The Prison Guard's Son

by Trace Conger

  "Great. So she'll have access to upload and maintain any records, since she'll be handling that from now on?"

  "Right. The first time she logs in she'll use the default password. That's gonna be password123%, but it'll prompt her to change it as soon as she logs in for the first time."

  "Perfect. I'll let her know. Thanks for the help, Jason."

  "Sure. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "That'll do it. You just made my trip a lot less stressful."

  I clicked off my phone and headed downstairs to the cafe for a coffee refill and to give the database enough time for Beth Collins’s information to update. When I returned to my room I accessed the Texas Department of Public Safety's website, clicked to the Texas State Department of Early Learning link and logged in using Beth Collins’s phantom email address and the temporary password Jason assigned. A menu gave me two options, "Submit a new employee for background review" or "Manage existing employees." I clicked on the manage employees tab and saw a list of about a dozen individuals who worked at Tot Spot, including Jake Polling. I clicked on Polling's name and his profile page opened on my screen. There, at the top of the page, was a "Fingerprints" tab. I clicked that and watched as ten postage-stamp sized boxes, each with a clear fingerprint scan, loaded in front of me.

  Gotcha. I clicked "print" and waited as my inkjet hummed.

  Television crime shows make fingerprint analysis out to be some otherworldly science. If you're trying to identify someone from a latent print then a lot hinges on the process. If an investigator doesn't lift a print correctly, or if the sample gets damaged or deteriorates, it can be tough to make a clear comparison. Movies love to show the scene where a detective has two prints on the computer screen and they merge together into one as he gets a hit on the AFIS database and confirms they've got their guy. That makes for great entertainment, and it might be an accurate portrayal of how to find a match for a latent print, but comparing two prints to confirm whether they're identical isn't nearly as exciting or as difficult. No computer needed.

  Comparing prints for a match to a known sample requires a few items. It takes two sets of prints, a magnifying glass and knowing what to look for. At first glance a fingerprint can be intimidating with all the waves, ridges and hypnotic patterns. But a fingerprint is much like a Las Vegas craps table—it's only as intimidating as you make it. Focus on the specific things you need to look for and comparing fingerprints is as easy as finding the red flag on a mailbox.

  I had my two prints, but unlike Sherlock Holmes I didn't carry a magnifying glass in my overcoat. If I was lucky, the stocked minibar had the next best thing. Inside the refrigerator, next to the small vials of rum and vodka and the seven-dollar bottle of water, was a 20-ounce plastic bottle of Coke. I dumped out the Coke into the bathroom sink and used a small pocketknife on my key ring to cut a circular piece the size of a half dollar from the bottle's curved neck.

  I tuned on the desk light and placed Vance's 1984 booking card next to the printout of Polling's fingerprints. I focused on the right index finger because it looked like the cleanest image on both samples.

  Comparing prints comes down to focusing on the areas where patterns converge into each other, where ridges start and stop, and where ridges split into two. By marking five or six of these unique elements, you can compare the second print to confirm if these elements are in the same place as they are in the control print. If they are, then the prints are a match.

  It's like comparing two dot-to-dot pictures. You don't have to look at the completed drawing with the lines connecting the dots to confirm a match. You don't need the lines at all. If you can confirm the dots are in the same place on each sheet you've got a match.

  I got lucky because these were both clean prints. Sometimes prints lifted from crime scenes can be smudged or partial or otherwise poor samples to work with, but the booking prints were taken at the police station by a professional and the Polling prints were taken by a fingerprint scan at some government office. Time to get to work.

  I held the concave plastic piece I'd cut from the Coke bottle over the booking card and examined the right index finger print through my makeshift magnifying glass. I started at the core of the print and counted to the left four ridges, where I found the first split in a ridge. I marked the spot with the hotel pen they left in the desk drawer and continued examining the print. Two ridges to the left of the first split was a point where a ridge ended. A new ridge began just above it. I marked that spot as well. I moved another three ridges to the left and found a point where the ridge split twice. I marked both splits and looked for any additional nearby anomalies. Just below the last point I marked were two specks. These were areas where the ridges were so short that instead of resembling a line they looked like dots. I marked both those points and swapped Jacob Vance's booking card for Jake Polling's printout.

  I squinted, bent back over the desk and examined the printout looking at the specific locations I'd marked on the booking print. Each anomaly matched. The ridge stops and starts, the splits and the dots were all in the same place on Polling's print. I had my guy.

  Now it was time to meet him in person.

  Eighteen

  I DO MOST OF MY work from a distance. I rarely find myself face-to-face with the people I'm paid to locate. Don't need to. It's safer looking for someone from a comfortable couch or coffee shop. Most of the time I only need to get someone's name and location and then I pass that on to whoever is paying the bill. Then I'm out. Impersonal is how I like it. This wasn't one of those times.

  All the evidence I’d gathered told me Jacob Vance was Jake Polling, but since giving Willie Baker his identity would sign his death warrant I wanted the chance to look him in the eye. To look into his soul. There was a curiosity component to it too. Part of me wanted to meet this monster in person and see what he was like. It's not often I get the chance to come face-to-face with pure evil, and I wasn't going to let the opportunity slip past.

  Tot Spot was about ten miles away from my hotel, so I grabbed my bag and my .45 and headed for the lobby. I passed the front desk, where two couples stood at the counter checking in, and walked through the revolving glass door. I had momentarily forgotten about yesterday's car accident, but the sight of my crumpled fender brought it all back. I didn't look forward to Albert's comments about me not being able to drive for shit or his sly comparisons to Columbo's jalopy. I climbed in the car, started the engine and pulled out onto the main road. I made several turns on my way to see Vance and noticed the silver SUV behind me made the same turns. That made me nervous.

  Gypsy Scott warned me that I might draw unwanted attention once I started shaking bushes, and the silver SUV caught my interest. There are a few easy ways to confirm if you're being tailed. The first is to make two right turns. If someone is still on your ass after that, you've got a reason to be suspicious. I made the two rights and the SUV still pursued, but it dropped back, the same way I did when I followed Vance after he left the pay phone. I didn't like it. There was an intersection up ahead and I slowed and clicked my right turn signal on. The SUV in the rearview mirror did the same. As soon as I saw his signal I turned mine off and sped through the intersection. He turned off his signal and followed. He was burned and he knew it. I slowed again and this time made a U-turn in the median and headed back toward the hotel. He didn't follow. He probably thought I'd made him and he wanted to drop the tail and pick me up again later. He already knew to find me at the Travelodge, so I figured I'd see him again.

  A moment later it wasn't the silver SUV that concerned me, it was the blue Fusion that stayed on me after another two turns. Sophisticated surveillance requires multiple vehicles to tail a mark. One vehicle drops off and another picks up. They keep this up so the mark can't pinpoint a specific vehicle behind him. I figured the silver SUV dropped off after I made him and the Fusion took over. Time to find out who had such an interest in me.

  A mile later it was still on me. I slowed and pa
rked on the street in front of the Rise and Grind coffee shop. The Fusion parked on the opposite side of the street but stayed a hundred feet behind me. Whatever game we were playing was about to get more interesting. I slipped the .45 from my leather messenger bag, placed it in my lap and then realigned my side mirror so I could watch the car. I could make out a woman in the driver's seat. Unless there was someone tucked away on the floor in the backseat, she was the only one in the vehicle.

  I waited for a few minutes half expecting her to approach my car, but she didn't. After five minutes it was obvious she was staying inside her vehicle. Time to take it to the next level. I stashed the .45 under my seat, stepped out of the car and went inside the coffee shop. I ordered a large black coffee and a banana nut muffin from the hipster in the flannel shirt behind the counter and took a seat at a table in the corner of the cafe. There was a stainless steel napkin dispenser on the table, the kind you find in old diners. When I adjusted it to the right angle I could clearly see the Fusion across the street, but whoever was in the car couldn't see me. It wasn't as clear as my car mirror, but it did the trick.

  In all the years I've been tracking people down, I've learned that the best strategy to finding someone is to make them find you. That strategy hadn't worked for Vance, and I was still thinking about how to apply it to Turner, but I'd focus on him later. I was more concerned about the woman in the Fusion, and I figured if I sat in the cafe long enough she would become suspicious and sweat the fact I hadn't come out. I hoped she would assume that I made her and ditched her in the cafe by slipping out a back door. Had I wanted to lose her, that's exactly what I would have done. I would have slipped out the back, rounded the corner and waited for her to cross the street and enter the cafe to confirm whether I was still there. Then I'd jump into my car and lose her before she had a chance to make it back to her vehicle.

  But I didn't want to lose her. I wanted to identify her and see what part she played in this little game. I sipped my coffee and waited. For the next hour I watched the hazy reflection on the napkin dispenser. Then I saw it. Her curiosity got to her and she wanted to see if I was still inside. She stepped out of the car, crossed the street and walked into the cafe.

  She jostled a large tan purse in her hand, scanned the room and saw me sitting in the corner. I shot her a wide smile and watched as she ordered a coffee and then sat at a table against the opposite wall. I imagined she felt part relieved she hadn't lost me, and part embarrassed she let herself get drawn into the trap I'd set.

  She crossed her arms in front of her and stared at the steam rising from the white ceramic mug. She stirred the coffee with a narrow straw without putting anything in it and then glared at me. It took me a moment to realize where I'd seen her before. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and that's what threw me. Had it been down, I would have recognized her from the first time we met. When she plowed her Ford Explorer into the side of my Navigator. That was one hell of a coincidence, which was bad because I didn't believe in coincidences.

  I walked past her to get a refill at the counter and then slipped into the seat across from her on my way back.

  "Hi," I said, eyeing her full mug.

  "Hello."

  "This isn't much of a place for someone who doesn't drink coffee."

  "I assume it's not."

  "So you want to tell me why you're following me? I'd rather talk about it than risk any more bodywork to my car. Another collision and my insurance company might drop me. It was a good way to get my identification though. Nice work."

  "Thanks. But you gave me an alias. You're not Roger Mathers."

  "Says who?"

  She pulled a file from her purse and slapped it onto the table with a thud. "Says the FBI."

  I sipped my dark roast and leaned back in my seat. "Whatcha got there?"

  "I ran your name through our database and found a report filed by Special Agent Brian Tipton two years ago. The Roger Mathers name came back as a known alias of Finn Harding, ex-private investigator. Got your photo from your PI license to confirm it. Your suspended license."

  "So you're FBI?"

  "No. I'm with the US Marshals Service. Deputy Marshal Valerie Cheatham." She didn't extend her hand.

  "Good to see you again. Is Uncle Sam going to pay for the hole in my car? Figure you're liable given you hit me in the line of duty."

  "I'll look for the hitting-a-suspect's-car-during-an-investigation form when I'm back in the office."

  "Suspect?" I took another sip. "As far as I know there's no reason why I should be a suspect for anything. So why the tail?"

  "Because I want to know why you're looking for him."

  "Who?"

  She smirked, knowing I tried to get her to acknowledge Vance's new identity. "Why are you looking for Jacob Vance?"

  "I'm not looking for him," I said. "I found him."

  "Maybe you did and maybe you didn't."

  "If I hadn't found him we wouldn't be having this conversation. And my car would look a lot better than it does."

  "Suppose you had found him. Why were you looking for him in the first place?"

  "I'm working on a case—"

  "Ex PIs don't work cases."

  I drew in a deep breath. "I'm just looking into him for a friend."

  "Some journalist hire you? Someone related to the victim maybe?"

  "The victim? You mean Josh Baker. You can use his name."

  "I'm familiar with the case, and now I want to be familiar with why you're in Texas."

  "I'm working with an author. She hired me to dig up some information on Vance and Turner. That's not illegal."

  "No, it's not, but there's a gag order on the case."

  I smirked at her attempt to scare me away. "That doesn't apply to me. Only to anyone involved with the original case, which I wasn't. And neither was the author, so she can write whatever she wants with no blowback."

  "That might be true, but if your author friend publishes anything that shouldn't be out there, the court can haul her in and demand she reveal her source. You might not be under the order, but my guess is that someone who is feeding you information is. The gag order could apply to them and that threat alone could make a publisher nervous. My guess is she never lands a book deal."

  "Then you've got nothing to worry about."

  She tapped her red nails on the tabletop. "My gut tells me otherwise."

  I smiled. "That could just be an internal injury from T-boning my car."

  She didn't say anything.

  "I assume you're hiding Raymond Turner too?"

  "I don't know anything about that."

  "Bullshit," I said. "You can't play dumb now. I already know you're protecting Vance so you're probably protecting Turner too. Maybe not you specifically, but someone else."

  "Let's cut the shit, Finn." She moved the mug across the table and black coffee sloshed around inside nearly going over the rim. "I don't buy your book research for a second. I want to know why you're really looking for them and you're going to tell me."

  "Looking for them? So you do have Turner."

  She smirked.

  "Why don't you tell me why the federal government is protecting two child killers? The US Marshals are responsible for finding fugitives and protecting informants in WITSEC, but Vance and Turner never testified against anyone. They were never a part of any federal case and aren't eligible for federal protection, so why are you hiding them?"

  Valerie shifted in her seat and I could tell she wasn't prepared for the barrage of questions. She probably thought all she had to do was flash her badge and I'd walk away with my tail between my legs. And while that would be the smart thing for me to do, I rarely did the smart thing.

  "Our involvement is none of your goddamn business."

  "Want to know my theory?" I thought back to what Nell told me about Vance's father working for the Department of Justice. "I think Daddy Vance pulled some strings with the DOJ and got his son and Turner into the program. Gave them a n
ew start. A new life free from the stigma of being a known child killer."

  "It's not my job to question who gets what deal and why. But it is my job to keep you from finding them. And that's what I'm prepared to do."

  "How? I've already found Vance. He's running a goddamn childcare center. A child killer working with children all day. Nice work, Uncle Sam."

  "Stop fishing."

  "I don't think I have it in me to bow out now. I'm already in Flower Mound and I kind of want to see this thing through. Plus, I really don't have anything better to do with my time."

  "Then you're an idiot."

  "I've been called worse. To my face." I smiled. "By my own family."

  "This isn't a joke, Finn. I can't legally stop you from looking for them but I can damn sure make your life hell if you don't let up."

  "How's that?"

  "We're the government." She smiled for the first time. "We make bad things happen to people all the time."

  She was right about that. I knew two people serving life sentences for murders they didn't commit, all thanks to the FBI. But I also didn't think she was prepared to go that far. Not yet anyway.

  She stuffed the bulging file back into her purse. "Of course, I could just move Vance and make you jump through your hoops all over again. All it takes is a phone call."

  "I don't think so."

  She raised her eyebrows.

  "Here's the way I see it," I said. "Vance has been living in anonymity for the past twenty-four years. The Josh Baker case is old and stale, at least to anyone outside of Parkersburg, West Virginia, and I don't think Vance is fearing for his life. We're not talking about some mobster who went under after testifying against his family. The threat levels on these two are pretty low. And Vance is established here. He's running a business. Probably got a good income. No, if you show up in a black van outside his home in the middle of the night and tell him you want to up and move him across the country because I'm looking for him, I bet he tells you to fuck off and goes back to bed."