Twisted Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Enjoy it while you can, Damon. We’ve got a whole new crime scene to process. And forensic testing’s only gotten better since we put you away. Sooner or later we’re going to find this dirtbag.”

  Tenley shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

  Chrys stood up and pushed back her chair. “We don’t need luck. It’s as good as done with or without you.”

  “Right.”

  Burton lumbered to his feet and pressed his palms down on the table. He loomed over Tenley. “You have lots of time in here to think. Spend some of it considering how this could play out for you. You help us out—give us a name—and you’ll be helping yourself out.”

  Tenley scoffed.

  “Listen, I’m not promising the DA could do anything about your sentence, but there are other privileges that could be arranged. Maybe a transfer?”

  “Here’s the thing, detectives. I’ve made my peace with my life. I know full well I’m going to die in a cage like a rat. But, you know what? I have my books, my classes, my job. I’m paying the price for what I did to Raina Noor. My conscience is as clear as it’s gonna get. So, I mean it—good luck finding Professor Noor’s killer. But don’t come out here again. I have nothing to say to you.”

  O’Hagen escorted Tenley back to his cell and told Burton and Chrys he’d be right back.

  “Just wait a second,” he said on his way through the door. “The warden wants a word.”

  “Good,” Chrys said under her breath as a loud buzzer sounded and the pair disappeared behind a thick metal door. “I’d like a word myself.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Burton agreed absently. “Hey, you remember that coroner who tried to kill Saul and Bodhi?”

  “Yeah, Dr. Stewart or something like that.”

  “He’s serving time here, too. Almost got out early for good behavior about a year and a half ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Burton quirked a smile. “It was the darnedest thing. That little lawyer he stabbed, the McCandless gal, came out here to see him. Wanted to see if he was rehabilitated. He ended up lunging for her, and she head-butted him in the face. Broke his cheekbone. Probably happened right here,” he mused, surveying the room.

  Chrys was still chuckling when O’Hagen returned.

  “Most people don’t find this room so entertaining,” he remarked.

  “Detective Gilbert was just filling me in on an attempted attack that ended with the inmate getting head-butted in the face. I thought it was funny, although I might have a perverse sense of humor,” Chrys allowed.

  O’Hagen smile appreciatively. “That’s the only kind that keeps you sane in a job like this. Yeah, I heard about that little lawyer who broke Wally Stewart’s face. He had it coming. He almost pulled one over on the system. Played the model prisoner. But I never bought it. You could tell it was an act. Not like Tenley.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Damon Tenley is a model prisoner. Oh, he doesn’t brown nose the counselors the way Stewart did or try to charm the teachers or anything. He just keeps his head down and his mouth shut, keeps to himself, and does what he’s told.”

  “He’s a stone-cold killer,” Chrys objected.

  “With all respect, detective, nobody in here’s a Boy Scout. It’s a sliding scale, like.”

  “He’s trying to tell you they grade on a curve, Martin,” Burton added.

  “Still.” She set her mouth in a line Burton recognized all too well.

  “Are you going to take us to the warden’s office?” Burton asked.

  “Actually, he’s on his way down. This room’s still blocked off on the schedule, and if he comes to you, you don’t have to go any deeper into the bowels of this place. You know, you probably don’t have a fan club here.”

  That was an understatement if Burton ever heard one. He estimated that the homicide squad had probably arrested a good forty or more of the residents. And while they were in plainclothes and weren’t wearing or carrying anything that identified them as police detectives, inmates always knew. Once, one had hocked a loogie at him down at the old Western Penn prison and yelled that he could smell the cop on him.

  “Works for me,” Burton said, depositing himself back in the wretched chair.

  “Here he comes now,” O’Hagen said, peering through the plate-glass window that filled the opposite wall.

  Burton hoisted himself back out of the seat, ignoring his knees’ complaints.

  Warden Doug Hardiman looked like a college professor, complete with tortoise shell glasses and sweater vest. But Burton had heard his nickname was Hard Ass Man, so he assumed the man’s appearance didn’t tell the full story.

  “Detectives,” he said cheerfully, as he crossed the scuffed floor. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “It’s our pleasure, sir,” Burton said.

  “Detective Chrysanthemum Martin, sir,” Chrys said, sticking out her hand. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Ah, yes, Detective Martin, nice to see you. And, of course, I know Detective Gilbert. He’s been kicking around the system longer than I have,” the warden laughed as he pumped Chrys’ hand.

  “Holding out for that pension,” Burton said, extending his own hand.

  “You and me both, Burt,” Hardiman confided.

  “I hear that. Thanks for making Tenley available, Doug. We appreciate it.”

  “Happy to help the boys”—a glance at Chrys—“and girls in blue. Was Damon helpful?”

  “Not really, sir,” Chrys answered.

  Hardiman frowned. “That surprises me. Mr. Tenley’s been something of a … well, I don’t like to use the phrase ‘model prisoner,’ as I think it gives people the wrong idea … but that’s what he’s been. He more or less does the right thing and keeps quiet about it. Not looking for any gold stars.”

  The warden’s assessment of Damon Tenley squared with O’Hagen’s. This time, Chrys didn’t bother to protest. But Burton was about to ask Hardiman to stretch the rules to just shy of their breaking point, so he did dig into the statement.

  “No beefs with other inmates? No contraband? Nothing?”

  Hardiman shook his head. “No. He was aggressive when he was first processed in. A couple lunchroom fights, some pushing in the yard. That’s fairly standard. The new guy needs to establish right at the outset that he takes no crap. Otherwise, he makes himself a target. I don’t condone it, but I understand it. But, after that, once he made it clear that you messed with him at your peril, he settled down fast. Some of the gangs approached him, wanted him to join, but he passed. Without incident, I might add, which is rare. No, Damon Tenley’s a loner who tries not to get noticed. You can tell he served in the military. He’s disciplined, respects authority.”

  “Except for that whole murder thing,” Chrys said, apparently unable to keep her tongue in line.

  “Nobody becomes a long-term guest of the commonwealth because of their good decision-making skills. And, I don’t know his service history, but I know he saw action. Some of those guys come back with an itchy trigger finger.” Hardiman shrugged. “Mind you, I’m not making excuses. It’s just the reality.”

  Burton saw the opening he needed. “Fair enough. Do any of his old army buddies visit? Call?”

  Hardiman stroked his chin while he thought. “Not that I know of. Not offhand.”

  “Could you have someone look into it? Pull his call records and the visitor logs, and maybe the recordings of his telephone calls, as far back as you keep them?”

  Hardiman shrugged. “Sure. I’ll just need a copy of the subpoena to send to the state’s attorney.”

  Burton and Chrys exchanged a look, which was not lost on Hardiman.

  “Come on, detectives. You know these fellas have rights even in here.”

  “We could get a subpoena, Doug. I have no doubt a judge would sign it, but it’s complicated. It dredges up ancient history.” Burton used his gravest, most serious voice.

  Hardiman’s frown deepened. “What history? I thought Tenley confessed
and took a guilty plea to avoid Old Sparky.”

  Chrys jumped in. “Yes sir, he did. But you might also recall he never named his client, the person who paid him twenty thousand dollars to murder Raina Noor.”

  Hardiman nodded as if it sounded familiar. “Why the sudden interest now, seven years after the murder, six years after the trial?”

  “Raina Noor’s husband was murdered last week. Same MO as Tenley. Someone broke into his house and bashed his skull in with a paperweight.”

  Hardiman grimaced. “Disgusting. Sounds like a copycat.”

  “Maybe. Or Tenley’s mystery pal from seven years ago finishing the job.”

  Hardiman considered the theory, bobbing his head from side to side. “Could be. And you think the doer reached out to Tenley? For what—guidance, some killer to killer tips?”

  “Could’ve,” Burton responded.

  Chrys’ impatience had been building slowly, like a flame being stoked with oxygen. Burton had seen it out of the corner of his eye, sensed it in the energy crackling around her. He should have tamped it down when he’d had the chance. But he hadn’t. And now, she erupted.

  “Or to get some DNA to plant at the scene. That’s right. Your golden boy’s genetic material is all over the crime scene, warden. He’s implicated in the murder. Maybe his old employer thought it would be funny to try to pin the husband’s murder on the guy who was paid to kill the wife. I don’t know. And we’ll never know unless we get access to his communications. Is protecting your inmates’ precious rights really more important than the public’s safety?” she railed.

  Hardiman was silent for a long moment. Burton watched his face and saw his eyes spark with understanding. Nine times out of ten, that would be a good thing, but something in the set of the warden’s jaw told him this was number ten.

  “You can’t go to a judge with a subpoena. You’ll get laughed out of the courtroom if you say Damon Tenley’s a suspect in this new murder. Being incarcerated in a prison cell under 24-7 surveillance and supervision provides very few advantages to the inmate, but an airtight alibi for crimes committed on the outside is a big one. That’s why you called me to see if he was present and accounted for after the murder. He was. So, you can’t very well tell a judge you have reasonable cause because his DNA was at the scene. You won’t get your subpoena, but you will get an outcry from the criminal defense bar, won’t you?”

  “I don’t pretend to understand the way they think, Doug.”

  Hardiman wasn’t fooled by the attempted sidestep.

  “You and I both know they’ll all be clamoring for new trials on account of unreliable work by the medical examiner’s office. At a minimum, you’ll have a massive headache on your hands. It might turn into a full-blown scandal. So you two thought you’d come out here and take a run at Tenley, see if he’d give up his partner. I don’t fault you. It was worth trying. But it didn’t work. And now you want me to violate his rights so you can try to shore up a new case while protecting the old one. Have I got that just about right?” He asked the question in a mildly curious tone, almost as if he were truly wondering.

  But Burton wasn’t fooled. He’d seen the steel glint behind those dorky glasses. “More or less.”

  Hardiman smiled. “They don’t call me Hard Ass Man around here just because I expect the inmates to toe the line. I also hold my corrections officers and the rest of the law enforcement family to the same standard.”

  “Okay, maybe we overreached. How about you give us Tenley’s list of approved telephone numbers? No recordings, no infringing on his private conversations. That’s a fair compromise. We’ll call it even.”

  “How about I don’t tell Tenley he’s got a cause of action against the commonwealth on account of the unreliable forensic evidence submitted at trial and we call that even.”

  The warden turned and stormed out of the visitors’ room.

  After a moment, Burton shrugged. “Let’s retrieve our weapons and get out of this sewer. I want to get the stink off me.”

  Chrys arranged her features into a smile, but Burton could tell her heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t blame her. After all, they’d just had their asses handed to them by a man wearing a sweater vest.

  Chapter Nine

  Damon lay on his metal bunk until his breathing returned to normal. It took a long time.

  When he finally sat up, his head still swam. The gray walls blurred and spun. The coppery taste of fear filled his mouth. He jammed his hands under his thighs and sat on them so he wouldn’t have to watch them shake and replayed the conversation with the homicide detectives.

  Giles Noor was dead. Murdered.

  Was he, though? The police were allowed to lie to a suspect—a fact that had always seemed like BS to him, but now carried dangers he couldn’t quite untangle. This is what he got for not watching television or reading the news. He’d have to ask someone.

  Assume it’s true. The man was killed. They can’t pin it on you, he assured himself. You haven’t been outside the barbed wire perimeter in over sixty-eight months. That’s a good fact.

  His hands stilled under his legs.

  It crossed his mind that the fact that he hadn’t killed Giles Noor, while one hundred percent true, was not in any way helpful or relevant. There were enough guys in the joint who had pleaded guilty to crimes they hadn’t committed for him to understand that factual innocence was irrelevant to the commonwealth.

  His breath ticked up.

  Come on, man, stay focused. Even if Noor’s dead, they’re probably not really trying to connect the murder to Raina’s. They just see an advantage and they’re playing it, hoping you’ll give them a name so they can tie up loose ends from an old case.

  Detectives were probably no different than platoon leaders or prison guards. They all liked order, hospital corners, and tidy explanations that ticked all the boxes. If they had any real leads on Noor’s killer they’d be out chasing them down, not in here, leaning on him.

  There was zero reason to think Giles Noor’s death was connected to Raina’s murder. Less than zero, actually. Still, though. There was only one way to know for sure.

  He struggled to his feet, his knees bucking, and wobbled over to the bars that fronted his cage.

  “Officer Smith?” he called.

  A bald black pate swung toward the sound of his voice, catching the bright light and shining as if Rome Smith had an ethereal halo and not a run-of-the-mill chrome dome.

  “You have a problem, Tenley?” the officer asked as he approached the cell, swinging his baton lazily against his thigh.

  “I’m wondering if I could get a phone call, please? I know it’s not my scheduled time, but I usually don’t use my calls. Don’t have anyone to talk to most weeks. But this is an emergency-type situation.”

  Damon made the request matter-of-factly, acknowledging that he was asking for a favor and stating the reality of his situation without playing for Smith’s sympathy. It was all he could do. The result was in Smith’s hands.

  Smith twitched his nose from side to side like a rabbit. “You say it’s an emergency? Like a family issue?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You got money on your commissary account to pay for it? Or does this person accept collect calls from you?”

  “Nah, no collect calls. I have money on the books. I probably still have pre-paid minutes available, too.”

  More twitching. This time the guard’s lips joined in. Left, right, left, right.

  “Okay. You’re gonna get your call, Tenley. Wanna know why?”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you, officer.”

  He holstered the baton and held up a massive hand to tick off points. “One, you said please. Two, you didn’t try to bribe me with a half-smoked pack of cigarettes or some crumpled-up porno mag. Three, you don’t cause trouble around here.”

  “Understood. And again, thank you. Also, it really is urgent.”

  “I don’t give two craps about your personal situation. I j
ust care that you’re not making my job harder than it has to be, Tenley. I’ll make the arrangements. Don’t go anywhere.” He made finger guns and grinned.

  Like a good boy, Damon laughed at the jailhouse humor and squelched his irritation. He had to play nice. He needed to make this phone call. Someone’s life might depend on it.

  Damon breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way the counselors taught him. He worked up some spit in his dry mouth, so he’d be able to croak out a greeting. Then he rolled his shoulders like a boxer entering the ring, shook out his wrists, and pressed the cold buttons with slow, hard jabs—depressing each number all the way down, waiting for it to lift, then pausing for a beat before moving on to the next digit.

  When he’d entered all ten numbers, he gripped the phone to his ear and listened to the drumbeat of his heart while he waited for the line to ring.

  He began to rehearse his words in his jumbled mind.

  Sorry to call. Heard Giles Noor was killed. The detectives were here. They’re going to try to pin it on you. That’s crazy, right? Right? Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. And I won’t. But you need to be careful.

  As long as he focused and managed to make each of these points, everything would be okay.

  His hand cramped. He relaxed his grip and flexed his hand. Noise sounded in his ear, and he instinctively straightened up, ready to say hello.

  But the phone wasn’t ringing. Instead, a mechanical cacophony squawked in his ear. He winced and pulled the receiver away. A digital female voice informed him that the number he was trying to reach had been disconnected.

  He stared down at the phone in his hand in disbelief. Disconnected. Unreachable. He’d been cut off.

  Now what?

  Chapter Ten

  Hope sat cross-legged on the floor in Giles’ study, surrounded by piles. Giles had been a saver. He kept user manuals, warranties, and receipts. He held on to copies of medical bills and service invoices. And, from the looks of one dangerously bulging accordion folder, every draft of his Ph.D. thesis, complete with a square diskette labeled “final version” clipped to the front of the folder. She was pretty sure finding a computer capable of reading the ancient diskette would require time travel.