by E. Z. Rinsky
“So tell us,” says Courtney. “What are we dealing with?”
The warden rubs the tips of his fingers together. I notice the tight muscles on his forearms. He also looks like he has broad shoulders under that shirt. He’s one of those guys who gets stronger as he gets older. I can picture him at the gym out-benching all the young punks.
“You two want a drink?” he asks, and before we can respond, he’s on his feet pulling two books off his shelf to reveal a hidden bottle of Glenfidditch. “It’s contraband,” he says, pouring three very healthy servings, “but my post has a few advantages.”
Courtney shoots me a look of disgust: It’s eleven a.m.
Heald takes two of the lowballs and hands them to us. I accept mine and take a sip. Nice and oaky.
“No thanks.” Courtney smiles. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“That’s fifteen-year scotch,” Heald says. “I’m not pouring it back in the bottle.”
The label is facing me pretty clearly reads 12-year, but I keep my mouth shut.
Heald shoots down what’s at least a triple shot. His face flushes and he collapses back into his chair.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he says, strain in his voice. “Any of this.” He takes a deep breath. His affect reminds me of a coach at a press conference, helpless after a bad loss.
We just didn’t play as well as them, what do you want me to say?
“What happened, Nathan?” I ask.
He twirls his empty glass, like he’s ready for another one.
“Oliver Vicks was sentenced to life roughly twenty years ago, and SCF was his first stop, with no plans to transfer. This was just before my time, actually. I was hired about a year after his incarceration. For the first ten-plus years or so of his sentence, Mr. Vicks was—to the administration’s knowledge—a model prisoner.
“Not only did he not get into any fights, he helped break them up. He quickly developed a reputation as a dependable ally. A lot of inmates confided in him. He had no enemies, even though he’d commune with members of rival gangs simultaneously. This is almost unheard of, to be well liked by Hispanics, Blacks and Whites . . . it was most unusual. I even asked him for help on one occasion—an inmate had a horrible psychotic episode, and we asked Oliver if he could speak to the man. He did, and from what I understand, he even helped a bit.”
The warden trails off for a moment. Just as I’m about to prod him to continue, he does on his own.
“But after a few years the administration finally began learning more about the nature of the inmates’ respect for Oliver. How he’d managed to make so many friends. He had a sort of ideology that he’d started preaching, and apparently it had gained a lot of traction. By the time we found out about it, there were a few dozen prisoners who were, I suppose you could say, his followers. Converted, in a sense.”
“What was his ideology?” I ask.
Heald grips his empty tumbler.
“I’m no expert,” he replies. “But a few things are pretty clear: One is that he claimed to be a sort of prophet. He had some ideas about the changing tide in the relationship between God and man, that man had finally taken the upper hand, and that he knew how to exploit this.”
“Did you ever hear the name Sophnot?” I ask.
Heald flinches.
“Yes. All his followers called him that. I don’t suppose you know the meaning?”
We both shake our heads.
“It’s from the Old Testament. A word found only once or twice. It’s in the book of Genesis. Do you two know the story of Joseph?”
Courtney nods yes, I shake my head no. I’m considering trying to get him back on topic, but I figure all information is good.
“The quick and dirty: Joseph was sold by his brothers into slavery, taken down to Egypt and thrown in jail. He rotted there for years, until one day Pharaoh, the king, had a dream that nobody could interpret to his satisfaction. Joseph had previously interpreted a fellow prisoner’s dream correctly, and so eventually Joseph was brought to the Pharaoh. He correctly interpreted the dream, and Pharaoh was so impressed, saw the wisdom of this young Hebrew, that not only did he release him from jail, he made him second in command over all of Egypt. And there is one verse where the name Sophnot is mentioned. Pharaoh uses it as a nickname for Joseph, Sophnot Paneah, something like ‘he who solves riddles.’”
I glance quickly at Courtney and it’s clear he’s thinking the same thing, Oliver interpreted Sampson’s dream . . . that’s how it all started.
“So, I suppose that’s why he called himself that,” continues Heald. “He was also imprisoned, only to slowly rise in the ranks. As I was explaining, he was gaining more and more followers. He began holding what he called ‘demonstrations’ during meals. We let them happen at first, since they weren’t strictly speaking against the rules, but we quickly saw where this could lead—”
“What do you mean ‘demonstrations’?” I ask.
Heald shakes his head slowly, as if still in disbelief of everything that unfolded. “The first time, this one I only heard secondhand, he stood up in the middle of the cafeteria and declared that, with the help of God, he would turn a cup of steaming coffee into a block of black ice.”
Courtney raises an eyebrow.
“And?”
Heald shrugs. “Apparently he did it. Some sort of sleight of hand, I suppose. Others are harder to explain away so easily. The last one we allowed to take place, I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. He stabbed himself in the throat with a fork. One officer who was nearby, swore to me that he saw it pierce the skin. Oliver stuck it in, and blood poured out, drenching the lunch table beneath him. Then he pulled the fork out and there was no wound. The blood puddle remained, but Oliver was totally fine. We shut it down immediately, but it was too late. By that point he had so many admirers that all he had to do was utter the word riot and we’d have a total disaster on our hands. We put him in solitary. It was my say and I take full responsibility. But it was a horrible mistake. If he was a leader before, this punishment made him a martyr. His support grew exponentially. He was all the inmates talked about. The rumors spread . . . they said when he was released his next demonstration would be to resuscitate the dead. During his daily hour of freedom, he’d smuggle notes out to someone, and they’d be read aloud at meals. They were types of sermons. Again, nothing promoting violence, so it was hard to say whether or not to crack down even further. But when someone read a note from Oliver, you could hear a pin drop in the cafeteria. And perhaps you can imagine, that’s not exactly a common occurrence around here.”
Heald’s hands are locked tight on the table.
“What happened next happened too quickly . . . there was nothing I could do, short of call in the National Guard. Unbeknownst to me, two of our corrections officers became smitten with Oliver. They were stopping by his solitary cell to ask him advice, perhaps to ask him to ‘demonstrate’ again. Who knows. They weren’t exactly forthcoming about all of this when I grilled them later. But what seems clear . . . Four years ago, one of these two officers opened Oliver’s cell for him. Oliver walked out to the inner gate, and asked the guard there to open it. He did. Everyone in the watchtowers was looking. But nobody dared fire. There was total silence as he strode across the courtyard. Some inmates were on recess then—broad daylight—and they just stopped and watched—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Oliver Vicks told the corrections officers to let him out, and they did?”
Heald bares his teeth.
“You don’t understand. I spoke later to the one who opened the inner gate for him. The poor man was in tears. Offered me his resignation. But told me at the moment all he could think of was his wife, his two kids. He was terrified of what the prisoners would do to him if he refused. If he’d refused him or laid a hand on him . . . Oliver had only to snap his fingers to instigate a full-blown riot. Usually we can put a riot down with rubber bullets and gas, but this was different. Four out of five of these prisoners would have
given his life to defend Oliver. Officers would have died. So Oliver walked to that front checkpoint. There were perhaps fifteen guards with rifles. They let him walk out. And that was that.”
Courtney is frowning intensely. I wonder how much of this he believes. I’m certainly skeptical myself, but it’s hard to conceive of why Heald would make something like this up.
“But after,” I say. “You didn’t tell anyone? Instead of a manhunt, you’re telling us you just kind of . . . pretended it never happened?”
Heald looks like he could use another couple drinks.
“What would you have me do?” he stays softly. “Implicate myself and my entire staff? And, anyways, I have to admit, ever since he left, things have been running very smoothly.”
Heald beckons us to the lime-green draped window. He points to the construction site. There are hundreds of prisoners at work on the scaffolded structure, all wearing hard hats and bright orange vests.
“Our new addition. A state-of-the-art facility that will house fifteen hundred inmates and allow us to expand our operation big-time. And the labor costs are dirt cheap because the prisoners are doing most of the work, with just a bit of supervision from outside professionals. Few prisons ever bother trying to get their inmates to do any sort of serious work, because it’s inefficient, and they don’t cooperate. But here, these guys work harder than anyone. It’s like a lingering effect of Oliver—camaraderie or common purpose, perhaps. But anyways, it wasn’t as if we were having problems afterwards . . .” Heald trails off.
I watch the prisoners at work. Wonder how many of them are still Oliver Vicks enthusiasts.
“What about the officers who let him walk?” I ask. “Do they still work here?”
“I conducted months of interviews, and ended up transferring a lot of our staff,” Heald says. “But at least they still have jobs. And aren’t being court-martialed. It wasn’t their fault. I really believe that. I would have done the same. I think you two would have as well. I mean, that day in the cafeteria. With the fork . . .” Heald clears his throat. “That was part of it, why the guards didn’t shoot him. They believed the bullets wouldn’t hurt him. He always said he already knew how he would die, and until that day nothing could hurt him. And after watching him stab himself in the throat and walk away unscathed, it’s hard for a man not to wonder.”
Courtney raises an eyebrow.
“Did he say how he’d die?” he asks.
The warden cracks a sad smile.
“He loved fried food. Always said that would be the end of him. Heart failure, I suppose. In fact, some of the prisoners who were closest to him, told me Oliver knew how his entire life would play out. That was one of the things he wrote about. Documenting his entire life, down to the minute. Everything that had already happened, and everything that had yet to happen. Do you . . .” Heald clears his throat. “Do you know where his books are? Did he get them back? I know he was handing them off to a visitor because of the volume limits on offenders’ personal possessions.”
I clench my jaw. Courtney sniffs.
Heald crosses his arms and turns away from the window to glare at me through his thick glasses.
“Have I not been forthcoming with you two?” he asks.
I lock eyes with Courtney. It’s hard to read exactly what my partner is trying to convey with this particular brand of frown. I think it’s skepticism.
“They have come up in the course of the investigation,” says Courtney.
Heald’s lips twitch.
“You don’t understand what they are, do you?” Heald asks.
Courtney studies the warden’s face.
“Do you?”
“I asked a simple question,” Heald says. “Do you know where they are?”
“I’m sorry,” Courtney says. “We can’t discuss that.”
“I’m trying to help you. Help all of us,” Heald says. “Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Courtney repeats.
The warden smiles strangely at Courtney.
“I understand now,” he says, an unmistakable frost in his voice. “You’re the chess player. Very well. I suppose we’re done here.”
He returns to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out one business card. Returns and hands it to me, totally ignoring Courtney. “Detective Donovan, here’s my direct line—my cell—as well as my email. If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to call. I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”
“Thanks for your time,” I say.
“Pleasure,” he says, and shows us to the door. He gives a cursory, ice-cold nod to Courtney. To me he says: “Detective, I meant it when I said I would love to play backgammon with you sometime. Best of luck with everything.”
Our drive from prison back to civilization is pretty quiet, both playing back details of the visit in our heads before comparing notes—a practice that ensures greater accuracy. Truth is, each time I think through everything Heald said, the more disturbed I become.
The fork in his throat . . .
Without consulting Courtney, I follow the highway signs back to Denver, and pull into the parking lot of a Whole Foods. Haven’t been inside of one since going expat five years ago, and am craving the comfort of overpriced goat milk yogurt and horseshit homeopathy.
And it turns out there’s no Whole Foods like a Colorado Whole Foods. These folks aren’t gonna buy their kale chips just anywhere. Many of the men here have bushy lumberjack beards and pierced ears. Some women have dreadlocks, and all look like they routinely give birth squatting in the forest.
I get a large coffee, muffin and cup of water and sit down across from Courtney, who filled up a bowl with leaves from the salad bar, and took an apple and a mango for dessert. He joylessly wolfs down his dry mesclun mix, then quarters the apple with a plastic knife—no small feat—and carefully carves away the skin.
“Well,” I say, slurping down some black acid. The coffee here is nice and strong. “I’m pretty sure if the books were in that prison, Heald would know. And he wouldn’t have gotten upset that we didn’t give him any info about them.”
“Mmhmm,” Courtney says, concentrating on picking the seeds from the core of the apple with the tongs of a plastic fork.
I pluck a brown recycled Whole Foods napkin from the holder, pour my water on it and dab my filthy face.
“I feel kinda bad for that guy, to be honest.”
Courtney is only half listening. Far more interested in sectioning his mango.
I pull the business card the warden gave me from my pocket and enter his number into Courtney’s phone: Warden Nathan Heald.
Courtney slides a piece of mango between his teeth and squeezes the juice out with his mandible.
“Frank,” Courtney says. “What kind of person could unite an entire prison? Talk his way out of a maximum security facility?”
I take a bit of muffin.
“You’re buying all that?”
Courtney frowns. “Two days ago I wouldn’t have. But . . .” He shrugs. “Oliver Vicks isn’t in prison. He was in the red house last night. So you tell me how he got out.”
“I know, Court. But that just doesn’t seem possible. I don’t care how charismatic you are . . . Selling used cars or something, fine. But nobody can charm their way out of prison.”
Courtney shakes his head.
“This is well beyond charisma. Those demonstrations for one thing—they must have been pretty serious illusions. Because if you think a few thousand hardened offenders are going to become believers based on a few parlor tricks, well.”
“What are you suggesting?” I say.
Courtney shrugs, taps on the tabletop.
“I’m not suggesting anything, but was just thinking. What if you lived in the time of Jesus. And for the sake of argument, let’s say he was really walking on water and so on. To be precise, Christianity wasn’t really founded until several decades after his death—but clearly this man had such a huge impact on people that, even several decades
later, his memory was enough to start a world-changing religion. Why do you think he was so impactful? Was it the tricks? That’s part of it. But it was also him. The way he behaved.”
“I hope you’re not comparing Jesus to a deranged serial killer,” I say.
Courtney grimaces.
“I suppose I am. But only in the sense that they’re able to influence large groups of people. I mean, have you ever met a politician face-to-face, Frank?”
“Sampson.”
Courtney waves me off.
“No, I mean a real one. I was in the same room as Bill Clinton once. Some kind of fund-raiser—no, I didn’t pay. It was part of a job—and I watched him, the way he talked to people. Every time he met someone he focused exclusively on them for like twenty seconds. You could tell he made them feel like they were the center of his world for that moment. And every single person turned away glowing, beaming from ear to ear. It was like, there was an energy in the room, radiating from wherever he was.”
“You think Bill Clinton could talk his way out of SCF?”
“No I do not. Which means we’re dealing with someone. . . Honestly I can’t really imagine what he must be like.”
I take a dry swallow of banana muffin. I don’t like this line of thinking . . . we’re putting him on a pedestal.
“I’m thinking about what Rico did,” I say, changing the subject. “He thought we knew more about Oliver than we did. He thought we’d pretty immediately know what he was talking about when he said the books are where they belong, where Oliver will never go. Ya.”
“What?”
“Ya. He ended with that.”
I take out the phone and show Courtney the text again.
Left Boks wher they belong, where Soph never goes. Ya
“Didn’t notice that,” Courtney admits. “Maybe he was starting to spell another word? What starts with ‘ya’? What about yak?”
I squint at him.
“Yeah, Courtney. I’ll bet he was trying to tell us that he hid them inside of a yak.”
