His reasoning abilities, such as they ever were”-the warden smiled-“have deteriorated over the years. We have a name for it up here-‘cabin fever.’
“Mostly he just reads-the Bible, Greek philosophy, a bunch of stuff on physics, I’m told. Listens to music. He really doesn’t even belong here anymore, it’s just that…” Hutchins smiled. “Well, he’s Russell Houvnanian. No one’s about to transfer him out. He’ll be fully restrained when you meet with him-standard procedure. And if you would, please refrain from handing him anything without first passing it by the guards. Ready?”
Sherwood and I both nodded.
The secretary came in with our waters.
“I wish I had something stronger to offer you, gentlemen.” Hutchins stood up. “Take a breath. You’re about to enter Ground Zero for the human race.”
Chapter Forty-Six
W e walked down two flights of stairs through a secure glass door leading to a long underground tunnel.
It was perhaps a two-hundred-yard walk to the prominent white X I had noticed from the air. The corridor forked at the end. Hutchins directed us to the left, through a door that read A BLOCK. THE SHU.
We climbed a flight of stairs and were buzzed in through another security door. This time it was manned by two khaki-clad guards, billy clubs attached to their belts along with firearms. My heart accelerated with the knowledge we had entered a very dangerous place.
“Every one of these inmates has a history of being a violent offender.” Assistant Warden Hutchins took us down the hall. “And in most cases, they’re already incarcerated for life, so there’s nothing for them to lose except privileges for being rowdy. I’ve had Houvnanian brought to a holding room on the block. Rudy…” Hutchins waved hello to an officer. “As I said, he’ll be fully restrained and there’ll be two guards with you at all times. You can ask him anything you want, but again, there can be no physical contact or exchange of materials.”
Sherwood nodded.
We turned down a sterile white hallway. It looked more like some futuristic genomic lab than a prison. The warden stopped at a secure door with a small glass window. Interview Room 1. A guard was stationed outside. “Warden.” We stood there for a second, waiting.
“In any case, gentlemen,” Hutchins said, opening the door for us, “I hope you find what it is you’re here to learn.”
S herwood and I stepped in.
It was a tight, narrow room, no more than eight feet by eight. There was a cool, fluorescent light on the ceiling, nothing on the walls. Two guards stood off to the side, and neither nodded our way. I found myself transfixed by the slight man seated at a table in the center. A man whose iconic face rushed back to me, like a child’s nightmare reappearing in his adult years.
At least, a shadow of that man.
Houvnanian was older, grayer, his cheekbones narrow and wan, his hair shaved close to his head, boot- camp style. Sunken, sad-looking eyes. His skin was sort of a parchment gray-he was more ghost than man-and he was dressed in a yellow jumpsuit. He looked up at us only briefly, his shoulders slightly hunched, palms flat on the tabletop, his wrists bound with manacles. In a million years, I would never have recognized him as the long- haired, wild-eyed beast I recalled from photos and from my youth.
Until he spoke.
His voice was calm and controlled, with a kind of friendly drawl, exactly how I remembered. He looked up, eyes bright but unthreatening, and his mouth inched into a knowing grin. “Not what you might have been expecting, huh, gentlemen?”
Sherwood motioned for me to sit. We lowered ourselves into the metal chairs, directly across the table. The convict’s gaze shifted on us from side to side, almost as if he was trying to put us at ease.
Sherwood started in, “Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Houvnanian. My name is Don Sherwood and I’m a detective, senior grade, with the coroner’s office down in San Luis Obispo County.”
Houvnanian nodded back affably. “Detective…”
“This is Dr. Jay Erlich…”
Houvnanian fixed on me, bunching his thin lips, as if impressed. “Is the doctor with the coroner’s office as well?” His voice was controlled, slightly hoarse. I didn’t know what he remembered and what he didn’t.
“No. Dr. Erlich is from New York. But he’s the reason we’ve come to see you today. Nearly two weeks ago, his twenty-one-year-old nephew, Evan, was killed in Morro Bay. He either jumped or fell, but in any case was found dead at the base of the large rock in the bay there.”
“Morro Bay? I’ve seen that rock somewhere,” Houvnanian said, nodding. “I’m sorry to hear about that, doctor, but doesn’t the Bible tell us, ‘Go forth and stand upon the rock before the Lord, and behold a great and strong wind rent the mountains and broke them into a thousand pieces’?”
He grinned. “It may surprise you, but I spend a lot of my time reading my Bible,” he said, shoulders hunched. “The trouble is, the verse goes on to say that the Lord wasn’t even in that wind that rose up or in the earthquake that ripped the rock to shreds. Which begs the question-one I’ve been trying to answer for years now… Just where do you think the Lord is?” He shrugged, let out kind of a mischievous hee-hee. “Or you, doctor?” He looked up at me. “You’re a smart man. Any ideas?”
I couldn’t tell if he remembered me or even my name. I just looked him in the eye, my skin crawling.
“Well,” the killer said, “I think that’s part of what you came to find out. Am I wrong? Because that’s what your nephew was probably looking for up there. I’ve found in my life that death is a strong motivator for self- enlightenment, though it’s cost me some for the gain.” He lifted his wrists for us and jangled his chains.
“Mr. Houvnanian, we’d like to show you a few pictures,” Sherwood said, redirecting him back to the topic, “and ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”
“By all means, gentlemen.” The convict nodded. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Sherwood opened his file and glanced up at one of the guards, who inspected the contents, nodding okay. Sherwood removed a photo of Walter Zorn. “Do you recognize this man, Mr. Houvnanian?”
The convict’s face edged into a thin smile. “Well, I may be the scourge of man and a lunatic, some say, but my memory’s still fine. The man had the mark of the devil on his face even back then. But he was only doing his job. Root out those who would betray us. Break us apart. Jesus knew what to look for, didn’t he, gentlemen? ‘If you see a false prophet before you, it’s only a reflection of your own sins
…’ ”
“His name was Walter Zorn, correct?” Sherwood stared at him. “He was one of the detectives who prepared the case against you. And who aided in your conviction. Isn’t that right?”
“If you say so, I guess he is.” Houvnanian nodded uncontentiously. “And, please, call me Russ.”
Sherwood took out a second photograph and laid it on the table. This was the police photographer’s photo of Zorn’s body: eyes bulging, face twisted in horror, strangled.
Houvnanian barely reacted. He only lifted his gaze ever so slightly to meet Sherwood’s, just enough to show him a slight smile. “Well, I guess even Rome burned in the end, didn’t it, so there’s hope for us all. So how did the bastard die?”
“He was strangled. But the police found something very unusual on his body.” Sherwood put out the next photo, from the autopsy, of the knife marks on Zorn’s tongue. “I’m wondering if you can make out what that is, Mr. Houvnanian.”
“What what is, detective?” the amused convict asked.
“Those marks. Underneath the victim’s tongue. An odd place for a wound, wouldn’t you agree, sir? Especially for someone who was strangled.”
Houvnanian leaned forward and squinted at the photo. “Excuse me, gents, but my eyes just aren’t what they were. Glaucoma. The medical plan’s one of the real let-downs in here… But as to your question
… they kind of look like knife marks to me, detective. Right? I have a familiarity with knife marks, you may remember,” he said, looking up and grinning.
