A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (10 page)

     
Inmate Bowan's cell—second tier, last on the right—was cordoned off with bright yellow tape. Even without the tape barrier, none of the eleven other occupants in the pod were likely to set foot inside that cell. They were all locked down tight behind four-inch steel doors.

     
Matt could feel their eyes as he climbed the stairs ahead of Rosie. Someone hissed. Someone else whistled. It was a very quiet evening in 3-B. Maybe they were just warming up. The scent of blood, the proximity of death, should have revved them into hysteria. The silence was more eerie than any cacophony.

     
At the doorway to Bowan's cell, Matt gazed impassively at the mess. The concrete walls were spattered with dark fluid. The bed had been stripped, the bedding shredded, and the mattress was marked by gaping holes as though something had tried to dig its way out. The toilet in the cell had overflowed; Matt smelled it before he saw the human waste staining the floor.

     
He stooped under the crime-scene tape, stepped forward, and began to sift gingerly through the rubble.

     
Rosie spoke quietly from the door. "Bowan was discovered by C.O. Dewey on a routine body count. I was here before the paramedics.''

     
"Where was Bowan?"

     
"Right where you're standing. On his back, having a seizure, foaming at the mouth." Rosie ducked under the tape and stepped inside the cell just far enough so her words didn't carry beyond the door.

     
Matt considered the scene and the questions it raised. Was it suicide or unintentional overdose? Did it really matter in the scheme of things? The man had been the self-confessed killer of a twelve-year-old girl. He'd also been borderline retarded—slow enough to get into trouble but not slow enough to be noticed by the system—until a tragedy had occurred.

     
From what Matt knew of Bowan's past, the man had lived a sad, destructive life. He wouldn't be missed. And he'd saved the state some money. Nevertheless, in the Land of Enchantment, death row inmates were not supposed to kill themselves. They were supposed to wait and let the state take their lives.

     
Matt glanced at Rosie Sanchez. "When was Bowan last seen alive? Or heard?"

     
Both investigators looked at the wall that separated the dead inmate's cell from the cell of his only neighbor, Cash Wheeler. Rosie twined two fingers and mouthed, "They were tight." With a shake of her head, she turned the same two fingers at herself:
Less than an hour earlier, Wheeler had refused to answer any questions
.

     
Rosie asked, "Are you going to need about thirty minutes up here?" When he nodded, she stooped under the tape and out of the cell, heading for the stairs. Matt followed, slower, stopping outside the door to gaze back at the ruined cell.

     
"You shoulda heard that asshole tear himself up." The words came from across the tier, where Matt saw a black face staring out through the grate.

     
Another inmate called out: "Bowan cryin' to the world when he did hisself."

     
A third man whispered, "Wen' offa his mind."

     
"Wheeler dyin', so Bowan gotta die, too."

     
The voices began to fly around the pod, echoing off the concrete walls, disintegrating to rough vowels and consonants. The words turned to hissing laughter and catcalls, reverberating to a painful crescendo.

     
Matt felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. There was only one cell in the entire pod with an occupant who wasn't making noise. The silence was conspicuous.

     
Slowly, Matt moved a few paces from Bowan's cell; he turned to look past the next grill.

     
At twenty-nine, Cash Wheeler had the face of an overgrown boy, with neatly symmetrical features, pouting lips, and prominent cheeks. His brown hair was cut short and tossed around by a cowlick at the apex of his forehead; a russet stubble dotted his small chin. His body was wiry, but beneath pale skin he was turning soft from inertia. His keen astringent gaze belonged to another man, one who was much older, much wiser, and world-weary.

     
He didn't look mean enough to stab the woman he loved and cut her throat. He didn't look cruel enough to drop his own infant child into the muddy, fast-flowing water of the Pecos. But evil often hides behind the mask of normalcy, and a jury had decided he should die for those crimes.

     
Now, more than a decade later, after all the appeals had been exhausted, Cash Wheeler had finally been given his date with death. Barring a miracle—or judicial prerogative—Wheeler would die before he saw his thirtieth birthday.

     
As Matt eyed the condemned inmate, he took a quick inventory of his own emotions, expecting he would feel nothing in the way of pity or compassion. All four inmates on the row had killed women, children, or both. And for most of those killers, murder was not their cruelest act. That didn't sit well with a cop, especially not with a man who had lost his wife and son. But there was something about Wheeler that didn't allow Matt's thoughts to settle comfortably.

     
Wheeler turned away from the grill, but his gaze slid back toward Matt. The two men stared at each other. Sniffing the air. Hackles up. For that minute they were two animals, one caged, one free. Then, abruptly, the inmate seemed to lose energy.

     
Matt's voice was barely a whisper. "You heard it happen, Wheeler. He was your friend." When the inmate didn't respond, Matt pressed. "Why did Bowan kill himself?"

     
Remaining silent, Wheeler shook his head.

     
"Don't you think it would be a comfort to his family to know what happened?"

     
"Darryl's family disowned him years ago."

     
"Then tell me. I'd like to know."

     
Wheeler smiled, but the skin around his eyes tightened. Slowly, he said, "I think Darryl couldn't wait any longer. He wanted rain and sunshine."

R
OSIE WAS WAITING
for Matt in the main lobby of North Facility.

     
When the investigators were outside in the illuminated parking lot, she asked, "How do you want to play this out?"

     
Matt slowed his pace for a moment, watching Rosie stride, shoulders back, head high, and then he caught up with her again. He leaned against her Camaro while she unlocked the driver's door.

     
He said, "Can you meet on Monday? I'll need the usual: active investigations, transmission logs, access to books and mail, staff—you know the drill."

     
"Monday's fine." She gave a quick nod and began to duck into the car.

     
They both knew the investigation wouldn't solve much in the end. Drugs would still flow across the border and into the veins of addicts, whether on the streets or in prison. It was too late for people like Bowan.

     
"Will you call me with the lab results?" Rosie snapped her fingers. "Matthew? You're a hundred miles away. Are you thinking about Bowan?"

     
Matt's eyes slowly found hers. "I'm thinking about rain. . . ."

     
Rosie shot him a puzzled glance. As she slid her key into the ignition, Matt seemed to come back to earth. He asked, "What time do you want us at the party?"

     
"Eleven o'clock sharp." The Camaro's 305 horsepower purred to life.

     
"
En punto
. That's how it will be." Matt lost track of the Camaro's taillights somewhere near the old Main Facility, where Rosie had her office. He followed, driving slowly from the prison grounds, reversing his earlier route.

     
At the intersection with State Road 14, he was greeted by a small mob gathered under the harsh glare of television lights. At least two local-affiliate television crews wielded Minicams. A blond woman held center stage—Matt caught a glimpse of her before his attention was drawn to a black stretch limousine parked twenty feet from the crowd.

     
The illuminated license plate read
RESCUE.

     
Matt slowed to a stop. With the Caprice engine idling, he watched the scene. The blonde was talking into a bouquet of microphones. Slender, good-looking, early thirties, hair tucked under a cowboy hat. She was dressed in Levi's, a white tailored shirt, and an embroidered jacket that had probably cost more than Matt's monthly paycheck. Her delicate features were familiar.

     
He called out to a member of the television crew, a girl of about nineteen, who was packing up some equipment. "What's going on?"

     
The girl grinned. "Hey, I just get paid to schlep, not think." She walked over to the Caprice, leaned one hip against the door. "You're a cop, aren't you? Nine-one-one. What's going on inside the joint?" She waved toward the penitentiary.

     
He shrugged. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

     
The girl jerked her head toward the blonde. "Press conference—but you missed the fun. About that guy who's gonna get fried next month."

     
Matt had seen the coverage of the anti-death-penalty protesters on local news. They had vowed to be on hand twenty-four hours a day until the execution. That was fine by Matt, but he knew it wasn't necessarily fine by the locals in the area. A lot of prison employees lived nearby. Small farmers, trailer-park residents, and leave-me-alone types tended to settle out on 14. There'd been trouble a few nights ago; Matt had heard about it on the scanner.

     
The girl said, "So, is there gonna be another riot?" She looked excited by the prospect.

     
"Not tonight." Matt stared beyond her to the blonde; he watched her deftly dismissing the reporters now that she'd gotten all the coverage she wanted. He said, "They don't fry anybody anymore. It's lethal injection."

     
The girl licked her lips. "No shit, it's lethal. Hey, I heard there's gonna be a riot 'cause they're shipping guys out—"

     
"That woman really thinks Cash Wheeler's worth her time?"

     
"Yeah, I guess she does." The girl laughed. "That's Noelle Harding. The guy they're gonna fry is her brother."

T
HE EVENING NEWS
featured stories on a shooting in Albuquerque, an I.N.S. bust in Santa Fe, and the upcoming execution at the penitentiary. Sylvia downed a cheese sandwich while she stood in the living room staring at the television. The condemned inmate's sister, Noelle Harding, had staged a live press conference—the same Noelle Harding who was hosting a gala at the Frank Lloyd Wright house. The world was an interesting place.

     
Sylvia clicked off the television and returned to work. It took discipline—she felt chained to her laptop—but she managed to lose herself in the revision process. By seven-thirty
P.M
. she'd reworked five pages of the book to her satisfaction. Then weather broke her concentration.

     
With the windows open, gusts of air knocked the blinds about, and they were clicking loudly against the screens. Another thunderstorm was blowing up, but the air felt bone dry and electrically charged. It was part of a pattern that had been south of normal since the recent drought. Maybe the turbulence was making the dogs crazy; they were riled up, whining at the door every few minutes.

     
Their nervousness was contagious. She was feeling spooked. She thought she saw headlights flashing across the front of the house. Was that the low hum of a car engine? But when she stood by the window, blinds parted, all she saw was a dark sheet of land—fields and meadows—across the road, stretching into nothingness. And all she heard was the rustle of lilac bushes, the louder crackle of cottonwood branches shadowboxing the wind.

     
She closed out her file on the laptop and was about to switch off the computer. She changed her mind. She hadn't checked her E-mail for four days. She entered her password and logged on-line. As she had anticipated, there was mail. She scanned the various subjects and clicked on "reporting in."

Sylvia: I've made some progress. Got a hard lead on your dad at the VA Hospital in West L.A. Looks like he was there in 1980 under the name of Raymond Fremont. "Fremont" had psychiatric problems. Want you to know I'm going to talk to your mother tomorrow. She's serving tea and biscuits.

Harry.

     
Sylvia left the message on the screen, then walked to the kitchen to add a splash of Absolut and more ice to her glass. Joshua Harold—Harry—was the private investigator she'd hired to track down her missing father.

     
Actually, she hoped he was dead. It would make things so much easier after all these years. She'd read about a man recently—a Vietnam vet who had "died" during the war. A quarter-century later he turned up to apologize.
Big fucking deal
. She had tried to figure out what she'd say in those circumstances: "Welcome home, Pop?"

     
Without moving from the room, the house, Sylvia was a child again, remembering. Her father's dark moods, his extended silences, had been powerful weapons of passivity and withdrawal. They had served their purpose: control and punishment of those closest to him.

     
What about Serena? Was she using silence as punishment? Sylvia didn't buy it. She drained her glass and began to chew on an ice cube. Back in her office, she typed a quick E-mail response:

Dear Harry, What type of psychiatric problems are we talking about? Is my father alive or dead? I need an end to my damn book! By the way, my mother does a great tea—makes her own scones. Say hi for me.