by Ethan Cross
They passed through the concrete wall into a large, flat inner sanctum, which contained two separate sets of buildings. One sat in front of Marcus, and he could see the other, larger set of buildings in the distance about a thousand yards up a paved road. But he was most interested in the strange building that rested directly in front of them.
It was a massive, tan-colored block-and-stone structure. The layout and profile of which made Marcus think of the way futuristic prison buildings and college campuses alike may have been imagined by an architect in the 1930s and ’40s. The sprawling group of interconnected buildings was all Art Deco lines and rounded corners.
Powell must have noticed the look on Marcus’s face because he said, “Pretty cool old buildings, huh?”
“That’s the prison? It looks more like Willy Wonka’s factory.”
Powell laughed. ”It does have a certain charm. But they never made chocolate here. Footwear originally and then several other products over the years. And the other half of the compound, up the road, was a mental hospital until the ’80s. And now, it’s our residence hall.”
“So your prison is an old factory connected with a nut house?”
“Yes, that’s actually a big part of my program, taking old buildings and factories and warehouses and showing that states don’t have to build bigger, state-of-the-art facilities with tighter security and more manpower. We came in here and threw up some walls and fences and installed some cameras, then slapped on a coat of paint. At a tenth the cost of building a similar new facility.”
The air around them smelled burnt and harsh. Marcus felt like he was on the surface of some planet not hospitable to human life. He said, “So your program takes buildings like the Buck Rogers headquarters over here and turns them into prisons?”
“No, son, my program isn’t about buildings and bottom lines. It’s about getting people’s lives back on track. It’s about helping people. And, hopefully, changing society.” Powell waved to a camera beside a large set of new security doors, which had been shoved into position over the top of where the factory’s original entrance might have been.
A metal latch disengaged with a clunk and a small motor whirred to life as it pulled the large metal barrier apart.
When it was three quarters open, Powell gestured for Marcus to go ahead of him. He said, “Why don’t we continue this discussion in the control room, Agent Williams? Then you can see the whole picture at once.”
After passing through another updated security door, they entered a large concrete chamber. Marcus guessed it was the old loading dock. He could almost hear the pounding of work boots and the grunts of the men who had once spent their days loading and unloading product out of these concrete bays. Powell led him through the loading dock, up some stairs, and down a concrete utility corridor.
Then they came to a nondescript security door with a sign that read “Control Center West.” Powell used a handprint and retinal scanner to gain access and led Marcus into an auditorium-shaped space that reminded him of NASA’s mission control.
The front wall was at least twenty feet tall and covered with computer screens of various sizes. They started at waist height and climbed to the ceiling.
Powell spread his arms and said, “Welcome to the prison of the future.”
*
Judas approached her from the south. The route down the sidewalk from that direction had two advantages. He would be approaching her from behind, and even if she did turn to see him in time, she’d be looking into the sun.
The attack would be a blitzkrieg. He only needed the element of surprise and a couple seconds of action, and then she would be unconscious and safely under his control.
After that he would work quickly and efficiently with the knife, but not quickly enough to keep from savoring the moment. He would devour the pure, raw emotion of every slash, every cut. He hoped that he’d have time to cut off the breasts. That had been his favorite part with Debra.
His heart was racing now. He felt like a teenager getting ready to pick up his date for the prom.
The world seemed more vibrant, as if the colors and smells had suddenly woken up and were all vying for his attention. He noticed some creosote and sage nearby which gave off the sweet aroma of a spring rain. Maybe it was because he was so close to his own death that he was noticing such things?
These emotions were uncommon to him. He was typically cold and methodical. Sure, he had no qualms about taking life but, in the past, it had always been just part of a mission. Just a checkbox on his list that needed to be marked off for one reason or another.
But not anymore.
Now, he killed for no one but himself. For his own enjoyment. His own glorification.
It felt wonderful.
A row of trees and shrubs hid his approach, but when he passed those, he would be in her line of sight. And he would spring into action.
As he continued forward down the sidewalk, he imagined what would come next.
His speed increases, closing the last few steps in a sprint.
He strikes her full force with the blackjack. The blow from the small club should knock her unconscious. Then he drags her inside, and he finishes up with the knife.
Simple.
He had tested police response times here in Tucson and knew that, even with police on the way, he would have a few minutes of cutting before he needed to finish her. But he hoped this body would take longer to be discovered. Still, it would work out either way. Without the other pieces, knowledge of this murder would just add to the noise.
And a few minutes would be enough time. It would have to be. Business before pleasure, and he had a schedule to maintain and many more tasks to cross off his list.
He double-checked the street and was about to make his move when he heard an engine approaching and tires rolling over concrete.
Slowing his pace, he waited for the approaching vehicle to pass.
Instead of rolling on by, a minivan the color of a ripe plum pulled into the engineer’s driveway. Three women hopped out of the car. One of them, a middle-aged Hispanic woman in jeans and a red and white flower top, held up a bottle of wine. The friends greeted each other warmly and headed for the front door.
Now he had a decision to make.
Should he try to fit the engineer in later or kill all four women now? He knew he could do it. A little fear and intimidation to control them and a few swift and brutal attacks with the knife.
He guessed he could have two of them bleeding out on the floor before the others could even react.
People were always so easy to kill. So unprepared for danger and violence.
But checking his watch, he decided against it. That would take far too long. The delay would put him behind schedule for his next appointment.
He watched the engineer shut her front door, and then he walked back to the decoy car, feeling unfulfilled.
He shut the door and tried to calm his breathing, assuring himself that he’d be back later.
A song came on the radio. One of those sappy love ballads that Debra had been so fond of.
As he thought of Debra, he heard her laughter. He heard her laughing at him. Her and her insignificant little friend.
He told himself that none of it was real, but before he knew what was happening, the knife was in his hand, and he had stabbed the radio to death in a quick attack of sparks and cracking plastic.
*
Andrew Garrison didn’t like the idea of leaving Marcus alone with Powell. Marcus had an annoying compulsion toward brutal honesty, and Andrew could just imagine what Marcus would say upon seeing the prison and control room for the first time. He should have been there to make sure that his partner didn’t say or do anything to position Powell as an adversary.
Instead, he stood in the middle of a parking lot with the blazing sun beating down on the back of his black suit. He walked up beside the minivan and noticed a burnt rubber smell coming from the engine compartment. If this were his personal ve
hicle, he’d get that checked. But perhaps that was just how cars smelled in heat like this? Andrew certainly felt like he was melting.
To the Director, he said, “What was so important? Dealing with authority figures is not one of Marcus’s strong suits. Who knows what he’s going to say to Powell? Besides, I’m ready to get into the AC.”
The Director wore a blue and gold hat displaying the Department of Justice seal and an official-looking DOJ windbreaker of the same color. For the meeting, Andrew had chosen his standard black suit, white shirt, and black tie ensemble. He had tried to ignore Marcus’s choice of clothing when he had picked the others up from the airport. Instead of a suit or even dress clothes, Marcus had chosen a black T-shirt, jeans, and a leather motorcycle jacket. Andrew was just glad that the shirt didn’t display skulls or the logo of a beer company. He had learned to pick his battles with his partner.
“Don’t worry about Powell,” the Director said. “He used to work with me, so he can definitely handle Marcus.”
“You said that earlier, but you didn’t say where you two worked together.”
“No, I didn’t. But it’s not important. What I wanted to talk about was—”
Andrew interrupted, “Was Powell a member of the Shepherd Organization?”
The Director sighed. “He was a member of my team, but that was a long time ago, and it has nothing to do with this case.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“If it becomes relevant, then you’ll be the first to know. But until then, Powell and my personal history is personal.”
“And you can promise me that history isn’t going to hamper our investigation?”
The Director took a step closer, and even in his reduced state the older man could project a sense of authority. The Director said, “You want to get into personal histories. I just received another voicemail from your ex-wife. She’s worried about you. Do you want to talk about all that?”
Andrew nodded. ”You made your point.”
The Director said, “Good. Now, to business. How is Marcus really doing?”
“That’s what you wanted to talk about?”
“After what happened in Pittsburgh, I have some questions as to whether Marcus went back to active duty too soon after his time in Kansas.”
His time in Kansas?
Only the Director could take an ordeal, which lasted months and consisted of total darkness and starvation coupled with physical and psychological torture, and make it sound like Marcus had been on a family vacation.
Andrew said, “Marcus is fine.”
“What about Pittsburgh?”
“He got carried away.”
“I would say so. This is a high-profile case. A lot of eyes. We need to be careful and subtle. Marcus doesn’t do either of those particularly well. Another incident like Pittsburgh, and Fagan will retire Marcus.”
“What? He can’t do that.”
“Technically, he can. Fagan doesn’t look at Marcus or his brother and see potential. He sees liabilities, and if we don’t prove that Ackerman and Marcus can be valuable assets, then one of them will be dead and the other will be looking for a new line of work.”
*
The large room reminded Marcus of a smaller version of NASA’s mission control. Technicians typed away at keyboards and spoke into headsets, probably controlling every aspect of the prison. But all eyes faced toward the giant wall of screens. The place smelled like a coffee shop. Marcus guessed that everyone there was working overtime, in light of the recent incident, and needed the caffeine.
Powell tapped the woman working at the first terminal on the shoulder. She swiveled in her chair, and Powell said, “Spinelli, this is Special Agent Williams from the DOJ. Marcus, meet Lisa Spinelli, our resident tech guru.”
Spinelli frowned at Powell briefly and then gave Marcus a fake smile. She had a gap between her two front teeth. Even with her sitting down, he could see that she was at least six feet tall and rail thin. She had a weak chin that made her seem mouse-like. She wasn’t traditionally pretty, but there was something about her, a confident fire in her eyes, that made her strangely attractive.
She stuck out her hand and said, “Lisa Spinelli, Director of Technological Security.”
Marcus shook her slender hand. ”Pleasure to meet you. Spinelli? Like the man who was just murdered?”
She looked at the floor and said, “That’s right. My brother was the one who was … who died. We worked as a team on this project. I created the algorithms, and he wrote the rest of the code.”
Marcus said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He wanted to tell her that they’d bring justice to her brother’s killer, but he fought the urge. Such promises had a way of sounding empty. Instead, he asked, “Are you sure this is where you want to be right now?”
“Our parents are handling the funeral arrangements. And I can’t think of anything more worthwhile I could do for my brother than trying to protect what we built together. This software was his baby, and now it’s his legacy. Since he can’t be here to fight for it, I should be.”
Powell said, “Lisa, would you please do a small system demo for Special Agent Williams?”
She swiveled back around to her terminal and wiped at her eyes. She said, “No problem. Let’s just find a good test subject.”
Marcus couldn’t see what she was doing on her screen, but based on the little noises she made, he guessed she was checking to find a “good test subject.”
After a few seconds, she said, “Here we go.” Five of the displays on the wall switched to an overhead picture of three men in orange jumpsuits. The resolution and detail of the video was impressive, flawless. The camera angle changed to a different view. Now the picture showed the men head-on. The images were life-size. It seemed as if Spinelli had waved a magic wand and opened a portal straight to these men’s location.
“Okay,” Spinelli said. “These three guys are in the kitchen preparing lunch. You can see that they are all armed with knives and are chopping up vegetables. Now, let’s run a little test.”
She tapped a few keys and bent over to a microphone sitting beside her monitor. Marcus noticed the display around the inmates change. Now each man was followed around by a little computer menu which displayed his name and basic information. At first glance, he guessed that the system relied on facial recognition, but then he noticed the live stats showing each man’s heart rate and blood pressure. Maybe they were getting the info from some other kind of monitors?
“Residents Martinez, Seville, and Ralston,” Spinelli said. The three men looked up as if God himself had just spoken directly to them. Spinelli continued, “Put the knives down and stand by for a systems test.”
Marcus could see the men clearly enough to see one roll his eyes as he placed his knife on the table in front of him.
Spinelli released a button on the microphone, looked back at Marcus, and said, “We do these kinds of tests on a regular basis.”
Powell added, “We like to remind the residents, which is what we call the inmates, that the system is always watching. Many of them have come to call the monitoring system by the name ‘Saint Nick.’ Because he sees when you’re sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake.”
Marcus said, “I get the idea, but just being monitored is not going to keep a lot of these guys from ripping each other’s throats out. They didn’t exactly get here based on good impulse control.”
“Very true,” Powell said, “but this system does a lot more than monitor and record.” Powell picked up the mic from the desk and said, “Resident Ralston, this is Warden Powell.” That perked up all three men, especially Ralston, the big black man in the center. ”I want you, Resident Ralston, to count to fifteen and then pick up your knife. Do nothing more. Just pick it up. Nod if you understand.”
Ralston nodded, and Powell said over the mic, “Start counting now.”
Spinelli tapped some keys, and the displays reverted to a desktop that showed a logo which Marcus had notic
ed on several boxes and uniforms since arriving. She said, “I’m now in monitoring mode.” She gestured toward the other technicians working at terminals inside the large, open room. “That’s what most of these people are doing. Just monitoring.”
When the countdown reached zero, an alert popped up onto Spinelli’s screen.
The display automatically flipped back to the three men, but now the knife in Ralston’s hand was flashing red.
“So what now?” Marcus asked. “You know that he picked up a knife, but what do you do about it? Guards can’t make it there in time. You going to tell him to be good?”
Powell smiled and, into the mic, said, “Resident Ralston please stab Resident Seville to death.”
Spinelli said, “Sir, we can’t just—”
Powell silenced her with a raised hand.
Ralston also didn’t seem convinced. The big black man looked from the knife to Seville and back. Then, Ralston said, “No way, man,” and dropped the knife on the table.
Powell keyed the mic and said, “What would happen to you, Resident Ralston, if you did attempt to murder Resident Seville?”
Ralston said, “You’d smite me, sir.”
“And what would that look like? How would you be ‘smited’?”
“The jewelry around my ankles and wrists would zap me. I’ve been shocked once before, and I’m not playing with that fire again.”
“Thank you, Resident Ralston. Please stand by,” Powell said. Then to Marcus, he added, “They wear tamperproof bracelets and anklets capable of transmitting enough electricity into their bodies to incapacitate even the most agitated man or woman.”
Marcus shook his head. ”I still don’t buy it. There’s no way ‘Saint Nick’ here can register actions accurately enough to know when to shock them. Not every time. It’s a nice thought, but it can’t predict behavior. And you can’t analyze current behaviors quickly or accurately enough to do anything about it.”
Spinelli said, “Our system can. Our software analyzes billions of data points and conditions and can tell when one of the residents is about to break a serious rule. If it’s serious and urgent enough, the system takes action on its own. Otherwise, an alert is sent, and a security technician decides if action is needed.”