In The Falling Light (37 page)

Epps leaned forward. “And what do you think
he is, exactly?”

Without hesitation, “He’s a monster. And
nothing he says during the interview will portray otherwise. I’ve
done my research on him, and I’ve already filmed the segments with
the abnormal psychologist, the FBI profiler and two of the
investigators who worked his case. Those conversations and opinions
will all appear. I also did the piece with the D.A. and even
interviewed Finch’s lawyer.”

The warden raised his eyebrows. “And how did
that go?”

“After we got through all the, ‘My client is
a victim of an abusive childhood and an unfair criminal justice
system’ crap, I saw a man who was happy to be representing someone
infamous and nationally known, but even happier that his client is
locked away in your facility.” He paused. “I think Finch scares the
shit out of him.”

Epps snorted. “Unless he’s a little girl, he
has nothing to fear.”

Trent shook his head. “It’s more than that.
I think what scares him is knowing Finch is…simply evil.”

The warden rotated his chair and looked out
his office window. He didn’t speak for a long time, but then he
said, “You’re about to see evil up close, Mr. Whitsome. I hope
you’re ready for it.”

“This isn’t my first serial killer,
Warden.”

The older man turned back around and opened
a thick file on his desk. On the top was a letter signed by the
governor, permitting HBO to film a documentary on Kelvin Finch,
using the prison, and instructing the warden to extend all
courtesies which did not jeopardize the safety or security of the
facility.

He tapped the file. “I have a lot of leeway
here, Mr. Whitsome.”

The producer had a copy of the same letter.
“Yes, sir, you do, as you should. It’s your prison.”

“I could decide this event constitutes a
clear security risk and deny the whole thing.”

They both knew he wouldn’t. In order to
grease the wheels, HBO had arranged to interview the governor, and
edit clips of his Q&A into the special. The man was very
excited about the opportunity, and the warden knew it. Epps drummed
his thick fingers on the file.

“I want to clear any footage before it
airs.”

The producer shook his head. “You know
that’s not going to happen.” He said it as respectfully as he
could, but inside he wanted to ask this bureaucrat if he had ever
heard of the First Amendment. He didn’t, of course. That would spin
this interview into territory more hostile than it already was, and
besides, the man was right. He had a lot of leeway, and could
choose to make things so restrictive that Whitsome would never get
the kind of candid interview he needed.

Warden Epps scowled at him for a moment
without speaking, and then his face changed to a look of
resignation. He knew he wasn’t going to win, and he would cooperate
because he had been directed to cooperate. Inside, Trent was
rejoicing.

“Alright, Mr. Whitsome. There are some
things you need to understand, and rules by which you will abide.
Violation of any one of these rules constitutes a felony in the
State of Oklahoma, and if you disobey them I will personally turn
the key on the cell where you will await trial for breaching the
security of a state correctional facility. Do you understand
me?”

“Yes sir.”

“That goes for your people as well. Our
facility houses over five-hundred of the most violent felons in the
State of Oklahoma, and I want you to appreciate the potential
dangers.” He opened the file. “I see you’re requesting a crew of
four.”

Trent nodded. “Myself, my cameraman and
sound technician, and one lighting technician. I could also use an
assistant…”

“Four will suffice, Mr. Whitsome.” Epps
leaned back in his chair. “You and your crew will be subject to
searches when you enter, when you leave, and at any time my
officers choose. Your equipment will be thoroughly inspected. You
will not bring weapons or contraband into my facility. You will not
go anywhere unescorted. You will not give anything to or accept
anything from an inmate. You will follow the instructions of all
COs at all times.”

The producer nodded.

“You can film in hallways, common areas and
cell blocks only after you request and receive permission. Anyone
other than Finch whom you wish to interview on camera must first
clear it with me. Anyone who doesn’t want to talk to you, or have
their face on TV…”

“We’re very respectful about that, Warden.
Not a problem.”

Epps nodded. “I’ll arrange for a secure room
for the interview. You can have Finch for two hours only, so you’d
better make it count. There won’t be a second interview. He will be
in restraints, and there will be two officers in the room with you
at all times. If they decide Finch is getting out of line, or poses
a threat to you or your crew, the interview is over. That’s their
decision.”

Trent nodded that he understood. He didn’t
argue about only getting access to Finch the one time. If the
bosses at HBO determined Trent should have another go at him, then
they would romance the governor and make it happen.

“One last thing, Mr. Whitsome, and this is
very important.”

The producer waited.

“In the event of a crisis at the facility,
we will do what we can to get you and your crew to a secure area.
However, among the many waivers you and HBO will have to sign, it
clearly states that should you be taken hostage by inmates, you
will be considered a casualty of war. We do not negotiate, and we
retake compromised areas by force.”

Trent Whitsome wanted to smile, but when he
saw that the warden was serious his grin wavered and he swallowed
hard. “I understand.”

“Good.” Warden Epps rose from his desk and
guided Whitsome out.

It was 6:50am, and the rows of seated
corrections officers listened as the sergeant announced the
assignments for first shift. This was the busiest shift of the day,
since all the inmates were awake, off to their jobs or receiving
visitors, going on sick call or facing disciplinary or parole
review. There was intake, a small amount of out-processing, and of
course this was the time when the highest amount of civilian
workers were in the facility. “Carson and Karst, you’re in the
bubble at DV-3. Dingham and Gianetta, bubble at DV-4. Stroeham,
you’re at medical…”

Sergeant Carla Mendez continued reading. She
wore a crisp white shirt with sergeant’s stripes, and had her hair
tied back under her blue ball cap. Sergeant Dean Frye leaned
against a table nearby.

“…Wininngham, Crosby, Pope, Esperanza and
Wales, you’re on the yard. Poplin, you’re on review board escort.
Levins…ah, glad you’re awake this morning, Officer Levins.”

There was some chuckling, and an embarrassed
CO sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes.

“Levins you’re on food service with Triest.”
She flipped the page. “SRT officers, we have a meeting at 0730,
then you’ll get your assignments.” The SRT, or Special Response
Team, was the prison’s SWAT team, specially trained officers who
handled violent cell extractions, manned the rifle towers, and were
on constant standby in the event of a riot or similar disturbance.
They wore black and bloused their trousers into their boots,
military style. All wore taps on their boots for added
psychological effect. The inmates, who dressed in orange jumpsuits,
called them Orange Crush.

As well as being a sergeant, Carla was the
team leader of Deacon Valley’s SRT.

She stood at her podium handing out
assignments as she did every day, and like every day, inside she
was amazed at the wonder of it all. There was no way she should
have gotten away with it, no way she should have been able to slip
past all the screening and background checks without someone
throwing a flag. And yet she had. At first, she told herself her
attempt to enter corrections was an effort to keep society’s
predators locked away, preventing them from hurting others. Of
course that was all bullshit and she knew it. She wanted to get
close to Kelvin Finch. She fully expected that going back to her
maiden name and lying on all the questionnaires, lying during the
polygraph, would not stand up.

They hired her.

She knew that even though she had gotten in,
someone would soon find her out.

They didn’t.

COs have no say in where they are assigned,
and go where they’re told. There was no chance at all she would be
assigned to Deacon Valley.

That was exactly where they put her.

For years she struggled with the fear of
discovery, the sick feeling that she was betraying her fellow
officers with her deception, waiting for that moment when the
warden would summon her, toss a file on the desk in front of her
and demand to know how the mother of a murdered girl had managed to
wiggle her way into the facility where that killer was kept. Her
anxiety didn’t originate from any concern over punishment. Her fear
was that she would be found out before she had the chance to avenge
her little girl. But that moment had never come.

Carla had played out variations of that
vengeance thousands and thousands of times, and had almost as many
opportunities to carry it out. As a sergeant, getting a weapon into
the prison was a simple matter, and getting close enough to Finch
to use it was just as easy. In her nine years at Deacon Valley,
however, she had yet to act. Somewhere along the way she came to
the decision that a simple ambush, a quick death, would not do for
Kelvin Finch. She wanted him to see it coming, to experience the
fear of knowing death was on its way, and that there was nothing he
could do to stop it. Like Anita. So she resisted the urge, devising
a more fitting plan and waiting for that one, unique moment when
everything came together, reconciling the fact that the man living
in the Monster House continued to draw breath while her daughter
did not. Sometimes she anguished over the idea that the moment
might never come, that her plan was too complex and relied upon a
set of events which mathematically would likely never occur. Those
were her lowest points, when she wavered and nearly gave in to the
idea of simply ending him the next time she got close. But she
endured, convincing herself it would happen.

“You’ve all been briefed on the HBO film
crew coming today. They’re scheduled to arrive at 0900, and may be
here filming as late as 2300. Acre and Falstead, you’re assigned as
escort until second shift relieves you at 1500 hours. Orders from
the warden are to wear them like a shirt. No screw-ups.”

The two men nodded.

“Finch’s interview will be at 2030 hours,
after everyone is down for the night. I’ll let you know where and
give you the specifics later.” She finished up with the briefing,
passed out the rest of the assignments, and then dismissed her
officers. Dean Frye was just getting off the phone over by the
table.

“That was Epps,” he said.

“And?”

Dean looked embarrassed. “He says you’re on
mandatory overtime. He wants this HBO thing to go smoothly, and
says you’re on the escort detail and in the room during the
interview.”

She just stared at him.

“I’ll take the SRT watch today so you can
focus on our guests.” Dean was her assistant commander on the
team.

Carla only nodded, her face revealing
nothing, but inside she was caught in a whirlwind.

Kelvin Finch sat in a hard wooden chair,
wearing a clean orange jumpsuit and a white tee shirt. Although his
hands were free, his ankles were shackled down below the camera
view, and the chain ran through a steel ring bolted to the floor.
The room, located in the administration building and normally a
storage place for boxes of files, had been completely emptied, and
now only a blank wall painted in institutional gray served as a
backdrop. Finch sat in a relaxed pose, hands resting on his knees
with a small microphone clipped to his collar.

Trent Whitsome was not so relaxed. It was
9:30pm, and he had been inside Deacon Valley for over twelve hours,
long enough to know he never wanted to come back. It wasn’t the
prison itself – he’d done work in several, and they were all about
the same – it was the men locked up within it, muscled and lean and
covered in tattoos and scars. They watched like wolves sizing up a
weak calf. Trent was careful to stay close to his escort.

He had the prison footage he needed, and a
couple of interviews with inmates willing to talk to him about how
they felt about the residents of the PC, and Kelvin Finch in
particular. Now he was an hour into his chat with the King,
referring to prepared notes on a legal pad.

“Let’s talk about the letters and photos.
You sent them to the families of seven of your victims. Before we
talk about why, tell us how you even got that information.”

Finch smiled. “Everything I needed was on
the news after the girl was taken.”

Trent noticed Finch spoke in the passive
voice;
the girl was taken
, as if he’d had nothing to do with
it.

“The family’s name, the address of their
house, the news put it all out there. I got more details off the
internet.”

“Why send the letters, why inflict more
pain?”

He shifted in his chair. “I was different
then, full of hate, not thinking clearly. I just wanted to hurt
people.” His smile returned. “I know now that it was wrong. I’ve
been saved, and I put my faith in Jesus Christ. I’ve received his
forgiveness, and hope the families can do the same.”

Unlikely, Trent thought, ignoring the
remark. He’d heard it from every killer he’d ever interviewed.
“Those letters did some damage, didn’t they? Two suicides, the
mothers of Kelsey Wallingford and Fran Petra, numbers four and six,
I believe.”

“Well, like I said, I was a different
man.”

Against a wall out of view of the camera,
Carla Mendez stood at parade rest with her hands folded behind her,
staring at Kelvin Finch. She’d gotten two of those letters, the
first six months after the abduction, the second a year later. The
first contained a graphic explanation of what he was doing to
“Number Seven,” accompanied by a shadowy photo taken of the girl
when she was still alive. There was duct tape and plastic zip
strips and terror in her baby’s eyes. The second letter apologized
that his plaything was all worn out and no longer of any use to
him. The photo with this one showed a black lawn and leaf bag at
the bottom of a hole in the woods.