Warden Salazar nodded. “We open every piece of mail that comes through here, but if it isn’t contraband, we don’t log individual senders. But apparently these have been coming from all over the country. By the way, Colby has to take them down every few days so that we can inspect the walls.”
“In case he’s trying to pull a Rita Hayworth/Shawshank Redemption number over on you?” Lynch asked.
The warden smiled. “Or using them to help hide contraband. As soon as the search is complete, he spends the rest of the day putting each picture back up.”
“A lot of work,” Metcalf said. “Though he doesn’t have a lot else to do.”
Kendra’s eyes narrowed on the wall near the bed, straining to see past the photos of herself.
“Is this cell telling you anything?” Lynch asked.
“Surprisingly little,” Kendra said. “Or maybe not so surprising. Prisons are designed to strip inmates of their individuality.”
Griffin knelt beside the small table, examining it. “Maybe you’re just being distracted by the thousand pictures of yourself.”
“Possibly.” She glanced up at the ceiling, one of the few spots in the room where her face wasn’t staring back at her. Griffin was right. The photos had rattled her.
Close your eyes. Concentrate.
After a moment, she resumed her scan of the cell. “Are smuggled mobile phones a problem in this prison, Warden?”
“They’re a problem in every prison. Guards are the biggest offenders. If they’re caught, they usually just wind up with probation. Not much of a deterrent, especially since they can get a thousand bucks a pop for passing them along to inmates.”
Kendra continued her search. “Well, Colby has used two of them here fairly recently.”
The warden’s jaw went slack.
Lynch chuckled. “When I’m around her, I get that same look on my face.”
“How did—?”
She glanced up. “And did he attack a guard in the last week or so?”
The warden nodded warily. “Yes, there was a slight altercation. May I ask how you—”
“The room smells vaguely of bleach. None of the other cells we passed had the smell. That led me to think there was a special reason. There are a few drops of blood on the ceiling. I’m guessing there was more.”
“There was. The guard was actually trying to take away some of these pictures of you, Dr. Michaels. Colby objected, and there was a bit of a scuffle. Colby took the brunt of it.”
“But he obviously got to keep his shrine,” Lynch said.
“He … bargained.”
“With what?” Kendra asked.
“Information. He gave us the name of the guard who had sold him some prescription meds. The guard is now on administrative leave pending an investigation, and Colby got to keep his collection. It’s rare for a prisoner to inform on a guard, but I guess he figured he won’t be here that much longer.” The warden turned toward Kendra. “How did you know about the phones?”
She picked up the envelopes of mail on the table. “A guard apparently slipped them to him with his opened mail envelopes. Look at the creased outlines on this one.” She held up a greeting-card envelope. “This is the imprint of an inexpensive flip phone.” She held up another envelope. “And this one is exactly the same.” She flipped them over and showed that each envelope had a lengthy series of numbers written on it. “And I’m willing to bet that these numbers unlock minutes on the accounts of those phones.” She handed the envelopes to Salazar. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Not immediately.” He pocketed the envelopes. “But you can bet we’ll do everything until we do identify it.”
Lynch placed his hand on Kendra’s back. Silent support. Comfort. “Anything else, Kendra?”
“No. Nothing.”
Nothing except those damned pictures.
Griffin turned toward the warden. “We need to talk to him.”
“Of course. I didn’t expect anything else. We have an interrogation room you can use in the visitor center.” He glanced at his watch. “He should be done with his media interview by now. I’ll have him brought over right away.” He looked curiously at Kendra. “Tell me, are you nervous? You haven’t seen him in a long time, have you?”
“Not long enough.” She followed Griffin out of the cell. “And ‘nervous’ isn’t the term I’d choose.” Dread, horror, and a curious sense of inevitability. “And, yes, it’s been over four years…”
CHAPTER
8
Four Years Earlier