“We can do a weapons search inside his cellblock,” the warden suggested. “Those are not uncommon, and every cell gets checked.”
“Do you ever take things from the cells during these checks?”
“Sometimes.”
“So Crutch won’t be suspicious if we took something from his cell.”
“No, but I’d suggest you also take items from other inmates’ cells,” the warden said. “You know how these guys talk.”
“Where will Crutch be during the search?”
“We’ll put him and the other inmates from his building into the cafeteria.”
“I don’t want Crutch or any other inmate to see us.”
“I can arrange that.”
“Good. Let’s get it started.”
Linderman and Wood went to the parking lot and retrieved a Canon camera with a zoom lens from the equipment locker in the trunk of Woods’ car. When they returned to Jenkins’ office, the warden had already started the process of moving the inmates from Crutch’s building to the cafeteria on the other side of the prison.
Linderman went to the window and parted the blinds with his finger. A few hundred yards away, a line of inmates were walking down a wide concrete walkway. He tried to find Jason Crutchfield in the line.
“Give me your camera,” he said to Wood.
Wood passed him the camera. Linderman extended the zoom and had another look. He found Crutch near the back of the line. Their suspect was small in stature, with thinning, neatly parted hair. He wore wide-rimmed glasses which sat perched on the end of his nose like a librarian’s. His orange jumpsuit was spotless, and without creases. He looked about as threatening as an accountant.
Lowering the camera, Linderman glanced at the warden. Jenkins had come in on the coattails of a scandal, and was about to become part of another.
“Ready when you are,” Linderman said.
The three men crossed the prison grounds in one hundred degree heat. There was no breeze, the air dead and still. The prison had no tall buildings that offered an escape into the cool shade. Soon they were dripping sweat.
Two uniformed guards met them at the front door to Crutch’s building.
“Take us to Crutch’s cell,” Jenkins told them.
The guards walked them down a short hallway to an electronically operated door, which had been left open. The door led to a large cellblock.
“Which cell is Crutch’s?” Jenkins asked.
“Last cell on the left,” one of the guards replied.
“Is it open?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay here. Both of you,” Jenkins said.
The guards took their positions outside the cellblock. Linderman entered first. The odor inside the cellblock hit him hard. Shit, piss, desperation, and fear, a combination of odors that no room deodorizer could erase.
“God, is that foul,” Wood said.
Crutch’s cell was at the end of the block. Linderman wondered if corner cells in prison were the same status symbols as corner offices in the outside world. He stopped at the cell door. Small and tidy, the cell contained cardboard shelving units lined with paperback books, music CDs, and an assortment of knick-knacks, including packs of gum, a deck of playing cards, and a stack of index cards wrapped with a rubber band. He removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and fitted them on.
“I’ll search, you shoot,” Linderman said.
“Got it,” Wood replied.
Linderman started by taking the sheets off the bed, and checking the mattress and box spring for hidden pockets. They were both clean, and he remade the bed so it looked just like before. Then, he took the index cards off the shelf, removed the rubber band, and dealt them individually onto the bed. Each card was covered in a tiny scribble of writing. He stood back, and let Wood photograph each card, making sure that his counterpart shot them in the same order they’d occupied in the stack.
Next were the paperbacks. Linderman leafed through them to be sure they didn’t contain hollowed out compartments, then laid them out to be photographed. Their subjects ranged from true crime books by Ann Rule, to criminal psychology, to a short story collection by Stephen King entitled Different Seasons. One of the stories, Apt Pupil, had been underlined in several different places.
Then came the CDs. His earlier hunch had been correct: Crutch favored classical music. His shelves were filled with piano works by Bach and Beethoven, sprinkled with early Herbie Hancock. Linderman opened each CD pocket to check on its contents. Satisfied, he laid them on the bed to be photographed.
The last items were the knick-knacks. A tin can filled with buttons, some yarn, a book of stamps, several unused envelopes, and the playing cards. They were not the type of items that typically held clues, but he laid them out anyway.
“What are those?” Wood asked, pointing at the cards.
“Playing cards,” Linderman replied.
“They look like a pack of cigarettes. Take them out of the box. I don’t want to be confused later when I look at the photos.”
Linderman took the cards out of the box and fanned them on the bed. They were dog-eared and worn. Their back design showed a drawing of the state of Florida with a gold shield superimposed over the state. Printed in bold letters inside the shield were the words Florida Association of Crime Stoppers. Below that, a quote from Voltaire:
“To the living we owe respect; to the dead we owe the truth.”
The truth. Sometimes it was hard to find the truth. Linderman had seen these cards before. Printed on their faces were photographs of fifty-two people who’d been murdered or had gone missing in Florida. Each card contained a brief bio of the victim, along with a toll-free phone number to call. The cards were distributed to Florida’s prison population in the hope they might lead to tips or information in cracking the cases. He knew about the cards because Danni’s case was featured on one. Danni’s card was the Queen of Diamonds, which she would have liked. Beneath her photograph were the words 18 Year Old White Female followed by a sixty-five word description of how she’d disappeared while jogging at the University of Miami.
“All done,” Wood said.
Linderman scooped up the cards and found himself staring at the dead and missing. In the margins of each card Crutch had written cryptic notes in pencil, sometimes several sentences long. The printing was tiny and needed magnification.
“Find something?” Jenkins asked, standing outside the cell.
“There’s writing on these playing cards,” Linderman explained. “I want to keep them, if that’s all right.”
“Take whatever you want. Just make sure you take things from the other cells as well.”
Linderman slipped the deck into his pocket. He supposed he should have leveled with Jenkins, and told him about Danni’s card being in the deck, and how he wanted to see what Crutch had written in the margins. But he decided against it. He’d stopped believing that anyone truly cared about what had happened to his daughter except he, his wife, and a handful of his friends. So he rarely talked about it, and never with strangers.
Linderman grabbed a handful of items from other cells. Wood met him in the center of the cellblock when he was finished.
“All done?” Linderman asked.
“All done,” Wood said.
Chapter 15
“Having a little cougar-time?” a voice asked.
Vick turned away from her computer. DuCharme stood in the doorway to her temporary office at police headquarters, holding two cups of coffee and a bag of pastries, his body reeking of cheap aftershave.
“Excuse me?” she replied.
DuCharme bit his lower lip. As opening lines went, it was a real stinker.
“You’ve never heard of cougar-time?” the detective asked.
“Afraid not.”
“It’s a popular expression with the kids.”