by Harry Hoge
The drive became a nostalgia trip. He smiled as he passed another outlet mall, remembering how a scientist from Texas A&M had developed a variety of pink lupines and introduced them along the highway here. People called them pink bluebonnets, an oxymoron if there ever was one. At Willis he left the freeway and stopped at a Jack in the Box restaurant The several cups of coffee during lunch had hit bottom, and previous trips to Huntsville told him this was the last chance for a rest stop. Before he left to reenter the interstate, he purchased a large coffee for the road - more fuel for the fire.
Nostalgia became full blown, cascading over him, rousing memories both pleasant and distasteful. Nothing ahead now but Huntsville, home of Sam Houston State University, his alma mater, and Texas Department of Criminal Justice. He knew the names of more people, both officers and inmates, in the several units in and around Huntsville, than from the college. Huntsville might not be the only town in Texas with warehouse-like buildings encased by towers and razor wire, but it had been the first, and most people automatically connected the town with the prison.
Frank grinned as he passed the gigantic statue of Sam Houston, a landmark visible for miles. Tourists were posing for pictures in front of the monument. He had watched it being constructed, and couldn't shake his first opinion, formed by watching the workers plastering the web-work that turned into a replica of the historical hero, that Texas always seemed to adhere to the idea that bigger was better.
He passed up the first exit for Huntsville, choosing to follow signs for Highway 30, which he knew as 11th Street. He turned right past MacDonald's and cruised eastward, crossing University Boulevard and passing the courthouse, llth Street took him over a crest and sloped down to where the cross streets were called 'Avenues' and were named after letters of the alphabet, starting with "I." He turned right on "H," one block south to 12th Street, then angled into a parking slot reserved for police cars.
Frank shut the engine down and sat for a moment thinking about Skip. He took a deep breath and pulled his hand down from his nose over his mouth. How would it play out? They had been partners for most of the time since Frank had been assigned to homicide. Skip had shown him the ropes, chiding him for his rookie mistakes, rebuking him constantly for wanting to take the investigation in a different direction if he didn't agree with Skip's conclusions. That was Skip's way, always censure, never praise. Now he was doing hard time because Frank had disclosed his involvement in a conspiracy to conceal buried radioactive substances by constructing a medical building over the disposal site. Three people had died as a result of that caper, and Skip had threatened to kill both Frank and Pauley. Frank had beat him to the punch and left a 9-mm slug in his partner's chest. Skip copped a plea that ended with a twenty year sentence.
This would be their first reunion.
Frank opened the car door and stepped out. He looked up at the front of the building. The Huntsville Unit, known to most as "The Walls," sat on the original site of the first prison in Texas. It retained the historical structural design and was the only prison in the system surrounded by high walls around a courtyard, a construction made familiar to free society by old movies. All the other units in Texas were called "farms," covering vast acreage with sprawling buildings surrounded by hurricane fences and rolls of razor wire, and watchtowers located at strategic locations. At the 'Walls' an officer walked along the top of the near wall and carried a weapon, telling Frank the warden was inside. When the boss was away, the guards would remain in the post house at the corners and keep watch on the inside. He had worked as an officer at this unit when he was a student at the university.
Frank turned and glanced at an official looking building on the other side of the street. It was an unassuming structure surrounded by broad, well kept lawns under stately trees. Picnic tables and benches provided comfort in the shade for family and friends who waited for a relative to walk out the front door of the unit and down the twelve steps on the downhill side, a free man. There was a saying at The Walls that if you stepped on the thirteenth step as you left the unit you'd be coming back. That thirteenth step was ground level, making the old saw ironic. Not everyone knew that every prisoner in the Huntsville region released by TDCJ spent their last night inside The Walls or that all prisoners condemned to die spent their last night in the unassuming building across the street.
A steep switchback wheelchair ramp on the uphill side of the steps reminded Frank that The Walls had been, until the late 90's, the hospital unit. He opted for the stairs, only ten on this side, and eased past an elderly inmate sweeping invisible dirt from the landing. The man stepped back and bowed, excusing himself for being in the way with a smile and a soft pretentious tone. Frank didn't respond. The man pulled the door open and stood back so Frank could enter.
Immediately on the left, a slender, female Afro-American officer waited in a small, unlit room behind a long window encased by steel bars. Red lights from electronic equipment gave a glow in the otherwise dark room. It was hard to see faces clearly, but Frank knew the lady to be one of the most attractive officers in the entire system.
"Hello, Victoria," Frank smiled.
"Detective Rivers. It's good to see you."
Frank could never talk her into calling him by his first name. He'd given up trying. Instead of launching a familiar argument with a predetermined conclusion, he smiled and began unloading his pockets. Victoria pushed a wooden box under the bars and Frank laid his service revolver, handcuffs, wallet, pocket knife, and money in the box. He patted his pockets and smiled before attaching his shield to his belt and signing in on the roll sheet. Victoria pulled the tray out of sight, cuing Frank to enter the unit.
He walked toward heavy bar doors, "The Slammer," glancing toward the warden's door on the right and the hall on the left he knew led to the execution chamber. The Slammer slid open with timing that allowed him to pass through without breaking stride. He turned and glanced up at a glass panel over his head and smiled.
"Hi, Frank," a voice shouted from a darkened area. The control room was" located in a cage high above the floor where the operator had a view of the outside entrance, and to the courtyard within. Two more barred doors remained between Frank and the courtyard.
"Hi Sarah, Thank you."
"My pleasure, Detective."
Frank turned back and smiled at an officer who sat behind a gray steel desk. She smiled back and pushed a clipboard to the front of the desk. Frank didn't know this woman, so he signed the log without comment and stepped toward the next door.
A line of brass bars, ceiling to floor, spanned wall-to-wall in front of him. In the middle, a sliding door, controlled by the unseeable Sarah, opened to an aisle flanked by more brass bars and separating a room on either side of the aisle. Inside each room were long narrow tables of red and gray ceramic terrazzo secured to the floor by steel posts. Similar benches flanked each table. The arrangement suggested that this was a visiting area, but Frank had never seen it in use. As always, there were elderly inmates wiping at all the brass with little enthusiasm. He'd been told that this was an assigned "job" for old men who couldn't put in full day of hard labor, and an extra duty after hours punishment for others.
The first door slid open and Frank stepped through. He heard the door behind him closing and saw the one in front of him opening. A guard stood at a desk with a telephone to his ear, his attention focused on a switchboard with flashing lights to his right. Frank caught the officer's eye and pointed at his badge. The officer nodded, and Frank stepped through a wooden door into the courtyard.
Frank passed the chapel, sheathed by ligustrum bushes and a towering crepe myrtle tree on his left. On the right, a street led past the officer's duty station to the craft shop. In front and sprawling to the left was a vast courtyard of concrete with basketball courts, handball courts and benches for relaxing or watching activity. Few inmates were in view. Three officers stood in a group near a ramp that switched back past the mess hall to a third floor. Frank didn't recognize
any of the officers and assumed they were temporary workers, probably students from Sam Houston State. No one spoke, and Frank nodded to the man facing him before he began the ascent of the ramp. He'd used this route before, and always wondered how inmates in wheelchairs ever made it up such an incline; it was a labor to climb with healthy legs.
At the top of the ramp, he opened a door and stepped into an air-conditioned area, an office separating two large rooms; several classrooms divided by bookcases to the left and a library on the right. An officer sat behind a desk in the office, holding a telephone to his ear and studying a crossword puzzle as he listened. Frank signed another time sheet and waited. The officer glanced at the sign-in sheet, covered the mouthpiece with his left hand and indicated with his expression that Frank should continue ahead.
He spotted Skip sitting at a wooden table near the back wall in the far right hand side of the library room. Books lined shelves, ceiling to floor, behind him and to his right. Frank's first emotion was shock at how much weight his old partner had lost - he looked gaunt in the white, baggy prison clothes. Skip was reading a newspaper, his face and hands tanned and gnarly, his head shaved, with shadowy growth showing where his hair had been and would be again. Frank always believed that people who were aware of their surroundings could feel someone staring at them, and as if to confirm his thought, Skip glanced away from the newspaper and met Frank's eyes.
The look sliced through Frank's chest like a knife, probing each vital organ with its needle-sharp point. Frank remembered discussions with Skip about how you could tell a person who had done time by a guarded expression in their eyes; a far away, untrusting, noncommittal, "screw you" look. A look conditioned from facing a joyless future and expecting to be attacked at any moment. Skip had that look.
Frank was glad to turn away so he could negotiate the two steps down to the library floor. He made his way around a horseshoe-shaped desk that enclosed computer terminals, wooden cases of index cards, newspapers on rods, and a collection of periodicals. An Oxford Edition of the dictionary rested in front of the desk on a pedestal. One inmate stood behind the counter and one in front, both leaning on their forearms, watching Frank with unabashed, emotionless eyes. Frank ignored them and made his way through the reading tables to the far corner. Skip had folded the newspaper and laid it on the table on his right. His hands rested calmly in front of him, clasped together as if in prayer. The convict expression had been replaced by what Frank recognized as Skip's "show me" mask.
Frank pulled out a chair and sat, mimicking Skip's posture of clasped hands on the table. "Hi, Skip. How's it going?"
Skip leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "The night life around here sucks, but I'm makin' it."
Frank nodded toward Skip's left hand. "How's the shoulder?"
Skip glanced down. "No problem. Healed well enough. Gets stiff on occasion." He looked at Frank. "How about you? Last time I saw you, you were wearin' a cast."
"Like you, I guess. Healed, but not forgotten. I was glad to learn you'd been transferred to the Walls."
"Yeah. They kept me at Diagnostic for a long time, trying to figure where to put me where I wouldn't get stabbed in the back. Cops catch a lot of crap in stir."
"Had trouble?"
Skip shrugged. "Some, but I knocked a few heads right off and let them know I wasn't an easy mark. Now that I'm over here, it's working out. My celly is a lifer named Garcia. Enrico Garcia. Name mean anything to you?" Frank shook his head. "It was before your time, I guess. Bunch of gangbangers raped and killed his daughter. Four of them. Garcia hunted them down one by one, killed them, and then turned himself in. He pleaded guilty. Got four life sentences without parole. He's sort of a hero around here. With him backin' me, I feel safe most of the time."
Skip's eyes showed animation when he talked about Garcia's history. Frank nodded, "I remember now. You told me, and I remembered he was here when I worked as an officer. One of the other officers pointed him out and told the story."
Skip resumed the far-away look. "Even though I'm enjoying the air conditioning and time off from my job, I am wondering what brings you here."
"You aren't buying it as a friendly visit then?"
"Look Frank, we were never really friends. We were partners and got along all right, but we come from too different a background to be buddy-buddy. I resented you getting the best of me and puttin' me inside, but it didn't take long to realize it was my own doin' that got me screwed up. I don't have any bitch with you, but I haven't been pining away wondering when you were going to come and see me."
"It's different with me. I agree we weren't exactly soul mates, but I enjoyed working with you, and I miss your insight and street smarts. I think about you almost daily, on the job and off."
Skip pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling. Frank didn't know whether he was embarrassed by hearing Frank say he cared about him, or thought Frank was a Pollyanna fool and didn't want to say so. Skip made no attempt to explain the mystery when he looked back at Frank.
"Who's your partner now?" he asked.
"Oh, I've had several lately, but not any for long. Most of the others in the department find it difficult to work with a cop who sent his partner to the penitentiary."
"You tell 'em that if you hadn't taken up for me, I'd probably be on death row?"
Frank shook his head. "I've no need to apologize for doing my job. I figure it's their problem."
Skip nodded, and smiled for the first time. "Maybe I did manage to teach you something, College Boy."
"My most recent partner is a lady named Geraldine Gardner. She prefers Gerry. We seem to be getting along well enough. She was in vice over at Kingwood before getting transferred downtown."
"Ah, vice. My original gig."
"Yeah, That's one reason I came up to see you. When you were in vice, I understand you broke up some drug markets working out of comedy clubs."
Skip stroked his chin. "That was a while back. As I recall, that club on Gray was a nest of druggies. There was a smaller dope shop on Westheimer. If I remember right, the same guy owned both, but we busted him and he sold out to a fellow named Rankin."
"Reuben Rankin."
"That's him. He was a local guy who got shot up in Vegas and became confined to a wheelchair. He bought both places and renamed the one on Gray 'The Ha Ha House.' I forget the name of the one on Westheimer."
Frank gave Skip a run-down on the case, leaving out specific details. "So I like Rankin for the murders, but I can't put my finger on a motive."
"You know me, Frank. I could usually tell if someone was a possible suspect. Rankin never struck me as the type to kill, let alone in the bizarre way you describe. After he took over the clubs, we staked him out to see if he inherited the drug traffic. Nothing. He showed clean, so it would surprise me if he suddenly took up serial killing. Hell, he won't even let his acts do a coke joke, and insists they don't get too raunchy. Says it isn't necessary. But if he's not the doer, you need to find a reason to settle your suspicions and get on the right trail."
"Do you know how or why he got shot? The information in the files is rather vague. He told me he rolled over on a drug cartel in Vegas and they sent a hit man."
"That's right, and the really odd part is the guy that made probably be on death row?"
Frank shook his head. "I've no need to apologize for doing my job. I figure it's their problem,"
Skip nodded, and smiled for the first time. "Maybe I did manage to teach you something, College Boy."
"My most recent partner is a lady named Geraldine Gardner. She prefers Gerry. We seem to be getting along well enough. She was in vice over at Kingwood before getting transferred downtown."
"Ah, vice. My original gig."
"Yeah, That's one reason I came up to see you. When you were in vice, I understand you broke up some drug markets working out of comedy clubs."
Skip stroked his chin. "That was a while back. As I recall, that club on Gray was a nest of drug
gies. There was a smaller dope shop on Westheimer. If I remember right, the same guy owned both, but we busted him and he sold out to a fellow named Rankin."
"Reuben Rankin."
"That's him. He was a local guy who got shot up in Vegas and became confined to a wheelchair. He bought both places and renamed the one on Gray 'The Ha Ha House.' I forget the name of the one on Westheimer."
Frank gave Skip a run-down on the case, leaving out specific details. "So I like Rankin for the murders, but I can't put my finger on a motive."
"You know me, Frank. I could usually tell if someone was a possible suspect. Rankin never struck me as the type to kill, let alone in the bizarre way you describe. After he took over the clubs, we staked him out to see if he inherited the drug traffic. Nothing. He showed clean, so it would surprise me if he suddenly took up serial killing. Hell, he won't even let his acts do a coke joke, and insists they don't get too raunchy. Says it isn't necessary. But if he's not the doer, you need to find a reason to settle your suspicions and get on the right trail."
"Do you know how or why he got shot? The information in the files is rather vague. He told me he rolled over on a drug cartel in Vegas and they sent a hit man."
"That's right, and the really odd part is the guy that made the hit, Gus, is one of Reuben's brothers."
