Four Walls

Hawkes had to like it. 'I was just surprised, that's all. I wouldn't think two deaths in custody would get this kind of heat.'

'Well, it does, and for two reasons. For one thing, Washburne was a member. He did wrong, but he was doing his time like a good soldier, and he deserved better than what he got.'

Hawkes couldn't argue with that.

'Not to mention, RHCF hasn't had a DIC in twenty years, and now they got two in one day. Albany's nervous.'

Peyton smiled insincerely. 'And it's budget time, so naturally you wish to stay on Albany's good side.'

'Staying on Albany's good side gets you geeks all your fancy toys, Doc,' Gerrard said. 'Speaking of which, what do those toys say about Washburne?'

'Not much so far,' Peyton said, 'again, by virtue of my not having begun the autopsy yet. However, I can say this much: the vast majority of the blood that we found on his body wasn't his. I sent it for DNA analysis.'

'Did you type it?' Hawkes asked.

Peyton nodded. 'O-positive.'

Hawkes rubbed his chin with his right hand. 'That's Barker's type, so it's probably spatter from his wound. I'll double-check the pattern of the O-positive blood on him with his position and Barker's.'

Gerrard folded his arms over his coffee-stained tie. 'How much of the blood was Washburne's own?'

'Just what I found near the head wound.'

'That doesn't make sense,' Gerrard said. 'Head wounds gush like a sonofabitch.'

Hawkes regarded Gerrard. 'Right.'

'Don't give me that look, Hawkes-I have been a cop for a bunch of years now. I picked up a thing or two.'

'Well, I've sent blood to the lab for tox,' Peyton said, 'and I'll check stomach contents and the rest. As soon as I have something, I'll let both of you know. However, I won't have anything with you two standing here playing mother hen.'

Having always hated it when people kibbitzed over his own autopsies, Hawkes put up both hands and backed away from the table. 'Sorry. I'll get out of your way.'

'I'll ride herd on the lab,' Gerrard said, following Hawkes toward the exit. 'Get those results.'

'Thank you, Inspector,' Peyton said as she grabbed her scalpel.

As he left with Gerrard, Hawkes said, 'Thanks for the help.'

'I figure you guys need all the help you can get,' Gerrard said with an obnoxious grin. 'Besides, Sinclair wants this one, too. He and Washburne rode a blue-and-white together back in the day.'

Brigham Sinclair was the chief of detectives and the other person who had raked Mac over the coals during the whole Dobson mess. It probably killed him to know that he had to rely on Mac to solve this case. But Hawkes knew better than to say anything. His usual solution to office politics was to keep his head down and duck the shrapnel.

Gerrard asked, 'We have anything like a suspect?'

'We might,' Hawkes said. 'The weight that caused the head wound had a lot of smudged prints, but one was clear-guy named Jorge Melendez. Flack's questioning him now.' Hawkes thought it more politic to only mention Flack, who had served under Gerrard's command, rather than Mac. 'He was in the yard at the time, and he was probably the last person to touch the weight that smashed Washburne's head in. But we're a long way from proving that,' he added quickly, so as not to get Gerrard's hopes up.

But Gerrard, as he had so snidely pointed out, had been a cop for a while now. He nodded as they got to the elevator bank. 'Good. Keep me posted, Hawkes. I don't want this one getting screwed up.'

'We're on it.'

'That's what worries me,' Gerrard muttered.

Hawkes managed to force himself not to say anything. He knew the best revenge would be to put the case down, and soon.

* * *

Jorge Melendez really had no idea that the guy was an undercover cop.

He'd thought he'd had good cop radar. Twice, he'd figured some junkie for a UC, and he'd been right both times. Two of his hermanos, Pablo and Jimmy, had gotten popped selling to the same guy that Jorge wouldn't go near.

Jorge was strictly independent. He didn't want to get caught up in that gang shit. He had a source that sold him decent shit for a decent price. It wasn't nothing huge, wasn't nothing he could build an empire with, but it allowed him to make himself a living, and in this world, what more could you ask for, really?

Mostly he sold to college kids. Some years he figured he could just sell during finals week and he'd be able to pay the rent for six months. The best part about selling to students was that he had turnover. Meant the cops couldn't find patterns, at least not without looking too hard. Plus, they were all focused on the gangs. They usually left a smalltime entrepreneur like Jorge alone.

Then he found out the hard way that the cops knew all about him, they just didn't give much of a damn-which suited him fine-until they needed someone to drop a dime on someone called Ray-Ray. Jorge had heard about Ray-Ray-ran heroin out of Alphabet City, but that was all he knew. The cops had figured they'd bust Jorge, get him to flip on Ray-Ray. But he didn't have anything to flip.

Nothing pissed off cops more than messing with their plans. Since they couldn't use Jorge to trade up to Ray- Ray, they went crazy on him. He couldn't afford a good lawyer, so he got stuck with some white chick of a public defender who didn't know her skinny ass from her bony elbows and landed Jorge in RHCF.

His only hope was parole. Then he'd be back on the streets before his hair went gray. He figured the best way to do that was to go all Malcolm X and become a Muslim. When he saw that one of the other cons-dude named Malik Washburne-was offering a Koran class, he figured that was the best way to start.

But just like the UC cop, Jorge misjudged seriously on that one.

Now, after both Washburne and Vance got themselves iced in the weight yard, the whole place had gone into lockdown. That meant everyone was in his dorm, and the TVs were only showing one thing. Jorge hated it. Only thing he ever watched on TV outside was pay-per-view porn, and they didn't let them watch anything that good inside, so Jorge mostly ignored it.

Then one of the COs-Jorge didn't know his name on purpose; bastards didn't deserve names, they were just bullies with nightsticks-took him out to talk to a detective.

Actually, he was talking to two detectives. They both had dark hair. The one in the suit who was sitting had blue eyes and smirked a lot. The other one was standing up, wearing just a suit jacket and button-down shirt without the tie, and he looked like he scowled all the time. They introduced themselves as Detective Flack and Mac Taylor.

'Flack and Mac,' Jorge said. 'That's cute. You two should go onna road or somethin'.'

'Glad you approve,' Flack said. 'So tell me, Jorge-what were you doing in the weight yard yesterday?'

If the questions were all this stupid, this might actually wind up being fun. There was a CO in the room, too, but Jorge ignored him like he did the COs most of the time. 'Liftin' weights.'

'Anything else?'

'Not till one of them skinheads shivved Vance.'

'What about Malik Washburne?'

'What about him?'

'You see him die?'

'Saw him on the ground. Shit, I was the one told the COs he got iced.'

Flack-or was it Mac? Jorge had already lost track-smiled. 'And damn neighborly of you that was, too. Did you interact with him at all prior to that?'

'Yeah, I used the bench 'fore he did.' Jorge was glad they were just talking about the yard. As long as they didn't talk about the damn Koran class, he was okay.

'Before him, huh?' Flack said. 'You figure you could get back into his Koran class if you gave up the bench for him?'