by Sarah Lovett
"Hold your horses, what are we talking here?"
"You knew that the parole hearing was coming up."
"Hell, 'Late' is my middle name."
Sylvia's expression hardened. "Did you think I might do a lousy job because I've been distracted by Malcolm's death?"
"Oh, come on, Sylvia, I knew you'd do a great job."
"Herb, don't bullshit me."
"Shall I take your order?"
Herb spit a tiny spray of vodka from his lips. He turned to face the flustered waiter. "Surprise me, pal. I'll take the chef special, whatever, the daily."
"A green salad," Sylvia said.
The decibel level in the restaurant had gone up as more customers streamed in for lunch. Tables were clustered in small rooms of what had once been a Territorial hacienda. Now, the old well shaft was covered with a sheet of thick Plexiglas set in the floor of the bar, and plates arranged with chile wonton and cilantro squab tacos were served from the stainless steel kitchen.
Using crayons supplied by the restaurant, Herb began doodling notes to himself on the white paper tablecover.
Sylvia spread her fingers on the table. "Your client has some major problems."
Herb snickered. "You know how guys in the joint are, Sylvia. Lucas has done his time and he deserves a break." He turned to stare as a young woman in a knit dress walked toward the bar. "If you want, you can talk to my paralegal. He's dealt with Lucas on most of the prep for the hearing."
Sylvia pulled a manila folder from her briefcase, and set it on the edge of the table. "Here's the evaluation."
"Great."
Sylvia spoke slowly. "There are no signs of organicity or schizophrenia or a schizophreniform disorder, and, apparently, there are no auditory or visual hallucinations."
"Hey, that's good, isn't it?"
"But the MMPI indicates that Lucas suffers from persistent, nonbizarre delusions—somatic, grandiose. There's also a high degree of paranoia . . . an inability to relate to others—suspicious, defensive, that sort of thing. I'm guessing a paranoid personality or delusional disorder. Mix that with a good dose of antisocial traits and you've got a potent combination."
"That sounds like everybody in the joint." Herb thrust his napkin on the table.
"I want Lucas Watson transferred to the psych unit in Los Lunas. The man needs help. I intend to collect more data, spend more time with him—then I can come up with a valid treatment plan. I'll do a complete test battery, comprehensive physical and mental—"
"We don't have time." Herb tapped his index finger against the cocktail glass. "Let's keep it simple. After he's out, then maybe Lucas can get some counseling." He winked.
Sylvia shook her head. "Lucas is a time bomb, and there's no telling when he'll explode. I'm recommending a psych transfer, not parole."
"A transfer!" A purple crayon disappeared into Herb's lap.
"He's been incarcerated for three years. We're talking an extremely stressful environment. His scores have deteriorated. A certain amount of paranoia is normal for inmates, but Watson's scores aren't even close," Sylvia said
"I think you're the one who's paranoid," Herb said. "You spent a few hours with my client and you got spooked."
Sylvia pressed one hand on the folder. "If I'd never met Lucas, if I'd worked completely from the MMPI, my recommendations wouldn't change. Any professional in my field would come to the same conclusions. Raw scores aren't subjective."
"Bullshit. He's no more crazy than any of those guys."
She snapped a fork against the table. "Lucas thinks everyone's trying to kill him."
Herb shut down. "You're making a mistake."
Sylvia didn't answer.
He took a deep breath and maneuvered his jaw like a man who had just taken a punch. "It's ironic . . . Lucas was convicted because he wasn't crazy. Now you're telling me he's too crazy to make parole."
"Listen, Herb, during the evaluation, the man flipped out, sliced his wrist, and almost attacked me." Sylvia stood. "My evaluation is clear; Lucas needs help. If you have questions, call me at my office. But whatever you do, I recommend you get a complete battery on Lucas."
As Sylvia stood, the waiter delivered Herb's second Absolut on a tray. She reached for the glass, drank, set it down half-empty in front of the lawyer, and walked away.
ROSIE FOLLOWED ANGEL Tapia's gurney down the hall, her left hand grasping the cold metal. Now that his fever had broken, Angel was on his way to protective custody at North Facility, a five-minute trip from Main by van. It was a question of safety—in case whoever had amputated his finger decided to cut off another one—and a new environment seemed like the healthy choice.
She glanced down at the thick bandage covering Tapia's hand. His naturally tawny skin—now covered with peppery red spots—had gone gray. His eyes were protruding black marbles.
"Angel, just try to remember for me. If you close your eyes, think back."
"Nada," Angel whispered.
"¿Tiene miedo?"
"I don't remember."
Rosie sighed and touched his shoulder. "Was it a rival?" she asked quietly. Angel wasn't a hard-core gang member, but if he'd gotten in between something, Rosie knew he'd never break his silence.
"I'm sick," he said.
Actually, Angel's "contagious" quarantine for measles was over as of today; he was no longer considered dangerous to others, but Rosie didn't think he would appreciate the irony of the situation.
The young nurse pushing the gurney from behind mumbled a complaint about inmates and their overactive imaginations. Angel Tapia tried to raise his head and then groaned with the effort.
He ran his coated tongue over chapped lips and whispered, "El chacal," his voice so faint Rosie had to lower her head and hold her hair off his face.
They had reached the end of the hallway and the door to the medical sally port. The nurse stepped away from the gurney and stared through the thick square of window cut into the exit.
"What, Angel?" Rosie prodded gently. "I couldn't hear you."
"El chacal."
Rosie squinted in concentration. "¿Qué ¿Chacal? You saw a jackal?"
Angel shook his head and pressed his cheek with his good hand. His fingers moved to his forehead, and he tried to force a smile. "Sueños. . . dreams, but it seemed so real." He held up his bandaged paw.
The door opened, and two C.O.s moved Angel's gurney down a ramp to a waiting van. Rosie watched the double doors slam on the vehicle when Angel was safely stowed away. As she turned and walked toward the stairs, she thought, it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. Too bad there weren't any fat ladies doing time in Main.
THE METAL SCRAPED and groaned and Sylvia jumped as the interior gate in Main's corridor slid open.
"Hey, Robot, how's it going?" Sylvia smiled at the balding, middle-aged man. Like so many inmates, Emilio Rodríguez had earned a special name in the joint; among the prison population, it was more real than the one on his birth certificate. In his case, the moniker resulted naturally from his mechanical, dronelike gait, and his reputation as a cold-blooded killer.
"Hey, Dr. Strange. It's going. How about yourself?" Robot waved his dust rag.
Sylvia raised an eyebrow and smiled. For Robot, the greeting was effusive; he was clearly pleased about something. "I'm all right."
She braced for the heavy clang of the metal gate as it snapped shut behind her. She'd interviewed Robot several times, by court order, and she liked him—although she'd never turn her back on the man. He had an eighth-grade education, the median for inmates, but he was quick, and he had a sense of humor. He was also an acknowledged kleptomaniac. After one session, he'd actually escaped with her reading glasses; she still didn't know how he'd managed that trick.
"Don't leave that necklace lying around," Robot said with a wink.
"If I lose it, I'll know where to find it. See you later, Robot." Sylvia laughed. She was through the second metal gate and starting up the stairs when she almost collided with Rosie Sánch
ez hurrying from the bisecting hallway.
"Hey," Sylvia said. "Sorry I'm late, but I couldn't find a locksmith who actually kept business hours."
Rosie smiled. "Your timing is perfect. Why a locksmith?"
"A sticky dead bolt at the house."
The two women took the stairs together; Sylvia slowed her stride to match the shorter step of Sánchez. Neither spoke until they reached Rosie's office.
"Coffee?" Rosie asked.
"Sure."
Rosie was petite, only topping five feet by an inch or so, but stiletto heels added another three inches. Bottled copper strands were artfully woven into a thick head of dark-brown tresses.
She poured two cups of viscous fluid from Mr. Coffee, opened two packets of Cremora, and dropped one into each cup. "I know you take it black, but this is industrial strength."
The heat in the office was off and the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. Rosie flipped on lights, removed a notebook from a square vinyl chair, and motioned for Sylvia to sit. At almost the same instant, the phone rang.
Rosie perched on the metal desk and cupped the receiver to her ear. "Rosie Sánchez." Immediately, she recognized the voice on the end of the line: Matt England. "Hey, kiddo, I was hoping you'd ring me back." She'd known England since he moved to New Mexico from Oklahoma eighteen years ago. "You guys at state police hate pen business, but I need your help." She crossed her legs, scribbled Mart's name on a Post-it, and held it out to Sylvia with an apologetic shrug.
Sylvia scowled as the name returned a striking, weathered face to memory. Matt England had testified for the prosecuting attorney during a controversial murder trial. Malcolm had testified for the defense as an expert witness. England had made no effort to mask his dislike and distrust of psychologists during the trial. It was the typical bias of law enforcement: psychologists are psychos, just like their clients. Long after the defense won, England continued to give Malcolm the cold shoulder. More recently, England was a state's witness during the Allmoy trial. Once again, he had appeared for the prosecution while Sylvia worked defense.
Rosie's suddenly edgy tone brought Sylvia back from her thoughts.
Rosie said, "Matt, you were around during the riot. We've had an incident—maybe more than one—with a missing body part." Now Rosie had his full professional attention. "You'll love this, but I can't talk now, so I'm going to have a packet delivered to your office." Rosie shot Sylvia a quizzical glance. "I promise I'll get back to you, Matthew," she said as she hung up. "Why were you making such a face? Do you know Matt?"
"We were on opposite sides of the fence in court."
"Aha," Rosie tipped her dark eyebrows. "Your gain, his loss." She shrugged. "Sorry about the interruption."
"What's this about a body part?"
"I'm getting to that." In one easy motion Rosie was off the desk, sinking into the chair. "Since we're both dealing with issues of confidentiality, I'll ask you something generic. What kind of guy gets his rocks off cutting up bodies?"
"Dead bodies, I hope?"
"Actually, no."
Sylvia frowned. "You want a profile of a Mr. X who dissects living victims?"
"Dead and living," Rosie interrupted. "I don't know if he just preys on the living, if he just scavenges, or if he kills, too."
Sylvia raised her eyebrows. "Come on, Rosie, you can do better than that."
"Last night, we had some unscheduled surgery—an inmate's finger was removed without his consent."
Sylvia eased back against the chair. "Well, shit," she said softly. "I guess the surgeon wasn't Dr. Kildare?"
"This thing may go back as far as the riot," Rosie shrugged. "Arms and legs disappeared, not to mention entire bodies. There were murders that were never pinned on anyone." It took her ten seconds to continue. "About a year ago, an inmate lost most of his nose in a gang fight. We figured it was kept as a trophy by his rivals. I still think it was. But then a hand was cut off in a metal shop accident three months ago. When the doc wanted to stitch it back on, it never turned up." Rosie swiveled in her chair and stared out at bleak daylight through wire grid. "The natives are getting restless; all of our facilities are pushing their legal capacity, and we've got inmates sleeping in the dayrooms. If we don't find the bad guy soon, we may have another riot."
"Are you sure it's an inmate: Could it be a C.O.?"
Rosie looked askance. "That's possible."
"Could it just be a gang revenge thing?"
"That's very possible, but, for the moment, let's assume we've got a weirdo on our hands."
"In that case . . . a paranoid schizophrenic, a dissociative disorder, a borderline personality, any antisocial type with a game plan—take your pick." Sylvia spread her fingers, palms up. "Without more to go on, a profile would be as useful as a Ouija board. On second thought, a Ouija board would be better." She tipped her head. "Maybe you've got an anthropophagite on your hands."
"Anthro what?"
"A cannibal. Albert Fish—you remember The Cannibal—allegedly ate fifteen children. He killed them, cut them up, and one he even stewed with carrots and onions."
"You're having fun." Rosie stuck out her tongue and silently gagged.
Sylvia touched her fingertips together, lost in thought. "There are rumors all over China that the bodies of 'cultural enemies' were devoured in remote villages, and the Khmer Rouge—well, you get the picture."
Rosie pulled open her drawer, found an open package of sunflower seeds, and popped a handful in her mouth. She said, "Tell me more."
Sylvia continued, "In various cultures, primitive man probably consumed the body of an alien or enemy as part of some religious rites. You'd eat part of your kin's corpse to absorb magical powers. It was a form of tribute, always about the transfer of life energy, always about power."
Rosie picked up one sunflower with two fingernails and placed it on her tongue. "You think that's what Jeffrey Dahmer was after? Power?"
Sylvia said, "And it's one way to be really intimate with somebody else."
Rosie made another face. "What if someone is just collecting the parts?"
"Then we're talking headhunters. The collecting of trophies is fairly common among modern-day sociopaths; usually the victims are dead."
Both women were startled by a knock. "Yes?" Rosie said, turning abruptly.
The door opened and an inmate peeked inside. His head was bald except for a dark tuft of hair behind each ear. He looked like one of the seven dwarfs, Sleepy or Sneezy . . . or Happy, because he was smiling.
His watery eyes darted back and forth between the two women. "I just wondered if you had any waste in your basket."
When Rosie nodded impatiently, he entered and moved toward an overflowing metal trash can set in the corner of the room. The whisk and rustle of paper was a constant in the background as the inmate carefully, methodically emptied trash into a large black bag. When he moved toward the remaining trash basket under Rosie's desk, Sylvia stood so he could reach his target.
Rosie stared at the man's elflike face. "You're—?"
"Elmer Rivak." He beamed at Sylvia as he carried his load to the door.
"That's right, cell block one. Thanks for your diligence, Elmer." As the man closed the door, Rosie touched Sylvia on the arm and whispered, "Elmer doesn't look like a mass murderer, does he? I think he's got a crush on you."
Sylvia raised both eyebrows and shook her head. "Lucky me."
Rosie sobered suddenly. She chose her next words with care. "What if I found a connection between these incidents and Lucas?" She stared at Sylvia with cat eyes. "Is Lucas capable of dismembering people?"
Maybe. Sylvia frowned. She was more than curious, but for the moment, she kept her mouth shut. She knew her friend; Rosie would want to trade information. But it was up to Herb Burnett to decide if Sylvia's evaluation of his client would be released to corrections department authorities. She and Rosie walked a constant tightrope where a verbal misstep meant a possible violation of client confidentialit
y or institutional security.
"I know it's not scientific, but Lucas makes the hair on my head stand up." Rosie shivered. "And the fact that he wasn't here during the riot doesn't eliminate him as a suspect." She pulled a thin file off her desk and waved it in the air. "There have been some incident reports . . . concerning him. Do you know what I'm referring to?"
Sylvia shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Are these reports something his lawyer would know about?"
"Probably. He spooks the other inmates. They don't like to get near him. He's been accused of giving his enemies the 'evil eye.' He put a spell on an inmate named Roybal two days ago, and poor Roybal is in sick bay shitting himself to death. Doesn't that sound like a man who wants to take the power of his enemies?"
"I'll tell you this much," Sylvia said. "I'm going to push hard to have Lucas Watson reclassified and transferred to Los Lunas where he can get intensive psych treatment." She paused, then said, "If you want, I'll do some 'psycho-magic' and help you find your body snatcher."
"There's something I've got to tell you . . ." Rosie's tone was dead serious. "Jita, be careful."
Sylvia waited.
Rosie said, "Someone's been asking about you. My ears tell me that your name is spoken in the yard, in the cell blocks. I don't know who is talking or what they say, but it scares me."
CHAPTER FOUR
THE AIR IN cell block one seemed thick with tedium and desperation. Beneath the spare mattress pad, Lucas felt the concrete slab pressed against his back. The cell walls seemed to swell, visibly shrinking the already claustrophobic space. Through the grill, he saw ten square inches of wall. He heard voices raised, a chorus talking back to the tube. It scared him that he couldn't remember which day it was; he groped mentally for clues. The soaps. One Life to Live. Days of Our Lives. The Young and the Fucking Restless. The smell of fish . . . Friday.
There was one way he could always escape captivity. He rubbed his pouch over his chest, caressed the Madonna, and with each breath disappeared in his own flesh, deep into the boy named Luke.
His mother smiled at him. She was standing next to the ironing board, and she was barefoot, naked except for a gauzy white slip. In her hands she clutched a child's cowboy shirt. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, tendrils damp against high cheekbones.
