by J. D. Barker
Four of the halogen lights illuminated the bed. They were bright, but the photographer’s flash was brighter. Poole looked away.
Diener stood next to the dresser, in front of an open drawer. He held a small Mag-Lite, the beam pointed inside.
Poole followed the light, peered down into the drawer.
“Any one of those things could send her back to prison. Why risk it?” Diener said.
Poole pulled a pair of purple latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then reached into the drawer. He removed a driver’s license and passport, both with Libby McInley’s photograph, both with the name Kalyn Selke. He set the fake identification down on the top of the dresser, then reached back inside, retrieving the gun, a matte-black .45. “It’s loaded.”
“Doesn’t look like she even made a play for it,” Hurless pointed out.
“She wouldn’t have had a chance,” Poole said. “Bishop would have taken her by surprise, subdued her. The ME will find something in her toxicology, some kind of sedative, propofol or Nubain. He’s used both in the past.”
Hurless turned to Poole. “You said she was a shut-in. This looks like she was planning to run.”
“You only have to stay ahead of the demons. An inch outside their grasp will do,” Poole said under his breath.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Diener scoffed.
“Just something I read once, in a Thad McAlister novel,” Poole told him. “I don’t think she was agoraphobic. She was hiding from someone. She was scared.”
“Bishop?”
“He killed her sister, maybe he somehow got a message to her in prison, threatened her in some way. I think this Franklin Kirby person she killed was important to him somehow. That’s why the scene is different. He didn’t kill Libby McInley because of Talbot or in relation to the crimes Talbot was involved with. I think this is some kind of revenge killing. He wanted her to suffer, to feel pain,” Poole said.
He spotted something poking out from beneath a folded brown sweater. Poole reached inside and took it out. It was a Polaroid of two women in bed, naked. The edges were frayed, the color muted.
“I’m beginning to like this girl,” Diener said.
“It’s old. Fifteen, twenty years, I’d guess. Nobody uses Polaroids anymore.”
“There’s something else in there.” Hurless was pointing at the edge of the sweater, under the opposite corner.
Poole saw it. He reached inside. It was a lock of blond hair about six inches long, held together with nylon-covered black rubber hair ties on each end.
37
Larissa
Day 3 • 7:21 a.m.
Larissa Biel stood on the corner of West Chicago Avenue and North Damen. Every time someone opened the door to Pierre’s Bakery behind her, she fought the urge to run inside and eat her weight in cookies, cake, and other assorted yummies. Was it even legal to vent that smell out into the streets? The Valentine’s Day dance was tonight at school, and she had to fit into her dress. It was tight as is, and one or two donuts would push her over the edge. Kevin Dew would be there, and she knew the moment he spotted her in that strapless black dress he’d forget all about chasing Kiesha Gerow and ask her out instead.
The bakery door opened again, and an old guy wearing a fluffy blue coat and green scarf with little elves climbing on Christmas trees came out eating a breakfast sandwich. Steam rose from the thick bagel with eggs and bacon, and her mouth began to water.
No!
No more. She walked a couple more feet down the sidewalk, closer to the corner. The icy wind reached around the building, and she shivered.
Where was this guy?
She stomped her feet and began running in place. Ten minutes ago she would have cared what the other people on the sidewalk thought, but not now. Now she was freezing her butt off, and if she didn’t keep moving, she’d become a human Popsicle.
She saw him then.
He pulled to the curb directly in front of her, sliding between a FedEx truck and a beat-up SUV with the flashers on.
Larissa tugged at the door handle and pulled the door open the moment he stopped moving. She dropped down into the seat and shut the door behind her, holding her hands up to the heater vent. “You’re twenty minutes late. I almost left.”
He scratched at the side of his black knit cap. He looked like he was bald, but it was hard to tell under the hat. “Do you have your paperwork?”
Larissa nodded and handed him a printout from her pocket. “So, how does this work?”
He offered her a thin smile as he attached the paperwork to a clipboard and tossed it onto the backseat. “The contest you won entitles you to one free lesson. If you decide to continue, the cost is four hundred dollars. That will buy you thirty hours of in-class instruction as well as eight hours behind the wheel—the minimum the state of Illinois requires in order for you to obtain your license. We have other programs ranging up to seven hundred dollars if you have trouble with something specific like parallel parking or questions on the written exam.”
“And you can pick me up here each time?”
He nodded. “We pick up students all over the city. We can drop you off anywhere within city limits too. Ultimately, you’ll be doing the driving.”
Larissa smiled politely. The instructor had trouble saying the s in students and the c in city. She thought it was kind of cute, reminded her of Kevin.
“Shall we get started on your complimentary lesson?”
Larissa tugged the seat belt across her chest and snapped it into place. “I’m ready when you are.”
She watched as he placed a Student Driver placard on top of the dashboard before pulling back out into traffic. This seemed a little silly, considering it was painted all over the outside of the car too.
38
Porter
Day 3 • 7:33 a.m.
Porter sat on a wooden bench just outside the warden’s office deep within the concrete bowels of Orleans Parish Prison. He’d walked from his hotel and quickly determined this part of town was better viewed at night.
The city of New Orleans had an odd smell to it. Even in the best parts of town, it hovered an inch or so above the roads, just enough to drift up to your nostrils and remind you of where you were. Near the prison, that scent didn’t bother to hide. You could almost see the fumes, an oily residue on every surface, dripping from the streetlights and sewer grates. Every alley and vacant lot had its share of residents, not only locals but tourists who drank their fill and wandered off from the lights, music, and action of the main drag to this place, somewhere behind Oz’s curtain.
When he arrived at the main gate, the guard had met him with tired indifference. Before Porter could talk, the man went into a canned rant about visiting hours and the locations of the visitor gates. Porter handed him one of his Chicago Metro business cards and told him why he was here. The guard had not asked to see his badge, and when he passed through security, he told them he’d left his gun in his hotel room safe. He ran the risk of someone calling Chicago Metro to check his story, but he had little choice. He wouldn’t get access as a civilian.
The corridors of the Orleans Parish Prison were walled in cinder block and painted a dull white. He was led through a series of hallways and switchbacks until he had no idea what direction he faced. The air felt stale and stagnant, and the echoes of their shoes gave the impression of being deep underground. The guard escorting him said this was a shortcut to the warden’s office, passing through the belly of the beast. Porter had never been claustrophobic, but if he spent too much time here, that particular condition might be in the cards. He couldn’t imagine working here, spending every day here. At each steel door, they had to pause and wait for someone to buzz them in. He felt the cameras’ blank stares. They encountered one every twenty feet or so.
At the end of the corridor they passed through a series of doors spaced only about ten feet apart, reminding Porter of an airlock or a decontamination chamber in an old sci-
fi movie. On the other side stood the administrative offices. While also cinder block and steel construction, the space had been sparsely decorated with a worn rug and plastic fern, a bit of civilized oasis in the barrens.
The guard pointed at the bench. “Warden is here but making rounds. Should be back soon. Sit tight.”
That was nearly thirty minutes ago.
No fewer than six cameras covered the room from the various corners, some moving, others stationary, all watching.
“Detective Porter?”
Sam hadn’t heard anyone come in, yet this man was standing not four feet from him. “Yes.”
“I’m Warden Vina. What brings you to our little slice of paradise?”
“I need to see one of your prisoners.”
“I haven’t worked in visitation for over a decade, but last I checked, visiting hours still start at nine, and it’s fairly easy to follow the signs outside to the line. Not much of a need for me to be involved. I tend to like it that way.”
The warden was a few inches shorter than Porter, standing around five foot eight. His hair looked like it had gone gray some time ago, and he kept it shaved close to his skull. His small eyes were set close together over a nose that looked like it had been broken and reset multiple times. There was a scar on his neck, thin and pink. It disappeared beneath the collar of his blue shirt. He was stocky and sure of himself, and his gaze didn’t falter. His eyes remained locked on Porter’s, a prisoner’s stare.
“We have reason to believe this particular prisoner may be connected to 4MK.”
“Oh, you’re that Detective Porter.”
“Yep. I’m that Detective Porter.”
“I’ve been following the case on TV. Crazy. Connected how?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Well then, I guess I’m not at liberty to let you see one of our prisoners.”
“I could come back with a warrant,” Porter said.
The warden shrugged. “Please do. And when you come back with that warrant, show it to the guard at the visitors gate.” He turned and started for his office door. “Enjoy your time in New Orleans, Detective.”
“She may be his mother,” Porter said. “I need to keep this visit under the radar. If the press gets wind, they could burn the only lead we’ve got. I need your help, Warden.”
The warden stopped short of his door, shaking his head. “I really hoped for a nice, quiet weekend. Helping you does not sound nice or quiet.”
“You can save lives, Warden. I just need to speak to her.”
The warden turned back to him. “What’s her name?”
Porter fell silent for a moment. He had the guy on the hook; he couldn’t lose him. “I’m not sure. I have no idea what she was charged with, either.”
The warden smirked. “Detective, we’ve got around two thousand prisoners here, but we’ve had as many as sixty-five hundred, before Katrina. Some are awaiting trial for felony, and some are here on lesser charges like traffic, D&D, or municipal. The rest are here on behalf of the Louisiana Department of Corrections or the federal government for a long-term stay. How exactly do you expect to track her down without a name?”
Porter pulled the photograph from his pocket and handed it to the warden. “This is all I’ve got.”
The warden took the photograph, then pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. He flipped it over, read the message on the back, then turned back to the grainy image. “That’s the west gate,” he said, studying the image.
Porter pointed at the guard walking in front of Bishop’s mother. “That is—”
“Vincent Weidner,” the warden said. “I recognize him.”
“Maybe he remembers her?”
The warden let out a deep sigh. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward his office door. “Let me see what I can do.”
39
Clair
Day 3 • 8:13 a.m.
Clair’s cell phone rang from the corner of her desk in the war room. She snatched it up and pressed the Accept button. “Detective Norton.”
“Detective? This is Sergeant Dawn Spiegel. I run the 911 desk.”
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“One of my operators took a very odd call a few minutes ago. I think it may be related to your case. Can I play it for you?”
Please don’t let this be another missing girl. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Hold on for one second. I’ll have to put you on speaker,” the sergeant said.
Clair heard a slight rattle as the woman set down the phone on the other end. “Here it is.”
“Nine one one, what is the nature of your emergency?” she heard the operator ask.
A slight hesitation, then the voice of an older woman, slow, papery: “He died twice.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t understand you.”
“He died twice,” the older voice said, louder this time, more urgent.
There was an audible sigh from the operator. “Who, ma’am, who died twice?”
“Floyd Reynolds.”
Clair stood and went to the evidence board.
floyd reynolds
Wife: Leeann Reynolds
Insurance sales—works for UniMed America Healthcare
No debt? Per wife. Hosman checking
Beneath the existing text, she wrote:
Strangled with thin wire (piano?) outside of own home (in car)
Body hidden in snowman
Father of Ella Reynolds
“Who, ma’am?” the operator asked.
This time it was the old woman who sighed. “Floyd Reynolds. He died last week, and he died again yesterday. He’s in today’s obituaries.”
“Ma’am, do you understand that making a false call to emergency services may result in charges of a class four felony?”
“Nobody dies twice.”
“A class four felony is punishable by one to three years in prison and a fine of up to twenty-five thousand dollars. Making false calls to 911 can put our law enforcement officers and emergency responders in serious jeopardy while also straining public resources,” the operator told her.
“If you are not the correct person to alert, perhaps you should transfer me to the proper department.”
There was an audible click, and at first Clair though the operator hung up on the woman, but she came back a few seconds later. She must have muted the call.
“Floyd Reynolds is a common name, ma’am. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. I don’t want to see you get into trouble, so I’m going to hang up now. I advise you not to call back with this. If you do, you will most likely be charged.”
“The name is the same. The birth date is the same. The address is the same. This is the same man. He died twice,” the woman insisted. “Take a look at today’s Chicago Examiner.”
At this point the call dropped.
Clair heard Sergeant Spiegel pick up the phone and take it off speaker. “After the operator disconnected the call, she alerted the other operators of what she believed to be a crank. Our normal procedure is to log the false call and initiate charges with Metro if they call back repeatedly. I recognized the name from the blotter, so I pulled up the newspaper online. Floyd Reynolds does, in fact, appear in the obituaries twice. There is an entry today and one last Wednesday. All the identifying information matches up. Same guy.”
Clair frowned. “How is that possible? He died yesterday.”
“What is your e-mail address? I’ll send you the links.”
40
Porter
Day 3 • 8:16 a.m.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Nicolas Cage, yeah,” the warden said, leading Porter into his cramped office. The framed mug shot hung on the wall to the left of his desk. “He was our guest in April 2011, after getting wrapped up in a fight at a local bistro. Even busted a window. Them Hollywood types sometimes forget when the camera stops rolling. He enjoyed his stay so much, he stopped back a month later after a couple too man
y drinks. He got into a loud argument with his wife in the middle of the French Quarter. We would have let it pass, but he kept pushing the officers. They had no choice but to arrest him. Great actor. I loved him in Con Air.”
“Is that the one with Sean Connery?”
The warden held up a finger and picked up his phone. “CO Weidner to the warden’s office, CO Weidner to the warden’s office,” he said into the receiver. A moment later Porter heard his words echo through the prison’s intercom system.
“The film with Sean Connery is The Rock,” the warden told him, hanging up the phone. He gestured to one of the empty seats in front of his desk. “We get our share of celebrities through here, being a bit of a party town. We let them sleep it off, just like the college kids who get a bit too rowdy, and put them out the door the next day. Unless there’s property damage or someone gets hurt, there’s not much need to push charges. If we charged every D&D who passed through the Quarter, the prison would be full inside of a week, and there’d be nobody for the women to flash their tits at.”
A knock at the warden’s door.
Porter looked up and immediately recognized Vincent Weidner from the photograph. His dark hair was a little longer than most prison guards’, hanging above his collar, and he had a close-cropped goatee. There was a scar on his neck, about two inches long, below the base of his chin. Porter figured it to be a few years old. It was ragged, not a professional incision but an injury resulting from a knife or broken glass. Porter thought about the scar on his own leg, where Bishop had stabbed him in the thigh. It itched in return, and he fought the urge to scratch.
