“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Seriously, Doc, what’s on your mind?”
“No kidding. Hand-on-the-Bible serious. I came back to San Diego, and I found the place, Pat. Not where you thought, though—it’s about a mile south of that airstrip.” I described the scene—the dead-end road, the pile of cigarette butts, the giant + sign formed by flares. “In the middle of the night, right under the flight path, no other lights around? That signal would’ve stood out like a searchlight.”
“Maybe,” he said. “If that’s what it was. And if that’s when it was.”
“How do you mean?”
“Coulda just been kids, out there some other night. Drinking, smoking dope, playing with fire. You know—kids.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about this, Pat. Those flares, arranged in that pattern? That wasn’t made by stoned kids messing around. I’m telling you, Pat, that was a signal. I think maybe I should call Prescott, let his evidence guys see what they can find.”
“Special Agent Prescott? I thought you were number one on his shit list.”
“Well, yeah,” I conceded. “That’s why I called you. To see what you think. You’re a fed, Pat. Would Prescott actually listen to what I have to say? Or would he just dismiss it, since he thinks I’m full of crap?”
“Hmm. Interesting question, Doc. Tricky.” He paused to think. “Here’s an idea. I’m just thinking out loud here. I’m not on Prescott’s shit list. What if I came down and took a quick look? If it’s all you say it is, maybe I could make the call to Prescott—soften him up a bit—and then hand the phone over to you. Might help him listen with an open mind if I ran a little interference for you.”
“I see your point,” I said, “and I appreciate it. But I’m nervous about just leaving it for a day or two, or whenever you can get away and get down here.”
“And you think Prescott and Company are gonna rush right over there? Not bloody likely.” Maddox chuckled. “You’ve never ridden with me, have you, Doc?”
“Well, no. Why?”
“Because if you had, you’d know it’s like ridin’ in a low-flying plane. I can be there in two hours. That soon enough for you?”
I checked my watch. “Really? Three o’clock? Today?”
“Three-thirty, tops, if there’s not a wreck on the 405. Can you wait that long? You could run back to town and grab lunch, if you haven’t already eaten.”
“Nah, I’ve got snacks in the car. Besides, I’ve got something else I want to do out this way. I’ll plan on meeting you at three, or as soon after that as you can get here.”
“Where? Can you tell me how to find this place?” I gave him directions, and as I finished, he said, “I see it on the map, and I’m printing it out right now. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
“Drive safe, Pat.”
He chuckled again. “Clearly you’ve never ridden with me, Doc.”
DONOVAN STATE PRISON OCCUPIED THE ENTIRE TOP of a low, oblong mesa. The terrain was dry and dun colored, and the few bits of scrubby vegetation that hadn’t been bulldozed looked as brown and desiccated as the rocks and dirt. A road encircled the complex, skirting the base of three parallel chain-link fences, fifteen feet high and ten feet apart. Out of curiosity, I circumnavigated the complex on the perimeter road, keeping count of the cellblocks and guard towers. If my count was correct, there were twenty cellblocks and a dozen guard towers, each tower thirty or forty feet high.
I’d seen forbidding penitentiaries before. Tennessee’s Brushy Mountain State Prison—whose hard-core convicts had once included James Earl Ray, the assassin of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—was a forbidding stone fortress, complete with crenellations that looked transplanted from a medieval castle. Donovan State Prison, by contrast, had nothing even grimly ornamental about it. It was almost as if Donovan’s designers and builders had carefully, purposefully excluded any scraps of ornament or history or humanity. Donovan had the bare-bones, bleached-bones look of a bottom-rung industrial complex: a slaughterhouse of the human spirit, as efficient and utilitarian as any meatpacking plant where cows were conveyor-belted to their deaths.
The one exception to the grimness was the administration building, set outside the triple fencing amid grass, shrubbery, and even a few palm trees. After my brief sightseeing circuit, I parked in front and entered the glass doors. A receptionist behind glass asked if she could help me. “I hope so,” I said, introducing myself and flashing my TBI consultant’s badge—an official-looking brass shield, especially impressive if the word “CONSULTANT” was masked by a strategically placed knuckle.
“Tennessee,” she said. “You’re a long way from home.”