by Saul Black
The ex-husband lived in Boston now. He, obviously, would have to be talked to. Valerie made the notes, but she shared the same feeling of redundancy she could sense in Will. We do the work, McLuhan had said. Which meant starting at the center and working outward. The standard investigation model was the CSI’s spiral-sweep pattern writ large. But to Valerie it already felt as if the standard model wouldn’t be enough. Hunches and gambles, curveballs and wild cards, intuitions and risks—these were normally the last resort, the desperate resort, in fact, when doing the work had got you nothing but insomnia and a perpetual migraine. But Valerie had been trawling her sixth sense ever since her first sight of the note left with Elizabeth’s body, ever since she’d understood that this was him. She knew what her grandfather would’ve said: Stop it. That’s the Drift. That’s your soul. Ignore it.
“Last chance,” Will said when they pulled up at the Red Ridge Correctional Facility, current home to Katherine Glass. “You can sit here and chain-smoke.”
“Give it a rest. Christ, Rebecca wasn’t kidding about this place.”
“What?”
“She said it was a modernist bunker.”
The prison looked like the upturned hull of a brutally designed ship. A low-lying structure of dark concrete with tiny barred windows it was obvious did not form part of the cells. An angled wall of black brick surrounded it, festooned with razor wire. It sat in two acres of scrub: woodlands to the east, a soft golden haze of wheat fields to the west.
Valerie called the warden, Donna Clayton. “Come to reception,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Inside, the place smelled of cold surfaces and ammonia. In reception a big-boned Hispanic guard with short black-polished nails sat behind a blocky steel desk. “Have a seat,” she said. “Warden Clayton will be out in a few minutes.”
“This is why I became a cop,” Will said, when they’d sat down.
“To put people in places like this?”
“To reduce my chances of ever ending up in one.”
Warden Donna Clayton was a statuesque black woman with broad shoulders and a nifty boyish haircut. Well-cut taupe pantsuit and a cream silk blouse. Precise but understated makeup. Her aura was crisp confidence and the ability to see through bullshit. Runs a tight ship, Valerie thought. And doesn’t suffer fools. Will’s sexual self livened, slightly, traumatized balls notwithstanding. First question a guy asks himself about any woman, Nick had said. Valerie felt a vague weariness at the thought.
They did the introductions and handshakes. “So,” Donna Clayton said, “are we doing this with screen or without?”
Valerie and Will looked at each other.
“Katherine’s a Grade B prisoner,” Donna said. “Technically that means she gets no visits without a security glass between her and anyone else. We can waive that, obviously, if you prefer, since this is hardly a social call.”
“No screen,” Valerie said, before Will could speak.
“Okay.” Then to the receptionist: “Renee, could you call C block and have them bring Glass down to Visiting? What’ve we got free there?”
Renee hit her keypad. “A-2, A-4, B-1 through 5…”
“A-2’s fine.” She turned back to Valerie and Will. “If you’d like to follow me? McLuhan filled me in on the phone, so you’ll have full cooperation, but I’d appreciate it if you kept me up to date on what goes down today. When you’re done with the interview I’ll have one of our team bring you to my office. We can discuss Katherine’s correspondence there, but I can tell you I’ve looked through it myself and there’s nothing that shouts.”
Three, four, five high-security doors with computer-coded entry and no-nonsense backup locks: the lingering mistrust of even twenty-first-century technology. Through the first set, Valerie and Will signed over their firearms.
“This might sound like a stupid question,” Valerie said, “but does she know we’re coming?”
“No,” Donna said. “I figured you wouldn’t want to give her time to prepare any nonsense.”
“You’re better at this than we are,” Valerie said.
“Hey, you did the hard part catching her. I’m just keeping her.”
Valerie liked the warden. She imagined the work that had gone into getting to where she was now, running a place like this. There was a vibe of not having come from money, a ghost of parental sacrifice for the Bright Black Daughter. Her composure hadn’t come cheap. The easy smile and straight back testified to fierce application. Nor had she reached her limit. She couldn’t be more than late thirties. According to Will, USP wardens could earn ninety thousand dollars annually, and the rate was higher in California. There was, Valerie intuited, a Donna Clayton game plan for the next twenty years. Red Ridge was a stepping stone.
“All right,” Donna said after what seemed to Valerie an interminable series of left and right turns, doors, buzzers, locks, guards, “here we are.”
The room was maybe fifteen by twenty feet, with a smell of stale coffee and raw disinfectant. Magnolia walls bare but for a laminated list of DOs and DON’Ts for visitors. A white Formica table and four orange plastic chairs. Down-lighting set too bright. All the joylessness of a bus station waiting room without the paltry cheer of windows or out-of-date magazines.
“Have a seat,” Donna said, though she remained standing. “She’ll be here in a minute.”
“She give you any trouble?” Will asked.
Donna smiled. “She’s in a single cell for all but two hours daily recreation, so there are limits. All death row inmates are supposed to take their rec in isolation, but the numbers don’t allow it. She’s kept as much away from the population as we can manage. She has charm. She’s polite, and obviously her IQ’s a blast. The staff hate themselves for liking her.”
“Do you like her?” Will asked.
“If I think about what she did, no, of course not. You’d have to be Jesus on E. It’s just that it’s tough to square what she did with the person she appears to be. She’s got language. Control. With the looks, it’s quite a combination. She could’ve become anything she wanted. And it seems like a joke she shares with herself that she didn’t.” She looked at Valerie. “But I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“You have male guards here,” Valerie said. “She have any contact with them?”
“Not without a female guard present, and then only for movement within the facility. Standing legal opinion for the last ten years has been that male custodial officers shouldn’t be assigned to female housing units, and that’s the line we follow. Pat-downs here are done by female staff only.”
Valerie felt, suddenly, that she was coming out of a daze. All morning the idea of seeing Katherine again had been an intellectual admission, nothing more. Now, without warning, the reality of it rushed her. Her scalp tightened, as if in anticipation of a blow.
The door opened.
A guard entered, a stocky, big-breasted black woman with maroon hair in a tight bun. “Warden,” she said, by way of acknowledgment. A moment later, Katherine Glass was there.
Prison-issue orange. Hands and legs in mobility cuffs and tether chain. The white heart-shaped face Valerie remembered, those green eyes peppered with black. The smiling look that said she knew your soul’s story, negligibly amusing in comparison to her own. Her mouth, sans lipstick, was the color of raw pork. Regulations had stripped the cosmetics and reduced the long blond hair to a jaw-length bob, but it was still pulled back in a short ponytail. There was a very slight fullness to her cheeks, as if a silk-thin layer of fat had been laid beneath her skin. Her whole body had the same supple, dollish quality. Even at thirty-eight the little girl was still there. The clever little girl who kept secrets of which the grown-ups were afraid.
“Well, well, well,” Katherine said, smiling. “Valerie Hart. And Detective Fraser.”
A second guard entered behind Katherine. White, younger than the first, perhaps late twenties, dark hair in a French braid, big brown eyes
with too much mascara and a large, full-lipped mouth. Narrow shoulders that made her look broad in the hips.
“I’m going to leave you to it,” Donna said. Then to the first guard: “Warrell, take her straight back afterward. Lomax, you can bring the detectives along to my office when they’re done.”
“Actually, I’m sorry, but we’re going to need to speak with her alone,” Valerie said.
Authority clash. Donna lifted her chin an inch. A quick mental weighing of the protocols, slight irritation—then the visible concession that the cops would get their way sooner or later, if not today then the next time. No point wasting energy on a pissing contest. “The door stays open,” she said. Then to Warrell and Lomax: “Okay, ladies, you can wait outside.”
“It’s appreciated, Warden,” Will said.
“It better be,” Donna sang, over her shoulder.
Katherine sat down opposite Valerie and Will. Rested her cuffed hands on the table. The former vamp nails were short and unpolished now, but the hands were still lovely. Matching veins the color of smoke showed in her pale wrists. For a few rich seconds the three of them sat simply absorbing the frisson. It was as if the room had filled with something nightmarishly festive. Valerie felt sensitive in the bare parts of her skin: face, throat, hands.
“I take it he’s back?” Katherine said.
“He might be,” Valerie said. “We thought maybe you’d heard from him.”
“I wish I had. It would be nice to have a literate pen pal. If I’d sold my panties to everyone who’d dyslexically offered to pay for them I’d be richer than Oprah by now. Who’s he killed?”
She sexualizes every conversation. Valerie hadn’t forgotten. Neither, palpably, had Will. Valerie took one of the ID photographs of Elizabeth from the file and slid it across to Katherine. “Elizabeth Lambert,” she said. “Do you know her?”
“No. Should I?”
The victims won’t be random. Elizabeth wasn’t random. No need for her to know that yet.
“He left a note addressed to me,” Valerie said. “‘Katherine Glass stays in prison, more people die.’”
“Oh God,” Katherine said. “He’s converted to melodrama. Like literature. Is nothing sacred?”
“That’s what the note said,” Valerie said.
“He’s fucking with you,” Katherine said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. But please don’t expect me to believe his conscience is pricking him after six years. And you can’t possibly think he’s stupid enough to imagine I’m ever getting out of here, under any conditions short of a global zombie apocalypse. In which case I’d probably stay put voluntarily. Lock myself in the starved library and hope to make it through Don Quixote before they broke the door down. If it’s him, he’s fucking with you. If it’s not him, it’s an idiot. Don’t you have a DNA or print match?”
“They’re coming.”
“What do you mean, his conscience can’t be pricking him?” Will said.
Katherine looked at Valerie. As in: You know what I mean. Valerie did. The ease with which she understood Katherine was the worst aspect of dealing with her.
“Will,” Katherine said, “you’ve got to get better at this. What are you reading? Do you read books worth reading?”
“I like pop-up books. Just answer the question.”
Katherine smiled with what looked like genuine warmth. “I mean,” she said, with mock condescension, “that it’s a tad late to come riding in on a white steed of murder after six years, don’t you think? You’re talking about a man who didn’t even tell me his real name, a man who lied to me, comprehensively, for years, a man who left me, if you’ll pardon the cliché, high and dry—and convicted.” She smiled again. “I know you think a monster can’t have her heart broken, but I promise you you’re wrong. Oh, the nights I’ve cried myself to sleep!”
Valerie’s phone rang. The screen said VIC MCLUHAN CALLING.
“Excuse me,” she said, and stepped outside to answer it. Warrell and Lomax were standing with their backs to the wall opposite the door, hands in pockets, both with the worn look of daily exposure to extremity.
“We got a match,” McLuhan said. “It’s him. Prints and DNA from the scene, the postcard, the printed envelope, and the package. We’re going to have to tell the fucking press.”
“Okay. I’ll call you back.”
“You with Glass?”
“Yeah.”
“She playing ball?”
“At the moment just playing. We just sat down. I have to go.”
Valerie went back into the room. “Well, a tad late or not, it’s your guy,” she said to Katherine.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m amazed. I’m intrigued. Was she raped? Tortured?”
Neither Valerie nor Will answered.
“I’m not asking out of prurience,” Katherine said. Then to Will: “That’s dirty curiosity.”
“Yes,” Valerie said. “Both.”
“And you think it’s just him, alone?”
“No physical evidence to suggest otherwise, but we can’t know for sure yet.”
“It wouldn’t be the same for him without a woman.”
“Maybe they’re not that easy to find,” Will said.
“You’re such a romantic, Will,” Katherine said. “Sugar and spice and all things nice? You think I’m one of a kind?”
“We want you to walk us through his profile again,” Valerie said, taking the mini-recorder from her pocket. “Anything you might have missed.”
For a few moments Katherine didn’t speak. She lowered her eyes, as if for self-consultation. Then looked back up at Valerie. “This would be the part where we have a little movie exchange,” Katherine said. “I say something like: ‘Assuming I might have anything that could be useful to you, what makes you think I’d want to help the people who put me in here?’”
Valerie didn’t answer—and sent a mental imperative to Will to keep his mouth shut. She felt him almost ignore it. But they’d been partners long enough for him to know when to follow her lead.
“Except you’ve already thought of that,” Katherine said. “And moved beyond it.”
Still Valerie and Will remained silent. “Or,” Katherine said, smiling, “am I missing something? Do you have something to offer me? Better books? Decent shampoo? A trip to the beach?”
“We don’t have anything to offer you,” Valerie said. “Apart from diversion. Unless of course you’d take some satisfaction in getting to the man who left you high and dry—and convicted.”
“Diversion?” Katherine said. “Tell me more.”
Valerie rested her hand on the file in front of her. “There are things here that might interest you. Boredom must be a problem.”
“And with need of only a single arrow she hits the mark. What things?”
“Let’s do the profile recap first,” Valerie said. “Again: anything you might have missed.”
“I didn’t miss anything,” Katherine said. “There wasn’t that much to tell. It wasn’t…”—pause for ironic weight—“that kind of relationship.”
“Nonetheless,” Valerie said.
“Are you still with the gorgeous Nick?”
Fuck. This was what Katherine did. This was one of the things she did. During the original interviews six years ago it had become apparent that she knew Valerie and Nick were an item. The information had come to her, though Valerie had never been able to determine how. Her attorney, possibly, had let it slip, though he always denied it. Nick, working Homicide in those days, had been one of the investigators, and had testified at the trial, but that wouldn’t have been enough for Katherine to know there was anything between them. At the time, Katherine had said to her: It’s good between you two, isn’t it? Good enough to make you afraid of how good it is. He even looks a bit like you, the dark features. You could be brother and sister. All the great love affairs have a whiff of incest about them, otherwise why do we feel such recognition? Otherwise wh
y does your beloved become your family, your blood?
“You are still together, I can see it,” Katherine said, leaning back in her seat. “Good for you. Doesn’t look like it’s gone stale, either. You have the quiet radiance. I can feel it. Did you get married?”
Valerie hadn’t forgotten this, the weight of Katherine Glass’s infallible instincts, the way she left you sickeningly visible, brought you up against no options but the truth. In the past Valerie had told herself it was just the effect of beauty and ugliness: the beauty of how Katherine appeared and the ugliness of what she’d done. But no matter how many times she’d rationalized it that way, the experience of being with Katherine hadn’t changed. The woman had the gift of examining you not with hatred or fury, but with an expression of benign and very slight amusement, as if perpetually on the verge of giving in to her desire to smile at you, full of delighted understanding. Valerie had spent hours with her and it had always been the same. No matter what question you asked Katherine Glass, the question she asked you—just by sitting there, just by existing—was always bigger. It was exhausting.
And now?
Valerie paused the recorder.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m still with the gorgeous Nick. No, it hasn’t gone stale, but no, we’re not married. This isn’t that movie, either, where the psycho gets under the detective’s skin and leverages her own life against her. There might have been a time when that would have mattered to me, but it doesn’t now. The truth is I don’t care what you know or think you know about me. We’ll talk, and either it’ll prove useful to this investigation or it won’t. Whichever it is, it’ll become apparent pretty quickly, and I don’t intend to waste my time. You make me uneasy. You always have. Congratulations. I find I don’t care much about my own unease these days. Shall we continue?”