In the parking garage of the NECC, Rath ejected the clip from his newly issued S&W M&P45, locked the weapon in his glove box, placed the clip in a steel ammo lockbox, and tucked the box under his seat.
Rath detested the M&P45. While the .45 APC cartridge possessed a velocity of roughly one thousand FPS, the weapon’s frame was Zytel polymer, with a four-and-a-half-inch barrel. Too light. Insubstantial. Plastic. Rath preferred the .357 with the seven-inch vent rib barrel, if only because it was the sidearm issued in his day; those days as long gone as pull tab beer cans.
He got out of the Scout and locked its door, headed to Building C, the all-female wing of the correctional facility where Abby Land awaited trial for the murder of Mandy Wilks.
From his desk at the front of the building, the balding middle-aged administrative assistant peered over his glasses, giving Rath a wary eye. “May I help you?”
Rath handed his new ID to the man. “I phoned earlier for an interview with inmate Abby Land.”
“Detective,” the man said, glancing at Rath, sizing up his rumpled appearance. “Are you in possession of your sidearm?”
“It’s locked in my vehicle. Unloaded.”
Rath signed in and headed to the next room beyond the lobby.
“Metal objects in this basket, please,” the C.O. said as she adjusted her blue clip-on tie at the neck of her white uniform shirt. She was tall, at least six foot four. Rath emptied his pockets of coins and keys and cell phone. “Belt and shoes, too,” the C.O. said.
Rath unslung his belt and shoes and placed them in the basket.
Rath handed her his ID.
“I don’t need to see that,” the woman said.
“Out of practice,” Rath said.
“No harm.”
The woman requested he proceed through the metal detector to the male C.O. awaiting him on the other side.
The metal detector went off. Rath stepped back out from it. Checked all his pockets again to find a live .30-.30 deer cartridge in the chest pocket of his Johnson coat he wore everywhere except funerals and his lone date with Madeline.
“What is that, sir?” the C.O. awaiting him said.
“Nothing, a—”
“Hand it here.”
Rath obliged.
The guard inspected the cartridge in his gloved fingers.
“I’m a deer hunter,” Rath said. “I wear this jacket—”
The guard nodded, tossed the cartridge in the wastebasket beside him.
The metal detector remained silent as Rath passed through it again.
“Anything, sir?” the guard said.
“No, no more cartridges.”
“Any luck deer hunting, I mean.” The guard’s face remained professionally neutral, but Rath saw in his eyes he was a deer hunter.
“I wish,” Rath said. Boy, did he. “No time to hunt. A small buck back during bow season. You?”
“My daughter got her first deer on youth day. Six pointer. Have a good day, sir.”
Rath collected his belongings and put on his shoes, headed down the hall.