Last Shot

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Bear raised his voice to be heard over the loose dashboard and the garbage truck rattling by. “Jameson refused to cooperate—wouldn’t name names, wear a wire, nothing—so they played up the aggravating factors and stuck it to him. Cost him years, probably.”

  The watchtower loomed into view. The dark plain of the harbor, glittering to the east beyond an ornamental strip of well-tended grass, underlined the tower’s beaconlike appearance. The prison rose above a cyclone fence, its concrete blocks pallid yellow. Coils of razor wire formed a dense and forbidding underbrush. Rust-red bars obscured dim windows and the thousand-man confraternity of the Terminal Island Federal Correctional Institute. To the west stood a cluster of coast guard administrative buildings. They looked ready to crowd the prison right off the land, its eastern wall hanging over the water. Officers jogged along the building’s walls, hauling semiautomatics, their shouts faint in wind off the ocean. The tower spotlight glared off the fake quartz rocks in the narrow run between expanses of chain link, making Tim squint. The escape had to have been as spectacular as billed. Again Tim found himself musing on Jameson’s considerable training.

  Bear flashed his creds at the guard in the station, who spit tobacco into a paper coffee cup and said, “Warden’s expecting you. Guns stay in your vehicle.”

  They pulled through the gate, parked, and slid their guns into the glove box. Tim removed the handcuff key from his key chain and taped it under his watch.

  He frowned at the file in his lap, and Bear plucked up the top page and studied it, as if to pin down the cause of Tim’s taking offense. Tim chewed his cheek and conned the choppy harbor. The air smelled strongly of tar. The distant, sonorous call of a tanker vibrated the window.

  Tim said, “Why’s a guy who’s racking up good-behavior credits serve most of his sentence, then break out?”

  “Convicts move in mysterious ways.” Bear jiggled the key to free it from the ignition. “But we work that out, we’re in the game.”

  Across the parking lot, the warden stepped from the building and raised a hand in greeting. Tim waved back, and he and Bear unsnapped their seat belts.

  Tim threw open his door, then paused. “Gimme his identifiers again. Jameson.”

  Bear held up the sheet to the faint light. “Six feet. Hundred ninety pounds. White.”

  “Great. He looks like everyone. He looks like no one.”

  Bear glanced at the photo on the dash. “He looks like you.”

  Chapter 4

  The guard at the console gave them a cordial nod on their way into the secure room, where they found five men arrayed around desks and tables of inmate manufacture. The conversation stopped abruptly.

  The warden, an exacting former Indian Affairs commissioner with a trimmed mustache and a limp, paused at the door. “John Sasso’s our operations lieutenant, and this is Daniel McGraw, our intel specialist. They’re here to assist you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a media shitstorm to forge into.”

  He withdrew, and the silence resumed. Neither Sasso nor McGraw—who remained standing in a clear display of annoyance at having been summoned from more pressing matters—offered a word of greeting, and the three COs who hadn’t been introduced continued wearily at their sandwiches and files. The vibe, while uncomfortable, wasn’t unexpected. Deputy U.S. marshals were outsiders, and they generally got called into prison business only when correctional officers or intel specialists—who were supposed to keep their fingers on the pulse of prison underlife—failed at their jobs.

  Tim offered a hand. “Tim Rackley. My partner, George Jowalski.”

  Whereas Sasso was dressed to code—gray slacks, white collared shirt, maroon tie with a blue blazer—McGraw had gone SWAT casual, his short sleeves cuffed over his biceps and his camo pants stuffed into the tops of unlaced boots. Sasso’s belt was laden with gear: radio, two key-ring clips, a baton slotted through a metal circle. From his blazer pocket protruded an inmate rule book and a blue pad Tim guessed contained union guidelines.

  “I’ll walk you over to Jameson’s cell,” Sasso said. “You’ll have to see it to believe it.”

  “Actually, we’d like to watch the tape of the assault first,” Tim said. “Would you mind taking a look at it with us?”

  “Seen it about fifty times, thanks,” McGraw said.

  “We were hoping to get your perspective.”

  “Pretty cut and dried. Guy got shanked in the neck.”

  Bear rose to his tiptoes and made a shape with his mouth as if to whistle—gonna be a long night.

  Tim said, “Maybe we could ask you a few questions before we head over.”

  McGraw snapped a cell phone from his belt, tapped a button to quiet it. “If we can make this quick. Full plate, as you can imagine.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Tim said. “You catch any whispers from the snitches this week?”

  “None at all.”

  “I saw Jameson kept perfect behavior.”

  A glimmer of a smirk. “Until now.”

  “How was he today?”

  “How are any of them any day?” Sasso said.

  “Anything different?” Tim asked.

  McGraw again: “Another day, same shit.”

  “We don’t keep track of every mood shift in every prisoner,” Sasso added.

  Bear cleared his throat. “All that sensitivity training gone to waste.”

  Tim forged ahead. “Can we get his medical files?”

  “Nothing in ’em,” McGraw said. “He’s a healthy guy.”

  “I’d like to look at them anyway.”

  “Maybe we should get a sample of his toilet water, too.”

  “You volunteering?”

  McGraw’s radio squawked, and he muttered into it, “I told you—be there in a sec,” then glanced up at Tim and Bear. “Look, I’m sure all this background shit helps when you’re running down a serial rapist in the world, but it’s different in here. Not like the street. We’ve got cages and captives. It’s the jungle, and it’s got different rules.”

  “It would seem he’s no longer in here,” Bear noted evenly.

  Tim tried another tack. “I’ve spent some time inside.”

  “Unless you’re full-time, you don’t understand.”

  “Twenty-four/seven.”

  McGraw looked perplexed, so Bear clarified. “He means as an inmate.”

  This shut McGraw up. He studied Tim. Then his eyes glinted with recognition and he sat down. Spun by the media, Tim’s vigilante rampage after Ginny’s murder was remembered by some—particularly in law enforcement—as Charles Bronson–style legend.

  “Listen,” Tim said, “we’re not here to bust your balls. Our job is to find your inmate and deliver him back to you, and to do that, we’re pretty much dependent on your expertise.”

  McGraw matched Tim’s stare, then thumbed down the volume on his radio.

  Tim said, “Any tracks or sightings outside the facility?”

  “Would we all be standing here?”

  “Any security irregularities?”

  “A family of raccoons wreaked havoc a few weeks back with two of eight motion sensors along the beach, so we turned ’em off. Just those two. You can’t do anything from that point anyways except swim straight out—if Jameson tried a hook-around, the tower would have him in seconds.”

  “Any chance of a water escape?”

  “Unlikely, but possible. We have coast guard out in the harbor.”

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “We still aren’t sure. You know there was a building mood in here, right? The slashing last week? I briefed your guy—Guerrera?—over the phone.” McGraw waited for Tim’s nod. “After the incident, we tossed the cells. Took everything—razors, pens, even spoons. So I’ve got no clue what Jameson used for the stabbing, and you can’t make it out on the tape.”

  “Did Jameson seem caught up in the tension this week?” Bear asked. When McGraw didn’t answer right away, he added, “On edge?”

  Mc
Graw’s first hesitation. “Not that I noticed, no.”

  Bear said, “Tell us about the victim.”

  “Boss Hahn. Shotcaller for the AB, good for three murders. Armed heist that went south. He was serving his second—life on the installment plan.”

  “Jameson have a beef with him?”

  “No more than anyone else. Boss ran the show.”

  Sasso added, “But you never know when someone steps on someone else. What sets them off. They’re good guys, most of them. The only difference between them and human beings is the length of their fuse.” He held up his pinkie.

  “Why do you think Jameson would risk an escape with a year and change on his sentence?” Tim said. “He was serving perfect time? Why now?”

  “Why does anyone break out?” Sasso said. “To be free. People flip out sometimes, can’t do the time anymore.”

  McGraw shook his head, and for the first time Tim sensed an element of rivalry between the two of them. “He had to escape. You don’t kill Boss and stay alive in here.”

  “Square one,” Bear said. “What’s Jameson have against Boss?”

  “Nothing,” Tim and McGraw said at the same time.

  “Who’d Jameson run with?” Bear asked.

  “No one, really,” Sasso said.

  “Was he religious?”

  “He wore a cross, but he never went to chapel,” McGraw said. “I monitor attendance personally.”

  No chaplain to question—another dead end.

  Bear pressed on. “Tight with his cellie? Imaad Durand?”

  McGraw hoisted his eyebrows and riffled through the nearest mound of paperwork. “Bill, toss me Jameson’s jacket.” One of the mute COs threw Walker’s central file across the table, and McGraw thumbed through it. Exasperated, Bear blew out a breath—they were looking for the kind of information that wouldn’t be recorded in a prisoner’s C-file. Still reading, McGraw said, “Not particularly.”

  “He have any females come to see him?”

  “You mean like conjugal visits?” Sasso asked.

  McGraw grinned. “We don’t have a Felon Reproduction Program in the federal system.”

  “Right. I meant regular visits,” Tim said.

  McGraw shuffled back through the files. “Not a one.”

  Bear whistled, jotting in his notepad.

  Tim asked, “He have any jobs?”

  McGraw’s eyes scanned down the page. “Food service, Unicor, maintenance detail, trash orderly, laundry detail. The usual shit.”

  “How was his money situation?”

  McGraw flipped the page. “He had about seventy bucks on the books. Put twenty on his canteen account this morning.”

  “What was the balance before?”

  “Eleven bucks. Would’ve lasted him another week or so.”

  “Why bother adding to it if he was planning to escape that night?”

  As it became apparent that no one was going to produce an answer, the door opened and a young CO leaned in. “Look what we just picked out of the shitheap.” He let a plastic Baggie unroll dramatically; it gave a satisfying snap. Nestled in the bottom was a blue toothbrush.

  “Lemme see that, Newlin.” McGraw laid the bag on the table, and the men leaned over it. The hard rubber end of the toothbrush had been whittled to a point. A good two inches of red stain. Strips of cloth wrapped the handle, secured with paste. A shoelace served as a pommel. The bristles were dark with ash.

  “Where’d he get the paste?” Sasso asked. “Unicor?”

  “Imaad kept a little jar of it for his posters. He won’t use gum, cuz he’s Muslim and they can’t chew gum for some reason. So he made his own paste out of soap and wax he traded for with Zeller.” Newlin offered Tim and Bear a slightly embarrassed look and smoothed his sandy mustache, which he no doubt wore to try to add years to his boyish face. “I’ve worked J-Unit six months now.”

  Sasso offered a dry smile. “Long enough to remember your jacket, I’d imagine.”

  “Right. Sorry.” In place of a union guidebook, Newlin had a pack of cigs stored in his breast pocket. On his belt, in addition to the normal accessories, was a latex-glove packet. Informed, relaxed, and prepared. He’d even referred to Walker’s cellie by first name. Bear and Tim shared a quick, impressed glance.

  “Listen,” Tim said to Sasso and McGraw, “we’ve already taken up enough of your time. If…?”

  “Cary Newlin.” The youthful CO offered his hand to Bear first, then Tim.

  “…wouldn’t mind showing us the tape and walking us over, we can get out of your hair.”

  “Me?” Newlin shrugged his accord. McGraw bowed his head, extending his hands as if in benediction. Sasso steered them out, depositing them in the control center across the hall.

  Manned by another team of zombie COs who barely noted Tim and Bear’s entrance, a bank of closed-circuit TVs monitored the various prison buildings. The screen labeled “J” showed mini-frontloaders clearing away mounds of smoldering trash. Officers patrolled the perimeter of the mess while workers loaded more burned refuse into rolling bins. A few roaming COs wielding fire extinguishers continued to blast real or imagined embers, mist settling in a sci-fi layer about their knees. The barn-style steel door had been shoved back to accommodate the equipment, while an officer with an M4 guarded the ten-foot gap and checked the creds of the workers and COs passing through.

  Newlin grabbed one of the three tapes atop the corner TV/VCR that Sasso had indicated and began fast-forwarding it. An unlit stretch of empty catwalk, blurred in bands by the tape’s movement. It was a tight shot; the security camera must have been mounted on the tier just above.

  “The brass chaffing you in there?” he murmured to Tim.

  “How ever did you guess?”

  “From the way you jumped on my bandwagon.” He offered Tim and Bear a wink with a tip of his head. “Fellow chaffee.”

  Bear pointed at the activity on the live-feed J-Unit screen. “What are they still looking for in there?”

  “Well, no inmate has technically left J-Unit,” Newlin said. “The only door was secured seconds after Boss’s body hit concrete. We figure maybe Walker’s still lodged in a duct somewhere. Though at this stage it’s wishful thinking. We’ve been through every inch of the unit twice. He literally vanished. Like, thin air, you know?”

  “How’d you settle the riot so quickly?”

  “This wasn’t a riot, just a tantrum. We’re only medium security. Once the last chair and TV get thrown, the inmates lose their juice. Plus, we had a full CO response and DCT—Disturbance Control Team. Power in numbers. We got the boys back in their houses without too much hassle.”

  “You notice anything different about Walker’s behavior today?”

  Newlin swapped out the tape for another one and resumed fast-forwarding. “Uh-huh.”

  The response caught both Tim and Bear by surprise. “Yes?” Tim said.

  “Sure. His mood shifted at night. He was quiet—well, I guess Walker’s always quiet. He seemed fine heading off for chow hall. But he came back from dinner, I dunno…off. Sat out TV time.”

  “Hadn’t done that before?” Tim asked.

  “Not that I remember.”

  Tim’s gaze drifted across the bank of closed-circuit monitors, finding the “DH” screen. Rows of picnic tables, barely visible in the darkness. “Can we pull footage from dinner?”

  “Hear that, Earl?”

  One of the COs, without turning from the screens before him, offered Newlin a lethargic thumbs-up.

  Newlin hit “play.” The time stamp in the bottom right corner of the screen counted up from 20:14:32. Boss Hahn appeared, glimmering with sweat, his chest and stomach muscles pronounced above the towel. He moved with his weight on his heels, his arms bowed to accommodate their girth. A flash of shadow entered the screen, and Walker stood before him, facing away from the camera. A split-second pause, then the rise of the arm, the tap to the neck, the shove over the railing, and Walker vanished in the direction from
which he’d come. An instant later the camera vibrated slightly on its mount—Boss Hahn’s body hitting the floor.

  The entire assault took place in about three seconds.

  Rapidly, the catwalk filled with screaming inmates, churning and shoving. In short order they were heaving blankets and microwaves off the tier. The muted action and gloomy lighting gave the scene a sinister, old-fashioned feel.

  “His cell’s that way?” Tim pointed in the direction from which Jameson had entered and exited the screen.

  Newlin nodded. “Just out of view. So he could’ve returned to his cell or kept going on the catwalk and shot down the south stairs. The thing is, the stairs are exposed, and the housing unit officer would’ve seen him.”

  “Unless Jameson waited for the riot and then split.”

  “Right. By that time the officer would’ve been out of the unit with the door locked.”

  “Anything on the other tapes?”

  “They’re limited view, as you can see. We’ve got one on the middle of each tier, like this, and then the general cam”—he pointed to the J-Unit screen—“which only really picks up the range floor and the center of the first tier. We’ve got a team going over everything, and they’ve yet to pick anything up.”

  “Let’s roll the stabbing again,” Tim said. “Tell me what you see.”

  Boss flew up over the railing, landed on his feet. The blood sucked back into his neck. He waddled backward, then headed forward to get murdered again.

  “It’s an expert strike,” Newlin offered.

  “Sure is.” Tim’s voice contained an element of admiration. “He struck right between the skull and the back shelf of the jaw, where it’s good and tender. From the look of the blood pressure, he punctured the external carotid, straight up from the heart. Makes for a quicker bleed-out—about seven seconds. Jameson’s right-handed, so it’s a natural strike.”

  Newlin’s eyes shifted from the screen to Tim’s face, a reappraisal of sorts in the works. “How do you know he’s right-handed?”