Her psychology rotation in med school hadn’t been wasted. Somewhere in the back of her brain she understood that her current anger was for the loss of her mother at a young age, misplaced rage from her father’s arrest and incarceration all those years ago.
She’d been a teenager then, motherless and fatherless, and unable to help her father against the massive amount of evidence the state had against him – evidence that pointed to Roger Franklin Milano as the murderer of his own wife, her mother. She’d been shuffled off to live with her aunt, her mother’s sister, who believed the eye witness who had been the major nail in her father’s case.
Frankie didn’t want to get even with the system. She wanted to figure out what the hell was going on in Pelican Bay Prison. If the inmates truly ran the place, then Anson Stark was king. The correctional officers might bully him, try to break him every chance they got, but she’d noticed on occasion the narrow slip of alarm in their otherwise impassive faces.
She didn’t think either of these particular guards was on the take, but someone was. Likely, many someones.
She didn’t dare let herself ponder how high up the corruption might go.
Toward the end of her shift, Frankie had even more cause to worry about recent events. She’d just returned from break, getting a cup of the truly awful coffee supplied by the prison. She planned to catch up on the never-ending task of updating medical records. She’d been doing this before the prison yard murder occurred and was now on the “F” files.
She always kept a colored sheet of paper to mark her place, and when she pulled out the file in front of the bright marker – Fader, Henry – she found a 4x4 sticky note fastened to Henry Fader’s file. The note was a deep, blood-red color. She turned it over.
Both sides were blank.
She opened the file slowly, hands trembling for no apparent reason but a gut feeling that she wouldn’t like what she found inside. Henry Fader’s file was average sized, contained a list of normal medical complaints, and described a young black man. The notable part of the file was the large red stamp affixed to the top of the file.
DECEASED.
The date of death was September 23, 2013, several years ago. Why was his file still in the records cabinet? It should’ve been weeded out of the active files and already archived.
The bigger question, Frankie asked herself – was this a personal death threat, a blood-red note marking a deceased inmate’s file? Did someone mean her to end up like Henry Fader – dead?
She flipped through the pages to determine cause of death. Henry had been an amiable twenty-two-year-old African-American, primed for rehabilitation, taking courses for his GED, attending NA meetings and counseling sessions. On the evening of September 23, his naked body had been found in the shower. He’d been brutally savaged, raped and strangled. A crude symbol had been carved into his chest: LOD.
Hands trembling, Frankie reached for the phone to call the only person she really trusted at Pelican Bay.
Walt Steiner had been a cop when her father was arrested for the murder of her mother fifteen years ago, and he’d been her lifeline. In fact, she’d chosen Pelican Bay when she was searching for a position as a prison doctor.
Walt had transferred there shortly after Roger Milano went to Folsom Prison to serve out his twenty-to-life sentence for murder two. Frankie checked Walt’s work schedule.
His assignment was visiting lieutenant, the officer in charge of clearing visitors for all inmates. He would have details about Anson Stark’s visitation privileges. Stark was probably a no-contact inmate who’d be allowed visitors only through a plexiglass barrier. He wouldn’t be able to pass written information.
But criminals like Anson Stark always had ways to communicate.
Chapter 21
After a moment’s hesitation, Frankie decided to text Walt Steiner rather than risk a phone call.
Hi! Long time, no see. Lunch tomorrow? Off campus?
The response came right back. You bet, baby girl. See you soon.
She’d have to risk just one more shift, she told herself, so that she could prod Walt for information. She tried to convince herself one more day wouldn’t matter, but shivered as if a rigid wind had blown down her back.
By the end of her work day, Frankie felt calmer. The parking lot was empty except for staff cars. She beeped her remote to open her Toyota’s door, her right arm weighted down with the heavy satchel where she’d stuffed both Henry Fader’s and Cole Hansen’s files, as well as the flash drive with her secret data.
As she reached for the handle with her left hand, a thick muscled arm wrapped itself around her throat, almost pulling her off her feet. She stumbled, dropped the satchel, and tried to claw with both hands at the vice-like grip threatening to suffocate her.