by David Wiltse
She stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard. On arrival, she had noted the time to include in her trip report.
She had not been holding his hand for more than a minute.
Or was he holding her hand? She had forgotten.
He turned to her at last and there was real warmth in his smile this time. He squeezed her hand, then let it go.
"Thanks," he said.
Pegeen felt her ears burning. She knew they would be fiery red, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Did you want me to accompany you or shall I wait in the car?"
" Have you ever been in one of these?" he asked.
"A prison?"
"A cage," he corrected.
"I've been to plenty of jails."
"It's not like a jail, a jail is just a holding pen, there's still hope they'll get out. This is a cage. It's different."
"As part of our training we were shown-"
"I don't mean a tour," Becker said. "Have you ever been in one after the warder leaves? When the animals are hungry and feel like turning on each other?"
"No, sir. I haven't. Have you?"
"Do you know the worst part of a place like this?"
"No, sir, I don't," she said. Continuing to call him sir seemed silly now, but she didn't know how to get out of it. Nor did she know that he would want her to. It's not as if anything happened, she reminded herself, not as if anything really passed between them. That parting squeeze of the hand had been a gesture of camaraderie, nothing more. It was even somewhat condescending, as if she needed the comfort and encouragement. She should have given him the heartening squeeze.
She had paused, expecting him to continue. When he didn't, she asked,
"What is the worst part of a place like this?"
"The smell," he said.
"The smell?"
"If you ever have a chance, smell it. Deeply. See if you can tell what it is. It will teach you something about what we keep in these cages.
And why."
He opened the door and cooler air rushed into the car.
Pegeen did not realize how warm it had become in there.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
He turned back, leaned in the open door.
"Do you remember what kills a werewolf?" he asked.
"A stake through the heart?"
"That's a vampire," Becker said, grinning. "We're talking werewolves here."
"I forgot," she said.
"That's okay," he said. "It doesn't come up that often-but when it does, it helps to know. You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet."
He continued to grin but Pegeen could find no humor in his eyes.
"So when I come out," he continued, "if you notice tufts of hair growing on my hands and face, go straight home and melt down the silverware your grandmother gave you."
He brushed her cheek very lightly with the tip of his finger as if removing a speck of dirt, then turned and walked into the prison. To Pegeen the spot where he touched her burned as if his finger were a match. She felt her ears. Like ovens, two fiery betrayers.
Pegeen remembered everything that had passed between them since Becker got off the airplane. She had registered it all without effort, without conscious thought, the way she did with any exchange, particularly with a man, and she drew it up again now and examined it, probing it for meaning, turning every word and every look in her mind to reveal facets that might hold the clues to what it really meant. It was easy enough to do, she recalled their conversations verbatim. After a moment she put her hand to her cheek once more, gently covering the spot where his finger had grazed her. Amazingly, she could still feel the fire. She held her hand against it to keep it there.
A guard led Becker to the room to be used for the inter view, then left him there while he went to fetch the prisoner. The room was not much bigger than a cell and had the same cinderblock walls, the same sickly green paint.
Instead of a bunk, there was a small table and two chairs, no window except a small opening at eye level in the door. The overhead light bulb was controlled by a switch on the outside of the room. Becker could only guess at the uses to which the room was put customarily. It was certainly not for ordinary interviews, which were conducted under strict, scrutiny with television security cameras, guards within earshot and bulletproof glass separating the prisoner and his visitor. Becker would be alone with his prisoner, free to do what he liked. Hatcher had seen to it, of course. It would have taken someone of his level to arrange this amount of privacy. Becker wondered what Hatcher thought he was going to do with the prisoner that would require this much seclusion. But he didn't spend much time on the idea, he didn't want to waste his energy on the way Hatcher's mind worked.
He stood behind the chair facing the door, trying at first to keep the awful claustrophobic dread of the prison from affecting him, then giving in to it as he would give himself to the surge of the ocean or the silence of the night. There was no point in fighting it, it was too vast, the trick was to survive it.
As always happened when he was in a prison, a spate of self-loathing overtook him. Never far from the surface, the prison smell brought out his guilt, the claustrophobia sucked it forth like a poultice. I belong here, he thought.
I should be in a cage like the rest of them, only the good fortune of my circumstances keeps me out. My impulses are the same, my needs the same as those I put in here.
It's only because I'm useful to them that they don't throw me in, too.
I've done things, been awarded citations for things that would put others on death row. Only my position as a Bureau agent has kept me out and free.
His remunerations were disturbed when the guard returned with a prisoner in tow. The guard withdrew, leaving Becker alone with the prisoner, who stood just inside the door, looking quickly at Becker, then at the room, as if seeking a means of escape.
"Hello," Becker said.
The man nodded uncertainly, continuing to look nervously around the room. Becker realized that the man half expected Becker to jump on him.
He was a small man, his long hair flowing to his shoulders like a woman's, his prison work shirt opened to his sternum. Some form of mascara and shadow had been applied to his eyes.
"Becker," Becker said. He indicated the other chair.
"I got your letter."
"You're Becker?" The man seemed genuinely surprised.
"I know, I don't look the part."
"No, no, it's… No, you're right, you're not what I expected."
"What were you hoping for, Dick Tracy?"
"He said you were… I thought you'd be… I don't know. Bigger."
"No, just life-size. Sorry."
"I didn't think you would come at all. I'm Swann."
"I know."
Swann started to offer his hand, then quickly withdrew it and sat in the chair opposite Becker. He looked up at Becker from under lowered brows.
It's meant to be either seductive or a parody of shyness, Becker thought.
"I really didn't think you would come."
"I would have said you were counting on it."
"I hoped… well, I mean, I hoped… I prayed. I prayed a great deal."
Becker smiled ruefully. "I'm not the answer to anyone's prayers, believe me."
Swann's face darkened. "I believe in prayer, Mr. Becker. I truly do believe in it. It's the only thing that's kept me sane."
"Why me?" Becker asked. "Why not just contact the FBI and tell them you have some information for them?"
"I couldn't just contact anybody. Our mail is censored, you must know that. And even if it wasn't, I couldn't risk having anybody find out what I was doing. Do you know what they do to stoolies in this place? … Even now, a meeting like this, what if they find out?",The guard thinks I'm an attorney reviewing your case for civil rights violations. I don't know what the warden has been told. If anyone finds out what we talk about, it's because you told them."
"Me? I would be killed."
&
nbsp; "Why me, Swann? Why specifically me?"
"I heard about you."
"Heard what?"
"They talk about you in here. Lots of them seem to know you or to know about YOU. You have a rep."
"I'll bet."
"I hear you climb, you climb mountains. You're a rock climber, right?"
Becker said nothing. Swann smiled at him, knowing his information was correct.
"You'd be surprised how much they know about you."
"You a climber, Swann?"
"Well… not really. I worked with ropes a little bit, I know what's involved. That's scary work."
"Not so scary if you know the safe way. You ever try it?"
"I believe in gravity. if it tells me to go down, I go down. It was just interesting that they say that about you.
Someone who would do that, take that kind of risk for no reason. It's unusual. I don't really understand it."
"You're surrounded by risk takers in here."
Swann shivered. "I don't understand them, either.
Please don't lump me with them."
"The judge already did that. You pleaded to three counts of manslaughter and aggravated assault."
"My lawyer told me to do that. My landlady attacked me, she went crazy and just came at me, I was defending myself…
"You misunderstood me, Swann. I said the guard thinks I'm an attorney, you don't. Spare me the bullshit."
"My innocence is not bullshit to me, Mr. Becker."
"Uh-huh. Well, innocence is a relative thing. You did slit the landlady's gullet, after all. Or at least you said you did when you pleaded guilty."
"It was a horrible time, she was coming at me, I struggled with her, she tried to stab me-you don't know, you just don't know. How could you understand what it was like?"
"You'd be surprised at my imagination," Becker said.
"Why me, Swann? I can't think I have a lot of fans in here."
"Oh, they don't hate you, isn't that odd? They think they know you.
It's like-I don't know-like wolves from different packs will kill each other sometimes, they don't like each other maybe, they've got to defend their turf, but they understand each other. They understand each other better than they understand the sheep."
Becker took the open pack of cigarettes from his pocket and inhaled the scent of tobacco again. Swann's analogy linking him to the people he pursued in a commonality of understanding was too close to the bone. It was as if the prisoner had read his thoughts of only moments ago.
Becker tapped a cigarette loose, paying great attention to the work as he tried to settle his mind.
Swann accepted the cigarette gratefully and Becker shoved the whole package across the table to him.
Swann's hand covered it and it was suddenly gone.
"They say you're fair," Swann said and Becker thought briefly of Pegeen's use of the word earlier. "They say you'll treat people right if they're straight with you."
Becker laughed. "Nobody in here ever told you I was fair. But maybe they told you I was an idiot who would believe whatever you said."'
Swann laced his fingers in front of him, then studied them for a moment, pouting.
"They said you can tell," he said, his tone lower, more sincere. I 'They say you can look at a man and know if he's telling the truth. They say you can see it in his eyes."
Becker snorted. "Who am I supposed to be, the truth fairy? You can't tell anything by looking into a man's eyes. Any good liar can control his eyes. I look at his hands."
Becker chuckled as Swann predictably stopped moving his hands and folded them on the table in front of him.
Becker knew he would be unable to treat them naturally for the rest of the interview. They were strong hands, unusually large for a man Swann's size, with thick wrists.
In truth, Becker never paid much attention to a person's hands, either, but he liked making the prisoner uncomfortable. Nothing valuable was ever learned when the person being interviewed was too comfortable.
"Men don't look each other straight in the eyes, anyway, don't you know that, Swann? It makes them uncomfortable, it's an unnatural act. We look women straight in the eyes, not other men. You sure as hell must have learned it in here. If a man looks you straight in the eyes when he tells you something, it means one of two things.
Either he's lying to you or he wants to fuck you."
Swann twisted uneasily on his chair.
"I know about that part," he said.
"I imagine you do," said Becker.
"That's why I wrote to you."
"Okay."
"I want revenge on an animal."
"I didn't think it was your civic duty."
"I'm a man," Swann hissed. "A man. He called me his punk, he called me his wife-and he used me like his whore. He nearly killed me. Many times.
Many times. He threatened to snap my head off, and he would have, anyw ere else he would have. He wouldn't regret it, he wouldn't even think about it… No, that's not true, he thinks about them, all of them, he loves to think about them, brag about them, go over and over how he did it and where he did it and who they were. He kills them again, every night. Probably even in his sleep. And he'll keep doing it, there's no doubt about it. I could find a record of only two of the killings, but he talked about dozens of them. I found the two girls in the coal mine in the paper-I work in the library, I searched everything I could find, but most of them wouldn't have been in the paper-he killed migrants and fringe people, they wouldn't be in the Times and that's the only newspaper we have that goes back…":'He's killed while in here?" 'No. But he's gone, he's out. He got out three weeks ago."
"Why didn't you tell us about him when he was in here?"
"I did. Look at the dates on the letters. He was still in here… He was still with me. Living with me. Talking about them. Using me… And they cheer, did you know that, Mr. Becker? The other prisoners cheer like it's a sport. I felt like a Christian-I am a Christian-being thrown to the lions and everyone was cheering for the lion."
Revenge isn't a very Christian sentiment," Becker said.
Swann had been edging closer to Becker, leaning in across the table, propelled forward by his intensity. Now he sighed audibly and leaned back in his chair.
"I have thought of that," Swann said. "I wish my heart were without hate. I have prayed for that… But it hasn't been given."
"You can always keep praying," Becker said.
"I always do, Mr. Becker. I always pray. I think that Jesus understands me. I know he does."
"You're not that hard to understand. Even I can do it."
"But Jesus not only understands. He forgives."
"Does he forgive the man you're turning in, too? Does he forgive all those killings?"
"He might," Swann said. "I don't."
"What's his name?"
Once more, Swann looked nervously around the room.
He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind, shaking his head.
"That doesn't seem like a lot to ask," Becker said.
"You don't understand how dangerous it is in here," Swann said. "If I give you a name, even if they don't know it, I will know it. If anybody asks me if I gave somebody up and I know I've given you his naine-I'm such a bad liar, I get so frightened-they can smell it on you, I swear some of them can smell if you're lying, if you're scared. And he may have friends still in here, I don't think so, I don't think he had any friends but me, but you can't be sure. Isn't there another way? You'll figure it out, you can look at the prison records-if you could find me you can certainly figure out who he is. Just don't make me say his name.
I've got to be able to say I didn't tell you anybody's name and believe it myself."
"So what are you giving me? What am I here for?"
"Him, I'm giving you him. Those bodies in the newspaper, the girls in the coal mine, he killed them, he admitted it to me, he bragged about it. He's never been tried for those. There are dozens of others. He'll confess to all of them
, I think he would have confessed to anyone, anytime, because he's proud of all the killings. He thinks they make him a man. But nobody ever asked him, the cops never knew anything about him because he just drifts, he's done things in states that don't even know he's alive. I can tell you what to ask him."
"You're willing to testify against him? I thought you wouldn't even tell us his name."
"If I'm safe, I'll do whatever you want. You can't ask me to risk my life by testifying while I'm still in here."
"I didn't ask for anything from you, Swann, you sought me out. I was just as happy not knowing anything about this."
"You don't want to know about this? He's a killer, a serial killer, a mass murderer. I thought you would want to know. What kind of a cop are you?"
"Ex."
"Then why are you here?"
"Why am I here? I'm here because some shit-faced little come got tired of being buggered every night by the ape who shared his cage and thought he'd be real clever and write secret little notes in code to me. As if I gave a shit. As if I had nothing better to do than get involved in a lovers' spat. What am I supposed to be, your trained dog, you can sic me on anyone you want?"
"Lovers' spat? He's a killer!"
"The country's full of killers. There are more of them outside the walls than in-do you think I want to hunt them all down? There are fourteen-year-old killers in every gang in every housing project in the country. There are people killing their parents and parents throwing their babies out of windows and guys driving by with Uzis and spraying a crowd and lunatics strapping bombs to themselves and wiping out the local McDonald's and there are assholes blowing people away in traffic jams. There are killings on the goddamned sports page. And I haven't even gotten to the ones who kill with a fucking motive.
What do I care if the guy who was fucking you is dusting a few? He's your problem, not mine. You work in the library? Take those scissors you used to cut out my cute little code and plant them in his intestines next time he bends you over, that's how it's done in here, haven't you figured that out? Take care of yourself, you little shit, don't try to get me to do it, I'm not your big brother."