Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  I smiled at that. “No, I am sure I do not, but perhaps Detective Rodriquez here does.”

  “Detective Rod….” He looked at Carlos, at me and then at Carlos again. “Oh shit, I am sorry.” He laughed fictitiously. “I do that all the time. Yes, yes, I see it now, of course.”

  “See what?” asked Carlos.

  “Well, that you are the…. I mean, that he isn’t….”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Look, can we talk? There are just a few things we would like to ask you.”

  “Sure.” DeAngelo slinked back around his desk and sat down, offering us the chairs across from him with a sweep of his hand. “Please, be my guests.”

  We took our seats. Carlos pulled out his notepad, crossed his legs, and sat back. I found my comfort zone up on the edge of my seat, hoping it would encourage DeAngelo to maintain eye contact with me so that I might better gauge his reactions to my questions. I started with the obvious.

  “Superintendent DeAngelo, you paroled a fellow here yesterday named René Landau. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Landau?” he said, crowding his brows and pursing his lips convincingly.

  “Yes. You do know him, don’t you?”

  He gestured with a shrug. “Should I?”

  “He was an inmate here for almost eighteen years.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Well, as you may know, Detective, M.C.I. houses over seven hundred and fifty men here in any given year. I can hardly expect to acquaint myself with all of them, now can I?”

  “You paroled this man yesterday.”

  “Me? No, I don’t think so; we have a parole board that takes care of that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, but you signed his papers. Besides, how many men did this prison release on parole yesterday? I am betting just the one. Are you telling me that you are unaware of a prisoner’s release date when that time comes?”

  I could see from the twitch in his eye that he knew his game was slipping. “Yesterday, you say?”

  “Yes, yesterday.”

  He eased back in his chair, weaving his fingers into a double fist. “Oh, yes, we did have a new parolee sign out yesterday. It comes back to me now. He passed through the gates at o-eight hundred hours.”

  “Then you remember him.”

  “Of course I do. René Landau, he was a model prisoner. I believe the parole board let him out on good behavior.”

  I looked to Carlos and smiled. He gave me a wink. It was time to open fire. To DeAngelo I said, “Do you remember when Landau came to Walpole?”

  He unstitched his fingers and thumbed his lower lip, as if digging back in time to resurrect a memory that I knew lay just below the surface. “You know, I do,” he said, “I remember the day he got here because, as I recall, he had just been convicted of that big armed robbery case that took the casino for over a million dollars.”

  “It was six million,” I said.

  He acted surprised. “Six?”

  “Yes, you didn’t know?”

  “No, I mean…maybe back then I did, but who remembers details like that from so long ago?”

  I smiled. “Funny, that is the second time in two days I heard that exact expression.”

  “Well, Detective, memories do fade with time.”

  “I suppose. Superintendent, I am wondering if you recall who the sentencing judge was on Landau’s case.”

  DeAngelo shook his head. “Sorry, I do not.”

  “No? Let me enlighten you then. It was your brother-in-law, Judge Thomas H. Cardell.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed nervously. “Well, naturally you could expect that my brother-in-law likely sentenced hundreds of criminals here to M.C.I. over the years. That hardly seems suspicious.”

  “Did I insinuate it was?”

  “No. That is, I thought you were suggesting….”

  “Suggesting what?”

  He rocked forward in his chair and planted his forearms on the desk, locking his left wrist in his right hand. “Detective, what is this about?”

  I took advantage of his shifting demeanor by sharpening my spear of attack. “René Landau is dead,” I said, “but I think you know that, don’t you?”

  “No, I did not know that.”

  “Someone murdered him yesterday.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  He leaned back in his chair again. “It is not so much that; as that I don’t care.”

  “A man you just paroled yesterday is dead and you don’t care?”

  “Detective, is there something specific you wish to ask me?”

  “What is your relationship with Paul Kemper?”

  “Kemper?” I could tell that tweaked his interest.

  “Sure, you know Kemper? You two went to college together. You both studied criminal law, even belonged to a secret society there known as Dragon’s Gate.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “But you still keep in touch.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Oh? I suppose if I subpoena your phone records, I won’t find that you two have talked extensively over the last week or two?”

  I watched his gaze sweep the desktop, as if searching for a response there that failed to come to him naturally. His fingers, already balled in a fist, tightened until his knuckles whitened. “All right,” he said, sounding angry, “maybe you will, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Doesn’t it? You don’t think it means anything that Kemper was Landau’s lawyer, Cardell his sentencing judge, and that both knew you intimately before Landau’s trial and sentencing?”

  “No.”

  “Why is it that no one, not even Kemper, questioned Landau’s placement here at a level six maximum security facility?”

  “It was not my place to question that.”

  “It was your place to tell the D.A.’s office of possible ethics violations concerning Judge Cardell’s connections to the case.”

  DeAngelo dismissed my comment, shaking his head, saying, “There were no connections, Detective. Cardell’s relations were more than arm’s length. He did not know the defendant; he had no personal connections with the defendant’s council and he stood nothing to gain by recommending Landau serve his time in Walpole.”

  “Still, you should have said something.”

  “No. Kemper should have said something. As Landau’s council, he was obligated to appeal the sentencing or request another venue, which he did not.”

  DeAngelo had a point, a good one, and he knew it. I came there knowing that under normal circumstances, the execution of an imposed sentence includes transferring custody of the prisoner to the Commissioner of Corrections’ office. From there, the C.O.C. sentencing review board determines the prisoner’s disposition and, considering the judge’s recommendation, places him under the supervision of the prison superintendent at the appropriate facility. Judge Cardell may have ordered Landau to serve his sentence at M.C.I. Walpole, but the C.O.C’s office ultimately determined where he served that time. Although Cardell and DeAngelo’s position in the Good Old Boys Club likely influenced the C.O.C’s decision, no one could argue that either had final say in the matter. As for Kemper, his failure to request a venue change over Walpole constituted incompetence at best, not collusion with elements counter to his client’s concerns. I took a deep breath and redirected my interview, hoping not to wear out my welcome before I had a chance to ask all I needed of DeAngelo.

  “Tell me about Stephanie Stiles.”

  “Who?”

  “Stiles, Landau’s fiancée. You must know her.”

  He pretended to think about it, but I could tell from the look on his face he knew exactly whom I meant. For one thing, he took too long to acknowledge her, and when he did, he knew too much to have known her only remotely. Secondly, he adopted a modestl
y ridged posture at the mention of her name. As a detective, I recognized the posture well. I have seen it too many times. Only the best liars can fight it; it comes so naturally. To the casual observer, however, it is subtle, a slight squaring of the shoulders, a straightening of the back and a breath that never completely exhales.

  “Yes, I believe I do know her,” he said. “She is an attractive woman, as I recall.”

  Through the corner of my eye, I saw Carlos turn his head to look at me. I knew what he was thinking, and if I turned to look at him, I knew we both risked laughing our asses off right there on the floor. To DeAngelo I said, “When is the last time you saw her?”

  “Last Saturday,” he said without hesitating.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, I know that because she comes here every third Saturday of the month for her conjugal visits with Landau.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said she visited Landau every third Saturday of the month.”

  “You said conjugal visits.”

  “Did I?” That caught him off guard. His posture, which had softened some, again grew ridged. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I looked to Carlos, who nodded the affirmative. “Yes,” I said, “you did. I thought Massachusetts did not allow conjugal visits.”

  “That’s right. If I said conjugal, then I misspoke. Besides, even in the states that allow it, one must be married to qualify for such visits. Clearly, Landau did not fit that profile.”

  “I see.” I glanced at Carlos again, glad to see him writing everything down in his notepad. DeAngelo noticed it too, and kept shifting his attention between the notepad and me, stopping longer at Carlos’ notepad by a margin of three to one. I thinned my lips to squelch a smile that I thought might make me come off too smug. When DeAngelo noticed it, he fixed his sights on me again. I asked him, “How long has Ms. Stiles been coming to see René Landau?”

  His answer came quickly. “Not long.”

  “Within the last few years?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know, Detective. You will have to ask Stephanie that question.”

  I smiled, this time not caring to hide it. “Yes, I will do that.” He seemed uncomfortable with that reply. I gestured toward the window, out onto the prison yard below his office. “I understand there had been several attempts on Mister Landau’s life while he was in prison. Is that correct, Superintendent?”

  He laughed lightly. “Detective, every day someone here attempts to kill someone else. This is not a country club we are running here.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t suppose it is. Then it is true about the attempts on Landau’s life?”

  “I am sure it is.”

  “Do you know who tried to kill him?”

  “No. You have to understand that when something like that goes down within these walls, it happens quickly. There are never any witnesses. Everyone here is a living ghost; to be anything else will get you dead for real in a hurry.”

  “Is it possible that someone from the casino might have tried to kill Landau?”

  “You mean an Indian?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s possible, though we don’t have a strong Native American gang presence here. Unlike the Aryan Brotherhood, the Black Guerillas or the Mexican Mafia, what few Indians we have here are only loosely affiliated with blood in—blood out gangs like the Indian Posse out of Canada or the Eagle Warriors of the Appalachians. If they tried to kill Landau and failed, it is only because Landau likely aligned himself with another prison gang that protected him.”

  “Like the Flying Pegasus gang?” I asked, remembering the tattoo on Landau’s chest.

  “Sure, they maintain a large enough presence here to protect one of their own from a smaller gang like that.”

  “You mention blood in—blood out. What is that?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Is it what I think?”

  “If you think it means that a gang member has to kill someone to prove his membership worthiness, then you are right. He needs to kill a target named by the gang to get in, and he has to die or be killed to get out.”

  “Is the Flying Pegasus gang a blood in—blood out gang?”

  “It is.”

  Carlos said, “I guess Landau is out then.”

  DeAngelo checked his watch, and I knew that meant we were getting the boot. “If you have everything you need, gentlemen,” he started to his feet. “I have another appointment I must prepare for.”

  “Almost,” I said. “Just a couple more quick things, if I may?”

  He looked to Carlos, and then at his notepad. Carlos, sensing his growing intolerance, closed it and tucked it back into his coat pocket. DeAngelo reclaimed his seat. “Make it quick.”

  “I will. Thank you.” I cleared my throat and asked, “Have you ever been to a bar in New Castle called Pete’s Place?”

  “Pete’s?”

  “Pete’s Place.”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t get to New Castle often.”

  “What about the Wampanoag Indian Casino? Do you frequent that place at all?”

  “A casino? Sorry, I don’t gamble. Gambling is for fools. Really, Detective, this questioning must end now. I do not know what you think I might have to do with Landau’s death, but I assure you, my connections with him ended the second he walked through those gates out front. If there is nothing else you need, then I—”

  “There is just one more thing, please, I promise.”

  By now he had taken to his feet again and had pulled the cuffs of his shirt out to meet his coat sleeves. Punctuating his frustration with a sigh, he said, “What is it?”

  “The night before last, were you in New Castle?”

  “No. I told you I don’t get out there often.”

  “All right, then.” I stood and turned to Carlos. “Detective, shall we?” Carlos got up, leaned over my shoulder and whispered into my ear. I pulled back, the look on my face reflecting my surprise. “Ah, yes,” I said, “I forgot, but I promised Superintendent DeAngelo no more questions.” He leaned in again to whisper. I smiled and agreed. Carlos turned to DeAngelo.

  “Sir,” he said, “do you own a handgun?”

  Oddly, DeAngelo did not seem surprised. “I do,” he answered Carlos.

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “It’s a .38 Smith & Wesson. Why?”

  “That’s all. Thank you.”

  DeAngelo looked at me. “Detective?”

  I smiled and offered a parting handshake. “Thank you, Superintendent. We appreciate your time.”

  Carlos added, “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  After collecting our weapons at the visitor’s desk, we headed out to the parking lot to compare notes. I pointed out DeAngelo’s slip regarding the conjugal visits. “You know he allowed it,” I said, “and he knows Stephanie Stiles more intimately than he is letting on.”

  “I know that,” said Carlos. “Did you notice that when he suggested you ask her how long she knew Landau, he called her by her first name?”

  “Sure. Clearly he is familiar with her beyond mere acquaintances.”

  “And that he said she was attractive? What is he, blind?”

  We both laughed at that, which put me in a good mood and perhaps helped prepare me for the phone call I got next. It was Lilith. She wanted to go back to the haunted house to conduct another séance.

  “Lilith,” I said, “what is the point? So the place is haunted. It is none of our business.”

  “It’s all of our business,” she said. “We awoke him. He is angry and restless now. Anyone entering that house after last night is not safe.”

  “What do you propose we do, arrest him?”

  “Ha-ha, Tony, clever. Did Fidel tell you to say that?”

  “Carlos,” I said.

  Carlos turned to me. “What?”

  I waved him off. “Lilith, you have to start respecting people more if you want them to cooperate.”

  “I respect
people.”

  “By calling them names?”

  “Everyone has a name.”

  “Yes, but not Fidel or Spinelli jelly belly. Oh, and then there is my favorite, Tony baloney on a pony. It’s so juvenile. When will you start acting your age?”

  She laughed. “My age? How do you know I am not acting my age? How many hundred-and-seventy-four-year-olds do you know?”

  She had me there. “Look, if I do this séance with you tonight, will you promise that will be the last time?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Witch’s honor?”

  “What?”

  “Humor me.”

  “All right, fine, witch’s honor, no more séances.”

  I looked at Carlos, who had been bending his ear to listen in. He gave me a shrug. I took that as a yes. I said to Lilith, “I suppose you want Dominic there, as well?”

  “Spinelli jelly belly? Sure, the more the merrier.”

  “Okay, if Ursula will be there then I guess I can speak for him, too. We will all be there.”

  “Of course you will. I never doubted it. See you at eight o’clock sharp.”

  “Right, eight o’clock, oh, and listen.”

  “Yes?”

  “This agreement we have, same agreement as last night, isn’t it? I mean no couch tonight, right?”

  Again she laughed, only this time it sounded more condescending. “Oh, Tony, you are so cute. I’ll see you tonight. Good bye.” Then, as if she knew Carlos was listening in, she added, “Adios, Fidel.”

  Carlos waved at the phone. “Adios!”

  THIRTEEN

  Carlos and I returned from Walpole shortly before noon. Spinelli had called Powell in for our interview, and both were waiting upstairs when we arrived. I asked Spinelli if he told Powell what we wanted. He said Powell thought he knew. I grabbed a cup of coffee for me and a Coke for Carlos. Spinelli and Powell were drinking bottled water, with Powell’s water nearly empty. I was glad for that, as I hoped to turn up the heat on him and I wanted him to feel it.

  “Sergeant Powell,” I said, extending my hand. “Please, don’t get up. Thanks for coming in this morning.”

  We shook, and then Carlos offered his greetings. I came around the conference table and took a seat directly across from Powell. Spinelli settled into the seat next to mine, Carlos in the one next to him. Powell said, “So, what’s this, like an inquisition?”