Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  Carlos stood with arms splayed and began herding the two toward the door. I reached for Lilith’s hand. “Coming?”

  “Sheeah, it was my idea.”

  We made it as far as the living room before the massive blizzard of flies began pouring down on us. They bit Carlos first; perhaps being the tallest made him an easier target. He let out a yell as though someone had stabbed him. I thought he was overacting until the son-of-a-bitches got to me. Then I felt his pain, like a jab in the back of the neck with a rusty nail. Spinelli fell victim next, and then Ursula, their cries echoing Carlos’ and mine throughout our retreat. We charged the front door hard and fast, spilling out onto the front lawn, bent in a crouch and swatting indiscriminately. Once outside, the flies all seemed to vanish, and if not for the welts on my neck, I might think they were never there at all. We stood in a loose circle there, half-moaning, half laughing, rubbing our wounds to numb the pain; all but for Lilith. I noticed her standing idly by, watching us quietly with one hand on her hip, the other relaxed by her side. I said to her, “What’s with you? You didn’t get bit?”

  She treated the question like a nuisance. “Of course not.”

  We all stopped to look at her. “Why not? You were the last one out. They should have sucked you dry.”

  “They didn’t bite me because I didn’t panic. They can smell that, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Sure, when you panic, your blood pressure goes way up. When that happens, your blood rises close to the surface of your skin. That way when they bite you, they get more of what they are after.”

  Carlos said, “Why didn’t you tell us that before? We could have all just walked out of there calmly.”

  “Oh, come now,” she said, grinning. “What fun would that have been?”

  I dug the car keys out of my pocket. “Say goodnight, boys.” I pointed to Lilith. “Don’t forget. We have a deal.”

  She folded her arms at her chest. “I didn’t forget.”

  I watched her expression morph into something devilish, the way it does sometimes when she is planning a surprise for me. That alone did not worry me. When I noticed her teasing grin turn seductive, however, I knew I had more coming than what I bargained for.

  TWELVE

  The next day I found Carlos and Spinelli upstairs at the Justice Center; both waiting on a report from me regarding the night before. Spinelli wanted to know what, if anything, Ursula said about him after she got home, and Carlos, well he just wanted to know if Lilith and I made up, as we had planned. I told him, “I’m not going to talk about that.”

  “Tony,” he said, “you have to. You know I live vicariously through you.”

  Dominic inquired, “Did she say anything about us holding hands?”

  “Who, Lilith?”

  “No, Ursula.”

  Carlos returned, “Well, you guys did sleep together, didn’t you?”

  I looked at him strangely. “Me and Ursula?”

  “You and Lilith.”

  “Yes.”

  Dominic, “What about Ursula?”

  “No!”

  “No what, no she didn’t say anything about me?”

  “No, I didn’t sleep with her.”

  Carlos grabbed me by the lapels. “Did she want you to sleep with her?”

  “Carlos!”

  “Come on, Tony, she is just like Lilith.”

  “She is not,” Dominic insisted. “Ursula is a proper lady.”

  I said, “What, Lilith isn’t?”

  “No…I mean, yes, of course she is.”

  Carlos, “So, you are not going to tell me about last night?”

  I pulled my lapel free of his grip. “No, I am not going to kiss and tell.”

  He pointed. “Ah, so there was kissing?”

  I smiled, as I reminisced. “Oh yes, there was kissing.”

  “Kissing in special places?”

  “No, just in the bedroom.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Tony….”

  “Forget it.”

  Dominic, “Does she like me?”

  “Lilith? Sure.”

  “No, Ursula.”

  Both Carlos and I answered, “Yes!”

  He backed down, smiling like a fool. I came around the desk and took a seat. “Can we get some work done now?”

  Satisfied, Spinelli opened a file folder he had lying on the desk and handed me the coroner’s report from inside it. “No surprises here,” he said. “The coroner lists Landau’s C.O.D. as a single gunshot wound to the chest, a .38 to be exact. It pierced his heart, killing him instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  “So much for little miracles,” I said.

  Next, Spinelli produced a manila folder from atop his filing cabinet and dropped it onto the desk. “And there is this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s what you asked for yesterday.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  He picked up the folder, opened it and spilled its contents out onto the desk. What I saw was a hodge-podge of photos, faxes, on-line printouts and miscellaneous documents. He picked up a photo of a woman I recognized as Stephanie Stiles. “How `bout we start here? You remember Ms. Stiles?”

  “I do.”

  “This is her mug shot from last year.” He thumbed through the pile and isolated half a dozen others. “These are hers, too. This one is from two years ago, this one four, this one six; I can go on. The point is that she is a regular downstairs, mostly misdemeanors: disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, bounced checks—that sort of thing. She does have a couple of arrests for possession, but they didn’t stick. Near as I can tell, she does not work, hasn’t is twenty years.”

  “How does she pay her bills? Is she turning tricks?”

  Carlos laughed. “Are you kidding, with a mug like that?”

  Spinelli put his index finger up in gesture. “I don’t think so, but hold that thought. I’ve done some checking. It seems that someone is paying Ms. Stiles bills for her.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet, some beneficiary perhaps.”

  “Her boyfriend?” I said. “We know she has one.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it, and you will, too, when you see who her boyfriend is.”

  “You know?”

  He fished deeper into the pile of photos and flipped over a black and white surveillance shot. “Recognize this guy?”

  I looked at the photo, hardly believing. “Is that Sergeant Powell?”

  “Yup. Bernie from I.A.D. took that picture just last night. Powell showed up at her door around midnight and stayed till after one-thirty, and for most of that time, the lights were off.”

  “Internal Affairs is watching him again?”

  “Watching him still. They’ve never stopped.”

  “So, this Bernie guy, he just gave you a picture from an ongoing investigation?”

  He turned away and blushed. “Actually, Bernie is woman, Bernice Walker.”

  “Oh, I see where this is going.”

  “Where?” asked Carlos.

  “She likes him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, she likes me,” said Spinelli. “That doesn’t mean I like her.”

  “You’re just using her.”

  “No, it’s not like that. We, you know, help each other. She’s in my network.”

  “Network?” I turned to Carlos. “Where did you find this kid? He has contacts in every branch of government.”

  Carlos threw back his shoulders and smirked confidently, as though he knew that about Spinelli before they teamed up. “You know, Tony, I have always said that—”

  “Yeah, whatever. Dominic?” I handed the photo back. “Does I.A.D. have any photos of Powell from the night before last?”

  “When Landau was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. They don’t tail him when he’s on duty. Remember he worked the
graveyard shift that night.”

  I sat back in my chair and followed a dust spec ascending on a column of air all the way to the ceiling. “Yes, I remember,” I said. I let my gaze fall slowly, collecting memories of a conservation I had with Powell the day before. “Carlos, do you remember when we came up on that 10-54 yesterday, and Powell met us at the perimeter?”

  He nodded with some hesitance. “Yeah.”

  “I asked him how long he had been there, and when he went to check his watch, he realized he had forgotten it?”

  “Sure I remember that. You suppose it was his watch that Stiles threw at Landau?”

  “That’s what I’m guessing.”

  “Do you figure he knew that Stiles and Landau were engaged?”

  “I don’t know; if he did, that might give him a motive for murder.”

  “And if not,” said Spinelli, “it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

  I leaned back and laced my fingers behind my head. “Why do you think it’s not Powell paying Stiles’ bills?”

  He laughed. “I have seen his financial statements. He simply cannot afford it on a sergeant’s pay.”

  Carlos said, “Maybe he uses his winnings from gambling.”

  To that, Spinelli replied, “Impossible. At any given time, he owes more to the casino than he makes in a year.”

  I pointed at the rest of the papers in the pile. “Anything else here we should know about?”

  “No, just the other photos you asked for. I found some good ones of Kemper, DeAngelo and to play it safe, Judge Cardell, too.”

  “I thought you said the judge was dead.”

  “He is. Like I said, I am playing it safe. Oh, and you will find the reports that Powell submitted over the last few days. I read them all. There is nothing unusual about them.”

  “All right then, keep digging. See if you can find out who Ms. Stiles’ mystery benefactor is.”

  Carlos asked, “Why are you so hung up on that, Tony. What are you thinking?”

  I came forward in my seat and palmed the edge of the desk before standing. “It’s just a hunch, but what if Landau set up a middle man to use some of the money from the robbery to keep Stiles happy until he got out of prison?”

  “That would explain some things.”

  “Sure,” said Spinelli. “That might even explain who killed him. If there is someone with access to the money, you can bet he probably wasn’t too happy to see Landau get out of prison.”

  “But who,” said Carlos, “an accomplice to the robbery? You said an eyewitness implicated only two suspects, and they are both dead now.”

  “Could be a third guy, an inside man.”

  “Our guy Powell,” said Spinelli.

  “What?”

  “Sure, think about it. It makes sense. He could have staged his car trouble the morning of the robbery to assure Landau’s escape. Remember, Powell is the one who found Landau a few days later up at the cabin. We still don’t know how he pulled that one off.”

  Carlos said, “You figured he went up there to get his share of the loot, but then something happened?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “But why would he involve himself in something like that? He must know that there is no honor among thieves.”

  “Maybe he had gambling debts to satisfy.”

  “Why don’t we just ask him?” I said. “Dominic, did you secure an appointment for us to see Warden DeAngelo this morning?”

  He checked his watch. “I did, and you better get going if you don’t want to be late.”

  “Okay then. Call Powell and tell him we need to see him here right after we get back from Walpole—say in about two hours.”

  “Okay.”

  I came around the desk and bumped Carlos as I passed him. “You ready to go?”

  I saw him look up at the clock through the corner of his eye. “Do we have time to—”

  “No.” I knew exactly where he was going. “You should have had breakfast before you got here.”

  He started after me. “It’s just the McDrive-through, Tony. Come on, it is on the way. I’ll drive.”

  I laughed. How could I say no?

  It is twenty-five miles from New Castle to MCI-Cedar Junction in Walpole. Even in mid-morning traffic, skirting Boston proper, the trip usually only takes about forty-minutes. With Carlos, however, nothing is usual. After hitting the drive-through for his Mc`breakfast sandwich, he stopped again at a 7-11 to buy lotto tickets. He said he felt lucky after last night’s séance. Later, he pulled over at a truck stop so that he could pee. “How did I know a forty-eight ounce coffee would go through me so fast?” he said. If I had not just had the car detailed, I think I would have made him hold it all the way to Walpole.

  I suppose I became the most aggravated when he stopped a fourth time for gas, knowing he could have taken care of that and the previous two emergencies all at the same time. I said to him, “Why didn’t you get gas back in New Castle?”

  “We didn’t need gas then,” he said. “We need it now.”

  “Carlos, we have only gone twenty miles. If we need gas now, we needed it then, too.”

  He shook his head. “I have to wait until the gauge reads one-quarter tank.”

  “What?”

  “Department regulations state: you have to gas up when the tank reads one-quarter full.”

  “That’s the minimum, Carlos. It says that so that you don’t run out of gas on a pursuit. It doesn’t mean you cannot fill up before that.”

  I saw the light over his head flicker, and then come on. “Yeah?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh.” He threw it into park and shut off the engine. “Well, do you want anything else why we are here?”

  Sometimes I think Carlos’ brain is working in reverse. It was probably happening to me, too, when I was his age, only I would not have noticed it myself. Having returned to prime, however, I notice now how new stuff sticks with me so keenly. I get things now that I know I would not have figured out so easily before. I do not want to say that with Carlos it is early stages of dementia; clearly, I am not qualified to make that call, but I do believe there is something to it. I mentioned this to Lilith recently, noting how my mind never seems to slow down when wrapped in thoughts concerning a case. On the contrary, it seems driven by accelerated inclinations. She told me that was the witch within, and that I could turn my back on its academic contributions to my virility if I wanted, but never could I ignore the influence it has on deductive intellections. I may think or wish that the witch inside lay dormant at my command. In reality, it is I who wait in patient step to assume the role it has in store for me.

  I said to Carlos, “No, but make it quick.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in the visitor’s reception area of M.C.I. Walpole, checking in our weapons and collecting I.D. badges. A sign over the clerk’s desk there read:

  Walpole State Prison, Wish You Were Here.

  I thought it was funny; Carlos had trouble getting it. “Doesn’t make sense,” he said. “We are here.” Some things you just cannot explain.

  Deputy Superintendent of Operations, Frank Rizzo met us at the desk and escorted us through security to Bill DeAngelo’s office, making sure we understood that we should address his boss as Superintendent DeAngelo, not Warden.

  “We are a progressive institution,” said Rizzo. “Our recent transition from a level six to a medium security prison gives us an opportunity to shed the stigma of a super-max facility. We no longer merely incarcerate inmates for the rest of their natural lives; now we concentrate our emphasis on their rehabilitation and eventual repatriation into society. Avoiding conventional references to prison life helps us to do that.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Carlos. “Are you telling me these guys don’t know they are in prison?”

  “No, of course they know they are in prison. The walls and bars remind them of that every day. That said, we do find that using terms like suite, instead of ja
il cell, and cafeteria rather than mess hall, goes a long way in adjusting the attitudes of old timers and new comers alike.”

  “Charming,” I said, pointing to a sign over a door that read, Thralldominium Suite. “Is that what I think it is?”

  He smiled faintly. “Yes,” and he cleared his throat as if to change the subject. He turned off down another hallway and motioned for us to follow.

  Carlos grabbed my arm and forced me to fall back with him before leaning into me and whispering, “What’s the Thralldominium Suite?”

  I whispered back, “Solitary confinement.”

  “Oh.”

  He let go of my arm and we caught back up with Rizzo, who soon delivered us to DeAngelo’s secretary, a stern-looking old woman with military posture and cigarette-stained fingertips. She announced our arrival via intercom and showed us in.

  Bill DeAngelo was not what I expected. I do not know why. Maybe I have seen too many prison movies where the warden is always either some hard nose ex-Marine type, or a mild mannered gray haired father figure that is always sticking his neck out for the underdog, and usually getting his head lopped off because of it. That was not William DeAngelo. Though he stood six-four or better and weighed in at some two hundred and sixty pounds, he seemed less the ex-Marine type and more the concession barker at a traveling carnival. Clean him up some and he could be the used car salesman that soaks you for the overpriced undercoating while making you think he is doing you a favor. It is a not fair stereotype, I know, but that is what I thought of him. Carlos sensed the same thing, as I found out later when we talked about it back out in the parking lot. They say you do not get a second chance at first impressions. With Bill DeAngelo, I do not suppose it mattered much. I cannot see him coming across any differently the second time around. I guess the bad vibes came from him the minute he opened his mouth. He got up from his desk as we entered his office and he came around it as if excited to see us.

  “Detective Marcella,” he said, cupping Carlos’ hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.” He turned to me and shook my hand in a similar fashion. “And you, Detective Rodriquez, also a pleasure. Hey, you know I have a guard working nights in the south wing. His name is Rodriquez, too. Maybe you know him?”