Four Walls

Ursitti gave the CO behind the desk a pained look. Mac had the feeling he'd used that particular look on that particular CO many a time. 'What the hell is your problem?'

'LT, it's policy that-'

'It's policy that people don't die in custody. Let him take the damn camera.'

With the utmost reluctance, the CO said, 'If you say so, LT.'

'Yeah, I say so.' As Mac collected his case, Ursitti added, 'I'm sorry, Detective.'

Not wanting to create ill will, Mac said, 'It's all right. The officer was just doing his duty.'

After Mac had his hand stamped, Ursitti took him through both sets of doors, had his hand checked under the black light between them, then led him to a part of the prison he hadn't been to the last time: the infirmary.

The nature of his job was such that Mac had visited many hospitals, from various state-of-the-art facilities in the city where assorted victims had been taken, to the patch-'em-up makeshift field hospitals in Beirut when he served in the Marines. Involuntarily, Mac's hand went to his heart, where he was wounded in 1983; he'd been patched up in one of those field hospitals. The scar had faded, though it was still very visible, and it didn't twinge anymore when it rained, but he was always aware of it.

The infirmary at RHCF was somewhere between those two extremes: not as fancy as Bellevue, Cabrini, St. Luke's-Roosevelt, or the other Manhattan places he frequented, but not quite as depressing as the field hospital. There were two rows of beds lined up, some with patients, others empty and neatly made.

Ursitti brought him to a far corner, where a doctor was waiting, along with Russell. Lying on the bed was Jorge Melendez. Mac immediately noticed bruising on Melendez's jaw. He appeared to be asleep-Mac assumed he was on morphine, which had turned his lights right out.

Russell introduced the doctor, whose name was Patel.

'What happened?' Mac asked.

'He was assaulted in the shower,' Dr. Patel said as he pulled the sheet down to reveal multiple contusions on Melendez's chest, some of which were obscured by bandages. 'Cracked three ribs. No internal bleeding, though.'

Mac nodded. 'I'm not surprised. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing.'

'What do you mean?' Russell asked.

'He was hit hardest in the solar plexus, right where the breath would be knocked out of someone, preventing him from calling for help. Based on those bruises, the blows were landed solidly, despite both the first and the target being dripping wet. This is the mark of an experienced pugilist.'

Russell shrugged. 'Well, we already know who did it.'

This was news to Mac. 'Who was it?'

'El-Jabbar. He confessed to it an hour ago. Said he wanted to mete out justice to 'Brother Malik's' killer.'

'There's just one problem,' Mac said.

'What's that?'

'Melendez didn't kill Malik Washburne.'

Russell's white mustache twitched. 'What?'

'Washburne died of anaphylactic shock. We're not sure from what yet, but Jorge Melendez isn't a strong suspect right now. Nobody is until we figure out what killed him.' He looked at Ursitti. 'What I want to know is how el-Jabbar knew that Melendez even was a suspect.'

Frowning, Ursitti said, 'I was kinda wonderin' that myself.'

'I think we need to talk to Mr. el-Jabbar.'

'He's in the box,' Russell said. To Ursitti: 'Have him brought to the interview room.'

Ursitti's radio crackled, informing him that Flack had arrived.

'Have him meet us at the interview room,' Mac told Ursitti, who nodded to him and Russell.

It took several minutes for Mac and Russell to get to the interview room, which was halfway across the prison. The walk was a much different experience today then it had been yesterday, when the place was in lockdown. Inmates walked casually through the corridors and outside. Most of them respectfully greeted Russell, and the captain gave them each at least a nod back. Some he talked to, asking how they were doing. A couple tried to engage him in conversation, but he politely put them off to another time. One even said, 'This is about Malik and Vance, right?'

Russell said, 'I can't really say,' even though it was obvious that it couldn't be anything else.

Several more minutes passed after they arrived before Flack showed up, escorted by Ursitti.

'Glad you could make it,' Mac said with a wry smile as the pair entered.

Shaking his head, Flack said, 'Ran my damn siren on the BQE, and I still couldn't move more than ten miles an hour. I'm half-tempted to leave the car here and fly back with you.'

Mac felt Flack's pain. It was less of an issue for the crime lab, as they generally weren't needed until after everything was over, but New York City traffic had always been a major impediment to cops' ability to arrive at a crime scene in a timely manner. Mac knew that Flack felt that frustration keenly. It was even worse for FDNY, for whom time was always of the essence. Fire truck drivers, he knew, hated navigating the city streets with a passion.

While waiting for el-Jabbar's arrival, Mac filled Flack in on Melendez's condition.

Flack's eyebrows formed a V over his blue eyes. 'How the hell did el-Jabbar find out about Melendez?'

'We'll know soon,' Russell said confidently.

Mac hoped that confidence was warranted.

Eventually, Officer Andros brought in Hakim el-Jabbar. The inmate wore a knit red-and-white skullcap on his head, but otherwise sported the usual prison dickies. Yesterday he had been one of Mac and Flack's many interviews, but he claimed not to have seen anything. He wasn't a very big man, but he had wide, expressive brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a broad mouth surrounded by a thin beard.

He spoke in a soft, insistent voice. 'What can I do for you gentlemen today?'

'For starters,' Flack said, 'why'd you beat the crap out of Jorge Melendez?'

'Jorge was a pretender. He used the word of Allah for his own purposes. And when Brother Malik exposed his lie, Jorge killed him. He needed to pay for that.' As he spoke, el-Jabbar folded his handcuffed hands neatly in front of him on the table.

Mac stared at those hands while Flack continued the questioning.

'What makes you think that Melendez killed 'Brother Malik'?'

El-Jabbar smiled, showing a wide array of perfect teeth. 'There is no need to be coy, Detective. I'm aware of the fact that he is your primary suspect.'

Flack leaned forward. 'Fine. We'll drop coy. How the hell did you find out Melendez was a suspect?'

'I prefer to protect my sources. Let us just say that information comes my way.'

Mac spoke up. 'You're not a journalist, Mr. el-Jabbar, and you're not a lawyer. You're a prisoner. Privilege doesn't apply.'

'Perhaps not. But the punishment for nonco-operation would be solitary confinement-which I am already enduring.'

That elicited a snort from Andros.

'So,' Flack said, 'when this information came your way, you took it upon yourself to take care of business?'

'Brother Malik was a respected member of the community-both inside this prison and outside it. Jorge needed to pay, so I administered justice in the shower this morning.'

'Yeah.' Flack leaned back and folded his arms over his dark tie. 'Administering justice is kind of our thing.' El-Jabbar was about to speak, but Flack unfolded his arms to raise one hand, cutting him off. 'I know, I know, it's just 'white man's justice.' That doesn't really count for you, does it?'

'Something like that.' Again, el-Jabbar smiled.

Mac decided he didn't like that smile and so was determined to wipe it off his face. 'There's just one problem, Mr. el-Jabbar-you didn't beat anybody up.'

Sure enough, the smile fell, which gave Mac a measure of satisfaction. 'I beg your pardon, Detective?'

'Beg all you want, you're not getting it.' Pointing at el-Jabbar's hands, still folded neatly, Mac said, 'Your