ABOUT THE SAME TIME, IN THE NORTHERN ’BURBS OF Gotham, Warren Bennett sat hunched over his coffee, alone at the long institutional dining table in the Westchester County Detention Center cafeteria. He’d never been arrested before, so it was all a terrible new experience for him. He flinched and twitched as though he was being assaulted by the cacophony of sound that washed back and forth across the big, open room, bouncing unimpeded off the gray cinderblock walls and security glass of the guard station.
Prisoners jostled, cursed, shouted, and laughed overly loudly, as if by sheer volume they could demonstrate to the other inmates, as well as the guards, that they were not afraid. So far, the constant noise had been the most surprising and unnerving part of the hell Warren was going through. He never dreamed that even at night there was a constant din of clanging steel gates and irritated guards, as well as the snarls, screams, and cries of incarcerated men.
The noise wasn’t the only issue. The whole facility reeked of ammonia, unwashed bodies, and malevolence. He’d steered clear of most of the other inmates. Those who, for one reason or another, tried to engage him in conversation quickly took offense when his Tourette’s, which was threatening to flare up under the pressure, caused him to let loose a stream of profanity and twitches.
Already, he’d been threatened with beatings because of words he could not control. However, he didn’t think it was his language that was causing other inmates to steer clear of him that morning in the cafeteria. It was the two large, bald Aryan Brotherhood types who sat at a table a row over and stared at him like pitbulls sizing up a toy poodle for sport. One apparently oblivious inmate started to sit down next to Warren but looked up and saw one of the heavily tattooed Aryans shake his head, so he quickly picked his tray back up and moved on.
Great! As if my life hasn’t gone down the toilet already, Warren thought. I’m falsely accused of murdering the only woman besides my sister who was ever nice to me. The only woman I’ve ever loved. And now I’ll be spending the rest of my life in a hellhole like this, only worse. He glanced up at the Aryans, who continued to glare at him and whisper. If I live that long.
Warren was hungry, but he hadn’t dared eat the breakfast after one of the cooks handed him a plate of reconstituted powdered eggs and ham and then gave his fellow cooks a sideways glance and a smirk. He recognized the cook as one of the men he’d unintentionally cursed the night before, and he had heard the stories about inmate cooks spitting in the food of men they didn’t like. So he’d settled for a cup of coffee and waited to be herded back to his cell with the others. Maybe I’ll just starve to death.
In some ways, he didn’t care what happened. He’d spent much of the time since his arrest on the verge of tears. Some of it was fear, but most of it was for Michelle. Knowing that she’d died sometime after he left Saturday night and before Sunday morning, when her maid found her, he wondered if he might have somehow saved her. Perhaps the killer had been lurking outside the home when I left. If only I’d turned around and . . . and what? Gone back and professed my love? Get a grip, Warren, you wouldn’t have dared. Besides, you’re no David Grale. What could you have done against a killer? Cursed him and twitched? . . . I could have tried . . .
Warren jumped when he saw the two Aryans stand. They were both well over six feet tall, with bulging arms and chests. The look in their eyes left no doubt that they were coming for him. He got up quickly and started trying to make his way through the other men milling around the tables toward the closest guard as his pursuers picked up their pace.
The other inmates sensed what was happening and parted like a herd of wildebeest willing to sacrifice one of their number to the lions in exchange for being left alone. Warren started to panic, his head jerking to the side and his shoulders hunching in violent shrugs. He glanced behind him and saw that the assassins were only ten feet away and closing. “Come here, you little freak,” one of them snarled.
“Whoop whoop oh boy fuck me queers,” Warren replied in terror. The men’s eyes registered surprise and then rage as they rushed for him.
Turning to make a last dash, Warren was knocked to the ground by two dark shapes that moved past either side of him toward his attackers. On his hands and knees and still expecting to feel a blade pierce his back, he became aware that for the first time since he’d been in jail, there was silence. Fearfully, he turned and looked back at a sight that made him want to shout with relief and happiness despite the circumstances.
Standing between him and the frothing Aryans was the hulking, bearlike shape of his friend, the Walking Booger, who was so tall and wide that the would-be attacker on the other side of him couldn’t be seen. However, Warren could see the face of the second attacker, which was contorted into a mask of fear and hatred as he looked at Booger’s companion, a tall, thin man whose gaunt, pale face was framed by long brown hair.
David Grale and Booger came to rescue me!
“Get out of the way, you crazy motherfucker,” the visible Aryan growled. He waved a sharp blade of some sort at Grale, but he seemed reluctant to get closer.
“’Uck coooh!” shouted Booger, whose words were usually garbled even when not encumbered by a large digit stuck up his nose. The giant began to step forward, but Grale put a hand out to stop him.
“Not now, brother,” Grale hissed in a low voice. “A time to die will come for these evil ones, but everything according to God’s plan.” He glared at the Aryans. “But you will leave this man alone,” he said, pointing back at Warren, who was picking himself up. His voice was neither loud nor particularly menacing, but it carried a very real threat.
“Or what?” the unseen Aryan spat.
“Or I will cut your stomachs open and leave you squirming on the floor in your own blood and intestines,” Grale replied evenly. “Eventually, I will be coming for you and your kind, so if you’d like that time to be now, ignore my request at your own peril.”
The Aryan whom Warren could see looked nervously over at his companion and then back at his opponent. “I know who you are. You’re Grale . . . you son of a bitch, you killed one of my brothers last year. You cut his fuckin’ head off!”
The other Aryan started for Grale but was intercepted by Booger, who grabbed the man’s wrist with one massive hand and put him in a headlock with the other arm, then squeezed. The Aryan screamed as his wrist bones were pulverized in the giant’s grip and then slumped to the floor, whimpering and holding his damaged arm.
Grale tilted his head to the side and looked at the remaining attacker. It had all happened so quickly the other man had not had a chance to react. “You were saying?”
The Aryan kept the blade out but backed away, leaving his companion to choke and sputter on the ground. He looked past Grale at Warren and said, “We’ll be waiting, you freak. Your buddies won’t always be around.”
Grale started forward, but the man turned and disappeared beyond the circle of inmates who’d gathered to watch the incident. Suddenly, the guards materialized, with their nightsticks out. “Break it up!” a sergeant shouted. “What happened here?” When no one spoke, he pointed his nightstick at the Aryan on the floor and then at Grale and Booger. “I couldn’t care less if you assholes want to fuck each other up, but not in my jail. Do you understand me?”
The Aryan grimaced in pain as he gripped his wrist and stood. But he didn’t speak as he turned and went in the direction his comrade had fled.
“But of course, brother,” Grale said kindly. “And God bless you.”
“’Es, sir,” Booger added. “God ’less oo.”
The guard sergeant’s eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged. “I don’t even want to know,” he said, and turned to the other inmates. “What the fuck are you numbnuts looking at? Breakfast is over, ladies. Back to your cells. Line up!”
As they stood in line, Grale turned to Warren. “Well, it appears that you’re making friends in your new home. Any idea why those two wanted to hurt you?”
“No idea. I don’t think I even . . . oh boy nuts balls . . . spoke to them,” Warren replied. “I guess they just don’t like me. But what are you guys . . . whoop whoop oh boy fuckers assholes . . . doing here?”
“After your arrest, we heard that somebody was willing to pay top dollar to have you killed,” Grale responded. “So we participated in a little disorderly conduct in front of the jail. We’ll be here for a few days, anyway. Given my . . . vocation, I couldn’t risk a felony arrest and more scrutiny.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Warren said, his eyes welling with tears. “But why would . . . whoo whoo whoop . . . anybody want to have me killed? And who?”
“I don’t know the answer to the second question,” Grale replied. “As for the first, I’d hazard a guess that whoever killed your friend Michelle wants you dead, too. Any idea why?”
Before Warren could answer, a voice over the intercom announced, “Warren Bennett to the guard station.”
“I don’t know,” Warren said to Grale. “But I guess I need to go. Thanks again.”