" she asked as I rubbed my head.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. You?"

  "Yes. I'm so sorry." She pointed to the side street across from us. "I was trying to pull out of there and I didn't see you. I'm so sorry. Are you sure you're okay?"

  "I'm fine." I looked past the woman, up the road, and thought I saw Vance's Toyota disappearing over a hill.

  "We should probably exchange insurance information," she said.

  I walked around my Navigator and looked at the gaping hole, the size of a beagle, next to my passenger front tire. I snapped off a jagged piece of fender that clung to the wheel well and tossed it inside my car.

  "I'm sorry about your car," she said. "I've never been in an accident before." She grabbed an oversized tan purse from her vehicle, opened it on the hood of the Ford and found her wallet. She glanced at the damage to the front of her car and then at mine.

  "Here's my insurance information," she said, handing me a red-and-white card. I scanned the card. Her name was Valerie Cheatham.

  For the past decade, whenever I needed an alias I always used the name Roger Mathers. There's a reason for that. Roger Mathers was born three days after I was born. We both came into this world at Bethesda North Hospital and were similar in height and weight. Unfortunately for Roger he died in an auto accident two decades ago, something that seemed ironic as I stared at my wounded SUV. I didn't think Roger would mind that I had used his birth certificate, social security number, and a variety of other vital records as my cover. I had a full array of identification badges with his name and my photo on them. One thing I did not have was an insurance card.

  "Why don't we just forget about it?" I said, moving my hand like blackjack player waving off a hit. "You can take care of your damage and I'll take care of mine. It'll work out in your favor, anyway. No need to get the insurance companies involved."

  "I really think we should exchange information. My husband'll kill me if I show up with my car looking like this and no insurance info."

  I pulled Roger Mathers's driver's license from my wallet. The gust from a passing pickup truck nearly blew it out of my hand. "Here's my ID. I'm a p
rivate investigator and the vehicle is registered to my agency." I handed her a business card. "I don't have an insurance card, but if you contact me at this number, I'll get you the information when I'm back in Ohio."

  She took the card from my hand and shot me a suspicious look. "You don't have insurance do you?"

  "I do have insurance, but this is a company vehicle and I don't have a card for it." I snapped a photo of her insurance card with my phone and handed it back to her. She grabbed a pen from her purse and jotted down my license information on the back of the business card.

  "Okay, but I'm writing down your license plate too." She handed back my license. "In case I need it later."

  "My front plate is probably stuck in your bumper somewhere. Just take it with you." I smiled. She didn't.

  Ten minutes after first burying her grill into the side of my Navigator Valerie pulled back onto the street and drove off, leaving me with a headache and a few grand in bodywork. I got back into my vehicle and fired up the engine. While I wasn't able to tail Vance to wherever he went, I had his license plate number and could still locate him through the DMV.

  I eased back onto Dixon Lane hoping my Navigator could hold a straight line and limped back to the Travelodge. My car pulled to the right more than usual, but it was still drivable. Besides the occasional piece of debris that fell off the front of the car and the annoying whistling as air rushed through the fractures in my fender, it drove pretty well. It was slower than normal on account it was now as aerodynamic as a washing machine wearing a top hat, but I hadn't planned any high-speed pursuits. I only needed it to survive long enough to find Vance and get back to Cincinnati.

  When I got back to the hotel I grabbed my laptop and my printer from the back of my car and hoped they still worked after getting bounced across the back seat. Halfway between my Navigator and my hotel room I got dizzy. Somehow I found my balance and made it to my room. Once inside I laid down on the bed to rest my head. It throbbed enough to take my concentration away from Jacob Vance. I closed my eyes, content to pick back up on Vance in the morning. As I felt sleep overtaking me I wondered if I would dream about Josh Baker again.

  Seventeen

  MONDAY MORNING I WOKE UP with a slight headache, but nothing like the night before. After getting a coffee and a banana nut muffin from the Travelodge cafe I returned to my room to dig deeper into Jacob Vance.

  It didn't take me long to find what I thought was Vance's new identity. His license plate was registered to Jake Polling, who lived here in town. I thought back to what Gypsy Scott said about people in WITSEC keeping their first names to avoid confusion. It wasn't the only confirmation I needed to tie Jake Polling to Jacob Vance, but it was a start, and a damn good one.

  Jake Polling's driver's registration provided everything I needed to get started. His birthdate was June 7, 1975, which according to the booking record in Willie's case file was exactly one month later than Jacob Vance's birthdate. Gypsy Scott didn't mention anything about birthdates, but it seemed logical the Feds would assign Vance a new birthday that was easy to remember, and a month off from his real date seemed like it fit.

  I also had Jake Polling's social security number. I ran a trace using his digits and found the social security number was assigned the same month Vance was released from Pleasant Hill. The stars lined up too straight to be a coincidence.

  I ran Polling's information through the criminal record database expecting to find something. I was convinced someone like him couldn't walk on the right side of the law forever. After doing what he did to Josh Baker, I'd bet Albert's retirement savings that Vance had reoffended. But according to the criminal record search he was clean.

  A search through his employment records showed Jake Polling owned and operated Tot Spot Child Care Center in Flower Mound. That's when I had him. Anyone who operated a childcare center had to be licensed by the state. That license required successfully passing a detailed background check, which meant his fingerprints were on file with the state.

  There are a variety of traits you can change to become someone else. You can alter your appearance, location, habits, mannerisms, style of dress and speech patterns. You can't change your DNA or your fingerprints. And while I didn't have Vance's DNA to test, I did have the next best thing—his inky fingers.

  I reached for Willie's gray bag, dumped it onto the bed and rummaged through the pile of papers until I found Vance's booking card, complete with his then nine-year-old fingerprints. An interesting fact about fingerprints is they don't change. They grow right along with you, and any unique markings on your thumb at four years old will be there at forty-four years old.

  If I could get a copy of Jake Polling's childcare license background check, I could compare his fingerprints with Jacob Vance's prints. I was pretty sure I had the right guy, now I had to confirm it.

  A quick Internet search revealed that Texas, like many other states, had a childcare license program. It's a central database accessible through the Texas State Department of Early Learning, which was maintained by the Texas Department of Public Safety. The central database served two purposes. On the public-facing side, it offered peace of mind by allowing parents seeking a responsible childcare facility to search local providers and confirm whether they had a license to operate. The database also served a more utilitarian purpose for providers by allowing them to initiate and manage employee background checks. As childcare providers hired new staff they scheduled background checks and fingerprint scans with the state. New employees had to pass this check before they could have direct contact with children. An administrator from the childcare center could log into the database to monitor the background check progress, download forms and print out certificates. I knew from a previous case these types of databases also stored fingerprint images for download. Unfortunately, that information was restricted only to those with administrative access. I scanned the website and clicked on the childcare provider log-in page. It asked for an email address and password, neither of which I had.

  If you're using a simple password, a hacker can crack it in a few seconds using an automated program. The more complicated the password, the longer it takes. If you're using a long password with a combination of numbers, letters and symbols it can take years for these programs to break it. That's why most websites require a fascinating array of characters before it approves a password.

  In addition to the overwhelming odds of cracking a sophisticated password, I had no idea how to do it. I wasn't a hacker, and while I knew several hackers who had helped me out in the past, the idea that someone can simply slip into a network and access anything they want is part urban legend and part Hollywood hype.

  Luckily, cracking into a secure website is less about finding a backdoor in the code and more about asking permission. You just have to be creative in the way you ask.

  I created an email address for a fictional Beth Collins and set it to forward to my encrypted email account. Then I found the technical support number for the Texas Department of Public Safety and dialed. After sitting on hold for ten minutes, I was connected to a tech named Jason, who actually sounded like a genuine Texan and not some outsourced IT tech from overseas. I could hear the cowboy hat through the phone.

  "Jason, this is Jake Polling," I said as I cranked up the volume of my hotel television for background noise, "from Tot Spot here in Flower Mound and I need to add an admin to my account."

  "Thanks for calling, Mr. Polling. I can assist you with that. You can add a user from the main menu under accounts—"

  "That's the problem," I interrupted. "I'm sitting at a terminal in DFW, and while I have my laptop with me I didn't pack my power cord. I'm dead in the water."

  "If you can call me back when you're in the office I can walk you through the process."

  "That's just it," I said. "I'm boarding a flight to Italy in a half hour and I'll be gone for three weeks. I had planned to log in and add her before I boarded, but that's when my computer died. We're hiring two
new employees and I need one of my assistants to log into the system to run the background checks. I can't wait until I get back and I don't know what kind of access I'll have once I land. Isn't there anything you can do to help me?"

  "Can you log into the system on a smartphone?"

  "Not with these eyes. I'm blind as a bat when it comes to small screens. Can't see a damn thing. Have to use the voice options for most everything. I'd give her my log in information but I can't remember it. We used to have someone at the office who managed all this, so I never logged in myself, but she left and I've got no idea what my username or password is."

  "I'm afraid that's not information I can give out over the phone."

  "I wouldn't ask you to do that, but can you add a new admin for me? If you can add her to the system, I can have her log in with her own information."

  Jason was silent for a moment. He probably ran through all the possible solutions in his head. The great thing about speaking with tech support is that they are trained to help people. It's their job to find solutions, and I could use that expectation to get into the system. They're also trained to not give out passwords or personal information, but I wasn't asking for that.

  "So you want to add an admin?"

  "Right. Beth is going to manage the system going forward anyway, so if you could set her up that would be great."

  "What's her name?"

  "Beth Collins."

  He stopped. “Before we go any further, can you confirm your date of birth and you social security number, Mr. Polling?"

  "Sure." I glanced at the workup I'd compiled on Polling and rattled off the information.

  "Okay," said Jason. "What's Beth's email address?"

  "It's BethCollins@totspottexas.com."

  "Okay. One moment." Jason slapped several keys on his keyboard. "Okay, I registered her with the system, but she is going to have to go in and complete her profile."