Bobby smiled. “I’ll have to do something about that, won’t I? I wouldn’t want you two big shots to be bored on the way back to the big bad city.”
The sun had disappeared behind darkening clouds thirty minutes before, and was still a no-show in western New York. The wind kicked up occasional gusts that dusted up the dirt beside the road. The trees, they saw, were greening up nicely with the spring rains. The land was flat, cows thick in pastures, and Alexander Road was light on traffic. Savich drove past the Attican Motel thinking he’d like to turn in, pull the shades down in a room, and sleep with Sherlock until Monday. Coming east on the red-eye wiped you out.
Two guards and an administrator escorted them to the hospital, a basic three-story red brick building, like most of the other buildings in the vast correctional facility. There they met Warden Daniel Rafferty, who adjusted his thick glasses to closely check their I.D.s even though they’d already been checked twice, and shook their hands. “Courtney was having problems breathing during the night so we brought him here to check him out. He’s had some heart problems for years now, but never anything life-threatening. Still, we like to be careful. He’s on the third floor. This way.”
Sherlock whispered behind her hand when the warden was a goodly distance ahead of them, “We’re met by the warden himself, who refers to our mass murderer as Courtney? It sounds like they’ve given him such fine care he might fund a new building if he’s ever paroled.”
Warden Rafferty laughed, turned, and grinned at her. “The acoustics in the hospital are truly phenomenal. You’re right, of course. Courtney James is in a class by himself. Do you think he’s really a mass murderer?” The warden shrugged. “He’s here for life, so what does it matter? Fact is, I like the old guy. I’ve never been able to see him committing any random murders because some odd voice told him to do it. Come this way.”
Savich and Sherlock followed the warden through two sets of secure doors, both manned by guards who dropped their looks of hard-eyed intimidation when Sherlock nodded and smiled at them.
Warden Rafferty ran into a doctor coming out of Courtney James’s room, which was private, he remarked, because none of the other prisoners wanted to crowd in on the old man’s space. “The doc here will tell you that even the meanest thugs, the most vicious psychopaths, make way for Courtney. They defer to him in the food line, walk with him nice and slow during exercise so he won’t be alone. He has the money to get them most anything they want, legally or otherwise—you know, cigarettes, candy, CDs, and the like—but he also treats them with respect. He even gives me a rather tasty fruitcake for Christmas every year made by monks somewhere in Oregon, and he has a crate of Krispy Kremes flown in for the inmates and guards.”
Dr. Burgess, stoop-shouldered and rumpled, looked at the agents with old, tired eyes, then he turned to Warden Rafferty. “He has a fruitcake sent to me every Christmas too. Courtney’s doing fine. I took him off the oxygen. I think he overdid it with the big poker game last night and he’s just tuckered out.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
Warden Rafferty laughed. “They all have a deck of cards. They’ve developed a sophisticated code to tap against the walls of their cells to communicate—a call, raise, a fold. Evidently, Black Tooth Moses was winning big, especially from Courtney, and didn’t want to stop. Since Courtney wouldn’t ever want to disappoint him, he kept going until he collapsed. Scared the crap out of all the inmates, Black Moses the most. And the guards, needless to say.” His mouth kicked up a bit. “Yep, they like the old guy and those Krispy Kremes, glazed, still warm to the touch and nearly as fresh.”
They walked into the small white-walled room with its three hospital beds, two of them empty. There was one utilitarian chair in the corner and a single window that looked out onto one of the yards. They followed Warden Rafferty to the bedside.
They’d seen photos of Courtney James from the time of his arrest in 1977 to when he was pronounced guilty by the jury in 1979. But nearly thirty years had passed. None of the photos resembled the old man they saw now.
“Courtney?”
Vivid blue eyes stared first at the warden, then took in Sherlock and Savich. He grinned. “What’s this? You bring me a pretty girl? My, would you look at those beautiful blue eyes, sort of like mine. Hmm, could I be her granddaddy, you think?”
“I don’t think so, Courtney.”
“Then I’m on my way out, Warden?”
“Nah, you’re a fixture. She’s not just a pretty girl, she’s an FBI agent. Her name’s Sherlock. This is Agent Savich. They’re here to speak to you. You feeling up to it?”
“Of course I’ll speak to this pretty girl. I haven’t seen a pretty girl in thirty years, and I haven’t seen such beautiful hair in all my life. My mama dyed her hair red, but you could tell, you know? But your hair, Agent Sherlock—you married, sweet girl?”
Sherlock leaned down to his thin, sharp cheekboned face with its pale, amazingly unlined skin. A sick old man, she thought. Interesting how it blurred the reality of what he’d done. “You’ve got to be careful, Mr. James. Agent Savich is my husband.”
Courtney James said, “Nah, he can’t be jealous of me, I’m just an old man on his way out. Maybe I should try to look pitiful— put those oxygen clips back in my nose. Big fellow, isn’t he? Looks like he eats nails for breakfast.”
“Not me,” Savich said, “I eat Cheerios along with my little boy.”
“Ain’t that a kick now?” His smart old eyes went from one to the other and back again. “You want to talk to me? About what? You reopening the case? You want to get me out of here?”
“That would be nice,” Savich said, “but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
“Well, Agent, the thing is, I can’t tell you where any of those bodies are buried since I never killed those folk they thought I did. I killed the Pallacks, true enough, and the good Lord knows I’m sorry I got caught. Fact is, they deserved it. They were a pair of shits, especially her. She was worse than both her husband and her son.” He sighed deeply. “Can I touch your hair, Agent Sherlock? That’s quite a name you’ve got there.”
“Thank you, Mr. James.” Sherlock didn’t pull away from the old man when he raised his thin veined hand to smooth her thick hair.
Warden Rafferty was moving from one foot to the other, doubtless wondering why they were playing around like this, but he kept quiet, something Savich appreciated.
