The Prison Guard's Son

by Trace Conger

  "Something like that."

  "It's going to work better on adults since we don't change that much over time, but it can do kids too. You're probably looking at less accuracy though. I'd guess kids' facial features tend to change over a decade or more. Adults don't."

  I pulled Vance’s and Turner's booking photographs from the case file and ran a finger across the smooth images. "If I get you photos of two kids, can you tell me what they might look like now? Assuming they haven't done anything drastic to alter their appearance?"

  "You working with missing kids now, Finn? Trying to get into heaven?"

  "No," I said. "That ship sailed. Caught fire. And sunk."

  He laughed. "How old would they be now? The older you go the less accurate it'll be."

  "They're nine years old in the photo and they'd be forty-one now."

  "Why you looking for two forty-one-year-old missing persons? Don't you think they'd be old enough to find their way back home by now?"

  "I told you, they're not missing."

  Cricket didn't say anything.

  "So," I said, "will it work or not?"

  "That's a big leap, but it's your money if you want to try it. Whenever I've seen that technology it's to identify someone over a five or six-year span at the most. Not…" He did the math in his head. "That's thirty-two years."

  "I know. Can you do it?"

  "It might take a few days," said Cricket. "My guy is in Vegas and no telling how busy he is. Send me the photos along with the dates they were taken and I'll see what he can do." He paused. "While you're at it send me your photo and I'll show you what you'll look like in twenty-three years."

  "No thanks. I'd rather not know."

  Six

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT morning thinking about why the government would relocate and assign new identities to two child killers. The WITSEC program protects criminals and others who have testified in federal cases, but Vance and Turner didn't testify against anyone. Instead, they kidnapped and crushed a little boy's skull with rocks and their boot heels. It didn't seem fair to protect them from the shitstorm they'd whipped up. I get that they were only nine and had no chance at a normal life, but it was still a hard pill to swallow. Having a daughter myself, I understood why Willie wanted to find and bury these two shitstains.

  The WITSEC program is a coordinated effort between the DOJ and the US Marshals service. The DOJ authorizes the program and decides when to use it and the Marshals Service protects those individuals unlucky enough to have to participate. I didn't know much about the inner workings of the program, aside from what I'd seen in movies or read about in Elmore Leonard novels, but I knew someone who did.

  Aside from Cricket, another person I relied on from time to time was Gypsy Scott. He was in some ways my direct opposite. While I made a living finding people who didn't want to be found, Gypsy Scott made his living by helping people vanish into thin air. New name, new location, new job, new background, new everything. He essentially does what WITSEC does, but he offers his services to anyone willing to pay a seven-figure fee. No federal testimony required. He’s consulted with WITSEC more than once to help the government relocate high-value assets and he knows his shit. I hadn't seen Gypsy Scott in two years, but it was time to remedy that.

  Gypsy Scott ran his operation from a Victorian house in Newport, Kentucky. His home belonged on a brochure for a New England bed and breakfast. It’s taupe with maroon and cream accents and trim, and the two-story turret has more angles than a protractor factory.

  I parked on the street, walked up the winding paver stones that led to the wide, covered front porch and knocked on the door. A moment later a short woman in her seventies with a gray wig too large for her head cracked the maroon door.

  "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in, kicked and spit on," she said, eyeing me over her glasses. "He expecting you?"

  I wiped my feet on the doormat, across the image of a .357 magnum. "No," I said. "But I'm hoping to get a few minutes with him. He in?"

  She glanced over her shoulder. "He better be." She opened the door wide. "Come on in then, you're letting all the heat out." As I walked past her I noticed the revolver in her right hand. She directed me to the waiting room with a flourish of her unarmed hand. Thick plastic bracelets jangled on her thin arms while a diamond ring the size of a Maine Coon cat sparkled on her bony finger.

  As I sat down on a thick padded chair with paisley print she slid open the double doors to Gypsy Scott's office, ducked her head in and said something in a language I couldn't understand. Polish maybe. Then she sat down behind the large oak desk in the waiting area and stared at me.

  "Still doing your PI thing?"

  "Yep."

  "How's that going?"

  "Good."

  "You here for a client or yourself?"

  "Just wanted to get some information for a case." I gestured toward the doors she had just closed. "Figured he could give me some insight."

  She nodded her head and looked at me over her glasses again. "You in trouble?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." I looked at my watch. "But it's still early."

  "Uh huh," she said.

  Gypsy Scott and I met eight years ago. He was working a pro bono case helping a woman and her son disappear from her gangbanger husband. The husband ran drugs and guns into California, and he beat the shit out of her and her five-year-old son one too many times. I helped Gypsy Scott locate the family at a gang safe house and he worked his magic behind the scenes to establish new identities for the woman and boy. While her husband was out of town, we slipped in, snatched the pair and relocated them to Boulder, Colorado. Papa never knew what happened to them, but they were safe and out of his reach forever.

  The pocket doors slid open. Gypsy Scott stood in the doorway. He wore torn jeans, a white T-shirt underneath a black zip-up hoodie and blue-and-white boat shoes.

  "Well shit me Skittles," he said. "Come on in!"

  I nodded to the woman and followed him into his office. Two long white drawstrings bounced across his shoulders as he walked.

  "It's been awhile," he said, shutting the doors. "What brings you across the river?"

  "I need some information."

  "First minute is free, then I have to charge you." He smiled and poured me a cup of black coffee from a pot he kept on his desk.

  "You ever hear of Jacob Vance or Raymond Turner?"

  He cocked his eyebrows and shook his head. "No. Should I have?"

  "Back in eighty-four, when they were nine years old, Vance and Turner killed a little boy in West Virginia. Pretty gruesome stuff. According to the records they did time in some kiddie camp and when they were released they were assigned new identifies and shuffled off somewhere never to be heard from again."

  He rubbed his chin and sat on the edge of his desk. "No, never heard of it. So they were assigned new identities for their own protection? Because Uncle Sam thought someone would come looking for them once they got out?"

  "Right."

  He shook his head again. "I've heard of a few high-profile cases in the UK and Canada where that happened. Killer kids. But never heard of anything like it in the States. You sure you got your facts right?"

  I nodded. "I read the case file."

  "Surely the case file didn't mention anything about new identities? It wouldn't be in there."

  "No, that came from the victim's father. He had a theory the Feds wrapped them in new names and shipped them off somewhere. I looked into them and the paper trail ends in ninety-two. It checks out. But nothing about it in the local paper."

  "There wouldn't be," he said. "If the Feds were involved, they would've issued a gag order on the press. You won't find anything official. It's not like today where you've got citizen journalists running a hundred different blogs and discussing all this shit online. Information was much easier to control and suppress back then." He looked up at me. "So how are you involved in all this?"

  "The victim's father hired me to find these two."


  "And do what with them? Assuming you find them."

  "That's patient-doctor info." I fought back a smile.

  "Right. So how can I help? Understanding I've never heard of these two kids."

  "You know more about WITSEC than anyone I know. I wanted to see if you've got any ideas on where to begin."

  "That's assuming they're actually part of WITSEC. Officially, that program is reserved for high-value assets testifying in federal cases. Mob stuff. But still, if these two guys are being protected, I'd assume the government would do it through the WITSEC program even though they aren't federal witnesses. I mean the infrastructure is already there, so it makes sense the DOJ would run it."

  "I figured."

  Gypsy Scott slid his wire-rim glasses down the bridge of his nose and stared at me. "I don't think I can do much to point you in the right direction, other than to tell you not to look in West Virginia. Typically when someone goes into WITSEC the Feds move them out of the area so no one accidentally recognizes them. They're probably living in a big city where they can blend in. It's possible they're using the same first names though. It's common for people in the program to keep their same first names, or at least their initials, so they don't make some stupid mistake when introducing themselves."

  "You think they're in the same city?"

  "Doubtful. They might be in the same state. That might make it easier for the Marshals to keep an eye on them, but they wouldn't want one bumping into the other. If these two guys got a deal, there would be conditions."

  "Like what?"

  "The usual stuff. They can't go back home. No contact with family or friends. No contact with each other. Definitely no contact with the victim's family. Basically, they have to avoid anything that could blow their cover."

  "Anyone ever been found once they went into the program?"

  He laughed. "I know you get a boner about going after these types of marks, but you've got an uphill battle here, my friend. I know WITSEC pretty well, and no one who has followed the rules has ever been found. Now, you've always got some stupid asshole mobster who outs himself—moves back to his hometown or calls his mother or something. Those guys don't last too long. Last year there was a girl, maybe twenty-three or four, who went into the program after testifying against her husband, who was some big-time gang leader in Miami. The Feds shipped her off to Minnesota. Guess the cold got to her, because she lost it and moved back to Miami after only a few months. Cops pulled her out of a Waffle House dumpster two days after she showed up in town. That sort of thing. But the people who take it seriously, the ones who keep their head down and their mouth shut, they disappear, man. No one's ever been found."

  "But someone has to know where these people are. There has to be some sort of database. Something tying their real identifies to their fake ones?"

  "I'm sure the CIA has documents identifying their deep cover operatives too, but it doesn't mean you're gonna find it."

  "What about agents on the inside? Would it be possible to get someone to turn and give up their new identities or hack into a database and find them?"

  "Not likely. You're dealing with a very small team of people. There might only be two or three agents who know their exact locations. They do it that way so some dirty LEO can't compromise the asset. They even use different computer systems so marshals outside the team can't access key details. It's solid all around. You're going to need a lot of luck on this one."

  I swirled my hand and watched the inky coffee cascade off the side of the porcelain cup.

  "If you were me where would you start?"

  "I'd start by shaving. That beard looks like shit."

  I didn't say anything as I ran my fingers across my finely trimmed chin and smiled wide enough for him to see my molars.

  "I'd start with their relatives," he continued. "Maybe you'll get lucky and one of these two is talking to someone he's not supposed to be talking to. You're looking for a needle in a Goddamn haystack, man."

  "What about drawing them out of hiding? Make them come to me. Like you said, the ones who get caught usually do something stupid. Maybe I can get them to poke their head out of the rabbit's hole."

  "It's much easier to make people disappear than it is to find them. But, if I was trying to do it, that's probably the approach I'd take. Draw them out, or start with the parents or siblings since those are tough relationships to sever. Maybe a girlfriend. When these people do get discovered, it's because they did something stupid. It's hard to stay under, man. Real hard. Especially if you've got family on the outside. The first thing I do with my clients before we do anything else is make sure they're really ready to go under. Most of them just want a fresh start and have no idea what it really entails."

  "Anyone ever find one of your clients?"

  "Fuck no! That'd be bad for business. I did have one guy, a CEO who was running from the IRS a few years ago, he did a few stupid things and I had to make him realize there were consequences for his actions. After we had a little chat he went back under and I haven't had any problems with him since."

  I tossed the rest of the coffee down my throat and set the empty mug on the desk next to the coffee pot. "Thanks. I appreciate your help."

  "Sorry I couldn't help more. I wish you the best of luck, man. You'll need it. And more."

  I shook his hand and turned for the door.

  "Look, Finn, I know I'm not going to dissuade you, but remember the Feds want these guys buried. They've probably spent a lot of time, effort and money to hide them. You start poking around too deep and you might draw some unwanted attention."

  "I'm hoping I get the attention."

  "Why's that?"

  "Because I'll know I'm close. Maybe someone pops up and leads me right to them."

  "That's not a bad idea. Both of these guys are going to have a contact on the inside, probably with the Marshals Service. Figure out who the contact is and you might be able to track them that way." He laughed. "But seriously, lose the beard."

  I slid the pocket doors open and then turned back.

  "One last question," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "What's it like having your mother work for you?"

  "Shit, man. Not as bad as you might think. She loves to work, keeps the place super clean and makes lunch. It keeps her mind sharp too. Best secretary I've ever had."

  "Assistant!" the woman yelled from a back room.

  "Right. Assistant. It's good, man. It's not like I live with her or anything. That would be weird."

  I thought about my father. He had probably finished his Columbo marathon and moved on to Quincy M.E. reruns. "Right. That would be weird."

  I grabbed a red-and-white mint from the lobby and returned to my car.

  Seven

  SOMETHING GYPSY SCOTT SAID UNNERVED me. He said no one in WITSEC who followed the rules had ever been found. That didn't surprise me because the government needed the WITSEC program to work. It has to be effective, because if anyone broke through the carefully crafted misinformation barriers and got to someone on the inside Uncle Sam would have a hard time persuading others to enter the program. If the DOJ could not guarantee protection the program would crumble into nothingness.

  One thing in my favor was that it was difficult to follow the rules. New name, new location, new car, new job, new hobbies, new language patterns, new everything. Imagine having to completely disconnect from your life. No contact with parents, friends, coworkers—all the people we look to when things go to shit. Everything you ever knew has to become a memory. Even people in the program who know someone is actively looking to kill them have trouble remaining under.

  I wondered if I could stay under completely, if I could sever ties with my family and give up everything and everyone I knew. I'm not sure I could do it, even with the threat of a bullet, or in Willie Baker's case a hammer, to the head.

  The DOJ designed WITSEC to protect mob informants and others who knew once they testified their lives would be in
danger. It wasn't a possibility, it was a certainty. That wasn't the case with Vance and Turner. They weren't actively evading anyone. They entered protection in case someone came looking for them, but the probability of that happening was low. Besides Willie Baker's failed PIs and me, I doubt anyone ever came looking for them.

  Another factor in my favor was the length of time Vance and Turner had been under. They disappeared two-and-a-half decades ago and that meant they were complacent. I imagine when they first arrived in their new locations with their new identities they followed the rules of protection to the letter. As time slipped by they eased up. It's human nature. They got more comfortable and did things they weren't supposed to do. Maybe they called someone they should stay away from. Maybe they went somewhere they were not supposed to go. Maybe it was a drunken email or telling purchase. Something as simple as a crinkled birthday card in the garbage can could lead to something. The clues would be there. They would be subtle, but they would be there.

  Finding those who don't want to be found comes down to paperwork. Ninety percent of what I do is research, or "ass time." That's where the details are. Where the real information is. Albert would never see Lieutenant Columbo sitting at his desk reviewing phone records, court transcripts or property records. That's not interesting and it makes for shitty television. But that's also where the answers are and that's where I began looking for Vance and Turner.

  For me the first part of any investigation is the workup. It is mind-numbingly boring. But it's important and it informs everything else I'll do to find these two. Somewhere in this blur of information is a kernel that will point me in the direction I need to go, like a dowsing rod. A breadcrumb that will lead me to another, and another and right to Vance’s and Turner's front doors. It'll show me the way, and if I follow it correctly I'll find them. Both of them.

  Contrary to what Gypsy Scott might tell his clients, it's impossible to disappear. All you can do is throw up roadblocks, smoke and mirrors and hope whoever is looking for you gets tired or has something else better to do with their time. I made a living out of leaping roadblocks and not following smoke or mirrors. If Vance and Turner were alive and still in the country, I would find them. It could be a long journey, but the first step was the profile.