Part 7 (2/2)

”f.u.c.k that pa.s.sive bulls.h.i.+t. That's for his benefit, not yours, keeping himself in business. You're his long-term customer, you know what I mean? He loses you, his market shrinks, so he wants you here, planted for a very long time. I'm not saying we'll succeed. But I am saying we should try. And he's got your f.u.c.king jacket. It's not his. And he needs to hand it over. Just insist. It's like getting your one free phone call. He legally can't say no.”

Josh agreed to do it. It was impossible to stop the force of the argument even though he dreaded making the request.

”You got a session with him tomorrow, right? Ask him then. Don't tell him it's me you're working with, though. He'll get all fussy about that. Professional f.u.c.king jealousy.”

”Okay,” Josh said again. Anything to lessen the barrage.

”Hey. It means a lot to me that you trust me like that.”

Roy reached over to shake his hand. The grip was firm, meaningful, and longer than comfortable.

14.

Work should have been easy that night, with the gen pop inmates still under restricted movement, but I've never liked lockdowns. Caged up, they had too much time on their hands. They stewed and fretted. Their spite and anger got jacked up and became even more unpredictable. They plotted. Fantasized. Schemed ways to f.u.c.k someone up. Better when they had their regular routine and you had yours, distractions that kept everyone relatively honest. Of the many things inmates and COs had in common, a desire for the time to pa.s.s quietly had to be tops on the list.

I supervised meals and meds most of the evening. It was dull, thankless delivery work. The crazies and addicts were bouncing off the walls. The slightest G.o.dd.a.m.n delay in receiving their medication sent them into conniptions of desperation and anger. No wonder they were locked up in six-by-nine drawers. Addiction was the defining focus of their entire lives. It was the reason they were inside-whatever murder, robbery, rape, extortion, or drug violation they'd been sentenced for was sp.a.w.ned from a need that made them barely human. It was the reason they did what they did inside. Prost.i.tuting themselves. Begging for hits. Stomping each other's guts out. Conspiring to arrange deliveries and sales with the ac.u.men of a payroll manager. Addiction distorted every word that came out of their mouths, made it all lies. What they wouldn't do for drugs, I didn't want to imagine.

In B-3 I saw the Pen Squad in full force around Crowley's old cell, not the one in the infirmary where he'd spent the previous nine months, but his permanent home in population. The officials crowded the entrance as if they were trying to get into a small nightclub. MacKay's joke: How many Pen Squad members does it take to solve a crime? A minimum of three. One to stand around where the evidence was before the inmates destroyed it. One to get told to f.u.c.k off by each witness in turn. And one to concoct a bulls.h.i.+t story so the case could be filed. Crowley's old cell was undergoing a total breakdown and disa.s.sembling. Rubber gloves on everyone. Belongings in boxes stacked up in the range. Mattress propped against the pillar. Crowley's block mates were watching from their bars, calling out the occasional insult, the occasional question or idiotic request. My helper, a semi-r.e.t.a.r.ded thug named Martin, pushed the cart of meds and meals from cell to cell like we were a married couple at the grocery store. Martin delivered the meals; then I pa.s.sed out whatever meds were lined up.

”About f.u.c.king time.”

”s.h.i.+t, Officer, that's the same piece'a ham as yesterday. You know I gone Muslim.”

”Pigs serving pig.”

”How come our buddy Crowley got a dirt sandwich?”

”I get four f.u.c.king pills. This is two f.u.c.king pills. I need four f.u.c.king pills.”

”You tell that f.u.c.ker next door to shut up. I'll be knocking him with a can'a soup in my sock soon as these doors open.”

”This is already cold. You trying to bacteriate us?”

”When do we get out of lockdown? I got a scheduled visit tomorrow.”

”This is some no call bulls.h.i.+t.”

I answered some, ignored others, kept moving down the row. When I got to the Pen Squad outside Crowley's cell, I stopped, just as I normally would, even though I wanted nothing better than to scurry along like a flitty roach. It was a large mixed crew, and I only recognized a few officers. Melinda Reizner, who ran most of the in-house investigations, walked out of the cell with an evidence bin and gave me a nod.

We stood beside each other, a rare meeting of the ”paramilitary without p.e.n.i.ses” support club. Melinda was five years older than me, give or take, but light-years ahead in terms of career. I just did a job-Melinda was going places. Once, during a break in a training session in which she instructed us about what not to do when we found evidence, I asked her how I could go places, too. The inquiry seemed to stimulate something mentorly in her mood, but it had not paid off in actual helpful advice. I figured she'd mulled me over but hesitated to relay the bad prognosis.

This time Melinda was the one eager to see me, a sparkle of enthusiasm in her eye, a respect almost.

”So you're the one who found him, huh?” She said it low-toned and casual, less an official question and more just something she was excited to talk about, like I'd done something remarkable. The ego stroking worked, even though Melinda had joked with me once that flattery was a tool. That's what investigators do. They make you feel special by playing on your vanity and lead you along like a sucker. With all the casual cool I could muster, I admitted that I had indeed been the one.

Melinda put the box down. ”Lucky girl.”

I didn't feel very lucky. ”Are you expecting a s.h.i.+t storm?”

She shrugged and seemed to ignore my question. ”Autopsy reports will get here in a couple weeks. Want to see them?”

”How can I resist?” I asked. Normally the voyeur in me would have been excited. Instead, I just felt queasy.

”We should talk next week about everything that happened.”

”Officially?”

”You found him, you get your name in the file.”

”Great.”

”And you thought there was no glory in this business.”

”That's the only reason why I'm here.”

We wished each other a happy new year, and I moved on. Three cells later Marty pulled the cart up alongside Billy Fenton.

”If it isn't Officer Williams,” Fenton said. ”How nice to hear you strolling down my hall for a change.” He took his allotment of pills from my tray. He had a rainbow a.s.sortment, which meant he was smart enough to complain of the right symptoms to the right doctors and psychologists to earn a nice fix, unless he really was a manic-depressive with high blood pressure, irritable bowel syndrome, and a chronic sleep disorder. He held a piece of paper in his hand, just obvious enough that I could read it through the bars without having to stop and stare.

”Pleasant dreams, Fenton,” I said, and pa.s.sed by without pause, forcing myself to keep trudging. The paper said, ”Need a favor?”

Some inmates played with your mind. And if you weren't careful, they'd end up permanently occupying a part of your cerebral cortex.

My s.h.i.+ft finally ended. I wanted to go home. I wanted to throw myself on my couch and sleep with the TV running. I wanted to obliterate every memory and enter the big nothingness, the hum of ancient reruns.

When I opened my locker, I found a note taped to the top shelf. A note where a drawing had been only a few days before. I needed a new lock. I needed a world without juvenile men.

I opened the note. Someone wanted to see me. Someone wanted to talk to me. Someone gave me a cell phone number and asked me to call them as soon as I got out into the world. Meaning as soon as I was sitting in my truck. It was urgent, the note said, in case I didn't read between lines. I saw the name at the bottom, Mike Ruddik. Our very own fink. The last man in the world I wanted to meet up with.

I had my parka on and was ready to slide on out when Wallace caught me just outside the locker room and gave me more bad news. I could tell it was bad by the way his puffy cheeks had pinked up.

”We've got some trouble. You're drawing press attention.”

The words as somber as a creaking elevator cable. I waited for more.

”There's been some calls from a reporter about the encounter between you and Shawn Hadley.”

Encounter? I was slow with surprise. The reporter's calls were about Hadley? Crowley was the one who had gone missing and turned up dead. Crowley was the big story. Not Hadley, a s.h.i.+t disturber who'd taken a crack to the knee and might miss a tennis game or two.

It had to be a mistake, right? I asked if he meant Crowley. I couldn't stop myself.

It was obvious I still didn't get it. I saw bottomless wells of experience in Wallace's weary eyes, and maybe a glitter of smug.

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