by Jason Pinter
Frustrated, Ray threw the roll back at the officer, hitting him in the head. It barely stunned him, but soon all of 5 Company was laughing their ass off. The guard turned red, told Ray he’d see him in the morning and walked off. While his fellow inmates hooted and hollered at the newly christened “Officer Shithead,” Ray sat in his cell, shivering as if death itself was waiting for him. And for all he assumed, it was.
The next morning, September 9, all of 5 Company’s cells opened, the sign for morning roll call. All cells except for Ray Benjamin’s. As his friends walked past, they saw him still in the cell, sitting on the edge of his bed, knees quaking. Ray had never been so scared in his life. He could hear the footsteps of the guards as they did morning rounds, could hear the clomps as his friends walked past, knowing their buddy was about to face the worst beating of his life. Perhaps the last beating of his life.
Ray sat there and prayed. He apologized to the Lord for what his life had become. He apologized for his sins and promised that, if he was given another chance, he would make the most of it. He would right those wrongs. Ray’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears pouring out the sides. He hoped it would be quick, if anything. That would be something to be thankful for.
Then Ray heard something odd. Footsteps coming back his way. But they weren’t the loud thump-thump of the guards’, they were the soft, muffled steps of the prisoners. Then Ray heard a man yelling, and damned if it wasn’t Officer Shithead himself.
“You assholes get back here, right now!”
The 5 Company prisoners didn’t go back to roll call. Instead they walked right back to their cells and sat down. Possum, a big black man from Alabama, said, “Fuck you. You gonna take one man, you gonna take all the men.”
Possum was talking about Ray.
Soon Officer Shithead was marching down the cell block, nightstick unsheathed.
Officer Shithead didn’t live another minute.
After they’d beat him to death with his own baton, Ray’s brothers in 5 Company managed to get his cell open. Several minutes later, a guard heard a commotion down A Tunnel, went to see what the hell was taking 5 Company so long, and that’s when the devil unleashed hell.
Ray survived the riots with his life, his sanity, and just one small scar on his cheek obtained on September 13 when the cops finally opened fire. A glass pane shattered, carving out a chunk of Ray’s face. William “Billy Buds” Moss, a surgeon in lockup for raping a patient, stitched it together with a spool and tweezers stolen from the nurse’s office, moments before it went up in flames.
Raymond Benjamin would be ejected from the penal system two years later. Thirty-nine people died in those riots. Most of them were buried. Officer Shithead, Ray later learned, had been burned beyond recognition. There was barely enough of him left to bury.
Leaving Attica, Ray Benjamin was a changed man. Not so much in deeds. He was still prone to violence, still had the temper of a pissed-off Viking, but now he had a cause. Not to mention a massive nicotine addiction. He told friends that after all the pain cigarettes had caused him in prison, he might as well get a little pleasure out of them.
Several times a month Ray would wake up at night, remembering that morning sitting in his cell, praying for forgiveness. Waiting for a death that, with mercy, decided to pass him over. He never forgot that. Never took it for granted. And every act of violence, everything he did that “society” wouldn’t approve of, was going toward making things right. It didn’t matter if people couldn’t understand it. He knew it was right.
The Reeds were part of that plan. They were doing the right thing.
But now they were gone, and Ray Benjamin felt concern for the first time in a long time. If the Reeds lost their will, they could give up everything. Ray would go down. So would the big man. And everything Ray had worked for over the past thirty years would be lost.
Ray thought about the Reeds. Where could they have gone? And why would they suddenly decide to disobey such simple fucking directions?
They weren’t at the motel. Elaine wasn’t picking up her cell phone. He’d given them the address, a newly cloned phone, and now he couldn’t find them. It was like they’d looked him in the eye and lied to him.
“This isn’t good,” he said to Vince. “The Reeds have disappeared.”
Vince snorted a laugh, managed to keep the toothpick in his mouth. “Ain’t that ironic.”
Ray looked at him, then said fuck it. He couldn’t help himself.
He slapped Vince across the face, the toothpick doing a little spiral before landing in a puddle of sludge several feet away. That made Ray smile.
When Vince recovered, he was holding his jaw, a thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Ow, man, what the fuck?”
“Couldn’t take that stupid toothpick anymore.”
“Christ, you could have asked me to throw it out!”
“Consider this an apology. Come on, let’s go.”
They got into the car, Ray shaking his head as Vince started the engine.
“What is it?” Vince said, mopping up his lip with a handkerchief.
“The Reeds,” he said. “I don’t trust them anymore. They don’t realize this thing is bigger than them. They’re being selfish, not realizing they’re putting years of work at risk. I thought they could be trusted, that they had their family’s best interests in mind. I guess I was wrong.”
“What are you saying, boss?” Vince asked.
“I think when we find them, we need to make them gone.”
“Gone like the kids? Or, like, gone gone?”
Ray looked at him, didn’t say a word. Vince nodded solemnly. Ray patted the kid on the back. That was his answer right there. Then they drove away.
33
“According to DMV records,” Curt said, “the Reeds drive a 2002 silver Ford Windstar, license plate JV5 L16. I don’t think it’ll come as a huge surprise to anyone that their current address is listed as 482 Huntley Terrace.”
We were still at the 19th Precinct, corralled in a conference room on the second floor. Curt had already had to shoo away three other officers who tried to reclaim the room. When they couldn’t offer concrete reasons for needing the space—the excuses ranged from “It has the only good coffee machine in the building” to “Fuck your mother”—I quickly figured out the cops simply didn’t want us there. And that was fine with me. The more roadblocks were put up in our effort to find out the circumstances surrounding these kidnappings and Petrovsky’s murder, the more insolent I became. Though I didn’t think Curt would go so far as to have my back if I lost control and tried to pick a fight. And I was getting pretty damn close to that.
Amanda said, “So at least we have direct legal proof that ties the Reed family to this guy Benjamin. But we still don’t know why the hell they have anything to do with a criminal.”
“What if,” I said, “the Reeds weren’t linked directly to Benjamin?”
“Not sure I follow,” Curt said.
“We’re forgetting about Petrovsky. He knew Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. His career was based around children. Bob and Elaine Reed have one son, Patrick, and we suspect they might have kidnapped another child, too.”
“I’m still waiting for the search on that,” Curt said. “I’m hoping you’re wrong.”
“Anyway, isn’t it possible that somehow the Reeds became linked to Benjamin through Petrovsky?”
“Like some sort of middleman?” Amanda asked.
“Exactly. I’m willing to bet Petrovsky knew Benjamin, and Petrovsky knew the Reeds, as well. Amanda, is there any way you could get information about Patrick Reed? I have a feeling we might see Dmitri Petrovsky’s signature on his delivery forms as well.”
“I’m on it,” Amanda said. She gathered up her coat and purse and stood up. “Good luck, guys.” She spent an extra moment looking at me, then she left.
Curt waited until the door had closed, then he said, “So what’s going on with you two?”
<
br /> “Nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“You sound like you’re as happy with that situation as I am with my mortgage.”
“Just don’t know what to do. I broke up with her, but not a day goes by I don’t regret it. In my mind I can erase that mistake, but expecting her to…I wouldn’t expect that.”
“You think maybe part of the reason you’re working this story so hard is to be close to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a no.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Part of me don’t feel right letting her do some of the dirty work on this. I mean, look at you, man. Seems like every few months you get beat up. You really want her that close to you?”
“That’s why I broke it off in the first place,” I said. “I took the decision out of her hands. But she’s been with me every step of the way on this. Relationship or not, she wants to be here. And it’s not my place to tell her not to.”
“That’s a selfish way to look at the world, especially if she might be in danger.”
“I’d kill myself if anything happened to her, Curt,” I said. “But she’s a hell of a strong woman, and I know that anything I can take, she can, too. Probably more so. She works with kids every day, and she’s seen some of the most terrible cases of abuse you can imagine. She doesn’t talk about it much, because, well, who wants to bring that kind of work home with her? But don’t be fooled into thinking she’s in this for me, or for the adrenaline. This is a cause for her. And I respect that.”
“So if it’s a cause for her, and it’s about my job for me, what’s it about for you?”
I thought about that for a moment, then said, “The truth, man. It’s about the truth. That’s my job.”
“So since we’re both on the job,” Curt said, “how the hell do we find the Reeds? They obviously jetted from Huntley before smokey the pyromaniac got his hands on the house. They’re registered with Verizon, but the phone’s going right to voice mail. No luck tracking it down just yet. There are no known family members for either Robert or Elaine Reed, and we’re checking their phone records for friends and acquaintances.”
“They won’t be at a friend’s house,” I said. “Benjamin got them into the house on Huntley so they could keep private. That place was like a fortress. You don’t go through all that trouble only to have Elaine spill the beans to someone in her knitting group. You said they have a minivan, right?”
“Yeah, a Windstar.”
“Nobody buys a minivan for one kid. I’m getting more and more sure that they’ve kidnapped another child. Anyway, I’m betting they’re staying at a motel somewhere. A place where nobody knows them, and nobody knows where they are except for Benjamin and his crony.”
“There’s a lot of motels in this country, man. You can’t expect us to cover all of them.”
“No, but if you’re a parent with two bawling kids in a minivan, do you really think you’re driving ten, fifteen hours for the same kind of motel you can get within a few miles? My bet is they’re still in the state. Say a four-hour drive, make it an even two hundred and forty miles, and that’s your radius from Huntley Terrace. They’ll stay away from major cities and metropolitan areas.”
“There’s still a shitload of fleabag motels in that range, Henry.”
“Christ, Curt, you’re a cop. Don’t you guys do this all the time?”
Curt smiled at me. “I’m on it. Go run some more of your magic. I’ll give you a ring if we get any more info on the Reeds or other missing children.”
“Thanks, Curt, appreciate it. You want to sock me in the eye once, gain a little street cred among your fellow boys in blue?”
“Tempting, but tell you what. Leave the building like I broke you down into tears, we’ll call it even. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I left the 19th Precinct with a sullen look on my face, as if Curt Sheffield had just ripped the head off my favorite teddy bear. Rounding the corner onto Lexington, I called the Gazette from my cell phone. I asked to be connected to Wallace Langston’s office, and the editor-in-chief picked up immediately.
“Wallace, it’s Henry.”
“Henry, good to hear from you. What’s the latest?”
“I’m in the middle of tracking down a family that I’m ninety-nine percent sure is part of some sort of weird kidnapping ring that involves the Linwood and Oliveira children. There’s a link between the Reed family and this psycho Benjamin who mistook me for an ashtray. I’m running down the link, and when I have that I’ll let you know. How’s Jack doing?”
Wallace sighed. “They released him yesterday. He’s got the rest of the week off for some R and R and detox. I’ve never seen the man like this before. It worries me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jack has been with this newspaper since he was a young man, Henry, younger than you are now. He’s worked himself to the bone for his profession. He’s a legend in this field, and he’s paid his dues to become that. But Jack’s not a young man anymore. You can’t go with that same kind of drive, that kind of passion at his age, without compensation. I wonder…God, I can’t believe I’m saying this…but I wonder if his career isn’t beginning to wind down.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. But rather than a sensation of pain emanating from it, I felt anger. How could Wallace even begin to question the longevity of Jack’s career? Things were looking bad now, but everyone was entitled to fall off the wagon once or twice. It was a divot in the road, not a full-blown earthquake. And it pissed me off to hear Wallace insinuate otherwise.
“He’ll be just fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Give it a week or two, he’ll be tracking leads and breaking stories like he’s a new man.”
“I sincerely hope you’re right, Henry. But it worries and saddens me to think you may not be. Listen, my friend, keep pushing on this story. I’ve gotten three calls from Gray Talbot’s office since your detainment up in Hobbs County. Our friend the senator is no doubt perturbed that we’ve ignored his requests. I expect a hate-o-gram to arrive any moment in the mail, but until you see me led away in handcuffs, keep pressing.”
“That’s what I do,” I said. “Talk to you later, Wallace.” I hung up.
It took a moment to register that my stomach was growling. I stopped at a deli and wolfed down a bagel with lox spread and a large coffee. When that was polished off, I had half a blueberry muffin for dessert. My natural reaction to that would be to run it off the next day, but my legs were beat. I hadn’t put in for vacation time in ages. I didn’t think Wallace would be all that surprised to see my paperwork cross his desk in the near future.
When I finished the meal, I took a cab back home, sat down on the couch and waited. This was the worst part of the game, and as a reporter the most frustrating part of the job. The waiting.
So much of my work was dependent on sources getting back to me, but every moment that phone didn’t ring there was a fear that the story was slipping through my fingers. I worried that Curt’s searches would turn up empty. That Amanda would discover Patrick Reed was born in Idaho and not Hobbs County like I suspected. Not to mention cigarette boy Benjamin wandering the streets somewhere, and I had a little more anxiety at that moment than I liked.
I had to distract myself. Music, that would do it. Calm, soothing music.
I turned my computer on, opened iTunes and started to play Dylan’s “Not Dark Yet.” The melody calmed me.
I thought about Daniel Linwood, Michelle Oliveira. Two children with their lives once laid out in front of them, yet forevermore they would be outcasts. They would always live with that stigma, never fitting in. The beauty of a child, the pain from a life stolen away.
And just while those lyrics had begun to burrow their way into my skull, my cell phone rang. If there was ever a time to be jostled out of morose thoughts.
The caller ID read “Amanda cell.” I answered it without hesitating.
“Hey, wond
ering what happened to you.”
“Seriously? It’s been, like, fifteen minutes. What the hell do you expect?”
“Sorry, just a little antsy here. I feel like things are starting to become clearer.”
“Well, your feelings might be real. Turns out that Patrick Reed, son of Robert and Elaine Reed, was born on May 29 four and a half years ago at Yardley Medical Center in Hobbs County.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. And I’ll give you three guesses at to who signed the delivery certificate.”
“I’ll take Dmitri Petrovsky for one thousand, Alex.”
“Ding ding ding. I’m actually out of cash, so I hope you’ll take your winning either in an IOU or a Sweet’n Low packet I just dug out of my jeans pocket.”
“Amanda, you know what this means, right? The Reeds knew Petrovsky. Their son was born at the same hospital as Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. That’s their link to Raymond Benjamin. Somehow he found out about these kids through Petrovsky.”
“Wait,” Amanda said. “Patrick Reed wasn’t kidnapped, he’s the Reeds’ biological son. What gives?”
“Patrick isn’t the issue, I just needed a connection so we could figure out how the Reeds came in contact with Benjamin. Petrovsky is the middleman. Benjamin the facilitator. The Reeds—I’m not quite sure what they are.”
“So we have three pieces to the puzzle, but the three pieces are blank right now.”
“Yeah, pretty much. We need to find the Reeds. Petrovsky is dead and Benjamin will kill us before he talks.” I heard a beeping sound on my phone. I looked at the display. It read “Curt cell.”
“Amanda, Curt’s on the other line. I need to take this.”
“Call me right back.”
“Will do.” I hung up. My palms were sweating. This was all coming together. The bigger picture was still invisible, but it would come. Benjamin. Petrovsky. The Reeds. What the hell were they all involved in?
“Hello?” I said, answering the call.