by Andrew Allan
He saw what I was doing and quickened his step.
I set my foot against the wall and tugged as hard as I could. Almost there, then it stopped. I was furious and desperate enough that I stomped the crossbar. To my surprise it flew out the window, creating a clear path for me.
The man was ten steps away. I ran over to the window and looked out. It was a long drop to the river below. Two choices: Fight or fly.
The man’s dagger scraped against the tower wall; his head was level with the landing. He would be tougher fight than the other guy. And, I was low on fight fuel.
I looked up the stairs. The other man stomped down, holding his broken arm, but still looking ready to fight. There was no way I’d beat both of them in this small area. One choice: Fly.
I kicked a leg over the ledge and pushed myself out. The men picked up on my intention and started running towards me. No more thinking.
I kicked my other leg out and pushed off the wall.
I screamed to keep my stomach from floating into my throat.
I covered my face and closed my legs together.
The water came fast.
Splash!
Crashing into the water sent a jolt up my spine. But overall, I was fine, even with hitting the bottom of the river thirty feet deep. I swam fast to reach the surface before I ran out of oxygen. My lungs were tight and my wet clothes were slowing me down.
When I broke the surface, I inhaled deep. I wanted all the oxygen. It felt cold and good in my lungs as I bobbed in the water catching my breath.
I looked at the tower and counted four windows up. It was empty, which meant those guys were on the move. And, they’d want to make sure I was dead.
I swam to the far side of the river as a pontoon boat cruised up the channel. An old fisherman wearing a yellow cotton fishing cap with hooks attached drove while his just-as-old wife sat in a waffle weave lawn chair watching the scenery pass by. As the boat passed, I saw the two men rush out of the tower. They ran towards the river but I didn’t think they had seen me. I grabbed the front edge of the nearest pontoon tank and let the boat take me, unseen, down the river.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BACK ON FLORIDA Avenue, I made good on that café con leche and Cuban toast. Although I had to pay with soggy dollar bills. I hurried the food into the car and got the hell out of there. Once I felt safe and far enough away from the tower, I devoured the food. It tasted beyond amazing. Too bad I couldn’t sell it over TV. I’d make an infomercial fortune.
Even though I finally had food, I didn’t have any answers. Those assassins...the executioners...must have followed Duncan to the tower. Ten minutes later and I wouldn’t have learned the truth.
But the awful truth just created more questions: Who sold the execution services? Who paid for them and why? Most importantly, who else have they been hired to kill? How long has this been going on? Talk about a trick of shit.
I still had the wad of cash from Ilsa’s in my pocket, so I spent the night on the outskirts of Tampa, at an old style motel off Highway 301 heading towards Zephyrhills. The towels weren’t quite as crunchy as the ones back in Crystal River, so I was able to shower without abrasions. But, sleep was fleeting. Between my mind racing and the prostitution ring being run out of the next room over, I was too distracted to get the rest I needed.
I did reach one conclusion before I fell asleep. And, it rang true the next morning after breakfast: there had to be a middleman—someone with the political juice and corporate connections to peddle the killings. Call me crazy, but anyone who served as a state executioner didn't strike me as also being an enterprising salesman. There had to be someone else marketing the executioners’ services.
Okay big shot, you figured it out. What’s your next move? You can go after the buyers, the sellers, or the executioners. All equal players in this black market butcher fest.
Duncan said Ken had been going after some of the corporations on the staffer’s list of execution customers. I’m sure that brought him particular joy. Or rather, affirmation.
I pulled out the list of names I had written down from his files, each belonging to a corporate titan. No name jumped out. And, each would be hard to reach. What if I did get in front of them, even accused them? They’d never admit to anything. I had no leverage to make them confess. And, that’s if they were involved. Someone in their organization might have contracted the killers on behalf of the organization. Compartmentalization and plausible deniability. Asses covered.
Okay, scratch the buyer for now. What about the middleman? I had no clue who that could be. Someone who had access to multiple corporations and wealthy leaders of industry. And, who also knew the executioners. How, the hell did that happen?
But, Duncan said the state was peddling the execution services. Just the thought of that was revolting. Did that mean someone who worked in the government was the middleman? That would make sense. Most logical would be someone in the prison system. The warden.
The Warden at Raiford would know who the executioners were. He’d also have ties to State agencies, perhaps even a direct line to the Governor. He was in the perfect position to sell killings for hire. And, how much money could a prison warden really earn? Raiford was big leagues prison. But, still the job couldn’t pay all that well, could it? He’d still be susceptible to greed. That gave him the access, the means, and the motive to run that type of illicit operation.
Well, well, Walt Asher. You may have made a fine detective after all. If you live. And, that was only going to happen if I put my theories into practice That meant driving up to Union County, enemy territory. Although, if they were out looking for me, they’d have no clue I’d be sneaking right into their back yard.
At last…some momentum.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I TOOK THE back roads - Highway 301 up to Zephyrhills, east to Highway 471. Then, a straight shot north through the Withlacootchee State Forest and into small half-towns like Sumterville and Coleman. It took a while. But, traffic was minimal and to the average observer I couldn’t have looked much like a wanted murderer. Just a white boy weekend warrior out cruising in some rebellious looking wheels. Fine by me.
I made a point to avoid Gainesville where I figured they’d have a stakeout waiting for me. But, seeing Gainesville in the distance reminded me of Ilsa. And, I desperately wanted to know how she was. So, I stopped at a convenient store in a little town called Shenks and gave DG a call to find out where she was. No answer.
Just north of Shenks was Waldo, the city. The same Waldo that made national news a while back when it was revealed the city’s police force had a monthly speeding ticket quota they were required to meet. Turns out, that’s illegal in Florida. I assumed the quota was now gone. But, this town had been so proud of their reputation for ticketing speeders they even sold commemorative shirts. Odds were, I was driving through a town filled with cops still itching to pull people over. I couldn’t afford that.
I kept the speedometer right on thirty and didn’t let it budge. Waldo wasn't a big town. But, when you’re a wanted man and you’re going that slow, time crawls and the town seems huge. I got through without incident. A few minutes later I was in Starke, home of Florida State Prison, home of “Sparky” the electric chair.
A green highway sign pointed towards the prison. As I approached I saw a sign for the prison itself. It read “Department of Corrections, Florida State Prison.”
The prison was comprised of several flat buildings spread across a sprawling campus, all surrounded by razor wire. Even in the bright sunlight, one look at the place was enough to make you never want to never set foot inside of it. Also makes you wonder what it does to a man working there day after day.
The late afternoon sun shone bright, which made it difficult to see as I walked up to the entrance of the Starke public library. Inside, I hopped on the first free computer I could find where the previous user hadn’t logged out. Time to work.
It didn’t take long to find informa
tion about the warden. Warden James L. Durfee to be exact. He got the job back in nineteen eighty-six. There didn’t appear to be any controversies or black marks on his record. I guessed that was why he still had the job. A quick skim through the online white pages coughed up his home address and even a phone number.
Now, the gamble - If he was booking gigs for the execution team, he’d know about me. What then?
To my surprise there was a working payphone in the library lobby. I slugged in fifty cents and dialed.
“Hello,” said an older female voice.
“Hi, ma’am. This is Robert Martin from the Tampa Bay Times. Is it possible to speak with Warden Durfee?”
I couldn’t let him know my real identity. Just in case. I checked my watch. Almost half past five, maybe too late.
A brusque, Southern male voice came on.
“Warden Durfee.”
Wow, that was easy.
“Hello, Mr. Durfee. Warden. Bob Martin from the Tampa Bay Times. I was hoping to interview you for an article we’re doing on the current state of Florida’s Prison System.”
“All right...”
I should have thought my story through better before calling. I riffed.
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“It is.”
“Okay, great.”
“Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow? We can speak then.”
“Okay, sir,” I said.
Wait. No. Bad.
Even though the last place authorities would look for a fugitive is in the state prison, there was no way I was going in. Because if they found out who I was, I wouldn’t get out. If the execution team saw me or if Warden Durfee placed my face, they could hold me there until authorities arrived. Or, until they took care of the problem themselves.
“Fine then, how about ten thirty?” the Warden said.
“Actually, sir. I’m in town and looking to get back to Tampa early tomorrow to write the story. If there is any way we could meet tonight, perhaps at your house, it would be very helpful.”
“Hmmm,” he said.
I waited. If he said ‘no’, I could figure out another approach. And stay free at least another day. I was not going into that prison.
“I don’t really care to talk business at my home.”
“I promise I’ll make it fast,” I said.
“How are you going to do in-depth reporting by asking fast questions?”
He was sharp. No wonder he wardens.
“I know what I want to ask. I won’t waste any time. I’d even be happy to bring dinner for you and the missis.”
“I guess that’ll do.”
“Terrific. That’s a huge help.”
“Forget the food. Just get over here so we can get it over with. Here’s the address.”
He gave the address and minimal directions. I thanked him and hung up. Time to face the suspected enemy. At least at his house, I’d have a chance to get away. Presuming he didn’t also invite the executioners over.
As I exited the library, I caught a glimpse of myself in a pane of glass. I looked worse for the wear. So, I made a quick stop at Wal-Mart on my way, purchasing new slacks, a button down shirt, deodorant, even a notepad and pen. It wasn’t much of a look, but it was a huge improvement.
Judging by the Warden’s house, running prisons appeared to be a much more lucrative profession than I thought. All the more reason to suspect he was making money outside his nine-to-five job. Although, I wasn’t really sure what the Warden’s hours were.
The house itself was simple enough - A one-story, flat and wide ranch house with a quaint wooden porch that seemed to wrap all the way around the building. Wooden rocking chairs were set out with a view of the pastureland that sprawled in all surrounding directions. Had to be at least ten acres.
Behind the house I could see a large barn, a separate horse stable, and a tractor parked nearby. A crop of what I guessed to be cabbage grew in the distance. Two vehicles, an older, dusty pickup truck and a new-looking Chevrolet SUV were parked in the drive.
I pulled through a gated fence that spanned the property’s façade and had a wood carved sign that read “Sun Beam Ranch”. I checked myself in the mirror. You’re looking rough, Asher. But, well, whatever. I got out, climbed the wooden steps, and rang the doorbell. A folk art cross hung above the door.
Mrs. Warden answered.
“Why, hello! Welcome to our home!” She seemed to smile the words more than say them with her thick Southern accent. I estimated she was mid-sixties and a former prom queen of a small rural town high school.
“I’m Loretta. Come in.” She opened the door.
“Thank you, I’m Bob.” I stepped over the threshold and eyed the interior, which was just what you’d expect – country quaint.
I turned to Loretta to compliment the digs, but didn’t get the chance.
“Reporter, huh? I hope I have something interesting to say.”
I turned and saw the Warden step through a doorway from a dining room area.
“Hi, Bob Martin. Thank you so much for making the time.” I held out my hand. He shook it then gestured towards a sitting room.
“Let’s.”
I led the way.
The sitting room gave the vibe that it was his domain with Loretta only welcome part time. Numerous framed commendations and whatnot covered part of the walls. There was an orderly, old-fashioned roll top desk with just a few bills on it. A few small mementos were placed here and there. And, there was a shelf full of books, which all appeared to be prison related, save for a few Louis L’Amour paperbacks.
“This is nice,” I said.
“It’s peaceful, which is better than nice. A man can think here,” he said.
We sat down.
“Has there been much to think about lately or are things running smooth at the prison,” I said, getting right into it.
“Things always run smooth at the prison. At least, all that I can control.”
“What can’t you control?”
“Well, you know. The bureaucracy. Changes, regulations...changes to regulations, and so on. Boring stuff.” He waved it off.
“I know how that goes,” I said with a smile and a nod, method acting off memories of my torturous time in the corporate world.
“So, whatchu want to know?”
“Well, I’m kind of just checking the temperature on Florida’s prison system. Lots of things going on. I know there’s still a lot of debate about the death penalty, and so on. Really wanted to hear things from a Warden’s perspective since you see first hand what happens after things are settled in the courts.”
He frowned like it was a curious question then took a moment to formulate his answer. “Well, I would say the temperature is a healthy 98.6 degrees. Normal. There’s always some good and bad. But, hell...it’s prison. Everything is confined and any issues we deal with stay inside the prison walls. It doesn’t affect the general public. That’s why you guys never have too much to report.”
“I guess that’s why my editor sent me up here. To see what the heck was going on inside.” I smiled. “We haven’t heard from you. You never call home anymore.”
A little humor to grease the wheels.
The Warden laughed at that knee slapper and said, “I’ll try to be more regular about it, ma.”
I laughed. My charm dial was set to ten. So far, he wasn’t vibing murderous creep. Then again, he probably didn't have to do the actual killing.
“What about the death penalty?”
“What about it,” he said.
“Is it working?”
“I ain’t seen a man get up from it yet,” he said and grinned.
“But, do you think it’s deterring crime?”
He leaned in. “Know what deters crime?”
I shrugged.
He continued, “A fighting chance. A fighting chance to make money, earn decent wages, live the American dream. But, some people don’t get that chance. It’s gone before they slip outta th
eir mama’s womb. If every man, woman, and child was born with a fighting chance, they’d consider options other than crime. Of course, that don’t count mental illness. Some of my, uh, clients, are simply crazy. Their rod’s been bent and it can never be straightened out again.”
His follow up look was pleasant, but serious.
“So, your prison is basically a way to get rid of the ones that can’t be fixed? And, capital punishment is for the ones you think are doing more harm than good?”
“I don’t think nothing. The court does the thinking. It’s the brains that sends the message through the judicial nervous system to the penal system, to me, the fist. And, if it says strike ‘em down, that’s what I do.”
“So, you stay objective when it comes to the actual killing.”
“No, I don’t stay objective. I’m human. I have a heart and a mind that responds to what’s before me. Every time we put another boy down, whether it was with Old Sparky or lethal injection, or what have you, I do right to remember that this man, this criminal, this violator of social laws and morality, this beast...is still someone’s baby. And no matter what they did, no matter how horrible their crime, they will always be someone’s little baby. So, no. I do not like capital punishment. But, it serves its purpose. And, society has yet to conceive of a more persuasive way to punish and deter. So, until that happens, we do it. And, we do it to the best of our ability. Quick, clean, and as pain free as possible.”
I relaxed a bit with the thought that in no way was he showing any signs of being the middleman in a murder for hire scheme. Although, if he wasn’t involved, that left me back at square one.
“This is not the line of questioning I was expecting,” he said.
“Who performs the executions?”
Any trace pleasantry washed out of his face.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said.
“Why not?”