by Robin Caroll
“You just head on down this hall until you get to the end. On the right, another guard will be waiting to show you to the interview room.” The old guard patted her shoulder again. “You’ll be okay.”
“Thank you.” Taking slow, sure steps down the icy corridor, she ignored the creepy feeling spidering up her spine. Unlike the wing where the parole hearings had taken place, the air in this area reeked of urine and feces, masked only by the overbearing odor of cheap disinfectant. She swallowed against the urge to turn and run.
Cracks streaked along the dank, dismal gray floor in a repetitive pattern, causing a strange sense of normalcy to invade her perception of the unexpected. The dreary, yet foreboding atmosphere overpowered her senses more than the stench.
She lifted her eyes, keeping them focused on the hall stretching out in front of her. Each step took her closer to her meeting. Her mind raced with the questions she had to ask, the answers she needed to know.
As she neared the end of the hall, Riley took in another deep breath. This was her big break. She set her jaw.
The other guard, this one younger, met her at the corner, smiling as his eyes quickly took her in like a starving man.
She flashed the guard her practiced benevolent smile. “I’m here to interview Armand Wilson.” She brandished her ID.
The guard leered, sending the hairs on the back of her neck to full attention. “Well, ain’t you a piece of candy I’d like to—”
“I don’t have much time.” She cut him off, shoving down her annoyance. She forced her facial muscles to relax before grimacing at the young man. “The warden said I needed to report here.”
The guard continued to ogle her with such appreciation that made her skin crawl and had her memorizing his name and ID number. Finally, he took the time to direct her to a closed door off the main hall.
In an attempt to still her quivering hands, Riley firmly grasped the cold metal doorknob. Her palm left marks of condensation. She crossed the threshold, a death grip on her father’s old briefcase. Thankfully, after a thorough contents check of the worn leather accessory, the warden had granted her permission to keep it with her.
She blinked several times as she entered. The room was stark and void of furniture, save for a desk and a few chairs on either side. Like the parole hearing room, this one boasted no windows—no chance of sunlight, or hope, to pierce the stagnant atmosphere. Musty air hung like a cloud of death. She swallowed, her heart blanketed in doom and gloom.
Forcing her feet to uproot, she took rigid baby steps toward the desk. Riley pulled out the chair. A screech grated against her eardrums as metal slid against worn and battered concrete. She sank down against the frigid metal with no seat cushion, squaring her shoulders and keeping her back straight.
The guard posted at the door gave her a cold stare, then pulled the door closed. He flopped onto the chair beside the door, wearing a look of disinterest and disdain.
Fear snaked up her stomach, holding her a terrorized hostage. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this. Wanting nothing more than to bolt from the room and run to the comfort and security of her own apartment back in Tennessee, she hesitantly set her satchel on the desk and withdrew her supplies.
Lining up her pens and pencils gave her hands something to do. I’m a professional. I can do this. She repeated the phrase over and over, as if that would help calm her frazzled nerves.
Sure, she knew Jasmine and Peggy . . . knew they were lovely people undergoing a very trying season in their lives. But what did she know about Armand, really? Only what a daughter and wife had told her. What if they were wrong, clinging desperately to the belief of the man they loved as innocent? Could he be dangerous?
She rearranged the tape recorder, as well as the empty notebook on the desk, then moved them back to their original position. The telltale rattles of keys echoed from an adjacent room. Her heartbeat quickened as her stare locked on the door in the opposite side of the room. In just a minute, she’d be face-to-face with Jasmine’s father. A man convicted of a crime his family swore he didn’t commit. A man who could make her career.
Riley tried to mask the fear she knew rested across her features. What if he truly was guilty, despite Jasmine’s strong protest? Hadn’t a jury of twelve convicted him?
She shook her head as a guard led Armand Wilson into the opposite side of the room. He shuffled in, a smile on his face and a brightness to his eyes, nothing like she’d expected. Visions of a Pulitzer prize danced before her eyes, bringing her smile back, only this time the gesture felt genuine. With a deep breath, Riley set about doing the job she loved.
Determining if Armand Wilson was the innocent man his wife and daughter claimed.
Chapter Fourteen
“Do horses run on the rocky crags? Does one plow the sea with oxen? But you have turned justice into poison and the fruit of righteousness into bitterness.”
AMOS 6:12
“You were right. It’s not a coincidence.”
Hayden sat back down in the chair behind his desk. So much for an early lunch. “Come on in, Bob, and have a seat. Tell me what you found out.”
As instructed, Bob sat. Instead of his normal relaxed posture, this time he sat on the edge of the chair. “So you know, the commission examines all health policies developed by the state’s Department of Insurance. The commission itself makes recommendations to the commissioner of insurance on such policies as well as recommendations for reform of the health-care and health-insurance systems in the state.”
“Sounds complicated.”
Bob lifted a single shoulder. “Well, it gets more complicated.”
Maybe he should take a couple of antacids before he leaves for lunch. Or maybe he should just skip lunch altogether today. And it’d been a pretty decent morning too, despite everything.
“Robert Ellington served on a subcommittee to the commission. This one was tasked with researching one of the causes of rising medical costs: too many tests and treatments by independent doctors.”
Hayden rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Basically, they were supposed to figure out if people were seeking out specialists to get second opinions and if the insurance companies were paying for all this.”
“That makes sense.” He leaned back in his chair.
“So, this subcommittee does very little research on its own, but from what I could find out, that’s fairly common. Subcommittees seem to get different experts to come in and give a spiel, and then the subcommittee members discuss and vote on their recommendation to the commission.”
Why’d it have to be so convoluted? Couldn’t anything be simple anymore?
“In every instance I researched, the commission voted to adopt whatever policy each subcommittee recommended.”
That sounded a little . . . wrong. “So, essentially, whichever expert puts on the best presentation gets the state policy written in his or her favor?”
“Simplifying, but, yes. Basically.”
More than a little wrong. This setup was all kinds of wrong. “Lots of room for corruption.”
“Maybe.” Bob sat back in the chair and crossed an ankle over a knee. “It gets better.”
“Hit me. I can’t wait.”
“So, this subcommittee Ellington sat on . . .”
The blood rushed in Hayden’s veins, the old familiar feeling of being onto something. “Yeah?”
“One of the expert teams they brought in presented that insurance companies were paying double costs for a second opinion. That often doctors could handle the patients’ illnesses and specialists weren’t needed. They proposed if there was a central system in place, one entity that would compile and approve every procedure, visit, and treatment plan for each and every patient—”
“A managed-care company.”
“Rig
ht.”
“Like Nichols’s company, For Your Health.”
“Exactly like For Your Health.”
“Let me guess: Nichols and his team were the ones who pitched the idea of managed care to the subcommittee.”
“Yes, sir. According to the records.”
“How long ago?” The blood kept rushing.
“This is where our connection gets weak.” Bob frowned. “Almost twelve years ago.”
“What?” There went his theory. “A dozen years?”
Bob nodded. “That’s why it took me a bit of digging to get the records.”
He’d been so sure this connection would pan out, be the lead they’d been searching for. But twelve years . . .
Bob must have read his mind. “I know, I know. But just in case, I looked up the name of one of the other subcommittee members who signed the recommendation Ellington did.”
“And?”
“Jason Vermillion.”
Images shot through Hayden’s mind: Memories of his rookie days as an investigator. His first real case. Some images he’d love to wipe from his mind. But couldn’t.
Jason Vermillion. Freak fishing accident. Out in his johnboat in the bayou, setting trotlines. Somehow or other—no one really ever came up with a workable theory on the how—Jason got tangled up in the thirty-two feet of trotline. Over thirty hooks imbedded all over his body. Wrapped up tight, he fell overboard. Unable to use his arms and legs because of the line binding him, Jason drowned.
Hayden hadn’t believed his death an accident back then, and now he sure didn’t. Could the unexplained death that haunted him have a connection to the Nichols case a dozen years later? The similarities couldn’t be denied. “Who else was on that subcommittee?” The blood was rushing again.
“As the subcommittee chairs, only Ellington and Vermillion signed the recommendation to the commission. I’ve already requested a full list, as well as the minutes from the meeting where Nichols and his team pitched. Recommendation reflects there were three other committee members.”
“Stay on it. This is our best lead.” Their only lead at the moment.
“Yes, sir.” Bob stood and ambled out of the office.
Hayden stared after him, his thoughts jumbled. If the crimes were connected, why such a long time lag? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the case made sense.
To top it off, he’d lost his appetite.
Armand was thirty-five, but honestly, had Riley not known that fact, she would have never guessed his age. Standing about five eleven and weighing about a muscular 170 or so, Jasmine’s father had wide shoulders and a trim waist. He smiled as he approached the table. “Ms. Baxter, I’m told?”
She returned the smile. It’d be hard not to as he oozed charm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He frowned but sat. “Finally?”
“I’m sorry, I should have explained.” She lifted the pen and clicked.
Armand smiled wider, showing white but slightly crooked teeth. “They told me you were a reporter of sorts and wanted to interview me?”
“I’m a journalist. I met your daughter and wife here a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been interviewing them.”
“Peggy? Jasmine? Are they okay?”
She found herself drawn to the love in his voice as he said their names. It was almost a caress. “They’re fine. Lovely ladies. And Mikey . . . well, he’s quite the little charmer.”
“Praise the Lord.” His relief shone on his face, in every line of his expression and in each blink of his brown eyes. “You’ve interviewed them?”
As briefly as possible, Riley explained the series. When finished, she held her breath, waiting for his response. If he didn’t agree to be interviewed . . .
“Why are you doing this, Ms. Baxter?”
She hadn’t anticipated that question. “I don’t exactly understand.”
“I just want to be sure we’re both aware of the expectations. I know what this could mean for my case and my family, but I want to know what’s in it for you. What’s your motivation?” He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her.
To become as well respected as Barbara Walters? “Honestly? I need the series to succeed to prove myself to my editor.”
A minute passed, a very long sixty seconds for Riley. Then Armand grinned. “I can appreciate that. I like your candor.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, let’s get started. What do you want to know?”
She pressed the Record button on the recorder and lifted her pen. “Did you do it? Did you rob the Louisiana State Museum?”
“No.”
“How do you explain the pawnshop owner’s positive ID of you?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. Maybe it was someone who looked like me. Maybe he made a mistake. All I can tell you is the truth, and I’ve never stepped in that pawnshop in my life.”
Fair enough. “Did you have any financial problems? Hidden addictions? Owe money to anyone?”
Armand laughed. “Nope. I didn’t have any financial problems. I don’t drink, don’t use tobacco, and certainly don’t do drugs.” The smile slipped away. “I’m a Christian, Ms. Baxter, a God-fearing man. I do my best not to lie, I don’t steal, and I certainly don’t try to kill.”
After having gotten to know him through his wife and daughter, Riley believed he honestly was a Christian. Unlike Simon Lancaster’s so-called prison conversion to Christianity. “Then this doesn’t make sense.” Now more than ever she couldn’t believe they’d gotten a conviction off the purely circumstantial evidence.
“I know.” His expression was as gentle as his words. “I’ve gone over the facts of the case a million times, I promise you. There’s no explanation. I don’t know who broke into the museum and stole those artifacts. I most assuredly don’t know who shot the independent security man. I—”
Wait a minute. “Independent security man?”
“Yeah. The man who was shot didn’t work at the museum.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was a special exhibit on display that night. Private collectors. All Civil War artifacts. All from the Confederacy. The owners of the stuff hired their own security as backup.”
She hadn’t read any of this in the trial transcript. “Was that common?”
“Sure. Happened all the time. I imagine it still does. Private collections usually have independent security. The museum won’t add any extra men to guard over special exhibits or anything.”
The prison guard stared openly at them, no sign of disinterest in his demeanor now. He pushed back the sleeve of his uniform and inspected the watch on his wrist.
She clicked her pen. Again. Again. “The items stolen . . . were they part of the private collection?”
“Yeah. Confederate artifacts.”
Interesting. “And the guard shot, you didn’t know him?”
“No.”
“Tell me what you think happened.”
“Whoever did this, they knew the layout. Knew where security would be. Knew how to work inside the museum.”
“An insider, which is why you were a suspect.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think it was an insider. They knew a lot, as I said, but no more than what someone who frequented a museum would know.”
“Like a patron?” She hadn’t been to many museums in her life, but Riley didn’t think she could break into one just by visiting often.
“We have a handful that come in at least once a week. A couple of them know it so well that we joke with them that they could be tour guides.” He rubbed his chin. “And there is the group. The money and important people.”
She paused in her note taking to stare at him. “Money and important people?”
“The museum gets a
set amount of funding from the state, yes, but a lot of the money for the museum comes from private donors. The Friends of the Museum group meets monthly at the museum. They hold fund-raiser exhibitions and dinners, receptions, all kinds of stuff. They have money and power.”
In her experience, a dangerous combination. “Like?”
He wiped his hands on the prison pants. “Like certain politicians and their, uh, female friends.”
“Mistresses?”
He shrugged. “It’s not my business, Ms. Baxter. The good Lord doesn’t like gossip.”
Riley nodded. “So, these people . . . members of the Friends of the Museum . . . they’re in the museum enough to know about security and so forth?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The guard shifted in his chair, checking his watch.
Who knew how much time they’d allow her? “Who? Give me some names.” She poised the pen over the notebook.
“I can’t do that.”
She let out a long breath. “I’m trying to help you, Mr. Wilson. If you think any of this group might know something . . .”
“I appreciate that, Ms. Baxter, I surely do, but you’ll have to get their names elsewhere. I signed a confidentiality statement when I hired on.”
A confidentiality . . . what? “Is that normal? In the security industry, I mean?”
“I suppose. I don’t rightly know for certain. I just know at the state museum, all employees had to sign one.”
It was something to go on. “What about other employees of the museum? Curators? Receptionist? Office staff?”
“Not many people worked there on a daily basis. Maybe five or so.”
The guard stood and stretched. He checked his watch again, then stared at them.
“Do you have any suspects in mind? Any theories?”
The guard straightened his chair.