38: Porter sat on a wooden bench just outside the warden’s office deep within the concrete bowels of Orleans Parish Prison. He’d walked from his hotel and quickly determined this part of town was better viewed at night.
The city of New Orleans had an odd smell to it. Even in the best parts of town, it hovered an inch or so above the roads, just enough to drift up to your nostrils and remind you of where you were. Near the prison, that scent didn’t bother to hide. You could almost see the fumes, an oily residue on every surface, dripping from the streetlights and sewer grates. Every alley and vacant lot had its share of residents, not only locals but tourists who drank their fill and wandered off from the lights, music, and action of the main drag to this place, somewhere behind Oz’s curtain.
When he arrived at the main gate, the guard had met him with tired indifference. Before Porter could talk, the man went into a canned rant about visiting hours and the locations of the visitor gates. Porter handed him one of his Chicago Metro business cards and told him why he was here. The guard had not asked to see his badge, and when he passed through security, he told them he’d left his gun in his hotel room safe. He ran the risk of someone calling Chicago Metro to check his story, but he had little choice. He wouldn’t get access as a civilian.
The corridors of the Orleans Parish Prison were walled in cinder block and painted a dull white. He was led through a series of hallways and switchbacks until he had no idea what direction he faced. The air felt stale and stagnant, and the echoes of their shoes gave the impression of being deep underground. The guard escorting him said this was a shortcut to the warden’s office, passing through the belly of the beast. Porter had never been claustrophobic, but if he spent too much time here, that particular condition might be in the cards. He couldn’t imagine working here, spending every day here. At each steel door, they had to pause and wait for someone to buzz them in. He felt the cameras’ blank stares. They encountered one every twenty feet or so.
At the end of the corridor they passed through a series of doors spaced only about ten feet apart, reminding Porter of an airlock or a decontamination chamber in an old sci-fi movie. On the other side stood the administrative offices. While also cinder block and steel construction, the space had been sparsely decorated with a worn rug and plastic fern, a bit of civilized oasis in the barrens.
The guard pointed at the bench. “Warden is here but making rounds. Should be back soon. Sit tight.”
That was nearly thirty minutes ago.
No fewer than six cameras covered the room from the various corners, some moving, others stationary, all watching.
“Detective Porter?”
Sam hadn’t heard anyone come in, yet this man was standing not four feet from him. “Yes.”
“I’m Warden Vina. What brings you to our little slice of paradise?”
“I need to see one of your prisoners.”
“I haven’t worked in visitation for over a decade, but last I checked, visiting hours still start at nine, and it’s fairly easy to follow the signs outside to the line. Not much of a need for me to be involved. I tend to like it that way.”
The warden was a few inches shorter than Porter, standing around five foot eight. His hair looked like it had gone gray some time ago, and he kept it shaved close to his skull. His small eyes were set close together over a nose that looked like it had been broken and reset multiple times. There was a scar on his neck, thin and pink. It disappeared beneath the collar of his blue shirt. He was stocky and sure of himself, and his gaze didn’t falter. His eyes remained locked on Porter’s, a prisoner’s stare.
“We have reason to believe this particular prisoner may be connected to 4MK.”
“Oh, you’re that Detective Porter.”
“Yep. I’m that Detective Porter.”
“I’ve been following the case on TV. Crazy. Connected how?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Well then, I guess I’m not at liberty to let you see one of our prisoners.”
“I could come back with a warrant,” Porter said.
The warden shrugged. “Please do. And when you come back with that warrant, show it to the guard at the visitors gate.” He turned and started for his office door. “Enjoy your time in New Orleans, Detective.”
“She may be his mother,” Porter said. “I need to keep this visit under the radar. If the press gets wind, they could burn the only lead we’ve got. I need your help, Warden.”
The warden stopped short of his door, shaking his head. “I really hoped for a nice, quiet weekend. Helping you does not sound nice or quiet.”
“You can save lives, Warden. I just need to speak to her.”
The warden turned back to him. “What’s her name?”
Porter fell silent for a moment. He had the guy on the hook; he couldn’t lose him. “I’m not sure. I have no idea what she was charged with, either.”
The warden smirked. “Detective, we’ve got around two thousand prisoners here, but we’ve had as many as sixty-five hundred, before Katrina. Some are awaiting trial for felony, and some are here on lesser charges like traffic, D&D, or municipal. The rest are here on behalf of the Louisiana Department of Corrections or the federal government for a long-term stay. How exactly do you expect to track her down without a name?”
Porter pulled the photograph from his pocket and handed it to the warden. “This is all I’ve got.”
The warden took the photograph, then pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. He flipped it over, read the message on the back, then turned back to the grainy image. “That’s the west gate,” he said, studying the image.
Porter pointed at the guard walking in front of Bishop’s mother. “That is—”
“Vincent Weidner,” the warden said. “I recognize him.”
“Maybe he remembers her?”
The warden let out a deep sigh. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward his office door. “Let me see what I can do.”