Regardless of the circumstances, Hawkes never wanted to set foot in a prison again.
So when Deputy Inspector Stanton Gerrard had come by the crime lab that morning, a pit opened in Hawkes's stomach.
Gerrard had been the one leading the charge when Hawkes was arrested. Shortly after that, he was promoted to deputy inspector and placed in charge of the crime lab, just in time to lead a witch hunt against Mac for his role in Clay Dobson's death.
Nobody was ever happy to see Gerrard in the lab, and the feeling was mutual. Mac had dug up some dirt on Gerrard in order to get him to back off on the Dobson thing, but while that had helped Mac in the short term, it also put the CSIs even deeper in the inspector's doghouse.
"Detective Taylor," Gerrard had said, a grimace under his gray beard. "I just got a call from the DOC. We've got two suspicious deaths at the Richmond Hill Correctional Facility. Albany's requested a detective and a crime scene detail." He gave a half smile. "I'd say send your best people, but since you don't have any, I'll settle for whichever one of your screwups is hanging around."
Somehow, Mac had managed not to make a disparaging comment. Instead, he had just told Hawkes and Danny Messer to suit up and join him.
"Oh, and Detective?" Gerrard had added. "They've ID'd the bodies. One is a scumbag named Vance Barker. The other one's Malik Washburne."
That had brought Mac up short. "Is that who I think it is?"
Gerrard nodded. "The former Officer Gregory Washburne."
"What was he doing in RHCF?"
"Ten years for vehicular homicide. Don't screw this one up, Taylor." With that, Gerrard had left.
"Who's this Washburne guy?" Danny had asked. "Was he dirty?"
"Washburne wasn't a bad cop," Mac had replied. "In fact, he was one of the best. He quit for personal reasons and converted to Islam. That's why he changed his name. I had no idea he'd been arrested."
They'd met up with Flack at the NYPD helipad. Midday traffic would be murder (no pun intended), and it had already been a couple of hours since the crime took place. By the time the Department of Corrections bureaucracy worked its way from Staten Island to Albany and back down to Gerrard's office, the scene had probably already turned into a mess. Speed was of the essence, and they couldn't afford to sit in traffic on two different bridges, nor was Mac sanguine about taking their lab equipment onto the Staten Island Ferry.
But Gerrard had surprised everyone by authorizing the chopper ride. Dressed in his dark blue jacket with the letters CSI:NY in white on the back, and carrying his metal case, Hawkes had joined Flack, Danny, and Mac in the helicopter.
The pilot had taken a route that took them over the Hudson River immediately, hugging the New Jersey coast southward, going over the Goethals Bridge, which linked Staten Island to New Jersey, before coming down in the parking lot outside RHCF.
The prison was in the middle of nowhere on the west coast of Staten Island. As he stepped down from the helicopter, head lowered for safety, Hawkes saw a lot of fences topped with spools of razor wire. At the far end of the parking lot was the prison entrance.
Flack gingerly exited from the helicopter. Hawkes offered him a hand down, which he refused to take. "Flack, they prescribe Percocet for a reason," he said.
"What, you're my mother, now?"
"No, but I am a doctor, and my medical advice to you is to take the painkillers."
"As I recall," Flack said with a smirk as they walked toward the entrance, "your medical advice was for me to stay off my feet for another month. I'm fine."
Hawkes considered pressing the point, then decided it was a waste of time. He'd known Don Flack long enough to be quite familiar with his ability to be as stubborn as a jackass, with a personality to match if you pushed it.
They walked across the parking lot to the entrance, where a man with thinning white hair and a thick white mustache greeted them. He was dressed in a white shirt with a badge, which indicated a higher rank in the prison. With him were two COs wearing blue shirts; one had lieutenant's bars on his collar, and the other had three chevrons, indicating a sergeant.
"Gentlemen, my name is Captain Richard Russell. I'm the superintendent of security." The man in white offered his hand.
"I'm Detective Taylor from the crime lab," Mac said, taking the handshake. "This is Detective Flack, Detective Messer, and Dr. Hawkes."
"Pleased to meet you all. This is Lieutenant Ursitti and Sergeant Jackson. I'm going to have to ask you to leave your cell phones and weapons at the arsenal." Russell pointed at a sign, which read ALL ARMAMENTS MUST BE LEFT AT THE ARSENAL. Under those words was an arrow that pointed away from the front entrance to an alcove at the end of the building.
As Russell led them to the alcove, he continued: "You'll also each have a CO assigned to you while you're in my facility."
Danny leaned to Hawkes and muttered, "What, they think we're gonna steal the silver?"
The alcove had a window, a CO sitting behind it. A metal tray similar to those used at bank drive-throughs was under the window, and it slid out as they approached.
"If you place your weapons and phones there, Officer Simone will place them in lockers, and you'll keep the keys."
Hawkes reached into his holster and took out his nine millimeter. Mac did likewise. After a second, shaking his head, so did Danny. They also handed over their Treos. They each placed them in the tray as it slid out, then it slid back in. Moments later, the tray slid out again bearing three keys. Hawkes felt a little better about the whole thing once he realized he got to hold the key to the locker that held his weapon. He hated carrying the damn thing-it contravened the Hippocratic oath, to his mind-and he couldn't shoot it worth a damn, anyhow, but he was still responsible for it.
Flack asked, "What happened, exactly?"
Before Ursitti could respond, Russell said, "Detective, you have to hand over your weapon and phone as well. No exceptions."
"Fine." Flack's tone indicated the opposite, but he placed his weapon, his backup weapon, and his flip-top phone in the tray. His key came out a moment later.
Ursitti, meanwhile, said, "Both bodies are in the weight yard. It's a fenced-off part of the yard. There were forty-five Muslims in there, and one of the skinheads stabbed one of the Muslims through the chain-link."
"That's Vance Barker?" Flack asked.
Ursitti nodded. "Yeah. He's in on a drug charge, same as most of these guys. One of those organizational soldier types that'd rather do time than flip on their buddies."
"Looks like he took one for the team once too often," Mac said.
They walked inside. Hawkes felt the blessed cool of air-conditioning as they stepped through the double doors to the entryway.
Mac asked, "How do you know there were exactly forty-five in the yard?"
"That's the yard's max capacity. We had to keep two guys out 'cause they hit the limit."
Another CO sat behind a long desk inside. In front of the desk, in the center of the narrow entryway, was a metal detector. The CO pulled out a battered notebook and flipped white pages until he reached a blank one. "Sign in."
"You've gotta be kidding me," Danny said.
"Procedure," the CO said with a shrug.
"We have to keep track of everyone who comes in and out of here, Detective Messer," Russell said primly. "I would think you of all people would appreciate that."
"We do," Mac said quickly before Danny could respond. He grabbed the pen and signed his name, as well as the time and the purpose of his visit (he wrote NYPD INVESTIGATION in neat block letters; Hawkes intended to do likewise).
Ursitti continued: "Other body's Malik Washburne. Nobody saw what happened to him, but we figure somebody took him out while everyone was watching Barker bleed out."
Each of them in turn emptied his pockets, put the contents in a red plastic bin, and walked through the metal detector. Nobody set it off, for which Hawkes was grateful. He wouldn't have put it past Flack to have a third weapon on his person.