He was here for one reason only: Dr. Robin Cameron. She had been his ticket to an extended stay in County.
Gray swung down from the bunk and lowered himself to the floor, where he snapped off a half dozen one-armed push-ups. He didn't need the exercise, just wanted to use up some nervous energy. No exercise gear was allowed in his cell, but he'd learned to stay in shape with a daily regimen of sit-ups, push-ups, and isometric exercises.
Under the yellow jumpsuit he was all lean muscle and taut skin decorated with a half dozen tattoos. Three of themskull, scorpion, and spiderwebwere jailhouse tats, applied by his cellmate a few years ago, when he'd done a deuce upstate for auto theft. The prison tats were jet-black and crude as hell, but jailbirds couldn't be choosy.
Then there were the other three tattoos, larger, more detailed, and inked originally in full color, though with the passage of time they'd faded to a uniform blue. Those tats had been applied professionally by a guy named Ernesto at a tat shop called Wild Ink in Hollywood. Ernesto was a regular fucking artist, and he'd done some of his best work on Gray.
There was a big-ass crocodile swimming across Gray's shoulder blades, and a knife with a bloody blade on his left biceps, and the piece de friggin' resistance, a tombstone punched into the hard knobs of his abdominal muscles above the navel. The stone bore his own name, Justin Hanover Gray, and his date of birth, January 22, 1975, andwhat pleased him mosthis date of death. Ernesto had selected March 15, 2001, saying, "Beware the Ides of March, vato," in a theatrical whisper.
Well, Gray was still here, more than two years after his personal doomsday.
He wondered how much more time he would have before he checked out. Years, probably. He'd never been one of those live-fast-die-young dudes. He intended to stick around.
The tats weren't the only form of body art he'd indulged in. Over the past twelve years, starting at age sixteen, he'd pierced his earlobes, lower lip, chin, and navel. The jewelry was all gone now, confiscated by the Dawgs, and some of the holes were closing up. But once he was out, he would get pretty again. He liked to look good for his ladies. And he liked the process of decorating his flesh, feeling the hot pain of the needle, seeing the deep purple bruise blossom against his pale, almost pasty skin. He had what the doctors called a high threshold of pain, and he enjoyed testing his limits, seeing how much he could take.
Maybe that was why he could handle the isolation and constant scrutiny of the high-power ward. It was another test of his strength, another initiation and rite of passage. He had proved he could take whatever the system could throw at him. He could survive, even in this shit palace. Even in the Reptile House.
That was his private name for the place. Twin Towers was the official designation for this newest correctional facility of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, situated in downtown LA, across the street from Men's Central Jail. Because Men's Central was old and prone to overcrowding, Twin Towers had been built to take in the excess prisoners. It was named for the two eight-story buildings that housed four thousand homeboys, druggies, and skanks who'd run afoul of the boys in blue.
But to him, it would always be the Reptile House. That was how he'd thought of it since his arrival. He remembered emerging from the elevator, flanked by deputy sheriffs, trudging through the PODprisoners on displayarea. To his left, the smoky, tinted windows of the POD control booth; to his right, his new neighborsgang pachucos and syndicate greaseballs and mass killers, all on display in their separate cages. No iron bars here, only sheets of reinforced, soundproofed, impact-resistant glass. Behind each transparent wall a man lay on his rack or paced in his cage or stared at the TV. Every face was blank, every eye glazed.
Seeing those cages from the outside, Gray was reminded of childhood trips to the zoo. His favorite part of those trips had been the submersion in the cool darkness of the reptile house.
Rectangles of glass. Copperheads, rattlers, vipers, each in its private habitat. The cages brightly lit, glowing in the dimness of the exhibit room. Lines of the curious passing by, noses pressed close, hands squeaking on the glass, eyes staring at these dangerous, sequestered things.
That was what he'd thought of, and that was where he now lived. He was a king cobra behind glass.
After a while, the eight-by-ten glass box had started to get to him, so he'd claimed he was sick, even forced himself to puke a few timesthe old finger down the gullet had done the trick. He'd hoped to be transferred to the medical ward. At least it would mean a change of scenery and maybe a shot at some conversation. Privacy was okay, but it got old.
But he'd been disappointed. The doctor had come to him, bearing a panoply of medical gear on a cart. Gray was treated right in his cell, while two deputies looked on. The doctor had given him some pills.
That was when he realized there was no getting out of the Reptile House. No way he could stop being a display behind glass, not even for one day or one hour.
Until the offer from Dr. Robin.
He called her that, sometimesDr. Robin, like that bitchy shrink on the radio, Dr. Laura. He knew she didn't like it, so he kept it up.
Two months ago she had visited him in an interview room here on the eighth floor. Two hackstheir names were Paulie and Roger, better Deputy Dawgs than mosthad escorted him on a rare trip out of his cage and down the hall. She had been waiting, seated at a table.
Despite the presence of the two deputies, she'd been nervous. He could see the fear in her pursed lips and flickering eyes. He had a feel for fear, other people's fear. He might not be a Rhodes scholar or a creative genius or even a good dancer, but he knew about fear, knew things nobody could learn in any school.
Paulie read her apprehension also. "Don't you worry about a thing, Doc. We got this boy covered as per usual."
"He looks at us cross-eyed, we put him on the floor," Roger added.
"I know," she said with a faltering smile. No doubt she appreciated the reassurance, but it was clear she would have felt better if the two deputies had been armed. The guards in the control booth could break out guns and riot gear in a crisis, but the men by her side wore empty holsters.
While Dr. Robin Cameron introduced herself, Gray sat down, facing her across the table. A womana real live woman in the fleshwas a rare thing in his world, and he took the time to appreciate the sweet little titties under her blouse, the long neck and strong, don't-fuck-with-me chin. She was maybe five foot six, a head shorter than Gray himself. Her eyes were brown, like her hair, chestnut hair brushed straight and cut to shoulder length. Nice hair, soft, catching glints of sun through the narrow window of the room.
She was in her late thirties. No wrinkles yet except a few laugh lines around the eyes, a feature he had always found attractive in women.
"You're a psychologist?" he asked her.
"Psychiatrist."
"MD? You look too young to be any kind of doctor."
"I'm thirty-nine. I've been practicing psychiatry for thirteen years."
"Married?"
"That's none of your business."
"No wedding ring. You a dyke?"
"Justin"
"Right, right, I'm outta line. Thing is, locked up in here, I forget how to talk to a lady. Lemme guess. You were married. Now you're divorced. Spent too much time on your work. Hubby got frustrated, started fooling around"
"We're not here to talk about me."
He was pretty sure he'd nailed itmaybe not right on the money, but close enough to get her undies in a twist.
He didn't pay much attention to the early part of her spiel. But when she started talking about the need to treat him at her office, she caught his interest.
"How often would I go there?"
"Two days a week for as long as the program lasts."
"What would you do to me?"
"It's not a question of doing anything to you, Justin. I'm interested in helping people like you."
"What sort of people would that be?"
"Violent criminals. That's what you are
, isn't it? Unless you're going to tell me you're innocent."
"Shit, no. I'm guilty as sin. I'm just surprised it took 'em so damn long to nab me. How exactly are you gonna help me?"
"I think criminal tendencies can often be traced to unresolved traumas and the effects of post-traumatic stress."
"Post-what?"
"It's like shell shock, combat fatigue."
"Ain't never been in combat."
"For some people, just growing up is like being in a war zone."
Gray thought about his old man and chuckled. "Got that right."
"And they never get over it."
"Blame it all on Mommy and Daddy, that your angle? I can hack it. Feels better than blaming myself."
"I'm not talking about blame. I'm talking about subtle psychological effects that last for years and influence your adult behavior. Effects that make you more violent than other people, less able to channel your rage, less capable of self-restraint."
"You think that describes me?"
"I think that's why you're locked up. Am I wrong?"
He conceded the point with a lift of his shoulders. "So what can you do about it?"
"There's a new approach to treating the psychological effects of trauma. It involves passing a magnetic current through the two sides of the brain in an alternating rhythm"
"Brain surgery?"
"Nothing invasive. No surgery. It's an outpatient procedure performed in my office. You'll wear an appliance equipped with electromagnetic coils. The coils produce the magnetic field."
"But no cutting me open."
"Correct. The field passes right through your skull. It inhibits certain neuronsbrain cells. Prevents them from firing. By controlling the current, I can control which cells are shut off. I can vary the level of activity in your brain from one area to another."
"You invent this shit?"
"No, it's a technique that's being tried in various procedures around the world. Still experimental in the U.S. A variation of it, called transcranial stimulation, has been used to treat depression with some success. I believe I'm the first to employ transcranial inhibition for therapeutic purposescertainly as a treatment for recidivist tendencies."
"Use smaller words. I'm not a college man."
"The procedure can help you control your anger. It can enable you to resolve old conflicts that are still rendering you dysfunctional. In doing so, it can gradually make you less likely to commit crimes in the future. At least, that's my hope. I've had success in earlier trials."
"I'm not your first guinea pig?"
"There have been three other experimental subjects."
"Cons?"
"Yes."
"Killers?"
"They committed lesser crimes."
"Not like me, then."
"Not as severely afflicted, no."
He allowed himself a smirk. "That what I am? Afflicted?" He didn't wait for her answer. "So you're hitting the big time now, huh? You're in the high-power ward."
"I know where I am, Justin. And where you are."
"First time on the eighth floor?"
"That's right."
"It's the floor reserved for guys with severe mental disorders. That's what they told me when they brought me here. Severe mental disordersthose exact words."
"Those words strike me as accurate."
"You think I'm a straight maniac, is that it?"
"You murdered five teenage girls, didn't you?"
"Five they know about."
"Shot them in the head, dumped their bodies in the desert."
"You've been reading up on me. I'm flattered."
"Under the circumstances, I'd say 'straight maniac' is an accurate description."
Gray nodded. "Just checking. It's been a while since I had an expert opinion. Now I got a news flash for you, Doc. I'm serving five consecutive life sentences, which means I'll be up for parole around the time I've been dead a hundred years."
"That's not news."
"So why rehabilitate me? What's the point? Even if you clockwork-orange me into a model citizen, I'm not going nowhere."
"The point is to show that it can be done. If it works for you, it will work for others who do have a shot at parole."
"You really want to put men like me back on the street?"
"Not men like you. Men who used to be like you." She glanced around. "What's the alternative? Build more places like this, warehouse more and more people, forever?"
"Hey, you don't gotta sell me on prison reform." He leaned forward on the bunk. "But I want to be up front with you. I don't think you'll have much luck with me. I'm a tough fucking nut to crack."
"I'll take that as a challenge."
He had known she would take it that way. And he had known she would like a challenge. However fearful she might be, there was something else in hersomething hard and determined.
Finally she asked if he would participate. He made her wait, though he'd never had the least doubt of what he would say.
"What the hell," he said at last. "Sign me up."
Naturally he didn't give a rat's ass about any experimental therapy. He didn't want to resolve his inner conflicts or become a better man. That was all bullshit.
What mattered to him was simply the chance to get out of his cage. To escape from the ward, feel the sun on his face, see the city streets as he was driven to Dr. Robin Cameron's office.
It wasn't living, but it was closer than anything Twin Towers had to offer.
That, at least, had been his original rationale for signing up. Recently he'd come up with an even better idea.
Freedom. Permanent freedom.
In another twenty-four hours, if everything went as planned, he would be out of the Reptile House for good.
Chapter Four
Deputy Chief Richard Hammond rarely arrived at his office before ten a.m. As he'd explained to Lieutenant Bannerwho served, unofficially and contrary to department policy, as his personal media liaisonthere was no point in showing up earlier unless he was booked on one of the local morning shows. When that was the case, he liked to be interviewed at his desk so viewers could see him on the job. For use on such occasions he reserved his full dress uniform, the same one he wore to funerals and news conferences. The uniform was cleaned and pressed after its every deployment, and was kept in a garment bag near the front of his closet at home.
At the moment Hammond was not wearing his dress blues or anything else. Naked, he straddled his wife in their four-poster bed, trying not to let his mind wander as he performed his marital duties. Lately Ellyn had put on weight, mostly around the hips, and he had trouble still seeing her as the svelte young debutante he'd married.
Hammond himself had not gained a pound since he was twenty-one. He could have fit easily into the uniform he'd worn as a probationer, cruising the streets of Harbor Division in 1977. He liked to see himself in the mirror, his abs tight, arms and legs hard with packed muscle.
His weight-control policy was part of a broader program of career advancement. Promotion to the department's top post was rarely offered to a man who had let himself go. There had been one exception, Willie Williams, brought in from Philadelphia to replace Daryl Gates in 1992, but Williams was the exception that proved the rule. The rank and file instantly despised him. The man was grossly obese, reeking of cologne, bedecked with gold jewelry, an embarrassment to the force. He hadn't lasted long, and Hammond knew the same mistake would not be made again. In the LAPD, as in LA itself, image counted. The man who would be chief of policeCOP, in the department's curiously apropos acronymmust look the part.
It was a part for which Hammond had been rehearsing throughout the past ten years, during his rapid ascension from captain of a neighborhood station to assistant commander of Metro Division to deputy chief in charge of the vast Operations-Central Bureau. And when the current chief made a political misstepand he would, he wouldand had to be replaced, Hammond intended to see his own name at the top of a very short list.
> Maybe it was this thought that finally got him off. He arched his back with a groan and released himself into Ellyn, then withdrew and rolled over beside her. He was sweating hardputting out for her had become more difficult because of her damn weight problembut she, he noticed, had barely stirred.
Hope it was good for you, too, he thought irritably.
Hell, he was doing his part. Love, honor, obey, and pay regular conjugal visitswasn't that how the vows went? If he was no longer the world's most inspired lover, maybe she ought to take the hint and cut down on the chocolate-chip ice cream.
"Well," he said, rising to get dressed, "duty calls."
It occurred to him that he could have said the same thing before getting into bed with his wife.
A half hour later, he was riding to work in the backseat of a department sedan, his driver negotiating the traffic on the 405 Freeway. He had worn his regular uniform, not his dress blues. No media availabilities were scheduled for today.
He knew that his adjutant, a competent lieutenant by the name of Lewinsky, would already be at his desk. He called his office, and Lewinsky answered.
"What's on tap?" Hammond asked.
"Meeting with Deputy Chief Drummer and Deputy Chief Raynard at eleven hundred."
"I remember. Anything new on the streets?"
"Been pretty quiet. Hey, you know that shrink who treats cons? Dr. Robin What's-her-name? She got carjacked this morning."
"Maybe she'll start to reconsider the value of rehabilitating career recidivists. Especially if her car comes back in pieces."
"Well, she didn't actually lose the vehicle."
Hammond hated imprecision. "I thought you said it was a carjacking."
"Attempted carjacking, I should've said. Couple of bangers, it sounds like. She resisted."
"Did she? Was she hurt?"
"Just shook up, I guess."
"What, the jackers weren't armed?"
"They were armed. Let's see herecrowbar and a handgun. One shot fired. It missed her."
"She takes on two gangbangers, one of whom is capping off rounds, and all she gets is shook up?"
"Lucky lady, huh?"
"She should play the lottery. Officially I have to register my displeasure, sinceofficiallythe department does not encourage civilians to stand up to their assailants. Fighting bad guys is best left to the professionals, et cetera, et cetera."
In Dark Places Page 3
