by Joe Hart
“What exactly are we looking at here, boss?” Sullivan said.
“Let’s wait until Stevens gets here. He’s coming with you as support.” Hacking eyed the darkened lobby and looked at his watch. “Where the fuck is he?”
“I’m guessing he’ll be here soon. He was on vacation, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, first day back is today.”
Sullivan stood and stepped to the door. “You want a coffee while we wait?”
Hacking nodded, turning back to his computer screen. Sullivan made his way out to the dark kitchenette that stood at the far end of the room, and flipped the coffeemaker on after adding enough water and grounds for three cups. He stood waiting for the dripping of the dark liquid to cease and wondered again why he’d felt such uneasiness earlier. He’d never investigated a prison case before, but protocol was the same. Wait for the invite from the locals, have the forensics team scour the area, interview each and every person involved, formulate a suspect list, and bring them in for questioning. He shook his head as anxiety squirmed in his stomach once again and tried to push the strange feeling away.
As he made his way back toward Hacking’s glowing office, he heard a door in the hallway slam. A few seconds later Barry Stevens appeared from the darkened corridor. Barry was thirty-seven, five years Sullivan’s senior, and had thinning blonde hair and a spare tire of twenty pounds hanging around his midsection. His face was long, with a hooked nose and eyes that were nearly always watery. Sullivan had worked with him on dozens of death investigations, attended his children’s birthday parties, and been so drunk with him on two occasions that all he could remember were snippets of conversation and bellyaching laughter. The man was rock steady and Sullivan was glad Barry would be coming with him on this one.
Stevens’s eyes found Sullivan in the dark and his smile lit up a newly sunburned face. “Sully, how goes it?”
“Better than you, it looks like. There’s this new thing called sunscreen, you should look into it,” Sullivan said as he handed a cup of coffee to the older man.
Stevens laughed. “That Mexican sun is hotter than shit. You should see my kid’s back. We thought we were going to have to take him to an emergency room down there.”
“Better than the rain we’ve been having up here, though,” Sullivan said.
The two agents walked into Hacking’s office. After Hacking greeted Stevens, both men sat and looked expectantly at the senior agent. Hacking opened a manila folder and pulled two sheets of paper out and handed one to each man. Sullivan studied the top portion, which held directions to Singleton Penitentiary, and then the bottom, which contained some brief information gathered since the call came in earlier that morning.
“Like I told you both, this one’s fucked-up,” Hacking said. “The deceased’s name is Victor Alvarez. He was a runner and dealer for a Mexican supplier specializing mainly in cocaine and heroin. Got busted last fall in central Minnesota selling to a minor. His trial date was set for later this summer, and he was transferred to Singleton only ten days ago. Yesterday, he got in an altercation with another inmate and hurt the other guy pretty bad. He also attacked several prison officers when they tried to intervene. Subsequently, he was thrown in one of their cells that serve as solitary on the lower level. At about one o’clock this morning, a guard went to check on Alvarez after hearing noises coming from his cell.”
Hacking rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger before continuing. “This is where it gets strange, boys. The guard called the local sheriff’s office in the neighboring town of Brighton and said that Alvarez had been torn apart.”
Silence invaded the room, cut only by the low hum of the single fluorescent overhead. Sullivan glanced over at Stevens before shifting his gaze back to Hacking.
“He was torn apart? Like, dismembered?” Sullivan asked.
Hacking nodded. “From what I can gather, it was a bloodbath. The guard was pretty shaken up. Apparently this was his first week on the job. A Sheriff Jaan called it in shortly thereafter. He said the crime scene was too much to deal with for their local staff and requested our help.”
“Forensics already been dispatched?” Stevens asked.
Hacking nodded again. “They should be getting there in about a half-hour.”
Sullivan studied the overview of the case before looking at Stevens. The older agent also was re-reading the text, and when he looked up and shrugged, Sullivan asked the question that had been on his mind from the moment Hacking called him about the murder an hour earlier.
“So we’re thinking it was one of the staff?”
“Everything points to that, but I want you two on your toes on this one. There’s no room for fuckups here. The warden over there is highly respected and runs a tight ship. If we go into this directly accusing his guys of something like this, there could be ramifications that might throw a wrench into the investigation. We want all the help we can get, so let’s be diplomatic.” Hacking looked back and forth to each man. “Anything else?”
Sullivan lifted a hand, and then set it back on his leg. “The internals on the Lemanski case will be—”
“Taken care of,” Hacking finished as he flipped the folder closed on his desk. “You’re cleared for active duty, Shale.”
Sullivan nodded, and both he and Stevens stood and made their way to the office door. Before they could exit, Hacking spoke again without looking away from his computer screen.
“And Shale? Can you do me a favor on this one, and shoot after the questions have been asked?”
Sullivan gritted his teeth, then nodded as he shut the door behind him slightly harder than necessary.
==
The soft swish of the wipers was the only sound in the vehicle as they swept the light rain away from the windshield. Sullivan tapped an idle finger against the top of the coffee he’d bought at the gas station and watched through the drizzle for the form of Stevens returning to the car. The drenched landscape around the car resembled a page from a black-and-white graphic novel; each object lost its color and faded into a semblance of itself. The rain began to fall shortly after they’d left the bureau, and had only increased in intensity since then. It was Barry’s idea to get more coffee, since there weren’t many stops before they reached Singleton.
Sullivan rubbed his forehead and glanced at the digital clock in his dashboard: 6:15. The forensics team would be arriving at the crime scene in a few minutes and the investigation would begin in earnest. He could already sense the familiar feeling building in the pit of his stomach: the anticipation of catching someone who had done something very wrong. It was the same every time he went on a death investigation, and he felt relief when he noticed the earlier unease was gone. He held his fingers to his nose and breathed deeply. Cordite. He could still smell it. Even after washing his hands over a dozen times, it was still there. Death incarnate. The only smell that was synonymous with firing a weapon.
Movement in front of the windshield caught his eye, and he saw the hunched outline of Stevens as he rushed to the Trailblazer in an effort to stay relatively dry. The door flew open and slammed shut as Barry threw himself into the passenger seat. Water glinted in his light hair and rolled down the sleeves of his oxford shirt.
“Cats and fucking dogs,” he muttered and placed his coffee into the vacant spot in the center console.
As Sullivan began to guide the SUV back onto the highway, Stevens pulled a crinkled wrapper from a small plastic bag near his feet. Carefully, he drew out a dripping sausage-and-egg croissant and bit into it wholeheartedly. Sullivan watched him in mild horror as grease and bits of processed flour dribbled down the other man’s dimpled chin.
Stevens finally glanced over at him, and narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“That shit will kill you,” Sullivan said before looking back to the rain-slicked road.
“What else am I going to eat?”
“Something healthy.”
“Okay, smart-ass. What, pray tell, is healthy at a gas station?”
S
ullivan smiled and shrugged. “Boiled eggs, jerky, string cheese, apples, oranges, protein shakes—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Stevens said, and bit another mouthful off the drooping sandwich. “Better than not eating anything,” he retorted.
Sullivan smiled and picked up his coffee, sipping at the steaming opening in the plastic top.
The two agents rode in silence for several miles, save for the incessant patter of rain on the roof and the hissing of the tires. Stevens finished his croissant and balled up the wrapper before tossing it into the plastic bag. After sipping his coffee, he turned toward the younger agent and furrowed his brow.
“So what do you think?”
Sullivan glanced at him before looking back at the road. “I think we might have a gang retaliation. I’m guessing Alvarez was set to testify against someone higher up for a plea. That someone got to him before he could.”
Stevens scratched a piece of dry sunburned skin from his cheek. “Dirty prison officer?”
“That’s just my guess. You?”
“I’ll hold my tongue till we see the crime scene.”
Sullivan nodded. Stevens was right. There would be no way to tell exactly what happened until they were knee-deep in the death itself. Even then it might be difficult to extract any inkling of a suspect.
“Rain just won’t quit.” Barry’s voice broke Sullivan out of his reverie. He looked over at the older man, who stared out of the passenger window. “I’ve never seen this much rain in my life.”
Sullivan nodded. “They’re saying Duluth is headed for over a hundred million dollars of repair. Hopefully we can make it into Singleton.” Stevens shifted in his seat and continued to stare out of the window. Sullivan examined his friend, and finally brought his eyes back to the road. “I’m guessing you heard about it?”
Barry turned toward him, studied him for a moment, before shaking his head. “I just heard the bare bones of what happened, that Richardson is still in the hospital.”
Sullivan rubbed his right eye and took another sip of coffee. “Yeah, he’s got a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain. He’s not awake yet, but they’re saying he’s going to be fine. He looks terrible. I went to see him yesterday.” Sullivan paused. “We went out to see about a witness, maybe a suspect on that shooting a few weeks ago in the southern part of the county. Woman and guy were blown almost in half by a shotgun in a trailer just outside of Littleton. Looked like a drug hit. Money was gone and everything was torn apart. I called that informant, Maxwell, I use sometimes. He told me that this guy named Todd Lemanski ran with both of the deceased on a regular basis, and that he had a house a few miles from the crime scene.”
Sullivan flicked the lever for the high beams, as the sky darkened further and night seemed to fall instead of the expected dawn. The rain pelted down harder, creating a cacophonous symphony around them.
“Richardson and I went out there to ask him a few questions and walked into a nice little meth lab. Lemanski must’ve been brewing the shit for years. There was enough stuff in there to light up half of the state. We saw all this through a window as we were knocking, and Richardson spots Lemanski making a run for it toward the back door. He goes in through the front and draws. I ran around the opposite side of the house and came into the backyard just in time to see Lemanski smash Richardson in the side of the head with a brick. He’d been waiting just outside the back door for him. Lee hit the ground like he’d been shot. All I see is Lemanski raising the brick over his shoulder, ready to bash Lee in the head again.”
Sullivan took another drink of his coffee and swallowed thickly. “I think I yelled, but I’m not sure. All I remember is hearing my slide lock back on empty and seeing Lemanski lying on top of Lee like a bloody sack.”
The car was quiet as Barry absorbed the information. Sullivan glanced at his friend a few times, trying to gauge his reaction. “I know that’s the only reason Hacking sent you along on this one. He wanted someone to be right behind me the whole time, make sure I was steady.”
Barry stared out of the windshield, and then looked over at Sullivan. “You did the right thing, Sully. You only had enough time to react and that’s what you did. Richardson’s alive because you did. Maybe Lemanski would’ve stopped if you’d waited another second, but maybe he wouldn’t have. You made sure Lee will go home to his wife after he’s healed up, and that’s good enough for me.”
Sullivan nodded and focused again on the gray road, replaying Barry’s words of comfort over and over, but for some reason they did nothing to dispel the clinging doubt surrounding him.
==
The narrow paved road marked only by a small sign reading Singleton Penitentiary/New Haven Mental Facility came up fast. No other notations or markers warned of the turnoff, and Sullivan had to brake hard to avoid driving past it.
“That came out of nowhere,” Barry commented as he gripped the handle above his window to keep from getting plastered against the door.
“Sorry, didn’t realize it was so close,” Sullivan said. He stared down the one-lane path that led out of sight over a slight rise. Pines and poplars alike grew alongside the edges of the drive, hanging over it, dripping water from their limbs, and shutting out the meager light that fell from the dismal sky.
“Did I see mental facility listed on that sign too?” Stevens asked as he looked out of the windshield at the rain-slicked road.
“Yeah. From what I understand, New Haven is a subdivision of Singleton. A lot of the state’s criminally insane end up there. I love how they’ve switched asylum to mental facility too. Love the PC,” Sullivan said, shaking his head.
Stevens adjusted his shoulder holster and finished the last of his coffee. Very few words were said during the final hour of the ride to the prison turnoff. Both men had been lost in their own thoughts, not needing to speak them aloud but instead riding in a comfortable silence.
The drive dove down after the slight rise and curved around a sharp corner, until it abruptly ended in water that reached up past the confines of the ditches and completely concealed the blacktop from sight. A small aluminum boat with an outboard motor was beached unceremoniously on the road, a figure in a green rain poncho standing off to its right. A truck with a boat trailer attached to it sat almost in the middle of the drive, and a full-size pewter van was parked on the left-hand side of the road.
Forensics made it okay, Sullivan thought, as he stepped on the brake and glided the Trailblazer to a stop thirty yards before the edge of the water. Both agents looked out of the windshield at the sight before them.
“Holy shit,” Sullivan finally said.
“No kidding,” Stevens said.
The figure in the poncho approached the SUV and stood, dripping, outside of the driver’s-side window. Sullivan could see a wrinkled face patched with stubble beneath the hood of the rain slicker as he rolled down the window and the man stepped closer to the car.
“You guys BCA?”
“Yes, sir. I’m assuming you’re Sheriff Jaan?” Sullivan asked.
The sheriff nodded and narrowed his eyes at the two agents in the vehicle. “Road’s been blocked up here for almost a week with the rain. You’ll have to get your things and I’ll take you in the rest of the way with the boat.”
Sullivan turned to Barry and gave him a glance. Stevens nodded and grabbed a few papers from the dashboard.
“You two have slickers?” Jaan asked, eyeing both of the men with something that bordered distaste.
“No, not with us,” Sullivan answered.
The sheriff huffed and made his way to the boat, and after a minute, returned with two folded ponchos protected in plastic cases. He tossed them through the window, onto Sullivan’s lap. “You’ll need ’em. Wet out here.”
==
The boat’s motor churned through the black water as the rain continued to pour down. The three men sat on separate seats; Jaan piloted the craft from the back, his hand lying lightly on the tiller and his dark eyes shifting between the two
agents and the waterway ahead. Sullivan sat in the middle on the aluminum seat and Stevens rested in the bow, hunched in a Quasimodo sort of way that Sullivan would have found funny on any other day. At the moment all he wanted to do was make it to an actual structure and get inside out of the unending rain.
Sullivan gazed out from beneath the hood of the poncho and surveyed the way ahead. It felt so strange looking at the water rippling with the drops of the rainstorm, knowing they floated above an actual roadway where cars drove only a week before the storms invaded the area.
“Glad you could come. I didn’t want any part of this, actually,” Jaan said from the back of the boat over the hum of the outboard.
Sullivan did his best to put on an amiable expression. “Happy to help. How bad is the flooding at the prison?”
Jaan rubbed his chin with a wet hand as the boat bounced over a small wave that jounced each man in his seat. “It’s almost up to the gate, but the staff sandbagged nearly the whole perimeter, so they’re not actually in danger of flooding quite yet. Horseshit spot for a prison, if you ask me. The area’s the lowest spot in the county, the runoff all collects here and there’s really nowhere for it to go ’cept Willow Creek, but that’s overflowing too.” Jaan made a disdainful face, as if disappointed in the weather itself. “Shoulda picked high ground, if you ask me.”
Sullivan nodded in agreement and the sheriff seemed appeased. He could tell Jaan was a student of the old school. He had no time for anything out of his realm of reckoning, which seemed to stop just outside of his jurisdiction. All of Sullivan’s questions received replies in the same clipped phrases, as if the sheriff thought the agent should have already known the answers.
The watery path encased by the thick trees on either side twisted two more times, left then right, before Sullivan saw that the darkened sky opened up into a clearing ahead.
The dull steel of chainlink fence materialized in the rain, and the black head of the road appeared out of the water a few hundred yards before the prow of the boat. A small guard shack stood at the base of the lapping water, and a stack of sagging sandbags ran in a crooked line several yards in front of it. The prison itself sat on top of a rise, like a mastiff overlooking its territory. The building was two stories and made up mostly of faded brick. Windows adorned its sides sporadically, like dark wounds in the flesh of a fallen beast. Sullivan saw an entryway at the head of the building, lower than the rest of the structure, with two dark red doors encasing its front.
