Part 14 (2/2)
”So he made up this character of the Beggar?”
”Well, not exactly made up. I believe he modeled the Beggar after Cain, the firstborn son of Adam.”
”Cain?” The surprises continued to accrue. ”You mean Cain from the Bible?”
”Who slew his brother Abel with the jawbone of an a.s.s because he was jealous that Abel's sacrifice to G.o.d had been looked on more favorably. Who then hid his brother's body and fled.”
I wondered where the h.e.l.l he was going now.
”Why Cain? Isn't Cain despised?”
”By us, yes. But think of it from an inmate's perspective. Cain is the first criminal in history. And like Job and Isaac and Jonah, he's the victim of a cosmic injustice. The G.o.d of the Old Testament was involved in some questionable episodes. Asking a father to sacrifice his son. Destroying innocent lives in the flood. Giving Adam and Eve the temptation for knowledge and banis.h.i.+ng them from paradise for choosing it. Why? Even the story of Judas has appeal to an inmate. Judas was blamed for Jesus' trial and crucifixion, but Jesus needed to be betrayed in order to reveal his divinity. Isn't it possible that Judas sacrificed himself in full knowledge of the role G.o.d needed him to play? If so, why scorn Judas for all history? It's the kind of sentiment an inmate can relate to.”
The litany of arguments offended me, but I also suspected they were a deliberate attempt to divert my attention. It seemed pointless, now, to leave anything unsaid.
”I need the comic book,” I told him.
”I don't have it,” he answered.
”It is evidence in a very serious crime.”
It was a bulls.h.i.+t claim, the last resort of a scoundrel, and he called my bluff.
”You're confused, Kali. Crowley's work concerned a spiritual mystery, not a criminal one. One of the biggest theological questions is unde malum. Where does evil come from? Crowley was interested in the opposite of that query. How do evil people find the strength to do good? That's why Crowley depicted Hammond. That's the answer to your mystery. Nothing less, but nothing more.”
That got my back up. Lie to me, I thought. Tell me what you need to in order to get your way, but don't patronize me.
”You're not going to give it to me?” I bit the phrase off.
”As I said, I don't have it.”
”Then who does?”
He shrugged. ”You do.”
I waited, intensely irritated. ”What do you mean?”
”Keeper Wallace asked for it. I a.s.sumed you knew that.”
Wallace had beaten me to it. Why did that surprise me? My anger and helplessness threatened the little composure I still held on to. I thanked Brother Mike for his time and left him standing by the kiln. I saw my own way through his house, changed back into my own d.a.m.n jacket and boots, and strode out the front door.
26.
My s.h.i.+ft was an exercise in frustration and delay. The lockdown was over. The inmates were sullen, vindictive, and wired. I wanted quite desperately to talk to Ruddik, but our paths didn't cross, and he was already gone when I was done. I did not like the way I was feeling so quickly hooked by that man, but I told myself that any emotional resonance was being amped up by the circ.u.mstances. Life at Ditmarsh was a daily labyrinth that left me isolated by each bewildering turn. Now I was exploring caverns and staircases and secret doors, and I wanted to share that news with the one person who could understand.
Instead, I found myself alone in the records room at Keeper's Hall, and I decided to poke around the files for information about Earl Hammond. The ancient file cabinets screeched when I opened them, but I found nothing about Hammond inside. So I sat down in front of a clunky coffee-stained desktop computer and googled his name.
There were no Ditmarsh-related hits, but in a general search, there he was, an article in Time magazine from June 7, 1994. I leaned in. The article was from northern California, Pelican Bay. There was a picture of a white man who had thick, Afro-like hair rising from a high forehead, and earrings in both ears. His eyes, however, were blocked out by a black bar across the page, the way some gossip magazines hide bystanders. The caption read, ”Could this convicted killer and crime leader bring an end to prison gangs as we know them?” You looked at the picture and answered the question for yourself: no f.u.c.king way. And then you read on. In the interview, Hammond related with intriguing frankness his gang past, the murders he'd committed or ordered, and the criminal activities he'd orchestrated. There was a sense of typical inmate boasting to the confession. ”I led one of the most successful criminal organizations in the United States, from inside a maximum security inst.i.tution, while under constant supervision. No one was more ruthless or strategic. I know I can bring those same capabilities to destroy what I helped build.” And the article then detailed his virtuous activities, the small groups of inmates he spoke to all the time, his cooperation with the FBI in breaking gangs down, the talks and courses he led that had been taped and distributed to other inst.i.tutions across the country. He was, the reporter noted, quite moving in his speeches. He talked about his remorse for all the wasted lives, those of victims and perpetrators, and he insisted the only real power one person had over another came from the heart. You needed to be lost to be found.
From the way he talked and the way he manipulated those who listened to him, including the writer of the article, you could tell that Hammond had charisma. I'd met my share of psychopathic egotists, but few were as sophisticated. It was easy to find him chilling and intriguing, and it was just as easy to dismiss the article for falling for such horses.h.i.+t. I was sensitive to the way outsiders could romanticize even brutal criminals-they got a brief glimpse, overdosed on the inmate's composed moments of charm, and didn't have to experience the other moments, the sudden rage, the horrifying viciousness, the s.a.d.i.s.tic cruelty, and the undercurrent of extreme narcissism.
In the truck after work, I called Ruddik's number. I didn't care how late it had become. He answered this time, a quiet voice, as if he were trying not to wake someone. I hoped, even though it was ridiculous, that there was no one else living with him. Plowing on, I told him about Hammond and the comic book and Brother Mike's explanations. He asked me where the comic book was now, and I told him Wallace had retrieved it already. I heard the disappointment in his silence.
”Have we been outmaneuvered?” I asked, fearing the answer.
But he surprised me. ”I don't think so. I think the comic book's a dead end.”
I started to protest and then stopped. He was the professional.
”Think about it,” Ruddik continued. ”What could Hammond have to do with what's happening at Ditmarsh now? Wallace is real. The Ditmarsh Social Club is real. We have to focus on what's in front of us, not get lost in the details of something that happened years ago.”
I let my silence go on. I didn't want to sound naive by arguing.
”Okay,” I said.
”I've been thinking a lot about next steps, and I want you to hear me out on this.”
”On what?” I asked.
His voice was calm, but I had a feeling he was being very careful with me, and that made me wonder where he was going.
”What we've learned so far has been helpful, but it's not helping us track the real economy of the prison.”
”The real economy,” I said. ”You mean contraband. Deals.”
”Exactly. In a perfect world, I'd have full access to the Pen Squad. I'd know what they know about intercepted s.h.i.+pments and I'd get reports on what their informants have been telling them. But this is far from a perfect world.”
I could hardly disagree.
”So what I'd like to do is set up our own experiment.”
”Meaning what?”
”I want to see what happens when you approach an inmate and offer a trade.”
”What kind of trade?”
”The kind of trade that goes on all the time. In exchange for money or some other valued service, you offer to supply some information, bring in some contraband, arrange to have one inmate housed near another. You know what I mean.”
”Jesus, Ruddik. Are you serious?”
”Of course I'm serious.” That grave and muted tone again, the lone lawman vibe. ”This is the kind of thing we do in undercover operations all the time. It's only unusual because you're not officially part of the team. I'm getting creative because I don't have the budget or the resources to bring in another professional, and I can't do it myself right now, because I'm currently very much on their radar. That's why I'm asking you.”
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