Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 6

A request from the shot caller was absolute – a
command
inside the prison hierarchy that no inmate refused. Unless Cole Hansen wanted the same fate as the hapless
Norteño
with the crudely slit throat who’d died in the prison yard, he had no choice but to confess to prison admin that, yeah, he was the doer.

He was the one who had murdered the
Norteño
in the barbed-wire fenced exercise area.

Every inmate who was there knew different, but who’d say it aloud?

Now, Cole’s life consisted of twenty-two and a half hours a day inside a SHU cell, facing a concrete wall and listening to other inmates beating off in the cages around him. No sense in trying to recant on his admission or snitch out Griff.

Unless he was willing to drop out –
debrief
in prison authority parlance – and spend the rest of his sentence in the SNY – special needs yard, which was a fancy way of saying protective custody for snitchers and child molesters – he was stuck here. With a murder rap and the alleged strong gang affiliation, who knew for how many years?

Maybe the rest of his life.

Dropping out,
snitching,
however, would be a death ticket. Cole would be forced to write down everything he knew about gang activities, finger other gang members, betray their movements and plans, their orders to the outside.

It wasn't even like he was a real
Lords of Death
gang member. He grimaced at the wry irony of it. He just shuffled along the perimeter of other white inmates, praying that he wouldn’t get caught up in a gang war with browns or blacks.

He'd ganged up on the inside his second day at Pelican Bay, where the choice was get a crew or get brutalized, but Cole’s heart wasn't in it. He actually liked the blacks and the Mexicans better than the whites, but in prison you weren’t safe without making alliances along race lines.

Without the
Lords’
protection
,
he’d have lasted less than a week inside.

Right now Cole felt like a rat in a maze, trying desperately to find a way out, knowing there was no reward at the end, but hoping anyway. Weighing his options, analyzing the consequences, but trapped in a web he hadn’t spun.

In some ways for a man like him it was easier to do the solitary time in the SHU. He didn’t mind being alone with his own thoughts. Sometimes the hustle and noise of gen pop, the infernal talk like a swarm of bees, made him edgy.

And now that admin had put an offer on the table – not a spectacular offer, but a good one – he didn’t know what to do.

Shame, though, because he only had six months left on his original sentence. Now, with the murder rap hanging on him, he'd probably die of old age in here. Or bang his head against the concrete wall until his brains were a bloody pulp.

If he didn’t debrief.

He sighed in resignation and did the first sensible thing that came to him. He sent a kite to the prison doc, requesting a medical appointment.

Dr. Jones would know what he should do.

Afterward, he unwisely dreamed about life on the outside, no cages, no sweat-filled rooms, no grunts and groans of ugliness. It might be worth a chat with the warden.

It might be worth it to figure out what he’d get in exchange, like finish his six months in protective custody. He wondered how safe they could keep him in Special Needs.

Not that he had anyone or anything waiting for him on the outside. Family had disowned him, but he had a sister who still had a soft spot for him. He’d caused her too much pain, he decided.

The very next day, hope struggled in his chest like a wilting flower desperate for life. By accident he saw the folded note lying in the corridor between his cell and the one next to it – Anson Stark’s cell. The kite was attached loosely to a string as if a stiff wind would lift it up into the cloudy blue sky any second.

Ridiculous thought, because Cole couldn’t even see that sky, couldn’t prove there
were
clouds or wind on the outside, above his concrete cage. But he knew this for certain:

The kite was meant for Anson Stark.

He didn’t know why he reached for it. A dangerously stupid move. He paused a moment before reeling it in, holding his breath, waiting to see what the man in the neighboring cell would do.

When nothing happened, a thrill mingled with fear, jerked out of his throat in a strangled sob. The soft snore of Anson’s breathing thawed Cole’s frozen body and he reached for the string, stretched his arm as far as it’d go.

His fingers eased it slowly toward him.

He read it quickly, flushed the string down the toilet, and shoved the paper in his mouth, gagging as he tongued it deep in his cheek. The kite was a good thing, he told himself. It gave him a bizarre burst of determination, and he finally resolved not to have a future next door to gang psychos and predators anymore.

He would debrief. Even if he didn’t, if he behaved himself and got transferred from the SHU back into general population in three or four years, he’d still be doing life without parole.

No money on his books in the commissary. Not a single letter from the outside world. No one coming during visitations. A do-nothing life until he wasted away and died for a murder he didn’t commit.

He was surprised how the injustice of it angered him.

When he got word within a few hours that he could see Dr. Jones, a fierce whirl of nausea spun him breathless at the dizzying speed of it all.

Chapter 7

The homeless man lumbered to his knees, scattering the damp twigs and leaves. He spread out the old sleeping bag on top of the debris, making up his bed for the night. His nearly white beard and bedraggled clothing belied his age – fifty-five on his next birthday. At least he thought so, but sometimes his memory played tricks on him. January 15 or 16, he wasn’t sure.

Shrugging carelessly, he ransacked his backpack for a cigarette, lighted it, and relaxed against the tree trunk. When the dark figure suddenly loomed over him, he peered up, surprised but not afraid. Not much scared the old man anymore.

“No smoking in the park,” the voice growled.

“Hey, I know, man. And I ain’t supposed to sleep here neither.”
What a tight ass. A man couldn’t smoke nowhere anymore.
Clearing his throat, he hawked up a huge lump of mucous, spitting it carelessly in the direction of the creek.

The interloper remained disapprovingly silent.

The bum rolled the unfinished cigarette on the edge of his backpack, shrugged and squinted up at the sky through the striated leaves. Nearing dawn, he judged. “I’m leavin’ anyways,” he offered in the subservient tone that worked best in a situation like this.

The figure raised an arm in a dismissive gesture. “Get up.” A flashlight beam pointed at the homeless man’s eyes, blinding him. “Get out.”

Scrambling to gather his tattered sleeping bag from the ground, the hobo reached for his backpack.

“Leave it,” the voice instructed, impatience a ragged edge in the silence.

Confused, the man rose on unsteady feet. “Come on, man,” he whined. “I ain’t doin’ nothing wrong, just gettin’ a bit a’ shuteye.  I won’t come back, I promise.”

The residents of this one-way street, bordering the east side of the park, often patrolled the area after dark. City ordinances clearly prohibited entrance after sunset, and residents were possessive about their parks. His confronter could be one of them ... or anyone. “Please, man, gimme a break.”

If the hobo heard the soft pleading in his own voice or wondered how he’d gotten to this point in his miserable life, he had no more than a moment to ponder the consequences of his years on the street.

It happened in a flash.

The knife struck deep into his gut, angled upward so that it bypassed the ribs and nicked the heart. The attacker pushed the blade deeper, a deadly gush of blood blanketing his hand. The bum felt only the weight of pressure and a  faint surprise as he crumbled to the ground.

In the distance, water from the creek babbled like a friendly child, the October wind ruffled the tree branches, and the killer mumbled low in his ear as the man’s life ebbed from his scrawny body. “A reminder not to sully the park.”

After a few minutes of staring down at his victim, the killer stood straight, roused from his stupor as surprise then shock, replaced fury.

My God! The knife had appeared in his hand before he realized it, the jab thrust before the thought existed, the deed done without conscious intent.

Done. Over. Finished.

He stood another long moment, confusion battling common sense.

What compulsion had brought him here to the wide, dark expanse of Ryder Park? What had made him leave his car several blocks away and enter the area on foot? He hadn’t searched out the homeless man, didn’t even know him, but the sight of the filthy rags curled beneath the tree had disgusted him, and provoked an anger so deep he felt like a stranger had attacked the man.

Suddenly, white, hot rage had boiled up inside him, a pressure cooker gone mad.

He’d meant only to roust him, warn him off, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn’t personal. He hadn’t planned to kill the man.

Had he?

Reality bathed him with chilling sweat while he looked around the park. Agitation skittered down his spine. Like an automaton, he reach for the man’s backpack, swung it over his shoulder. The sleeping bag was sodden with blood. No help for that.

He scuffed damp leaves over most of the bag, digging up dirt and debris around it. Then he rolled the body over and over, edging it toward the creek bank.

He stared down at the figure. He needed to shift focus on this, he thought, calculating the risk of remaining too long against the swift practiced wound to the chest. Couldn’t have the police looking for a skilled person.

He bent over the dead body, reached for another weapon. First, a vicious blow to the head, shattering bone and cartilage. After pausing only a moment, he finished the job, each blow of the stick a determined strike, each knife slash to the cooling flesh a shameful thrill of pleasure.

While it was harder work than he’d imagined, he felt more alive than ever before.

Long minutes later, finished with the task, he toed the body until it sank beneath the creek’s shallow water. How long now before someone would stumble on it? A neighbor? A jogger? The police?

There’d be shock, of course, some outrage, but in the end no one really cared about a hobo.

Chapter 8

Searching for Dickey Hinchey, Santiago Cruz walked toward Washington Street Church, which offered breakfast to the homeless every week day. The regulars had already left, so he made his way back to
Jesus Saves
– a nonprofit organization which provided shelter at night and always had a group of parolees looking for a place to hang, chill or sleep.

About a third of Cruz’s parolees had no permanent residences. To save time and work for himself, Cruz could round up a bunch of them here, pee test them on the spot, and fill out his reports.

Although the organization
ran a daily bus up to the county seat in Placer Hills where the parole office was located, most parolees couldn’t wrap their brains around details like bus schedules. Alcohol, drugs and mental illness had messed with too many of them.

Cruz passed back by the convenience store located directly in front of the
Jesus Saves
building, noting Officer Rawley – the responding officer – had already left with his teenage thief. On Sheldon Street he turned right toward the shelter
.
Although Dickey Hinchey had paroled two weeks ago, he’d never reported in. Missing parole check-in was a big deal.

Dickey was heading for three strikes and this violation could send him straight back to prison. Cruz shook his head in disgust. Some of them never learned – hell, most of them. Dickey probably wasted his discharge cash on booze, drugs and a cheap hooker.

As he rounded the corner of the building, a tall bony man with bright green eyes, nearly knocked him down. Not an easy thing to do, for Cruz was a dark and mean-looking man.

He reached automatically for his weapon, heard his handcuffs jangle at his waist, and steadied the Russian man. Sergei Petrovich, not one of Cruz’s parolees, but he’d noticed him around the railroad tracks and made a point to learn his name.

“Hold on there, man.” Cruz grabbed Sergei’s arm. “What’s your hurry?”

“Oh, man, you no hear ‘bout Dickey?” Sergei jabbered with his heavy eastern European accent. “Is one of yours, right?”

“Dickey Hinchey? What about him?”

“Is bad, man, real bad.” Sergei continued, babbling in an unintelligible mixture of English, Russian and street Spanish.

Cruz grabbed the other arm and shook him, raising his voice. “Cut it out, Sergei. Slow down. English. Now!”

A small crowd of homeless men and a few women had gathered around them, sullen and silent. Curious, but not wanting to get too close in case they got jammed up.

“Any of you know what he’s talking about? Something about Dickey Hinchey?”

Their eyes slid away, feet shuffled, but no one answered.

Dragging Sergei down the sidewalk and through the incongruous white picket fence that surrounded the
Jesus Saves
building, Cruz pulled him through the doorway. He shoved Sergei onto a worn Naugahyde sofa and looked for Angie Hunt, the woman in charge.

“Stay there,” he growled, and turned left to the office.

Angie, a recovering addict herself, looked fifty although Cruz knew she was only in her late thirties, not much older than him. She tugged on her long dreadlocks and eyed him cautiously. “Anything new?” she asked.

“What?” Cruz felt stupid, as if he was the last person in a game of gossip.

“Hinchey. Your parolee, right?” Angie dabbed at her nose. “Heard he’s dead.”

“What the fu – ?” Cruz ran his hand through his thick short-cut hair. “When? How?”

“At Ryder Park, down by the creek.” Angie covered her mouth with one bony hand. “Pretty awful they’re sayin’, lots of blood.” She sniffed. “But you know how these guys like to exaggerate.”

Cruz eyed her carefully, noting the troubled look on a worn face the color of toffee. “Yeah,” he said, jerking his head toward the crowd outside the building, “but something has scared them.”

“Yeah,” she repeated. “God. Dickey was an okay guy, a drunk and a felon, but he was all right. Tryin’, you know?”

“Aren’t they all?” Cruz replied, placing a large hand on her shoulder, and handing her his business card. “Let me know if you hear anything else, will you?”

Curious, Cruz swung by Ryder Park on his way to the Rosedale Police Station, slowed down at the sight of the blue and red flashing lights and the gathering crowd. Even this early nearly fifty people hovered around the park perimeter and across the one-way street.

He wouldn’t stop, add to the chaos, but searched for Sheriff Ben Slater’s battered Chevy pickup. The city outsourced many of their services to Bigler County, so Slater had ultimate jurisdiction over any homicide in the county.

Cruz stopped his mind from going to
murder.

Sometimes they just ... died.

When he didn’t see the Sheriff’s pickup, he drove on, wondering if the body
could
belong to his parolee, and if it
was
Dickey Hinchey, how he’d ended up dead in a Rosedale park.

Vagrants like Dickey, with no family, died all the time, but few mourned their passing.