Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan)

by Judy K. Walker

  I’d left my own cell phone in the Jeep, and when I checked it I saw that I’d missed 11 calls in the last couple of hours. Every number was associated with Mike or Richard. I picked one at random and hit redial. It was Mike’s, and when he answered I heard him call out to someone, presumably Richard, that it was me on the phone.

  “Syd, where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I’m still at WFC. There was a little… incident over here.”

  “Yeah, we heard, but they wouldn’t tell us if anyone had been injured or arrested, and we thought they would have released you by now.”

  “I haven’t been injured or arrested, and they just said I could go, so I’d like to get out of here before they change their minds. I haven’t had lunch yet, and I’m absolutely starving. Where do you want to meet?”

  He named the place, a little burger joint with a shaded area outside for eating. I’d made a healthy dent in my cheeseburger and fries before anyone else arrived. Richard was next. When I saw him approaching, I waved him down and asked him to watch my stuff, leaving before he could reply. Surviving such a shitty morning was cause for a chocolate milkshake.

  When I returned with a luscious shake so thick I could barely suck it through the straw, I saw that Mike and Jim Gilbert had arrived. I looked around furtively before sitting, then leaned forward and asked Jim Gilbert, “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  I was in an impish mood.

  “Doesn’t matter now. You took the cat out of the bag and swung it around the room.”

  I stared at Jim blankly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Bad metaphor. How about this—you fucked up a two-year long corruption investigation.”

  I shoved down the rest of my burger and dabbed daintily at my mouth with a napkin. “I feel like that’s something I would have remembered doing.”

  “You didn’t shoot anybody, did you?” Richard asked.

  I was beginning to resent the tone of this interrogation, if not the fact of it. “I don’t even own a gun!”

  “That’s a relief,” Richard said.

  “You know what? I’ve had a long day already, and I don’t need this shit. Call me a wuss, but being shot at tends to take it out of me. I’m going to go find a quiet place to finish my milkshake,” I said, heading toward another table. “And then maybe I’ll have another one.”

  “Wait, Sydney,” Richard said. “We’re just trying to give you a little taste of what’s coming your way.”

  I sat back down. I hadn’t actually been that angry. I think events in my life had been so dramatic lately it was hard not to act the part. “So what’s this about me screwing up an investigation? What investigation?”

  “No, you first. What’d you do to piss off this guy so much that he shot at you?”

  I explained how I’d recognized the malodorous Deacon as one of my kidnappers, opened my big mouth for confirmation, and quickly gotten it.

  “What are you, Deputy Dawg, sniffing out crime?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t recall that he used his nose,” I replied. “That would be Buford the bloodhound. Deputy Dawg was known for injuring his tailbone. Now I think it’s your turn. What investigation?”

  Richard answered. “We always assumed your kidnapping had something to do with Isaac’s old case, the murder of his wife Vanda. It appears we were on the wrong track.”

  Now Jim spoke up. “I did some digging when you asked me about the missing documents from our State Attorney file. I never did find the documents, but I did find out that about two years ago, Isaac Thomas was approached regarding another investigation. At first, I couldn’t find out anything except that it wasn’t local. Then I made some calls to the state Attorney General’s office, and from there I went to the Department of Justice.”

  “It turns out it wasn’t a local investigation for good reason. Some of this my contacts weren’t willing to share until after your shoot-out at WFC, but here’s how it lays out. A couple of years ago Isaac sent a letter to the State Attorney’s Office. He found out that some of the guards were shaking down prisoner’s families on their weekend visitation. I don’t know how much you know about visitation—“

  Probably more than Jim did, but I nodded so he would continue. “Inmates have to submit paperwork ahead of time to get anyone, even a family member, on their visitation list. Once approved, a visitor still has to get prior approval and make an appointment for each visit. Most inmates are allowed contact visits with family members, meaning they can sit together in an outdoor area and have physical contact, a hug, holding hands, whatever within reason. But if an inmate has disciplinary problems, he may lose his visitation rights entirely or be restricted to non-contact visits. Non-contact means he has to visit with his family through a pane of glass, no physical contact whatsoever.”

  Mike cut in. “This is all set out in the Department of Corrections rules and regulations, with procedures for inmate grievances and appeals, but when it comes down to specific cases, the rules don’t mean a lot. I mean, it’s obvious who has the power in this situation.”

  I could tell Jim didn’t want to agree with Mike on principle, but also didn’t want to get sidetracked. “It’s a system that generates a lot of paperwork and vests a lot of discretion in the people implementing it. Some of the guards figured this out. We think it started out small, selling perks. Slip me a few bucks and I’ll make sure your son can get special food from the canteen during your visit, or you’ll get an extra half hour together. At some point the character of the exchanges changed, became more coercive. Things like, you’re not dressed properly for your visit—regardless of what you were wearing—but for the right price I’ll overlook it this time. Then it escalated to, if you don’t pay me, I’ll make sure the visitation yard is full and you’ll have to have a non-contact visit. Or I’ll lose your paperwork and you won’t get a visit at all.”

  Mike piped in again. “Yeah, after you’ve borrowed money for gas and driven 300 miles to get here.”

  “So Isaac found out about these slimy bastards and sent a letter to the State Attorney. Then what?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen the letter,” Jim said, “but apparently Isaac gave enough credible details that eventually someone in the State Attorney’s Office saw that DOJ got the information, and they started their own federal investigation. We’re guessing they’re the ones who had Isaac transferred to Latham for the interview.”

  “But they would have needed somebody local to tell them about the medical transfer scam,” I pointed out. “And somebody at DOC had to be in on it, to make sure everything went through coming and going even though the paperwork didn’t add up.”

  “Maybe,” Jim admitted. “I don’t know the details. It does seem likely the guards knew somebody was onto them. The investigation continued for a while after Isaac’s death, but it didn’t go far because the shakedowns stopped. There weren’t any new complaints to investigate. The old victims were hard to track down, and nobody wanted to talk. But we think the guards started up again about six months ago. The feds were close to getting warrants, and they had some stings set up for the end of the month. That is, until you made one of their suspects go postal.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “They’ll bitch and moan a lot, but I don’t think you’ve really hurt their investigation. If anything, you’ve just moved up the timetable. Deacon James is on the run, but we’ll pick him up, and they’re trying to get warrants on the other major players as we speak.”

  “Deacon James, huh? For some reason I always thought Deacon was his last name. Any names on the others?”

  “No. I practically had to sell my soul to get what I got.”

  “Well then, you got the better half of the deal. Remember, you’re a prosecutor. You don’t even have a soul.”

  Jim gave me a look like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be pissed. I was glad he finally settled for laughing, and smiled back at him. “Thanks for all your help, Jim.
I do appreciate it.”

  And I was grateful, but I’m also greedy, at least when it comes to information. “What can you tell me about my stinky perv Deacon?”

  “Not much. I think the only reason I got his name was because he tried to kill you, which made his involvement in all this pretty conspicuous. I did get the impression that he was the one they really wanted, the one at the top of the list. I don’t know if he was the ringleader, or a bigger offender somehow.”

  “I need his personnel file.”

  “What?” Jim’s goodwill had been replaced by red-faced disbelief.

  “Not the original, just a copy.”

  Jim turned to Richard. “You tried to warn me about her, so I suppose I’ve only myself to blame. All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I had a sudden paranoid thought. “Jim, you may not want to mention my name, or your association with me, when you’re talking to the AG’s office.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I said some uncomplimentary things about them a few months ago, and somehow those things sort of made it into print. They may not have noticed, or maybe they’ve forgotten by now—“

  “That was you?” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it. Then he turned from me to Richard. “You…” he said, pointing.

  Richard shrugged. “What can I say? From now on, I’ll be more careful in my vetting process.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I felt sufficiently comforted after only one milkshake, comforted and ready for a nap. I had a lot to think about, but I felt certain I’d do a better job of thinking after sleeping off a little of my food coma. Mike and Richard insisted on following me back to my room, and I suspected they would try to watch me nap. If they did, I’d just have to tell them that watching me sleep was where I drew the line.

  I leaned heavily against the elevator on the way up to the third floor, letting its wall support most of my weight. At my door I kept fumbling with the key card, so Richard took it from me and opened the door. I never got a chance to follow him in.

  Richard practically threw me back against the opposite wall of the hallway. Mike glanced in my room without entering, then looked at Richard. “Elevator,” he said.

  The two men each grabbed an arm, none too gently considering my injuries, and dragged me to the elevator. It never even occurred to me ask them why. Mike pushed the down button. When the ding heralded the car’s arrival a few seconds later, Richard pressed me back against the wall and stood in front of me, flat against me. The elevator was empty, and they pushed me in.

  “Hold the elevator,” Mike said.

  Richard pushed a button and moved to stand with his back against one of the doors to keep it from opening. In the meantime, Mike moved back down the hall to my room and disappeared inside. He wasn’t gone nearly as long as it felt like he was, soon waving the okay to us from the door. Richard and I left the elevator and returned to my room.

  Maybe I watch too many movies. I was trying to prepare myself for the worst, and images of stewed bunnies, of entrails and blood smeared on walls flashed through my head as I stood outside the door, preparing myself. Maybe something that flamboyantly disgusting would have been less disturbing than what I found.

  My room had been trashed, I thought. On second glance, I found that assessment to be inaccurate. My stuff had been trashed. Aside from the staple holes in the wall, nothing about the room or its furniture had been damaged. Both beds were still perfectly made, so the intruder must have been here after housekeeping. (I don’t make my bed at home, much less on the road.) My clothing was strewn across the pristine beds and spilled onto the floor, along with the pages of a paperback novel I’d been reading, and pages from Isaac’s files. Fortunately only my copies of Isaac’s DOC records and trial attorney file had been in the room. I’d been so mobile lately I’d kept all of my notes from the current investigation and interviews with me, either on my person or in the car.

  Not all of my clothes were scattered across the beds. In the bathroom, a white button-down shirt was hanging from the shower curtain rod, speckled with brilliant splashes of red. It was a perfect imitation of blood spatter, the red vivid against the bright white shirt. A perfect movie imitation, I should say. The red was too vivid, too crimson. I saw its source on the bathroom floor, an open container of nail polish. A couple of years ago I’d had a beach weekend planned for right after I returned from an investigative road trip. I had the idea that I might get bored in my motel, at loose ends with witnesses, and want to paint my toenails, so I picked up the red in a drug store. I never did use it, but the polish had been sitting in the bottom of my travel bag ever since.

  There wasn’t much he could do with my make-up, all pressed powder what little there was of it, but he had emptied tubes of lotions and cleansers, soap and shampoo all over the countertop and smeared my deodorant on the mirror. I always keep spare tampons in my bag, and those were sitting together on the counter. One had been removed from its plastic wrapper. A stapler was sitting on the counter next to it. Apparently he’d been interrupted before he’d finished.

  Which brings me back out to the bedroom. I had only glanced at the wall coming in, choosing to see the rest of the damage before trying to assimilate this. There was a pair of scissors on the desk. He had used the scissors to cut my underwear in half, right across the forward seam of the crotch so that the entire section was intact. Then he’d stapled my underwear to the wall by that section, inside out, so the portion that was normally next to my skin was facing the room.

  Once again, it was a random, trivial (slightly demented) thought that helped me to maintain my sanity. I’m not sure if it’s endemic to my gender or was instilled by my mother, but I always take my best underwear when I travel. That bastard, I thought—he just ruined half a dozen pairs of my best underwear! Plus the pair I’d been wearing during the attack on my last trip that I lost to the hospital or the cops. Then again, if a bunch of cops had to see my underwear, at least it would be my best, not some kind of raggedy soiled grandma panties. The mothers’ clean underwear in case of accident axiom suddenly made sense, although I don’t think this is the kind of accident they had in mind.

  If I’d had any doubts about the identity of my vandal, the wipeboard would have dispelled them. He hadn’t signed it, but he had written on it in block letters, “I told you I’m not done with you yet.”

  Mike and Richard had patiently waited by the door while I inspected the damage, never speaking and I suspect even staying out of my line of sight. As I began a second circuit, peering over and under and around everything, Richard finally spoke.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I know.” Of course, what he really meant was, what are you doing? If he wanted to know, he could come right out and ask. Which he did, on my third circuit.

  “I’m looking for tissues or paper towels.”

  One look at Richard and Mike’s faces, like they’d eaten a bad grapefruit and looked forward to more of the same, and I could tell their minds were heading in the wrong direction. A revolting direction.

  “I had my notes with me. I don’t think there was anything in the room to indicate what new investigation had been done, who had been interviewed or what we suspected, with the possible exception of the wipe board. I believe I cleaned it myself before I left the room this morning, but I want to make sure he didn’t have to wipe it before leaving his own message. If he did, there should be some sign of it.”

  “If you find something, how do you know you didn’t leave it this morning?” Richard asked.

  “He was here after housecleaning,” I explained.

  This time Richard took my word for it. The three of us searched the room as best we could without disturbing anything, and didn’t find what we were looking for. Richard had already used his cell phone to notify the police, and we went downstairs to wait in the lobby for them to arrive. Drake and Sutton hadn’t been among the many LEOs crawling over WFC, at least not while I was the
re, but they had apparently heard about the incident.

  “So,” Drake said, “you’ve had a busy day today.”

  “Not really,” I replied. “Deacon James is the one who ate his Wheaties this morning.”

  I detailed my movements throughout the day, including at WFC. I had debated about Sue Ellen, trying to decide whether to disclose our contact and my suspicions. I didn’t want the cops to freak her out, and if she was going to talk to someone I wanted it to be me. Still, she could be in danger, so I played it safe and told Sutton everything while Drake grilled the guys about their movements and our arrival at the scene. I also gave Sutton, from memory, a list of people we’d contacted in connection with our investigation so they could be warned as well.

  “I hate to state the obvious because people tend to get pissed off when you tell them how to do their jobs, but I’m going to anyway. Keep a tight lid on this list, and especially on Sue Ellen. Obviously Deacon had a bunch of buddies with him when he came after me, and now it looks like they were all prison guards. I’m not saying this is anything that goes beyond WFC, but you know how word travels in law enforcement circles.”

  Obviously I’d picked the right cop. Sutton simply nodded and said, “Got it,” before heading over to join Drake again. Fortunately he was finishing up with Mike and Richard. We had closed the door behind us and all the hotel staff had been warned, so the scene was relatively secure. I hated to be squeamish, but I really wanted to be gone by the time the crime scene techs arrived and everyone went upstairs to look at my underwear.

  Of course, Richard wanted us to have a planned destination before we left the hotel. “We’re not going to stand out in the open and argue about this. Sydney, you might as well paint a bulls-eye on your forehead and be done with it.”

  As always, I appreciated Richard’s optimism, but I knew he was right.