“Yes,” Kendra said. “He’s become very philosophical about his crimes. He considers them his life’s work. He thinks he’ll live on through them. He believes that will mean he’ll outlive us all.”
“Like an artist and his paintings,” Reade said thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” Salazar said. “Colby is being interviewed for a British news show right now. But if you’d like to see his cell, I’ll walk over with you.”
“Good,” Griffin said. “I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Salazar headed for the door. “Come along.”
Accompanied by a pair of guards, they followed Salazar out of the administration building and through a tall gate that led to the main detention complex. Two gates later, they entered the East cellblock.
“This is where most of our death-row inmates are housed,” Salazar said. “We classify them as either Grade A or Grade B. If they behave themselves, they’re Grade A and put here. Our more troublesome death-row inmates are classified Grade B and put over in the Security Center. Colby has spent time over there after some of his altercations, but he usually stays here.”
Kendra looked up at the huge, double-sided cellblock. It was five tiers high, with each tier holding about fifty cells on each side. The cell doors were standard-issue prison bars, covered by metal security gates with a diagonal crosshatch pattern.
Salazar pointed to a contraption that looked like a ladder on wheels. A telephone was mounted on its upper surface. “Prisoners have telephone privileges every other day, in the morning and evening. This cart is wheeled in front of their cell, and they can reach through their food port and use the phone.”
Kendra heard dozens of television programs wafting down the cellblock. “They have TVs in their cells?”
“They can, if they want to pay for it. It’s two hundred and fifty dollars as a onetime fee. I don’t believe Colby has ever requested one. Though, as you know, money has never been a problem for him. He was a rich kid who became a rich monster.”
They stopped in front of a ground-floor cell. One of the guards spoke into his walkie-talkie, and the door unlocked with a distinct “thunk.”
Salazar turned back. “I came here this morning with the cellblock commander after we finished gathering the information you requested, Griffin.” He turned to Kendra. “Dr. Michaels, I’d like you to be prepared for what you’re going to see in here.”
Kendra found herself bracing defensively. “Why?”
Salazar grimaced. “Because Eric Colby appears to be as interested in you as you are in him.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
The guard swung the door open.
Kendra stopped short.
Almost every inch of the cell, from floor to ceiling, was papered with pictures of her.
“Holy shit,” Metcalf blurted out.
Her own face, thousands of times over, stared at her from every direction. She took a deep breath, but it suddenly seemed impossible to get enough oxygen.
Don’t freeze up now. Just move.
Kendra slowly stepped into the cell, which was approximately eight feet by ten feet. There was a bed, a toilet, a small table, and wall-mounted shelves with four open compartments. And the thousands and thousands of Kendra Michaels photos, all of varying sizes and quality.
She was ice-cold, drowning, as she stared at them.
Get a grip.
“These were downloaded from the Web,” Kendra said. “Crime-scene shots, courthouse appearances, even some pictures taken at educational symposiums.”
Reade turned to the warden. “Do prisoners have Internet access?”
“No. We don’t even allow them to receive regular mail that includes printed Web pages. Photos are permitted, as long as they’re downloaded and printed by themselves. Colby obviously put the word out that he wanted pictures of you.”
“And his followers were only too happy to oblige,” Lynch said.
Kendra scanned the room, trying not to let the pictures unnerve her more than they already had.
Focus. Block it out.
“How long has he had the Kendra Michaels photo collage?” Griffin asked.
“I asked the block commander about it this morning. It’s a fairly recent phenomenon. The pictures started coming in about eight months ago, and they immediately went up on the walls.”
“Is it possible that they’re all from the same person?” Griffin asked.
“Doubtful,” Kendra cut in before the warden could respond. “Almost all of them are from different printers. Some ink jet, some laser, a few thermal. And they’re cut differently, with various types and sizes of scissors, razor blades, and paper cutters.”