Ten days after the equipment was installed, Bob phoned the first report of his Hunter findings to Hubie. “Other than a few embarrassing details concerning her personal life I picked up from telephone conversations, I don’t have anything to link Corrie to the Grimaldi murder. The GPS confirms her routine of going back and forth to work and staying home evenings. Last weekend she went into Willimantic to shop.”
“Continue what you’re doing, and keep me posted. Get in touch immediately if you uncover something interesting.”
“You’ll be the second to know.”
“Good luck,” Hubie said ending the conversation.
It was the detective’s routine to retrieve and analyze the information gathered by the audio device and GPS recorder every week. He became familiar with the patterns of Corrie’s existence. The first break came when he discovered she had made four trips to a parking lot in Newport, Rhode Island in a three week period. During that period his listening device recorded a phone call to a jewelry store and a discussion about the purchase of a bracelet. Bob assumed the Newport trips were to the jewelry store. Knowing the location of the parking lot would make it easy to find the establishment. There was nothing incriminating in her activities, but intuition told him his investigation was about to yield dividends.
It was approaching a year and a half since the death of Frankie and the beginning of Bret’s tragic ordeal. The heat of summer persisted into autumn, and temperatures in the non-air conditioned areas of the prison soared into the nineties. Bret was conferring with his uncle in the prison’s lawyer-client meeting room. The room was one of the areas not cooled.
“Our automatic appeals haven’t been answered, but we’re still pursuing all our legal options. No court seems to be in a hurry to reopen our case.” As he spoke, Hubie wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. His open collared shirt was wet and stuck to his skin. “It’s a good thing I brought one of these,” he said, indicating the handkerchief, “It’s obvious they keep this room too hot in summer and too cold in winter on purpose.”
Bret responded, “You said it, they want to make it as uncomfortable as possible for us. The corrections officer who escorted me here joked you were waiting for me in the hot-box.”
Referring to the lack of progress on his appeals, “Every day for me in this place is a copy of the day before but with slightly different horrors. My most pressing problems stem from my perverted and crazy cellmate. To put it bluntly, he’s after me, if you know what I mean.”
Hubie said, “I’ve spoken to the warden about him, but he’s unwilling to do anything. Says unless something overt happens . . . like he tries to kill you . . . his hands are tied. Otherwise, he would be constantly changing cellmates as if it was a game of musical cells.”
“Good luck on finding evidence against anyone in here,” Bret said. “Everything is covered up by the inmates and a lot of the guards who don’t want to create extra work for themselves.”
Hubie shook his head in disgust over the conditions in which his nephew had to live. “Don’t give up hope. I’m not. You’re going to get out of this place.”
Heartened by his uncle’s words, “I appreciate everything you’re doing. I’m just blowing off steam.”
“I know,” Hubie said, “By the way, I see you got a tattoo.”
Bret, who was wearing a cut-off t-shirt, looked at his right upper arm, and said, “Yeah, never thought I would, but some of the guys talked me into it. Didn’t hurt. The artists use homemade tools and dyes, but they’re real experts.”
“Why’d you pick a pair of dice?”
“I don’t know. I guess they represent luck or events you have no control over. Like, if you’re careful when you cross the street, but a car swerves and hits you. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your bad luck.”
Hubie saw a deeper meaning in his nephew’s words.
“Know what I’m talking about?” Bret said.
“I do, and the tat looks good on you. Just don’t try to outdo Sammy.”
Bret rolled his eyes.
“Have you made any friends in here?” Hubie asked.
Bret thought a moment, “Maybe one. Lifer like me. Name’s Tommy Boy. Cantankerous old fart. Got an opinion on everything. We get into heated discussions about the silliest things. Always making me laugh.” Bret looked at his uncle, “Yeah, I’d say he was my friend though he’d never admit it.”
As if Bret were a child, Sammy Tompkins tried to tempt him with offers of candy or fruit. When the ploy didn’t work, Sammy changed tack and offered protection saying he and his pals could insure no one harmed Bret. He claimed his friends overheard some of the Black inmates refer to him saying they were going to “bleed the White motherfucker.” No specific reason for the threat was given. Sammy said, “They’re like that, you know. They’ll cut you just to make sure Whitey knows his place.” It was what Bret had dreaded the first night in the Brooklyn jail with Roman Hernandez.
“All we have to do is let everyone know me and my boys are protecting you. No one would put a fucking hand on you.” As if an afterthought, he added, “Of course, we help you, you owe us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’d think of a way you could pay us back.” Sammy didn’t supply details.
Bret knew how he’d have to repay Sammy, and no telling what the members of his gang would want. “No thanks,” he said, “I’ll take my chances.”
Sammy was unable to control himself. “Shit!” he said as he slammed his open hand on the wall of the cell.
For a while Bret gave Blacks hanging out in groups a wide berth in case this was the one time Sammy wasn’t lying. None of the Black inmates tried to harm him.
Sammy made overt amorous advances that Bret rejected. The result was increased anger and escalating violence. If he displeased Sammy in any way, such as not giving him what he considered enough room to pass in the cell, Sammy would punch him in the arm or shoulder with enough force to cause bruising. They escalated to punches to the diaphragm that knocked the wind from him. He’d fall to the floor in pain trying to catch his breath. At times, as Bret lay there, Sammy urinated on him like an animal marking his territory.
Defending himself or informing the guards were not options. Sammy would beat him to a pulp, or one of the Skinheads would put a shank in his heart during an unguarded moment. Violation by Sammy was inevitable.
The GPS attached to Corrie Hunter’s car revealed her trips to Newport stopped. Bob Dillon discovered the jewelry store she visited was Sparkling Ice. When he produced his credentials, he found the proprietor willing to be helpful in order to prevent a police investigation of his business.
“Why did Ms. Hunter come to your place?”
Mr. Joseph was nervous, and lost his French accent. He spoke like a native of Brooklyn, New York. “She’s looking to buy a bracelet.” Unlocking a cabinet, he produced it, “This one here,” he said as he held the bracelet in one hand and pointed with the index finger of the other. “She came by several times. I don’t remember how many, maybe three, four. Wanted to do a deal, so I gave her a break and discounted the bracelet to thirteen grand. The jewelry business ain’t so great right now. She agreed to put down a G. I’m supposed to hold the piece for six months. Said she’d have the dough by then.” Replacing the bracelet, “She’s making out good. It’s definitely worth it.”
Bob Dillon pressed for more information. “Did Ms. Hunter say where she’d get the money?”
“Naw, just that she’d have it. She’s going to lose her deposit if she doesn’t come up with the rest. That’s for sure. I assumed she worked, and it’d come from her salary.” Wiping sweat from his forehand with the sleeve of his suit jacket, “Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble?”
“Only if you tell anyone about our conversation. If Ms. Hunter calls or stops by the store, don’t say a word about my being here.” The final touch was, “Otherwise, we may have to consider you an accomplice.”
Placing b
oth hands on his face, Mr. Joseph looked like he was about to have a stroke. “I won’t say a thing.”
As he walked to his car, Bob Dillon reflected upon what he’d learned. He felt good about the interview with the phony Frenchman and was confident the jeweler was too frightened to defy his warning not to let anyone know of their conversation.
While he didn’t have all the pieces in place and couldn’t legally prove her guilt, he was certain Corrie was involved in the Grimaldi murder. The bracelet was going to be purchased with money earned for her part in the frame-up.
His decision to place the dot listening device on Corrie’s window and the GPS recorder on her car was vindicated. They led to the discovery of her Newport trips and her intended purchase of an expensive bracelet with a lump sum of cash. He had access to her financial records, and someone of Corrie’s means wouldn’t do business in a high-end establishment like Sparkling Ice. It was the foolish move on her part he predicted. If she had arranged to make small periodic payments over a long period, he might not have questioned the purchase. Anyone can do that. It was the first sour note in what had been Warden, Faca, and Hunter’s perfect symphony. Bob considered presenting what he had found to Attorney Santos, but decided to wait until he had more evidence.
Well past the institutionally prescribed bedtime, Bret Manley was lying on his cot engrossed in a paperback book of fiction, the type of reading tolerable to him. Nonfiction dealt with reality, and life had provided enough reality to suit him. The main lights in the cellblock had been extinguished, and although there was scattered light from nightlights throughout the facility, it wasn’t sufficient for reading. He was using a small reading light attached to a stretchy band wrapped about his head.
He put the book down, removed the band from his head, and turned toward the wall to sleep. Sammy had been watching him, but Bret pretended not to notice. Several days had passed since Sammy punched or peed on him, and as the predicted Yellowstone supervolcano, the next one was past due.
Sleep was fraught with nightmares. Bret was more tired in the morning than when he went to bed. He alleviated perpetual drowsiness with short catnaps stolen during the day.
The nightmares were a progression of his pre-sleep thoughts begun in the Brooklyn Jail. Thoughts of punishing Jake Warden and Mai Faca for what they did to him. In his mind the two miscreants suffered unimaginable pain. Instead of leaving when he fell asleep, the thoughts morphed into nightmares.
Within this nighttime ritual, Bret felt a crushing weight on his back and bone breaking pressure on his neck. Saliva filled words poured into his right ear. “Don’t move or make no noise or I’ll puncture you.”
Sammy was on top of Bret pressing his homemade ice pick to the back of his neck. Terrified and unable to move, he shouted, “Get the fuck off me. Now.” It was hard to get air into his lungs. Breathing and speaking were difficult.
“Ain’t I good enough for you? You been avoiding me long enough.”
Sucking in a quick gulp of air, “I said, get off me!” Bret’s mind was racing, trying to think of how to get the maniac to stop. His situation was desperate.
“You ain’t getting away this time, pal.” Sammy’s free hand was tearing at his victim’s clothes.
Bret turned his head from Sammy’s heated breath. “No. Please. Don’t,” he begged.
Sammy used his heavier muscular body to keep Bret pinned to his cot. Twisting and squirming only caused the pressure to become greater. It was cutting the circulation in the blood vessels of his neck. He was lightheaded from the force placed on him and from the knowledge of what was about to happen. In spite of his resistance, Sammy managed to get Bret’s pants and underwear below his knees. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” he said, “They always do.” His words dripped with malice.
As in the courtroom when his verdict was read, Bret passed out. When he came to, he was lying on the floor, and Sammy was sitting on his cot watching him.
The fog in his brain began to clear. Bret wanted to wipe the sneer from Sammy’s face. He pulled his clothes from his ankles and attempted to get off the floor. “You bastard, I’ll kill you,” he shouted. The words echoed within the cell. He wanted to pummel with furious punches the man who had violated him in such a terrible manner. Bret lunged and managed to get to one knee before being hit with a sledgehammer of a fist.
When Bret awoke from the evening’s second bout of unconsciousness, he was on his back on the floor, and Sammy Tompkins was sitting on him. The man was straddling Bret’s chest with his legs, and the point of the pick was at his throat. Bret twisted his upper body in an attempt to dislodge Sammy.
“I can kill you now, or one of my people can kill you later.” Sammy’s eyes confirmed he meant what he said. “All’s I have to do is say you was out of your mind and attacked me. You couldn’t stand it no more.” His smile was that of a ghoul who had taken a bite of a cadaver.
Bret considered trying to kick him in the back, but thought better of it.
“The screws would believe me,” Sammy continued, “They know how sensitive you are. So, calm down and don’t make no trouble.”
Bret knew to fight Sammy would prove futile. He stopped resisting.
Sammy stood and returned to his cot. As if it justified what he had done, he hurled a final insult at his victim. “It wasn’t that bad a thing I done to you. You been here a few years, you’ll probably ask for it.”
Bret couldn’t begin to describe his feeling of revulsion from being violated. Bile filled his throat causing him to retch. He wanted to wash Sammy’s filth from his body, but all the soap in the world wouldn’t be enough. He vowed revenge upon Sammy Tompkins for what he did. The man joined Jake Warden and Mai Faca in his murderous nightmares.
What’s this? Bob Dillon was studying the GPS locations he had downloaded. Why is the woman making trips to Hartford’s Union Station?
The station was Hartford’s main train and bus terminal. According to the GPS map plot, she had parked in the Spruce Street parking lot on the first day of three consecutive months. The visits lasted for about a half hour and were made during busy morning or afternoon times.
The first trip or two, she could have been picking up or leaving someone off. But, three times? All at the beginning of the month during peak activity and lasting about the same amount of time. Has to mean something.
Aware of her pending acquisition of money to pay for the sapphire bracelet, his instinct told him uncovering Corrie Hunter’s reasons for making trips to Union Station would be critical to finding the source of the money and who murdered Frankie Grimaldi. If she continued to follow her schedule, Corrie’s next trip to Hartford would be on Wednesday, the first day of the next month.
Come November, I’ll be there waiting for you, Corrie Hunter.
Sammy and his skinhead buddies had access to cocaine. Bret noticed that on Fridays, a supply of drugs arrived. Sammy placed his cocaine in a plastic bag and hid it between the cardboard and paper of the current roll of toilet paper. He had seen Sammy hiding it.
On Saturday and Wednesday nights, after lights in the cellblock were dimmed, Sammy retrieved his stash, divided the coke into lines on a small plate, and got high. Since he remained in his cot and faced the wall, sniffing noises were all that betrayed what he was doing.
Bret didn’t object to his cellmate’s use of drugs. When wasted, Sammy ignored him. On occasion, Sammy was bold and sniffed the white powder without turning from Bret. He’d warn, “Don’t say nothing to nobody, and keep your hands off my shit, or else.”
It was critical to discover the source of the cocaine. Bret would use the knowledge to get his revenge on Sammy. He noticed that in the outside recreation area referred to as the yard, Sammy would bump shoulders with a guard the inmates nicknamed Skunky because he reeked of stale beer. The contact was meant to appear accidental. Bret watched Sammy and Skunky until he was certain drugs and money were exchanged when they collided.
In the prison library Bret did an internet
search of poisonous mushrooms. A. phalloides or Death Cap Mushroom intrigued him. Eating a small amount caused stomach irritation followed by severe damage to major organs such as the liver. Serious illness or death resulted. The Death Cap Mushroom satisfied his needs. He was careful to erase evidence of his internet explorations.
Bret had his mother call his friend Giovanni Rossi to ask him to visit. Within a short time, the elderly man was sitting on the other side of the thick glass that separated inmates from visitors in the visitation ward. Age was getting the better of his friend, and Bret hoped, as Dylan Thomas advised, he was not going gentle into that good night. They were happy to see each other and talked of old times. Giovanni apologized for not visiting, but health problems made travel difficult.
Because of the sensitivity of what he intended to ask, Bret had to be circumspect in making his request. “Do you still visit your favorite mushroom picking grounds?”
Using his hands for emphasis, Giovanni answered, “No much. Somma times.”
“Are there ones called Death Cap Mushrooms where you go?”
With a questioning look, Giovanni said, “No many. Some.” He looked about before speaking, “Why you aska me these things?”
Taking the chance Giovanni wouldn’t betray his confidence, Bret said in a low voice, “Because I want you to get me one.”
Giovanni said, “I no aska why, but I get for you. Wen you wan me to bring?”
Thinking of his other potential helper, Bret replied, “You won’t have to bring it. Too difficult for you. Someone will pick it up at your house.”
“I hava end of next week. After, they canna pick up wen they wan.”
“Thanks, Giovanni, you don’t know what this means to me.”
“No tella me more. I know you hava good reason.”
The old man was smart, and Bret was certain he surmised what he was planning to do with the mushroom. “Oh, one more thing, I want you to dry it and grate it into a powder. Like grated parmesan.”
To Sleep... Perchance to Die Page 21