“I sure am,” I said, smiling. “The FBI asked me to help with a case out here. I’m hoping I could talk to the watch commander—if that’s the right term—who was supervising the guard-tower staff during the graveyard shift on a night back in June.”
“Well, the night-shift watch commander wouldn’t be on duty now,” she said. “But he reports to the assistant warden for security, who is here. Could he help you with this?”
“Well, it’s worth a try,” I said.
“WALTER JESSUP,” SAID THE ASSISTANT WARDEN ten minutes later, extending his hand across a desk. “I understand you’re interested in events the night of June eighteenth, early morning of June nineteenth?”
“Yes, sir. I’m wondering if any of the watchtower guards saw something unusual, around one in the morning.”
“Any of them? All of them. Have to be blind to miss that fire on the mountain.”
I smiled. “Yeah, and I reckon you don’t put a lot of blind men up in those guard towers. Actually, though, I’m hoping somebody saw something before the fire. Before the plane hit.”
“You mean the parachute?”
I blinked. I stared. I blinked again. “Are you serious? Somebody really saw a ’chute?”
“Yep. Tompkins. Minute or so after the plane flew over. Minute or so before it hit. A little south of the usual spot, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not quite the same place the ’chutes usually come down.”
“Let me make sure I’m following you,” I said slowly. “Are you telling me this happens regularly? Nighttime parachute jumps over wilderness?”
“Not regularly. More like irregularly. Occasionally. Three, four times a year, maybe. But usually, like I say, usually they’re a little farther north—right over that little airstrip by the lake. And usually they’re before the plane lands, not after it takes off. Propeller plane, in the past. Not a jet. So this time was same thing, only different.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. “How long has this been going on?”
He shrugged. “Five years, plus or minus a year. If it’s important, we could ask some of the guards if they can pin it down closer than that.”
“Ever reported it to anybody?”
“You bet. Plane comes in at night from south of the border, drops something at a private airstrip a few miles from town before landing at a port of entry? Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out they’re running contraband.”
I felt my heart sinking and my anger rising. “Who’d you report it to?”
“DEA. I talked to the guy myself, face-to-face. Big fat redheaded fella, sitting right there where you’re sitting now, wheezing like he had asthma or emphysema or something. He said he’d look into it, but I never heard back from him. And those parachutes kept on coming down.”
SITTING IN THE CAR IN THE PRISON PARKING LOT, I dialed—jabbed—Carmelita Janus’s number on my cell phone. “You lied to me,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “Right to my face, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Oh, Richard hated drugs,’ you said. ‘Richard would never smuggle drugs.’ I can’t believe I fell for that load of crap. And I can’t believe I crawled out on a limb to help you. Don’t ever call me again.”
“Wait,” she said. “I didn’t lie to you. Where are you? What’s happened? Why are you saying this?”
“I’m at Donovan State Prison,” I said coldly. “The guard towers there have a good view toward Richard’s airstrip. They’ve known about the drug drops for years. So has the DEA. Richard’s fat, crooked pal.”
“Richard wasn’t smuggling drugs,” she said. “I swear it. You have to believe me.”
“No, I don’t, Mrs. Janus. I already made that mistake. I won’t make it again. I hope they catch whoever killed your husband. But I can’t help you anymore.”
“Wait,” she said again.
I didn’t wait. I clicked off the phone, started the car, and left the prison, circling the complex one last time. This time I seemed to feel myself being watched, and I found myself looking upward: up at the looming towers. In the glare of sunlight glinting off their windows, I seemed to see only blank, blind stares, unblinking and utterly indifferent to whatever crimes and misdeeds were occurring—on either side of the triple fencing and coiled razor wire.