Terror at Hellhole (6 page)

Then the siren stopped, the wail fading off into a whisper before Dwyer took a deep breath relieving the pressure in his ears. He pulled himself up shakily, holding fast to the metal ridge of the middle bunk when he raised his head at the sound of approaching boot steps slowly scuffing the cement corridor.

Even with his back turned, there was no mistaking the big, dark-bearded guard, Ben Harplee, a tough but fair man. Dwyer did not, however recognize the Quechan tracker who walked along the corridor behind Harplee.

While the stout guard was busy counting the men in the double cells on the opposite side of the ten-foot-wide corridor, the Indian stopped to look through the double doors at Dwyer. Hawk-featured and dark, the Indian had a long, unlit cigar in his mouth and he stood there motionless as a statue. Tall for an Indian, he was slim, yet powerfully built, and his eyes, black as wet coal, locked on Dwyer's face like a candle at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, and seemingly touched the prisoner's very soul.

Disconcerted, Dwyer eyed the unlit cigar in the Quechan's mouth. He licked his lips when a chill passed through him and unwittingly he began to tremble. A dull pain locked on his guts and his face twitched as the quivering increased. God, if he only had something to soothe his jagged nerves so this shaking would stop.

The Indian took the unlit cigar from his mouth and his eyes moved from Dwyer's face to the cigar in his hand, then back again as though sensing the convict's urgent need.

Then the Indian did a strange thing. Silently, he reached a sun-bronzed arm full length through the outer door, then taking careful aim, he tossed the cigar through the inner bars onto the convict's bunk. And Dwyer gave the Indian a grateful look but he could read nothing on the Quechan's face before he moved after Harplee to continue the count in the next cell.

Striving to control his shaking fingers, Dwyer leaned forward and picked up the cigar lying at the foot of his bed. Quickly he looked over at Powers still lying facedown on his mattress. No use disturbing him, he thought, glad that his cellmate hadn't witnessed the Indian's gesture. For a white man, even a convict, to receive pity from an Indian wasn't anything to be proud of.

Holding the cigar in both hands to control his shaking, he studied it closely. He could see that the Indian's teeth had barely indented the cigar's end, and the smell of rich tobacco surged in his nostrils. The strong smoke would soothe him, help him overcome his agitated nerves, already he felt calmer. Yet puzzled, he paused, trying to fathom why an Indian would give him such an obviously expensive cigar. Maybe, in spite of the Quechan's inscrutable features, he had felt pity for him, and he was glad that Powers was still lying with his face to the wall.

He knew that it would be a long wait before all the prisoners were reported secured and that the sanctity of the prison had been restored. Better he should lie back and enjoy the smoke, knowing that the cigar would ease his shaking hands once the strong taste of tobacco coursed through his lungs.

With fidgety fingers holding it, he bit the end from the cigar and scraped a wooden match into flame on the edge of his bunk. Shakily, he held the cigar in his mouth and applied the flame to it. The fire drew poorly, and he sucked harder again before it caught, drawing the soothing smoke far into his lungs.

Exhilarated, his next puff was deeper but suddenly the smoke went flat; a strong acrid taste assailed his tongue. Then a blinding light flashed. Fishel Dwyer's face exploded and he knew no more.

Joshua Otis Tarbow was forty years old when he became the superintendent of Yuma Territorial Prison. He was used to seeing death of every imaginable type but he had never been confronted by such a puzzling death as now faced him. He was chagrined.

With a slow shake of his head he arose from examining the almost headless body that had once been Fishel Dwyer. His shifting eyes were like brown agates sweeping the two guards, Ben Harplee and Frank Allison, and the prisoner Dalton Powers standing near the head of his bunk against the rear wall. The cell was small, about nine by eight feet, with stone walls rising to a high-domed ceiling.

“What happened to him, Powers?” Tarbow asked gruffly, anxious to have the investigation resolved quickly.

The little convict, his eyes riveted on the bloody mess lying on the stone floor, slowly shook his head and a kind of shiver passed over him before he spoke: “I—I don't know, sir,” he stammered, then shivered again.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” Tarbow growled. “You were right here in this cell with him, weren't you?”

“Y-yes, but I d-don't know what happened,” Powers insisted, pressing back against the wall, still terrified. He peered at the warden hesitantly. “I—I just heard a boom an' when I turned over to look, there he was, laying on the floor like this.”

A light shudder racked the prisoner's thin body again and he finally tore his glance from the grisly thing on the floor. “I was layin' on my bunk facin' the wall, layin' on my stomach with my head turned,” he whined, plainly frightened. “Then I heard this boom, an' when I turned around...”

“Did you hear him say or do anything before that?” Tarbow probed, a slow anger beginning to edge his words. “Anything at all?”

“Well, I heard Fish curse the siren. Said it hurt his ears,” he added nervously. “I—I tried to humor him. Told him it was just another sacrifice to the Great God Out.”

“Go on, let's hear the rest of it,” Tarbow snapped when Powers paused.

The little man grew calmer; now his eyes were studiously avoiding the bloody body. “That's when I turned my face to the wall. It was only a short time before it happened.”

“And you're sure you heard nothing before that?” Tarbow pressed on impatiently, his eyes frosty, a frown wrinkling his brow.

“W-well, I heard boot steps an' I heard the guard countin' men,” he said. “You know, like after every prison break...”

Guard Harplee spoke out: “Yes, sir, I was counting the cells along the other side of the corridor first because there are so many more men to keep track of on that side.” He waved toward the front of the hallway. “I was two cells down the line on that side when it happened, sir. I ran back here an' saw Dwyer on the floor like this,” he said firmly. “Powers was still lying on his bunk, his mouth open in surprise.”

“That's right,” Powers rasped, pressing a hand against the side of his face. “I just had time to turn my head when Mister Harplee got here.”

“Soon as I saw what happened, I just sent Honas to get you,” the big guard explained.

“The Indian?” Tarbow asked quietly, his bushy brows almost covering his eyes when his frown deepened. “Was he with you all the time?”

Harplee's eyes swept out to the corridor and back again. “Well...yes. He was right behind me all the time.”

“Can you account for him all the time he was with you?” the superintendent asked.

“Yes, sir, he was right behind me all the time,” Harplee insisted,. “but you know how Indians are—they ain't much interested in our housekeeping, nor counting prisoners, sir.”

Tarbow pinched his lips together and was silent for a moment. He brushed his thoughts aside, too confused to pursue them from the evidence presented. But he knew that he must act before anyone panicked. He jerked a thumb at the little convict, then said to the burly guard: “Put him in the cell with Print and Laustina. Don't allow anyone in this cell except the doctor and me.”

He let his eyes drop to the grisly remains one more time. “I'll send for Doctor Botts at once so he can do what's necessary here.”

The prison budget did not allow for a full-time doctor, however, a small financial arrangement had been made with Dr. Rufus Botts of Yuma to serve as the examining physician and coroner as required. His office was located above the double cells and could only be reached from the yard by means of wooden stairs that were under constant scrutiny by both north tower guards.

In the corridor, Tarbow half turned. “Harplee, you make arrangements for a burial detail tomorrow afternoon.”

Harplee touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in salute. He watched the superintendent edge through the double doors, knowing that he was a very worried man because the three prison commissioners wouldn't look favorably on such a death inside the prison. Especially not after the shooting during the attempted breakout earlier this morning.

He beckoned for Powers to come out of the cell. The little convict moved gingerly around the body, trying not to look directly at it while he shuffled out into the corridor. The inner and outer cell doors were made of heavy strap iron, and connected by an iron rod so that both doors moved in unison. This was designed to permit only one person at a time to ease through the archway, thereby slowing any speedy escape attempt.

“Allison,” Chief Guard Harplee directed the other guard. “You stand watch on this gate. Nobody even looks, much less gets in here but the doctor, understand?”

Frank Allison nodded. Used to prison routine, he closed the cell door and leaned his back against it, his eyes idly following Harplee marching the wiry Powers to the end cell where Print and Laustina and Carugna stood, curiously trying to find out what happened after the muffled boom.

Irritated by the unusual happenings, Ben Harplee shoved Powers into the cell with the three murderers, and clanged the lock into place on the heavy iron hasp. His glaring eyes forestalled the question Print was about to ask before he strode away.

Print shrugged resignedly, biding his time. He would find out what he wanted to know from Powers after Harplee was gone.

Joshua Tarbow sat at his desk, fingers steepled together touching his dry lips. His fuzzy thoughts were gradually sliding back into focus, extruding from the stunned scene he had earlier witnessed in the blood-splattered cell block. He raised his eyes when the doctor placed his satchel on the floor and plopped into the horsehair-stuffed armchair.

“What's the verdict, Rufus?” he asked.

“I found a few slivers of copper in the upper part of his mouth,” Dr. Rufus Botts said. “Copper slivers, they were, imbedded in the remains of the jawbone, and in some of the flesh scattered around the cell.”

He paused a moment, sensing the warden's anxiety. “From the powder specks, I'd say it was probably a blasting cap that exploded and blew away the lower jaw and part of his throat”

Tarbow fidgeted with some papers on his desk, his mind striving to fit the evidence he was hearing. Then he sent a skeptical look back at the doctor. “You think he stuck a dynamite cap in his mouth and set it off? Why?”

Heavyset, florid-faced, the doctor shrugged, not wanting to commit himself. “I'm not saying that's what happened because who knows what a loco weed smoker will or won't do—or even why. Between finding the bits of metal and powder, there were only food particles mixed in with the flesh and bone. So you see, the only foreign material in his mouth were the copper bits. And because blasting caps are made of copper, and because there has been an explosion, I merely suggest this as a possibility.”

“But how would he get a blasting cap in here?” Tarbow wanted to know, looking dubiously at the medic.

The doctor grinned. “I don't want to be facetious, Joshua, but how the devil did he get loco weed and morphine in here?” He gestured with both hands, palms up. “The cap could have gotten in the same way.”

Tarbow's face went stiff, a flush showing that Botts had struck a nerve. “Hmmm, yes, maybe he did put a blasting cap. in his mouth. Probably found it,” he said halfheartedly.

Rufus Botts shrugged, knowing that under the circumstances, one answer was as good as another. “You're right, he probably found it in the yard. You have been blasting ino that caliche hill out yonder, haven't you?” he asked, purposely offering his friend a solution.

Tarbow thought he saw an out and he nodded speculatively while he reviewed what Botts had said. The cementlike caliche formation that covered the hill had needed some blasting to start holes so that sledges and drills could pound out the new cells needed in the prison expansion program. The plan called for additional cells to be constructed by carving out a new yard on the east side of the hill, which now formed the south wall of the prison. Already this wall contained the “snakepit” and the “crazy” cells.

His mind weighed the chances that one of the convicts had stolen a cap from the work area. He straightened his shoulders with a shrug; if the prisoners wanted to kill one another over some grudge, why should he care.

“You're right,” he told the doctor. “The prisoner probably just stuck a cap in his mouth and bit down on it. That could set it off, you know.”

“Or maybe he just lit it like a cigarette,” Botts smiled in agreement. “He just did himself in, Joshua. Let's face it.”

Tarbow nodded, feeling somewhat relieved. “Yes, I do believe that he committed suicide with a dynamite cap in his mouth.”

“The man was a loco weeder, Joshua, we both know that,” Rufus spread his hands with finality.

Tarbow nodded—the conversation had reached a convenient vein, one that was to his advantage...so why not end it now? He recalled that Dwyer had been a screaming wreck during the maximum security period following the return of the five escapees. No telling what a person in that condition would do.

He stood up, signaling the end of the talk, glad to complete the touchy discussion. “I wanted to make sure that there had been no foul play. I'm glad to hear your official determination, Doctor,” he said formally.

Dr. Botts, too, stood up, equally glad to be rid of the subject. He gestured with both hands, then said, “No one shot him, no one stabbed him, nor was any poison found, Warden. I officially believe that he died by his own hand by some unknown means because his body couldn't stand the pressure of being without drugs.”