To Sleep... Perchance to Die

  Giovanni shrugged his shoulders and gave a puzzled look, “If that’sa how you wan.”

  Bret nodded, “Yes, that’s how I want it.

  Business concluded, they chatted about anything and everything as they had in Bret’s office. When it was time for his friend to leave, Bret was overcome with sadness. Considering the old man’s health and his incarceration, there was an excellent chance it was their last meeting. Giovanni kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them on the window. Bret did likewise. They said their goodbyes.

  Intimidating Skunky to pick up the mushroom at Giovanni’s was the next challenge. Since one of Skunky’s duties was patrolling the yard, it was a matter of time before Bret would have a chance for a private talk.

  Bret and other inmates were pumping iron at one of the weight piles. He had begun working out in the forlorn hope of being able to defend himself against Sammy. Truth was, Bret enjoyed being with the motley group, although he had to endure the taunts and jibes of men with handles like Snake-Eyes and Crocodile. The crusty old con, Tommy Boy, watched from a bench. His taunts and jibes were second to none.

  Corrections officers patrolled the yard or in teams of two or three. Batons in hand, they walked among the inmates prepared to stop the numerous potential altercations that threatened. If a serious problem occurred, backup was the prison equivalent of a SWAT team. In addition, heavily armed wall and tower guards helped maintain tranquility. Intergroup fist fighting between individuals of the Brotherhood, Blacks, and Hispanics was the worse that happened. Fighting was controlled by the officers and resulted in the combatants having privileges taken. The loss of prized privileges kept yard conflicts to a minimum. Inmates relegated serious disagreements to private areas. It was not unusual for such encounters to result in hospitalization or death.

  When Bret saw Skunky leave his three-person group and wander to a deserted area to smoke, he left his fellow weightlifters and made a roundabout walk to him. The corrections officer was in the shade of two intersecting walls. The convergence of the walls afforded shelter from wind and a modicum of privacy.

  Skunky held his cigarette at his side and rocked on his heels between drags. Bret approached as he was blowing smoke from his nose.

  He leaned and looked into the officer’s eyes, “I need to get my hands on some coke. I hear you can help me.”

  Skunky reacted as if Bret had smacked him on the head with his own baton. He dropped his cigarette and quick-walked to his group.

  He’s shitting a brick worrying that someone might notice we talked privately. Just what I wanted. Make him think his cocaine selling business has been compromised.

  Skunky was not seen for the remainder of the yard time.

  That afternoon while Bret was reading in his cell and Sammy was in the recreation room watching a soap opera, Skunky appeared at the open cell door. “Manley, follow me.”

  When a guard summoned an inmate as Skunky had, it meant the inmate was going to be given skutwork. Being assigned to a cleaning detail was typical. In this case, Bret knew there was another reason. Without complaint, he followed the officer into an empty supply room from which on a weekly basis clean sheets and pillow cases were distributed.

  Skunky turned to Bret and spewed, “What the fuck did you think you were doing out there?”

  “You get Sammy and the boys their coke,” Bret said as if it was common knowledge.

  “Goddammit,” he shouted before catching himself and lowering his voice. “That’s none of your business, and you better keep it quiet.” In a whisper, he said, “If Sammy finds out, you know … well, there’s no telling what he’d do.”

  He fears Sammy as much as I. “Don’t worry. Neither of us is going to tell him. Know what I mean.”

  Skunky was relieved, but Bret wasn’t going to take the hook out of him. “You have to return the favor.”

  Caution antennas seemed to spring from Skunky’s head, and he began to sweat. “I know what you want. No way. You’ll have to find another source.”

  Ignoring the man’s words, Bret said, “Stop getting all hot and bothered. It’s not what you think. I want you to do something else for me, and I’ll pay.”

  Pay grabbed Skunky’s interest. “What do you want me to do?”

  I’ve got him, the mercenary scumbag. “You have to pick up a package for me. On the outside.”

  “A package? What kind of package? I don’t want to get in no trouble because of you.”

  Bret said, “Don’t worry. It’s small, and all you have to do is bring it to me without anyone knowing. That’s all the information you need for now.”

  Considering the proposition, Skunky asked, “How much?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Make it two bills, one now, and the other when I deliver.”

  “Two hundred when you deliver it.”

  As if he were doing Bret a favor by agreeing to the terms, Skunky said, “Alright, but don’t fuck me, or I’ll make your life miserable.”

  As if it isn’t now. “You bring me the package, and you’ll get paid. I’ll give you the address when it’s time for the pickup.”

  Bret had four hundred dollars in the prison bank. Hubie and others in the family made periodic deposits into the account. He would use the money for the purchase of magazines, soda, and candy in the commissary. He had been willing to use the entire amount to entice Skunky to bring him his powdered mushroom.

  Skunky delivered a small sealed envelope, the type that jewelers put rings in when they’re taken for repair. Giovanni had placed duct tape over it to insure Skunky wouldn’t’ know what it held.

  When able to open the envelope in private, Bret was pleased. It contained the Death Cap Mushroom ground into a dull white powder the consistency of flour. Except for a slight difference in color, the powder was indistinguishable from cocaine. Mixed with his drug, Sammy wouldn’t detect the difference.

  It wasn’t going to be difficult to add the powder to the coke. Sammy’s snoring would signal when it could be done. Bret had done a dry run of the procedure. One night as Sammy’s snoring filled the cell with its familiar discordant chainsaw in need of a tune-up sound, Bret removed the stash from the toilet paper roll, pretended to remove half the cocaine and replace it with mushroom powder, and returned the stash to the roll. It took less than a minute.

  Because the cocaine would be diluted, Sammy might think he received a bad delivery or was becoming immune to the drug. The solution would be to take more hits, increasing the amount of mushroom in his body.

  Bret had acquired the power of life and death over Sammy and was savoring the feeling. By virtue of his training, he was an expert in the anatomy of the head and neck, and he fantasized what would happen when the cocaine-mushroom mixture was snorted. The cocaine would anesthetize the nasal membranes as it was absorbed. Beginning to get high, Sammy wouldn’t notice the mushroom powder mixing with his secretions in his nasal passages and throat. He would swallow it. In a week, his liver and other vital organs would fail. Be it death or severe and permanent injury, Sammy Tompkins was going to be destroyed for what he did to him.

  Bret carried the packet of poisonous powder with him for days deciding when to make the transfer. He had no fear of being caught. Everyone would assume Sammy had overdosed. His death would be blamed on the coke. No one would think to test for mushroom poisoning. Bret blocked thoughts of the similarity of what he was doing and what had been done to Frankie Grimaldi from his mind.

  Bret came to a decision. He would make the switch the coming Friday.

  At five a.m. Bob Dillon drove into the Spruce Street parking lot. A beehive of activity, no one would think it unusual if he waited in his vehicle, an eleven-year-old Toyota Landcruiser as tough, used, and nondescript as he. If Corrie proved to be a no-show, he’d return the next day and, if necessary, the day after. If she didn’t appear that month, he was prepared to return in December unless his surveillance information dictated otherwise. It was fortunate Hubie Santos allowed him to clear
his schedule in order to concentrate on the Manley case.

  If Corrie intends to come to the station today, she’ll be here early morning or after one this afternoon. I’ll wait all day if necessary.

  The morning passed without a sighting of his quarry. Not wanting to leave his car for any reason, Bob brought a thermos of coffee and his favorite ham sandwiches. A plastic bleach container would come in handy when he had to relieve himself.

  “Where are you?” he said, as he drummed on the Toyota’s steering wheel with the palms of his hands. The weather, unpredictable in November in New England, cooperated. A warm breeze was blowing, and Bob took advantage by opening the driver and passenger windows. After several false sightings, at one-forty-five in the afternoon, Corrie’s blue Taurus drove into the parking lot.

  Bob Dillon, following twenty feet behind Corrie, walked into Union Station hidden among a crowd. He wasn’t concerned about being recognized, as he had taken pains not to be seen by any of the prosecution witnesses. It was part of his standard investigation technique.

  When witnesses were testifying, Bob sat in the rear of the courtroom and leaned in a fashion that shielded him from the view of those in the witness chair. By proper positioning of his hands and head, anyone sitting next to him would have difficulty describing him. In spite of the precautions, he took pains to keep Corrie from discovering she was being followed.

  The great hall of the station was teeming with people using the train and bus services. Because of its cavernous halls, there was a constant low roar of noise that filled the building. Corrie diverged from the main body of commuters and went toward a door marked Staff Only. Insuring that at all times there was someone between him and his quarry, the P.I. followed. The door was unlocked, and she opened it as if aware it would be. Corrie glanced over her shoulder before entering. Bob Dillon followed. He entered into a wide hallway with doors to four administrative offices, two on each side. Although it was early afternoon, the offices were unoccupied.

  Probably not used every day, or only mornings.

  Mounted on the right side beyond the main door were twenty numbered lockboxes arranged in rows of five. Corrie stopped in front of them as Bob Dillon walked by. He appeared to be on his way to one of the administrative offices.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in passing.

  Corrie nodded, although her expression said she didn’t want to be bothered with pleasantries. She reached into her bag and produced a key. Bob stopped at the first office on the left. An embossed sign to the right of the door said, Unclaimed Baggage. Watching her in the mirror formed by the glassed upper half of the office door, he fumbled with his pockets so Corrie would think he was searching for a key. At the same time Corrie opened lockbox number eleven, third row on the left, and removed a thick envelope.

  At that instant Bob Dillon turned and with all the speed he could muster blocked her from leaving by placing his body between Corrie and the hall door. He grabbed her wrist, removed the envelope, and held it in one hand behind his back.

  “Ahhh!” emanated from the surprised woman. Corrie tried to retrieve the envelope but Bob discouraged her with a smack on her arm.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Bob said as he brought the envelope from his back and checked for markings before opening it. He adjusted his position to pin Corrie against the wall with his body. When several of what was a large amount of twenty dollar bills fell to the floor, Bob’s suspicion of Corrie being involved in the Grimaldi murder was vindicated. She attempted to escape, but a strike to her shoulder stopped her.

  “Ouch,” she cried, “Who are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison, you better cooperate,” Bob ordered.

  Corrie turned her head to the door and hollered, “Help me. Please, someone help me.” The closed door and the cacophonous noise in the main hall made it impossible for anyone to hear.

  Quick firm slaps to her face got her attention. With iron in his voice, he said, “Cooperate. I won’t say it again.”

  Corrie brought both hands to her reddening cheeks. Tears came to her eyes, and her body slumped.

  Bob Dillon was breaking the rules and violating the oath and principles of his profession, but he was willing to sacrifice his license to get to the truth behind the Grimaldi murder. Of greater concern was his actions could jeopardize the case against Corrie and anyone involved with her. Screw the consequences, I’m going to make this bitch crack.

  To maintain situational advantage, he grabbed the front of her jacket and lifted her several inches from the floor. “I know you were involved in the Grimaldi murder. I’ve had you under surveillance for some time. Come clean and I may go easy. If you don’t, I’ll beat the truth out of you.” He didn’t intend to get physical. It was a ploy to frighten the woman into revealing her role in the crime. He released pressure and her feet returned to the floor.

  Sobbing, and shaking, she took a breath and asked, “How did you find out about this arrangement? Everything was so well planned.”

  Bob ignored her question. He wanted a full confession. “Don’t try to deny that the envelope holds payoff money for your part in the murder of Frankie Grimaldi and for testifying against Dr. Manley.”

  Corrie grimaced at the accusation. “Are you a police detective? Before I say anything, what did you mean by going easy on me? Can we make a deal if I tell you what you want to know? I watch a lot of crime shows. Deals are made all the time.”

  Bob was pleased she assumed he was with the police and continued the deception, “If you tell me everything about your involvement and that of your accomplices, there’s a good chance we’ll be lenient on you.” With emphasis, he added, “And I want you to understand I’m serious when I say you’re to leave nothing out.”

  Cringing, Corrie said, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  She was shaking to the point that Bob thought she might fall to the floor. He held her arms to steady her. He was in control, but experience taught he had a few minutes to get what he wanted. Corrie would realize there was no hard evidence linking her to the Grimaldi murder. There were a number of reasons she might be receiving money, some legal, some not, but not for committing murder.

  Drawing from information gathered in his investigation of the Grimaldi case, and what he discovered at Union Station, Bob was certain of who murdered Frankie Grimaldi. His goal was to intimidate Corrie and force the truth from her. Bypassing preliminary questions, he went to the heart of the matter.

  “Why did you, Dr. Warden, and Mai Manley murder Frankie Grimaldi?”

  Corrie became hysterical, “No. It wasn’t me, it was them. It was them.” Her head rocked from side to side.

  As he suspected. “So, you didn’t want to murder Ms. Grimaldi? It was all Dr. Warden’s and Mai Faca’s idea?” In court such questions would be challenged as leading to a conclusion, but in the transportation center there was no one to stop him.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. You’ve got to believe me. That’s just how it was.”

  Bob realized she was desperate and on the verge of a meltdown.

  Corrie began to sob, and fluid dripped from her nose.

  He said, “I’m going to advise you of your rights, and then I want to hear your side of the story. All of it.”

  Bob advised her although not sure of the exact legal wording. It didn’t matter. Anyone could advise a person of their rights. The police would do it in the proper manner.

  In the confines of the hallway off the main lobby of the train station, Corrie Hunter took deep breaths before relating the events surrounding the murder of Frankie Grimaldi. Her delivery was slow and calm. Listening to her story, Bob Dillon, who thought he had heard and seen the worst of what people do to hurt others, was appalled. When Corrie finished, Bob called the Hartford police and explained who he was and what had transpired. Officers were dispatched to Union Station.

  Corrie was taken to the North
Meadows police station in Hartford’s North End. She agreed to submit to an interrogation without a lawyer present. The questions were to determine if there was enough evidence to hold her.

  “If I cooperate, will the authorities go easy on me? Mr. Dillon said it was a good possibility,” she asked.

  Not surprising, upon repeating her story, the police and a judge found evidence to hold her as a material witness and an accomplice to murder. She was booked and placed in a cell.

  During the interrogation she became aware of who Bob Dillon was. Although upset at allowing herself to be duped by him, her major concern was the seriousness of her situation and its potential consequences. Her hope was the method by which she had been caught would lead to a technicality her lawyer could pounce upon. In the interim, she decided to let the police have their way.

  Although her cell phone had been confiscated, she was allowed use of a police phone. Insisting upon having legal representation present during further questioning, she made a call to Saul Cantor, her Willimantic attorney who agreed to come to her aid.

  Corrie made a call to Jake at his Storrs condo. When he answered, a frantic voice said, “Dr. Warden, it’s me, Corrie.”

  Planning on going to Mai’s for a late dinner, he was spending the afternoon watching television. Since Bret had left the office, he didn’t have the luxury of an entire day off on Wednesday. He worked in the morning and took the afternoon off. In order to lessen his workload, he was interviewing candidates to replace Bret.

  He heard the anxiety in Corrie’s voice. Whether working in the office or helping to plot murder, she was cold and calculating in her actions. On rare occasions having to do with her drug habit, she could become emotionally unstable. He suspected she had finished her last supply of drugs and needed more.

  Making an effort to sound cheerful, he said, “Hi Corrie, how are you doing?”

  Corrie said, “You’ve got to forgive me, Dr. Warden. You’ve got to know that I care for you and didn’t want to do it. It’s only that I have to think about myself.”