Witch House (17 page)

“No.”

“Why is it that no one, not even Kemper,
questioned Landau’s placement here at a level six maximum security
facility?”

“It was not my place to question that.”

“It was your place to tell the D.A.’s office
of possible ethics violations concerning Judge Cardell’s
connections to the case.”

DeAngelo dismissed my comment, shaking his
head, saying, “There were no connections, Detective. Cardell’s
relations were more than arm’s length. He did not know the
defendant; he had no personal connections with the defendant’s
council and he stood nothing to gain by recommending Landau serve
his time in Walpole.”

“Still, you should have said something.”

“No. Kemper should have said something. As
Landau’s council, he was obligated to appeal the sentencing or
request another venue, which he did not.”

DeAngelo had a point, a good one, and he knew
it. I came there knowing that under normal circumstances, the
execution of an imposed sentence includes transferring custody of
the prisoner to the Commissioner of Corrections’ office. From
there, the C.O.C. sentencing review board determines the prisoner’s
disposition and, considering the judge’s recommendation, places him
under the supervision of the prison superintendent at the
appropriate facility. Judge Cardell may have ordered Landau to
serve his sentence at M.C.I. Walpole, but the C.O.C’s office
ultimately determined where he served that time. Although Cardell
and DeAngelo’s position in the Good Old Boys Club likely influenced
the C.O.C’s decision, no one could argue that either had final say
in the matter. As for Kemper, his failure to request a venue change
over Walpole constituted incompetence at best, not collusion with
elements counter to his client’s concerns. I took a deep breath and
redirected my interview, hoping not to wear out my welcome before I
had a chance to ask all I needed of DeAngelo.

“Tell me about Stephanie Stiles.”

“Who?”

“Stiles, Landau’s fiancée. You must know
her.”

He pretended to think about it, but I could
tell from the look on his face he knew exactly whom I meant. For
one thing, he took too long to acknowledge her, and when he did, he
knew too much to have known her only remotely. Secondly, he adopted
a modestly ridged posture at the mention of her name. As a
detective, I recognized the posture well. I have seen it too many
times. Only the best liars can fight it; it comes so naturally. To
the casual observer, however, it is subtle, a slight squaring of
the shoulders, a straightening of the back and a breath that never
completely exhales.

“Yes, I believe I do know her,” he said. “She
is an attractive woman, as I recall.”

Through the corner of my eye, I saw Carlos
turn his head to look at me. I knew what he was thinking, and if I
turned to look at him, I knew we both risked laughing our asses off
right there on the floor. To DeAngelo I said, “When is the last
time you saw her?”

“Last Saturday,” he said without
hesitating.

“You sure?”

“Of course, I know that because she comes
here every third Saturday of the month for her conjugal visits with
Landau.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said she visited Landau every third
Saturday of the month.”

“You said conjugal visits.”

“Did I?” That caught him off guard. His
posture, which had softened some, again grew ridged. “No, I don’t
think so.”

I looked to Carlos, who nodded the
affirmative. “Yes,” I said, “you did. I thought Massachusetts did
not allow conjugal visits.”

“That’s right. If I said conjugal, then I
misspoke. Besides, even in the states that allow it, one must be
married to qualify for such visits. Clearly, Landau did not fit
that profile.”

“I see.” I glanced at Carlos again, glad to
see him writing everything down in his notepad. DeAngelo noticed it
too, and kept shifting his attention between the notepad and me,
stopping longer at Carlos’ notepad by a margin of three to one. I
thinned my lips to squelch a smile that I thought might make me
come off too smug. When DeAngelo noticed it, he fixed his sights on
me again. I asked him, “How long has Ms. Stiles been coming to see
René Landau?”

His answer came quickly. “Not long.”

“Within the last few years?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know, Detective. You will
have to ask Stephanie that question.”

I smiled, this time not caring to hide it.
“Yes, I will do that.” He seemed uncomfortable with that reply. I
gestured toward the window, out onto the prison yard below his
office. “I understand there had been several attempts on Mister
Landau’s life while he was in prison. Is that correct,
Superintendent?”

He laughed lightly. “Detective, every day
someone here attempts to kill someone else. This is not a country
club we are running here.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t suppose it is. Then it
is true about the attempts on Landau’s life?”

“I am sure it is.”

“Do you know who tried to kill him?”

“No. You have to understand that when
something like that goes down within these walls, it happens
quickly. There are never any witnesses. Everyone here is a living
ghost; to be anything else will get you dead for real in a
hurry.”

“Is it possible that someone from the casino
might have tried to kill Landau?”

“You mean an Indian?”

“Yes.”

“That’s possible, though we don’t have a
strong Native American gang presence here. Unlike the Aryan
Brotherhood, the Black Guerillas or the Mexican Mafia, what few
Indians we have here are only loosely affiliated with blood
in—blood out gangs like the Indian Posse out of Canada or the Eagle
Warriors of the Appalachians. If they tried to kill Landau and
failed, it is only because Landau likely aligned himself with
another prison gang that protected him.”

“Like the Flying Pegasus gang?” I asked,
remembering the tattoo on Landau’s chest.

“Sure, they maintain a large enough presence
here to protect one of their own from a smaller gang like
that.”

“You mention blood in—blood out. What is
that?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Is it what I think?”

“If you think it means that a gang member has
to kill someone to prove his membership worthiness, then you are
right. He needs to kill a target named by the gang to get in, and
he has to die or be killed to get out.”

“Is the Flying Pegasus gang a blood in—blood
out gang?”

“It is.”

Carlos said, “I guess Landau is out
then.”

DeAngelo checked his watch, and I knew that
meant we were getting the boot. “If you have everything you need,
gentlemen,” he started to his feet. “I have another appointment I
must prepare for.”

“Almost,” I said. “Just a couple more quick
things, if I may?”

He looked to Carlos, and then at his notepad.
Carlos, sensing his growing intolerance, closed it and tucked it
back into his coat pocket. DeAngelo reclaimed his seat. “Make it
quick.”

“I will. Thank you.” I cleared my throat and
asked, “Have you ever been to a bar in New Castle called Pete’s
Place?”

“Pete’s?”

“Pete’s Place.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t get to New
Castle often.”

“What about the Wampanoag Indian Casino? Do
you frequent that place at all?”

“A casino? Sorry, I don’t gamble. Gambling is
for fools. Really, Detective, this questioning must end now. I do
not know what you think I might have to do with Landau’s death, but
I assure you, my connections with him ended the second he walked
through those gates out front. If there is nothing else you need,
then I—”

“There is just one more thing, please, I
promise.”

By now he had taken to his feet again and had
pulled the cuffs of his shirt out to meet his coat sleeves.
Punctuating his frustration with a sigh, he said, “What is it?”

“The night before last, were you in New
Castle?”

“No. I told you I don’t get out there
often.”

“All right, then.” I stood and turned to
Carlos. “Detective, shall we?” Carlos got up, leaned over my
shoulder and whispered into my ear. I pulled back, the look on my
face reflecting my surprise. “Ah, yes,” I said, “I forgot, but I
promised Superintendent DeAngelo no more questions.” He leaned in
again to whisper. I smiled and agreed. Carlos turned to
DeAngelo.

“Sir,” he said, “do you own a handgun?”

Oddly, DeAngelo did not seem surprised. “I
do,” he answered Carlos.

“May I ask what it is?”

“It’s a .38 Smith & Wesson. Why?”

“That’s all. Thank you.”

DeAngelo looked at me. “Detective?”

I smiled and offered a parting handshake.
“Thank you, Superintendent. We appreciate your time.”

Carlos added, “We’ll see ourselves out.”

After collecting our weapons at the visitor’s
desk, we headed out to the parking lot to compare notes. I pointed
out DeAngelo’s slip regarding the conjugal visits. “You know he
allowed it,” I said, “and he knows Stephanie Stiles more intimately
than he is letting on.”

“I know that,” said Carlos. “Did you notice
that when he suggested you ask her how long she knew Landau, he
called her by her first name?”

“Sure. Clearly he is familiar with her beyond
mere acquaintances.”

“And that he said she was attractive? What is
he, blind?”

We both laughed at that, which put me in a
good mood and perhaps helped prepare me for the phone call I got
next. It was Lilith. She wanted to go back to the haunted house to
conduct another séance.

“Lilith,” I said, “what is the point? So the
place is haunted. It is none of our business.”

“It’s all of our business,” she said. “We
awoke him. He is angry and restless now. Anyone entering that house
after last night is not safe.”

“What do you propose we do, arrest him?”

“Ha-ha, Tony, clever. Did Fidel tell you to
say that?”

“Carlos,” I said.

Carlos turned to me. “What?”

I waved him off. “Lilith, you have to start
respecting people more if you want them to cooperate.”

“I respect people.”

“By calling them names?”

“Everyone has a name.”

“Yes, but not Fidel or Spinelli jelly belly.
Oh, and then there is my favorite, Tony baloney on a pony. It’s so
juvenile. When will you start acting your age?”

She laughed. “My age? How do you know I am
not acting my age? How many hundred-and-seventy-four-year-olds do
you know?”

She had me there. “Look, if I do this séance
with you tonight, will you promise that will be the last time?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Witch’s honor?”

“What?”

“Humor me.”

“All right, fine, witch’s honor, no more
séances.”

I looked at Carlos, who had been bending his
ear to listen in. He gave me a shrug. I took that as a yes. I said
to Lilith, “I suppose you want Dominic there, as well?”

“Spinelli jelly belly? Sure, the more the
merrier.”

“Okay, if Ursula will be there then I guess I
can speak for him, too. We will all be there.”

“Of course you will. I never doubted it. See
you at eight o’clock sharp.”

“Right, eight o’clock, oh, and listen.”

“Yes?”

“This agreement we have, same agreement as
last night, isn’t it? I mean no couch tonight, right?”

Again she laughed, only this time it sounded
more condescending. “Oh, Tony, you are so cute. I’ll see you
tonight. Good bye.” Then, as if she knew Carlos was listening in,
she added, “Adios, Fidel.”

Carlos waved at the phone. “Adios!”

Carlos and I returned from Walpole shortly
before noon. Spinelli had called Powell in for our interview, and
both were waiting upstairs when we arrived. I asked Spinelli if he
told Powell what we wanted. He said Powell thought he knew. I
grabbed a cup of coffee for me and a Coke for Carlos. Spinelli and
Powell were drinking bottled water, with Powell’s water nearly
empty. I was glad for that, as I hoped to turn up the heat on him
and I wanted him to feel it.

“Sergeant Powell,” I said, extending my hand.
“Please, don’t get up. Thanks for coming in this morning.”

We shook, and then Carlos offered his
greetings. I came around the conference table and took a seat
directly across from Powell. Spinelli settled into the seat next to
mine, Carlos in the one next to him. Powell said, “So, what’s this,
like an inquisition?”

“No,” I said, casting a sidelong grin. “We
have a few questions, that’s all.”

“`Bout what, that 10-54 yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s right, but that 10-54 has a
name. It’s Landau.”

“Figures.”

“What figures?”

He tossed his hands up and let them drop onto
the table freely. “Every time my path and his crosses, I get hauled
in for questioning by the Gestapo.”

“Gestapo? Sergeant, I take offence. I am the
senior investigating officer in charge of a murder investigation.
You have a history with this man. It’s only reasonable you should
expect to answer some questions.”

He shook his head dismissively. “Whatever. Am
I under oath or anything?”

Spinelli said, “Sergeant, you have been
investigated by Internal Affairs three times. I think you know by
now that you are always expected to tell the truth in matters such
as these.”

Powell made a face and pointed at Spinelli.
“Who is this punk? Why don’t you go fetch me another bottle of
water, kid?”

“Hey!” said Carlos, slamming the heel of his
fist on the table. “His name is Detective Spinelli. I expect you to
show him the same respect you show me. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you, Rodriquez. How’s that for
respect?”

Carlos came out of his chair and palmed the
table as though he might leap across it and choke the shit out of
Powell. I stood and spread my arms out between them. “Enough,” I
hollered. I looked at Carlos and motioned for him to sit. “Carlos,
please.” To Powell I said, “Look, Sergeant, the sooner we get this
over with, the sooner you can get the hell out of here.”