“The warden knows everything that happens in this prison.”
The officer left, and Elizabeth sat. The warden didn’t keep her long. “Detective Black.” He swept past the secretary, a dark-haired man pushing sixty. Elizabeth’s first thought was Charming. The second was Too charming. He took her hand with both of his, smiled with teeth too white to be anything but bleached. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. Detective Beckett has spoken of you for so long and with such passion, I feel as if I’ve known you a lifetime.”
Elizabeth retrieved her hand, wondering at the line between charming and slick. “How do you know Beckett?”
“Corrections and law enforcement are not so dissimilar.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“Of course, it’s not. I apologize.” He blinded her again. “Charlie and I met once at a recidivism seminar in Raleigh. We were friends for a time—professional men with similar jobs—then life, as it so often does, took us in different directions, he more deeply into his career and I more deeply into mine. Still, I know a few in law enforcement, your Captain Dyer, for instance.”
“You know Francis?”
“Captain Dyer, a few others. A handful of people in your department have maintained an interest in Adrian Wall.”
“That doesn’t seem entirely appropriate.”
“Morbid curiosity, Detective. Hardly a crime.”
He gestured to the office beyond the double doors and did not wait for a response. Inside, they sat, he behind the desk, Elizabeth in front of it. The room was institutional, and trying to hide the fact: warm art and soft light, heavy rugs under custom furniture. “So,” he said, “Adrian Wall.”
“Yes.”
“I understand you knew him before.”
“Before prison,” she said.
“Have you known many on the other side? By that, of course, I mean men who’ve served lengthy sentences. Not misdemeanor recidivists, but hardened felons. Men like Adrian Wall.”
“I’m not sure what Beckett told you—”
“I ask because this is the great difference in our chosen professions. You see the actions that lead men to places like this. The things they do, the people they hurt. We see the change that prison inflicts: hard men made crueler, soft ones unmade entirely. Loved ones rarely get the same person back when the sentence is done.”
“Adrian is not a loved one.”
“Detective Beckett led me to believe you have certain feelings—”
“Look, this is simple. Charlie asked me to come, so I’m here. I assume there’s a purpose.”
“Very well.” A drawer opened, and a file came out. The warden placed it on the desk; spread his tapered fingers. “Much of this is confidential, which means I will deny ever showing it to you.”
“Beckett’s seen it?”
“He has.”
“And Dyer?”
“Your captain as well.”
Elizabeth frowned because it still felt unseemly: the easy smile and the office that tried to be what it was not, the heavy file that should not be so well thumbed. Of course people would have kept track. How could she have presumed otherwise? The deeper question was why she had not done the same.
“Pedophiles and police.” The warden opened the file. “Convicts hate both with an equal passion.” He handed over a sheaf of photographs. There were thirty maybe; all of them full color. “Take your time.”
If Elizabeth thought she was ready, she wasn’t.
“The miracle,” the warden said, “is that he survived at all.”
Taken in the prison hospital, the photographs were a testament to both the fragility and resilience of the human body. Elizabeth saw knife wounds, ripped skin, eyes swollen bloody.
“In the first three years, Mr. Wall endured seven hospitalizations. Four stabbings, some pretty horrific beatings. That one”—the warden waved a finger when she stopped on a photograph—“your Mr. Wall went headfirst down thirty concrete stairs.”
The skin was peeled off one side of Adrian’s face, his head shaved where staples held his scalp together. Six fingers were clearly broken, as was an arm, a leg. The sight made Elizabeth nauseous. “When you say he went headfirst down the stairs, you mean he was thrown.”
“A witness in prison…” The warden turned his palms up. “Few men have the courage to talk.”
“Adrian was a cop.”
“Yet a prisoner like everyone else, and not immune to the perils of institutional life.”
She tossed the photos on the desk, watched them slide, one across the other. “He could have been killed.”
“Could have been, but was not. These men, however, were.” A stack of files hit the desk. “Three different inmates. Three different incidents. All were suspected in one or more of the attacks on your friend. All died quietly and unseen, killed by a single stab wound, perfectly placed.” The warden touched the soft place at the back of his neck.
“How does one die, unseen, in prison?”
“Even in a place like this, there are dark corners.”