by Ryan Schow
At first glance, he looked like a stodgy English professor, the kind of man that preyed on young women or enjoyed giving A students Cs on great papers just because he could. Leopold smiled and shook the warden’s hand, doing everything he could not to wipe his palm on his pants the minute he got it back.
Seeing Leopold in his three-piece suit, with his styled hair and his good looks, seemed to give the warden pause. The man sat down behind his desk. “I understand you’re looking to invest in privatized prisons such as these. Or perhaps even this one.”
“Actually, I’m here to invest in you,” Leopold said with sunny eyes and a counterfeit smile.
“And how is that?”
“It’s simple, really. I’m here to invest in your future as the continued head of this prison.”
The man’s smile fell off his face completely. “If you’ve set this meeting up on false pretenses—”
“Indeed I have,” Leopold interrupted.
Dicampli glanced past Leopold’s shoulder with pinched features, about to say something to the correctional officer standing guard. Before he could get a word out, Leopold slid the first of many documents Dicampli’s way.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
Dicampli glanced down at the document and blanched. Leopold’s mouth pulled back into a sly grin as the warden pulled the sheet of paper off his desk and glared at it. He was looking at a copy of an encrypted email Dicampli had sent a few months back.
“How did you get this?”
“That’s a generous bid,” Leopold said. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
To the guard, he said, “Leave us now, if you would.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said anything!”
“Everyone thinks the darknet is private,” Leopold said when the C/O left them to each other. “It’s not as private as you think if you employ the right people. So when you bid twenty-five thousand dollars in a red room to have someone murder a man with a chainsaw, it doesn’t always go unnoticed.”
For a second, Leopold detected the faint traces of sweat in the air.
“You can look at my bank accounts—”
“Oh, I have those, too.”
“Then you know I didn’t spend twenty-five grand on anything,” he growled.
“The offer was rather low. The winning bid was closer to forty thousand. For taking someone’s life, I hate to say this, but you strike me as rather cheap, and perhaps a bit too academic in your approach. One thing is certain, though. You are not too wise in a world as perverse as this one. One might say you showed up to a dick-measuring contest with a four-inch cock.”
Leopold remained quiet while the warden squirmed.
Dicampli swallowed hard, then said, “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Of course you do, Fabian.”
Leopold slid another picture forward. This one was a photo of what the winning bid bought. “Forty grand to see a man killed with a shotgun blast to the head. Seems a bit rudimentary if you ask me.”
“Get this murder porn off my desk,” the warden said, shoving the photo away.
“For forty grand in a red room, something like this feels too fast and gory to enjoy. We took a screenshot from the video we found on your personal computer, in case you were wondering how we got that.”
“What do you want?” he asked, harsh, his grotesque face confounded.
“Pump the brakes, Warden. Before we talk about what I want, you should see this”—he produced a photo of Dicampli with a young girl in sexual escapades—“and this”—he revealed a copy of Dicampli’s son’s medical records—“which shows a broken arm and a lip split so badly it required seven stitches—”
“My son has nothing to do with this,” Dicampli hissed, his earlobes burning red, his hands balled into fists. “Or are you one of those types of extortionists? The kind who stoops low enough to involve a man’s family?”
“I’m not the one abusing your kid, Fabian,” Leopold said plainly. “That’s on you. And that isn’t me in the picture with an underage girl.”
“So I like extracurricular sports, and I step out on my wife from time to time, and maybe my kid got shoved a little too hard. That doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Nor is it enough for extortion, Mr. Wentworth, so I suggest—”
“I have you by the balls,” Leopold announced. “An arrogant little twit like you will only know this when I give you a right and proper squeeze. Shall I do that now, Fabian?”
“What could I possibly have that you’d be interested in?” he asked, changing the subject. “I babysit the scourge of society, the throwaways, the cockroaches still left living once the wheels of justice made their final rotation.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Leopold said, “it’s not money.”
“Let’s dispense with the mystery.”
“Cooperation.”
“Cooperation with what?”
“Let’s push off that for a second,” Leopold said. “I want to ask you about this prison. I understand it’s a private prison, so each man represents a certain dollar figure to you and the stakeholders in this endeavor. And I understand you take the worst of the worst, correct? That you get a greater compensation for them?”
“It’s a Supermax prison, so yes.”
“Why are you not at capacity by now?”
“We’re still relatively new,” Dicampli said, meek but assertive. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I have things to do.”
“Right now, unless you’re listening to every last word leaving my mouth, all of my photos—of which there are plenty, and packaged in a lovely little bundle—will go to your wife’s email, along with a text letting her know she has an email.” He read off Mrs. Dicampli’s email address and then said, “Unless you want to find out what I’m really about, I suggest you sit there, shut your mouth and let me speak. When I’m done with you, when you’ve bent the proverbial knee—which you most certainly will—you can try to bow up on me in some other capacity. But it won’t work. Nevertheless, I’m sure I’m making myself clear. Nod if I am, you disgusting pervert.”
The man’s jaw flicked as he clenched his jaw. Eyes rattled with hatred, he gave a wordless nod of surrender. Leopold allowed himself another smile.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the warden said, unable to help himself.
“Apparently, you’re not a fast learner,” Leopold remarked. “So to that I say, if you think the mistake is mine, then I will have you killed and replaced, and when the new warden shows up for work, I’ll have something on him as well. Do you know why?”
“Because everyone is guilty of something if you look deep enough.”
“Exactly,” Leopold said, fighting to relax. “Now, back to our conversation. Tell me, who is the worst offender in this prison? Give me a name.”
“That’s easy,” Dicampli said. “Ronnie Beckett.”
“The serial killer,” Leopold replied. “It’s the way he slaughtered people, right? That’s why he got your vote?”
“Exactly,” he said. “What’s the point of this?”
Leopold opened a different file, slid several photos across the desk to Dicampli. The man turned and gagged, his face becoming so white it almost looked green. The sudden change was familiar, but still unsettling.
“These are but a few of Beckett’s crime scene photos,” Leopold said. “You’re looking at Martha Garnier, the great-grand-daughter of the legendary fashion designer, Charlotte Garnier. See how he took off her arms and legs, then tried to put her legs where her arms went?”
Fabian swallowed hard and shoved the photos away.
“That’s the kind of twisted mind a guy like Ronnie possesses. Martha wasn’t used as murder porn, nor was she dismembered to make a statement, as Beckett indicated in his testimony. He just liked the idea of, and I quote, ‘making a mockery of perfection.’ Can you imagine? A guy like Ronnie Beckett is born on this ea
rth, spends decades among polite society, and this is what he chooses to call perfection?”
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“I’m going to kill him and you’re going to let me. Not only that, you’re going to stand down when I’m done, and then you’re going to give me one more thing.”
“You’re not killing Beckett,” Dicampli said, the color returning to his face, “and you’re not getting a damn thing from me!”
Leopold reclined in his chair, folded his hands and let a slow smile spread across his face. “You puff up your chest and speak to me as if you have a choice.”
He let the statement sink in. When the message was received to his liking, he sat back up, withdrew another photo, then slid it across the table.
“This is you getting a blowjob from a downtown massage parlor.”
“How did you get this?”
“You didn’t think they had security cameras hidden in the ceilings, or in the walls?”
He scoffed but failed to mask his concern.
“That’s a girl you’re with, right?” Leopold asked. “I mean, I can see her tits and everything, but…she is a girl, right?”
“Obviously,” he said, overly nervous.
Leopold slid the next photo across the table and said, “Then why are you sucking her dick in this picture?”
“I didn’t know she was a he,” Dicampli said, embarrassed.
“Yet you went tit for tat with her, or him.” Tsk-tsk-tsking, he added, “Well, isn’t this interesting?”
“What other favor do you need?” Dicampli asked.
“I’m going to need you to put someone in solitary confinement for a month, and you’re going to check on him personally every single day. You’ll make his rounds, bring him his food, walk him to the showers, alone.”
“I have correctional officers for that.”
“I haven’t finished explaining myself,” Leopold said. “For all intents and purposes, you’re going to go through the motions, and if anyone asks, you’re going to make this man your pet project.”
“What man?” he asked.
“The one who won’t be there,” Leopold replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Ah, but you will. Now I need you to set my associate up with a conjugal visit, someplace where you can adequately assure me no cameras or microphones exist.”
“They aren’t called ‘conjugal visits’ anymore,” he said, suddenly academic in his submission. “They’re called ‘enhanced family visits,’ and we don’t do them in Supermax prisons. It’s not allowed by law.”
“What law is that?”
Waving a hand, Fabian grumbled, “Apparently, there are cameras everywhere.”
“Yes, but not in here.” Dicampli simply stared at Leopold with a dumb look on his face. Leopold was almost amused. “I want to remind you, Warden, I have access to everything, even your internal systems, if that’s where I point my attention. If you find a way to record any of my associate’s sessions, be it video or audio—or heaven help you, both audio and video—your dick-sucking escapades will hit the email of every single employee in this prison. But not before it hits your wife’s phone and four different news outlets.”
“The office will be clean,” Dicampli said, pale-faced and unenthusiastic. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“As I indicated, I will be sending an associate on my behalf. I trust you’ll be polite. Because if you hesitate to give her the full measure of your respect, or anything less than exactly what we’ve agreed to, I will burn your whole life down inside of ten minutes.”
“There’s no need for further threats,” Fabian said, some of his color trying to come back. “I’ll willingly comply. But on one condition.”
“Anonymity, the originals of everything, blah, blah, blah,” he said. Fabian started to speak, but that was when Leopold slid the final document across the desk. It was a long list of emails, phone numbers and addresses. “This is everyone you’ve ever known, all the people you love, every last soul you’ve ever been in touch with. That second list—and you can see it continues on to the back—is a list of all your recent social media contacts. Notice the first grouping. These are the investors in this prison, powerful men and women who hold your future in their hands.”
The sight of this list, even more so than the massage parlor photos, unnerved Dicampli completely. His anger finally got the best of him.
“If you were in here, under my charge—” Dicampli started to say.
“Which I will never be,” Leopold interrupted.
“—I would wonder whose mind is more diseased,” he continued, “yours or Ronnie Beckett’s.”
“Ronnie’s, of course,” Leopold said, extra cheery. “I’m a force for good, and that maggot does art with dead bodies. I’m going to send in my associate now.”
“Who is the inmate you’d like to see?” he asked. “And when are you going to kill Ronnie?”
“Atlas Hargrove,” he replied. “As for Ronnie, we’ll get back to you on the timing of that.”
The man bristled, the bad news piling on. The moment Leopold mentioned Atlas’s name, any color the warden had returning to his face flushed right back out again.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like a man who makes jokes for a living?” Leopold asked. “If I can secure his cooperation, and I’m sure I can, then and only then will I ask for your cooperation. As for my stranglehold on you…that will remain active while Atlas is alive and in use.”
“That could be for the rest of his life,” Dicampli all but wailed.
“Then I suggest you stay away from chicks with dicks,” he chided. “In the meantime, I have your cell phone and—after today, if everything goes well—I’ll be in touch.”
“When is your associate arriving? Because Mr. Hargrove is currently in solitary confinement, so I’ll need thirty minutes to get him ready.”
“Thirty minutes,” Leopold said. “My associate will be wearing an earpiece, which is to remain on her person. She’ll have no weapons of any sort, so you and your men will forgo the invasive probing, or inappropriate touching.”
“I’ll see that she gets clearance myself,” the warden grumbled.
“From here on out, anything I don’t like from you comes with a punishment.”
“I understand.”
Leopold stood, looked down at the man, then said, “We all have interesting habits, especially those we don’t want others to see. Your habits are bad—not the worst I’ve seen, but bad nevertheless. I chalk it up to poor genetics. Your parents shouldn’t have bred, plain and simple. But alas, they did, and that’s fortunate for me because a more honorable man wouldn’t be so malleable.”
“I don’t need your psychoanalysis to do what you need me to do.”
“What I meant to say was that we can now dispense with the antics of our first meeting and begin to have fun, if you’d like.”
“I’m having fun,” the warden said, sarcastic. “This is a regular freaking riot.”
“This isn’t fun for you, Fabian. You’re a bug pinned to a piece of Styrofoam. Something rare and unsightly, an example of reckless perversion.”
“I’m not the monster you’re making me out to be—”
“You look like a man who beats off with broken glass,” Leopold said. “I don’t like you. In fact, I have more respect for an excised polyp than you. But that aside, I’m offering you a chance to do the right thing for once in your life and spare yourself—and those closest to you—any unnecessary indignities. The least you can do is thank me. So thank me, Warden. Right now.”
Through grinding molars, Fabian Dicampli uttered those two incredibly painful words: “Thank you.” This, in itself, made Leopold’s day.
Chapter Ten
CIRA KINGSLEY
When Leopold walked out of the prison and headed her way, Cira saw the hint of a victorious grin and knew he’d succeeded. She drew a deep breath, released it slowly
to still her nerves, then climbed out of the limo. “Who do I need to see?”
“Warden Dicampli will relinquish his office to you,” he said. “Enjoy your conjugal visit.”
She tapped the earpiece in her left ear. “We’ll make it a three-way.”
“Let me know when you’re inside,” he said.
Looking at him, so dapper in his three-piece suit, with his full head of silver hair and his beard perfectly trimmed and sculpted, she couldn’t dispel her growing attraction for him. Alas, it would never be.
“If for any reason you lose transmission,” he said as they passed each other, “step outside and I’ll take over.”
“The tech will be fine,” Cira called back. “I’m not expecting any problems.”
“Just follow my lead and we’ll be good.”
She stopped, turned back around, went to him. “What’s he like?”
Leopold seemed to think about it for a moment, looking up at the looming concrete structure, a building so utterly utilitarian, so vehemently at odds with the picturesque landscape, that the best he could do was sigh at its existence.
“The warden will do what we need him to do.”
“Yes, but how is he?”
“He’s a rat in every sense of the word.”
“Do you think he’s going to be a problem?” Cira asked.
He shook his head. “The ‘Welcome to your Nightmare’ pitch went off without hindrance. There was a little sniveling, lots of embarrassment, and some early denials. In the end, however, he saw things my way. Don’t be afraid to lean into him if it feels like he’s not on board.”
“What’s the soft spot?”
“Chicks with dicks.”
She slowly nodded her head. “Ah…the massage parlor.”
“Bingo,” he said, getting in the limo. “Bring it home, Cira. You can do this.”
Cira Kingsley had learned how to walk, talk and flirt right after she’d hit her goal weight, bought the wardrobe she wanted and mastered the art of makeup. She’d done that at fifteen. Now she could look like anyone she wanted, or she could look like herself. Makeup and clothes were forms of expression to most women; to her they were tradecraft.