Lois Egan stared back at Golden. Her hair was pure white, short and matted, long overdue for a date with a comb. Her face was tight, the skin tight to the skull. But it was the eyes that betrayed the inner demon: they danced and skittered about, rarely focusing, but when they did, there was a darkness in them that Golden had seen before. Golden noticed that all of Egan’s fingernails were chewed down as far as possible.
They sat on opposite sides of a gray table in a gray room. Golden figured that the studies on the psychological effects of varying colors on the prisoner psyche had not trickled down to the particular institution. A burly female guard stood behind Egan, baton drawn. The in-briefing officer had told Golden that Egan had three incidents of violence on her prison record in the past eight years. And the reason Egan was serving ten to fifteen was armed robbery. No one had been pleased to arrange this meeting well before dawn, but such was the weight of the Cellar that the prison staff had complied.
Egan apparently did not like silence, because she spoke first. “What do you want?”
It was interesting to Golden that that was Egan’s first question rather than wanting to know who she was. “Some answers.”
“Then ask some God-damn questions instead of just sitting there.” Egan leaned forward. “But first, got some smokes?”
Golden had always thought that a movie cliché, but on the way to the meeting room her escort had handed her two packs and corrected that misperception. So Golden pulled both packs out and slid one across the table and kept the other in front of her. Egan snatched the pack in front of her and eyed the one across the table. Her eyes darted up, bore into Golden’s for a hateful second and then danced about, not locking onto anything.
“Your son,” Golden said.
“Don’t got no God-damn son.”
“Adoptive son.”
“Which one? Had three.”
“In three different states. You lied on the adoption forms. And all three were eventually taken from you. You used them to get welfare and adoption money. When the database sharing between states got better and you couldn’t extort money via flesh, you used a gun. Probably a more direct and less dangerous technique in the long run.”
A frown furrowed Egan’s forehead. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Lewis Forten.”
Egan snorted. “That little shit? What’s he done? That’s why you’re here?”
“You abused him.”
Egan’s head turned and she glanced at the guard, who showed not the slightest interest. “Fuck you. That’s bullshit. Is that what he told you? He’s a man now. Can’t he be a man? What’s he whining about me, blaming me for something he did? Bullshit.”
Golden said nothing.
“Christ,” Egan finally said, “I had him only for two years maybe. That was a long time ago. Other people had him. Why you here talking to me?”
“What did you do to him?” Golden asked in a level voice.
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“I’m not here to get you in any more trouble,” Golden said. “And I haven’t spoken to Lewis. I’m trying to find him. Before he kills anyone else.”
Egan’s eyes stopped shifting for almost five seconds. “He killed someone?”
“Quite a few people,” Golden said. “And if you give me information that helps us find him, it will reflect — look — very good for you.”
“How good? What can you do for me?”
“Tell me about Lewis.”
“Fuck.” Egan had the pack of cigarettes in her hand and was stripping off the wrapper. Golden glanced at the guard who was standing next to a prominent No Smoking sign. The discussion about killing had caught the guard’s attention and the guard nodded, ever so slightly, in regard to Golden’s lifted eyebrow.
“Go ahead and smoke,” Golden said.
“Who the fuck are you?” Egan asked as she ripped open the pack and slid a cigarette out, lighting it in one smooth move.
“I’m a psychologist. A profiler. And I’m assigned to Lewis’s case.”
“What exactly has he done?”
“Killed. Right now the toll is in the double digits.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
“You can get my time cut here?”
So much for empathy, Golden thought. Of course if Egan had been capable of empathy neither of them would be sitting here. Masterson had not specifically told her she could get a reduction of Egan’s sentence, but the woman in charge of the Cellar had also told her to use any means necessary to get information. Golden figured Egan deserved as much empathy as she showed.
“Yes.”
“How much time?”
“That’s not up to me.”
Egan inhaled deeply, happily. “What the fuck can I tell you about that little dip-shit that will make a difference?”
“I don’t know yet since you haven’t told me anything.”
“Fuck.” Egan drew in another lungful, exhaled, stared at the burning tip of the cigarette. Golden could almost feel the other woman’s mind trying to dredge up memories, the effort seemed so great.
“He was a little shit. Bad. I knew he’d turn out to be no good. That’s why I tried to discipline him. Control him. He needed control.” Egan nodded. “That’s what I did. I did him right.”
“How?”
Egan leaned back in her chair, still savoring the smoke. “He got kicked out of school, did you know that?”
Golden had that in her file. In fact, it was the thing that had been the first alert in her profile database. She remained silent, letting Egan play out her feeling of power and righteousness.
“Little shit kept getting into fights. And got his butt kicked more often than not because he didn’t care who he fought. Bigger, older, tougher, didn’t matter to him. Dumb shit. I tried to tell him. Teach him, but I didn’t have no man around. He needed a man around.”
Yes, he did and that wasn’t his fault that there wasn’t, Golden thought, but once more didn’t voice.
“Damn school got tired of the fights. Kicked his ass out. What was I supposed to do with him?”
Golden thought of the last time she saw Jimmy. Backpack slung over his shoulder, dressed warmly, waiting for the school bus. Smiling. The hole inside her chest yawned wider, threatening to draw her in.
“He didn’t like being in the house,” Egan said. “He was always off. In the woods. The creek. The housing development on the edge of town where the riff-raff lived. Hanging with those other bum kids, I suppose. Cops brought him back a couple, three times.”
Five, Golden thought. More indicators that had flagged the file.
“Fucking kids,” Egan said.
Golden pressed the balls of her feet down on the floor, a technique one of her advisers in college had taught her.
“He was a damn thief. Always picking up this and that without paying. Got caught, the dumb shit. I mean, if you’re going to do it, do it right. He got smart with a cop one time and got his damn skull smacked open. Cost me a couple hundred bucks at the clinic to get him stitched up.”
Golden forced herself to nod, as if in sympathy. She felt disconnected, as if she weren’t even here.
“Burned down the chicken coop,” Egan said and Golden forced herself to focus in. Egan held up the matchbook. “He always stole my matches, my lighters. I don’t know what he did with them except that one time he burned down the damn coop.”
This information hadn’t been in the report on Forten but it fit perfectly as fire-starting was one of the significant indicators of future dysfunction.
“Bed-wetting?” Golden asked.
Egan’s eyes flickered. “How the fuck did you know? Hell, yeah. More crap to deal with. He was a teenager. Why was he doing that? You know what a pain in the ass that is? Had to teach him how to wash his sheets.”