I edge closer to the water for a better look. The ground is muddy and slick and I know that even shallow rushing water can knock someone off their feet. I stop inches from the water’s edge and crane my head forward. The bad feeling augments to a hard rush of adrenaline when I see a pale face and silver flowing hair inches beneath the surface.
“Shit!” I stumble back at the grisly sight, slip in the mud, and end up on my ass.
Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grapple for my lapel mike. “Ten fifty-two.”
“Go ahead.”
“Adult male. In the water. Submerged.”
“You still at the McCullough place?”
“That’s affirm.”
“Fire and rescue’s on the way, Chief.”
The preservation of life is always the first priority in any emergency situation. But I know it’s too late for the paramedics to help. The victim is completely submerged, and I know that soon I’ll be dealing with a dead body. Worse, I’m pretty sure the victim is Jerrold McCullough.
CHAPTER 20
Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at 10 A.M. and headed directly to northbound I-77. Without the hindrance of rush hour traffic, he arrived at the Cuyahoga County Corrections Center in less than thirty minutes. Inmate visitation is designated by sex and last name, but Tomasetti had obtained special permission for today’s visit. It didn’t hurt that he’d gone to the police academy with the associate warden, who’d cleared it through director of corrections. He wasn’t above using his connections to get what he wanted.
He’d been inside many correctional facilities in the course of his career. They all had the same feel, a closed-in space that smelled of dirty shorts, industrial-strength cleaner, and high school cafeteria food. All of it permeated with an overt sense of desperation, the knowledge of men incarcerated and the awareness that most of them are violent.
The walls were painted an institutional two-tone gray. To his left was the control center, a reception office of sorts with a bullet-resistant barrier window and security transaction tray. A uniformed corrections officer sat inside, his thick fingers pecking at a keyboard.
Tomasetti approached the window and leaned close to catch the officer’s attention.
“Sign in.” Without looking up, the officer dropped a clipboard with a sheet attached to the tray and shoved it toward Tomasetti. “If you’re preregistered, I just need two forms of ID.”
Tomasetti removed his badge and set it in the tray. “I think this’ll do it.”
The corrections officer, whose name tag read D. NELSON, finally looked up. He didn’t seem too impressed by Tomasetti’s credentials. “If you have a firearm on your person, you’ll need to check it with the officer in the cage.”
“No problem.” Tomasetti signed his name and filled in the date, leaving off the part about his being with BCI, and shoved the clipboard back to the officer.
The man glanced at it, looked at Tomasetti, and then picked up the phone. “Have a seat,” he said, and motioned toward a row of waiting-room chairs that lined the opposite wall.
Tomasetti took the nearest chair, using the time to check his e-mail and voice mail—none of which were from Kate. Two minutes later, a buzzer sounded. He looked up to see his old academy mate, Stan McCaskill, standing at the door, looking at him as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “John Tomasetti.”
“Hey, Stan.” Tomasetti rose and crossed to him, extended his hand. “It’s been a while.”
“Twenty years, give or take.” He opened the door wider, ushering Tomasetti inside. “What are you doing these days?”
“I’m with BCI.”
He nodded approvingly. “So what’s your business with Kinnamon?”
“Cold case I’m about to close.” Tomasetti tapped the file at his side. “Just need to ask a few questions, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
They went through a windowless steel door, down a tiled hall, and then reached the cage, a glassed-in office where two corrections officers controlled the door locks and access to the interior of the jail. McCaskill set a blue form on the security transaction tray and shoved it toward the other man.
The man inside looked down at it and then gave Tomasetti a quick once-over. “You’ll need to check your firearm here.”
“Sure.” Once again, he placed his badge in the tray. Then he removed his weapon from his shoulder holster and set it in the tray as well.
The officer tore off a ticket and sent it back to him. The locks on the door across the room snicked open.
“Here we go.” McCaskill took him through it and motioned Tomasetti into a small interview room. “You need audio? Escort?”
Tomasetti shook his head. “Just Kinnamon.”