The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(114)

Thankyouthankyouthankyou, he whispered to the deity who watched over prisons and their harried staff. He clicked his pen and prepared to sign a number of requisition orders.


Officer B. Miller waited until the metal door to D Wing had slid open, and then he walked through. News had traveled at roughly the speed of light, and he knew that his 4:00 a.m. strolls with the inmate residing in Cell D-37 were over.

The door to Cameron’s former cell was locked; no one had been inside it since the inmate had. He had stripped the bed, disposed of his toiletries in a small wastebasket, and no personal items were in sight anywhere. Son-of-a-bitch had known he wouldn’t be coming back.

And a voice Miller didn’t like at all murmured in his ear, one way or the other.


In his cell, Manny Oretremos waited until he knew he would be alone for a few minutes, without a guard walking past and checking on him through the bars. His life, such as it was, had been over the minute he had not sent his vial of bleach flying toward John Cameron. It was just a question of when his destiny would catch up with him. And he’d had enough. Enough of everything and everyone. Most of all he couldn’t bear the constant fear any longer, fear that had rubbed against his skin for years and worn it paper-thin.

He was in solitary, and what he had in mind was not easy to accomplish. If he had a well of undiscovered determination, now it was the time to find it.

He prayed to the Virgin Mary and asked forgiveness for his sins.

Twelve minutes later a guard found Manny Oretremos on the floor of his cell: he had crammed toilet paper into his nostrils and stuffed the thin blanket on his cot into his mouth down to his throat. The medics tried to revive him, but he was pronounced dead at the scene. They notified the deputy warden of the situation. The paperwork would follow.





Chapter 54





Madison, back at her desk, flipped through a small pile of messages and picked out Dr. Takemoto’s. She called her back.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve e-mailed you some notes about my first session with Vincent Foley, and I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow, all being well,” the doctor said.

“Thank you,” Madison replied.

“You know, even when he’s not there, Ronald is very much a presence in Vincent’s life. His thoughts definitely spin around his foster brother.”

After they said good-bye, Madison opened her e-mail and read the transcript and everything Vincent Foley had said to the doctor. The words seemed to have a life of their own on the screen, suspended as they were between reality and Vincent’s own inner world.

Lieutenant Fynn came out of his office and spoke to the detectives’ room in general. “The Honorable Claire Martin has just dismissed the case against John Cameron. He’s out.” It was a statement of fact, and they could do with it what they wanted.

Madison felt Kelly’s eyes on her back. They were all aware she had given a statement, and that statement had said that she did not remember seeing the knife Cameron had allegedly use to attack the victim, or any other weapon, in his hand.

At that point, half-crazy with grief and anger as she was, she couldn’t be sure of what she had seen; she had not lied in the statement. Had there been a flash of gunmetal in the beams of the flashlights? Probably. Did she believe Cameron carried a knife? Definitely. Did she want to swear under oath to either of those facts? No, she did not. But there was a deeper truth, as well, and she might as well face it, because it wasn’t going to go away. Madison had never committed perjury, which was why she had told Cameron not to say a word to her before the police had arrived that night; however, something in her moral compass found it impossible to begrudge Cameron his freedom. She had experienced on her skin what it was like when Harry Salinger made you his personal project. If the prosecution had not been able to present a case, then she wasn’t unhappy about it. Not unhappy was not happy; it simply was what it was.

Cameron was out, and Nathan Quinn could breathe a sigh of relief. Until his favorite client got busy again, that is.

Her cell started vibrating. It was Amy Sorensen.

“I thought I’d bring you good tidings,” the CSU investigator said. “Spencer already knows.”

“What is it?”

“We matched DNA from Mr. Sullivan to one hair on the bag over Warren Lee’s head.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“Spencer said the guy isn’t talking. Maybe that’ll give him a nudge.”

“Thanks, Amy.”

“Something else. There were prints on the scrap of paper from the yearbook.”

“David Quinn’s picture?”

“Yes. We recovered a thumbprint belonging to one Timothy Gilman, and the index finger on the back was matched to Ronald Gray’s.”