Final Victim

Chapter 8

After spending the night in two cheap motel rooms in Lompoc, Lockwood and Karen pulled up to the guard shack for visitors' parking at 7:30 on Sunday morning. John showed his Federal buzzer and identified both of them. He got out of the car before even being asked and handed over his gun and holster, which he had packed in his briefcase. They pulled inside the barbed-wire fence and drove to the parking lot.

They walked in under a huge stone arch where pigeons cooed down like bubbling pon. The visitors' room was ugly. Yellow linoleum, probably left over from some Federal housing project, butted up against turgid green cement walls. The sagging couches were cracked red leather. There was an interior window on one wall where a female prn guard was fielding visitors' requests. The only artwork on display was tattooed on the arms and backs of the men and women who were queued up, waiting to visit. Lockwood moved to the front of the line and shoved his badge under the glass. The stout female guard took his shield and ID, then entered his U. S. Customs badge number into her computer. After a second, Lockwood's picture and ID information came up on the screen. He motioned that Karen was with him, and the guard nodded and buzzed them through. They moved into a back room where a black prn officer sat behind a desk. A sign said this was the:

VISITING POLICE LOUNGE.

"John Lockwood," he said to the guard. "I need to have a chat with Malavida Chacone in a secure room. This is Dr. Karen Dawson; she's a civilian employee with U. S. Customs Service in D. C."

The guard looked at both John's and Karen's IDs, then motioned for them to be seated. "I'll have to find out where he is and get him transferred up," he said, then moved off to an enclosed phone station.

"Okay, what we're going to do is solicit this kid. We gotta get him interested. I busted him, so he'll sling a buncha barrio attitude at me, but, bottom line, he wants out of here. So after he's through dissing me, he should jump in our lap. Your job is to show him how much you care. Give him a reason to say yes. The real trick is gonna be putting a move on his counselor. We've gotta score that guy somehow. Leave that up to me."

"Counselor?"

"A young con like Malavida always has a counselor to help him through problems. It's usually just a prn guard with an unread subscription to Psychology Today. I'll find a way to co-opt him once I get a look at him."

"Why not just hand over the paper from Harvey Knox?"

"That paper is puppyshit. It won't smell right if anyone looks at it too long. Once we get in there, we've gotta move fast. We're either walking out of here with Malavida in an hour, or we're back in the prn Administrator's office, trying to talk our way out of an official reprimand."

She smiled at him and he looked at her sternly. "It won't be so funny if we get busted. These guys have no sense of humor. It's not like getting a late-paper markdown in college."

"I'm not worried. I don't mind risk," she said.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"When I was twelve, I designed an airfoil. It was sort of like a hang-glider, but this was way before hang-gliders. I called it the ALFA Wing. Stood for Airfoil Light Flight Apparatus. I calculated weight and lift. I designed a rudder assembly with a ten-to-one gear ratio. I made this thing out of aluminum rods with plastic sheets and nylon line. My two brothers dared me to test it, so I took it up to the top of Eagle Rock Dam near our house. There was this three-story sheer drop. I harnessed myself in, and my brothers were now scared shitless, begging me not to do it. They released me from the dare. They promised to clean my room for a year. They were panicked I'd kill myself. But it was too late. I ran and jumped off."

"How did it work?"

"I had rudder failure. I looped back into the concrete dam and hit about one story from the bottom. I broke both legs and had a severe concussion. I was in the hospital for two months. Moral of the story, in case you missed it, is I don't mind risk if the reward seems worthwhile."

Lockwood didn't doubt the story was true, but he wondered what it really said about Karen Dawson. Ten minutes later, they were led by another guard with a weight lifter's body out of the police lounge and through a sally port.

They climbed some narrow wooden stairs at the end of the corridor and into the Attorneys' Wing. There were several small, windowless rooms with metal doors. In each room was a table and three or four chairs. The muscle-bound guard led them to the nearest one.

"I'll bring him up."

He left, and Lockwood made a quick search of the room and the furniture.

"What're you doing?" Karen asked as he was crawling under the desk.

"Hold on a minute." He stood and showed her a voice-activated tape recorder he'd removed from under the table. He opened the back and turned the batteries around, putting them back in backwards. "I don't need to face this conversation we're about to have at a trial board. This way they'll just think it didn't work because they misloaded the batteries." He clipped the now-defunct recorder back into the bracket under the table.

"They bug these rooms?" she said, dismayed.

"J. Edgar Hoover said knowledge is power."

"No, he didn't. That was Sir Francis Bacon."

"Well, Hoover shoulda said it… And, Karen, I know you can divide my IQ into yours and come out with Bill Clinton's hat size, but we'll do much better if you stop making me feel like an imbecile."

"Then stop sounding like one," she deadpanned.

He nodded and they sat down in the straight-backed wooden chairs and waited.

Malavida Chacone worked in D Block, which was the old death row. That building had one of the best air-conditioning systems in the prn, the theory being that men who were waiting to die should not be subjected to the cruel and unusual punishment of summer heat in central California. The corridors were narrow and there were no windows, but frigid air flowed through the rooms, chilling skin and nerve endings like uncut heroin. The death row inmates had been transferred to the state prn when California stopped dispensing lethal doses of Edn-Medicine and began killing its condemned with the far more humane lethal injection. Because of the air conditioners, the prn's new computers were in D Block, and because Malavida Chacone could hack into anything for anybody, he had been offered a coveted job at the computer center. He ordered food, medical supplies, tires, and shotgun shells for the prn from 7:30 till 11 in the morning. After his coffee break from 11 to 12, he opened his store for the guards and inmates, scoring everything from Nike running shoes to lifetime subscriptions to Penthouse. His preferred customer was any hardcase who thought it might be fun to grab him and give him a hot beef injection in the "trick bunk" located in the back of C Block. He had made himself too valuable to rape.

He'd also managed to computer-select his own cellmate. The lucky winner was a huge Native American named John HorseKiller, who had killed four Sheriff's Deputies, but no horses. The gargantuan, six-foot nine-inch Indian belonged to no gang, club, or ethnic Mafia organization. But he was fiercely loyal to Malavida because the twentytwo-year-old had arranged for HorseKiller's dying mother to be illegally added to the CIGNA insurance group medical plan. Her chemotherapy was being paid for by thousands of unsuspecting policy owners. As compensation, HorseKiller would "run the gears" on any inmate who gave Malavida a hard time.

Malavida had it made in Lompoc. He was the Santa Claus of the joint, but he dreamed of catching tube rides at Huntington Beach on his yellow-and-orange surfboard. He missed lying on the sand, his long, black hair wet on his shoulders. He missed the girls, sunshine, and water… but most of all, he missed his mother.

A guard came to tell him that he had visitors in the Attorneys' Wing. Malavida shut off the computer he was working on and, without saying anything, followed the muscle-bound screw out of D Block, across the yard, and into the Administration Building. He made his mind a blank, trying not to think about who or what had just hit on his wall.

When Malavida walked into one of the attorneys' rooms and saw John Lockwood, his heart went cold. Malavida despised Lockwood. The Customs agent had done more than arrest him… He had lied, but more important, he had destroyed Malavida's family and Malavida's mother had not looked at him the same way since Lockwood had arrested him. Malavida's eyes flicked over to a very pretty, slender, auburn-haired young woman, also in the room. The guard closed the door and Malavida forced his anger away. He had learned that anger rarely served a purpose. It destroyed logic and made you vulnerable. Like a well-trained fighter, Malavida was determined to meet Lockwood with cold, surgical precision.

"Make your pitch, Zanzo," Malavida said, without emotion. "You didn't come up here to bring me cookies."

"Give it a rest, Mal. I was just doing my job."

"Who's this?" Malavida said, glancing at Karen.

"Karen Dawson. She works with me at Customs."

Karen had been looking at Malavida with open surprise. She had been expecting some nerd, an X-over-Y computer geek. Malavida Chacone was handsome and muscular, with long, shiny black hair and even white teeth. He was intense and beautiful and very sexy. A lone teardrop tattoo hung in ethnic anger beneath his left eye. But despite his striking appearance, his eyes were hard as black glass and revealed nothing.

"How'd you like to get out of here for a day?" Lockwood said. "I'm doing fine. I'm keeping my house neat. I get what I need." Lockwood looked down and saw the new Nike running shoes on his feet.

"You on a track team, Mal?" Lockwood said, grinning.

"No, I ain't on a fucking track team. Why would you wanna get me out, huh? I got nothing you want."

"I gotta computer problem."

"I ain't no buster, so go get your help someplace else. 'Sides, they ain't gonna let me outta here anyway."

Lockwood pulled out the folded SCR that Harvey had made up and slid it across the table with his fingers. Malavida made no move to look at it.

"Not gonna help you, Zanzo."

"Why not?" Lockwood asked.

" 'Cause you lied in court."

"So did you."

"It's okay to lie when you're trying to stay out of prn. It's not okay to lie when you're a cop."

"I musta forgot that rule," Lockwood said in mock surprise. "What page is that on?"

"It ain't funny."

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

"We want you to help us," Karen chipped in. "I've read your record. I think I can understand why you started doing what you did. You were trying to help your mother. We need to hack into a computer, but it's got very strict security on it. I think there are only one or two crackers in the country who could penetrate this machine." She watched him, hoping the flat-footed compliment would soften him. His eyes still showed nothing.

Lockwood tapped the folded paper between them.

"This is a Special Circumstances Release. What we're offering you here, Mal, is a field trip with burritos. We'll take you to Lompoc.

You'll help us. Then we'll buy you some Cokes and grease. We'll let you watch the sex channel on the motel TV and we'll have you back here tonight."

"Why would I help you, Lockwood? Gimme one reason."

"One reason? Okay, how's this? I can't ever recall seeing an inmate wearing designer running shoes before. What would happen if I put a trace on the prn phone lines? Would I maybe find some brisk computer sales in the Nike catalog? If I shut down your deal, how long would it be till you were somebody's personal tidbit in here?"

"How the fuck do I get you outta my life?" Malavida scowled.

"Hey, you asked for a reason. How'd I do?"

"Malavida, we need you," Karen pleaded. "Please help us. It would mean so much to us… Won't you do this favor, please?" This time she was openly begging him. Lockwood thought it was arguably the worst version of good cop/bad cop he'd ever pulled.

Malavida knew he'd get no slack from Lockwood. He'd had enough exposure to the tough agent to know they were on opposite sides of the ball. But Karen Dawson looked like bait that could be stolen. He smiled at her and, after a moment, picked up the SCR form and studied it.

"How could I refuse such a pretty chica?" he said insincerely, going badly over the top himself.

"Who's your counselor?" Lockwood asked.

"His name's Stan Shannahan," Malavida was now talking only to Karen. "I can get him to walk this SCR right through. All it's gonna take is maybe a pair of size ten and a half, D, Lucchese cowboy boots in black or tan ostrich. They have 'em at the Ranch Store in Santa Barbara. He's been drooling over them, but I haven't been able to score 'em for him 'cause they got no computer catalog. Throw in the boots and I guarantee he'll stamp us through."

Malavida's attitude was picking up speed as he smiled at Karen. He was definitely in a hurry to get out of Lompoc for a day. He'd already started working on a way to turn a day into a lifetime.

They met Stan Shannahan and gave him Harvey Knox's request. Stan glanced at it and took Malavida into another room. After a minute, they came back and both were smiling.

"You ain't gonna take him outta Lompoc, are ya?" Stan asked, his Texas accent twanging like a bobby pin in a Dixie cup.

"Of course not. We've got a government witness and a Federal prosecutor coming in by van. We're gonna be at the Ocean View motel back in town. We'll conduct the interview there and have him back by tonight."

"Man, these Federal witness deals are really something. What's this Cholo got you need?"

"I'm afraid that's classified, sir," Lockwood droned, "but it's a major case. This interview was approved by the big boss, the Attorney General herself."

"Y'all gonna brung-um back chere tonight?" Stan asked, exposing both a horrible education and brown tobacco-stained teeth.

"Absolutely," Lockwood said. "Checked in before ten so we won't have to get the admittance staff back to reprocess him.. No sweat, no hassle. By the way, where's that store where I get the boots? Is it off Front Street?"

"I wrote down the address. The tan ones, in ten and a half." "Them's good-looking ones y'all got on right now," Lockwood said, putting a little twang under it for unity, while looking down in admiration at a pair of hand-stitched western boots on the fat guard's feet.

"Yep, El Dorados. Handmade. Got the bulldogger heel on 'em, too… great for stompin' the chit outta pissed-off little yard bunnies. Ain't that right, Cholo?"

Malavida smiled his sweet smile. "Yes, boss," he said.

"Tell you what… we'll bring the Luccheses when we check him back in tonight."

"Why don't y'all go get 'em now? Just fifty minutes away. An' in the meantime, I'll run this official request through the system… get the Assistant Warden's approval."

"Good idea. See you in a bit." Lockwood turned to go, then stopped and turned back. "By the way, Stan, we don't need anybody diming us out. The A. G. wants this kept confidential."

"I gonna be so busy lookin' at my new boots, throwin' a spit shine on 'em, I ain't gonna have no time to do nothin' else." He grinned.

They left Malavida there and drove to Santa Barbara for the boots. Karen was quiet all the way to town. "Did you really lie in court?" she finally said, as they were headed back.

"You give up a lot of yourself to do this job. You can give up your family, your life, pieces of your self-respect. You get damn little in return, 'cause all the rules are written against you."

"But did you lie?" she asked again.

"Why don't you ask him if he was guilty?" Lockwood looked over and saw something in her eyes he hadn't seen before. It looked strangely like pity.

They got back to the prn an hour and a half later. Stan had Malavida waiting in the visitors' area, in handcuffs and a waist chain. He handed the keys over to Lockwood and watched while the agent signed the release in triplicate and promised to have the prner back that evening. Then they all walked out to the car with Malavida where Lockwood handed Stan the boots. Stan looked at them and whistled low.

"Ain't them fuckers a sight to behold," he said.

In ten minutes, they were down the road and out of sight. Lockwood had put the fifteen-hundred-dollar Lucchese boots on his Customs Service credit card. He didn't have a clue how he'd justify the expense. But he was already hanging so far out on this deal, it probably didn't matter. In the back of his head, a question buzzed around like a fly in a bottle: He was already in deep shit with Internal Affairs, so why was he out here in California busting a Federal prner loose with bad paper, just so he could help Karen Dawson break into a computer he didn't really care about? It made no sense. Then a new thought hit him. Was it for his own emotional survival? Was he subconsciously trying to get himself thrown off the job before it destroyed him?