The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Laptops or desktops?"

  "We have both. Mostly they're desktops. Not that there're, like, hundreds of them, you know." He offered a conspiratorial smile. "State budgets and everything." He told a story about recent financial cuts at the Department of Corrections, which Dance found interesting only because it was such a bald attempt at distracting her.

  She steered him back. "Now, access to computers in Capitola. Tell me about it again."

  "Like I said, cons aren't allowed to use them."

  Technically, this was a true statement. But he hadn't said that cons don't use them. Deception includes evasive answers as well as outright lies.

  "Could they have access to them?"

  "Not really."

  Sort of pregnant, kind of dead.

  "How do you mean that, Tony?"

  "I should've said, no, they can't."

  "But you said guards and office workers have access."

  "Right."

  "Now, why couldn't a con use a computer?"

  Waters had originally said that this was because they were in a "control zone." She recalled an aversion behavior and a slight change in pitch when he'd used the phrase.

  He now paused for just a second as, she supposed, he was trying to recall what he'd said. "They're in an area of limited access. Only nonviolent cons are allowed there. Some of them help out in the office, supervised, of course. Administrative duty. But they can't use the computers."

  "And Pell couldn't get in there?"

  "He's classified as One A."

  Dance noticed the nonresponsive answer. And the blocking gesture--a scratch of his eyelid--when he gave it.

  "And that meant he wasn't allowed in any . . . what were those areas again?"

  "LA locations. Limited access." He now remembered what he'd said earlier. "Or control zones."

  "Controlled or control?"

  A pause. "Control zone."

  "Controlled--with an ed on the end--would make more sense. You're sure that's not it?"

  He grew flustered. "Well, I don't know. What difference does it make? We use 'em both."

  "And you use that term for other areas too? Like the warden's office and the guards' locker room--would they be control zones?"

  "Sure. . . . I mean, some people use that phrase more than others. I picked it up at another facility."

  "Which one would that be?"

  A pause. "Oh, I don't remember. Look, I made it sound like it's an official name or something. It's just a thing we say. Everybody inside uses shorthand. I mean, prisons everywhere. Guards're 'hacks'; prisoners are 'cons.' It's not official or anything. You do the same at CBI, don't you? Everybody does."

  This was a double play: Deceptive subjects often try to establish camaraderie with their interrogators ("you do the same") and use generalizations and abstractions ("everybody," "everywhere").

  Dance asked in a low, steady voice, "Whether authorized or not, in whatever zone, have Daniel Pell and a computer ever been in the same room at the same time at Capitola?"

  "I've never seen him on a computer, I swear. Honestly."

  The stress that people experience when lying pushes them into one of four emotional states: they're angry, they're depressed, they're in denial or they want to bargain their way out of trouble. The words that Waters had just used--"I swear" and "honestly"--were expressions that, along with his agitated body language, very different from his baseline, told Dance that the guard was in the denial stage of deception. He just couldn't accept the truth of whatever he'd done at the prison and was dodging responsibility for it.

  It's important to determine which stress state the subject is in because that allows the interrogator to decide on a tactic for questioning. When the subject is in the anger phase, for instance, you encourage him to vent until he exhausts himself.

  In the case of denial, you attack on the facts.

  Which was what she now did.

  "You have access to the office where the computers are kept, right?"

  "Yeah, I do, but so what? All the hacks do. . . . Hey, what is this? I'm on your side."

  A typical denier's deflection, which Dance ignored. "And you said it's possible some prisoners would be in that office. Has Pell ever been in there?"

  "Nonviolent felons are the only ones allowed in--"

  "Has Pell ever been in there?"

  "I swear to God I never saw him."

  Dance noted adaptors--gestures meant to relieve tension: finger-flexing, foot-tapping--his shoulder aimed toward her (like a football player's defensive posture) and more frequent glances at the door (liars actually glance at routes by which they can escape the stress of the interrogation).

  "That's about the fourth time you haven't answered my question, Tony. Now, was Pell ever in any room in Capitola with a computer?"

  The guard grimaced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be, you know, difficult. I just was kind of flustered, I guess. I mean, like, I felt you were accusing me of something. Okay, I never saw him on a computer, really. I wasn't lying. I've been pretty upset by this whole thing. You can imagine that." His shoulders drooped, his head lowered a half inch.

  "Sure I can, Tony."

  "Maybe Daniel could've been."

  Her attack had made Waters realize that it was more painful to endure the battering of the interrogation than to own up to what he was lying about. Like turning a light switch, Waters was suddenly in the bargaining phase of deception. This meant he was getting close to dropping the deception but was still holding back the full truth, in an effort to escape punishment. Dance knew that she had to abandon the frontal assault now and offer him some way to save face.

  In an interrogation the enemy isn't the liar, but the lie.

  "So," she said in a friendly voice, sitting back, out of his personal zone, "it's possible that at some point, Pell could've gotten access to a computer?"

  "I guess it could've happened. But I don't know for sure he was on one." His head drooped even more. His voice was soft. "It's just . . . it's hard, doing what we do. People don't understand. Being a hack. What it's like."

  "I'm sure they don't," Dance agreed.

  "We have to be teachers and cops, everything. And"--his voice lowered conspiratorially--"admin's always looking over our shoulders, telling us to do this, do that, keep the peace, let them know when something's going down."

  "Probably like being a parent. You're always watching your children."

  "Yeah, exactly. It's like having children." Wide eyes--an affect display, revealing his emotion.

  Dance nodded emphatically. "Obviously, Tony, you care about the cons. And about doing a good job."

  People in the bargaining phase want to be reassured and forgiven.

  "It was nothing really, what happened."

  "Go ahead."

  "I made a decision."

  "It's a tough job you have. You must have to make hard decisions every day."

  "Ha. Every hour."

  "So what did you have to decide?"

  "Okay, see, Daniel was different."

  Dance noted the use of the first name. Pell had gotten Waters to believe they were buddies and exploited the faux friendship. "How do you mean?"

  "He's got this . . . I don't know, power or something over people. The Aryans, the OGs, the Lats . . . he goes where he wants to and nobody touches him. Never seen anybody like him inside before. People do things for him, whatever he wants. People tell him things."

  "And so he gave you information. Is that it?"

  "Good information. Stuff nobody couldn't've got otherwise. Like, there was a guard selling meth. A con OD'd on it. There's no way we could've found out who was the source. But Pell let me know."

  "Saved lives, I'll bet."

  "Oh, yes, ma'am. And, say somebody was going to move on somebody else? Gut 'em with a shank, whatever, Daniel'd tell me."

  Dance shrugged. "So you cut him some slack. You let him into the office."

  "Yeah. The TV in the office had cable, and sometimes he w
anted to watch games nobody else was interested in. That's all that happened. There was no danger or anything. The office's a maximum-security lockdown area. There's no way he could've gotten out. I went on rounds and he watched games."

  "How often?"

  "Three, four times."

  "So he could've been online?"

  "Maybe."

  "When most recently?"

  "Yesterday."

  "Okay, Tony. Now tell me about the telephones." Dance recalled seeing a stress reaction when he'd told her Pell had made no calls other than to his aunt; Waters had touched his lips, a blocking gesture.

  If a subject confesses to one crime, it's often easier to get him to confess to another.

  Waters said, "The other thing about Pell, everybody'll tell you, he was into sex, way into sex. He wanted to make some phonesex calls and I let him."

  But Dance immediately noticed deviation from the baseline and concluded that although he was confessing, it was to a small crime, which usually means that there's a bigger one lurking.

  "Did he now?" she asked bluntly, leaning close once again. "And how did he pay for it? Credit card? Nine-hundred number?"

  A pause. Waters hadn't thought out the lie; he'd forgotten you had to pay for phone sex. "I don't mean like you'd call up one of those numbers in the backs of newspapers. I guess it sounded like that's what I meant. Daniel called some woman he knew. I think it was somebody who'd written him. He got a lot of mail." A weak smile. "Fans. Imagine that. A man like him."

  Dance leaned a bit closer. "But when you listened there wasn't any sex, was there?"

  "No, I--" He must've realized he hadn't said anything about listening in. But by then it was too late. "No. They were just talking."

  "You heard both of them?"

  "Yeah, I was on a third line."

  "When was it?"

  "About a month ago, the first time. Then a couple more times. Yesterday. When he was in the office."

  "Are calls there logged?"

  "No. Not local ones."

  "If it was long distance it would be."

  Eyes on the floor. Waters was miserable.

  "What, Tony?"

  "I got him a phone card. You call an eight hundred number and punch in a code, then the number you want."

  Dance knew them. Untraceable.

  "Really, you have to believe me. I wouldn't've done it, except the information he gave me . . . it was good. It saved--"

  "What were they talking about?" she asked in a friendly voice. You're never rough with a confessing subject; they're your new best friend.

  "Just stuff. You know. Money, I remember."

  "What about it?"

  "Pell asked how much she'd put together and she said ninety-two hundred bucks. And he said, 'That's all?' "

  Pretty expensive phone sex, Dance reflected wryly.

  "Then she asked about visiting hours and he said it wouldn't be a good idea."

  So he didn't want her to visit. No record of them together.

  "Any idea of where she was?"

  "He mentioned Bakersfield. He said specifically, 'To Bakersfield.' "

  Telling her to go to his aunt's place and pick up the hammer to plant in the well.

  "And, okay, it's coming back to me now. She was telling him about wrens and hummingbirds in the backyard. And then Mexican food. 'Mexican is comfort food.' That's what she said."

  "Did her voice have an ethnic or regional accent?"

  "Not that I could tell."

  "Was it low or high, her voice?"

  "Low, I guess. Kind of sexy."

  "Did she sound smart or stupid?"

  "Jeez, I couldn't tell." He sounded exhausted.

  "Is there anything else that's helpful, Tony? Come on, we really need to get this guy."

  "Not that I can think of. I'm sorry."

  She looked him over and believed that, no, he didn't know anything more.

  "Okay. I think that'll do it for the time being."

  He started out. At the door, he paused and looked back. "Sorry I was kind of confused. It's been a tough day."

  "Not a good day at all," she agreed. He remained motionless in the doorway, a dejected pet. When he didn't get the reassurance he sought, he slumped away.

  Dance called Carraneo, currently en route to the You Mail It store, and gave him the information she'd pried from the guard: that his partner didn't seem to have any accent and that she had a low voice. That might help the manager remember the woman more clearly.

  She then called the warden of Capitola and told her what happened. The woman was silent for a moment then offered a soft, "Oh."

  Dance asked if the prison had a computer specialist. It did, and she'd have him search the computers in the administrative office for online activity and emails yesterday. It should be easy since the staff didn't work on Sunday and Pell presumably had been the only one online--if he had been.

  "I'm sorry," Dance said.

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  The agent was referring not so much to Pell's escape but to yet another consequence of it. Dance didn't know the warden but supposed that to run a superprison, she was talented at her job and the work was important to her. It was a shame that her career in corrections, like Tony Waters's, would probably soon be over.

  Chapter 12

  She'd done well, his little lovely.

  Followed the instructions perfectly. Getting the hammer from his aunt's garage in Bakersfield (how had Kathryn Dance figured that one out?). Embossing the wallet with Robert Herron's initials. Then planting them in the well in Salinas. Making the fuse for the gas bomb (she'd said it was as easy as following a recipe for a cake). Planting the bag containing the fire suit and knife. Hiding clothes under the pine tree.

  Pell, though, hadn't been sure of her ability to look people in the eye and lie to them. So he hadn't used her as a getaway driver from the courthouse. In fact, he'd made sure that she wasn't anywhere near the place when he escaped. He didn't want her stopped at a roadblock and giving everything away because she stammered and flushed with guilt.

  Now, shoes off as she drove (he found that kinky), a happy smile on her face, Jennie Marston was chattering away in her sultry voice. Pell had wondered if she'd believe the story about his innocence in the deaths at the courthouse. But one thing that had astonished Daniel Pell in all his years of getting people to do what he wanted was how often they unwittingly leapt at the chance to be victims, how often they flung logic and caution to the wind and believed what they wanted to--that is, what he wanted them to.

  Still, that didn't mean Jennie would buy everything he told her, and in light of what he had planned for the next few days, he'd have to monitor her closely, see where she'd support him and where she'd balk.

  They drove through a complicated route of surface streets, avoiding the highways with their potential roadblocks.

  "I'm glad you're here," she said, voice tentative as she rested a hand on his knee with ambivalent desperation. He knew what she was feeling: torn between pouring out her love for him and scaring him off. The gushing would win out. Always did with women like her. Oh, Daniel Pell knew all about the Jennie Marstons of the world, the women breathlessly seduced by bad boys. He'd learned about them years ago, being a habitual con. You're in a bar and you drop the news that you've done time, most women'll blink and never come back from their next restroom visit. But there're some who'll get wet when you whisper about the crime you'd done and the time you'd served. They'd smile in a certain way, lean close and want to hear more.

  That included murder--depending on how you couched it.

  And Daniel Pell knew how to couch things.

  Yes, Jennie was your classic bad-boy lover. You wouldn't guess it to look at her, the skinny caterer with straight blond hair, a pretty face marred by a bumpy nose, dressing like a suburban mom at a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert.

  Hardly the sort to write to lifers in places like Capitola.

  Dear Daniel Pell:

  You don't
know me but I saw a special about you, it was on A&E, and I don't think it told the whole truth. I have also bought all the books I could find on you and read them and you are a fascinating man. And even if you did what they say I'm sure there were extreme circumstances about it. I could see it in your eyes. You were looking at the camera but it was like you were looking right at me. I have a background that is similar to yours, I mean your childhood (or absence of childhood (!) and I can understand where you are coming from. I mean totally. If you would like to, you can write me.

  Very sincerely,

  Jennie Marston She wasn't the only one, of course. Daniel Pell got a lot of mail. Some praising him for killing a capitalist, some condemning him for killing a family, some offering advice, some seeking it. Plenty of romantic overtures too. Most of the ladies, and men, would tend to lose steam after a few weeks, as reason set in. But Jennie had persisted, her letters growing more and more passionate.

  My Dearest Daniel:

  Today I was driving in the desert. Out near Palomar Observatory, where they have the big telescope. The sky was so big, it was dusk and there were stars just coming out. I couldn't stop thinking about you. About how you said no one understands you and blames you for bad things you didn't do, how hard that's got to be. They don't see into you, they don't see the truth. Not like I do. You would never say it because your modest but they don't see what a perfect human being you are.

  I stopped the car, I couldn't help myself, I was touching myself all over, you know doing what (I'll bet you do, you dirty boy!) We made love there, you and me, watching the stars, I say "we" because you were there with me in spirit. I'd do anything for you, Daniel. . . .

  It was such letters--reflecting her total lack of self-control and extraordinary gullibility--that had made Pell decide on her for the escape.

  He now asked, "You were careful about everything, weren't you? Nobody can trace the T-bird?"

  "No. I stole it from a restaurant. There was this guy I went out with a couple years ago. I mean, we didn't sleep together or anything." She added this too fast, and he supposed they'd spent plenty of time humping like clueless little bunnies. Not that he cared. She continued, "He worked there and when I'd hang out I saw that nobody paid any attention to the valet-parking key box. So Friday I took the bus over there and waited across the street. When the valets were busy I got the keys. I picked the Thunderbird because this couple had just went inside so they'd be there for a while. I was on the One-oh-one in, like, ten minutes."