He was troubled by his encounter with the two men at the Green Mile. If they were just drunk rednecks, it was no big deal. He had dealt with drunks plenty of times. The idea that they were former inmates of Manatee and might still have connections to the facility was what bothered him. What were the chances that in the whole town they would have a run-in with him? Had someone sent them as a threat? Tasker was getting the uneasy feeling that he was no longer welcome in the little town by the big lake.
Now, his mind came back to the task at hand. As he came to a stop a few blocks from the Palm Beach County Jail almost thirty-five miles east of Gladesville, he remembered how many prisoners he had booked into the nine-story facility. Some of the old-time deputies still called this the “new jail,” even though it had been over ten years since the first inmate spent the night in Palm Beach County’s only crossbar hotel. The older, much smaller jail sat in front of its newer sister. They both had the unmistakable look of a building you didn’t want to enter.
Tasker took a second to shed himself of his Sig and ASP and lock them in the glove compartment. He emptied his pockets, including the cash he always kept folded inside his identification. All he kept was his shield and ID. It was his sincere hope to get in and out without anyone taking undue notice of him.
He avoided the main, public entrance and walked downstairs to the large sally port where a cop would normally bring in prisoners. He walked up to the control room with the thick Plexiglas and held up his ID.
A stern black woman in a deputy’s uniform pointed to the little drawer, then pushed it out toward Tasker. He knew the drill. He signed the clipboard, stuck his identification in the drawer and stood there.
“You booking someone?”
“Interviewing a prisoner.”
“Why didn’t you go upstairs?”
“He’s in holding down here. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.” He stuck to the story.
The woman shrugged and opened the giant outer sliding door. He entered and the door shut completely before the inner door slowly slid to one side. He walked straight to the main desk. It was so early two deputies were standing and talking, something there usually isn’t much time for on their detail.
“Can I help you?” asked a deputy with a gray mustache and a map of the moon around his eyes.
“Bill Tasker with FDLE. I need to talk to Peter Rubie before his court appearance.”
The deputy nodded and referred to his list of occupants of the many holding cells on the ground floor of the building.
Tasker could hear the constant chatter of the mopes picked up the night before, waiting for first appearance, the drunks wishing they hadn’t driven their cars, the crack addicts who only wanted to score and the punk, wannabe gang members who’d watched the movie Colors and thought they were tough. They’d all learned that cops don’t have to be tough to make arrests, just numerous.
The deputy looked at Tasker and said, “You got about fifteen minutes until we start chaining them up for transport.”
“No problem.”
“Take that first interview room and we’ll run him down to you.”
Tasker said, “Thanks,” as he was already turning. He just needed to be sure this guy was the one who’d killed the professor. He didn’t want to fuck up Rufus’ case. He wouldn’t ask anything that he’d have to testify about. He just wanted a feel for the guy. He stepped into the closet-sized interview room and took the chair next to a small table. He had no notebook, nothing to write with, he just wanted to talk.
Three minutes later, two deputies were at the door with a small, smiling man with graying hair and a bushy mustache that made him vaguely resemble a walrus. He had a pleasant look, the kind of guy who charmed women rather than stunned them with good looks.
One deputy with a complexion slightly darker than an old-style chalkboard said with a Jamaican accent, “You the man needin’ to speak with Mr. Rubie?”
Tasker liked the professional, clear tone of the jail deputy. “I am.”
“You have him for twelve minutes, then we must ready him for court.”
“Understood.”
The deputies receded from view, but left the door slightly ajar. Tasker wasn’t sure if it had to do with security or reminding him they’d be back in twelve minutes.
Tasker didn’t waste any time. “Mr. Rubie, my name is Bill Tasker. I’m an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
“FDLE? Good show. The big men.” Rubie revealed his crooked but engaging smile. He looked like a happy chipmunk.
“Where are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
Tasker nodded slowly and said, “Australia?”
“No, Florida.”
Then Tasker remembered Rufus saying he liked to put on an English accent. It was a pretty good accent, too.
Tasker said, “Mr. Rubie. You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m interested in your case.”
Rubie remained silent.
“Will you speak with me?”
The smaller man gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Good. Now, where did you get Professor Kling’s credit card?”
Rubie just stared at him.
“The one on you when they arrested you?”
“The magic card?”
Now it was Tasker’s turn to stare. “I’m sorry. Why is it magic? What can it do?”
“People give me things if I show it to them.”
Now Tasker had an idea of who he was dealing with. If it was an act, the guy was convincing. The accent made everything seem reasonable, but it was just another layer of weirdness.
“Where’d you get the magic card?”
“My friend gave it to me.”
“Which friend? What’s his name?”
“I’m not sure, but he’s always nice to me.”
“What’s he look like?”
“He has a puzzle face.”
“A what?”
“A jigsaw puzzle face, mate. What’re you, an idiot?”
Tasker took a moment before moving on. He was no expert on mental illness. He knew that when a guy lived in a fantasy world like this he could do some wild stuff. It wouldn’t be a question of right or wrong, more of perception. Maybe this little nut thought he was slaying a dragon or sending a demon back to hell. But for now, the smiling man before him seemed unlikely to have killed Professor Kling, or anyone else for that matter.
“What about the shoes you were wearing?”
“Which ones, my old ones or new ones?”
“The shoes that have the University of Florida logo on them.”
“You’re a bit of a loon, mate. All I have is my nice flip-flops and the tennis shoes.”
“What kind of tennis shoes?”
“The kind we use to play tennis in.” He rolled his eyes like he was dealing with a nitwit. “Nice, soft ones with an alligator on the heels.”
Tasker’s head snapped up. “What about those? Where’d you get them?”
“The man at the hospital gave them to me.”
“What hospital?”
“The one I was at until I came to this hospital.”
“The other jail? The Gladesville jail?”
“Calm down, mate. You need some tea.”
“I’m sorry. Do you remember who gave you the shoes?”
“Sure. The friend of the man with a puzzle face. The chubby one.”
“Can you remember anything more than he was chubby?”
Rubie thought about the question. “Oh yes, I remember now.”
Tasker leaned forward. “What do you remember?”
“He gave me shoes, too. Yes, that’s it. He was chubby and gave me shoes.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yes, yes, he did.”
“What did he say?”
“Here are some shoes for you.”
Tasker sat back and sighed. He thought he saw what had happened. Someone, probably Rufus Goodwin, had wanted to make sure they had enough on
this guy, so he’d given him the professor’s shoes from his personal effects. It didn’t mean Rubie hadn’t killed him, but it did mean Rufus wasn’t looking at any other possibilities.
Tasker was at the end of his patience, but this poor guy wasn’t the reason. He took a deep breath. “Where are the tennis shoes now?”
“The other hospital orderly needed them. He said I’d get them back when I was admitted again.”
“Here’s a simple question: Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“Rest, old sod. Rest and recreation. I’m a busy man, mate. I’m married to a beautiful Broadway star, I have a little baby. I’m a busy man. You’re lucky I have time even to speak to you.”
Tasker stared, unsure of what to say. If he had met this guy in a restaurant, he’d sound perfectly rational. He might have been a little short to attract a beautiful Broadway star, but he definitely had a cool accent and a degree of charm.
Rubie looked at him with deep blue eyes. “Is that all you needed, mate?”
Tasker didn’t want to ask the easiest question, did he kill the professor? This crazy little bastard wouldn’t know if he had. Tasker did wonder about his prior arrest. “Were you ever arrested in Ohio?”
The pleasant-looking man gave a small smile. “I’m sorry, mate. Never heard of him.”
“Who?”
“The Queen’s boyfriend.”
Tasker was almost relieved when the big Jamaican deputy appeared at the door. “Time’s up.”
Rubie stood and looked at the exasperated Tasker and said, “Chin up. Things will work out for you, mate. Just hang in there.”
Tasker nodded as they led the cheerful little man away. If a judge didn’t see this was the wrong guy, then Tasker might have to help him. The best way he could do that was to find the real killer.
Luther Williams had the library in spectacular shape. He believed that if you undertook a task you should do it to the utmost of your ability. He had certainly done that for the Manatee Correctional library. He wasn’t giving notice, so he wanted it in good shape for the next trustee.
The useless books in the boxes had all been disposed of in the past few hours. The catalog was up to date and organized. The room was even clean. Luther took a rag and ran it over the shelves closest to the window and then paused as he came to his favorite shelf. It had volumes of Shakespeare and Twain. That was about it as far as classics went. It also had a metal support bar that Luther had taken out several times over the past six months. The rod was slightly thinner than a pencil, about seven inches long, and really didn’t affect the integrity of the shelves. It was an add-on the manufacturer had thrown in for peace of mind. It slid under one shelf for reinforcement of a heavy load. That’s why Luther kept the classics on that shelf; at Manatee, that was never a heavy load.
Now he removed the support and inspected the edge that had been ground to a rough point. Luther would scratch it on cement surfaces when he had the opportunity until he had worn it into a pointed end like a tiny arrow. It was a good shiv, but he never would have gotten it past the front gate inside the wall. That was why he kept it here. He knew he might need it one day. Today was that day.
He slipped the metal rod back in place and checked the clock. He needed to make his move about four-twenty. He had some time to kill. Then he had something else to kill.
Bill Tasker sat in on the court hearing for Peter Rubie. He didn’t see any representatives from the Gladesville PD. Even the state’s attorney knew he was a nut. The only question was: Was he enough of a nut to kill someone?
His past arrest was a DUI in Cincinnati fifteen years ago. He’d apparently vomited on the cop and been charged with assault. Tasker wondered if the poor guy had ever had a real life. Why had he lived in Ohio? Did he have a job? What had happened? Where had he come up with the bullshit about being married to a Broadway star? Questions like that, although not generally important to a criminal case, always interested Tasker.
After a thirty-five-minute hearing, Rubie was remanded to the psychiatric ward indefinitely for treatment and evaluation. Maybe that was what it took to get treatment nowadays: kill someone. Or at least be accused of it. Tasker was relieved that they weren’t going to automatically charge Rubie with murder. It tended to take some stress off the situation. Rufus may have done the homeless guy a huge favor.
Tasker nodded hello to a couple of lawyers he had known from years ago and then headed out to his Monte Carlo.
Tasker had spent the ride back from the jail thinking about something other than murders and prisons. He thought hard about what he was feeling for Renee Chin. It wasn’t that she was beautiful. It wasn’t that she was smart. He knew a lot of smart, beautiful women. She just had something else, something that made him feel like the only problem in the world was whether he’d get to see her or not.
The problem he had now was: Why hadn’t he said anything remotely related to his feelings? He hadn’t just discovered them on the ride from West Palm. He had known for the last week or so. He had seen her, been alone with her. Even been to dinner with her. What was the problem?
Then he remembered: He was a dumb-ass.
An hour later, as Tasker was wandering the halls of the admin building at Manatee Correctional, trying to think what he should say to Renee Chin, if he said anything at all, he was stopped by Captain Sam Norton.
“Where’ve you been, Agent Tasker?”
“Checking on a few things. Did I need to advise you of my activities?”
“No, sir, but I hear just about everything that happens around here anyway.”
“You ever hear if your officers let Linus Hardaway out of the psych ward on purpose?”
Norton’s face darkened. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Lot of things in this town that happen shouldn’t.”
“Your Miami is better?”
“At least more obvious.”
“I think you need to finish your damn investigation and head on back to the big city.”
“No argument here. I was in West Palm this morning and didn’t miss the smell of burning cane at all.”
“What was you in there for?”
“Curiosity.”
“I heard that curiosity killed the cat.” He smiled, but it wasn’t warm or friendly.
“I’m interested in who killed my neighbor.”
“The professor from UF?”
“Yeah.”
“Heard they got someone for that.”
“Saw his court appearance. It’ll never stick. He’s some poor signal twenty who has a good fake accent.”
“Signal twenty?”
Tasker forgot that correctional officers didn’t learn the ten codes and signals that Florida cops learned. “Signal twenty is a mentally unbalanced person.”
Norton nodded. “Ain’t your case, what d’you care?”
Tasker shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“Thought your job was finding out who killed Rick Dewalt.”
“I can do both.”
Norton gave him a dirty look and stalked off to his office.
twenty-eight
Bill Tasker was already to the gated main entrance to the correctional facility when he realized he still had his ASP in his back pocket. In the baggy Dockers he hadn’t noticed it, and neither had anyone else. The officers who ran the front gate had searched him the first twenty times he entered. Ten had been legitimate and ten were to break his balls. Then they’d given up the searches because it was more work. Now, they hardly noticed him. If he’d had a gun on, he would’ve said something and walked all the way back to the admin building to store it. But now he was just going to sit on the bunk assigned to Rick Dewalt. Captain Norton had suggested the late afternoon because most of the inmates would be at the dining hall. All Tasker wanted to do was look around the psych ward where Dewalt usually worked, then he wanted to just sit on Dewalt’s cot in Dorm E. He had nothing in particular to look for
, just wanted to see what was on the way. Maybe something would jump out at him.
Tasker was waved through the main gate and then had to wait in between the outer and inner doors a few minutes before being given access to the inside of the prison. He knew the wait was just to show he could be stranded in the facility by any correctional officer at any time. He didn’t bother to wave as he entered, since virtually no correctional officer ever acknowledged him anyway.
He knew the way to lockdown and the psych ward. His last experience in lockdown had seared it into his head. This time he entered from the main, east door where a correctional officer sat at the desk by the door.
“Yes, sir?” asked the pudgy black officer.
“Gonna look around. That a problem?” Tasker kept his hand on his hip to hide the ASP.
“No problem, sir. We were told to give you any help you needed.”
Tasker looked at him. “Unless I’m being choked by an inmate.”
The officer looked down. He hadn’t been interviewed, so he must not have been in the ward the day Tasker was attacked, but he knew what the FDLE agent was getting at.
Tasker headed down the clean, empty hallway with five doors on each side. He looked in each of the cells. Five were occupied. One of them held Linus Hardaway. Today he sat dozing in the sparse room with a mat for a bed. He must have been back on his medication.
Tasker wandered through the three doors that led to the outside door where Dewalt’s body had been found. He opened the door and looked outside, then came back inside and looked at the empty entry room. If he turned right, he’d go into lockdown; left, he headed back to psych. He was impressed by the clean walls and wondered if Dewalt might have been killed in there, then dragged outside.
He let his eyes follow the walls and the floor line. Nothing caught his eye. He walked through the first door toward psych. The smaller, empty hallway was just like the entry room in that it was bare and clean. He searched the room again. Then he froze as his eyes caught the smallest of scratches in the door leading to the psych ward. He could reach it by extending his arm. It was really two similar marks on the top of the door almost in the center. He opened the door and looked on the other side. There was a brown scuff corresponding to the scrapes on the other side.
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