The Dead Room

46

Walpole’s MCI-Cedar Junction, one of the state’s two ‘supermax’ high-security prisons for adult male offenders, had a strict dress code for female visitors. No tank, halter or tube tops. No sleeveless shirts. No jogging suits or gym clothing. No clothing made of Spandex. No sheer or see-through material. Trousers had to be free of holes and rips and couldn’t contain any open pockets like those found on cargo trousers. Skirts and shorts measuring less than four inches from the kneecap were deemed too revealing and not allowed – no clothing of any type that exposed a woman’s midriff or back was allowed, no exceptions.

Darby placed her tactical belt, keys, wallet, badge and phone in a small plastic dish. After checking her sidearm, she raised her hands. A female guard, a heavy-set black woman, waved a metal-detecting wand over her body.

A young male guard somewhere in his late twenties, Darby guessed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt stood next to a metal door. He stared at the raw cuts and crisscrossed rows of stitches on the right side of her swollen face. Lieutenant Warner had driven her to her condo and stayed in the car while she went upstairs to shower. She dressed quickly, grabbing things from her closet. She realized she had forgotten a belt and pulled the canvas tactical belt from her chest-of-drawers. Not wanting to waste any more time, she had decided to forgo the lengthy process of trying to bandage her face.

‘You wearing an underwired bra?’ the female guard asked.

‘No,’ Darby said. ‘And you’ll be happy to know I remembered not to wear my crotchless underwear this morning.’

The woman let loose a dry chuckle. The male guard didn’t crack a smile, too busy working hard on his mess with me and you will pay expression. The way his biceps bulged like rocks underneath his tanned skin made her think of Coop. She had tried calling him from the road, calling his mobile and his direct number at the lab, but kept getting his voicemail.

‘Well,’ the woman said, placing the wand on the table, ‘I’m glad to see you took the time to read the dress code. Most people don’t even bother. The women visitors, they are the worst. They strut on in here wearing short-shorts or some low-cut skirt without any panties, then get all belligerent when we tell ’em, ah, sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come in here with your junk all exposed. Need to put on something just a little bit more formal.’

The woman slapped on a pair of latex gloves and said, ‘Please raise your hands again for me, Dr McCormick, I’ve got to search your pockets.’

Darby wanted to keep the conversation going, needing some distance from the thoughts scrabbling through her pounding head (Christ, did it hurt). ‘My personal favourite was the one about no bathing suits.’

‘We had to add that one, oh, I’d say about three years ago. This woman who worked at a strip club? She decided to visit her boyfriend right after her shift, came waltzing in here in five-inch stilettos and her ta-tas practically hanging out of her bikini top. The stories I could tell you.

‘You all set, Dr McCormick. Your sidearm and your wallet will be waiting for you with me behind this desk when you come out.’

‘Thank you.’ Darby picked up the scuffed leather pad sitting on top of the X-ray machine. ‘Can I take this in with me? I may need to take notes.’

‘Let me see it.’

The woman searched through the computer-printed sheets the superintendant had given her on John Ezekiel. Then she examined the leather compartments and folds. She uncapped Darby’s pen, a black plastic Pilot roller-ball with a metal tip.

‘You got any other pens on you?’

‘Just that one,’ Darby said.

‘Okay, you can take it in. But make sure you come back with it. I don’t want to have to do a strip search on that man in there. Don’t want to end my day on that note, you hear?’

Darby nodded, glancing at a colour video screen showing a private conference room of bright white tiles. In the centre, a gun-metal grey table and chair bolted to the floor. The other chair was not.

‘We’ll be looking in and watching, but we can’t hear a thing,’ the woman said. ‘When they bring Mr Ezekiel in, they’ll shackle him to the chair bolted to the floor, so you don’t have to worry about any surprises – unless he suddenly turns into the Incredible Hulk.’ She laughed at her joke. ‘When you done speaking to him, just turn to the camera and wave. Or you can come up to the door and give it a good, hard knock. Billy Biceps over there will let you in and out.’

The woman grabbed her chest mike. ‘We all set, Patrick. Bring him on in.’

The young male guard moved to the steel door.

Darby watched the second hand crawling on the wall clock.

Almost two minutes later a buzzer sounded. Locks clicked back.

The male guard opened the door.

Darby felt her heart climb high in her chest, the feeling similar to the one she’d experienced when abseiling down a ripcord from a chopper during a SWAT exercise. Legs steady, she moved past the guard and entered the conference room.

John Ezekiel no longer bore any resemblance to the mental snapshot she carried. His thick blond hair had that odd yellow tint she’d seen in heavy smokers. His muscles had wasted away and his pale skin seemed almost translucent underneath the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting.

‘Good morning, Dr McCormick.’

She had imagined a deeper voice. Ezekiel’s voice, light and airy, reminded her of the pleasant and eager front desk clerk at a hotel.

The buzzer went off again. The electronic locks slammed home and Darby felt the sound echo inside her chest.

She approached the table.

‘How do you know I’m a doctor?’

‘I’ve been keeping tabs on you ever since I read about you in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘You’re in the papers a lot. And on TV. You’re a special investigator for Boston’s Criminal Services Unit. Your specialty is forensics and deviant behaviour of the criminal variety. In other words, people like me.’

Darby pulled out a chair and sat. Ezekiel stared at her from the other side of the table. He had the dull, lifeless eyes of a marble bust.

Must be the medication, Darby thought. Ezekiel suffered from schizoaffective disorder – the depressive type, the most difficult to treat. According to the notes, his current medications consisted of the antipsychotic drug Clozaril and lithium, a mood stabilizer.

‘I was told you wanted to speak to me about Amy Hallcox.’

‘You mean Kendra Sheppard,’ he said.

‘Who’s that?’

‘You know who she is.’ Ezekiel leaned forward in his chair, chains rattling. His eyes never moved from her face. ‘Lying is not a good way to build trust. I can’t tell you the truth if I don’t trust you, do you understand?’

‘I do.’

‘Then don’t lie to me again. If you do, the conversation’s over.’

‘Understood. Why did you want to speak to me about Kendra Sheppard?’

‘Have you checked the room for listening devices?’

‘No.’

He seemed puzzled. ‘Why not?’

‘It would be illegal for the prison to eavesdrop on our conversation.’

‘The cameras are watching us.’

‘They are, but I can assure you nobody is listening.’

‘Assured by whom? The guards posted outside the door?’

‘I don’t have any equipment to sweep the room for bugs, Mr Ezekiel. What do you suggest we do?’

‘Sit next to me. I’ll whisper against your ear.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re wondering. I can’t. Look.’ He tried to hold up his cuffed wrists. He couldn’t, of course. She knew they were shackled to the chain around his waist, and he was shackled to the chair.

‘It’s for your protection’, he said. ‘And mine.’

‘Even so, the prison won’t allow it.’

‘Ask them. Please.’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m sorry, I can’t speak to you.’

Darby stood. ‘Goodbye, Mr Ezekiel.’

‘Be careful out on the streets.’

She knocked on the door.

‘And promise me you’ll stay clear of the FBI,’ Ezekiel said. ‘I don’t trust those sons of bitches.’