“Alright, alright,” I say to placate him. Obviously he wants to research the laws for himself, though he'd be better off with a decent lawyer. “You don't have to tell me. I'll look for some law books for you, and they'll be ready for your commission money. Okay?”
He nods. “Okay.” The hostility is almost heart-breaking, seeing him go from sad to sullen. Part of me starts having some odd thoughts, as well. I consider for one brief, insane moment asking him to take off his pants as well, to inspect for bruises. Just so I can see what he's concealing there as well.
Perhaps this is a problem. I definitely shouldn't be having these kinds of thoughts with any prisoner. I leave him alone in the dull gray prison with his tray of food, clanging the door shut. Thoughtful.
Something really isn't right. The instinct is stirring there in my gut, screaming at me. I really don't know what to make of the whole situation.
But I do know that when I get back home, I'm probably not going to be able to get him out of mind. The prison now seems oppressive. It has that dull edge of despair anyway, because what men want to be caged up, really? We are not meant to stay in chains, but when we take away the right of the death penalty, we have to find other ways to remove dangerous individuals from society. But it's not enough to just keep them. That's a waste of money and space to keep someone locked up. No. You need to also rehabilitate them, somehow. Otherwise you'll eventually end up with an overcrowding issue.
My feet clang on the ground underneath, and another correctional officer salutes me like I'm some army sergeant as I pass.
It's obvious to me right now that one guard or more is acting out on this prisoner. He won't say, he probably doesn't even know the names, but there's clearly some pent up resentment going on here.
I end up heading to the security room where all our CCTV cameras are, with the sole intent to catch the one or ones responsible for harming the boy. We don't have cameras inside their cells, but we do have them all along the corridors outside.
The security guy on duty stares at me in a gormless sort of way, looking puzzled along with me when we both realize fifteen minutes later, that about an hour of footage has been deleted from Wing C.
There's about thirty guards on duty at night, and double that during the day, so I have a fun time trying to pick through who I think might have deleted the video. Maybe even collaborating with the security guard who had been in the day before, or just going in when he took his break. It's not particularly difficult to delete footage, unfortunately.
Regardless of the fact that Danny is a five times killer, that doesn't give others the right to start abusing him. That's not how a prison is supposed to work. I find myself getting irritated. I'd suspected abuse, but most inmates don't like to talk. The fact that Danny's been here just five days is enough to make me consider firing the ones responsible, as soon as I can.
They're no better than criminals themselves like that. You can justify it however the hell you want, but you're still making yourself no better than them.
And still, Danny eats at my conscience. To the point where I consider doing a little more digging. Again, it's the fact that he has nightmares, along with not having any tattoos dotted along his body, or any signs of drug wastage. He has no obvious signs that would relate to him doing something like these five murders. I know that people can look innocent and I shouldn't be fooled, but it really digs at me. He's not desperate for money, doesn't seem to have any habits. Nothing. All the typical signals for spotting someone just isn’t there.
I google him, all the things the newspapers say, and of who he was. Aside from the tabloids splashing their vitriol and spitting “Murderer!” his direction, I find out that my olive skinned, dark haired prisoner was a chef in the World Eater restaurant, five miles from where he lives. Part of the damming evidence that caught him showed him in his chef's uniform cycling past the house where the murders happened within the timeframe, and numerous people could confirm this fact, along with the fact that many recognized him simply because he worked at a top-notch restaurant.
None of the witnesses actually saw him go into the house in the time frame, they just distinctively remember a man on a bicycle in his chef's clothing. Something still scratches at me. Something's still not right. His fingerprints were found in the house, along with the family gardener, and several others, but those had all been exonerated.
I go to sleep reflecting upon this information. It's a lot to take in, and I know that I'm likely going mad, trying to look up if there's something more to a prisoner's story. Impossible, of course.
I shouldn't be worrying over this at all. Yet, it influences the way I sleep. I don't really remember much, except for when I wake up, and slip into a light doze for about an hour. I experience a dream then that he's wearing that chef's uniform, and I'm staring into those beautiful green eyes of his. He has such smooth skin, and I imagine him smell of baked chocolate cake, one of my favorite smells to inhale. I imagine him giving me a wide, white-toothed smile, instead of that pinched, sullen look, or the tears puffing up his face. He must be missing such delicious foods, stuck in prison with just enough to cover the minimum nutrients each day. Maybe people even loved him.
Maybe I would have loved his food if I'd been there. I can't tear my eyes away from him, and he always has a way of being the center of attention, wherever he walks. And when he smiles...
I wake up, and to my surprise, find I have morning wood.
Oh. That was unexpected. My cheeks flush slightly. Why do I have it?
Do I actually find Danny attractive? I consider this. I've never had a relationship, but I've never even reflected so strongly on a man before this.
No. It can't be attraction. It's just me being too involved in his case, too busy chasing up the evidence, because... what? He cries at night? He looks too innocent?
Stupid, stupid. I need to keep my mind focused on the job. This is not focusing.
Yet, when I go to prison, I find my mind being decidedly less on the job as usual. I find myself making excuses to be able to visit Danny, though I spread the rounds so it doesn't look like I'm favoring one prisoner over another. Truthfully, though, the gut feeling that something's not right doesn't leave.
He's not so talkative or appreciative to me, except when I pass him over the law books he wants to study. When I tentatively suggest that he can consider a lawyer, Danny scowls at me, stubbornly shaking his head.
“No. The last one was just as convinced as the prosecution and jury that I did it.”
That sounds wrong, somehow, since the attorney is always meant to seek the best deal with their client. Not important now, but I store it in mind.
“Okay,” I say to him. Danny still flinches when I approach too close, though I now see an additional bruise just blossoming at the hemline of his shirt. They're still abusing him. He's stopped crying, because he knows it will do him no good, but it certainly doesn't stop them from doing these cruel things to him. “Seriously, though, I am the head correctional officer here. If you have a dispute, please, by any means, tell me what the problem is.”
He clamps his jaw shut, not willing to answer. The stubbornness irritates me. It always becomes an us versus them scenario in the end. Inmates automatically don't tell us anything. We don't treat them respectfully. Both sides dearly wish they could be allowed the full force to do whatever they want.
Before I leave, though, his baritone floats back. “Thank you for what you're doing, sir.”
“Call me Aidan.”
“No, sir. That means I would regard you as a friend. And I don't think a guard and a prisoner can be friends.”
True. Maybe.
“We'll see,” I say, giving him a smile, before leaving.
My heart's pounding a little faster. I ridiculously enjoy the fact of him complimenting me, though the mistrust is obvious. I need to somehow get him to spill the beans on the guards abusing him. I'm seeing contusions from being hit by a baton. They're slowly spreading. And it seem
s to always be when I'm not there, so at time frames between one in the morning and one in the afternoon.
I try to let the next few days pass without incident, though he continues to plague my dreams. I don't know why it bothers me so much. I just feel like all the pieces are churning in my brain, and that they should somehow slot together. There's something here I'm missing. And I'm determined to try and fix it. One or two things alone, and I wouldn't suspect. But his manner, those nightmares, the fact that he doesn't display any tell-tale habits of someone who has committed something so awful. I'm just seeing him a lot because it's bugging me in my brain. Enough for me to seriously start looking into it.
I continue seeing him almost every day in one way or another, and although he seems to be trusting me a little more, he still has that defensive posture. He won't tell me anything about what's happening to him. And when I ask my guards who deleted the video, they naturally shrug and tell me nothing. Covering up their tracks, not wanting to admit that they're doing something wrong, probably because it doesn't occur to them at all.
Young, handsome, haunted. He's really digging into my heart, making it hard to breathe. My mind is becoming consumed by that image of his naked front and back, by those glorious green eyes, like green suns in his face.
It's chewing up my brain, and I don't like it. I can't get the information from Danny. He's too defensive.
And I'm too suspicious. So, on my day off, I think fuck it. I get in my car after making sure I look neat, clean and respectable, in my most expensive gray suit, my black tie, and shiny leather shoes.
Then I drive for about two hours, all the way to where Danny lives.
I don't know if I'm going to encounter anyone here. All I know is that I have to try, because thinking about him is the single most interesting thing my brain has decided to latch onto lately. Always him.
I expect hostility. But I need to start seeing this event from more than one perspective. Plus, if I get a read on his mother, I can also get a feel for what it must have been like, raised by her. Most likely alone, so a single parent doing the best she could. One that couldn't be used as a witness because she was an obvious alibi, and far too emotional.
I knock on the door, and wait until a flinty eyed woman opens it. It's a rather run-down house – a house nonetheless, but one that perhaps has seen better days, and smaller than the others around. She has the same dark hair as Danny, the same green eyes, so it's obvious to see what he got his defining features from. The nose and lips are different, meaning he likely inherited that from his father.
“Who are you?” Her voice is tight as a drum. She folds her arms, looking ready to defend. I think of how to breach her hostility.
“Good afternoon. I'm Aidan Blunt. I'm a guard in Wellsworth, responsible for the keeping of your son.”
Her face darkens further, showing every sign of mistrust like her son. “The hell you here for?”
I begin to say something else, but she unfolds her arms and attempts to shut the door. Frantically, I wedge my shoe in the door, and wince as the pressure squeezes it.
“Wait!” I say. “I just wanted to say that I think it's suspicious that your son is in jail. Some things don't add up. I'm here to talk to you so I can start making my own conclusions.”
She hesitates in trying to crush my foot further. “You're not serious?”
“Deadly,” I reply, trying not to flinch. “I'll explain further. Here's my I.D as well.” I show her my warden's I.D. She squints at it, before relenting.
“Alright. Come in, then.”
She still wears that suspicious glare, but I expect it. Inside, she reluctantly offers me a drink, and I accept some coffee. As she boils the kettle, I take a quick glance around the living room. Looks to be in good condition. No dirt, no clattered dishes or suspicious drug needles hanging around. She doesn't look like a junkie either, so Danny wouldn't have been exposed to that kind of upbringing. But he did mention medication. My eyes shift to a small breakfast bar by the kitchen that has many items on it unrelated to breakfast, including a fruit bowl that appears to be full of tablet boxes, rather than actual fruit. She also leaves her keys on the bar, and letters from the mailbox which seem unopened.
She sees my eyes alight on the boxes, so I decide to be frank. “I need to find out a few things. Part of how Danny acts in prison doesn't make any sense for someone who has murdered five people –”
“He didn't do it!” She barks hotly, and I raise up a hand.
“Please. Let me finish.”
She snaps her mouth shut, though again wears that hostile expression.
“As I was saying, how he acts doesn't make any sense. I've been around a lot of criminals. They all tend to exhibit certain behaviour patterns when guilty, or when they're psychopathic. He doesn't show any of the signs. He has no significant markings on his body, and he seems to have a close connection to you. One of the best ways for me to figure out what is real or not is to inspect the place where he lived, to see if there are any signs here.”
“What signs?” She serves me a dark coffee, only faintly saturated with milk.
“The signs of if he was raised in a loving or abusive home, if I may be frank. And – if he has any mental issues. I mean this in good faith, before you find reason to be angry. I simply need more information to understand. Okay?”
She's clearly uncomfortable with my sniffing around, but nods.
“As far as I can tell,” I continue, “there are no signs here to indicate that this home is something negative. You keep it in good order. And you're very defensive about your son, which suggests a fierce love. I read that you were too emotional to be used as a reliable witness, though.”
She begins to look guilty and wretched at this, and I see her hand tremble.
“Is this anything to do with the medicines you take? Please.”
Isabel licks her lips. Her green eyes appear haunted for a moment. “Actually. I need to... I need to take some medicine now. My son... he knows I should be taking it a lot, but I don't.”
As she totters over to the huge stockpile of medicines, I delicately ask what she takes.
“Prozac. Valium. St John's Wort. And some anti-psychotics for when it gets too bad. I'm bipolar, I have drastic mood swings.”
I think about the fact Danny was crying heavily, before turning sullen. Is he bipolar? I ask this, and she shakes her head vigorously, even as she downs tiny white tablets, two at a time. Six of them go down her throat.
“No. I was diagnosed, and we tested him, he was worried he might have the same thing, but he's normal. No mental health issues at all.” Now that she has the tablets down, she seems notably calmer, even though they won't have affected her yet. “I get some bad relapses so I need the meds.”
“I ask because your son is having nightmares in jail. I needed to know if that was an underlying mental condition that hasn't been addressed.” I purse my lips. So he's not been diagnosed with anything major. He's not mentally ill, which can sometimes make reading someone's intent harder. Their emotional bars are usually off.
“I don't see why that matters.”
“It does. Anyway, moving on...” I take a gulp of the hot coffee. A little too bitter for my liking, but I'll drink it anyway.
“It's not right, what happened to my little boy,” Isabel says, clutching her mug harder. Her face tenses in a way that suggests she's on the verge of tears. I brace myself for the impact. “He's a good boy. He went to that house, yes he did, but only because he was looking for a house nearby his work, so he didn't have to spend as much time travelling, and I didn't have to be so...” she scratches at her head. “He was doing it for me. He knows I don't think... easily. He wanted everything closer.”
“Forgive me for asking, but why would he be looking into a house that big? Five people were living in it at the time.” I'm aware the people in the house were planning to sell it.
“He went there on an open viewing day. We... we got some money from my mother, his gran
dmother – when she died. Certainly enough to look into securing a new house, especially once we sell off hers as well. She lived all the way in Idaho.”
“I see.” I mentally note this down. “Does your son spend a lot of time looking after you?”
Isabel flushes at this, probably because I'm addressing her as an invalid, but she makes no move to retaliate. “More than he should. I do part time work, of course I do. But I have issues, you know. Not just bipolar. I got a whole host of physical shit to make you weep, and some of the meds can counteract. Spend time sick.” She grimaces and pats her stomach. “Ulcerative colitis is another one. Need another medicine for that. Polycystic ovaries. That's another fun one too, I gotta take hormonal supplements for that. And then this.” She taps her head. “No. It's not easy. But he does his best to look after me. I get so sick and tired of all those pills, though. Always having to swallow so many each day, just so I can stay fucking normal.” Her face laces itself in bitterness, and I bite the inside of my cheek. I think I can see why Danny gets so nervous about her not taking her pills.
To Love A Hitman Page 2