by Various
"Rooney--" Giles said thoughtfully. "Yes, I know him very well. Wonderful chap, nice family of growing boys. Now there is the sort of man who would make you a good trusty, general. I would recommend him very highly."
"I feel the same way," Culpepper said.
Bennington signaled to Ferguson, used the excuse of freshening his drink to cover his thoughts. Rooney ... Rooney ... oh, yes, the Internal Revenue official with the odd ideas about whose tax should be collected and whose should be neglected ... and coming here for processing on a minor charge.
The old run-around, Bennington decided: Put the man in jail on a minor charge until the hullabaloo over his major crime no longer made big headlines.
If word had gotten down to the State level that Rooney was to be taken care of, the former tax collector must be sitting on a lot of hot stuff.
The right phrase here will buy a lot of co-operation, Bennington told himself, remembering the overcrowded barracks, among the long list of things needing a change before this place operated properly.
On a short-term basis, the answer was clear....
"Gentlemen, I have no doubt that anyone you recommend for special consideration would, in some way, deserve that consideration," he said. "I am further aware that one hand washes another and that if I expect some favors from you, I should expect to do some for you."
He held down his temper while the politicians exchanged glances of mutual congratulation.
"But," he said, "if I establish a trusty system, it will be an honorable one. I would be seen in hell first before I would allow any man to use the setup as a place to hide in comfort during a short rap when he should be sweating out a long one.
"Your friend Rooney will get exactly what he deserves. And not a thing more."
Giles had slowly turned a turkey purple, but his voice remained calm and even. "I think you stated the proposition fairly, general. You will get from us the same amount of consideration that you give us."
The party had been over for an hour, but Ferguson was still at work on the debris. And his old sergeant had, Bennington estimated out of long experience with cleaning up after stag parties, at least another hour's work ahead of him.
The general returned to staring out the big picture window overlooking the prison compound.
Something was wrong....
It wasn't Giles and Culpepper. A call to a friend in the Bureau of Internal Revenue, a few words to each of the six governors who had concurred in his appointment, either or both of these would take care of those gentlemen, very thoroughly.
Something else was wrong....
He knew the basis of his feeling. He had led troops too many years not to have learned how rapidly a commander can establish a feeling of empathy, even on the first day of a new command.
He knew the basis for the feeling, but he couldn't pinpoint an exact reason.
Or could he?
Why were there absolutely no lights at all in the prison compound?
He spoke over his shoulder to Ferguson, "I'm going for a little walk."
"Want me with you, sir?"
"No, I don't think I'll need you. Keep going and finish up in here."
"Right, sir. You've got your pistol."
The old master sergeant was stating a fact, not asking a question.
"Ha!"
Bennington's barked reply arose from memory of his first argument with Thornberry. The assistant warden-chief psychologist had been astounded to learn that the general did not trust the conditioning process as a solid basis for prison security. Beginning there, the opening engagement in the battle of ideas, their contrasting philosophies had deployed and made the entire prison a battleground.
But Bennington dismissed his chief assistant from his thoughts as soon as he stood in the darkness on the little knoll outside his house. He concentrated on orienting himself.
* * * * *
The camp had not been changed much when it had been made over from a ground-to-air missile station, protecting the freight yards of Harrisburg, into the processing prison for six states.
They had tapped the Juniata a few hundred yards northwest of where it joined the Susquehanna, for the water that filled the moat encircling three sides of the prison. The union of the two rivers formed the water barrier on the east.
What was it Thornberry had said about the moat? Oh, yes, not to keep the poor misguided inmates imprisoned, but to keep unwanted people out....
When his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, Bennington walked east and came to the first of the two new additions to the camp. A long building, used by psychological and medical men to determine the total amount of usefulness to society left in a man convicted of a crime.
Beyond it, the second addition, a barbed-wire-enclosed building called The Cage, where prisoners where first received and conditioned.
He turned and began retracing his steps, at the same time mentally following what happened to a prisoner in each of the two buildings. When the official party accompanying him to his new post had arrived late yesterday, for the second time he had followed a man through the procedure.
The quick frisking and the slow interview with two purposes, by visual, oral and written tests determining the amount of suggestibility to hypnotic conditioning plus the quicker giving of a card to denote a temporary classification.
Light gray for minor offenses; yellow for major crimes; pink for lifers, psychos and killers; blues for juvenile delinquents; green for all females, with a colored clip-tab denoting the weight of the offense.
A temporary classification it had to be, Bennington decided, for the weight of the offense in itself never measured the man. How many repeaters, men inevitable to a life of crime, had come here to be handed a light gray card in The Cage, while other, different men, once-upon-a-timers, had come out carrying the yellow or pink?
Could and did happen, the general knew, could and did happen even in his former military life, where consideration of a man's record was a prerequisite to deciding the sentence, with review and review and review automatic not a matter of initiated appeal.
However, here, in the psycho-med building, was what might be called re-judgment, for here, assisted by the latest advances that could trickle down through the long bureaucracy above--and aided by ideas that yeasted up, not down--Dr. Thornberry's staff went back to basics with the question, what is re-claimable, for the man and for us, in this man?
But not the first day ... that was routine.
Strip and change to prison clothes.
Mental memo: What happened to the civilian clothes that the prisoners surrendered? Was there the smell of a small but lucrative racket here?
Then, on the basis of that preliminary in The Cage, through one of two doors. A few went into the room where a massive injection of sedatives made them virtually vegetables. Most of them, however, were sent into the room where Judkins, the new technician who had also arrived only yesterday, would fit the "tank," the big helmet, down over the prisoner's head and conditioned the man with mechanical and oral hypnosis.
The results, from drugging or hypnosis, were the same. From either room the prisoner came with his face a blank.
Mud-faces, or in a new use of the words from the Original World War, "doughboys".
Those two rooms were harder to get into than to leave. The security precautions of The Cage extended to the moment the prisoner was led to the door and started out of those rooms. But from there on....
No, Bennington decided, let's drop security for a moment. Something had happened in the rest of the processing he and the committee had watched and the meaning of that something had emerged only tonight at the party.
Not in the physical ... and that had been good, as complete as the most expensive clinic Bennington had ever seen, a thorough probing for a structural reason behind the crime or crimes....
But the second mental, that quick recheck of the completeness of the drugging or the hypnosis.... It had been there that both Giles and Culpepper had
been very, very interested to learn if anything a prisoner said at this point was admissible in a court of law.
The general now understood their relief at Thornberry's explanation: Anything a man said while under the influence of psychological conditioning was considered as obtained under duress.
* * * * *
Bennington was still meditating on what Rooney could reveal as he walked around the mess hall in the center of the compound. Then he turned to consider again his prison's routine.
He leaned against the south wall of the mess hall and looked across at the four barrack buildings bulking against the darkness. They were the two-story type the Army erects for temporary purposes and uses permanently.
The smell from the overcrowded buildings hit his nose again as strongly as it had in the afternoon.
And sounds hit his ears, soft sounds that had been muffled by the long mess hall between him and their source, low sounds further kept from him by the light wind from the north.
The lights in the barracks had been off since 2100, except, of course, for the eerie-blue night lights, and the prisoners should be in their bunks, asleep or at least silent, immobile.
But why were all the lights off in the compound, and Bennington damned himself for not seeking the answer to the question before.
Thornberry would tell me there is no need for light; that the prisoners can't escape because their drugging has made them unable, or their conditioning has made them afraid, to leave the prison.
The sounds, the flickering like fireflies or carefully thumbed flashlights, didn't come from his near right, Number One, minor crimes, or Number Two, major crimes exclusive of murder.
They came from between Three and Four.
Number Three. Psychos, sex deviates and murderers, with a couple of padded cells and barred windows needed upstairs, even though the inmates were conditioned.
Number Four changed by the addition of an extra latrine for the second floor. Females on the first, juvenile delinquents on the second.
Bennington had learned to move like a ghost, move quietly or die, on the almost forgotten battlefields of a police action in Korea. He had had a post-graduate course in the South-East Asian jungles. On the Chilean desert he had added to his skills.
He moved now as he had then.
But there was little reason for caution. The guards were too busy collecting their fees, the juvenile delinquents were too busy acting as ushers, with even the sex deviates from Number Three busy.
The customers, of course, were far too interested in what they were buying.
And there was nothing to be done tonight. Bennington snarled to himself, as he carefully made his way back to the house.
But tomorrow morning....
* * * * *
A good breakfast inside of him, the early morning sun brightening the scene before him, not even combined could they dispel any of Bennington's bitter anger at the memory of last night's saturnalia.
He marched across the twenty-five feet separating his house from the Administration Building, a long, two-story structure on the western end of the compound.
The entire end nearest his house was taken up by Message Center, the one room which had had Bennington's full approval on his tour of inspection both times he had seen the prison. Internally, the separate parts of the prison were linked together by telephone, a P.A. system, and intercom. The outside world could be reached or could come to them by 'phone, radio, teletype, and facsimile reproduction.
Bennington opened the door, glanced up to check his wristwatch with the big clock on the wall.
0800.
He stepped inside, closed the door, looked around.
The man on night duty was sound asleep.
Bennington coughed once, loudly. The man raised his head and looked sleepily around.
"Are you the only one here?"
"The others come in around nine," the clerk said, yawning, bleary-eyed.
"I see. Did anything come in last night?"
"That stuff." A wave toward a roll of yellow teletype paper.
Bennington stared at the man, continued to stare until the clerk flushed a deep red. Finally the night man straightened in his chair, then stood up. He picked up the roll of paper and came around his desk.
"Sir," he said "this report came in last night. It is a list of the prisoners we can expect to receive today and the probable time of their arrival."
"Thank you," Bennington said, accepting the roll. "I will be in my office if anyone is looking for me."
"Sir...." The clerk gulped, hesitated, forced out the words. "That's the only copy."
Bennington looked the man directly in the eyes. "You must have been very busy last night." He returned the roll of paper. "I'll be in my office."
"Yes, sir!"
Bennington started to walk away, but before he reached the door, the clerk, a man Bennington remembered as being on day duty on his first visit, began to sputter, "Sir, the quickest way to your office--"
The general glanced over his shoulder, then continued on his way.
Before he could get to the door he had chosen, he heard behind him the electrotyper chattering away like an automatic weapon with a weak sear spring.
* * * * *
Bennington could have left by a door leading into Dr. Thornberry's office and gone on through another door into his own big office. But he wanted to check on the availability of the rest of the staff.
The door he opened led into a long hallway. On the left was the long room where Thornberry's psych-med staff had their personal desks and permanent records. On the right, a door leading to Thornberry's office, but none into his own. His room was reached only through the office of a clerk-receptionist or Thornberry's.
Down the hall, past the wide main entrance with its glimpse of the flagpole outside and inside the stairs leading to the second floor, where a large part of the permanent staff were given rent-free quarters.
The armory, on his left just beyond the entrance, a room as long as the med-staff's, but unlike the other--and who had the brains to do this--locked.
Across from the armory, a big room for the rest of the administrative staff, but no one on duty.
The supply room, corresponding in size and location to the Message Center on the other end, unlocked and no one in it; with everything the prison received on open shelves, available to any reaching hand.
Bennington went back the hall, through his secretary's room into his own office.
One sleepy clerk and himself on duty--he looked at his watch--0815.
... There were going to be some changes made....
He spun his chair around and looked out the big window directly behind his desk. He noted the fact that about twenty feet away the land dropped into a very deep slant to the western arm of the moat, but the fact recorded itself only because he always made subconscious notes of the military aspects of terrain.
Consciously, he was wondering why the vast expanse of good, rich earth, north, west and south of the prison, acres of fine land that had been and still were a part of this former military post, had never been put to productive use.
How easily Duncannon could become more self-supporting--and even though Giles and Culpepper wanted to make a racket of the idea, there was much to be said for a trusty system.
Hold it, he told himself, those ideas and where we'll set up a laundry--it's utterly ridiculous that we have to send everything into Harrisburg!--can come later. Right now let's think about an appointment list ... and the first name is my good assistant warden's, Dr. Thornberry.
Still looking out the window, he leaned back in his chair and felt again the slow boil of anger.
* * * * *
A gentle rap on his office door, the one opening from his secretary's office.
Bennington swung around to face his desk again. "Come in."
The Message Center clerk, with a neat stack of papers. "Sir, this is your copy of the report received last night. The original is on file in Messag
e Center and other copies are on the desks of the people who will need them."
"Thank you," Bennington said. "I am sure that this procedure will be followed in the future."
"Yes, sir!"
It will be in your case, Bennington decided, then turned his attention to the report.
The distribution list in the upper righthand corner was--h-m-m-m, good. Himself, Chief Psychologist, Chief Guard, Kitchen, Supply. Probably set up by the same man who had designed Message Center itself.
The report was not good.
The first paragraph was a summary and it was almost all bad news. Total: 35. No women, no juveniles, the only good reading. But they were coming from all six states and all but one of them Barracks Two and Three cases. Assembled at Philadelphia, by train to Harrisburg, by truck to here, but not arriving until 1530.
Two and Three were overcrowded now. With their communications so good, why couldn't they move the processed men out faster?
And this new group would arrive so late. Couldn't even begin processing them. Or could they?
Might have to.
Let's look at the details.
Connecticut: Musto, John, and his brothers, Ralph and Pietro. Murders. Following those names, five others of the gang that had terrorized the banks in that area for two years. Capturing all of them at once by putting a sleep-gas bomb in a basket of groceries delivered to their hideout, that had been a neat bit of police work. But till those boys were conditioned or drugged, they would need special guards.
Delaware: Clarens, Walter. Murders. The name was familiar--Oh yes, three killings, one of them a little girl with whose blood Clarens had written at the scene. "For God's sake, catch me before I kill again." Well, Thornberry would be happy.
Maryland: Major crimes, but no killers.
New Jersey: The usual list from the waterfronts and the usual wide variety of manslaughter and homicide.
New York: Dalton, Harry. Let's see, haven't I ... yes. "The Man No Jail Can Hold." Another special guard.
Pennsylvania:...
The name jumped out. Rooney, Michael.
The intercom on his desk buzzed and he flipped the switch. "Go ahead, Bennington here," he said, and realized only after he had spoken how the thought of Rooney had made his voice a growl.
