Life Sentences (26 page)

“Good.” Celeste noted his serious eyes were embedded in hammock-like folds, perhaps from lack of sleep, almost hiding the lines which mapped his life.

“I just thought we could chat first. Get to know each other.” He tasted the coffee and reached into a drawer. When he closed it, he chuckled. “I keep forgetting I quit smoking. Doctor’s orders.”

Celeste noted the absence of an ashtray. She also eyed the permanent stains on the warden’s desk from rings madeby coffee mugs. Those circles surrounded Whitefeather’s work surface like a fence. Celeste took a moment to marvel at the soft yellow walls, a far cry from the institutional beige in the lobby. Did the warden or his secretary pick that color?

Pilar never talked much about Whitefeather except to say he was a chauvinist like all the other men she encountered. Her angry descriptions of the warden often ended in her affirming, “He reminds me of Father.” So far, Celeste didn’t see the likeness.

Celeste often speculated that Pilar had brought some of that on to herself. Perhaps she was so entrenched in being a feminist that she saw all men as sexist idiots. Except Chad, Celeste guessed.

“How much do you know about your daughter’s work here?” the warden asked in a soft tone similar to that used by Detective Patterson. Was it part of their formal training, perhaps, to get what they wanted when interrogating someone?

“Not much. She told me about her general work in the infirmary. She hardly spoke about the prisoners or co-workers.” Why hadn’t she pressed Pilar more about her day-to-day world?

“Umm.” Warden Whitefeather brushed his full head of unruly hair away from his weathered, but affable face. Celeste wondered whether he treated his wife like Marcus had treated her, as an occasional ornament. By the way his shirt looked, no one ironed in his family. What a stupidthing to think about at a time like this. It must be a diversion for her anxiety.

The warden’s brow furrowed when he said, “Pilar also seemed to have a deep concern for social problems, especially the humane treatment of inmates.” He stopped to answer his telephone. He hung up and announced, “It’s time for you to meet Chad Wilbanks.”

When Celeste stood her knees buckled slightly. Whitefeather caught her arm to steady her. “We’ll talk more when you have completed your visit.”

“Visit?” Celeste made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. “I intend to find out who this man is and how he was able to manipulate someone as intelligent as my daughter.”

Whitefeather didn’t respond.

Celeste started to walk away, but stopped and faced the warden. “Do you know who killed my daughter? Do you believe Chad Wilbanks orchestrated the whole thing?”

The warden lowered his head and examined the floor for a few seconds. He looked at her and said, “I can only speculate about who did what and that won’t get you or the police any closer to the real culprit. I’d prefer to leave all that to the proper investigators.”

Although not satisfied with his answer, Celeste understood his hesitancy to venture a conclusion that could be wrong, or even hurtful. She didn’t prod him further, for the time being.

Whitefeather escorted Celeste past his secretary’scurious gaze once more and through the gates into the visiting area. Thankfully, Celeste wasn’t subjected to a shake down like those Pilar described. It was bad enough to be exposed to the security officer’s gape. Celeste noted his name, Leonard, on the tag fastened above his chest pocket.

Good thing she remembered what Pilar told her about visiting. Celeste wore a slack suit and locked her purse in the trunk “Just bring a picture ID,” she had instructed. “That’s all you’ll need if you visit me here.”

Each time a gate clanged shut behind her, Celeste’s heart raced a little faster. Did Pilar ever get used to that sound? If she were alone, Celeste would take deep meditative breaths. But she refused to let the employees believe she was a wimp, which of course was exactly how she felt. So she held her head high and suffered the echoing clicks of her heels as she walked at the side of Warden Whitefeather. Her breathing and the clicking were all that was heard as the two traveled the empty corridor. Whitefeather, on the other hand, made no sound as though he wore only socks, or was a ghost.

“Here we are, Mrs. Brookstone.” The warden opened the door to a booth. Once you’re settled in here, that officer over there,” he pointed to a door on the other side of the booth’s window, “will bring Wilbanks in.”

Celeste looked at the officer near the entrance and back at Whitefeather. She forced a smile.

“When you’re done, just press this.” He placed afinger on an object that looked like a button for a door bell. “And an officer will come for you. You can take as long as you like.”

Did he really want to say, “as long as you can stand it”?

“We’ll talk some more when you’re done.” White-feather’s smile brightened his face and temporarily eased the tension. His grin lingered in Celeste’s memory for a few moments after Whitefeather closed the booth door.

Celeste’s heart pounded so hard she thought everyone heard it reverberate back and forth against the walls of the small enclosure. Surely one could suffocate from the heat if kept in that chamber too long. Though there was no air conditioning, her hands felt as if she had been in a blizzard without gloves.

The stainless steel table bolted beneath the viewing window was sticky. She tried to clean it with a hanky without success. She wouldn’t lean on it, that was all. It probably had never been cleaned after any visit.

Celeste took a sniff. The mix of odors reminded her of moldy laundry, body odor, and grease. She placed a hand over her nose and mouth to stifle the smell and prevent herself from gagging.

The chamber’s ceiling leaned on her while the floor pressed up. She became light-headed from the oppressive heat and stench. She was about to keel over when a sound of a gate opening startled her. Celeste lurched forward. She hit her head on the glass that separated her from the roomon the other side. She quickly checked to see if anyone noticed her clumsiness. She pressed her forehead against the window and struggled to see to the end of the room from where the sound came.

Suddenly, with little warning, a young man in prison blues and leg shackles shuffled past the line of windows and stainless steel stools. His leg chains scraped against the floor like those worn by the ghost of Christmas Past.

Chad sat opposite Celeste. With his hands chained loosely together, he lifted the receiver from a telephone mounted to the wall and gestured to Celeste to do the same.

Celeste’s thoughts spun in a dizzying motion, almost blurring her vision. The man facing her was alive and no longer in one of Pilar’s photos. She pressed the receiver to her ear.

“Pilar looked exactly like you,” Chad said as though he were Celeste’s good friend.

Suddenly Celeste regretted being there with the man who took Pilar from her. She might be no match for a convict, yet Celeste was determined not to let it show. She stared at Chad Wilbanks and answered, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Pilar told me a lot about you. She loved and respected you.”

This murderer spoke to Celeste like he would to his next door neighbor. She wanted to slap him, no — beat him. How could he even dream they had anything in common? Yet, they did. Pilar. Celeste took control of her anger and began her questioning, “Look, Mr. Wilbanks …”

“Chad,” he interrupted, “call me Chad. After all, we were practically relatives.”

His bright, childlike smile disgusted Celeste. His cockiness portrayed arrogance. “Look, Mr. Wilbanks,” she repeated with more forcefulness, “I am not here to chitchat. I’m here to find out what part you played in my daughter’s death.” The man on the other side of the glass so reminded Celeste of Marcus. Both could be charming and nonchalant in a situation like this one. Even their physical resemblance seemed uncanny. She had often heard everyone has a double somewhere in the world. Although if the two were placed side by side, the likeness would probably be less visible.

Chad never flinched at her sudden accusation. He was more in control than Celeste thought. Perhaps the visit would prove futile. Yet, Celeste wasn’t about to waste the trip and decided she didn’t have the time to pussyfoot around. “I’m going to ask you straight out,” she stated. “Did you have Pilar killed?”

Chad squeezed his eyes shut and remained like that for several seconds. When he opened them, he said with syrupy persuasion, “I thought we could be friends. I thought we could help each other grieve.”

“Grieve,” Celeste slammed her hand down.

Chad jumped at her sudden outburst.

“What do you know about grieving?” she yelled. “Whatdo you know about losing your only child?”

“I loved Pilar. I….”

“You wanted her money.”

Chad laid the receiver on the table. He glared at Celeste with more hate than she had ever seen in anyone. His eyes changed from a radiant mink brown to vacant black. She was sure he’d have killed her if he were a free man. After all, it had once been easy for him to commit murder.

Narrowing her own eyes to show as much determination and fearlessness as she was able, Celeste mouthed with exaggerated movement, “Pick up the receiver.”

Chad’s face immediately turned into the little boy’s she saw earlier. He coiled the telephone chord in his hand. A tear fell from his right eye. He was a good actor, really good.

Chad lifted the receiver and said, “I would never have hurt Pilar. She was different.” His voice was quiet, yet squeaky like a teenager going through puberty.

Chad’s acting wouldn’t persuade Celeste. “She had money, right?” she challenged.

“No. That wasn’t it. She understood. She really loved me.”

“You used that love. You used her trust. You had her killed, didn’t you, Chad?” She leaned against the glass separating them to show she would not be intimidated by someone locked in a cage.

“No!” he shouted, and stood. The officer who brought Chad into the room scurried to his side. Through thereceiver held in Chad’s hand, Celeste heard the officer’s muffled orders, “Calm down or I’ll terminate the visit.”

Chad nodded without looking away from Celeste. As he slowly sat, he said, “I thought maybe she really could get me out of this place, either by paying someone,” he glanced over his shoulder, then back to Celeste and whispered, “or helping me escape. We had plans. And now I’m back to these.” He jangled the chains secured around his waist.

It was worse than Celeste thought. “So, she paid someone to help you?” she asked. How could Pilar help this criminal escape? Either way, paying off a convict or being an accomplice in a prison break, Celeste believed that in the end Pilar would have been murdered.

“Yeah. The warden and cops know everything. Pilar told me not to keep her letters. But.” Chad rested his forehead on the table and rolled it back and forth. Then he smashed his head against the table over and over again. With each impact he yelled, “Damn.” Then he raised his head — nostrils flared, eyes on fire, and mouth grotesquely wide — and shouted, “She could have saved me.”

Celeste was awed by his behavior but believed Chad had been rewarded for such outbursts in the past. She visualized him lying flat on the floor of a supermarket, pummeling the tile with his heels and screaming, “But I really need that Snickers bar.” Like that incorrigible boy, Chad seemed to believe his unruly whining would convince Celeste that he was innocent. He did not.

Celeste pushed the button. The officer dragged Chad away. His face was smeared with blood. He twisted his head so that his wild, accusing eyes never left hers. Within seconds he disappeared behind a door and Celeste was escorted from the booth. Barely able to keep her legs from giving way for the second time that morning, the officer secured a hand under her arm. Celeste pulled away. “I’m fine.” She left the area more determined than ever to find Pilar’s killer.

W
ARDEN
W
HITEFEATHER WAITED IN
the lobby as though he’d been warned of Celeste’s abrupt departure. Once again his vigilance surprised her. He signaled the officer to withdraw and asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Brookstone?”

“Yes.” She gazed over her shoulder to the visiting area. “But, I wasn’t as ready to meet Wilbanks as I thought.”

“Would you like to come to my office for a few moments?” The warden took Celeste’s arm and ushered her in that direction.

“No. No, I need time to myself to get a grip on what just happened.” She gently drew away. Wilbanks had been too self-assured. And she was also taken back by how much he resembled Marcus. Maybe there was something to the theory that rejected daughters like Pilar searched for a father figure with similar characteristics to the natural parent.

Warden Whitefeather answered in a soothing tone, “I understand. Perhaps we could have dinner this eveningand talk.”

“Perhaps.” Celeste offered her hand as a thank-you gesture. “Call the Landmark Inn later. I’ll see if I’m up to it.” Dinner with him could garner some answers to her many questions. Then she remembered that book about women in love with murderers she had brought along. There just might be an answer in it, too.

“You have to eat, alone or with someone.” Whitefeather’s endearing smile once again brightened the entire area. He wasn’t at all like Marcus. In a similar situation, Marcus would have gone to the club without even asking Celeste.

O
VER DINNER THAT EVENING
Celeste and the warden shared their first names. Maxwell, or Max, somehow suited Whitefeather. Celeste discovered he was part Chippewa Indian and had lived in the Upper Peninsula most of his life. “Used to have a black ponytail in college.” He chuckled as he fingered the now mostly gray hair.

Celeste pictured Max as a gentle warrior. His facial features were chiseled into a finely honed image reminding her of the sculpted figure of Crazy Horse in South Dakota. Like that stone rendering Max looked more proud than handsome.

“After getting a degree in criminal justice from Michigan State,” Max explained, “and several assignments in other areas of the state I asked to be transferred back home.” He tilted his head to the window. “Never wanted to live anywhere else, I guess, despite the harsh winters.”