by Jay Deb
The warden threw a cautious look at Doerr as if trying to remember if he’d seen Doerr before.
“Have a seat, please.” The warden pointed to the chair.
Doerr stepped inside the room, sat down, and felt the coldness inside. Obviously, the warden had a powerful air conditioner installed in his room.
“I’m Max Doerr.” He extended his hand for a shake. “From the CIA.”
“I’m Larry Goodman.” The warden shook Doerr’s hand. “I run this place. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to investigate the circumstances under which the scientist Jon Janco fled this jail. I just came by to ask a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” Doerr said. “And I promise this is the last time you will ever see me. Do you want to see my ID?”
“It’s okay. Mr. Doerr, please make it really quick. Five minutes max. A congressman is coming to inspect the inside of this place. This is the third time he’s coming here since the scientist got kidnaped.” Frustration was palpable in Goodman’s voice. “And I’m sure you know that the FBI is already investigating the matter. If you contact them, they can probably enlighten you about everything that happened here.”
“We are running an independent investigation, sir.”
“Why?”
“The scientist has gone missing and has been sighted in Italy. We think he might be aiding another nation in making a nuclear bomb. Our agency is doing everything to get him. I’ve been given the task of finding out how exactly Janco was kidnaped from here,” Doerr lied.
Goodman let out another sigh. “I’ll give you ten minutes. Make it quick.”
“Don’t worry. I will make it quick,” Doerr said. “First. Can I get a copy of the surveillance tapes of that night?”
“You can. It may take a couple of days.” Goodman started writing something on a piece of paper. “I’ll make sure a copy of the tape is made and you can come by later in the week to pick it up. Anything else?”
“Yes, a question. Did your people show the tape to the inmates inside?”
“What difference would it make? Those two kidnappers were wearing some sort of net, maybe pantyhose. You show that tape to an inmate or to a pair of ducks. It’s the same. They can’t tell nothin’. Now I’ll have that tape ready for you. Are we done here? I’m sure you’re aware that the FBI is already investigating this matter.”
“I know. But just one last question. Did your people talk to the inmates to see if they could remember someone who was inside before Janco was kidnaped and gone missing after the kidnapping?”
“Yes. Yes. Two or three inmates said they saw one such guy.”
“Did you get a sketch artist and try to draw a picture of the kidnapper?”
“No,” said Goodman and pretended to look at a piece of paper. “We didn’t. Because those inmate bastards aren’t trustable. They might be making the thing up just to get some attention, maybe some sort of deal.”
“Are you so sure? I think those sketches could be really valuable – a good lead.”
“Listen, I’m not the investigator. Whatever the FBI is asking, I’m answering. I let them do their work. Thank you for coming in.” Goodman stood up, indicating that the conversation was over.
“With all due respect, can I talk to those inmates? Just for ten, fifteen minutes?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t allow you to do that.”
“Does the FBI know the fact that some inmates saw someone who is now missing?”
“No.”
“Then you must let me speak to the inmates. Or else I’ll tell the FBI.”
“Mr. Doerr,” said Goodman and paused, appearing thoughtful. He sat down. “Please close the door.”
Doerr stood up, closed the door and then sat down on his chair.
“Okay, tell me what you really need?” asked Goodman.
“I’m going to ask you questions, some of whose answers I already know.” Doerr felt the warden was now willing to share some information that he wasn’t inclined to share before. “But I still have to hear it from you. Is that okay?”
“Yes, no problem. But how long will this take?”
“I say about a half hour to one hour. No more than an hour.”
“Let’s try to finish in thirty, forty minutes.” Goodman pointed to the scattered papers on his table. “I gotta finish up a lot of things today.” Now he didn’t mention the congressman. Obviously, he’d lied about the congressman’s jail visit to get rid of Doerr.
“I understand. I’ll try to keep it as short as I can. First question I have is when did those two kidnappers show up here? They were inmates here. Right?”
“Right. We aren’t sure when they came here.”
“Don’t you keep documents?”
“Yes. But right around the time of the kidnapping some papers were stolen. We don’t have any record that shows when those two fellas were brought in here. Our records show we have under our roof all the inmates that we should have. There is no one missing according to our records. Those two extra prisoners were mostly due to a goof up during prisoner transfers. It happens.”
“I see. In that case two prisoners must be missing from some other prison somewhere, right?”
“Yes. Right. A communication about that was sent out to all the prisons in the United States. But we’ve got too many jails and too many inmates. I guess we’ll know after a while where those two bastards came from. Any other questions?”
“Yes,” said Doerr. “Just a few more. So if you don’t have the records, then you must possess the surveillance tapes. Don’t you?”
“I do. But we have about a thousand inmates here. It’s hard to separate a few faces from a thousand faces.”
“We have some computer software in the Langley office that can identify the faces. Once I get the tapes, I will run every inmate’s face on the computer. Then we’ll be left with the pictures of those two kidnappers. Am I making sense?”
“Yes, yes. I believe the FBI already tried something similar. Our surveillance cameras are old. They are there to detect commotions if any fight breaks out and things of that sort. It’s hard to recognize faces on that tape.”
“Then we can go manually through your tapes. And try to figure out if we have a face that does not belong to one of the eleven hundred forty-seven inmates here. Then we’ll figure out the two perpetrator’s pictures.”
“You’re smart, Mr. Doerr.” Goodman smiled for the first time. “And yes, the FBI is already doing that. But we’ve got so many tapes. And it’s taking time. But I believe the kidnappers knew the location of the cameras, so they purposefully avoided those spots…I guess. Otherwise, the FBI should have the kidnapers’ pics right now.”
“Hmm.” Doerr was thinking. He didn’t have much idea about the prison surveillance system, so he had to believe whatever Goodman was saying. “Can you show me the location of your cameras and the cells where those kidnappers were?”
“I’ll be happy to.” Goodman glanced at his wristwatch. Thirty minutes had already passed since Doerr had entered the office room. Goodman stood up. “Come with me.”
Doerr followed him out of his room and felt the hot, stale air carrying the stench.
After a few minutes’ walk, they were standing at the cross-section of two hallways. Goodman pointed his fingers up toward the ceiling – to something that appeared like a switchboard. “There we have four stealth cameras pointing in four directions. We gotta hide ’em. You know how the inmates are.”
Doerr looked up and it appeared like an unlikely place for planting cameras. So whoever had placed them there had done a great job.
“We have four cameras in every hallway crossing, the cafeteria and around the playing field where the inmates play basketball,” Goodman said proudly.
“Now can you show me the cells where the scientist and those perpetrators were housed?”
“Sure.”
Doerr walked with Goodman for two minutes and then he was standing in front of the cell with two beds inside. It w
as located in a place off the main hallway and hidden from the cameras. Doerr opened the cell’s door.
Nothing unusual. Attached to the wall, two beds lay on two sides, a toilet in the corner and plenty of obscenities written on the walls.
“Looks like this is kind of a private cell,” said Doerr.
“This one was supposed to hold unruly inmates, separated from the rest. We also keep the ones that just got transferred here and some all-dayers.”
Doerr knew all-dayer was a term used for inmates serving a life sentence.
Finding nothing atypical, Doerr started walking back to the main hallway. “So the kidnappers must have passed through this area every single day. Can’t we focus on the tape records of this zone?”
“See, Mr. Doerr. The nearest camera is over there.” Goodman pointed to the switchboard located at least a hundred feet away. “The video out of that camera shows only hazy figures passing through here.”
Billions spent on prisons and we don’t even have clear pictures; pathetic, thought Doerr.
“Mr. Doerr,” said Goodman. “If you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to do. But call me if you need anything else. Here is my card.”
It had been an hour since Doerr had met Goodman. Doerr took the card, and he knew it was time for him to leave. This was an unofficial visit that no one at the agency was aware of.
On the way back, Doerr analyzed the situation in his mind.
Things don’t really add up here. The security lapse is baffling; the missing records are unexplainable. And the biggest thing is that Warden Goodman is certainly trying to hide something. He isn’t telling something. The question is – is he trying to cover up another goof that happened in order to save his job. Or is there something more sinister going on here?
DOERR SPENT TWO days in his motel room, carefully analyzing what he’d heard from Goodman. He called a few of his friends, none employed by his agency. He called two private investigators, who Doerr had known for over a decade. He called two retired NYPD detectives. One of the detectives gave the number of a retired warden, who Doerr talked to for an hour.
“Everything that Nevada warden told you sounds silly to me.” The man gave his verdict after listening to Doerr. “He’s hiding something, something big.”
After all the conversations, Doerr was sure he needed to confront Goodman with a few more questions. Maybe this time he would get the truth.
The next day, he drove to the prison and entered the parking lot around ten in the morning. His plan was to enter the jail with some ruse and confront Warden Goodman. He looked at the prison building and reconsidered his plan. What if Goodman simply refused to meet him or, worse, called someone at the Langley office – Stonewall wasn’t even aware that he was in the US.
From his car, he studied the prison walls – the grayish concrete, almost ten feet tall, topped by barbed wire, most likely electrified.
Doerr backed out of the parking lot, hoping the security guard didn’t get a glimpse of him. Politely asking Goodman would not get him the answer. He knew that the good old way to extract the truth was to press a gun against the man’s head and then ask the questions.
Doerr drove back to his hotel room and started his laptop. While it was booting up, he made a cup of coffee. He logged on to the CIA data-mining website that received a data feed from the NSA every hour.
Within seconds, Doerr found Goodman’s cell phone number. He sipped his coffee and logged into the NSA system to see where that phone was at that very moment. Such data wasn’t always available. After the Snowden incident, the government had to put a brake on how much tracking NSA could do. Some cell phones were tracked in real time twenty-four seven, some never.
Doerr moved to the next screen, entered Goodman’s phone number, and waited for the display to refresh.
The computer told him Goodman’s location wasn’t available.
Ten minutes later, he tried to see Goodman’s location again. No luck. He clicked on the history link. The next screen showed the places the man had been in the last few days.
It showed the jail, his house, a grocery store – usual stuff. Then something interesting showed up on the list.
Goodman had been to a restaurant ten miles away from his house and a motel another five miles away, and it happened once every two or three days for the last month. The system had data for the last thirty days only.
Doerr tried to pin Goodman’s current location one more time and still no luck.
Why would Goodman, a married man, go to a restaurant for dinner and then go to a motel? Did that have anything to do with the scientist’s disappearance?
Doerr was determined to find out. He checked the clock – 7:30 p.m.
He shut down his laptop computer, placed it in the safe, and then stepped out of his room. He walked down the wooden stairs leading to the parking lot. He cranked his car’s ignition and started racing toward the restaurant where Goodman had been. The traffic was thin, and he reached his destination within forty minutes. Outside the restaurant, about fifteen cars were parked, none of them with Goodman’s vehicle’s license plate number, which Doerr had memorized. It was possible that Goodman had come there in another vehicle, but Doerr didn’t want to go inside the restaurant. If he did, it could blow his cover.
He parked his vehicle under a tree and was sure no one could see him from outside through his car’s tinted glass windows. From his smartphone, he again tried to locate Goodman’s cell phone and again received the same message – not available.
Twenty minutes passed; there was no sign of Goodman.
An hour later, he was sure Goodman wasn’t in the restaurant, so he decided to leave.
THE NEXT DAY, Doerr parked his car in the restaurant’s parking lot at seven p.m., hoping for a better result today. Goodman’s vehicle wasn’t there. He waited, optimistic that the man he was eager to see would show up soon.
Thirty minutes later, Doerr saw a Chevy SUV pull into the parking lot. By looking at the license plate number, Doerr knew it belonged to Warden Goodman. Doerr was delighted to see him get out of the car. Goodman headed for the restaurant’s main door, alone.
Five minutes later, a young woman drove in and walked inside the restaurant. Maybe she joined Goodman, maybe not. Doerr suppressed an urge to go inside the restaurant to find out if she did, but he decided to wait. Waiting was something he and his fellow spies did a lot – waiting for a green light from Langley, waiting for a document, waiting for money and weapons, waiting for a terrorist to make a mistake and so on.
Fifteen minutes later, Doerr got out of his vehicle and stuck an electronic device at the bottom of Goodman’s car. In case he lost Goodman, he’d be able to track him down.
An hour later, Doerr saw Goodman come out of the restaurant. Bulging under the white T-shirt, his belly appeared bigger than before. The young woman, who had gone inside the restaurant an hour back, stood next to him, holding his hand. She was a brunette about thirty years old, thirty-five tops, almost twenty years younger than Goodman.
A trip to this restaurant and then going to a motel – Doerr knew what Goodman had been up to. He’d suspected something similar, and now he got the confirmation. The question was whether the lady was employed at the jail, working for him.
Doerr knew Goodman was married. Suddenly Gayle’s memory hit him like a bag of sand. His eyes moist, he looked up at the sky, but he had to focus on the job at hand.
He saw Goodman open the door of a compact car and passionately kiss the lady on her lips. Doerr pulled out his camera and took a few snaps of the lip-locked couple. These photos would be in black and white, but sometimes they were really useful.
Saliva exchanged, the woman got into her vehicle and soon was backing out of the parking spot. As Goodman waved at her, she drove into the road. Doerr watched Goodman get into his SUV and drive out of the parking lot, following the young woman’s car.
A few minutes later, Doerr was driving, staying almost a quarter mile away from Goodman’s
silver-colored SUV, unconcerned about losing track of the vehicle. The device he’d planted under Goodman’s SUV would help him track it down.
The SUV took a right turn, but Doerr didn’t rush. He knew where Goodman was headed.
Ten minutes later, Goodman entered the parking lot of a cheap motel, where the young woman’s car was already parked. As Doerr drove into the lot slowly, he saw Goodman walking to the motel’s office.
Doerr drove to the end of the lot, turned, drove around the building to reach the other side of the motel, and parked at a spot from where he could watch vehicles going in and out of the parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, he was still watching the vehicles moving in and out of the place. Given Goodman’s age, Doerr hoped whatever the man was doing inside the motel wouldn’t take very long.
Thirty minutes later, Doerr saw the woman’s car leave the parking lot, followed by Goodman’s SUV. Doerr turned his car’s ignition on and soon he was shadowing the SUV, maintaining a distance of about two hundred feet.
He watched the woman make a turn, but Goodman continued driving straight; they were parting ways. Finally.
That was the moment Doerr had been waiting for before accosting the lonely warden. Doerr increased his speed and positioned his vehicle right behind Goodman’s. He pulled out an attachable light bulb, extended his hand through the open window, and placed it on his vehicle’s roof.
It was 9:15 p.m.; the air had cooled down considerably, and traffic was sparse on the rural Nevada road. Doerr pressed a button, turning on the light on his vehicle’s roof, which started flashing red and blue lights alternately, giving Goodman the impression that he was being pulled over by a cop.
Goodman moved to the road’s shoulder and stopped his car. Doerr descended from his vehicle, a Glock in his right hand and a powerful flashlight in his left.
Doerr walked forward and stood at the driver’s side window, pointing the light at Goodman’s face. He motioned for Goodman to roll down the windowpane.
“I was going thirty-five,” said Goodman.