Witch House (16 page)

I came forward in my seat and palmed the edge
of the desk before standing. “It’s just a hunch, but what if Landau
set up a middle man to use some of the money from the robbery to
keep Stiles happy until he got out of prison?”

“That would explain some things.”

“Sure,” said Spinelli. “That might even
explain who killed him. If there is someone with access to the
money, you can bet he probably wasn’t too happy to see Landau get
out of prison.”

“But who,” said Carlos, “an accomplice to the
robbery? You said an eyewitness implicated only two suspects, and
they are both dead now.”

“Could be a third guy, an inside man.”

“Our guy Powell,” said Spinelli.

“What?”

“Sure, think about it. It makes sense. He
could have staged his car trouble the morning of the robbery to
assure Landau’s escape. Remember, Powell is the one who found
Landau a few days later up at the cabin. We still don’t know how he
pulled that one off.”

Carlos said, “You figured he went up there to
get his share of the loot, but then something happened?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“But why would he involve himself in
something like that? He must know that there is no honor among
thieves.”

“Maybe he had gambling debts to satisfy.”

“Why don’t we just ask him?” I said.
“Dominic, did you secure an appointment for us to see Warden
DeAngelo this morning?”

He checked his watch. “I did, and you better
get going if you don’t want to be late.”

“Okay then. Call Powell and tell him we need
to see him here right after we get back from Walpole—say in about
two hours.”

“Okay.”

I came around the desk and bumped Carlos as I
passed him. “You ready to go?”

I saw him look up at the clock through the
corner of his eye. “Do we have time to—”

“No.” I knew exactly where he was going. “You
should have had breakfast before you got here.”

He started after me. “It’s just the
McDrive-through, Tony. Come on, it is on the way. I’ll drive.”

I laughed. How could I say no?

It is twenty-five miles from New Castle to
MCI-Cedar Junction in Walpole. Even in mid-morning traffic,
skirting Boston proper, the trip usually only takes about
forty-minutes. With Carlos, however, nothing is usual. After
hitting the drive-through for his Mc`breakfast sandwich, he stopped
again at a 7-11 to buy lotto tickets. He said he felt lucky after
last night’s séance. Later, he pulled over at a truck stop so that
he could pee. “How did I know a forty-eight ounce coffee would go
through me so fast?” he said. If I had not just had the car
detailed, I think I would have made him hold it all the way to
Walpole.

I suppose I became the most aggravated when
he stopped a fourth time for gas, knowing he could have taken care
of that and the previous two emergencies all at the same time. I
said to him, “Why didn’t you get gas back in New Castle?”

“We didn’t need gas then,” he said. “We need
it now.”

“Carlos, we have only gone twenty miles. If
we need gas now, we needed it then, too.”

He shook his head. “I have to wait until the
gauge reads one-quarter tank.”

“What?”

“Department regulations state: you have to
gas up when the tank reads one-quarter full.”

“That’s the minimum, Carlos. It says that so
that you don’t run out of gas on a pursuit. It doesn’t mean you
cannot fill up before that.”

I saw the light over his head flicker, and
then come on. “Yeah?”

“Yes!”

“Oh.” He threw it into park and shut off the
engine. “Well, do you want anything else why we are here?”

Sometimes I think Carlos’ brain is working in
reverse. It was probably happening to me, too, when I was his age,
only I would not have noticed it myself. Having returned to prime,
however, I notice now how new stuff sticks with me so keenly. I get
things now that I know I would not have figured out so easily
before. I do not want to say that with Carlos it is early stages of
dementia; clearly, I am not qualified to make that call, but I do
believe there is something to it. I mentioned this to Lilith
recently, noting how my mind never seems to slow down when wrapped
in thoughts concerning a case. On the contrary, it seems driven by
accelerated inclinations. She told me that was the witch within,
and that I could turn my back on its academic contributions to my
virility if I wanted, but never could I ignore the influence it has
on deductive intellections. I may think or wish that the witch
inside lay dormant at my command. In reality, it is I who wait in
patient step to assume the role it has in store for me.

I said to Carlos, “No, but make it
quick.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in
the visitor’s reception area of M.C.I. Walpole, checking in our
weapons and collecting I.D. badges. A sign over the clerk’s desk
there read:

Walpole State Prison, Wish You Were Here.

I thought it was funny; Carlos had trouble
getting it. “Doesn’t make sense,” he said. “We
are
here.”
Some things you just cannot explain.

Deputy Superintendent of Operations, Frank
Rizzo met us at the desk and escorted us through security to Bill
DeAngelo’s office, making sure we understood that we should address
his boss as Superintendent DeAngelo, not Warden.

“We are a progressive institution,” said
Rizzo. “Our recent transition from a level six to a medium security
prison gives us an opportunity to shed the stigma of a super-max
facility. We no longer merely incarcerate inmates for the rest of
their natural lives; now we concentrate our emphasis on their
rehabilitation and eventual repatriation into society. Avoiding
conventional references to prison life helps us to do that.”

“I don’t get it,” said Carlos. “Are you
telling me these guys don’t know they are in prison?”

“No, of course they know they are in prison.
The walls and bars remind them of that every day. That said, we do
find that using terms like suite, instead of jail cell, and
cafeteria rather than mess hall, goes a long way in adjusting the
attitudes of old timers and new comers alike.”

“Charming,” I said, pointing to a sign over a
door that read,
Thralldominium Suite
. “Is that what I think
it is?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes,” and he cleared his
throat as if to change the subject. He turned off down another
hallway and motioned for us to follow.

Carlos grabbed my arm and forced me to fall
back with him before leaning into me and whispering, “What’s the
Thralldominium Suite?”

I whispered back, “Solitary confinement.”

“Oh.”

He let go of my arm and we caught back up
with Rizzo, who soon delivered us to DeAngelo’s secretary, a
stern-looking old woman with military posture and cigarette-stained
fingertips. She announced our arrival via intercom and showed us
in.

Bill DeAngelo was not what I expected. I do
not know why. Maybe I have seen too many prison movies where the
warden is always either some hard nose ex-Marine type, or a mild
mannered gray haired father figure that is always sticking his neck
out for the underdog, and usually getting his head lopped off
because of it. That was not William DeAngelo. Though he stood
six-four or better and weighed in at some two hundred and sixty
pounds, he seemed less the ex-Marine type and more the concession
barker at a traveling carnival. Clean him up some and he could be
the used car salesman that soaks you for the overpriced
undercoating while making you think he is doing you a favor. It is
a not fair stereotype, I know, but that is what I thought of him.
Carlos sensed the same thing, as I found out later when we talked
about it back out in the parking lot. They say you do not get a
second chance at first impressions. With Bill DeAngelo, I do not
suppose it mattered much. I cannot see him coming across any
differently the second time around. I guess the bad vibes came from
him the minute he opened his mouth. He got up from his desk as we
entered his office and he came around it as if excited to see
us.

“Detective Marcella,” he said, cupping
Carlos’ hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. “What a
pleasure it is to meet you.” He turned to me and shook my hand in a
similar fashion. “And you, Detective Rodriquez, also a pleasure.
Hey, you know I have a guard working nights in the south wing. His
name is Rodriquez, too. Maybe you know him?”

I smiled at that. “No, I am sure I do not,
but perhaps Detective Rodriquez here does.”

“Detective Rod….” He looked at Carlos, at me
and then at Carlos again. “Oh shit, I am sorry.” He laughed
fictitiously. “I do that all the time. Yes, yes, I see it now, of
course.”

“See what?” asked Carlos.

“Well, that you are the…. I mean, that he
isn’t….”

“Forget it,” I said. “Look, can we talk?
There are just a few things we would like to ask you.”

“Sure.” DeAngelo slinked back around his desk
and sat down, offering us the chairs across from him with a sweep
of his hand. “Please, be my guests.”

We took our seats. Carlos pulled out his
notepad, crossed his legs, and sat back. I found my comfort zone up
on the edge of my seat, hoping it would encourage DeAngelo to
maintain eye contact with me so that I might better gauge his
reactions to my questions. I started with the obvious.

“Superintendent DeAngelo, you paroled a
fellow here yesterday named René Landau. What can you tell me about
him?”

“Landau?” he said, crowding his brows and
pursing his lips convincingly.

“Yes. You do know him, don’t you?”

He gestured with a shrug. “Should I?”

“He was an inmate here for almost eighteen
years.”

“He was?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, as you may know, Detective,
M.C.I. houses over seven hundred and fifty men here in any given
year. I can hardly expect to acquaint myself with all of them, now
can I?”

“You paroled this man yesterday.”

“Me? No, I don’t think so; we have a parole
board that takes care of that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but you signed his papers. Besides, how
many men did this prison release on parole yesterday? I am betting
just the one. Are you telling me that you are unaware of a
prisoner’s release date when that time comes?”

I could see from the twitch in his eye that
he knew his game was slipping. “Yesterday, you say?”

“Yes, yesterday.”

He eased back in his chair, weaving his
fingers into a double fist. “Oh, yes, we did have a new parolee
sign out yesterday. It comes back to me now. He passed through the
gates at o-eight hundred hours.”

“Then you remember him.”

“Of course I do. René Landau, he was a model
prisoner. I believe the parole board let him out on good
behavior.”

I looked to Carlos and smiled. He gave me a
wink. It was time to open fire. To DeAngelo I said, “Do you
remember when Landau came to Walpole?”

He unstitched his fingers and thumbed his
lower lip, as if digging back in time to resurrect a memory that I
knew lay just below the surface. “You know, I do,” he said, “I
remember the day he got here because, as I recall, he had just been
convicted of that big armed robbery case that took the casino for
over a million dollars.”

“It was six million,” I said.

He acted surprised. “Six?”

“Yes, you didn’t know?”

“No, I mean…maybe back then I did, but who
remembers details like that from so long ago?”

I smiled. “Funny, that is the second time in
two days I heard that exact expression.”

“Well, Detective, memories do fade with
time.”

“I suppose. Superintendent, I am wondering if
you recall who the sentencing judge was on Landau’s case.”

DeAngelo shook his head. “Sorry, I do
not.”

“No? Let me enlighten you then. It was your
brother-in-law, Judge Thomas H. Cardell.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

He laughed nervously. “Well, naturally you
could expect that my brother-in-law likely sentenced hundreds of
criminals here to M.C.I. over the years. That hardly seems
suspicious.”

“Did I insinuate it was?”

“No. That is, I thought you were
suggesting….”

“Suggesting what?”

He rocked forward in his chair and planted
his forearms on the desk, locking his left wrist in his right hand.
“Detective, what is this about?”

I took advantage of his shifting demeanor by
sharpening my spear of attack. “René Landau is dead,” I said, “but
I think you know that, don’t you?”

“No, I did not know that.”

“Someone murdered him yesterday.”

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

“That’s too bad.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

He leaned back in his chair again. “It is not
so much that; as that I don’t care.”

“A man you just paroled yesterday is dead and
you don’t care?”

“Detective, is there something specific you
wish to ask me?”

“What is your relationship with Paul
Kemper?”

“Kemper?” I could tell that tweaked his
interest.

“Sure, you know Kemper? You two went to
college together. You both studied criminal law, even belonged to a
secret society there known as Dragon’s Gate.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“But you still keep in touch.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Oh? I suppose if I subpoena your phone
records, I won’t find that you two have talked extensively over the
last week or two?”

I watched his gaze sweep the desktop, as if
searching for a response there that failed to come to him
naturally. His fingers, already balled in a fist, tightened until
his knuckles whitened. “All right,” he said, sounding angry, “maybe
you will, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it? You don’t think it means
anything that Kemper was Landau’s lawyer, Cardell his sentencing
judge, and that both knew you intimately before Landau’s trial and
sentencing?”