A Garden of Vipers

CHAPTER 24

Warden Frank Malone fiddled with the VCR in the corner of the room. It was VCR day, I guess. Though I was in the office of the prison’s head dog, it felt like a cell, bars on the windows, the pervasive stink of fear and disinfectant. Though we were hundreds of feet from the nearest cell block, the smell rolled through the place like smog.

There was no need for both Harry and me to drive up, so I’d made the run, cutting a big chunk out of the day. What this country needs is a good teleportation system.

Malone pressed a remote to activate the unit. He’d racked up the visitors’-room tapes from the morning I’d visited. He fast-forwarded until I saw myself enter the visitors’ room.

He looked up and I nodded. This was the start point.

I watched myself talk to Harwood for several minutes before the hulking, scarred convict entered, simultaneous with the arrival of the square-bodied, suited man with the blond hair rippling back from his tanned, blocky face. Though a solid guy, he moved like silk in the wind, a dancer trapped in a bricklayer’s body.

Malone tapped the monitor screen. “The huge convict is a serial rapist, Tommy Dowell, known inside as Tommy the Bomb, as in you never know when he’ll go off.”

Tommy the Bomb swaggered in like he not only owned the prison, he held the mortgage on every other piece of property within a hundred miles. I’d seen that look more times than most people.

“Psycho,” I said. “Full blown.”

“The guy was a biker with the Iron Rangers, got too psychopathic even for them, was cut loose.”

“Too crazy for the Rangers? That’s like being too tall for the basketball team.”

Malone sighed, removed his reading glasses. “I’m the warden, Detective Ryder. I’m supposed to use clinical terms when discussing inmates. I took courses in psychology in order to make my discussions scientific, rational.”

“And?”

“Tommy the Bomb’s a true meltdown. Three hundred pounds of fried wiring.”

“Terms I can understand,” I said. “Think he had a hand in Harwood’s poisoning?”

“Inmates do favors for folks like Tommy to stay on his good side.”

“Good side?” I pulled my chair up to the monitor, tapped the visitor. “You know this man, Warden? He’s who I’m really here to ID.”

Malone put on his glasses, started the tape segment again. The guy’s back was to the camera, mostly. Harwood blathered at me. After five minutes, he started wriggling, punching at his chest. I noticed the blond guy shooting a couple fast glances in Harwood’s direction.

Malone froze the tape. “Never seen the visitor before. The guards say the guy’s visited the Bomb three times in the past couple weeks.” He slid a sheet of paper my way. “Visitors’-log entries from the morning of your visit.”

I checked the time against the names, found the only fit.

“C. M. Delbert,” I said. “He needed ID to get in, right?”

Malone nodded. “Not many people fake their way into prison. We check the ID, but our major concern is contraband and weapons.”

“And we both know any teenager in the country can get a fake ID with the right contact and a pocketful of bills.”

Malone said, “Guy signed in as counsel for Tommy. You figure him a lawyer?”

“Long shot. At least not Harvard law.”

Malone grunted. “Not too many Harvard types want to sit across from a psychotic monster like Tommy the Bomb.”

“Think Tommy the Bomb would talk to me, Warden?”

“Think you’ll grow tits and a pussy soon?”

“Doubtful,” I said.

“Not a chance.”

Malone restarted the tape. Two minutes later Leland Harwood was convulsing on the floor as Tommy the Bomb watched. The visitor retreated from the room without looking back, like he was walking from a public restroom.

Malone dropped his glasses in his pocket. “Your man doesn’t look real interested.”

“He knows how the story ends,” I said.

When I returned to the department, Harry was in a conference room, the murder book between his arms on the table. He looked up.

“Tell me you found the golden link at the prison, Carson. That you’re about to sit your ass right down in front of me and pull it all together.”

I sighed and laid out the story.

“He signed in as a lawyer?” Harry said. “Maybe we should check local legal types, see if they can ID him.”

I ran a list of lawyers in my head. Only one got highlighted in yellow. “What we need is a lawyer perfectly comfortable with murderers, rapists, dope mules, and general pukes.”

Harry said, “I can’t go near Preston Walls, Cars. I already ate today.”

“Don’t sweat it. I can solo.”

Harry stood and yanked the orange sport coat from his chair, pulled it over the blue-centric aloha shirt.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, partner. Let’s stop on the way over and buy a can of Lysol. I want to spray down before we visit Walls.”

D. Preston Walls had an office near the courthouse, tavern on one side, bail bondsman on the other. Location, location, location. A Porsche at the curb was vanity-tagged LGLEGL. I shouted my name into a metal grate and held my badge and ID to a camera before being buzzed inside.

Walls’s secretary, receptionist, whatever, was a torpedo-breasted blonde with bee-stung lips, cocaine eyes, and a pair of handcuffs tattooed on a bare shoulder. She purred that we should sit until her boss was off the phone, then sucked a cigarette and stared at my crotch until I crossed my legs.

Ten minutes later Walls appeared, fortyish, five-seven or — eight, overweight, sloppy brown suit, hair in a ponytail like it made him hip. Diamond stud in one ear. At handshake time, Harry turned away and looked out the grated window.

“Carson, Harry, I’m floored,” Walls brayed, indifferent to the slight. “Jeez, I haven’t seen you guys since Rollie Kreeg’s trial. Last year? Has that much time gone by since…” He paused, mouth open like something slipped his mind. “I think I’m having a senior moment, guys. What was the verdict? Who won?”

I gritted my teeth. “You did, D. P. A. technicality, if I recall.”

Walls grinned. “Technicality, schmecknicality…It’s all the clash of ideas. Of constitutional guarantees. Of the collective versus the individual, the safety of the rights of private citizens who-”

Harry stared at Walls. “How safe are citizens from the rapists and murderers you get off?”

Walls raised an eyebrow. “If I get them off, Harry, they’re innocent.”

I stepped between Harry and Walls and slid a photo from my pocket, a still shot pulled from the VCR at the prison.

“How about this lawyerish-looking guy, Preston? You know him?”

If Walls glanced at the photo, it was a millisecond. He tried to hand it back.

“Look again,” I said. “Longer.”

Walls took a perfunctory second glance, seemed to be looking past the photo. He frowned.

“What is it, Preston?”

Walls tweezed the photo between his thumb and forefinger, like it was something he didn’t feel safe touching. The picture dropped in my hands.

“Never seen him before. Gotta go, guys. Nice talking to you.”

He walked us to the lobby and retreated behind his door. I heard it lock.

We returned to the department. Harry started through the doorway, stopped abruptly, threw his arm in front of me, and nodded across the room at our cubicle. Pace Logan was sitting at Harry’s desk, leafing through papers. Harry moves fast and light when necessary, a second later was standing behind Logan.

“Help you, Logan?”

“Oh, shit. Nautilus. I was just-”

I jogged up. Logan had Taneesha Franklin’s murder book in front of him, opened to the photo section.

“Just what?”

Logan went into defensive mode. “What’s it look like? I’m checking the book. I was at the scene, remember? First, if I recall. I got some spare time, thought I’d see how things were developing. That all right with you?”

“You want to look at things, Logan, ask.”

Logan stood, showed teeth. He jammed the book into Harry’s chest.

“Fuck you, Nautilus. I didn’t know you owned the murder books. Guess I forgot to sign it out from King Dick.”

I stepped between them before Harry did or said something that was momentarily gratifying but improvident in the longer run. Logan stormed back to his desk, the smell of tobacco in his wake. Harry blew out a long breath and we sat. I had my usual pile of call slips from strung-out snitches trying to peddle fiction, but a name stood out. Ms. Rudolnick had called. The message was “Nothing important, just checking.”

I picked up my phone, called, kicking myself for not alerting her the moment we’d secured the files, good manners.

“How are you, ma’am?”

“I was just wondering, did the key work?”

“Thank you, yes. Your son’s files are safe. No one else will ever see them.”

“Are the files helpful?”

“We’re still reviewing them. It’s a big job.”

“Just find the person who caused my son’s death, sir.”

“We will, ma’am. Thanks for checking.”

“Certainly. Oh, by the way, sir?”

“Yes?”

“I had some wonderful moments yesterday. A delightful young friend of Bernie’s stopped by.”

“Who?”

“I don’t trust many people, and I know there are all manner of scams directed at people my age, so I asked questions. He knew everything about Bernie: how his left eye fluttered when he got nervous, how he liked puns. Bernie had a very individual way of walking, fast, spinning on his heel to turn around. The young man mimicked Bernie’s walk and we both had a good laugh. It was refreshing, the best I’d felt in a long time. My young visitor had such wonderful things to say about my son.”

“Who was this young man, Ms. Rudolnick?”

“Frank Cloos. He’d worked with Bernie two years back, at the psychiatric wing of Mobile Regional Hospital. Bernie consulted there two days a week. Mr. Cloos had been an MHT, mental health technician.”

“What did Mr. Cloos look like?”

“About your size, I guess. Dark hair with a touch of red. Piercing eyes. A very good-looking young man.”

“You said young?”

“Mid-twenties, I’d guess. A mature bearing.”

“What else did you talk about?”

A pause. I heard the grandfather clock bonging in the distance.

“That was a sad part. Mr. Cloos had been out of town for a while, business. He didn’t know about Bernie, couldn’t understand why his phone was disconnected. There aren’t any other Rudolnicks in the phone directory, so he came here.”

“He didn’t know Bernie was deceased?”

“It was the one moment I thought I’d made a mistake by letting him inside my house. When I told Mr. Cloos what happened, well, he seemed to disappear inside himself. He closed his eyes. His hands grabbed his pant legs, his knuckles turned white. It seemed like, like…”

I heard her struggling for words.

“What, Ms. Rudolnick?”

“It was like he was being torn apart inside, ready to cry or scream or throw things. I was scared, but didn’t say a word, and it passed. Then he took my hand and asked questions. He was so concerned, so nice. Then I went to fetch some drinks and sweets and that’s when we talked about Bernie, the good things, the happy things. We talked for a half hour. Then he had to go. He said he’d be back next month, we’d go to dinner, talk longer.”

“Did he tell you how to get in touch with him?” I held my breath.

“Only that he’d call. We’d go to dinner somewhere nice, somewhere Bernie would have liked.”

I resisted banging my head on the desk. When we hung up I called Mobile Regional and confirmed what I already knew: There was no record of a Frank Cloos ever having worked there. I called Ms. Rudolnick back, asked if I could send a fingerprint team to her house, pretty much knowing nothing would have been touched.

I started for home a few minutes later, stopped by Sally Hargreaves’s desk on the way out.

“How’s your progress with the rape and beating victim, the blind woman?”

Sally nodded and shot a thumbs-up. “I’m feeling better about her, Carson. She’s tough, a survivor. She has one minor surgery coming up tomorrow, hopefully heads home by mid-next week. She’s using her hand again, too. It’s improving daily.”

It stopped me. “What do you mean, using her hand?”

“She had two fingers broken in the attack, another severely dislocated. The doctors were afraid there might be nerve damage, but apparently-”

“You never mentioned the fingers.”

Sally gave me a so what look. “They were the least of her injuries.”

“Can I meet her, Sal? Talk to her?”

“She’s recovering from horror, Carson. I’m not sure she should relive those moments. Why?”

“I’ve got a dead girl who had broken fingers, torture, probably. Maybe it’s the same perp.”

“Can you wait a bit? Let my victim get home, return to familiar surroundings, familiar routine?”

“The perp’s a psycho. If he’s on the road I think he is, there’s another woman in his sights right now.”

Sal closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Carson…”

“We’ve got no leads, Sal. The guy’s a cipher.”

Sally frowned. Fumbled through her purse for her phone.

“Let me make a call.”

A half hour later we were sitting beside the bed of Karen Fairchild. She was petite and Caucasian, dark-haired, with a voice still husky from screaming and being choked. Her face was swathed in white bandages tinted pink at the edges with antibiotic cream. Despite her travails, she greeted me without apprehension, and I gathered Sally had both explained the reason for my visit and presented me in a kindly light.

One of Ms. Fairchild’s hands was contained in a soft brace, the fingers supported. On the other hand, several fingertips were bandaged from nails tearing off as she’d defended herself. No traces of the perp’s blood or skin had been found beneath Ms. Fairchild’s nails, or anywhere on her body, and Forensics had determined Ms. Fairchild had been thoroughly bathed before being dropped-literally-at the hospital.

Like the trip to the hospital, the bathing was anomalous, a moment of careful thought and organization in what the victim recalled as a night of psychotic mania in a barn.

“It wasn’t a horse or cow barn,” she said, answering one of several questions I’d asked. “It was probably an equipment barn.”

“You can tell?” I asked.

“It was part of my training at blind school, Detective Ryder. The teachers would bring us samples of dirt from an animal barn, and we’d have to differentiate it from a barn used for storing equipment.”

“What’s that supposed to teach you?” I asked, amazed.

The white ball of swaths and dressings laughed through the exposed mouth, jiggling the tubes tracking into her arm. I looked at Sal. She held a laugh tucked behind her hand.

“Ouch, my leg,” I said.

The pile of bandages smiled through lips still bruised and puffy from stitches.

“Sorry, Detective. I grew up on a farm west of Movella, Mississippi, know a bit about them. I smelled grease, fertilizer, plain old dirt. Hay was around. But I didn’t smell any animals nearby. They have a strong odor, even from a distance. The more I think about it, I suspect the barn hadn’t been used in a while, years maybe. There was a smell of mold and decay, like the hay was old.”

“And you don’t know how long you were held at the barn?”

The laugh disappeared. “Time didn’t have any meaning that night.”

“Do remember when your fingers were broken?”

“It was very painful. It was when he was…on top of me. He had my hand clenched in his. While he was pushing he kept ordering me to say I loved him. I wasn’t saying it loud enough, and he kept bending my fingers farther and farther backward until I was screaming the words. I finally passed out.”

“You woke up at the hospital.”

“When I realized I was alive, I was amazed. He kept telling me I was going to die. Laughing as he said it.” She looked toward me and her lips pursed in question. “I’m not complaining, Detective Ryder. You’re excellent company. But aren’t you a homicide detective?”

“My partner and I are also part of a special team, the Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, and deal with very disturbed minds. I know it’s tough to tell us these things, but we learn from each story. It adds to our store of knowledge about such criminals.”

She looked straight at me as if she had perfect vision and her eyes weren’t covered in gauze.

“Then you’ve smelled it, Detective Ryder.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Smelled insanity.”

“I never knew you could smell insanity.”

Her voice tightened with the memory. “It’s a foul, ugly smell. I couldn’t smell it at first, when he was just talking to me, pleasant, almost reasonable. Then he started getting angry for no reason. That’s when I noticed the smell. It got stronger as he…handled his needs. Like smoke getting thicker.”

“What’s it smell like?” Sal asked, her voice a whisper. “Insanity.”

Karen Fairchild shook her white-swathed head.

“There aren’t any words for it. You have to be there.”