by Tom Barber
The storytelling dried up however, when the bus started to approach a huge federal facility. The prison had the same sterile concrete look as USP Gatlin, faceless gray buildings with thick coils of razor wire on top of tall fences and armed guards in towers beside large spotlights. ‘Welcome to Big Sandy,’ Spencer told Archer, as the other agent picked up his shotgun. The bus stopped as credentials were checked; Spencer waited while a guard called it in on his radio for confirmation, then the gate slid open after a buzz and the vehicle drove forward into the prison.
Once they’d completed a slow loop and drew to a halt, Archer followed Spencer off the bus to take the opportunity to stretch his legs while Harrington opened up a reinforced grille separating the back seats from the front area, the three guys in there safely shackled and restrained. ‘How many on the pick-up?’ Archer asked Spencer as they waited outside.
He checked his clipboard. ‘Four.’
‘Does the form tell you what they’re serving time for?’
‘Make sure we find out after our guys got killed on that Forrest City botch. Tonight we got a serial rapist, pair of lifers serving out murder bids and another who got twelve years for narcotics. One of the two killers executed a couple homicide detectives in Atlanta.’ He paused and shot Archer a glance. ‘You seem like a guy who’s got some experience.’
‘Some, yeah.’
‘But not been stuck on a prison transport bus for hours?’
‘No. This is a first.’
‘Word of advice, don’t relax. Don’t matter how calm things feel, these boys are always looking for a way to punk us out or try to escape. If one of us gets killed, what’s the judge gonna do, add on another life sentence? They got nothing to lose.’ As he said the last few words, a metal door opened with a quiet creak and the jangle of shackles could be heard seconds before the four prisoners appeared.
Two were white, one was black and the other Latino; the first two shuffled their way onto the bus without a word. Archer saw that one of the white boys looked unusually pale in the harsh spotlight, his hair damp with sweat, but he didn’t cause any problems, eyes lowered as he was led past. The Latino glanced at Archer and then the driver as he passed by, the man with a prominent brow pocked with scar tissue and a straggly goatee trident-style beard. Trying to guess which one was the rapist, the kidnapper and the murderers was like a macabre version of the mystery board games Archer had played as a kid.
Then seeing the last prisoner, the second white guy, Archer had a feeling he was one of the latter. The man was enormous, possibly even bigger than how the guards at USP Gatlin had described the Loughlin brothers, his knotted, bunched-up neck and wide upper chest an entire canvas of one merged-together dark green tattoo.
He stopped a few feet out, and although the guards tried to keep him going, he wouldn’t budge, instead weighing up the men who would be transporting him for the next few hours.
Archer saw the man’s eyes pick up on his NYPD detective’s badge.
‘We gonna have to use a taser or hog tie you, Briley?’ one of the guards asked. ‘Make it easier for all of us, get your ass on the bus. Right now.’
The giant looked at the guard who’d spoken for a long moment, but then ended up doing as he was told and was taken onto the vehicle before being locked in place. The talkative prisoner already inside went very quiet when he saw the huge Big Sandy inmate, who was put in a seat across the aisle from him.
Once the Sandy guards stepped off, Spencer handed his clipboard to one of the COs. He signed the paperwork, passed it back and the bus driver thanked the correctional officers before stepping back on board. Archer had already noticed the Sandy guards visibly become less tense once the huge inmate was on the bus and shackled in place.
‘Remember what I said,’ Spencer said to Archer, as he restarted the engine. ‘Don’t relax.’
Back in Jonesville, VA, as expected, Marquez hadn’t managed to find any mechanics or auto-shops open until morning, being a more rural area and not the crazy, 24-7 city she was used to; so with nothing else to do but wait for the Ford to be checked out once the sun came up, she updated Archer with a message then decided to stick around at the hospital for the time being instead of going back to the motel.
In the waiting area, the local news on the TV was still covering the discovery of the elderly woman found dead off Route 58 but they hadn’t released her identity yet. Perhaps they still didn’t know it. Marquez watched as one of the Channel 11 correspondents reported live from a roadblock near the Kentucky border as State troopers checked cars one at a time behind him, other armed members of local and state law-enforcement visible in the background wearing protective vests and holding rifles or shotguns or with dogs on leads.
If the three Loughlins had managed to link up, and Marquez knew there was every likelihood they had, they’d be a chilling prospect to deal with, especially if they could get their hands on weapons heavier than a shiv, rock or a set of handcuffs. Two of them had been four years into life sentences for what they’d done to that college girl, and Marquez recalled the pool of blood inside Gatlin’s laundry belonging to a pair of inmates who had supposedly been friends of theirs. These brothers clearly had no problem killing anyone and would be ruthless in their determination to avoid recapture. With them free, no-one out there was safe.
She approached the nurse’s station near the emergency ward and showed the woman working there her badge. ‘The laundry truck driver who was brought in,’ she said. ‘The one with the cut throat. Know how he’s doing?’
‘He’s still alive. Heard the blade sliced across his vocal cords, but didn’t sever his windpipe. The doc’s with the man’s wife and kids right now. Give ’em some time to be told what the situation is, then I can find out more.’
Marquez nodded then checked her watch as she walked away, thinking of Archer on the bus wherever it was right now. Maybe due to the unexpected events of the day, maybe due to experience or perhaps just due to tiredness, that cold sense of unease that had crept over her inside the Gatlin laundry had come back to settle in her gut.
She took out her phone to message him, but then hesitated and put it away. If there was an issue, he’d let her know, and she had nothing new for him right now. She returned to her seat.
But that uneasiness wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
‘Yo fat boy, stop at the drive-through, I want a milkshake,’ the black inmate from Big Sandy called out as a couple of the others cackled with laughter, the bus now out of Kentucky and pushing on up through West Virginia on the I-77 highway. Up front, Archer was choosing to watch the monitor rather than face the prisoners and give them something to work with. Lupinetti was his responsibility and focus, not the others, and was the only one he was keeping an eye on for the time being. The former cop had already tried to escape once tonight. ‘I remember you from our last trip, Agent Spencer,’ the black Big Sandy inmate continued from the back, trying to rile the driver. ‘I see you wearin’ that wedding ring. I got brothers who can go visit yo wife when you’re out on the road. They’ll take care of that bitch. Just tell us where y’all live.’
Spencer carried on driving, no change of expression to indicate that he’d heard the prisoners comments.
‘Who are you, beautiful?’ the voice continued; Archer looked at the screen and saw Lupinetti turn to the man on the monitor, talking to him. ‘You a cop, huh? Homeboy’s saying he killed one of your friends. Your bitch-ass must suck at what you do.’
Archer leaned back in his seat, stretched his legs out and ate more Pringles. Spencer glanced at him and chuckled when he saw the NYPD detective’s lack of reaction. ‘Took me a while to get used to their bullshit,’ he said. ‘You seem like a natural.’
‘I was the younger brother growing up. No-one knows how to get under someone’s skin better than us.’ Archer looked out of the windshield ahead, tuning out more insults coming from the rear of the vehicle and thinking back over this trip. He and Marquez should’ve seen Lupinetti delivered a
nd be on their way back to New York City by now, but from past experience he might have known it wouldn’t turn out to be so simple; his life rarely was. But then he thought of his sister managing to take those steps at Johns Hopkins yesterday, and smiled. Aside from riots, prisoner escapes and being stuck with Frank Lupinetti for hours on a bus, the trip away from New York hadn’t been a total wash yet.
‘Do your pick-up stops change journey to journey, or is it always the same schedule?’ he asked Harrington.
‘Varies, but we often get prisoners from Gatlin and Big Sandy on the same ride. Sort of guys these places house means inmates need to get transferred in and out a lot. For their safety, and others.’
‘You always take the same route north on this highway?’
‘Unless there’s good reason not to,’ Agent Spencer said from behind the wheel, overhearing. ‘We stick to 77, the main routes and other turnpikes. Get stuck down a dirt road in this thing, we’re stranded with these guys and unless we call local police, back-up might take time to reach us.’
‘Yo, Agentman, look at this,’ a voice called from the back. Archer and Harrington both turned and saw the pale-looking smaller white guy from Big Sandy was slumped against his window. His eyes were open but glazed, sweat on his brow glistening in the low light of the transport. He’d looked bad when he’d first shuffled onto the bus but now seemed even worse.
‘What’s his deal?’ Spencer asked, checking his rear-view mirror. Harrington went through their paperwork for the ride and found the man’s file.
‘Doing twelve for narc offenses,’ he told Spencer and Archer. ‘Rehabbed for heroin but a lot of these guys score it or other junk to tide them over on the inside. Gallagher, when’s the last time you used?’
The man didn’t reply, still sagged against the window.
‘I’ve seen this movie,’ Archer said. ‘We open that gate, he shanks you and they end up crashing this bus. We die or near enough and Tommy Lee Jones gets deployed to find the prisoners.’
‘If Gallagher’s passed out or in a coma when we deliver him, it’s gonna be bad for us. Help me out here. Watch them.’ Harrington stowed his shotgun then opened the gate, the inmates quietening down as the space between them and the outside world suddenly shrank.
Pulling his Sig Sauer but keeping it out of sight, Archer sensed the atmosphere shift in the bus. None of the prisoners moved as the guard went down into the bus towards Gallagher, who was still hunched against the window.
‘Try something, I’ll make sure they give you a real warm welcome at Gilmer when we get you there,’ Harrington told him, seeing the guy was still conscious.
‘I won’t, bro,’ the man whispered.
Harrington examined him up close. ‘Told you,’ the black inmate who’d called out said, as the agent turned Gallagher’s arms over, examining the marks.
‘When’s the last time you shot up?’
‘Couple days.’
Two of the inmates were eyeing the open grille, two more Harrington and the keys on his belt, but as he kept watch on them, his pistol in his hand behind his leg, Archer’s eyes lingered on Lupinetti for a moment. The former cop wasn’t looking at what was happening in the bus which was unusual enough, watching the darkened landscape pass by outside instead, but then Archer caught his expression in the reflection of the window; he was looking pleased about something.
Frank’s face reverted to its usual blank expression as he sensed Archer’s eyes on him, but too late; the NYPD detective had seen it.
A man stabbed twice in one week, his escape attempt from the hospital foiled and now being taken to a new high security federal prison to serve out another nineteen years of his life.
What did he have to look so happy about?
With fatigue beginning to take over, Marquez still hadn’t had received an update on the laundry truck driver’s condition, so deciding her day was finally done, was about to leave the hospital for the night when she saw a nurse walk up to the station and overheard her ask if a cell phone had been handed in.
‘Someone lost a phone?’ Marquez asked as she passed, her instinctive curiosity surfacing again.
‘Just one of our patients,’ the nurse replied.
The NYPD detective turned away but then stopped. ‘Which room is he in?’
‘17. Why?’
The number immediately rang an alarm bell in her mind. ‘Show me,’ Marquez said. She followed the nurse and stopped when she reached the room in question.
The window in room 17 was the one Frank Lupinetti had gone out through when he’d tried to escape. But we frisked him, Marquez thought. He didn’t have a cell on him. His hands were also cuffed on the bus right now, which meant even if he’d decided to try and hide the phone somewhere much more uncomfortable than a pocket or in his sock, he wouldn’t be able to get it out.
As the nurse looked at her, wondering why Marquez was so concerned about a patient’s lost phone, the NYPD detective turned and walked swiftly out of the hospital until she stopped outside 17’s window. She then followed the path Lupinetti would have taken, ending up in the exact spot where she and Archer had stopped him just before he’d had the chance to get through the gate and to the road.
She looked all around her, but couldn’t see a dropped phone. She tracked back towards the hospital building and started again, this time more slowly. She followed the path again, using the flashlight on her cell to illuminate the sections of the path further out than she’d checked before.
She found it on the second trip. There were embankments lined with trees in the parking lot carpeted with bark chippings, just off the track Lupinetti would have taken, and a cell phone was jutting out of one of them, only a sliver of the screen catching the moonlight with the rest buried under the chips. Marquez saw the screen had been smashed, pieces of its protective cover ground into the concrete a foot away, but it seemed hidden too particularly to have been dropped accidentally.
To her, it looked like Lupinetti had stamped on it before attempting to quickly hide the device.
She picked the phone up with her sleeve, and tried to turn it on but no luck. Before she moved to take it back inside, her eyes shifted to the window.
He’d stolen a phone but hadn’t taken it with him.
Why?
‘He’s cold as ice,’ Harrington told Spencer behind the wheel, having come back to the front of the bus, the gate relocked, his keys still clipped to his belt and his shotgun back in his possession.
‘Better call ahead to Gilmer and see if they can get a nurse or doc ready to give him something,’ Spencer said, as Archer kept his eyes on Lupinetti. ‘Most likely be methadone, right? For heroin treatment?’
As the two extradition agents talked, Archer was barely listening, still thinking about Lupinetti’s self-satisfied smile. It was the same expression he’d seen on the man’s face during the operation last year in New York City when Archer’s friend Diana Lucero had died.
When Lupinetti had known something the people around him didn’t.
‘It’s not working,’ one of the nurses told Marquez, having retrieved a charger for the phone. The NYPD detective tilted it and saw the small hole she was looking for.
‘Can you score me a safety pin?’ The nurse left and came back with one a few seconds later. Marquez used the end to open the cradle where the SIM card was held and opened her own cell the same way. She swapped them out, then switched her phone back on.
‘Pin number required?’ the nurse asked. Marquez shook her head; the guy recovering in room 17 didn’t seem to have activated one, which she knew happened sometimes with older folk given these kinds of phones by family members. Once it had loaded and her phone recognized the storage on the SIM, she went to Call History.
The previous six numbers dialed were all named contacts, but the most recent number was unsaved. Marquez turned and went into the man’s room. ‘When was the last time you used your phone, sir?’ she asked the guy lying in the bed.
‘This morning.’
Marquez’s eyes were fixed on the time of the last call. Outgoing, not incoming, at 5:42pm. The area code for the call was 315, which she knew very well was for upstate New York.
So Frank Lupinetti had called someone up there.
She was staring at the screen, wondering who that could be, just as Archer and the other passengers on the bus were about to find out.
ELEVEN
On the I-64 highway, almost halfway to their next stop at FCI Gilmer and currently outside Charleston, West Virginia, the extradition bus had just passed through a traffic build-up after having been delayed by an accident for almost ten minutes. As they moved clear, passing another vehicle apparently broken down on the verge with its hazard lights on, Archer was glancing behind him to take another look at Lupinetti when they began to approach a long low bridge, the Kanawha River running not far below.
‘Search for your boys might be spreading out,’ Harrington said, tapping Archer on the shoulder, who turned to see what he was talking about. As the large steel girders of the bridge passed either side of the bus, Archer saw a WV State Police cruiser parked across the far end of the bridge ahead, a navy blue Chevy Impala with a gold-colored roof.
It was straddling the two lanes, clearly expecting them to stop. The queues from the incident ten miles back down the highway had thinned out traffic significantly, so the bus currently had nothing ahead between it and the end of the bridge.