Escape Clause

by James O. Born

  He took a deep breath, almost immune to the faint burning smell that always hung in the air from some distant cane field fire. He had to admit he liked the atmosphere out here. There was none of the pettiness he felt on the coast. No one looking to pass you on the road every minute or banging into your grocery basket at the store. If it weren’t for the murder next door and his stale homicide investigation at the prison, he might grow to like this place.

  His cell phone played “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” jolting him out of his calm reflections.

  “Bill Tasker.”

  “Billy, it’s Sally Brainard. You okay? Sounds like you have a cold or something.”

  “Sore throat.”

  “Know what I like to do for a sore throat?”

  “What?”

  “Massage it.”

  “I think a massage is what gave it to me.” Then he said, “Sally, haven’t heard from you in a while. I dropped off something at your lab the other day and asked for you, but you were out.”

  “I heard. That’s why I’m calling. I went ahead and processed the little pendant for you.”

  “Already? Sally, you’re the best.”

  “Glad someone thinks so.”

  “Everyone thinks so.”

  “Then why am I still single?”

  “Thought you and the ATF guy were serious.”

  “Alex? He can’t see past a case. Just when things are going well, he gets caught up in some bombing or gun case and forgets he’s got a girlfriend.”

  Tasker cringed, having heard the same thing about himself a number of times. He just moved on. “Any prints on the pendant?”

  “Yeah. I already compared them against the one set you gave us.”

  “Leroy Baxter’s?”

  “Yeah. He wasn’t on them anywhere.”

  Tasker had given the Palm Beach County crime lab a card with a set of Baxter’s prints because he hadn’t wanted to waste anyone’s time by running them through the National Crime and Information Center.

  Tasker asked, “You get anything?”

  “I got a good thumbprint from the flat back of the pendant.”

  “Sounds like you matched it.”

  “Only because I ran it through the employment prints for the county and state. Wanted to eliminate someone who had a reason to handle it.”

  “And?”

  “Sorry, Billy. Just a sergeant for the Department of Corrections. Henry Janzig.”

  Tasker thought about it. “Yeah, I see his name on things out there. Think I know who he is.”

  “Probably touched the pendant when they found it.”

  “Could be.” He thought about that possibility. He thought Renee Chin had been alone when she went through Baxter’s belongings. He snapped back and said, “Thanks a lot, Sally.”

  “You got it. Stay safe while you’re out there. Lot of cops underestimate how dangerous the Glades can be.”

  Tasker put his hand to his throat and said, “Tell me about it.”

  Florida Department of Corrections Captain Sam Norton tossed his German shepherd, Hannibal, a piece of grilled sirloin. The dog snatched it cleanly out of the air. Department of Corrections Sergeant Henry Janzig clapped his hands at the trick he had seen hundreds of times. The stout sergeant was older than Norton by fifteen years, but the two had become close friends during their mutual assignment to the Rock.

  Janzig said, “You shoulda seen him. White as a fuckin’ ghost, eyes puffy like a girl that’d just been dumped.”

  Norton said, “Good, but is it enough? Think he’ll mind his own business now?”

  “I think he’ll want outta here right quick. He’s got Dewalt’s pendant. He’ll look around a little more and decide Baxter killed him and be back on the coast and out of our business by the end of the week.”

  Norton smiled and nodded. “Good. Tell Lester he done good, too.”

  “Still don’t like him here at all. You’d think we could handle an in-custody death investigation.”

  “Looks better this way. It was arranged at a higher level than us.”

  “Still don’t like it.”

  “Henry, you worry too much.” Norton checked his watch. “Ain’t it past your bedtime?” He smiled.

  Janzig scowled slightly, although it was hard to tell when he wasn’t scowling, and then headed back between Norton’s house and the next building toward the row of double-wide trailers that housed sergeants without dependents. Because the older man had a slight limp from years of standing on hard floors, he had a crazy swivel in his hip as he walked. Norton had to smile as he saw his surly friend leave.

  Norton was looking forward to getting back to work tomorrow. He was not suited to sit idle. His experiences watching his dad recover from massive hangovers had taught him to work and work hard. Unfortunately, his wife hadn’t liked all the time alone in the various isolated postings he’d been assigned to over the years.

  He had to admit that, at this moment, with or without his promiscuous wife, he was happy at work. The Rock was a good institution, which he had had a big role in building. The prison had been new enough when he arrived that there was a lot he could fix. He’d transferred any correctional officer too close to the inmates and any officer who had complained about how the institution treated the inmates. That had left a lot of openings, and Norton had filled them with officers he could trust.

  What concerned Norton about Tasker was his reputation for not letting things go and his interest in business outside the prison walls. Norton didn’t like the way Renee Chin looked at him, either. That girl deserved someone who could take care of her, not some cop who’d move back to his house on the coast somewhere.

  Norton cleaned up the plastic plate he’d been eating his steak from and the two empty cans of Mountain Dew. As he stood to head back into the thick air-conditioning, away from the gnats and breezeless evening, a vehicle rumbled into the parking space in front of his bungalow. When the lights shut off, he saw who it was and couldn’t keep the wide smile from spreading across his face.

  He set the garbage back on the small table and trotted down the steps. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

  “We have got to talk.”

  He didn’t like the edge in the voice.

  It was late, after ten o’clock, when Tasker heard a knock on his front door. The old wooden door rattled at the knock as Tasker turned and tried to decide how to answer it: ready—paranoid and gun in hand—or casually. He swallowed and felt the pain still in his throat and opted for his Beretta crammed into the small of his back. He’d kept the automatic handy since the professor’s murder. Tucked in his nightstand, no one would notice it unless they were looking for it. Now it took only a second to pull the gun from the small drawer past the thick novel. He slipped it into the rear of his shorts and pulled his T-shirt over it.

  He paused at the door. “Who is it?” he called as he stood to the side.

  “Billie Towers. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

  He unlatched the door and let it swing open, and smiled at her small figure and big brown eyes. She let a shy smile slide across her face, too.

  She said, “I couldn’t find your number and really wanted to talk. Is it a bad time?”

  “No, no, not at all.” He motioned her inside. He watched her gracefully stride inside and to the old couch. “I was going to call, but couldn’t find your number. Can I get you something?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Excuse me one second.” He slipped back into the bedroom to return his Beretta to the drawer, then darted back to the living room.

  He sat down next to her. “You doing okay?”

  “Just sad about Professor Kling and wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m fine. I’m gonna get after the Gladesville detective, Rufus Goodwin, about the investigation. I just wanted to give him enough time to sort things out and realize I just want to help.”

  “Shouldn’t you finish your own murder investigation?”
>
  “I’ll get it done.” He looked into her dark eyes and said, “Man, seems like everyone is more interested in my death investigation than the professor’s.”

  She looked like she wanted to say something, then started to cry. “It’s just so terrible.”

  He put his arm around her muscular shoulder. “I know. Cry all you want.”

  And she did for almost five minutes, then it turned to sniffles, then to an occasional sob. When she stopped, she reached across and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You’re a sweet guy.”

  He knew he was grinning, but couldn’t stop.

  She said, “So, any progress on your case at Manatee?”

  And he started talking.

  eighteen

  Luther Williams arrived in the kitchen half an hour before he’d told the Aryan shithead Vollentius to be there. He knew the bald racist would be on guard, but also knew, like any human, his greed would override his common sense. Luther had his best shiv, a razor-sharp, flexible metal band, hidden in his waistband. He had his shirt pulled out to cover any telltale signs of a weapon. The momentary lapse in fashion disturbed him more than what he had planned for this nosy Nazi. He had no intention of providing him with any of his precious cocaine. He didn’t care how much he had or how cheaply the Aryan Knight could be bought.

  Luther surveyed the empty rear kitchen. He’d already made sure that anyone who saw him walk through the main kitchen would keep their mouths shut. He’d been lucky and the only inmates in the kitchen were black guys. They wouldn’t say boo about one of the Aryan Knights having an accident.

  Luther turned on the water in one of the floor sinks. The eight-inch-deep, two-foot-square sink was used to clean out the grease buckets with steaming hot water. Luther used that water now.

  Next, he paced off a few steps from the doorway to a spot five feet from the now-filled sink and smeared a round wad of grease that looked like a urinal cake onto the floor. He’d taken the round cake from one of the drainage filters in the vents coming from the kitchen. He slid his foot across the slick floor and smiled at the lack of friction.

  The trick to chores like this was making the investigating authorities find the answers quickly and easily. It didn’t matter if it was the right conclusion, only that it was an obvious conclusion.

  Luther heard some loud voices in the kitchen and stepped carefully to the doorway, his foot with the grease on it slipping on the way. From the opening he saw Vollentius arguing with one of the dishwashers, who had told him he wasn’t supposed to go into the rear kitchen. The fireplug of a man pushed past the dishwasher, calling him a foul racial name as he did.

  Luther noticed the dishwasher smile, knowing what was about to befall the Aryan Knight. Luther tightened the grip on his shiv still hidden in his waistband. It was more instinct than a conscious act. He moved to the side of the doorway behind some cardboard boxes containing paper towels.

  The Aryan Knight walked through the doorway and into the rear kitchen without even a glance around.

  Luther smiled. He couldn’t believe how easy some people made things. He took two quick, quiet steps behind the Aryan and, just as he reached the slick section of the floor, gave him a hard shove toward the sink.

  The man flailed his arms as he slipped, then went down face-first, catching himself on the edge of the sink with both hands at the last moment, his face inches from the scalding water.

  Luther didn’t hesitate. He was on him in a heartbeat and with one hand on the back of his bald head, slammed the man’s face into the water and hard onto the bottom of the sink.

  Luther used all of his strength because he wanted only one mark on the man’s forehead. One slip and fall. One bruise on the body.

  He froze in his position on top of the man and felt for any movement as he kept the man’s face under the steaming water. After thirty seconds, Luther relaxed, realizing that between the head trauma, hot water shock and lack of oxygen, it was likely this man was no longer considered a living inmate at Manatee Correctional.

  After a minute more, to make certain, Luther released his hand and let the man’s face stay in the cloudy water. He backed away and grabbed a hand towel off the nearest crate of potatoes. He ran the towel over the floor where he had stepped, in case someone tried to take shoe prints in the grease. Then he wiped the soles of his shoes and casually strolled out through the main kitchen.

  He winked at the dishwasher on his way out.

  Henry Janzig was over near the main dining hall when his radio crackled and one of his officers said, “Hey, Sarge.”

  Janzig pulled the out-of-date radio from his hip holster. The three-pound monstrosity was one of the reasons his damn legs ached all the time. He squeezed the button and said, “What is it, Junior?”

  “You might wanna come over to the main kitchen. I found something you’ll want to see.”

  “On my way.” Janzig didn’t ask questions. Junior was a good boy. If he’d found something valuable, he might not want everyone listening to the radio to know it. Neither would Janzig. You never knew what the officers uncovered in surprise inspections.

  Janzig hustled toward the solid block structure that housed dining, the kitchen and food storage. His hips swiveled at an odd angle the faster he tried to walk. He slowed down inside the empty dining hall. A couple of the kitchen workers lounged at the table closest to the kitchen door.

  “You inmates don’t have enough work to do?” yelled Janzig.

  One of the workers, a dark black man named Moambi, said, “Officer Hayes told us to wait out here, sir.”

  Janzig pressed on toward the first kitchen door. “Junior? Where are you?” he shouted.

  “Back here, Sarge.”

  Janzig scooted toward the rear swinging door. As he came through, he saw the big correctional officer leaning over a body at the back of the room. “What the hell we got here, Junior?” he said, taking a step toward him. His feet slipped almost out from under him. “What the shit is this? You can’t even walk on this fucking floor.”

  “I think that’s the problem.” He looked back at the body.

  Janzig knelt with him. He looked down at the face of a white inmate with a shaved head. He couldn’t immediately tell who it was because the face had been badly burned. Huge blisters had formed and popped on the man’s nose, forehead and cheeks. Janzig could see the lower levels of skin and even some blood vessels near his eyes.

  “What happened here?”

  “Looks like the guy fell coming through the door and ended up in one of the cleaning sinks. Musta had some hot water for the grease.”

  “You figure he just happened to land right here?”

  “What else, Sarge? He had to land somewhere.”

  Janzig saw the simple reasoning to this, but still thought the odds were a little high for the man to land in a sink full of hot water.

  “You talk to the kitchen workers?”

  “Yes, sir. Near as I can figure, it happened after eleven. That was the last time anyone came back.”

  “Who put the hot water in the sink?”

  “The dishwasher. Robert Moambi.”

  “They see who this was?”

  “They said Vic Vollentius came through before lunch. That’s who it looks like to me.”

  Janzig looked at the body and had an idea pop into his head that instantly made him smile. He turned to the hulking officer and said, “Junior, go get Inspector Chin and bring her right back here. She’ll wanna see this.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the officer, as he pushed off his knee to stand up and then hustle out of the kitchen.

  Janzig struggled up as well, then pulled his small notepad from his breast pocket. Vic Vollentius had friends here in the prison. Mainly the other Aryan Knights. They were one badass group and if they ever had a hint that someone had killed Vollentius they could cause a mountain of shit. Janzig also knew that no one around the Rock could keep a secret. No one except him and Norton. All he needed was to start the right rumor and some of hi
s problems might be taken care of. He ripped out a sheet and scrawled a note across it. Then he rolled up the tiny note and turned toward the disfigured body. He winced as he opened the corpse’s mouth with his squat fingers and shoved the note way back against his molars and gums.

  He looked down at his handiwork. He chuckled at how clever he had become. That was twice in a week he had influenced investigations that were supposed to be conducted by smart people. Janzig had applied for inspector positions all over the state, but younger sergeants like Renee Chin always seemed to get the cushy jobs. This showed just how smart they really were. She may not arrest old Luther Williams for murder based on his little note, but she sure as hell would talk about it. And eventually the right people would hear about it. Once the Aryan Knights got done with Luther Williams, that shifty lawyer som-bitch would never be able to tell anyone how he had helped out Norton and Janzig.

  Henry Janzig was sitting up on a barrel of solvent, resting his weary legs by the time Junior got back with Renee Chin. He watched as she inspected the area and surveyed the body. Finally, she turned to him.

  “What do you think, Henry?”

  “Looks like an accident to me.”

  He kept smiling while she did her silly investigation thing.

  nineteen

  Bill Tasker sat in one of the hardwood, straight-backed chairs in front of Captain Sam Norton’s large matching hardwood desk. Most of the furniture was marked with a small P.R.I.D.E. sticker, indicating that it had been made in Florida state prison facilities. No loose paper, books or photographs rested on the wide desk. The morning sun was coming in the large bay window of Norton’s second-floor office, hitting Tasker in the face like he was being interrogated in an old movie. Renee Chin sat silently in the chair next to him, her long legs crossed, her foot swinging in nervous frustration. Norton, like a king on his throne, stretched out in the soft, reclining leather chair behind his desk.