47: Sarah Werner parked her BMW in a side lot, and Porter followed her across the parking lot to a small side entrance about two hundred feet down from the line of people at the main visitors center. Two guards searched her thin leather briefcase and patted them both down after a pass with a handheld metal detector. Porter was asked to provide his driver’s license, then remove his belt and shoelaces. The license was returned, the other items placed in a locker behind the guards. He was handed a key with a numbered tag. Werner wore no belt, and she had swapped her heels for flats before leaving her office. Their photos were taken and printed on large red identification stickers with the word VISITOR across the top.
A female officer waited for them on the other side of Security, summoned automatically when Werner had said they were here to see Jane Doe #2138. She nodded at both of them. “This way, please.”
A buzzer sounded at a heavy metal door, and they stepped into the stale air Porter remembered from earlier.
The walls in this portion of the prison were downright cheerful compared with the warden’s offices—a muted aqua with beige border and an off-white ceiling. Cameras positioned at all corners followed as they passed, blank, all-seeing eyes that swiveled slowly on their bases. The officer led them through three other doors before they entered a large room filled with tables. Most of the tables were occupied with inmates on one side and their visitors on the other. Noise was deafening, echoing off the cinder-block walls. Along the west wall were individual rooms. The officer handed an envelope to Werner, then opened the door to the second one and ushered them inside; the door closed behind them with a clack.
Werner dropped her briefcase onto the aluminum table and sat at one of the four chairs bolted to the ground. She opened the envelope and scanned the text on the single page inside. “Holy hell.”
“What is it?”
“Ms. Doe got herself into a bit of an altercation last night. One of the other inmates tried to stab her with the business end of a modified toothbrush. Before the guards could get the two women apart, Jane Doe wrestled the toothbrush from the other inmate’s hand and stabbed her three times—once in the neck, and twice more in the thigh. Then she dropped the toothbrush and stepped back with both hands up. She managed to miss all the major arteries, but she still put the woman in the prison’s infirmary. The first woman claims our Jane started the little scuffle, but two other witnesses say inmate number one struck first and Jane was defending herself. Depending on the results of the investigation, additional charges may be filed against her.” She set the paper down on her briefcase and swore. “Nothing like attempted murder to start the morning.”
“I’m guessing Jane Doe still isn’t talking?”
Werner nodded at the door. “I guess we’ll see in a second.”
A loud buzz sounded, and the door swung open. One guard in front, another behind her, Jane Doe #2138 shuffled into the room.
Her feet were shackled together, and a chain connected those restraints to similar handcuffs at her wrists. This forced her to bend awkwardly forward, her long brown hair covering her face and trailing down over her red jumpsuit. The guards led her to one of the chairs and fastened her restraints to an eyehook in the table. She raised both hands to her head and brushed the hair back out of her eyes. Porter caught a glimpse of the figure-eight tattoo on her inner wrist before it disappeared back into her sleeve.
“Hello, Jane,” Werner said. “I brought a friend today. This is Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro PD.”
Porter watched the woman’s eyes lift and land upon him. He fought the urge to look away. She tilted her head slightly and leaned back in the chair, interlacing her fingers. There was no smile, no frown, nothing but her dark, piercing stare. Porter took the seat beside Werner, across from the woman. He reached into his pocket, took out the photograph, and set it on the table between them.
Her eyes flicked down to the picture, then settled back on him.
Porter turned the photograph over. “Your son sends his regards.”
If she looked back down, Porter didn’t see it. Her eyes remained on him. She steepled her index fingers and leaned against them, pressed them to her full lips.
Her sleeve drifted down. Porter pointed at the tattoo. “Why don’t you tell me about Franklin Kirby? Did he have one of those tattoos too?”
At the mention of Kirby’s name, the corner of her mouth drew up in a slight smile. She forced it away with another tilt of her head.
Werner let out a frustrated sigh. “Do you want to tell me what happened last night? You’ve got zero chance of getting out of here if you’re gonna pick fights with the other guests. The wrong witness statement, and you’ll find attempted murder charges on your sheet. A grifting charge is one thing, but laying out bodies is sure to tie you up for a bit.”
Jane Doe’s eyes remained on Porter.
Werner continued. “Look, you can keep up the silent treatment as long as you want, I don’t care if you talk to me or not, but keep in mind you’re not helping yourself with this, you’re just digging a deeper hole. We’ve got less than a week to work out some kind of defense, or at the very least poke some holes in what happened so we can plea down to a lesser charge, and I can’t do anything without your help.”
While she didn’t speak, Porter could see the intelligence behind her eyes, something in the sparkle at the corners. Her breathing was slow, steady. No doubt her pulse beat at a measured pace. No anxiety, no worry—she wouldn’t allow those things. The shackles, the locks on the door, this place, all an illusion to her, meaningless, a hindrance at best.
Porter thought of Emory Connors and all the people who had died at Bishop’s hand. He thought of the little boy raised by this woman, the little boy shaped by this woman.
An anger welled up inside him. He leaned forward. “Calli Tremell, twenty years old. Elle Borton, twenty-three. Missy Lumax, eighteen. Susan Devoro, twenty-six.” He ticked them off on his fingers, one at a time, slowly, deliberately. “Allison Crammer, nineteen years old. Jodi Blumington, twenty-two. Gunther Herbert, Arthur Talbot, Harnell Campbell. All of them dead. The attempted murder of Emory Connors. Because of your son, your child. Who else? How many others?”
Porter had purposely left Barbara McInley off the list, watching her expression closely as he skipped over the name. She betrayed nothing, though. He might as well have been reciting a grocery list.
Jane Doe #2138, Bishop’s mother, this evil woman, she leaned back in her chair, rolled her fingers across the top of the table with a steady tap, then laced them back together.
Porter wanted to strangle her.
He stood, retrieved Bishop’s diary from his pocket, and dropped the small book down on the table at her hands. “I know exactly who you are,” he told her. “I know exactly what you are.”
Porter crossed the tiny room and banged twice at the door, her eyes burning at his back.