The Dead Room dm-3

by Chris Mooney

  Jamie dropped her cigarette as she got to her feet, almost tripping over the lawn chair.

  ‘M-M-Michael, come… ah… here.’

  He waltzed across the lawn in his bare feet. Carter went back to practising his lightsaber skills.

  Michael stood in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. ‘What did I do wrong now?’

  ‘How… you… ah… feel… ah… ah… moving?’

  ‘You mean move out of the house?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Where would… you… like… ah… go?’

  Something lit up inside him. She could see it in his eyes, the way his body relaxed.

  Michael sat on the end of the lawn chair and looked at her, startled, as if he couldn’t believe his opinions and needs were actually being considered for once.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to live someplace warm,’ Michael said after a moment. ‘Dad told me once that you guys spent some time in San Diego.’

  She smiled at the memory – a two-week holiday they’d taken in their early twenties. Boozy afternoons spent in Solana Beach and long walks through Del Mar and Coronado. Sunshine and beaches and making love in the hotel rooms, their bodies brown and warm and smelling of suntan oil.

  ‘Dad said you came close to living there.’

  She nodded again. They had talked about it, but their hearts lay in New England.

  ‘Let’s… ah… ah… pack… up. Go.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘To… ah… today.’

  Surprise bloomed on his face – and some apprehension too. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘No… ah… rush. Been thinking about… about… ah… you said. Unhappy here. No need to… ah… ah… stay any more.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘Real estate agent,’ she said. It might take a while until the house was sold, especially in this shitty economic climate, but they could make do on the savings until she got a job.

  She leaned forward in her chair, smiling, and took his hand into her own. ‘Fresh… start. Deserve it. You.’

  ‘Do you think Carter would like it?’

  ‘I… ah…think he… ah… be happy… ah… any place with… ah… you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You… You… ah… happy?’

  ‘I am. It’s just so, you know, sudden. And what’s with the smoking?’

  ‘Bad… ah… habit.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do it. There’s a reason why they’re called cancer sticks.’

  ‘Can… ah… you… help… ah… pack?’

  ‘Sure. Sure, I can. What’s with the ultra-short haircut? You look like a guy.’

  ‘It’s… ah… so… ah… hot I… I… wanted… ah… shorter.’

  ‘You can see your scars.’

  ‘We… ah… need… ah… get… boxes.’

  ‘You’re going in for another operation, aren’t you? That’s why you practically shaved your head.’ He looked so scared, vulnerable.

  She cupped his face in her hands. ‘No… ah… operation.’

  ‘You’re not lying to me?’

  ‘No.’ She kissed him on the top of his head. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  Walking back inside the house, Jamie imagined Kevin Reynolds somewhere close by, watching, and ran for her car keys.

  46

  Walpole’s MCI-Cedar Junction, one of the state’s two ‘supermax’ high-security prisons for adult male offenders, had a strict dress code for female visitors. No tank, halter or tube tops. No sleeveless shirts. No jogging suits or gym clothing. No clothing made of Spandex. No sheer or see-through material. Trousers had to be free of holes and rips and couldn’t contain any open pockets like those found on cargo trousers. Skirts and shorts measuring less than four inches from the kneecap were deemed too revealing and not allowed – no clothing of any type that exposed a woman’s midriff or back was allowed, no exceptions.

  Darby placed her tactical belt, keys, wallet, badge and phone in a small plastic dish. After checking her sidearm, she raised her hands. A female guard, a heavy-set black woman, waved a metal-detecting wand over her body.

  A young male guard somewhere in his late twenties, Darby guessed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt stood next to a metal door. He stared at the raw cuts and crisscrossed rows of stitches on the right side of her swollen face. Lieutenant Warner had driven her to her condo and stayed in the car while she went upstairs to shower. She dressed quickly, grabbing things from her closet. She realized she had forgotten a belt and pulled the canvas tactical belt from her chest-of-drawers. Not wanting to waste any more time, she had decided to forgo the lengthy process of trying to bandage her face.

  ‘You wearing an underwired bra?’ the female guard asked.

  ‘No,’ Darby said. ‘And you’ll be happy to know I remembered not to wear my crotchless underwear this morning.’

  The woman let loose a dry chuckle. The male guard didn’t crack a smile, too busy working hard on his mess with me and you will pay expression. The way his biceps bulged like rocks underneath his tanned skin made her think of Coop. She had tried calling him from the road, calling his mobile and his direct number at the lab, but kept getting his voicemail.

  ‘Well,’ the woman said, placing the wand on the table, ‘I’m glad to see you took the time to read the dress code. Most people don’t even bother. The women visitors, they are the worst. They strut on in here wearing short-shorts or some low-cut skirt without any panties, then get all belligerent when we tell ’em, ah, sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come in here with your junk all exposed. Need to put on something just a little bit more formal.’

  The woman slapped on a pair of latex gloves and said, ‘Please raise your hands again for me, Dr McCormick, I’ve got to search your pockets.’

  Darby wanted to keep the conversation going, needing some distance from the thoughts scrabbling through her pounding head (Christ, did it hurt). ‘My personal favourite was the one about no bathing suits.’

  ‘We had to add that one, oh, I’d say about three years ago. This woman who worked at a strip club? She decided to visit her boyfriend right after her shift, came waltzing in here in five-inch stilettos and her ta-tas practically hanging out of her bikini top. The stories I could tell you.

  ‘You all set, Dr McCormick. Your sidearm and your wallet will be waiting for you with me behind this desk when you come out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Darby picked up the scuffed leather pad sitting on top of the X-ray machine. ‘Can I take this in with me? I may need to take notes.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  The woman searched through the computer-printed sheets the superintendant had given her on John Ezekiel. Then she examined the leather compartments and folds. She uncapped Darby’s pen, a black plastic Pilot roller-ball with a metal tip.

  ‘You got any other pens on you?’

  ‘Just that one,’ Darby said.

  ‘Okay, you can take it in. But make sure you come back with it. I don’t want to have to do a strip search on that man in there. Don’t want to end my day on that note, you hear?’

  Darby nodded, glancing at a colour video screen showing a private conference room of bright white tiles. In the centre, a gun-metal grey table and chair bolted to the floor. The other chair was not.

  ‘We’ll be looking in and watching, but we can’t hear a thing,’ the woman said. ‘When they bring Mr Ezekiel in, they’ll shackle him to the chair bolted to the floor, so you don’t have to worry about any surprises – unless he suddenly turns into the Incredible Hulk.’ She laughed at her joke. ‘When you done speaking to him, just turn to the camera and wave. Or you can come up to the door and give it a good, hard knock. Billy Biceps over there will let you in and out.’

  The woman grabbed her chest mike. ‘We all set, Patrick. Bring him on in.’

  The young male guard moved to the steel door.
r />   Darby watched the second hand crawling on the wall clock.

  Almost two minutes later a buzzer sounded. Locks clicked back.

  The male guard opened the door.

  Darby felt her heart climb high in her chest, the feeling similar to the one she’d experienced when abseiling down a ripcord from a chopper during a SWAT exercise. Legs steady, she moved past the guard and entered the conference room.

  John Ezekiel no longer bore any resemblance to the mental snapshot she carried. His thick blond hair had that odd yellow tint she’d seen in heavy smokers. His muscles had wasted away and his pale skin seemed almost translucent underneath the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting.

  ‘Good morning, Dr McCormick.’

  She had imagined a deeper voice. Ezekiel’s voice, light and airy, reminded her of the pleasant and eager front desk clerk at a hotel.

  The buzzer went off again. The electronic locks slammed home and Darby felt the sound echo inside her chest.

  She approached the table.

  ‘How do you know I’m a doctor?’

  ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on you ever since I read about you in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘You’re in the papers a lot. And on TV. You’re a special investigator for Boston’s Criminal Services Unit. Your specialty is forensics and deviant behaviour of the criminal variety. In other words, people like me.’

  Darby pulled out a chair and sat. Ezekiel stared at her from the other side of the table. He had the dull, lifeless eyes of a marble bust.

  Must be the medication, Darby thought. Ezekiel suffered from schizoaffective disorder – the depressive type, the most difficult to treat. According to the notes, his current medications consisted of the antipsychotic drug Clozaril and lithium, a mood stabilizer.

  ‘I was told you wanted to speak to me about Amy Hallcox.’

  ‘You mean Kendra Sheppard,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘You know who she is.’ Ezekiel leaned forward in his chair, chains rattling. His eyes never moved from her face. ‘Lying is not a good way to build trust. I can’t tell you the truth if I don’t trust you, do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then don’t lie to me again. If you do, the conversation’s over.’

  ‘Understood. Why did you want to speak to me about Kendra Sheppard?’

  ‘Have you checked the room for listening devices?’

  ‘No.’

  He seemed puzzled. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be illegal for the prison to eavesdrop on our conversation.’

  ‘The cameras are watching us.’

  ‘They are, but I can assure you nobody is listening.’

  ‘Assured by whom? The guards posted outside the door?’

  ‘I don’t have any equipment to sweep the room for bugs, Mr Ezekiel. What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Sit next to me. I’ll whisper against your ear.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re wondering. I can’t. Look.’ He tried to hold up his cuffed wrists. He couldn’t, of course. She knew they were shackled to the chain around his waist, and he was shackled to the chair.

  ‘It’s for your protection’, he said. ‘And mine.’

  ‘Even so, the prison won’t allow it.’

  ‘Ask them. Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, I can’t speak to you.’

  Darby stood. ‘Goodbye, Mr Ezekiel.’

  ‘Be careful out on the streets.’

  She knocked on the door.

  ‘And promise me you’ll stay clear of the FBI,’ Ezekiel said. ‘I don’t trust those sons of bitches.’

  47

  Darby stepped into the adjoining room and stood under the harsh bright fluorescent lights debating about whether to feed into the schizophrenic man’s paranoid delusions.

  Ezekiel knew Amy Hallcox’s real name. Kendra had come to see him, they had spoken, and now she was dead. Her son had tried to kill himself after a man pretending to be a Federal agent went inside his hospital room threatening to take the boy away into protective custody. And this man was, in fact, a Federal agent named Peter Alan who had supposedly died two decades ago and was now lying in the morgue.

  Both guards were staring at her. She told them about Ezekiel’s request.

  The male guard, Billy Biceps, shook his head.

  ‘No way in hell can we allow that,’ the female guard said. ‘That man in there’s a known biter. He sinks his teeth in your ear, he’ll rip it clean off your head.’

  ‘Has he done that before?’ Darby asked.

  ‘Twice. Last time he tried to swallow the ear. He didn’t, but he had mangled it so goddamn bad the surgeons couldn’t reattach it. You want to walk around with a missing ear?’

  ‘It might complement the scars on my face.’

  ‘I thought doctors were supposed to be smart.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Superintendent Skinner,’ Darby said. ‘Where’s your phone?’

  Skinner wouldn’t allow it. Darby kept pressing, stating her reasons, while watching Ezekiel on the video monitor. He was struggling to look underneath the table for listening devices.

  She was thinking about what Skinner had told her about Ezekiel ‘glassing’ one of the psychiatric nurses when Skinner said, ‘Fine, go ahead and do it your way. But if Ezekiel hurts you in a bad way, the prison isn’t going to be held liable.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No, I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘I assume all liability.’

  Back inside the private conference room, the doors locked, Darby picked up the chair, brought it around the table and placed it beside Ezekiel. Then she turned the chair around so it was facing away from the table. If he tried anything, she’d have some room to manoeuvre.

  ‘You need to move closer,’ he said.

  She kicked her chair next to his.

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled, flashing his crooked yellow teeth. ‘You’re a very brave woman, Dr McCormick. Very composed, in control of your emotions. I’m sure, if given the opportunity, you’d rip me apart with your bare hands.’

  ‘You’re right. I would.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty. Take a seat.’

  She could smell the cigarette odour baked into his orange jumpsuit, the medicinal odour of the shampoo the prison used to delouse the inmates. He had nicotine-stained fingers and greasy brown fingernails. Those same fingers had been wrapped around the gun that had killed her father.

  His eyes were no longer dull; they were bright and alive now, gleaming with satisfaction.

  ‘You smell wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t say the same for you.’

  He let loose a low chuckle. ‘What happened to your beautiful face?’

  ‘Accident,’ she said.

  ‘It’s amazing how much you look like him – your father, I mean. Tommy had the same dark red hair and those piercing green eyes. It’s funny how genetics works, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did you know my father?’

  ‘Very well. I admired him greatly. May I come closer?’

  Darby nodded. The chains rattled as Ezekiel moved. She felt his whiskers brush up against her cheek.

  His mouth was against her ear, and she could hear the slight wheeze from his lungs. His sour breath smelled like a rancid blast of hot air caught in a subway tunnel.

  ‘Kendra introduced me to your father,’ he whispered. ‘I heard about what happened to her son, by the way. How is he?’

  She moved next to his ear and whispered, ‘He’s brain dead. Who’s his father?’

  ‘Kendra said some guy knocked her up, and she decided to keep the baby. She wouldn’t tell me the father’s name. Did anyone have a chance to speak to the boy before he shot himself?’

  ‘I did, for a little bit. He asked to speak to my father. He didn’t know he was dead.’

  ‘Kendra didn’t know either, until she came to Belham.�
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  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Kendra left Charlestown before your father was murdered. I had no idea where she went – I wasn’t supposed to know, and I never bothered to try to track her down. I didn’t want to put her in danger. Nobody heard from her either. I asked her old friends. That’s why Kendra survived as long as she did. She didn’t call anyone back home, afraid that someone’s phone may have been tapped and they’d find her. And there was no internet back then.’

  ‘How did she find out?’

  ‘She came to Belham, went to the house where you used to live and spoke to the new owners. They’re from Belham originally and knew about your family. By the way, I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.’

  Ezekiel speaking with an exaggerated sorrow, as if he actually knew her.

  ‘After Kendra found out about your father,’ he whispered, ‘she did a little research, found out my new residence and set up a visit. Needless to say, she was quite upset and wanted to know what had happened. She loved your father very much. Big Red was a remarkable man. One of a kind, you could say. I regret what happened to him every single day.’