by Beth Harden
“Can I have a locator sheet please? We’re done in our cube. Oh, and a marker, too?”
“Help yourself,” says the harried officer. I pull a copy from the stack and lift a pen from the officer’s desk. On it we record the findings of the day and account for each man. Bunk 4D. Who lives there? Without my reading glasses, it’s hard to make out the fine print. I run a finger down the left-hand column of the graph and stop at the designated coordinate, tracing across for the name and number. Terran Willis, # 99012. I quickly walk back over to the cube, bend down and collect the remaining pile of papers from the dumped envelope and place them at the top of the near-to-overflowing garbage bag closest to me. These will be dragged through a trail of laundry crystals and powdered creamer out to the hallway and taken en masse to the loading area. Already there must be thirty to forty huge bundles waiting there. Using the permanent marker, I make a large ‘X’ and label it 4D. I move with deliberate intent, but I have no clear plan yet on how to locate this bag and retrieve the rest of the suspicious evidence contained within?
Carson had stepped in front of the Final Judgment Seat and taken his knocks. That was justice, right? But hours after the shakedown was complete when I am home sipping a glass of Moscato and contemplating the soft snowing of white pollen from the sycamore tree, I realize it is nearly impossible to manufacture hatred towards a corpse. By now, my rapist is a bundle of bones in a casket stained with mold and black rot, and all I feel is disappointment that I have missed the annual joy of spitting on his grave.
#
Planning a crime is not a simple matter of putting on a ski mask or stealing a credit card. In order to achieve success, the smart criminal does not focus on what he hopes will go right, but rather what he knows will go wrong. He subscribes to Murphy’s Law starting at the worst possible outcome, which of course is getting apprehended, and backing it up from there to the moment he decided to do such a thing. By calculating the pratfalls, our offender can pinpoint these areas of weakness and trouble-shoot them in advance of any action and thereby eliminate the obstacles to success. If the number of people that are involved is limited, the chances of getting away with the crime are proportionately increased. Every man has his price. Someone always sings in the end, so best not to let your right hand know what your left is up to.
Some are born with this genius of evil-doing. It stems from a mutated thread of DNA which creates clones of crazy cells that form a criminal brain. Everything about that person’s perspective is skewed through a deviated lens. Others learn how to be aberrant as young toddlers bumping around their cribs, unaware that they are slowly being indoctrinated into the wayward choices of their caregivers. Fighting, lying, and cheating become as normal a routine as the bottle of Enfamil or the pacifier between their gums. They grow up in it. And then there is a third, much smaller subgroup of folks like me who must forcibly push aside past principles if they want to get the job done. As it turns out, none of us are above becoming evil especially when it’s in the name of good.
I lie here thinking of what it must be like to know that not only are you capable of doing such a thing, but that you are going to do it. All of the cases on Forensic Files are eerily similar in one respect. These were average people who sat at the supper table every evening calmly sharing beef stew with their spouse as if nothing irritated them in the slightest, just as they had every other night until that one second when something tipped them off-center and they took that first step in a calculated plan. Where would one even begin?
I am intrigued by the evolution that takes a harmless housewife from mousy discontent to the blazing defiance of a killer in the courtroom dock. This episode is fascinating and features two wicked wives who used chemicals as a means to the end. Women can’t handle a full dose of premeditated hatred. They choose to dilute it down instead which apparently makes the idea of taking someone out more palatable. I guess it assuages some of the guilt if you dish it out in little dainty measuring cups. In this particular case, the spurned woman chose ethylene glycol. Common antifreeze, we learn, is syrupy, odorless and sweet-tasting, making it easy to mix into coffee, tea, soda or juice drinks undetected. Antifreeze tastes pretty darn good for something that can kill you and it doesn’t set off any alarms. Less than one-third of a cup can severely maim. It affects the central nervous system causing initial headaches, dizziness, slurred speech, vertigo, vomiting and eventually kidney failure. A preferred choice for poisoning.
Damnit! My show is interrupted by a call on my cell phone. I ignore it so I can watch the final ten minutes when the dead marine’s wife is found guilty of poisoning him so she can collect a quarter-million dollars and use it for breast implants. Five years it took for them to pin her for the crime. It is amazing what little regard one person can have for the life of another. I switch off the television and check to see who called. There is a voicemail on my phone from my detective friend. I try to interpret the tone of his voice which sounds neither victorious nor gloomy. It’s a generic request for me to call him back at my convenience. My heart beats wildly. I’ve been waiting my whole life for the answer to this question. Convenience is not in the equation. I dial him up instantly and after several rings, he is on the line.
“I got your message,” I say breathlessly.
“Hi, honey,” Hughes replies.
“Well…?”
“I want to preface this by saying that you need to think very clearly about what action you may or may not want to take. Information can be a dangerous thing. And there are repercussions that…” begins Hughes.
“Do you have the results?” I interrupt.
“Hold up. You sure are an impatient girl.” He catches himself on that remark and retracts it. “I don’t mean it like that. What I’m saying is just slow down and think before you react.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I’ve been thinking for twenty-six years, remember?”
“You’ve got that fiery Cooke spirit in you. But I shouldn’t expect anything different. Okay. I ran the samples you sent me through the lab and checked against the National Database system. We know definitively who raped you, Elise.”
Process of elimination hadn’t worked when the case was fresh. Three men, two distinct DNA profiles but no proof. At the time of the trial, the seminal slides were little more than a cloudy pool of confusion that was ruled inconclusive and unreliable. Tell that to the parents of a daughter whose lower intestinal tract was ruptured and riddled with the human papilloma virus, a sexually transmitted disease, in a port of exit that hurriedly was converted to a welcome entrance for the depraved. Ask those parents to keep that knowledge to themselves since their daughter couldn’t even decipher the menu or retain what she ate the meal before.
“Tell me,” I say without hesitation.
“It was the two men, Carson and Turner. Just as we thought.”
“No one else?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” Hughes confirmed.
“What about the fingerprints on the ropes and the pillowcase? Everyone agreed, even the defense and the prosecution, that there was definitely a third set from another man. The one who tried to kill me,” I insist. I can visualize him rolling his eyes like they all do at the mention of my invisible nemesis, the same way parents do to a child who has outgrown the stage of having imaginary friends but still sets a plate at the table for him and demands that he be buckled into a car seat.
“We can’t prove that, honey. Even if we know it to be true. The technology that we have available is called decent but it too is limited. Forensics in this state relies on what’s called Vacuum Thermal Evaporation where lab techs use intense heat to isolate the DNA on materials. There were partial fingerprints there that looked to be different, but it was not enough to match it or identify the person. We know they belong to a male but that’s all I have, Elise.”
“So you’re giving up, is that it?” I ask accusingly.
“Listen, we can still go after Turner with what we have here. We may have a case wi
thin the statute of limitations. I would have to take this to the District Attorney to see if it’s something they can re-open. The case never went to trial and the charges of sexual assault never lodged. I would have to see what contractual agreement was made between the attorney and the state when they drafted up the plea bargain. But it is possible that there is a loophole that we can slip through to hang this guy.”
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
“I’m an investigator,” he says. “I always do my homework first. Hold on…” he says. I can hear the dead pause of a phone on hold. A minute later he is back on.
“Listen, I’ve got an urgent call on the line. I will ring you back as soon as I can and give you the few facts I have on this guy. In the meantime, let your gut lead you. Often our instincts are our best guide, okay? Love you, honey,” says Detective Hughes before patching back over to his waiting distress call on line one.
#
“Miss Abrams. I’m only telling you because you’re a good lady. There’s nuthin’ in it for me. Willis in 2-B’s been on the phone with his ‘boy.’ Telling him the second he gets out, he’s gonna go find his bitch ex, tie her up and throw her in the closet. Make her sit in her own piss and eat dog shit for trying to leave him. Then maybe clean ‘er up and have some fun with her. I’m only sayin' this cuz he’s bragging about it in the blocks. You need to know he’s playin' choir boy in your class.”
A snitch has a certain M.O. about him. He’s overly friendly behind closed doors and openly defiant when he’s on show with his peers. He offers others up willingly but his services aren’t free. He tries too hard to groom favor with those in authority but really only cares about himself. I squint my eyes as if filtering some of the artificial light will make my vision clearer so I can spot the holes in his story. Would this mealy-faced manipulator have any reason to lie to me? What’s in it for him?
“I appreciate your concern. I’ll keep it in mind,” I say cautiously.
“I’m not shittin’ ya,” replies Mr. Clancey. “He’s always braggin’ ‘bout what he’s done to these chicks. Tuned ‘em up when they needed it. I’ve done my fair share of shit, don’t get me wrong, but I’d never put my hands on a female. And if I had, I wouldn’t be proud of it. I’ve got sisters and I sure don’t want some dude treating ‘em like that.”
“I know the code in here,” I reply. “It’s risky to come to me. Thank you for looking out for others,” I say. I rise to my feet and reach to pull the keys off my clip so I can let him back out into the henhouse.
“There’s one more thing,” Clancey says. I hesitate then, allowing him another minute more of privacy before he is absorbed back into the mass of drama that’s milling about his bunk.
“Yes…?”
“Willis has been talking on the low the past two days. How he’s going to find a way to get alone with you and mess your shit up.”
There’s a slight delay as I process what he has just told me. This Maine girl has to take in a shred of street jargon, turn it over end to end, spin it around and translate it into something that makes sense to a middle-aged Yankee who’s straddling two worlds. Take for example, ‘mess your shit up.’ As in ’make an advance’ or ‘take what is mine and destroy it?’ Is it open to interpretation or is there no other way to receive this but as an indirect threat? Is Willis playing me now knowing full well who I am? Or is this just opportunistic evil with its mind set on the next random victim? Either way, a female stuck in a six-by-six foot office space that was originally half of a shower room is a sitting duck.
“Would you be willing to repeat this to the Lieutenant if asked?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. “This guy’s a tickin’ time bomb. One of these days, he’s gonna end up doin'’ some real damage.”
I question his motives for speaking up. Clancey has no reason to lie, but then again, it’s not his habit to be Joe Boy Scout. Either it’s a false accusation to take a man down or a fact that will win him some favor. It’s up to me to figure out which.
“We’re done here,” I say stiffly. Clancey looks as if he’s expecting a pay-off for his services. He hesitates for a brief second and when I make no further move, he retreats, crestfallen. His fifteen minutes of fame are over.
#
The chairs are lined up in a ragged row like a low-income walk-in clinic. The officer on duty tells me they’ve been waiting in formation since six o’clock this morning. Mondays are always intense. These guys have had two whole days to sit and think what they can ask the counselor for when she returns. I am their information highway and they don’t mind driving full speed and running me down in the process. I’ve decided that inmates are the most self-absorbed people I’ve ever met. With nothing but hours on end of idle time to dwell on themselves, why wouldn’t they be? I am their mandated audience. All one-hundred-and-sixteen of them, each stunned when I pause for a moment to recall the issue he left me with seventy-two hours ago. ‘You know the thing I asked you for.’ ‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ ‘Did you look into that for me?’ As if there’s something wrong with me that he isn’t the first thing on my list that day.
I step into the unit braced and ready with briefcase on one shoulder, water bottle in the other hand, keys dangling precariously from two fingers until I can find the right one and force it into the lock. It’s stiff and won’t turn without a second hand to stabilize the door. The officer is completely oblivious to my plight and has his head down. It’s the tail end of his double shift. The floor is filthy with millions of bacteria from fecal matter and urine. It’s an unsafe surface to lay anything down on; even flies would be put off by the conditions. I drop the water bottle into the briefcase and use my elbow to prop the door ajar. Water leaks into the paperwork. The guys sit and stare. No one is willing to give up their seat to help a lady out. I swing the door open and push it quickly shut behind me. I sit and listen to the jawing and haggling outside the office, a mounting impatience that is palpable. By nine o’clock, I typically unlock the door from the inside and stuff a wad of paper towels into the top corner to keep it hinged open. It’s a tough reach for a woman of average height. If the janitor’s dustpan is anywhere within sight, I often opt to jam it near the hinges on the bottom. It’s growing louder in the unit. I’m still sitting at my desk paralyzed by some unwillingness to let them in. A wave of warmth radiates across my back and up my neck. There’s no air in here. I want to go home. Not feeling up to it today, but I’m trapped by my own signature on a contract. Can’t risk another unauthorized excuse to run out of here. Calm down! That clicking sound is driving me crazy. The small desk fan is struggling to keep its motor running. I realize it’s been on since Friday. What if it had short-circuited and burned down the whole prison? So what if it had? I switch it off and swallow a good gulp of water. Someone’s kicking the far side of the wall. The inmate phone is mounted there in that corner. Could be a restless habit or retaliation for my long delay. Finally, I stand up on my feet. Time’s up!
First man in the door needs a sentence modification. Didn’t get my jail credit, he complains. Second man wants me to place a call to his wife. Hasn’t talked to her in three weeks. No money on my account,’ he insists. I am not a goddamn switchboard operator. This is prison. You don’t get to make social calls. Third man has a grievance. His house keys and cell phone were lost in transit when he was transferred and are not in the prison property room. So what, I’m supposed to crawl on hands and knees to look for your crap after you stripped an innocent man of his credit cards and cash and threatened to blow a hole though his spine as you ordered him to walk away? I can see in the reflecting mirror that more than one man has slipped into the hall area between the two doors. There are three of them now congregated on the other side of the wall. A dangerous scenario. “Wait outside!” I yell. You’d think the officer would notice the jam up and police the door. There’s further unrest out in the main room as the stragglers file back and resume the front of the line. Fourth man wants a bar of soap. Claim
s he has no money. “You have thirty-six dollars on your account, Mr. Green. Look at the print-out in your hand.” He won’t back down. Claims he needs it to wash his clothes since the liquid detergent does such a shit job. His shirts are scratchy. “I’m sorry,” these supplies are for the indigent. I pay taxes, he says. And you’re telling me that you won’t give me one bar of lousy soap? I glance at the paper bag of hygiene supplies. I have a slip of six bars in there. “It’s not about me; it’s state policy.” My family pays taxes, he argues, so that should entitle me to soap. “I’m pleased your family is sharing the burden with the rest of us who work, but we all still buy our own soap,” I tell him. So you’re not going to give me the soap? he asks. “That’s what I said,” I repeat firmly. I don’t fuckin’ believe this, he whines. “You have a problem with that?” No, I have a problem with you, he rants. “You can leave,” I tell him. He stubbornly stands there unmoving. “You need to leave,” I repeat. I don’t believe this. “Just go! Now!” I order loudly. No sooner has he turned the corner when in comes another. My heart has started skipping beats. Too much. Too many. They keep coming, same questions as yesterday. Can I have a statement of my account? “Last names A- L today. Let’s give every man his due turn.” I just need a quick balance. It will only take a minute. “What’s your last name?” Rodriguez. “You’re a Wednesday guy,” I correct him. “Come back then.” Are you serious? That’s what the sign says. I keep at it, waiting for recall. Even as I close the door, they are shouting out demands. One more thing. Counselor, can I just have…? I slam the door despite the protests. Relentless. It pisses me off. The more I give, the more they expect.