by E. Z. Rinsky
I hear the sharp breath on her end.
“You have a lead about where they are don’t you?” she says. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid.”
I don’t respond.
“I can help you find them,” she says carefully. “I know more about them than anyone on Earth besides the author.”
My shoulders tighten.
“Okay,” I say. “We’re running around town, looking into a few possible leads. But we’ll meet up tonight, alright?”
She takes a moment, considering whether these terms are acceptable.
“Wonderful,” she says.
“Can’t wait,” I growl, and hang up.
Courtney opens his mouth to speak, I preempt him.
“We’re not meeting up with her, and we’re not telling her a thing,” I say. “She’d sell us down the river in a heartbeat if it suited her needs.”
Courtney frowns.
“Like her or not,” he says. “In the end we might need her help to figure out Rico’s text message.”
I cross my arms.
“We’re not going to work with someone who keeps lying to us.”
I wait for Courtney to point out my hypocrisy. Instead he takes a gentler approach.
“You’d do the same thing in her shoes, Frank. You wouldn’t have told us everything you know.”
“We’ll keep stalling her until we find the books ourselves.”
“I’m not sure where your inherent distrust of women comes from,” says Courtney. “Did you have a good relationship with your mother growing up?”
I gawk at him. What makes him so utterly infuriating sometimes is the earnestness with which he says this shit.
“You’re a real piece of work,” I mutter.
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. His authenticity makes my forehead burn.
“I’ll make sure to bring it up in group therapy in prison,” I say, as SCF rises on the horizon. “Enjoy yourself today, champ. Will probably be the last time we’re in jail on the right side of the fence.”
As Saddleback appears on the horizon, I flip through the fake FBI IDs Courtney made for us five years ago during the Kanter case. We have no choice but to use them again, given the tight time line. I run over our story again in my head. The only reason they might take us seriously is that we’re coming to them with the truth: Oliver Vicks doesn’t seem to be in their prison.
Most prisons are content with two enclosure fences. Usually galvanized steel garnished on top with razor wire. But as the Honda nears the facility, I see that SCF has a super-max-type perimeter: There are the usual two outer fences, then a narrow strip of sand, then another thirty-foot wall lined with razor wire. And then the interior side of the inner wall is lined with huge coils of more razor wire, so inmates can’t even get anywhere close to the fence. The guard towers are imposing concrete spires that look built to withstand hurricanes. The ground around the outside of the prison looks like it’s been tilled, there’s a kind of featureless moat of uniform grey. Even if you somehow tunneled under all three walls, you’d be totally out in the open—easy pickings for the snipers in the guard towers.
This is not a prison built for rehabilitation, it’s a cage for monsters.
“Wow,” I say.
“Second-highest security in Colorado,” says Courtney. “Among the top twenty in the country, I read. 450 guards for 3,000 prisoners. Very high ratio.”
“So I guess we can rule out the possibility that Oliver escaped, eh?”
Courtney nods almost imperceptibly.
There’s only one entrance. One place where there’s a break in the outer two fences, and the interior one slides open. But if I was an aspiring escapee, I think I’d rather take my chances with the fences. Six booths windowed with what I’m sure is bulletproof glass house a dozen guards. As we roll up, three officers in grey uniforms with rifles strapped to their backs burst from a booth, hold up their palms, indicating for us to stop well short of the first line of defense. Then they trot out to the car.
An officer motions for us to step out of the car. He has a formless face and lumpy body—a dirty potato in polarized Ray-Bans. The two behind him have hands on the butts of their side arms, but don’t draw them.
“Visiting hours are Monday afternoons only,” Potato states, breathing heavily just from his little trot over.
“We’re from the FBI,” Courtney says. “We need to speak to someone in administration about a prisoner you have incarcerated.”
Potato seems momentarily paralyzed by this news.
“IDs are in the glove compartment,” I say.
He finally nods slowly, then gestures for two subordinates to confirm this.
My heart thuds as the other two officers advance to the car, pass within inches of me, and pluck our paper from the glove compartment. One of them inspects them seriously, as if he has a lot of experience examining FBI IDs—you don’t become a prison corrections officer because you’re good with nuance.
“Looks good,” one of them shouts to Potato. He seems slightly disappointed by this news.
“Hold tight,” he says, then retreats out of earshot and summons someone on his walkie-talkie. Has a brief back and forth, nods, then returns.
“Step out of the car. Leave the keys in the ignition. We’ll park it for you,” Potato says, pointing to a lot obscured by steel and wire. “We’ll check you, then take you to admin. Do you have weapons with you?”
“In the trunk,” I say, as we climb out of the car. “Two Magnums.”
A guard with a deep scar on his cheek joins the party, walks slowly over to the car and starts combing through our bags with infuriating deliberation, confiscating anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon, and placing it in a transparent plastic bag.
He takes particularly long going through Courtney’s red acrylic bag, the one that holds his tools. I can tell it’s killing Court to watch this guard paw his beloved implements—he’s really anal about his tools, to the point that he tries to fix them himself instead of replacing them, when possible, and doesn’t even like to let me touch them. But he just stares at his shoes and does what looks like a calming breathing exercise.
In the passenger seat, Scar finds what’s left of my Jack Daniel’s from last night. He unscrews the top and pours it out into the dust.
“Hey!” I say. “Look, I know it’s no McClelland, but I was still gonna drink that.”
“Sorry,” Scar replies joylessly. “No contraband gets in.”
He screws the cap back onto the now empty bottle and tosses it back into the rear seat. We wait while this lone officer concludes his ludicrously inefficient search—Why can’t this stuff even be in our parked car?—and then another CO climbs into the driver’s seat and pulls our rental through the gauntlet of security checkpoints. Gate creaks open, they wave the vehicle through, then close it.
Potato motions for us to follow him. The COs stare at us as we pass them in their booths, same dead look in their eyes I’ve seen in postal workers who do the same route for decades.
He takes us to a walkway to the side of the gate. We walk through a metal detector, and then are clinically and holistically frisked by a sad man wearing powdered latex gloves.
He must be a real bummer at his kid’s career days.
The only holdup is the iPhone in my pocket.
“No phones. Can’t have pictures or video,” he says. “I’ll put it in with your other stuff.”
A no-phone rule for visitors seems a bit over the top for ostensible FBI agents. But they have the guns, and I’m pleasantly surprised someone has agreed to speak to us. Potato leads us through the walkway—the only way in besides the vehicle gate.
I catch Courtney’s eye as we follow Potato: So far, so good right?
He replies with a raised eyebrow: Stay vigilant.
Waiting for us outside the tunnel is a stooped CO the same color as the asphalt he’s standing on. He can’t be much younger than sixty. He’s shorter and skinnier than m
e, but he’s rolled up his khaki sleeves to reveal sinewy biceps. Potato clasps his hands behind his back as we approach the man.
“Sir,” Potato says timidly. “These are—”
“I know.” The dark man nods and smiles at Courtney and I. “You two are from the FBI.” His voice is high and crackly, filled with humor.
Beside me I notice Potato shift his weight uneasily.
“Yeah.” I extend a hand. “I’m Ben Donovan and this is Leonard Francis. Are you an administrator? We had some questions we need answered.”
In response to this, the old CO breaks into a huge grin and takes my hand in both of his. He’s wearing a lot of very strong cologne, and there’s something vaguely effeminate about his tender grip.
“I’m Sergeant Don,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I deal primarily with overseeing our security team. You’re going to need to speak with the warden.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Glad he could make time for us.”
Sergeant Don cocks his head.
“Only the Lord makes time,” he says.
Then, ignoring Courtney’s outstretched hand, Sergeant Don simply turns and starts walking, stooped over, hands clasped behind his back. Potato rushes to follow the Sergeant, seemingly forgetting about us.
We jog across the hot asphalt to keep up with the two of them.
The scale of the prison complex is staggering. Three thousand prisoners is a lot. The buildings that must be the cell blocks are ten-story monstrosities of whitewashed concrete, pocked with hundreds of tiny reinforced windows. The five cell blocks I see are spaced out around a central yard the size of two or three football fields.
And I guess prison business is booming, because there’s a construction site on the west side of the yard. A new wing, presumably. Workers—whom I think might be inmates—in hard hats and bright orange vests are mostly congregated on a floor around the middle, about nine stories up. The finished floors beneath them are all shrouded in white tarps, like to protect them from rain or dust. The tower is even taller than the rest of the buildings—it will end up looking like a high-rise apartment. A crane lifts I-beams as thick as a man a hundred feet in the air. Sounds of shouting, clanging of metal on metal, drilling fill the air.
“Are those all prisoners doing the construction?” I ask Potato and Don’s backsides as they lead us along the yard’s south border fence. Nothing.
I try again: “Guess it’s good to have real work for them, eh?”
They ignore me.
I’m struck by the lack of greenery. This complex must be at least five square miles, and there’s not a single tree in sight.
Courtney gives it a swing: “How long you two been working here?” he asks their uniformed backs.
No response.
“You know anything about an inmate named Oliver Vicks?” I ask.
This question, finally, gets a reaction. Stops them both dead in their tracks. They turn around. Potato grimaces like why did you have to go there? Sergeant Don’s face tightens into a scowl.
“What?” he asks sharply.
“Oliver Vicks. Do you think we’ll be able to speak to him?” asks Courtney.
Potato’s face curls inward like he’s constipated.
The folds of Don’s already wrinkled forehead furrow even deeper in consternation. His little bald head is wet with sweat. Like a shiny eight ball. He scans my face slowly, as if he’s looking for something very specific.
“Be careful,” Sergeant Don says slowly. He looks like he’d like to say more, but the two of them turn and resume walking, perhaps slightly more quickly now.
Guess we hit a nerve.
They lead us to what must be the admin building and in through a side door, into an air-conditioned lobby that looks like a hospital waiting room. We follow them through a door, down a windowless hallway of white plaster that smells like Lysol. A few closed offices. One open, we see a man in a suit on a phone. We pass a few other grey-and khaki-clad guards in the corridor, who nod at our guides and eye us with curiosity.
Potato seems relieved to leave us at the elevator. Avoids our eyes and rushes away down the hall.
Courtney and I join Don in a cramped cage that creaks as it tugs us skyward, me pressing my back against the wall in a fruitless attempt to escape the cloud of patchouli fragrance emanating from some unspeakable crevice beneath Don’s uniform.
The doors open onto a small waiting room. With a jab of his chin, Don indicates that we’re to sit down in two puke-yellow chairs. He sits across from us and stares at the wall over our heads.
A receptionist behind a desk pays us no heed.
Across from us, Sergeant Don pretends we’re not there. His demeanor has definitely soured since we mentioned Oliver.
“The warden will be with you two in just a second,” the receptionist finally says, then returns to his computer. This prompts Sergeant Don to stand up and wordlessly exit the waiting room. I hear the ding as he enters the elevator.
I look at Courtney.
“Something happened to these officers,” I whisper. “They’re rattled.”
Courtney sticks his tongue in his cheek and nods in assent.
“Weird vibe here, for sure.”
We wait for only three minutes before the secretary says, “You two can go in now.”
He hits a button under the desk which buzzes the lock on the door. We open and walk through, only to find ourselves in a vestibule facing a second identical door.
“Security,” says the secretary from behind us. “Let the first one close and I’ll open the second.”
Courtney releases the first door, and for just a moment we’re squished together in a room the size of a phone booth. Then another buzz and the second door swings inwards.
Waiting for us is a stout man wearing a bright blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s probably early sixties, with a trimmed grey beard and very thick bifocals. He’s lost a lot of hair, and his face is wrapped in an endearing layer of grandfatherly fat.
“Nathan Heald,” he says, and smiles to us, extending a surprisingly delicate, smooth hand. His voice and demeanor are gentle—not what you expect from the warden of a maximum security prison. I shake his hand first, then Courtney.
“I’m Leonard Francis,” Courtney says, per our fake IDs. “And this is Ben Donovan.”
“Pleasure,” he says. His glasses are so thick that they blur his eyes pretty severely. He must have a prescription like a fishbowl. “Come sit down and let’s see if I can help you out.”
His office is a stark contrast to the sterile waiting room. Burgundy bookcases hold hundreds of volumes on prison management, most bound in grey or dark blue. The curtains, spread to look out onto the complex, are a preposterous lime green. He has some very cool artwork: aborigine figurines on top of the bookcase, cubist paintings on the walls. I spot expensive-looking chess and backgammon sets nestled between an ivory statuette of a dove and a heavy Monet book, and suffer a brief moment of nostalgia for Voci.
“You play?” I ask, gesturing to the set.
“When I can find a decent opponent.” Heald smiles. “Chess is like sex. Every man thinks he understands it, because he knows how the pieces move.”
I grin.
“I would never claim to be competent at either. I meant backgammon.”
“Ah, a backgammon player,” Heald says, and cocks his head at me as if to study me more closely. “I prefer backgammon too. I like the element of chance. We’ll have to play sometime.”
“Sure,” I say, though unless I’m incarcerated sometime soon it’s hard to conceive of a situation where that would happen.
The floor is a lush blue oriental carpet that matches his shirt. For a second I think of the oriental carpet in Sampson’s office, and cringe.
The warden sits in a swiveling office chair behind a metal desk and gestures for us to sit down across from him.
“So, the local constabulary!” he chuckles to himself.
Nervous?
He looks past us, out the w
indow for a moment, Colorado sun reflecting in his bifocals. “What brings you gentlemen here?”
Courtney and I exchange a look. He nods almost imperceptibly to me like go ahead.
I say, “We have some questions about a prisoner here. Oliver Vicks.”
Heald’s face tightens ever so slightly.
“Sure,” he says, forcing out the syllable.
“Can we speak to him?” I ask neutrally.
Heald doesn’t respond immediately, just keeps staring wistfully out the window over my shoulder, like he’s recalling a poignant moment from his childhood.
Or maybe he’s been waiting for this visit for a while, and he knows the gig is up.
“Mr. Heald?” Courtney prods. “Would that be possible? To speak to Oliver?”
He clenches his jaw.
“No,” he says, still avoiding our eyes. “That won’t be possible.”
“Because he’s not here?” Courtney says.
He purses his lips and finally meets Courtney’s gaze.
“I don’t follow,” he says.
“Was it an administrative error?” I say. “Did you grant him parole and then realize you weren’t supposed to?”
Heald doesn’t budge, holds a pretty impressive poker face.
“Whatever it was,” Courtney says. “We know that Oliver Vicks is supposed to be here, and he’s not.”
The warden exhales slowly and lays his palms flat on the desk.
“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” he asks.
Courtney folds his hands in his lap and keeps his mouth shut. I do the same. Not exactly sure what’s going on here. Hopefully the silence will push Heald into throwing us a bone. Indeed, after an awkward silence that feels interminable, Heald says:
“He’s done something awful, hasn’t he?”
Bingo. He’s gone.
I nod slowly.
“Quite.”
“Murder?”
“It’s still an ongoing investigation,” Courtney says. Bad cop.
“But . . .” I grimace. “Between us . . .” Good cop.
Heald rubs his temples and shakes his head slowly. “God have mercy . . .” He brushes a grey eyebrow, seems to deliberate with himself for a moment. “You two have no idea what you’re dealing with here,” he says softly.
