A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (5 page)

We left the screening room and the tension left Shelley’s face. She walked me down a series of corridors with office doors that had locks, but weren’t too serious about it. It could’ve been any drab office building until we reached a barred door. Shelley identified herself and me to the camera. It made a loud clank and opened. We walked down a cinder block hall that definitely was not an office building.
 

“So,” she said with a smile, “you’re the new Clarice.”

“Huh?”
 

“Pretty girl sent in to talk to a maniac for information.”
 

“That’s me, I guess.”
 

“Who sent you?” she asked.
 

“My father,” I said, smiling for the first time.
 

She gave me a sideways glance with furrowed brows. “Who’s your father?”
 

“Tommy Watts.”
 

She brightened up considerably. “Oh, Tommy. He’s a great guy. He wouldn’t send you, if he didn’t think it was fine.”
 

Well…

Shelley gave me a run-down of the rules. They were pretty obvious. No touching, stuff like that.
 

“Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of yet another grey metal door. “This is the fishbowl. We call it that because you’ll be visible on all sides. We use it for lawyer visits. Visitors that need privacy.”
 

“Do I need privacy?”

“Someone thinks so.”
 

“Can I pass on the privacy?” I asked, feeling like a complete wuss. This woman worked here, daily.
 

“He’s already in there. Don’t worry. There will be four guards watching you at all times. He’s shackled, hands and feet, to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. As an added precaution, we’ve wired him up. If he steps out of line, I’ll give him a jolt that’ll stop him in his tracks. You okay?”
 

“How many problems have you had in the fishbowl?”
 

“None with visitors. If there’s a problem, it’s while we’re getting the inmate in or out. You’re not involved in that. Let me give you some advice.”
 

“Don’t get near the glass,” I said.
 

“There’s no glass.” She took a walkie-talkie off her belt and said into it, “She’s coming in.”
 

I heard the locks click as they were unlocked in the door, sending my blood pressure soaring. “So what’s your advice?

“I’ve worked here for eight years. I’ve seen it all. Stuff you wouldn’t believe. Blankenship isn’t special. His problem is that he thinks he is. When you go in there, his perception is your reality. Don’t let him suck you in too far.”
 

Too far?

The door opened and an unsmiling guard nodded and waved me in. I took a deep breath and walked in. There wasn’t any glass. It was a square room, white walls and a grey tile floor. On one side sat Blankenship, shackled and bolted to the floor as advertised, sitting in a metal chair behind a wide rectangular table. He wore a grey jumpsuit with no ID number on it, presumably everyone knew who he was. His head was bowed so that I couldn’t see his face, but there was a red mark on his neck that could’ve been a hand print.

Shelley led me to another metal chair across from Blankenship behind a second metal table. I looked at Shelley.
 

“People feel better with their own table.” She pointed up at a camera in the corner. “We have views of every inch of this room. If anything happens, we’ll be in in under three seconds.”
 

“You’ve timed it?” I asked.
 

“We have. You get ten minutes. Longer is out of the question. Things will start to occur.” Shelley nodded to me and I sat. She left the room through another of the four doors, but there wasn’t any sound of locking. Thank goodness for that.
 

Blankenship didn’t look up. I expected him to be curious, to want to know who this visitor was that was being forced on him, but there was nothing. I would have to initiate the conversation and I hadn’t a clue how to do it.
 

“Mr. Blankenship?” I asked.
 

Nothing. He wasn’t currently drugged. They’d had him on anti-psychotics when he was first brought in, but found it unnecessary. Shelley said he was docile, but she said it in a way that made it clear that she didn’t expect it to last.
 

“Mr. Blankenship, I need to ask you a few questions,” I said.
 

Blankenship’s head nodded and a chill went through me. I hadn’t expected him to move, I guess.
 

“Why?” he asked in a soft, rather high voice.
 

“Because I’ve been ordered to do so.”
 

He tilted his head up. His face was blank, not disinterested, not anything. I paused and took note of his injuries. One eye had multiple popped blood vessels, his lip was split in two places, and he had what looked like rug burn on his nose and right cheek. Monique had worked him over pretty good or maybe the cops helped out. I didn’t care which.
 

“Do you know Donatella Berry?”

“No.”
 

“Had you ever heard of Donatella Berry before the police mentioned her to you?”
 

“No.”
 

It was pretty straightforward. Dad thought, for some reason, I’d be able to tell if he was lying. I couldn’t. There was nothing to see.

“Did you know any of the people in Tulio the night you opened fire in the restaurant.”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Who did you know?”
 

“Jackson, Curt, Sierra.” Blankenship went on to name every member of the staff working that night at Tulio, but he didn’t name a single customer. I’d memorized the list.
 

“Why did you open fire at Tulio?” I asked.
 

“I wanted to kill them.”
 

“The staff?”
 

“Everyone.”
 

“Including the customers?”
 

“Yes.”
 

I wanted to shift in my chair, but his brown eyes were on me and squirming equaled weakness. What would he think if he saw that? Was this what Shelley meant by his perception would be my reality?
 

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.
 

I hesitated, but decided to be honest. “Yes. Are you?”
 

“You’re the first person who’s asked me that.”
 

“I’m not surprised. So, are you uncomfortable?” I asked.
 

The first expression flickered in his eyes. “Yes.”
 

Then I got it and I managed to contain a smile. “You didn’t expect to be uncomfortable.”
 

“I expected to be dead,” he said flatly.
 

“You must be disappointed.”
 

He nodded and I went on to ask him all the things I was supposed to ask, exactly way Dad told me to ask them. Blankenship admitted nothing about Donatella. The only thing I was sure of, was that being alive was a grave disappointment to him. In a weird way, I started to warm up to the psycho. I’d expected him to lie, blame the victims, and scream obscenities. But there was none of that. I asked questions. He answered. Short and to the point. He had no interest in me. His eyes didn’t roam over my chest, and he didn’t throw out the Marilyn comparison. It was like talking to a dead person, whose body just doesn’t know it yet.
 

“Is that it?” he asked.
 

“Not quite,” I said. “Your parents are here and they asked me to tell you that.”
 

His face froze and his head dropped back to his chest. We stayed like that, me watching and his head down, for at least a minute. I couldn’t tell if he was having an emotional reaction to his parents or what. He looked dead. Maybe it was a good time to start again if he was emotional.

“Who was your partner?” I asked.
 

“I didn’t
need
a partner.” Blankenship didn’t look up.
 

Need. Need was interesting. And it was important to him. So what did he have that he didn’t need?

“Not to do what you did, obviously. But there was someone.”
 

The door opened and Shelley came in. “Time’s up.”
 

Under any other circumstances, I would’ve begged for more time. Maybe I could get him to look up, maybe I could see the answer in his eyes. But that was not happening. Shelley took me by the arm and marched me to the door I’d come in earlier. Another guard opened it and Shelley ushered me through. At the last second, I looked back at Blankenship and caught him gazing at me with a glint in his eye. A tiny smile curved the edge of his lips. When our eyes met, both vanished instantly. Then I was out the door and it bolted automatically behind me.
 

“Okay?” asked Shelley.
 

I nodded.
 

“So not okay.”
 

“I don’t know what I am right now.”
 

“He got to you.”
 

“No, he didn’t,” I said, walking back down the hall beside her.
 

She shook her head. “Don’t come back. Not even if Tommy wants you to. Don’t do it.”
 

The leaving process was much faster than the entering. I got my stuff back and was taken out through a different set of doors, so I didn’t see Blankenship’s parents again. That was a relief. I don’t know what I would’ve said to them.
 

Mr. Cleves put me in my truck and I drove through the two gates and turned onto the narrow road that led to the prison. When I was out of sight of the guards’ shack, I pulled over and dialed Dad.
 

“There was a partner, but he’s never going to tell us who.”
 

“How do you know?” asked Dad.
 

“I just know.”
 

“That’s my girl.”

Chapter Four

THE DOOR WHIPPED open before my knuckles touched the wood. Aunt Miriam glared at me and she had her cane in hand, ready to strike.
 

“You’re late,” she said.
 

“I’m not late. It’s five til,” I said a little more sharply than I intended.
 

“Did you bring wine?”
 

I suppressed a smile. “Was I supposed to bring wine?”
 

“You are a guest. You are supposed to bring wine or a hostess gift,” Aunt Miriam’s freckled cheeks flamed pink.
 

“Do people still do that? Wasn’t that over in 1963?” I held up my purse. “I have orange Tic Tacs and a used tissue.”
 

She slammed the door the way a silver screen diva would. Think Lauren Bacall, only meaner. I laughed a little, and it was tempting to walk away, but what would I tell Mom? In my family, leaving after Aunt Miriam slams the door in your face means that you didn’t try hard enough. I did not want to try harder. I wanted to go home and sleep before my shift, but that definitely wasn’t happening. Aunt Miriam would call Mom. Mom would call me. Dad would call me. Aunt Tenne would call me. There would be a whole lot of calling and no sleeping.
 

I sighed and picked up the wine bottle I’d hidden beside the door. I was a bad niece, but sometimes I couldn’t resist bothering the old crab. She sure bothered me. I held up the bottle in front of the peephole and knocked.

“Who is it?” hollered Aunt Miriam. I’m pretty sure hostesses aren’t supposed to holler.
 

“Who do you think?” I hollered back.
 

“Someone who ignores the lessons I’ve taught her.”
 

That was pretty accurate.
 

“I was born in a barn.” I continued the hollering thing. It was fun.
 

The door whipped open again and Aunt Miriam was mid-rant when she saw the bottle. She swiped it out of my hand and eyed the label. “Bordeaux?”
 

“It goes with meatloaf,” I said, dipping down my chin to look properly chastened.

“How did you know we were having meatloaf?”
 

Because we already had pimento loaf.
 

“It’s snowing. Seemed like a meatloaf night,” I said.
 

She stepped back and let me in like it was a real honor. “Sit down. I’m ready to serve.”
 

I sat, as ordered, and watched as she popped the cork out of the bottle with a slim little screw better than a man with bulging biceps. I had to have one of those special cork removing gizmos that take no arm strength whatsoever. Aunt Miriam poured me exactly one ounce of wine, because I was working later, and then plated the famous Watts meatloaf. It was famous because it was Aunt Miriam’s mother’s recipe from the depression. Meat was scarce, so Great Grandma Cecile filled her meatloaf with boiled eggs. At some point, whole olives got added to the mix. Nobody knows who did that.