Blood took the shotgun seat while I rode in the back for the short one-mile drive to the Clinton County Maximum Security Prison gates. We parked in the visitor’s lot just like the common folk. We then made our way to a front guard shack that accessed the small visitor center, an uninviting square space that was nothing more than a glorified waiting room constructed in the 1950s or ’60s. We signed in at the front desk, were handed our laminated guest badges, and told to sit tight until our escort arrived.
While we waited, we finished our coffees in relative silence, Blood having withdrawn into himself now that he was once again surrounded by four walls and some razor wire, me also choosing silence for much the same reason. There was a reason I thought twice about taking on this job. A hell of a good reason. For anyone who’s ever lived or worked inside an iron house, they know how difficult it can be to make a return to the place, even if that return is voluntary and for a very limited time. Maybe you left the joint a long time ago, but the joint never leaves you. No matter how much time passes, the joint stays the same. The sickening smell wafting up from the chow hall combined with industrial disinfectant, body odor, and human piss. It is a scent that immediately sticks to the roof of your mouth and nasal passages, and it is not all that different from the smell of death. And it is just as sickening. I came close to losing my life in one of these iron houses during the Attica uprising, and even if I was just a seventeen-year-old kid right out of high school, it was something I’d never forget. Men being crucified outside their cells, men being burned alive, men with their cocks cut off and stuffed into their mouths, men shot in the head point-blank by invading state troopers. It was amazing how all those memories came flooding back just by stepping inside the prison waiting room.
Blood tossed what was left of his coffee into the trash before it came back up on him. I did the same. That was when the metal door on the opposite side of the room opened, and a man stepped through. He was a big man. Shaved head, neck the size of my thigh, clean-shaven revealing a face of bumps and abrasions. A face that knew violence as much as it did human growth hormone. He was the same CO who held court at the table of COs at Fangs the previous night.
Rodney Pappas.
Bridgette stepped ahead of us, held out her hand for him. He took her hand in his, offered up a smile. Not like he wished her well. More like he wanted to fry her up, eat her for lunch.
“Bridgette, how lovely to see you again,” he said, putting on his best PR song and dance. His smile was broad, his biceps squeezing out of his black work shirt. “And you brought your nice friends.”
“Peter’s expecting us,” she said.
“And right on time,” Rodney said, releasing her hand, pushing up on the utility belt that wrapped around his narrow waist and connected with the mic clipped to his shirt. “The super will be so happy to see you.”
Blood and I exchanged a look because we both knew the last person Warden Peter Clark wanted to see right now was a member of New York State law enforcement, even if she was the town’s sheriff and someone who considered herself just as responsible for Sweet’s and Moss’s breakout.
Rodney looked up, gave Blood and me a glare with wide, gray eyes. He stood foursquare in his spit-polished combat boots, his black military-style cargo pants tucked into them.
“You two boys ready? I’m not going to have to hold your hands now, am I?”
Blood took a step toward the door.
“You a comedian, Rodney,” he said. “You missed your calling. But you refer to me as boy again, I rearrange your jaw.”
“That so,” Rodney said, smiling tight and tense. “You never seen me in action busting some heads.”
“Bet it’s a sight to see,” Blood said. “You must be real badass. How’s it feel to be the badass chief corrections officer after Dannemora’s first breakout in its century and a half history?”
Rodney’s face went south fast.
“Must be he didn’t break enough heads, Blood,” I said.
“You two watch your mouth,” Rodney spat.
His smile entirely disappeared; he turned and escaped through the door into the concrete bowels of the maximum-security joint. We followed. When the metal door slammed shut behind us, I felt a rock lodge itself inside my stomach. The rock told me I was trapped inside my vile memories behind a concrete wall.
Warden Peter Clark’s office was located on the second floor of the administration building. A concrete block building was planted directly beside A block—the honor block that housed mostly Italian mobsters who, like Moss and Sweet, were allowed to cook their own meals with food provided by outsiders and, as it turned out, insiders. Food packages that apparently weren’t always well vetted for what they might contain aside from essential nutrients, ingredients, and calories.
We entered a small front office where an attractive middle-aged woman sat behind a desk, typing something on her computer. To our right, a leather couch was pressed against the wall; to our left stood a tall green plant, the leaves of which were coated with a layer of dust.
She looked up from her work, smiled, pulled off her reading glasses, allowed them to hang off her neck by a slim gold chain.
“Can I help you?”
“They got an appointment with Clark, Betty,” Rodney said.
The green-eyed woman smiled once more, fixed the bangs on her short red hair.
“But of course,” she said, looking beyond Rodney’s bulky build to the three of us. But, just as quickly, her eyes shifted from all of us to one of us. Blood. “Your names, please?”
Rodney told her.
“Blood?” she said, smiling. “That’s it?”
“You want my email?” he said. “Cell phone number?”
Her face went flush-pink. “Well, that won’t be necessary. But if you’d like.”
Blood stepped forward, wrote something down on a pink Post-It-Note from the full pad he lifted from her desk, handed it to her.
“You through playing Match dot com, Betty?” Rodney interjected. “I’ve got to make the headcount.”
“One moment, please, Rodney.” Smiling, she turned, opened the door behind her, stepped inside.
Bridgette turned to Blood.
“Better watch it with that one, Blood,” she said. “When she walked out on her husband five years ago, she took half his law practice with her.”
“What she doing working inside a stony lonesome, then?” he said.
“Betty likes to keep busy,” the sheriff said. “Lots of nervous energy.”
“Blood’s type exactly,” I said. “Lots of energy where it counts.”
Rodney rolled his eyes, flexed his biceps. For a brief moment, I believe Blood actually cracked a hint of a smile.
The door opened once more, and Betty announced, “Supervisor will see you now.”
We went around the desk, stepped past Betty. As though planning it that way, Blood chose to be the last one to pass her by. When he did it, he took it slow so that she might experience his full aura, his entire uber manly being. I considered it a miracle she didn’t faint on the spot.
Clark was a tall guy. Maybe six one or two. And slim. Not in-shape slim, but nervous slim. As we entered, he pulled a cigarette from between his lips, punched it out in the metal dish set beside his laptop, not like he was extinguishing it but killing it. He also closed the laptop . . . hard. So hard I thought he might have broken the screen.
The first thought that entered my brain: What exactly are you hiding, Mr. Clark?
He brushed back his thick-for-a-middle-aged-guy gray-blond hair, and fixed his blue striped rep tie to position the knot perfectly below his ample chin. I pegged his suit as a light cotton wool blend Brookes Brothers. Perfect for the summer. I couldn’t make out his shoes behind the desk, but I half expected him to be wearing Gucci loafers, no socks. Like he might be hitting the beach after work instead of swatting black flies off the back of his neck outside the front door of his state-appointed Department of Corrections housing. Fancy duds for a man who brought in maybe eighty K per year, plus bennies. Who knew? Maybe he’d married into some real dough.
“Terrible habit,” he said, planting a polite smile on his face. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
His voice came over smooth, but again, nervous. I noticed a hint of blue-blood Long Island in it. Oyster Bay, maybe. Or Montauk. So, what was he doing all the way out here in Little Siberia? Maybe he should have been sitting inside the corner office in a prestigious New York law firm. I almost posed the question but seeing how his right hand was trembling just enough for me to notice, I decided against it.
“Smoking,” I said. “Ten years quit. You never stop missing it. Totally sucks.”
“I’m doomed,” he said. Then, “But enough about my bad habits. Can I offer you a chair, Mr. Marconi, Sheriff Hylton, and what is it, Blood?”
Blood nodded.
“Standing is fine with me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood only inches from where Rodney stood as if daring the big muscle-head to shove him.
Bridgette took one of the two chairs while I took the one beside her. I crossed my legs and finger-tapped the wood armrests. Sitting up Catholic girl-straight, Bridgette locked her hands together at the fingers.
“We’re not here to interrogate you, Peter,” she said, breaking the ice. “Mr. Marconi has been hired to look into Sweet’s and Moss’s whereabouts, and that’s all.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his neck. Pulling out his desk chair, he took a seat. He seemed relieved at Bridgette’s comment.
“Internal Affairs down in Albany is giving me a hell of a time, as you can imagine,” he said, locking eyes with mine from across the length of his desk. “I understand you were once a prison supervisor, Mr. Marconi. Tell me, did anyone ever break out under your watch?”
I nodded. “Cop killer escaped when I was overseeing Green Haven. I went after him myself. Nearly got killed in the process. The things we do to keep the iron house in order.”
His face turned pale, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. “I never saw it coming. I swear, I never could have imagined them getting away like they did. Cutting through the pipe, crawling through . . . through . . . that horrible excrement.”
“The cocksuckers had inside help, Mr. Clark,” Rodney barked.
“Language, please,” Clark said. “A lady is present.” He shot Bridgette a quick, apologetic smile. “But then, I suppose you’re right, Rodney. They did have inside help. However, the buck stops with me. I encouraged a lackadaisical environment. Too forgiving to my fellow man. Too easy-going. Just like our President Barack Obama or Pope Francis, God bless his soul. I believed rehabilitation needed a kind hand toward some very misunderstood human beings.”
“But you’re not the Pope, Mr. Clark,” I said. “You’re a warden, and they’re cold-blooded murderers.”
He nodded, defeated.
“If you don’t mind my shifting gears,” I said. “You have any clue where they might have gone? If they had more help on the inside and out other than Joyce Mathews and what’s his name? Mean Gene Bender.”
He folded his hands atop the desk. “Not that I know of.”
“Sweet and Moss confide in any other inmates about where they might hold up once they got out?” I questioned.
He shook his head. “Again, no idea, and I’ve already told all this to state police.”
“D’Amico,” I stated.
“Yes, rather unpleasant man of diminutive stature.”
“I feel your pain,” I said. “We had coffee with him just this morning . . . sort of.”
I smiled. Bridgette laughed a little under her breath. Blood stood guard.
“I wish I could be of more assistance with information on where the two might have run off too,” Clark went on. “But I just don’t know. Or else we would have found them by now.”
“Lots of woods between here and everywhere,” I said. “I know D’Amico thinks they could already be on their way to Mexico and that the Feds are about to trample on his investigation. But I’m not so sure. That would be too easy. I think they’re still here somewhere, and I think there’s a big part of D’Amico that believes it too.”
“Where’s here?” the warden asked.
“Somewhere near Dannemora. You mind we take a look at their cell, see exactly where and what they broke out of?”
He picked up his pack of smokes, shook it so that a cigarette magically rose to the top. He popped the smoke between his lips with all the grace of a professional smoker and lit it with a silver-plated Zippo, not unlike the one I still owned.
“Oh, pardon me,” he caught himself. “You mind? Force of habit, I suppose.”
“You have an extra?” Bridgette asked.
“Indeed,” he said, shoving the pack toward us. I took hold of it, pulled one out, placed it between my lips. “You mind,” I said, holding out my hand. He placed the lighter in my palm. Flicking open the top, I lit the butt without inhaling all the way into my lungs, handed it to Bridgette, then set the lighter back down on the desk.
“How do you do that?” Clark said. “Don’t you worry about going back? To the addiction?”
“Not at all. I vowed to quit. I’m keeping my vow.”
“Such strength,” he said. “Such determination. I wish I could be more like you.”
He held up the cigarette in the hand that trembled. He noticed me noticing it, and he took hold of his wrist with the opposite hand.
“So, whaddaya say, Mr. Clark,” I said. “You gonna let us see the cell?”
He exhaled blue smoke and stood. “It’s been scoured by the state and local police. But if you must.”
“Oh, we must,” I insisted.
He shot Rodney a glance. “Would you be so kind, Rodney?”
“I got a choice?” Rodney hissed.
Clark smiled, held out his hand. I stood up, took it in mine. The trembling hand felt small, sweaty. Frail almost. The warden might have dressed for success, but there was something very unhealthy about him. His skin showed signs of yellowing, almost like the skin on a meth addict. I’d seen it plenty of times before. A liver working overtime.
Bridgette stood, nodded at the warden.
“Thanks for your time, Pete,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”
He frowned. “I suppose you will. You and IA.”
That’s when I heard it. Something I confused for birds at first. Inland seagulls, maybe. The kind that spend their lives flying over trash heaps. A distant and distinct, high-pitched wail. Maybe not like a bird, but more like a cat. A cat in pain, its desperate wails coming up through the old heating grates in the floor.
“You hear that?” I said to Bridgette.
“Hear what?” she said.
For a brief beat, the office fell silent.
“That,” I said.
“Sounds like a cry of some kind,” Blood said. As usual, his senses were more finely tuned than my own. “A woman, maybe.”
Clark laughed nervously. “I assure you, Mr. Blood, Mr. Marconi, there are no women presently incarcerated at the Clinton County Correctional Facility, nor have there ever been. Only hard-boiled individuals. Killers, rapists, drug dealers, confidence men, all of them.”
“Sure,” I said, “whatever you say, Clark. We won’t waste any more of your precious time.”
He smoked, stealing such an intense drag on the cigarette, half of it turned to gray ash.
“You’d better keep that habit in check,” I added. “It’ll come back to haunt you.”
He looked into my eyes. The look told me cigarettes were the least of his problems.
“If you don’t have your health,” he said. “You have nothing.” But he didn’t believe the cliché. Not for a second.
The four of us escaped the warden’s office, no closer to finding the two cons than when we entered.
First thing I noticed when I re-entered the reception room were the two FBI agents seated on the couch—Muscolino and Doyle. I could make out both agent’s eyes now that they weren’t wearing sunglasses. Their eyes were brown.
“We meet again,” I said, for lack of something wittier.
Muscolino stood. “We’re close to confirming that Sweet and Moss crossed over into Canada. When it happens, you and your friend there are done. Understand?”
“What do you think, Blood?” I said. “That sounds like a stand-down threat to me.”
“I don’t think Agent Muscolino a very friendly guy,” he said. “And we’re private eyes. We don’t stand down for nobody. Agent Muscolino would know that if he watched the Rockford Files.”
“Saturday nights in the 1970s,” I said. “Rockford took the nine o’clock spot in between Mary Tyler Moore and Carole Burnette.”
“Let’s just go,” Bridgette said.
“Yeah, let’s just leave the suits alone,” Rodney said. At least he didn’t call them cocksuckers.
I held out my hand for Muscolino. Acting on instinct, he went to shake it. But I pulled it away at the last second.
“Gotcha,” I said, heading out the door.