by C. J. Box
“He wanted me to ask why it took you so long.”
Joe felt a trill of cognition.
“Tell him I was finning in the wrong channel,” Joe said.
“Excuse me?”
NATE STAYED in Joe’s pickup in the parking lot while Joe went in the visitors’ entrance of the administration building and put all his possessions including his cell phone into a locker. He’d left his weapon and wallet in the truck, taking only his badge and state ID. He filled out the paperwork at the counter, passed through security, and sat alone in the minibus that took him the mile from the admin building past the heavily guarded Intensive Treatment Unit (ITU) and other gray, low-slung buildings to a checkpoint, where he was searched again and asked the nature of his visit.
“I’m here to see Vern Dunnegan,” Joe said.
At the name, the guard grinned. “Ole Vern,” he said. “Good guy.”
Joe said, “Unless he’s trying to get your family killed.”
The guard’s smile doused. “You’ve got history with him, then.”
“Yup.”
To the driver, the guard said, “Take him to A-Pod.”
When they were under way, Joe asked, “A-Pod?”
The driver said, “A, B, and C pods are for the general population. A-Pod is the lowest security and it goes up from there all the way to E-Pod, which is Max and Death Row. You don’t want to go there.”
“No,” Joe said, “I don’t.”
At a set of doors marked A, the driver stopped. “When you’re done, tell the guard at the desk and he’ll call me.”
Joe nodded. “So this means Vern Dunnegan is considered low-risk, huh?”
“That’s what it means.”
Joe shook his head. “Man, he’s got you guys fooled. I guess he hasn’t changed.”
THE VISITATION room was large, quiet, pale blue, and well lit. It was filled with plastic tables and chairs, the kind used on decks and in backyards. The feet of the chairs were bound with athletic tape so they wouldn’t squeak when moved. There was a bank of vending machines against a wall and a television set hanging from the ceiling with ESPN on with no volume. One corner of the room was filled with neatly stacked children’s toys and multicolored pieces for kids to climb on while wives or girlfriends visited. Joe had to sign in again with an officer behind a large desk in the southeast corner. The desk itself was empty except for a clipboard and a huge box of wet wipes and a smaller container of disposable latex gloves. On the sign-in sheet were listed categories for visits including “Friend/ Relative,” “Legal counsel,” “Religious,” “Kissing Only,” and “Other.” Joe checked “Other,” and the guard gestured expansively, indicating Joe could sit wherever he wanted.
The only other occupants in the room were a couple at a table in the far corner and their child (he assumed), a toddler, playing quietly with plastic blocks. Although the couple was required to sit on opposite sides of the table (she’d checked “Kissing Only”), they strained forward across the tabletop to get closer. She was dark and Hispanic, her perfume so strong Joe could smell it from across the room. He wondered how she’d outmaneuvered the admin guards in regard to the posted “No skintight or revealing clothing” regulation. She wore jeans that looked spray-painted on and a tight white Lycra top that clung to her breasts like a film. He was lean, shaved bald, olive-skinned, and heavily tattooed. His arms were outstretched, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her toward him. She strained toward him, her own arms outstretched, her fingers furiously caressing the tips of the collar of his white jumpsuit with a kind of unrestrained animal lust that Joe found both riveting and revolting. The inmate looked as if he would explode at any second. He was red-faced, his eyes wide, his face inches from hers. Joe hoped the guard had his wet wipes at the ready.
“I think I’ll take the other corner,” Joe said.
“Good idea,” the officer said, then, shouting to the couple, “Hey, dial it back a notch over there! It’s kissing only—no fondling. You know the rules.”
A GUNMETAL gray door opened on the wall opposite where Joe had signed in and Vern Dunnegan entered the room. At the sight of his old supervisor, Joe felt his stomach and rectum involuntarily clench and his breathing get short and shallow. He hadn’t seen the man for eight years, but here he was.
Vern wore an orange jumpsuit with no pockets and blue rubber shoes. He was thicker than he used to be, his face more doughy and his limbs and belly turned to flab. His hair was thinner and grayer and pasted back on his large head, and he was clean-shaven, which revealed a reptilian demeanor that had always been there but was masked by the beard he used to wear. Despite the avuncular smile on his face when he saw Joe, Vern’s eyes were obsidian black and without depth, as if blocked off from the inside. Joe remembered the whole package. Vern could smile at you while he stabbed you in the heart.
Vern Dunnegan had once been the Wyoming game warden for the Saddlestring District. Vern had considered Joe his protégé and Joe naively thought of Vern as his mentor. But Vern was one of the old-time wardens, the kind who bent the law to suit his needs and curry favor, a one-man cop, judge, and jury who used his badge and the autonomous nature of the job to manipulate the community and increase both his influence and his income. In those days, before the discovery of coal-bed methane, Twelve Sleep County was in an economic slump and those who lived there were scrambling to stay afloat. Vern and Joe, both state employees with salaries and vehicles and insurance and pensions, were the envy of most of the working people. Joe fought against the uncomfortable recollection of how it once was between them, when he was the green trainee and Vern the wily vet. Although Marybeth always distrusted the man, Joe refused to see it while he worked under him. It wasn’t until Vern quit and came back as a landman representing a natural gas pipeline company that Joe found out what Vern’s bitter worldview was all about, as his former boss set up a scenario that led to Marybeth’s being shot and losing their baby—all so Vern could enrich himself. The last time Joe had seen Vern was when he testified against him in court.
“Long time,” Vern said, nodding hello to the guard at the desk and sidling up to Joe’s table. “And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me, like you didn’t care anymore.”
The last was said with a lilt of sarcasm and anger.
Vern settled down heavily in the chair opposite Joe. In Vern’s face, Joe could see traces of green and purple bruising on his cheekbones and the side of his head, and when Vern spoke Joe saw missing teeth. The man had been beaten, which really didn’t bother Joe in the least. In fact, now that Vern was just a few feet away from him, all the things he had done came rushing back. Joe had to tamp down his own urge to leap across the table and pummel the man.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a former peace officer in this place?” Vern asked softly, reaching up and touching the bruise on the left side of his face. “I have to be ready to defend my life every goddamned day, every goddamned minute. I never know when someone will take a whack at me just for the hell of it. I’ve been in H-Pod so many times I know all the nurses by name and they know me.”
Joe assumed the “H” stood for hospital but didn’t really want the conversation to be about Vern Dunnegan’s perceived victimization and self-pity.
“You probably noticed the color,” Vern said, patting himself on the breast of his orange jumpsuit. “Orange means I’m segregated from the general population for my own protection—supposedly. What it really means is I’m a walking target for these predators in here. You have no idea what it’s like. Some asshole will be walking behind me and for no reason at all he’ll elbow me in the neck and just keep going. Or he’ll cut me with a shiv . . .” Vern shot his arm out so his sleeve retracted, revealing a spider’s web of old scars. “Not enough to kill me, just enough for stitches.
“I’m all alone in here,” Vern said. “Nobody visits anymore. I get along with most of the guards but almost none of the population. It’s a living hell. At least if I were on Death R
ow I’d get the respect those guys get. As it is, I’ve got at least four more years of this. Bad food. Bad dreams. Eight head counts per twenty-four hours. This orange jumpsuit. Having to live my life with deviants, reprobates, and human scum as my neighbors.”
“Gee,” Joe said, “it must be rough.”
Vern did his trademark chuckle, the one that meant exactly the opposite of how it sounded. “You’ve changed,” he said. “You’ve gotten harder.”
Joe glared at him.
Vern said, “I’ve been following your career with great interest. I’ve got to say that you’ve impressed me with your exploits. I never thought you had it in you, to be honest. I always thought you were a little slow—too naive, too much of a Dudley Do-Right. But you’ve matured, Joe. You’re as cold and calculating as I was.”
Joe shook his head. “Wrong.”
“I’m not so sure,” Vern said, leaning back and appraising Joe with his cold eyes, the pleasant grin frozen on his face.
“Then you must have left that wife of yours by now,” Vern said. “I always saw her as an emasculator.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Nope. We’re still together with our two beautiful girls.”
“I’m shocked,” Vern said, not shocked at all, but enjoying the game of getting Joe worked up. Just like he used to do.
“Enough,” Joe said. “You apparently know why I’m here.”
Vern nodded. “It took you long enough.”
Joe looked at his wristwatch.
“I understand you’re now buddies with the governor,” Vern said evenly. “And that he’s desperate to solve these murders so he can open the state back up. I can help him do that. But there are terms.”
Joe looked up. “Terms?”
JOE ASKED the desk guard if he could use his phone, and he was able to get through to the governor’s office. He asked the receptionist to transfer him to Rulon. Joe stood waiting near the guard’s desk. The guard pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping. Vern sat perfectly still at the table, his big hands on the tabletop, fingers interlaced, watching the silent television flicker. He looked completely in control, Joe thought.
“Stella Ennis,” she said crisply.
“Stella, it’s Joe.”
A pause. “Hello, Mr. Pickett.” Did Joe detect an inappropriate purr?
“I’m at the Wyoming state pen and I’ve got quite a situation here.”
“From what I understand, you’ve got a situation back at home as well. What is it I heard about an agent of the governor assaulting a police officer?”
Joe shook his head, as if she could see him. “I’ll explain all of that later. Right now I need you to put that aside and listen to me.”
“My, my,” she said, “aren’t we the tough guy this morning.”
“Look, I’m here seeing my old boss Vern Dunnegan. He’s served eight years of a twelve-year sentence for conspiracy and being an accessory to murder. He claims that he knows where to find the Wolverine. He says he’ll tell me everything in exchange for the governor commuting the rest of his prison time.” Out of corner of his eye, Joe saw the guard spill coffee all over himself.
Stella said, “Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“This is very unusual.”
“I know it is, and I hate to even call you with this. Vern should spend the rest of his life in here; it’s where he belongs. But I really do think he knows how we can catch who we’re after.”
“How would a man eight years in prison know that?” she asked.
“That’s what we need to find out.”
“Hold on. I’ll ask Spencer.”
Not “the governor” or “Governor Rulon,” but Spencer, Joe thought.
Rulon came on the line so quickly Joe could only conclude that he had either been listening in on another line or Stella was so close to him physically that he heard what Joe had told her. Joe briefly closed his eyes, thought, Uh-oh.
The governor sounded annoyed. “Is he there?”
“Vern Dunnegan? Yes, he’s here.”
“Let me talk to the son of a bitch.”
“Okay,” Joe said, crossing the room and handing the handset to Vern. “It’s Governor Rulon.”
Vern’s eyebrows shot up, and a self-satisfied smirk crept across his lips. He took the phone. “Hello, Governor Rulon.”
Joe sat back down and listened to Vern’s side of the conversation. Occasionally, he could hear Rulon shout or curse through the handset. Again, he thought of how close Rulon had to have been to Stella to hear Joe clearly. He rubbed his eyes and listened.
“That’s right,” Vern said. “I can help you close this case and then you can reopen the state for hunting.”
Vern listened for a while, said, “Why didn’t I come forward sooner? Well, I have to admit that it didn’t really register when John Garrett was killed. I mean, I knew the name and I vaguely remembered him, and when I read about it in the paper nothing clicked. Then I read about Warren Tucker a couple of weeks later and it started to make some sense to me. I almost told the warden of my suspicions at that point, but that’s all they were, suspicions. A man can’t bargain with suspicions. . . .”
A few moments later, “Right. Frank Urman was the clincher. When I heard his name I knew how the victims were connected. Wally Conway just drove the nail in the coffin, so to speak.”
Joe glanced angrily up at Vern, who chatted away with the governor.
“What? No. Not anymore. I’m a prisoner of the state, remember? I have no kind of obligation anymore,” Vern said, rolling his eyes.
Joe shook his head.
“Yes, there will be at least one more murder as it stands right now,” Vern said. “Maybe more. I can promise you that. But if we can make a deal, I can help you prevent it. And you can be the hero. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Fat chance, Joe thought, seething.
“No, I can’t give away any more. Not until we’ve got an understanding.”
Joe could hear the governor going on in his best growl.
“Sure, I understand,” Vern said into the phone. “If what I tell Joe here turns out to be wrong, I know the deal would be off. But I think we both know I’ve got very valuable information that I’m willing to share.”
As they negotiated, Joe glanced over at the table where the couple sat. It appeared that the inmate was chewing on her collar. He could see the man’s jaws working, and his eyes rolling back in his head in pleasure. Her gaze was focused above his head, and she looked detached. Joe couldn’t help but think of the old joke where the wife, beneath her husband in bed, says, “Beige. I think I’ll paint the ceiling beige.”
Joe tore himself away as Vern Dunnegan said, “So we have a deal then.”
Then: “Okay, I want it in writing. You can fax it to the prison. I won’t say a word to Joe here until I read it over and see that it says exactly what we discussed.”
Then: “Sure, I trust you. You’re the governor, right? What is there not to trust? But nevertheless, I subscribe to the Ronald Reagan notion of ‘trust, but verify.’ So I need that paper and your signature.... Sure, I’ll wait. But visiting hours will be over in ninety minutes. I need the agreement by then. You’re a wordsmith and a former federal prosecutor—it shouldn’t take long.”
“Here,” Vern said, beaming, thrusting the phone back across the table, “he wants to talk to you.”
“Yes,” Joe said.
“We made a deal,” the governor said wearily.
“So I heard.”
“What an asshole.”
Joe looked up at Vern, said, “Yup.”
“So you think it’s legit, then?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll fax the paperwork over within a half hour. Then he better spill the beans. Call me when you’ve got something solid and we’ll proceed from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Joe . . . ”
“Yes?”
Hesitation. Joe frowned.
“Nothing,
” the governor said. “Forget it.”
“Is it about Stella?” Joe asked.
Rulon barked a laugh. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
Joe cringed, and punched off the phone.
AS THEY waited for the agreement to arrive, Joe and Vern sat at the table in silence, each pretending the other man wasn’t in the room. Joe kept checking his wristwatch. He shot another glance at the couple in the corner, and looked away guiltily. Vern chuckled.
“Caught you,” he said.
“It looks like he’s eating her neck,” Joe mumbled.
“It’s a con trick,” Vern said. “The female cooks meth down into crystal and hangs it from her necklace chain like a pendant. She sits there while he sucks it and gets high. The guards haven’t figured that one out yet. They’ll do a full-body and cavity search, but they don’t think about testing the jewelry.”
“My God,” Joe said.
“It’s a different world in here,” Vern said. “I’ll be glad to be leaving it soon.”
THE DESK GUARD got a call, spoke a few words, and motioned Joe over.
“There’s a fax from the governor for Vern Dunnegan at admin. They’re bringing it over.”
Joe sighed.
The driver who had delivered Joe to A-Pod brought the fax. As Joe took it to Vern, he read it over. It was on official letterhead stationery and signed at the bottom:
I, Governor Spencer H. Rulon, agree to commute the remaining years of prison time for inmate Vernon Dunnegan in exchange for information that results in the arrest and conviction of the so-called Wolverine who has been responsible for the deaths of several Wyoming resident hunters. If no arrest and/or conviction is/are obtained, this agreement is rendered null and void.
AFTER VERN had told his story, Joe shut his notebook and said, “So this is all your fault.”
Vern shrugged. “I was never like you, Joe. I wasn’t in it to save Bambi.”
Joe shot his fist across the table and hit Vern Dunnegan flush in the face, snapping his head back.
