“I’m telling you, he took my guns, took Gaither’s gun, shot him twice with my Browning, and tortured him.”
“And you saw this?”
Frank tightened his lips.
“I was too far down in that pit. But I heard the shots and I heard Gaither screaming. And when the cranes pulled him up, I saw his body separate. It was like an x-rated scene out of a bad horror movie.”
“Here’s the problem with that scenario: you hated Gaither and wanted him dead. Malay works for Guzman and defended Gaither. What would be his motive for killing him? And here’s another problem. They found GSR on your gun hand and your clothing. Nothing on Malay.”
“I went to the range before I came to the warehouse. I go twice a week. Practically everything I own has GSR on it. Malay wore surgical gloves and he had plenty of time to wash himself clean before you arrived.”
“We never saw gloves. And where’s Gaither’s gun?”
“Beats me. Malay hid it,” Frank said. “Search the warehouse and look outside.”
“If Malay took it, as you say, it sure as shit won’t be there now. You never said anything about Gaither’s gun when we were hauling you out of that pit.”
“Good God, man, I was busted up, dead tired, and sure you’d see what had happened as I did. I didn’t put any significance on Gaither’s gun.”
Judd paced the room.
“I’m going to hit the lab. Get the report on the bullets in Gaither.”
Judd strode to the door and opened it.
“You’re wasting your time,” Frank said. “Those bullets came from my gun. I told you they did.”
“Then I’m hoping they’re too distorted for a match to the Browning.”
“You know that hasn’t got a chance in hell. They’re my bullets. Two were missing from the magazine. We have to prove who fired them.”
“Frank, you know I’d take a .44 magnum in the chest for you. Come to think of it, I did take a bullet for you,” Judd said and glanced at his shoulder. “But I’m going to need somebody to toss me a bone on your behalf to be able to help you.”
“For now, just believe me.”
“I’ve never known you to lie. I do believe you.”
Frank smiled for the first time that day.
“I’ll be okay,” Frank said. “God didn’t spend all His time nurturing me to see me die like a mad dog on a prison island.”
Judd said, “I asked the lieutenant sitting outside to wait until I had a chance to talk with you. He was kind enough to grant me the favor. He’s here to formally charge you with first degree murder. You’re not likely to be given bail on a capital charge, so I asked him to see that you’re not put into the main population at the detention center. It won’t be the Bonaventure, but it’ll be reasonably private.”
Frank nodded his thanks. Judd waved a goodbye, exited into the hall, and closed the door.
Frank stared out the window that overlooked Dickinson Street, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. He knew that proving Malay shot Gaither with his Browning was up there with finding Nessie and Sasquatch surfing at Laguna Beach.
* * *
Three jail-celled months went by before Frank got his day in court, for what that was worth. The prosecution seldom receives a slam dunk at trial, and even rarer yet was one where the defense could offer no reasonable doubt, no alibi, and nary a witness on the defendant’s behalf. Even character testimony by Senator Martin Dimino and Charlotte Stone carried little to no weight in balancing Lady Justice’s scales toward Frank’s innocence.
The jury found Frank guilty of first degree murder in less than an hour of deliberation, a record for San Diego County. They didn’t have to recommend a sentence of life, either with or without parole, or death, since the new felony laws made that a clear conclusion. There would be no options, no choices: Prescott Island would be Frank’s residence until the end of his days.
Marty Dimino visited Frank the day before he was to ship out to the Resort. They sat and talked by telephone across a thick Lexan window. Frank’s orange attire added to the despair he tried to hide by keeping a partial smile on his face.
“Judd Kemp said he visited you yesterday,” Marty said. “He told me he’s not going to give up on your case.”
“They honor appeals for Resort Isle convicts?”
“If they find irrefutable evidence that someone else murdered Gaither, I’ll make it my personal mission to get you an appeal.”
“Have you picked up on the irony of all this?”
“Apparently not,” Marty said.
“I’m following the life of James Douglas, an Earl, who was executed in Edinburgh on a device called the ‘Scottish Maiden,’ which he had introduced to Scotland as a capital punishment method.”
Marty looked puzzled.
“He promoted the execution machine for beheading criminals and political rebels, then ended up being executed by his own device. I promoted Prescott Island as the last punishment for capital criminals and now I’m going there myself. Ain’t that a gas?”
“The humor in that is lost on me. You don’t belong there. You’re not a criminal.”
“Neither was ole Jimmy Douglas.”
“Charlie and I got married.”
“No shit. You finally married that doll baby. Congratulations, Marty.”
“She’s taking all this kinda hard, or she’d be here. Trust that her best thoughts and prayers are with you.”
“Never a doubt.”
Marty stared at Frank for a long moment.
“I see something brewing behind your eyes … something you’re not sharing.”
“You see a man you’re never going to see again in the living flesh,” Frank said, shaking his head. “That’s all that’s behind these eyes.”
“You had the same look when late in my campaign we had to find a spectacular concept to go with our anti-crime platform. An intenseness was in your gaze, and shortly afterward, you latched onto the Prescott Island idea, the perfect answer.”
“I wish I had a perfect answer for this situation, but I don’t have even a sniff of one.”
Marty looked askance at Frank and raised an eyebrow as the guard on duty stepped behind Frank and touched his shoulder. Frank and Marty rose but held their phones to their ears.
“So long, Frank. Keep hope. It will be a comfort to you beyond measure.”
Marty hung up his phone, gave a thumbs-up, and walked away.
Frank stared after his friend until he disappeared.
Tomorrow he would be in a place where there were no friends.
Chapter 39
Two navy gunboats flanked the five-hundred-foot LST-1179 carrying the latest band of prisoners scheduled for Prescott Island. Helicopter gunships flew patterns on course with the ship. The twenty-eight men occupied specially designed on-deck, individual quarters, equipped with a bunk, sink, and toilet. Every unit had a window to the sea outside. Of all the possible modes of prisoner transport, a specially-adapted ship was determined to be the most favorable choice. ConAir was out since there was no airstrip on Prescott, and control of a rebellious incident aboard ship posed many better options than those occurring mid-air. A ship could be stopped at any time to deal with any insurrection, not so much for a plane.
Frank Dugan regarded the sunny view of the Pacific with oppressive sadness, even though he believed the placement of the rooms, with their clear views of the ocean, a product of inspired moral genius. From the beginning, he’d felt the passengers on these trips to the Resort should be constantly encouraged to regard their destination as a form of tropical freedom; a vacation from their former concrete and steel incarceration. To that end, the outside sights from the upper deck succeeded, and ranked far superior to being crammed into a moldy hold below decks in a troop carrier, like cattle, blind to their fate. In addition, prisoner problems could be dealt with on an individual basis without overseers having to concern themselves with the dangers of concerted efforts multiple convicts might pose. But Fra
nk hadn’t come from long years of imprisonment in a cement box. He had known the freedom of beautiful beaches where equally beautiful people gathered and played. He had known endless days in sunshine and great eateries. These and many more things would be missed, but none as much as his good friends that he loved.
The hundred-mile journey would take most of the day and lunch and snacks arrived at appropriate intervals. Closed circuit television played current movies and hot coffee and soft drinks were served throughout the voyage. It wasn’t a Carnival cruise, but it wasn’t bad.
Frank’s concerns drifted from the current accommodations to what lay ahead at the island. He was a cop who had arrested dozens of the men who’d be in reception when he landed on their private beach. And while he was instrumental in the idea of this palm isle becoming a reality, he knew men there had no reason to fear further punishment for an additional act of murder, his murder, in particular. Inmates on Prescott Island had only two things to fear: sharks and each other.
* * *
Errol Malay could hear the tick-tock of his mental clock counting off the closing hours of his unfinished agenda. The issue of Mitch Davis needed to be resolved. He represented the last person with knowledge of the murders of the Dugan family, knowledge he might use to bargain his way into a cushy plea deal with the California legal system. Knowledge that could drag Malay to a defense table where he might find himself a defendant in a fight for his career and perhaps his life. Mitch could disclose the details of the Dugan murder plan, and well might, since his hero, Rico Guzman, had been stripped of his super powers by the Kryptonite of Frank Dugan.
Malay had visited the Mago in hopes of finding Mitch, but the yacht looked abandoned. The typical signs of occupancy were absent. No recently cooked food was in evidence in the galley or in the trash, the ship’s air conditioning continued to over-cool quarters where no one dwelled, not even a drop of recent moisture could be found in any of the heads. Only one thing looked out of place: the open safe in Rico Guzman’s sprawling stateroom.
The weeks were flying by and Mitch needed to be found. Attempts to reach him by cell phone transferred directly to a canned recording. Mr. Davis was apparently lying low, and doing a fair job of it.
As planned, Frank Dugan had been neatly taken care of. Now only one person posed a threat to his security. With Mitch eliminated, Errol Malay, Esquire would be one rich legal beagle, wallowing in the bounty of treasures that he had the power of attorney over and title to. Rico’s paranoia over losing his possessions to the state, should the unthinkable happen and he get arrested, had forced him to trust his legal counselor. Trust him with everything he owned. It was good to be Errol Malay this day, but one loose end needed to be tied up.
Malay called Mitch’s cell one more time.
“Hello,” said a voice that Malay recognized.
“Mitch, this is Errol Malay, Mr. Guzman’s attorney.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“I’ve been calling you for days. I have news about Mr. Guzman that I’m sure will interest you.”
“What kind of news?”
“Good news. Can we get together somewhere?”
“I have some news too,” Mitch said. “Not terrific news for you.”
“Oh? Care to share?”
“I’ll share all you want, but you might want to keep what I have to say under your hat.”
Malay waited. Several seconds passed before Mitch continued to speak.
“I was at the warehouse when you murdered Ernie. Got it all on video.”
Malay rolled his lips inward and firmed his teeth on them.
“I took the precaution to send out letters and copies of the tape,” Mitch said, “to a few trusted people who have instructions to get the video to the cops, should I turn up missing or dead.”
“What do you want, Mitch?” Malay said, his voice grave.
“I just want to be safe … and maybe a few bucks to take me away from here.”
“How much?” Malay asked.
“How ’bout two hundred grand?”
“Where do you want to meet to get it?”
“Send it to Detective Judd Kemp in my name. He’ll see that I get it.”
“And then you’ll trade him your video tape for the money?”
“Naw. I ain’t inscrupulous like you lawyer types.”
The fuck you’re not, Malay thought.
Two hundred thousand dollars would only be the prelude, Malay knew, and would be followed by more demands from his weak-witted blackmailer. He would agree to this first request, but put every resource he could muster to determine where Mitch was. He couldn’t use the police to put out a BOLO on Mitch’s car because it might trigger the release of his video tape letters, so global satellite positioning would be first. A criminal lawyer could easily secure a cell phone’s location by making it part of a legal investigation. The phone company would help without alerting the cops. Hell, Malay had purchased the phones and phone service provider for all of Guzman’s thugs. It was his account and he knew exactly what company to contact. Find Mitch’s cell, find him.
Mitch might be bluffing about the video, but Malay would ask to see a sample. What happened after that needed to be carefully planned.
“I’ll get the package together today,” Malay said and ended the call.
Malay despised anyone having a one-up on him. As much as he hated it, he might have to put Mr. Davis’s disappearance on hold, and later put him on ice.
* * *
The LST could land personnel directly onto beaches, but the stringent nature of the security at Prescott Island made that impossible, so the ship docked at the long pier, specifically constructed to accept new arrivals. Covered in a heavy steel mesh like a tunnel, occupants on the pier could be seen, but safely contained. The process was rigidly choreographed and overseen by a cadre of naval and correctional officers. A ranking officer spoke to the new inmates as they lined up to disembark and become part of the island community.
“You will step to the pier and walk single file all the way to its far end at the island,” the officer said. “There, a gate will open, allowing you to pass onto the beach. Several sponsors will greet and orient you to island life. Listen carefully to what these men tell you. It can make your stay here more pleasurable and seem a lot less like punishment. The choices you make, starting today, will determine that outcome. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The gate at the boat side of the pier opened and all twenty-eight men marched to its end at the beach. When everyone stood within the pier’s two gates, the entrance near the LST was relocked and the island gate was opened, allowing the men to move onto the sandy beach. Once all were ashore, the beach gate was relocked.
Frank knew about the sponsorship program, since he had instituted it to acclimate new prisoners to how the island veterans had decided to rule their unique population. Dan Crawford was Frank’s first choice to establish a viable form of government for the Resort, certain that anarchy would lead to bloodbaths and a total failure of the entire island prison experiment. Dan assured Frank that he would take the lead and have a workable plan in place within a few weeks. Men listened to Crawford and feared his power and reach, a fearsomeness that was legendary back at Pelican Bay. But Frank never expected he’d one day be under Crawford’s jurisdiction.
When Frank stepped off the pier and set foot on the beach, several inmates pointed at him and spoke out.
“There’s that detective guy who put my ass in Soledad,” one said.
“Yeah, I know him too,” another said. “Put me in Quentin for dos equis.”
Several men crowded around him, menacing looks defined their faces. Frank prepared for his first tough encounter, balanced his stance, and clenched his fists.
“That’ll be enough of that, gentlemen,” a booming voice behind the gathering said. “We have rules of civility here now.”
The man behind the voice came forward. Everyone in his path parted to allow him passage. It was a barefoot D
an Crawford dressed in khaki Bermudas and a white tank top with a large crucifix printed on it in bold red ink.
“Bet you never figured on me standing here,” Frank said.
“You’d’ve won that bet, Frank,” Crawford said. “You men go on about your work. Mr. Dugan and I have business to discuss.”
The group gave out a few mumbles, but dispersed peacefully in several directions. Dan smiled at their compliance.
“I promised you a system of order and, so far, it seems to be working,” Crawford said. “There are a few hard liners who may give us trouble, but what government doesn’t have its Benedict Arnolds and Jane Fondas?”
Crawford looked over Frank from head to foot and shook his head.
“What in the world did you do to deserve coming here?” Crawford asked.
“Honestly? Nothing.”
“Yeah, we all use that one. Never seen so many innocent men in one place in my life until I hit Pelican Bay.”
“Seen Rico Guzman?”
“Of course. He’s one of those rebel types I spoke of, who wants to do things his way without any consideration of the bad example he sets for morale. I’ve left him alone for the few weeks he’s been here because he’s new. I may have to tow him in if he doesn’t come around soon.”
“You’re wasting your time, Dan. He’s not used to taking orders from anyone. And he’s as ruthless a bastard as you’ll ever run into. Nothing is beneath him if he wants something.”
“What does he want?”
“Now that I’m here, he’ll want me.”
“As in dead?”
“He only knows his way and killing. We’ll be tangling soon. I’m not looking forward to it, but it has to happen.”
“You hate having to fight him?”
“I wanted him to be sent here where he couldn’t run his criminal activities like the king shit he thought he was in California. I wanted him to pay every day of his life for ordering the hit on my family. Now I’m here, and I’m going to have to punish him in a different way.”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 19