“What do we know?” I demanded.
“Next to nothing. Nellis is sending a team and I’ve scrambled our people from the casino. We have Jerry Spencer’s number two, Bess Tanaka, out there working the scene.” Church paused. “So far no one has come forward to claim responsibility.”
“Has to be the Kings.”
“Probably,” he said, “but the unfortunate truth is that they’re not our only enemies.”
“What’s our play?”
“That’s being determined now. I’ve advised the President to keep this out of the media for as long as possible; otherwise the whole base will become a circus. The Internet and cable talk shows are already buzzing with conspiracy theories about the Hospital. This would be gasoline on that fire. We may have to spin a cover story to make it work.”
I nodded. “How the fuck does someone take out an entire military base? I mean, seriously—a secret and ultrahigh-security military base?”
“I can only think of one way,” Church said, his face turning once more to a mask of cold iron.
I looked at him and then nodded. He was right; there was no other way.
“God damn it.” They had to have someone inside.
“I’m sorry I had to dump this on you right before a mission, but I knew you’d want to know.”
I nodded.
“Do you want me to pull you from this?”
“Is that a serious question?” I said.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I suppose not.”
He offered me his hand.
“Then good hunting, Captain.”
We shook, and he stepped aside to allow me to exit the bird.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The State Correctional Institution at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania
December 18, 2:39 P.M. EST
“I’m sorry there isn’t more,” said Dr. Stankevi
ius. “Apparently the ‘maximum’ aspect of the security here at Graterford doesn’t extend to my office.” As he said it he shot a withering look at the warden.
Rudy Sanchez saw the barb go home. Certainly no love lost between these two, he thought.
“The records for this prisoner are sparse at best,” Rudy said aloud. “Is there any explanation for the omissions, Warden?”
The warden, a block-faced former state trooper named Wilson, spread his hands. “It’s a mystery.”
“A mystery,” Rudy said quietly, establishing and maintaining direct eye contact.
Wilson shifted in his chair. “Naturally I’ve initiated a full-scale investigation.”
“Naturally. But, tell me, Warden, what does that investigation comprise?”
“Sorry?”
“A full-scale investigation—what exactly will you do to try and locate the missing files?”
“I … I mean we will interview the staff, and review the duty logs … .” His voice trailed off.
Rudy removed a small notebook and jotted something. Wilson’s eyes were fixed on Rudy as he did so, but he didn’t let Wilson see what he wrote. The note read: Get car inspected.
Wilson immediately launched into a more detailed explanation of what would be done. Computer searches, extra staff brought in to scour the filing cabinets to check for misfiling, a complete search of Nicodemus’s cell, follow-ups with all current staff, and interviews with trustees and guards who worked in the medical unit during or after the murder of Jesus Santiago, the young Latino who had been mutilated with the numbers 12/17.
Rudy listened quietly. Then he wrote: Feed Joe’s cat. And closed his notebook.
Wilson was sweating.
“Thank you, Warden,” said Rudy. “I’m sure you are doing everything within your powers.” He leaned ever so slightly on the word “your.” He had no desire to roast anyone over a bureaucratic fire, but at the same time he despised incompetence, particularly in jobs related to health or security. He wasn’t fond of it before joining the DMS, and now he knew firsthand how sloppy work could lead to spilled blood.
Rudy turned to Dr. Stankeviius. “Doctor, you indicated to me that you believe Nicodemus to have unusual knowledge of the events taking place in London. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Has Nicodemus admitted such knowledge?”
“No, as I mentioned in my report—”
“He mentioned the Seven Kings, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just the once?”
“Yes.”
Rudy did not mention the graffiti on the wall of the hospital or on the door of the murdered family. Instead he asked, “Has Nicodemus admitted to any of the crimes for which he’s been convicted or suspected?”
“No.”
“Has he denied involvement?”
“For Jesus Santiago? His response was obscure and evasive. I could not encourage him to say yes or no in simple terms. On the other hand, he flat out denied that he had been talking with Santiago; and the witness to that encounter—a guard—later died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
“You don’t have any medical records for Nicodemus,” Rudy said. “Why is that?”
“There was a fire in the prison medical center,” said the warden. “Fire marshal says that it was rats chewing on the wires. They found a charred rat carcass. We lost a couple of years’ worth of records.”
Bullshit, thought Rudy.
Stankeviius nodded. “Much of our testing equipment and supplies were smoke and water damaged. The fire also damaged the CT scanner.”
“And the copies of the medical reports that should be in the file?”
Neither man answered. Rudy sat back and looked at them for several quiet seconds. Both men looked ashamed and nervous.
They’re both scared out of their minds. Dios mio! What in hell is going on here?
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m having a hard time understanding this. This is a maximum-security prison. A model for such prisons, as I understand it. You have a large staff, modern equipment, plenty of resources, and you’re telling me that you are unable to compile even a basic medical and psychological profile on a convict who has been incarcerated here for over fifteen years? One-room jails in third-world countries can do at least that much. I hesitate to use the word ‘obfuscation’ here, but—”
“Now wait a minute, Dr. Sanchez,” Stankeviius began. “We’re not doing this deliberately—”
“No? So, it’s just sloppy procedure?”
Stankeviius clamped his mouth shut.
“That’s unfair,” Wilson said tightly. “We’ve had a string of bad luck.”
Rudy eyed him coolly. “Bad luck is what happens when you buy scratch-off lottery tickets, Warden. As I understand it, it is not a factor in the American penal system, particularly at this level.”
Both men stared at him for a second; then their eyes faltered and they looked away. Rudy sighed.
They’re too scared to even properly defend their actions. Interesting.
“Very well,” said Rudy. “I’d like to see the prisoner now.”
The doctor and the warden exchanged a brief, defeated look. Finally the warden got heavily to his feet.
“Of course, Dr. Sanchez.”
Interlude Eighteen
The Seven Kings