It was the letters – none of them signed – which made him so famous, as well as making him the most hunted man in the western U.S.
Only seven of the girls prompted letters. He never got the chance to write to mommy and daddy about number eight. Three days after he’d snatched her from a crowded flea market, she was dead and wrapped in plastic in the trunk of his Taurus, and he was on his way to a remote, pre-dug hole. Driving carefully and obeying the speed limit and all traffic rules hadn’t prevented an Oklahoma trooper from pulling him over, though. Kelvin methodically checked out his vehicles before traveling with a body, in order to avoid the stupid mistakes which got most serial killers caught. Bad luck found him that night, though, for his right tail light went out while he was driving, and he didn’t know it. The trooper hadn’t suspected a thing as Kelvin handed over his driver’s license, registration and insurance card – all spotless, of course – but the cop had still asked to look in the trunk.
Had he seen Kelvin swallow hard, noticed the bob of his Adam’s apple? At that moment Kelvin knew it was all over. He didn’t carry a gun in the car, and even if he did, he would probably have come out on the losing end of a gunfight with a trained officer who was already on edge from making an after-dark stop on a lonely road. Kelvin popped the trunk, and that was that. Years later, he found the whole thing comical. Oklahoma had a serious problem with people trafficking methamphetamine along that stretch of highway, and the state troopers had been instructed to ask to see inside the trunk on every traffic stop, regardless of how the drivers appeared. Refusing the trooper just earned you cuffs in the back seat while he investigated, impounded the vehicle and searched it anyway.
It was just bad luck. Kelvin wasn’t bitter. It just meant that his life was different now.
Carla moved through the days, through the years. She did well at work and was promoted to supervisor. Her running made her exceptionally fit, and she could have easily competed in any number of marathons, but she only ran alone. She didn’t socialize, and politely avoided her neighbors, made excuses not to attend workplace get-togethers and annual Christmas parties. She didn’t date, not because she had no desire for male companionship – there were nights when her desires and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her – but because it felt like a betrayal. The idea of going out and having fun, of having a relationship to satisfy her own selfish needs while her daughter vanished into the earth, and her killer kept drawing breath, was offensive. She wouldn’t do that to Anita.
She did, however, eventually give in to a repeated dinner invitation from Dean Frye, another supervisor at work. Carla told herself it was only to get him to stop asking, that it was just a work-friends thing, just a meal with a colleague. She didn’t want to think about how much she liked being around him, finding him funny and confident, a down-to-earth man. She told herself she wasn’t attracted to him, and hadn’t entertained thoughts of sharing her bed with him. No, she was just being nice to someone she had to see every day. They kept it simple, and went to an Outback.
Dean Frye was the same age as Carla, had been married briefly, and let his work fill his life in much the same way she did. He’d come to the job after her, and they had been working together for over eight years. He still knew little more about her than the day he started. She was divorced and she didn’t get involved in work gatherings. He didn’t know where she was originally from. Carla was a private person and Dean respected that, and he believed the reason she kept to herself was hurtful to her. He suspected she had been deeply injured in the past, probably by a man.
Despite her outer coolness, Dean enjoyed being around her. She had a clever wit, was talented and capable at her job, and genuinely cared about the people who worked for her. He didn’t want to be pushy, wasn’t looking to save her from whatever pain she lived with, he just wanted to get to know her better. Behind all those rationalizations he admitted that he was also in love with her.
Dinner was a disaster, and it was Dean’s fault.
The evening had been going well; the food was good and the conversation safe and pleasant, about work for the most part. She had laughed a few times – music to him - and he was happy inside, aware that she liked him too. She’d even opened up a bit, talking a little about her childhood and telling a funny story from high school. He’d learned she was from Tulsa. The plates had been cleared, he was having a beer and she had a Diet Coke. He didn’t know why he asked the question.
“Do you and your ex have any kids?”
The muscles in her neck tensed visibly, and he didn’t see it. “What?”
“Do you have any kids?”
There was a long silence, and the hardening of her eyes immediately told Dean he had screwed up.
“No. Let’s get the check.”
They hadn’t gone out again, and although she continued to be polite at work, that relaxed feeling between them was gone. He tried to apologize, to draw her out, but a curtain had fallen between them which he knew would never open again. Dean would forever have to be satisfied with a “just friends” relationship, and that did little to comfort his broken heart. It hurt worse that he was the reason it was broken.
For her part, Carla went home that night, changed into sweats and athletic shoes, and went running. She cried as she ran, at first because Dean was stupid, then because she was stupid for letting him in. As her feet slammed the pavement she wept because she knew there would be nothing between them, that the light of any hope she might have had for a future had been blown out, leaving her in the darkness. She pushed her body, running through the late night streets faster and faster with tears streaking back across her face. Her legs and lungs burned, but she didn’t notice. She was thinking about the lengthy questionnaire.
Have you ever been the victim of a violent crime?
No.
Do you know anyone who has been the victim of a violent crime?
No.
Have you ever gone by a different name?
No.
Do you know, or are you related to anyone incarcerated in a correctional facility?
No.
Have you ever abused prescription or non-prescription drugs?
No.
Have you ever been convicted of a felony or misdemeanor? If so, explain.
No.
Carla wasn’t in the darkness alone. She had Kelvin Finch for company, and she had her rage. It was something she had come to understand quite well. Hatred is a difficult emotion to sustain, and if one doesn’t really work at it, it will slip away a bit at a time, unnoticed. If a person does manage to hold onto it, they eventually learn that it is an animal, eternally hungry and all-consuming, devouring happiness, hope and physical well-being. As it eats, it leaves behind a hollow shell, a person so drained and weary that they just don’t have the energy to hold onto the animal anymore.
Unless a person really applies themselves and nurtures it, feeds it. Carla Mendez had been feeding her hatred animal for eleven years. It was a ravenous beast, and only one thing would satisfy it. Kelvin Finch had a reckoning coming.
And she had a plan.
Trent Whitsome sat in the warden’s office with a thick clasping file on his knees. The man behind the desk in front of him was paunchy, in his late fifties and balding. The expression on his face was one of sour contempt.
“I’ll tell you up front I don’t like any of this, Mr. Whitsome. I said as much to your superiors, and I said it to the governor.”
Trent nodded. “But the governor did support it, Warden Epps.” The older man’s face flushed, and Trent hurried on. “Sir, I’m not here to make anyone look bad, and I’m not here to turn Kelvin Finch into some kind of hero.”
“That’s precisely what you’ve done already, Mr. Whitsome.”
Trent shook his head. “I know what he is, and I’ll be certain our viewers know what he is.”
Epps leaned forward. “And what do you think he is, exactly?”
Without hesitation, “He’s a monster. And nothing he
says during the interview will portray otherwise. I’ve done my research on him, and I’ve already filmed the segments with the abnormal psychologist, the FBI profiler and two of the investigators who worked his case. Those conversations and opinions will all appear. I also did the piece with the D.A. and even interviewed Finch’s lawyer.”
The warden raised his eyebrows. “And how did that go?”
“After we got through all the, ‘My client is a victim of an abusive childhood and an unfair criminal justice system’ crap, I saw a man who was happy to be representing someone infamous and nationally known, but even happier that his client is locked away in your facility.” He paused. “I think Finch scares the shit out of him.”
Epps snorted. “Unless he’s a little girl, he has nothing to fear.”
Trent shook his head. “It’s more than that. I think what scares him is knowing Finch is…simply evil.”
The warden rotated his chair and looked out his office window. He didn’t speak for a long time, but then he said, “You’re about to see evil up close, Mr. Whitsome. I hope you’re ready for it.”
“This isn’t my first serial killer, Warden.”
The older man turned back around and opened a thick file on his desk. On the top was a letter signed by the governor, permitting HBO to film a documentary on Kelvin Finch, using the prison, and instructing the warden to extend all courtesies which did not jeopardize the safety or security of the facility.
He tapped the file. “I have a lot of leeway here, Mr. Whitsome.”
The producer had a copy of the same letter. “Yes, sir, you do, as you should. It’s your prison.”
“I could decide this event constitutes a clear security risk and deny the whole thing.”
They both knew he wouldn’t. In order to grease the wheels, HBO had arranged to interview the governor, and edit clips of his Q&A into the special. The man was very excited about the opportunity, and the warden knew it. Epps drummed his thick fingers on the file.
“I want to clear any footage before it airs.”
The producer shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen.” He said it as respectfully as he could, but inside he wanted to ask this bureaucrat if he had ever heard of the First Amendment. He didn’t, of course. That would spin this interview into territory more hostile than it already was, and besides, the man was right. He had a lot of leeway, and could choose to make things so restrictive that Whitsome would never get the kind of candid interview he needed.
Warden Epps scowled at him for a moment without speaking, and then his face changed to a look of resignation. He knew he wasn’t going to win, and he would cooperate because he had been directed to cooperate. Inside, Trent was rejoicing.
“Alright, Mr. Whitsome. There are some things you need to understand, and rules by which you will abide. Violation of any one of these rules constitutes a felony in the State of Oklahoma, and if you disobey them I will personally turn the key on the cell where you will await trial for breaching the security of a state correctional facility. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir.”
“That goes for your people as well. Our facility houses over five-hundred of the most violent felons in the State of Oklahoma, and I want you to appreciate the potential dangers.” He opened the file. “I see you’re requesting a crew of four.”
Trent nodded. “Myself, my cameraman and sound technician, and one lighting technician. I could also use an assistant…”
“Four will suffice, Mr. Whitsome.” Epps leaned back in his chair. “You and your crew will be subject to searches when you enter, when you leave, and at any time my officers choose. Your equipment will be thoroughly inspected. You will not bring weapons or contraband into my facility. You will not go anywhere unescorted. You will not give anything to or accept anything from an inmate. You will follow the instructions of all COs at all times.”
The producer nodded.
“You can film in hallways, common areas and cell blocks only after you request and receive permission. Anyone other than Finch whom you wish to interview on camera must first clear it with me. Anyone who doesn’t want to talk to you, or have their face on TV…”
“We’re very respectful about that, Warden. Not a problem.”
Epps nodded. “I’ll arrange for a secure room for the interview. You can have Finch for two hours only, so you’d better make it count. There won’t be a second interview. He will be in restraints, and there will be two officers in the room with you at all times. If they decide Finch is getting out of line, or poses a threat to you or your crew, the interview is over. That’s their decision.”
Trent nodded that he understood. He didn’t argue about only getting access to Finch the one time. If the bosses at HBO determined Trent should have another go at him, then they would romance the governor and make it happen.
“One last thing, Mr. Whitsome, and this is very important.”
The producer waited.
“In the event of a crisis at the facility, we will do what we can to get you and your crew to a secure area. However, among the many waivers you and HBO will have to sign, it clearly states that should you be taken hostage by inmates, you will be considered a casualty of war. We do not negotiate, and we retake compromised areas by force.”
Trent Whitsome wanted to smile, but when he saw that the warden was serious his grin wavered and he swallowed hard. “I understand.”
“Good.” Warden Epps rose from his desk and guided Whitsome out.
It was 6:50am, and the rows of seated corrections officers listened as the sergeant announced the assignments for first shift. This was the busiest shift of the day, since all the inmates were awake, off to their jobs or receiving visitors, going on sick call or facing disciplinary or parole review. There was intake, a small amount of out-processing, and of course this was the time when the highest amount of civilian workers were in the facility. “Carson and Karst, you’re in the bubble at DV-3. Dingham and Gianetta, bubble at DV-4. Stroeham, you’re at medical…”
Sergeant Carla Mendez continued reading. She wore a crisp white shirt with sergeant’s stripes, and had her hair tied back under her blue ball cap. Sergeant Dean Frye leaned against a table nearby.
“…Wininngham, Crosby, Pope, Esperanza and Wales, you’re on the yard. Poplin, you’re on review board escort. Levins…ah, glad you’re awake this morning, Officer Levins.”
There was some chuckling, and an embarrassed CO sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes.
“Levins you’re on food service with Triest.” She flipped the page. “SRT officers, we have a meeting at 0730, then you’ll get your assignments.” The SRT, or Special Response Team, was the prison’s SWAT team, specially trained officers who handled violent cell extractions, manned the rifle towers, and were on constant standby in the event of a riot or similar disturbance. They wore black and bloused their trousers into their boots, military style. All wore taps on their boots for added psychological effect. The inmates, who dressed in orange jumpsuits, called them Orange Crush.
As well as being a sergeant, Carla was the team leader of Deacon Valley’s SRT.
She stood at her podium handing out assignments as she did every day, and like every day, inside she was amazed at the wonder of it all. There was no way she should have gotten away with it, no way she should have been able to slip past all the screening and background checks without someone throwing a flag. And yet she had. At first, she told herself her attempt to enter corrections was an effort to keep society’s predators locked away, preventing them from hurting others. Of course that was all bullshit and she knew it. She wanted to get close to Kelvin Finch. She fully expected that going back to her maiden name and lying on all the questionnaires, lying during the polygraph, would not stand up.
They hired her.
She knew that even though she had gotten in, someone would soon find her out.
They didn’t.
COs have no say in where they are assigned, and go where they’re told.
There was no chance at all she would be assigned to Deacon Valley.
That was exactly where they put her.
For years she struggled with the fear of discovery, the sick feeling that she was betraying her fellow officers with her deception, waiting for that moment when the warden would summon her, toss a file on the desk in front of her and demand to know how the mother of a murdered girl had managed to wiggle her way into the facility where that killer was kept. Her anxiety didn’t originate from any concern over punishment. Her fear was that she would be found out before she had the chance to avenge her little girl. But that moment had never come.
Carla had played out variations of that vengeance thousands and thousands of times, and had almost as many opportunities to carry it out. As a sergeant, getting a weapon into the prison was a simple matter, and getting close enough to Finch to use it was just as easy. In her nine years at Deacon Valley, however, she had yet to act. Somewhere along the way she came to the decision that a simple ambush, a quick death, would not do for Kelvin Finch. She wanted him to see it coming, to experience the fear of knowing death was on its way, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Like Anita. So she resisted the urge, devising a more fitting plan and waiting for that one, unique moment when everything came together, reconciling the fact that the man living in the Monster House continued to draw breath while her daughter did not. Sometimes she anguished over the idea that the moment might never come, that her plan was too complex and relied upon a set of events which mathematically would likely never occur. Those were her lowest points, when she wavered and nearly gave in to the idea of simply ending him the next time she got close. But she endured, convincing herself it would happen.
“You’ve all been briefed on the HBO film crew coming today. They’re scheduled to arrive at 0900, and may be here filming as late as 2300. Acre and Falstead, you’re assigned as escort until second shift relieves you at 1500 hours. Orders from the warden are to wear them like a shirt. No screw-ups.”
In The Falling Light Page 27
