Chapter 19
The two detectives were sitting at a bench in the courtyard of Mabank Correctional Facility watching oil rigs bob up and down, convicts maintain them and, except for the giant sitting with them, not a guard in sight.
“So Bob implicated Steve in his arson case?” Smith asked.
“Yep, and since Steve held the deed to the land as collateral the authorities bought Bob’s version, tacked twenty years on Steve’s time and sent him to the prison sitting on the land he could never got his hands on” Lattimore answered.
The story seemed plausible but Wesson was running into one problem.
“So, why is there a prison here now?”
The answer was one neither detective expected.
“You are not yet privileged to that information” the Warden Tiffany Delay said as she and Ishmael joined the them in the courtyard.
“Excuse me?” Smith said.
“Yes?” the wonderfully attractive Warden answered.
“Did you just say privileged?”
Her smile was all the answer he needed but she was delightful to the eye so he plowed on.
“May I ask you a question, Warden?”
She nodded her head.
“Yes, but please call me Tiffany. Warden has such a negative connotation to it.”
Smith nodded his reply and dove in head first.
“Okay, Tiffany, please forgive me for asking an awkward question but I need to know. Have you been in contact with a Mister Nat Hallowed?”
Her smile was again all the answer he needed. Fortunately she went a bit further.
“Yes, Nat informed us you were on the way and gave us instructions on how we were to treat you.”
Smith was having a hard time grasping the subject of a police officer moonlighting as a butler who apparently also had the authority to order a warden to do his bidding. He was having difficulty but it didn’t mean he was going stop the attempt,
“What were your instructions if you don’t mind me asking?”
Her beauty was hard to ignore. She was what he believed addicts were compelled to. A breath of fresh air so intoxicating it was worth the price of life itself.
“I don’t mind, Detective. He said you would be coming here to question us about an inmate we previously held. He also said the inmate would be connected to the missing person’s case of Johnny Johnson. His instructions were two-fold. We were to answer any questions pertaining to the two of them but were not to delve into subjects unrelated. He further said if you asked the right questions and made such connections we were to inform him and he would either allow or disallow the interrogation.”
Wesson was apoplectic. Wardens were the same as ship captains, their word was law and within their domain they held ultimate authority. What Tiffany Delay was implying led him to the incredible conclusion not only did Nat Hallowed have powers within the police department but he also held them outside their jurisdiction.
“So let me get this straight. You knew who we were before we arrived but neglected to inform us?” Wesson asked.
“Yes. I am sorry but we’ve been ordered to answer your questions not provide them for you” she replied.
Wesson was ticked off. He’d lost his lunch to a crazy canine and now he was dealing with a correctional community controlled by a corrupt cop. He was not happy, not satiated and not in the mood for games. Luckily, he was also not alone.
“Wesson?” Smith whispered.
“What?” he hissed back.
“You’ve got that look in your eye. Look, I agree with you, this is a stupid case but if you decide to get all righteous with these people we’re going to get kicked out and Craft and Sons will kick our butts for losing unlimited income.”
Wesson knew Smith was right. He didn’t particularly like getting reminded of it on an empty stomach but he knew the truth. He was a professional and as such knew he had to play by the same rules all did when performing their service; those paying were always right. So he swallowed his indignation, ignored his stomach’s revolt and delved in where infinite currency resided.
“Okay, Warden… err… Tiffany, we’ll play by your rules. But can we at least know what the rules are?” he asked.
“Sure” she replied but went no further so Wesson again swallowed his annoyance and ignored his belly’s irritation at receiving something not of a satisfying nature.
“What are those rules, Mistress Tiffany?”
He didn’t know why he’d used the referential term for the woman but he just felt it was more appropriate. She didn’t want to be called ‘Warden’ but he couldn’t bring himself to use ‘Tiffany’ alone for it seemed disrespectful somehow.
“You may ask questions pertaining to Johnny Johnson’s whereabouts and Bob Simpson’s death but are limited in scope beyond those two categories” she answered.
“Okay, do you know the whereabouts of Mister Johnson?” Wesson asked.
“No” she replied.
“Was Mister Johnson ever here in this prison?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met Mister Johnson?”
“You are not privileged to that information” she replied and Wesson sighed.
They were playing the gosh-darn lawyer game! He hated the lawyer game. The lawyer game was exceedingly exacerbating for one was always pushing the limits of its design. It was like a baseball game. Everything which occurred inside the game was allowed to be questioned, everything outside was foul territory. If a player, for example, suddenly began hitting baseballs out of the park at a rate which was unordinary then questioning began. Was the bat corked? Was the ball tricked? Did the hitter know the catcher’s signs? All were perfectly within reason to examine for they were part of the game itself. But what if the batter was using performance enhancements? What if he was chemically cheating? It was there the rules changed. Unless a direct connection could be proven, such as a syringe found in the player’s locker, then the questioning could not take place. What was outside the game remained off-limits.
“Wesson?”
“Yes, Smith?”
“Let me give it a shot.”
“Go for it.”
Smith loved the lawyer game. He thought he would’ve made a good lawyer if not for one thing; he despised school. It didn’t matter which school for they were all the same. Study a vast amount of information to glean a small amount of useful knowledge. He wasn’t a neurosurgeon but he was sure an electrical engineering student didn’t need a course in American Literature. Oh, he understood the lame argument of opening minds and broadening horizons but found them lacking for one glaringly obvious reason; the poor student forced to take the class also had to shell out the dough to do so. If the reasoning behind making young adults take classes to find out if their true niche was actually in another occupation and thus more beneficial to society then it was in society’s interest not to gouge the poor kids and their parents for the privilege of doing so. Smith felt sad for the kids because, unlike his generation, upper-education was now in the hands of business. He felt business was many things but one of them was not to benefit the whole. Business was best when it benefitted itself. Business was never charitable for goodness sake, it was charitable for commerce sake. He’d never heard of a business donating to a worthy cause without the benefit of advertising its charitable deed. He’d heard of individuals who’d been discovered doing the honorable thing but never a business.
“Mistress Tiffany?”
“Yes, Detective Smith?” she answered with a grin.
“Whose side are you on?”
He was prepared for the easy answer, expecting it in fact, so when she did the opposite he was actually caught a little off-guard.
“We are on your side, Detective.”
He hadn’t expected an up-front answer, he’d expected the obvious one of feigned surprise and ignorance of the question. He’d expected her to answer she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Which side is that Mistress?”
His question stemmed from the fact they’d received no help from the ones purporting to want to know Mister Johnson’s whereabouts. On the contrary, the ones who hired them seemed to want the opposite. The LeTorque had done nothing to help them other than issue a piece of paper with the promise of everlasting wealth. In fact, the only one who had been helpful was also the one who had been the hindrance; the man-servant and part-time officer, Nat Hallowed.
“We wish for your success, Detective Smith” was her reply.
“Okay, then you should begin by helping us.”
“We are helping, Detective, but in a way which is allowed by those in charge. Surely you, of all people, can understand the difference” said Ishmael.
The quizzical response was unexpected and threw Smith off-guard for a second. He had a past, everyone did, and his involved law enforcement’s rules governing the game. He’d been a cop and broken them. He’d changed lawful outcome when he altered the criminal process by force of fist and threat. The man had kidnapped a child, Smith found him, the man said the child would die unless he was released, Smith beat the man within an inch of his life and the man gave up the child’s location but was never charged in the abduction. What Smith had done was illegal because he used physical force to compel a confession and what came from the confession was illegitimate in the eyes of the law. The child was found but not through the use of the kidnapper’s confession. According to the court, it was as if the event never happened. The man went free, Smith took early retirement and the child forgot he was ever the victim of a crime. Craft and Sons did not. The man relocated for law enforcement was made of individuals. They would accept a court’s decision and let a criminal go but they would never forget the perpetrator himself. If he would’ve stayed in town the cops would’ve had a field day busting him for everything from loitering to jaywalking. The man moved away and was later found by the detective agency. His whereabouts were never revealed and he subsequently disappeared. The loss of Human life without governmental knowledge is not common but it can occur, especially if the lost soul was one society had no wish to reclaim. At times Craft and Sons were a law to themselves. They sparingly used their power outside the guidelines but when they did those who received their verdict were the only witnesses to the act.
“Fine, we’ll do it your way. You said you’d answer questions pertaining to Bob and Johnny but nothing else unless we make a connection, correct?”
“Yes” she replied and Smith could tell she was warming to the idea.
“All right, let’s see where we stand. Wesson, what do we know?”
He brought the portly detective into the conversation because he realized two heads were always better than one and Wesson’s head was better than most.
“We know Bob was found dead in Mister Johnson’s closet. We were hired to find Mister Johnson by the LeTorque family and our only lead has led us here” he responded curtly.
Smith could hear the frustration in Wesson’s voice, he understood the man’s emotion but needed more from him. They were working for infinite wealth and if it meant delving a little deeper into the game then they would need to do just that.
“Wesson?”
“Yes?”
“Get over it. These people are not the ones causing the headache.”
Wesson was not normally a forgiving man. He’d been raised Catholic so forgiveness should have been in his character but he tended to do as most in his generation did and ignored those traits which were annoying.
“All right, fine. We know Bob Simpson died in this prison and was later found in the apartment of the man we’re looking for. I’m going to assume for the time being he wasn’t taken there post mortem for some strange head-wrenching ritual so we’ve got ourselves the little problem of a dead man in two locations.”
The grilling began.
“When did Bob Simpson die in prison?”
“Three years ago.”
“When was his body found in the closet of Mister Johnson?”
“Two years nine months ago” Smith replied looking at the police report they’d obtained.
“Then we have a discrepancy of three months. There is no mention of a decaying corpse so I have to believe the coroner felt Bob’s death was recent. Do you bury the bodies of your dead convicts on the grounds here?” Wesson asked Warden Tiffany.
“If they have no relatives and no one to take the body, yes” she replied.
Both Ishmael and Lattimore were sitting down listening. They weren’t part of the conversation but were definitely intrigued.
“Was Bob’s body claimed by anyone?”
“No” the best-looking warden on Earth replied.
“Then he was buried here?”
“No” came the strange answer.
Wesson gave the warden a look of annoyance which did not go unnoticed. A growl emanated from the giant seated at the table. Ishmael did not seem pleased his warden was on the receiving end of an interrogation.
“Ishmael!”
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Back down!”
The behemoth quieted and Wesson swallowed the lump which had formed when the beast announced his displeasure. The two detectives also looked at each other for they’d both heard and witnessed the scene before. It had happened before in the LeTorque Manor. The same low sound of potential death silenced by a woman of incredible beauty.
“Detective, please continue” she said.
Wesson was having difficulty remembering where he’d left off. He could sense the power in both guards and realized he was treading a thin life-line. His and Smith’s very existence were at stake and he knew not why. There appeared to be no reason to suspect the warden and her two guard dogs were anything other than exceptionally impressive supervision personnel but he was getting the impression they were of a differing nature altogether. He was beginning to think what they’d stumbled upon was something greater than unlimited funds could provide for. He was suspecting ulterior motives.
“Um… where was I?”
“You asked if Mister Simpson was buried here and I told you ‘no’.”
“Where was he buried?”
“You are not yet privileged to that information” she said.
Wesson’s mind began making connections where there were none.
“I’m not yet privileged because I haven’t found the link between Bob’s death and his burial, correct?”
“Correct” Tiffany replied beautifully.
“Okay, you said Bob died of Bird Flu, right?”
“Yes” she answered and Smith saw where Wesson was headed.
“Is Bird Flu contagious?”
Tiffany grinned broadly and Wesson knew he was on the right path.
“Yes, it’s extremely contagious.”
“And I assume you isolate prisoners with contagious diseases?”
“Yes.”
Smith saw the answer before the question was pondered but held his tongue in anticipation.
“Who was in charge of the isolation ward?”
“Her name was Melissa Ramos” the guardian goddess replied.
The use of the past term was not lost on the detective.
“Her name ‘was’ Melissa Ramos? Is she dead now?”
“No, she goes by a differing moniker now” the Warden of dreams replied.
The name was the key. He could feel it in his bones so he asked the question to gain privilege.
“What does she call herself now?”
“She is Melissa LeTorque” Tiffany responded.
Things were getting interesting. The man they were after was a family member of LeTorque. A body was found in his closet which, at one time, was in the isolation ward of a prison a future family member ran. The coincidence appeared pretty high on the probability scale they would have something to do with each other.
“Why does she now go by the name LeTorque?”
“Because she is mated to the head of the family” the wonderful woman answered.
??
?Could you please tell me who the head of the family is?” Wesson asked.
She was having fun with him and he knew it. He didn’t mind much because she really was something to behold but he was still a little perturbed because he had to go on a fishing expedition to find connections.
“No, but you may ask and I will answer if I can.”
Wesson was through with his questioning for he already knew the answer, the coincidences were too common to ignore.
“It’s Mister Johnson, isn’t it?”
Her smile was all the corroboration he needed. Smith, however, had a few questions of his own.
“Mistress Tiffany, you said the disease was quite contagious, correct?”
“Yes” she replied turning her incredible eyes on the dark-haired detective.
“And Bob Simpson’s roommate was the man he held responsible for his imprisonment and his mother’s death?”
“Yes” she answered again.
“Was there only one case of Bird Flu in the prison?”
“No, there was one other” she replied in her winning way.
Smith found out not only did Bob Simpson catch the Bird Flu but so did Steve Wazziznaim. While Smith was listening to the wondrous warden Wesson was watching with wonderment the population of the forced housing project working expediently and efficiently with the production equipment necessary for the retrieval of one very prosperous petroleum product. Something didn’t sit right with him. There was something on his mind which he couldn’t get his head around. He knew there was a question he needed to ask but couldn’t find the words. Then he remembered and the detectives found themselves waiting as the loveliest warden in the world phoned the most powerful butler on the planet to gain privilege to information he felt he already knew.
“The answer is Commercial Property Management Incorporated, Detective.”
He’d wondered what was bothering him with the use of convicts to produce oil when it occurred to him; it wasn’t the use per se so much as who was using them. The prison was being run as a private-public enterprise and he wanted to know who the private party was.
“And who owns Commercial Property Management?”
Her answer reaffirmed his suspicion.
“That, Detective, is privileged information.”