If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

  7

  I arrive at the Larry P. Smith Correctional Facility at 18:05, hungry, thirsty, and in desperate need of a quick bathroom stop. Tumbleweeds spin across the mostly vacant public parking lot next to me as I roll up to the gate. I flash my Special Agent ID to the guard to gain access. After a short examination, he instructs me to park by the visitor’s entrance. An armed correctional officer waits for me to get out of the car. The warm, dry air presses against me, and my skirt and silk blouse cling to my body immediately. Doug would be pleased to see me dressed-up once again, but I would love to change back into my office uniform.

  The asphalt feels soft underneath my feet as if melting from the heat. My walk is stiff from driving three hours as I follow the tall, round-faced man with a chubby chin into the building. I’m asked to wait for a word from the warden and told that it may take a while since it’s after business hours.

  In the waiting area, I help myself to a bag of chips and a pack of chocolate-chip cookies from a vending machine before refreshing myself in the restroom.

  Good news waits for me at the front desk when I return. The warden left at five for the day, but his deputy is ready to see me.

  I surrender my firearm and empty my pockets before I pass through the metal detector. The deputy warden is meeting me in the hallway leading to the cafeteria. He is a friendly man who maintains a close relationship with the inmates, the escorting officer informs me.

  The knocking sound of my heels echoes down the long corridor and announces my arrival. The deputy has plenty of time to inspect me before I reach him, as do I. He is a short, well-dressed man with close-cropped light hair that’s thinning at the crown.

  My presence induces a round of catcalls from the dining inmates. The deputy nods at his officers to restore order. Avoiding eye contact with the prisoners, I extend my hand to the deputy.

  “Vicky Collins, FBI, special operations,” I introduce myself.

  “Matt Zielinski, Deputy Warden.”

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I start, clenching the tablet to my chest. “I understand my visit seems rather unusual, but if we could talk in private, I’ll explain why I’m here.”

  Zielinski laughs and pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “In my line of work, Agent Collins, I’m afraid I’m seldom surprised.”

  I nod with a courteous half-baked smile.

  The deputy puts his hand on my back, indicating me to get moving. “I’m very proud of this establishment. We have one of the lowest rates of lawsuits against us in the county. Plenty of exercise options, well-balanced meals, and a wide variety of educational classes are offered to the inmates to keep them content and busy.”

  I’m happy to hear that murderers and rapists are enjoying a well-balanced life, financed by taxpayers and their victims’ families.

  “Sounds like management is doing a great job,” I comment.

  We turn right at the corner. The greasy food smell fades into an odor of antiseptic and stale water.

  “Well, we do the best we can with the budget we have. The elected officials and the inmates’ lawyers watch us like hawks, waiting for us to slip up so they can pounce on us. We have to be magicians trying to keep the wheels spinning.”

  I smile and shake my head. “I can only imagine. I’m hoping your record-keeping is as excellent as your operations.” I leave my thought dangling. Zielinski offers me a curious look as he ushers me into his office.

  “So, what can I do for you, Agent Collins?” He gestures for me to sit down. “As you may know, we don’t get many visitors from the FBI, so I’m curious to hear what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Zielinski’s chair is set higher than mine, as he noticeably looks down at me. He places his small hands on his desk and crosses his short stubby fingers.

  “I came from the San Diego field office to acquire information about a former inmate of this establishment released eight years ago.”

  “You can access every inmate's file from the comfort of your office. Why drive up here?”

  “Yes, I can access some,” I turn on my iPad and show the criminal profile to the deputy warden. He pulls his glasses down and glances at the screen. His blank expression tells me he doesn’t recognize the face or the name.

  “What more do you need?” He leans back and starts gently rocking back and forth in his chair.

  “I was hoping to talk to the guards who worked his block. A roommate, perhaps.”

  Zielinski unfolds his arms and clears his throat. “Let me see what I can pull up on him.”

  He revives the screen of his desk computer. “Name?”

  “Blake Sullivan.”

  “Date of Birth?”

  “September 29, 1985.” This must be a fake date or a mix-up because I was born on November 2 in the same year. The DNA analysis must take another look at the profiles. However, this birthday doesn’t exclude the possibility of my dad fathering a bastard around the same time I was conceived. I’ll need DNA samples from both of my parents to compare.

  Zielinski claps his hands. “Here he is. Served eight months out of twelve. Sentenced for physical assault, causing bodily harm to a woman. Released on good behavior. According to his record, he was a model citizen under our roof.” Zielinski peers over his screen at me. “We have excellent programs for rehabilitating criminals. Of course, they don’t always work, but in Sullivan’s case, the results speak for themselves.” He pauses as if anticipating a compliment.

  I offer him the praise he’s seeking to keep myself in his good grace before I ask, “Are you able to track down a roommate or a guard who might have known him?”

  “Let’s see. Sullivan was in … Housing Unit 14. Had two cellmates during his stay with us. Let me see if I can pull up info on them.”

  I wait impatiently. My right leg is twitching. It’s surreal that I have a felon for a brother I’ve never met. A stranger who crossed the law and lost. A criminal. I wonder whether I’d be able to recognize him on the street. A man can change for the worse in prison. Did he get back on his feet or is he living on the street? Is he a drug addict? A flood of painful questions washes over me as I sigh. Why would my parents lie about something so significant?

  “Ah, here! You’re lucky. Mr. Paul Gooden is our guest once again. Wow! His rap sheet is as long as the Colorado River. Battery. Assault. Burglary. Grand theft auto … I, um, guess he’s good at everything but covering his tracks,” he snorts with a chuckle.

  “Is it possible for me to interview him?”

  Zielinski checks the time on his watch. “After dinner. I don’t see why not.”

  “Perfect. Thank you so much. You’ve been more than helpful, sir.”

  The deputy blushes. So, I pepper him with more praise to keep him going before I announce my next request.

  “Did you find any guards who might have known Sullivan?”

  “To go over the schedules to see who worked in that housing unit, that specific year will take more time.” He taps his desk with the back of an elegant black pen. “May I ask, why are you interested in our former guest?”

  “Of course. He’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation being conducted by the FBI. I’m afraid that’s all I’m allowed to disclose at this time.”

  “Very well.” He shrugs and lifts a red mug to his lips. ”May I offer you something to drink?”

  I lay my tablet on my lap. “A cup of coffee would be fantastic.”

  Zielinski presses a button on the intercom on his desk. “Denise, would you please be so kind and bring in some coffee for Agent Collins and myself?” he nods at me. “Sugar, milk, creamer?”

  “All three, if I may.”

  He raises his brows and recites my request to his secretary.

  8

  The interview room is a sterile rectangular space furnished with a white plastic table and two chairs. The remnants of the dying sunlight penetrate the barred window and warm my hands. Behind me, an armed guard stands motionless. His bon
y face is severe and stern.

  Nearly thirty minutes pass before Paul Gooden is escorted inside the room and ordered to take a seat opposite of me. As he sits down, I open my jacket and free the top two buttons of my blouse.

  Gooden is a charismatic, handsome man with smooth dark skin and alluring eyes and a single teardrop tattoo under his right eye—not what I expected the criminal to look like. He smiles at me flirtatiously, creating a dimple on each of his cheeks. I wonder why such a good-looking young man would commit all those crimes to end up here, wasting his life behind bars. He could have achieved anything with that face and body.

  “Ma’am,” he addresses me politely.

  I feel hot inside, worried about showing my rookie bones for professional interrogation.

  “Mr. Gooden,” I return his smile. “Were you told why I wanted to see you?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. The guards only said that some hotshot FBI agent is here to ask me some questions.”

  I turn on my iPad and pull up Blake’s mug shot. “All right. Do you recognize this man?”

  Gooden presses his manicured index finger onto the screen, spins the tablet toward him, and leans forward for a short peek. “Maybe.”

  “He was your roommate in 2011.”

  “It’s possible.” He places his elbows on the table, and now our faces are so close I can sense his warm breath. I don’t lean away. He is not in charge, I tell myself: I am.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  He raises his brows. “I didn’t say I know him.”

  I run my tongue over my upper teeth, then smack my lips. “I don’t have time to play games with you. I have the power to make your life easier or … less so in this wonderful facility. It’s up to you which one it’ll be.”

  “Are you threatening me, Agent…” he waits for me to finish his sentence, but I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  I tap aggressively on the screen. “Did this man ever talk about his plans once he got out?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I open my mouth, but before I utter a sound, he chokes the word in me. “Uh-uh. Careful now with your threats. I got a lawyer who will take good care of me in case I suffer any kind of abuse in this shithole.”

  I pull back my tablet and push myself to my feet. “My mistake. I was going to offer you some commissary credit and an extra thirty minutes of fresh air every day, but I guess I’ll find someone else who has the information I need.”

  Gooden grabs ahold of my wrist. The guard leaps toward the inmate, but he releases me swiftly and tosses his hands in the air. “I was joking! Lighten up, people. Yeah, I know him. Blake. Cool dude.”

  “I’m okay. Thank you,” I tell the guard.

  “If you open your blouse up a bit and show me some skin, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” Gooden winks and licks his lips.

  I feel ashamed using my sexuality to extract information out of this man. I’ve spent my entire career trying to blend in with the guys, to be looked at as an officer, a detective, an agent, and not as a woman. But I am a woman, so why not use that to my advantage? I move my chair, so the guard behind me doesn’t catch me releasing a few more buttons on my blouse. If my father saw me now, he’d call me a hypocrite. “You are only a feminist when it suits you. You aren’t so eager to do a man’s job when it comes to landscaping or washing the car, are you?”

  “Nice …” Gooden remarks, rubbing his chin.

  If we met in a bar, I’d have a drink with him. That’s how vulnerable I feel. The wolf can hide in sheep’s clothing, and I would never know the difference until it was too late.

  “Ok, you got what you wanted, now let’s hear what I want.”

  He chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry. He didn’t tell me anything. On the day of his release, he got up, said bye, and walked out of the door.”

  Enraged and embarrassed, I button up my blouse, gather my stuff, and get up. The inmate’s leering eyes follow my movements.

  “I’m done here,” I tell the guard. As I make my way around the table, I duck to Gooden’s ear. “Too bad you weren’t more helpful. I was about to arrange a private room for us to have some fun,” I whisper and brush my fingers along his jawline.

  “Wait!” Gooden yells after me. “I just remembered something!”

  I walked out of the room without faltering.

  9

  Sitting in my parked car in the vacant lot outside of the correctional facility, I open the folder on my lap that the deputy warden left for me at the front desk. Sheets of freshly printed paper slide out. I lift the top page and carefully read through it.

  As it turns out, I already have most of the information in my possession. I searched the databases at the Bureau before I left the building to commence my forced vacation, but I flick through these pages, all the same, hoping to discover any new significant facts about Blake Sullivan’s life.

  “The deputy left this file for you; it contains everything we have on the inmate you are investigating,” the desk officer said as I rushed out of my interview with Gooden.

  I asked her about the 2011 guard shift schedule, but it wasn’t ready yet. I left my phone number and email address to be contacted as soon as it was available. I went back to my car, not an iota smarter than I was when I arrived.

  Sitting behind the wheel of my car and balancing the paperwork makes me feel confined. I’m also tired and hungry. The combination of discomfort and frustration brings the grumpiness out of me. Luckily, no one is around to suffer the wrath of my unpleasant mood.

  I slide the seat all the way back and roll down my window to release the hot, humid air stuck in the car. I search the compartments for a snack but only find a pack of chewing gum. I reluctantly pop one into my mouth, knowing it will only jumpstart the acid production in my stomach and make me hungrier.

  When the first draft of breeze cools my face, I return my focus to locating my alleged brother.

  The profile picture in the file is the same one the FBI has listed in AFIS and CODIS: a sunken-faced, pale young man with pimples and bloody scratches on his cheeks. He has a nice shaped head topped with an unruly mop of dirty-blond hair. Blake is giving a cocky grimace in the photo. His Adam’s apple is bulging underneath the skin of his neck as he keeps his head back, staring defiantly into the camera. He must have been high or drunk when this photo was taken as his eyes are glazed over.

  I trace my fingers along his jawline and park my fingertip by his eye. I try to feel some connection to this stranger, but it’s nothing there.

  Despite his hard appearance, it’s difficult to picture him breaking a woman’s jaw. In the file, the guards and therapists only sing his praises. It appears Blake was a well-liked fellow at Smith’s.

  His record is squeaky clean—suspiciously so. In my experience as a detective, a man capable of inflicting such violence on others, especially on a woman, is hardly a model citizen and has prior offenses. Blake had none.

  Next, I look at his personal history. His residences only date back ten years.

  He was emancipated from his legal guardian at the age of sixteen. After that, he had only one address in Hemet, California. His primary emergency contact info has the same address. The name listed with it is Juan Soto.

  I pull up the address on my Google Maps app. It’s a thirty-minute drive from here. If I left now, I could be there by 20:30. An inappropriate time to visit a working family on a Tuesday night.

  I’m a long way from home, so I consider getting a room in Banning and visiting the Soto residence tomorrow, but I’m worried about what Doug might think of me staying out all night.

  Speaking of the devil, my phone rings. Doug’s name appears on the screen.

  “Hey, babe,” I answer, with a lump in my throat. I don’t know why I’m always nervous about telling my boyfriend that I have work to do. He, of all people, should understand my situation: he is in realtor mode twenty-four/seven. He lives for his clients and social-media
followers, not thinking twice about sacrificing our private life for the benefit of his business. My memories of the old Doug have long faded away. Sometimes I feel I don’t even know the man I’m with anymore.

  “Where are you? It’s eight o’clock,” he asks impatiently.

  “I’m out on assignment. I meant to call you but was caught up in an interrogation.”

  “Out where? I thought your detective days were behind you?” I hear his car door open and a rhythmical warning signal chime in the background.

  “Well, when we decided I would join the FBI, we both knew I wouldn’t be buried in an office every day.”

  “Whatever you say, but you could have called me. I have friends waiting for us at the pub for a drink. I came home to pick you up.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Since when do we need a reason to go out? Damn, Vicky, you’re turning into an old hag.”

  I draw in a deep breath to keep my emotions at bay. “I’m sorry for ruining your plans. I would go home if I could, but I think I’m going to stay here overnight. I’m over a hundred miles away, and I don’t want to risk driving in the dark when I’m tired.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Banning.”

  “What the hell are you doing in that shithole?”

  “Following a lead that turned out to be a dead end.”

  A sigh echoes. “No worries. I’ll make up an excuse for you then.”

  I feel downtrodden again. A drink with friends sounded much more fun than sleeping tucked between bleached sheets in a sketchily cleaned motel room.

  “Doug. Look, I’m sorry for missing this, okay? Why don’t you get the gang together at our house for the Fourth of July? We could throw something on the barbeque, make a few cocktails, and watch the fireworks.”

  “You mean, I could throw something on the barbeque?”