Twist (17 page)

T
here was a trusty who trimmed prisoners’ fingernails and toenails, while the prisoners’ hands were cuffed behind them, but Mildred Gant never availed herself of those services. She used her teeth to keep her nails chewed down to the quick, and she secretly saved the trimmings.

Late at night, when her cellmate Isabella was asleep in the top bunk, Mildred would lie awake in the bottom and let one hand dangle down to the concrete floor. Doing the fine work by feel, she would gather the nail trimmings and sharpen them on the rough concrete surface. She saved the sharp trimmings in a folded sheet of paper, which she kept rolled up and tucked in a crack where the plumbing ran into the wall behind the toilet bowl.

Mildred’s cellmate Izzy, as the other women in detention called Isabella, was not a cooperative person. She didn’t share. In fact, she made everything, including the top bunk, her own. She chose to dominate.

She was ten years younger than Mildred and trimmer and more solid, with muscle developed in the prison gymnasium and on the exercise yard. In fact, she did push-ups in the cell, while Mildred dutifully watched and counted. Forty, fifty push-ups. Sometimes one-handed push-ups. Impressive. Though her forearms and shoulders were bulky, she still appeared feminine, mainly because of her long auburn hair. Her hair cascaded in waves and ringlets around her ears, then fell almost straight to the small of her back. Izzy’s hair was obviously her pride.

Mildred fantasized about getting on top of Izzy and stuffing handfuls of her hair into her mouth with one hand while she held Izzy’s nose with the other, so the dumb-ass woman would inhale and choke to death on her own hair. She would no doubt give Mildred quite a ride before she succumbed.

Sometimes Mildred would fall asleep thinking about that, and not the dangerous side of Izzy.

Izzy was inside the walls for giving her third husband a severe beating that began after he’d lost consciousness. He was completely paralyzed now, as well as divorced. Izzy’s lawyer had enough pull to have her charge reduced from attempted murder to intent to do great bodily harm. She still had five more years to serve of a twelve-year sentence.

Nobody messed with Izzy. Least of all Izzy’s cellmates, who tended to come and go.

Some evenings, for amusement, Izzy would tell Mildred how her husband used to beat her. Then she would show Mildred how she’d turned the tables on her assailant. And she would beat Mildred. The trick was to inflict pain without leaving incriminating bruises. That called for a lot of internal injury. If the assailant knew how, such a beating could be administered without leaving much of a trace.

While she was inflicting pain on Mildred, Izzy would always ask the same question: “Where’s the money?”

Mildred’s answer was more or less always the same. “Ain’t no money.”

The conversation that developed would also be much the same:

Izzy: “Said on the news it was paid out.”

Mildred: “Said wrong.”

Izzy: “News don’t lie.”

Mildred: “Neither do I.”

Izzy: “That hurt?”

Mildred: “Some.”

Izzy: “I can make it hurt more.”

Mildred: “Go ahead and have your fun.”

And Izzy would.

When she was finished with Mildred, for the time being, she would stand in front of a small all-steel mirror and use a brush with rubber bristles to brush her long hair. The hair made a soft crackling sound with every stroke.

Mildred knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be forced to brush Izzy’s hair. She wouldn’t endure that.

Like Izzy’s former cellmates, Mildred had taken to walking bent forward at the waist, so as not to awaken the pain.

Prison staff and administration knew of the situation but did nothing to stop it. Compared to some of the other problems they had to cope with—drugs, gang affiliations and wars, suicides, shower homicides—Mildred getting her ass whipped from time to time was nothing to them.

So Mildred suffered, and Mildred planned.

Thursday, supper was often a pathetic mix of cut vegetables, meat chunks of dubious origin, and pieces of potato. All half submerged in greasy brown gravy. The prison called it stew.

Mildred thought of it as opportunity.

 

 

She chose Thursday at dinner to slip a handful of razor-sharp finger and toenail clippings into Izzy’s food, which Mildred was as usual made to carry to their customary places at one of the long tables. The cell block guards not only didn’t mind Izzy bullying Mildred, they approved of it. They figured that without Izzy, Mildred would be hell and a handful. Though nothing was ever expressed in words, Izzy received extra candy bars and privileges in exchange for making sure Mildred stayed manageable.

Mildred had soon learned there was a hierarchy in prison. The guards pretty much left it alone to work. Thanks in part to Izzy, Mildred was at the bottom of the pecking order. Too bad for Mildred.

And Izzy.

 

 

A few hours before dawn, Izzy awoke with a horrendous stomach ache. Mildred could hear her groaning in the bunk above. Then Izzy began to cough and gag.

Mildred got up to take a look at her cellmate in the dim light. She could see that Izzy had spit up some blood and was curled in on herself with pain. The fetal position. That pleased Mildred.

The sharpened nail trimmings had done their work before becoming softened by swallowed food and stomach acid. If left alone, Izzy might bleed to death internally. But only
might
. Mildred had seen a dog poisoned this way when two fellas made a bet, and it had survived. Never barked much thereafter, though.

Izzy’s groaning and gagging wasn’t a problem. If any of the guards heard it, they would assume they were listening to Mildred suffering at the hands of Izzy, and stay away.

When Izzy had been administering her beatings to Mildred, Mildred had been learning. She knotted blankets around Izzy’s legs and arms, leaving her midsection bare. Then, using the tips of her stiffened fingers, she drove the wedge of flesh, bone, and fingertips deep into Izzy’s innards, shoving with a scooping motion, just beneath the rib cage and up. Over and over again.

Izzy couldn’t catch her breath at first, and was angry as hell. She began to scream, and she knew she had to be plenty loud and identify herself to get any results. Mildred was ready for that. She forced one of her socks, full of swept-up dirt, into Izzy’s gaping mouth. No sound emerged other than a muffled squawk.

That was it for Izzy’s screaming.

“You comfortable, bitch?” Mildred asked.

Izzy shook her head violently, making her long hair fly in all directions.

Mildred laughed, but softly, so no one in the dim cell block would hear. It remained quiet out there beyond the barred door. A lot of the women were snoring, which also helped to cover up any noise Izzy might make.

There was a lot of time left before daylight. Mildred set about going to work in earnest, enjoying herself.

Letting Izzy almost die.

 

 

Prison doctors couldn’t make a precise diagnosis of Izzy’s problem. There was considerable internal bleeding. It was as if she’d suffered serious damage, but X-rays showed no significant injuries except for possibly severe bruising.

How this had occurred was impossible to know. No one, including Izzy’s cellmate, Mildred, had any idea as to how this had happened. Mildred said Izzy had been experiencing dizzy spells lately, and suggested that she might have had a bad fall.

Izzy was hospitalized for over a week. She wasn’t the same after she returned, whiling away her time in the cell with Mildred.

Who slept in the top bunk.

E
va lay spread-eagle on her back on her bed, gazing up at the ceiling light fixture. It was an old one, with a bowl-shaped frosted glass cover. It was also switched off. The light in the room was from the bedside lamp and the smaller lamps on Eva’s dresser.

She knew who Brad was,
what
he was, and through her terror she wished she could ask him a thousand questions.

She could ask none. She could barely make a sound through the thick tape plastered over her mouth.

She listened to herself breathing hard and rhythmically, fearfully, through her nose. Oddly enough, her terror was at a distance. That was because she simply couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She had picked up a serial killer in a bar, liked him, had been looking forward to good sex with him. Then, no doubt because he’d put something in her drink, she’d passed out.

And here she was.

Good God! Here she was!

Her body became rigid and momentarily levitated slightly off the mattress as she was assailed by a wave of panic. Her heart battled to escape her chest.

Then a curious calm came over her. Like something small caught in the jaws of a tiger, she accepted her fate and wanted her ordeal to be over.

That didn’t seem to be Brad’s idea. She craned her neck and watched as he placed a Statue of Liberty, obviously plastic and no more than six or seven inches tall, on the dresser, facing Eva. As if he wanted the thing to have a clear view of what he was going to do.

Her mind spun away from what she’d heard and seen on TV and radio news, read about in the papers.

Brad came into clearer view, naked except for white rubber gloves and baggy shoe covers of the sort nurses and surgeons wore in operating rooms. Indeed, he went to the switch and turned on the overhead fixture, as if to illuminate a surgical procedure.

Eva knew which procedure.

He set his briefcase on the floor and she watched him bend over it, then straighten up. He was smiling, holding something.

She wet the bed. This was when they always lost control of themselves, when they first saw the knife.

He leaned over her and traced a wide C on her stomach with his gloved fingertip.

“Just about there,” he said, meeting her horrified gaze as if trying to find something in her bulging eyes.

Her body was vibrating now with raw fear that took over every part of her body and mind.

The knife was all she could see. She couldn’t look away from it.

And he held it up where she had a good view of it. He wanted her to see. To know. She wanted to deny him that, but she couldn’t look away.

She heard herself making a muffled, whimpering sound behind the tape. He touched the tape lightly, then pressed it to make sure it was adequately tight. They both knew she was about to scream.

He steadied himself, bending over her, and she watched his shoulders move and felt the cold blade and heard a ripping sound and knew what it was.

And she did scream. She heard only a pathetic humming, like that of a bee sealed in a jar.

Pain washed over her. She raised her head and looked.

She shouldn’t have.

She hadn’t realized she’d passed out, but he was holding something beneath her nose, waving it back and forth in protracted arcs, making her smell it. She coughed, almost strangling on her phlegm.

Unable not to, she looked down again.

Her stomach was laid open, and he was slowly and systematically removing things. The pain bored in like a separate rapacious creature with teeth and claws. She tasted blood, and was afraid she might drown in it behind the impenetrable wall of tape. She thrashed her head back and forth, managed to breathe, and willed herself to lose consciousness again. When finally she did drift away from the horror of reality, he brought her back again.

And again.

And again.

Until she no longer came back.

 

 

Another crime scene. Another F
REEDOM TO
K
ILL
message in blood. Another tortured and destroyed woman. If anything, the killer was becoming more vicious and expert in his torture technique. Nift didn’t hesitate to point that out.

Quinn wondered for the first time if he’d be able to go on seeing and thinking about the carnage. Dreaming about it.

There really wasn’t any choice.

Not if he wanted to continue living with himself.

A
ll Quinn knew about Harlan Wilcoxen at first was that he’d phoned and said he’d only be in New York for a few days, staying at the Hayden Hotel.

Quinn was familiar with the Hayden. It wasn’t classy enough to be called a boutique hotel, but it was okay, and well located on Seventh Avenue near Times Square. Wilcoxen said he’d like to talk to Quinn about the Lady Liberty murders. He’d also said he was formerly a U.S. marshal in Bland County, Missouri.

When Quinn saw Wilcoxen walk through the door of the Q&A office, he was impressed. Not that Wilcoxen was physically intimidating. He was easily in his seventies, a little under six feet tall, whipcord lean, and moved slowly, as if he had a sore back he’d long ago learned to accommodate. It was his cool blue eyes under gray brows, the rock-hard set of his jaw, and something about the steadiness of his gaze, that lent him a definite authority. He was wearing gray slacks, and a white dress shirt with a plain blue tie held by a silver clasp. After shaking Quinn’s hand, he sat down in the chair in front of Quinn’s desk. Quinn sat down across from him and waited.

“Hot enough for you?” Wilcoxen said.

“Hot enough for me to do what?”

Both men smiled, recognizing that neither believed in embellishing what they had to say with small talk.

“I read the
Times
here a while back, ’bout those Lady Liberty murders?” Apparently Wilcoxen was one of those people who ended some of their declarative sentences with question marks. “I didn’t think much of it at first?”

“And then?”

“Then I knew that if I didn’t do somethin’ about what was ticklin’ the back of my mind, I might never forgive myself?” He smiled thinly, as if holding high cards. “You ever had that problem?”

“Often enough,” Quinn said.

Wilcoxen drew a small cigar from his shirt’s breast pocket and held it up. “You mind?”

“I don’t,” Quinn said, “but that detective over there might shoot it out of your mouth.”

Wilcoxen shifted in his chair and stared across the office at Pearl. Shifted back. “Yep. She looks like she might.” Back in the pocket went the cigar. “She a good cop?”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much.”

Pearl seemed to sense she was being talked about, fixed her gaze on Wilcoxen, and stared him down.

“God almighty,” Wilcoxen said.

“No,” Quinn said, “just Pearl Kasner.”

Wilcoxen and Quinn both chuckled. Pearl gave them both a look.

“Anyways,” Wilcoxen said, “I been followin’ those Lady Liberty killings an’ my memory got itself jogged? They’re sorta similar to something that happened in Missouri some years back.”

“Similar how?”

“Young lady was found with her belly cut open, just like your victims here? Didn’t take us long to find out she’d been more’n eight months pregnant. Didn’t make any headway with the case for some time? Then it turned out—or at least it seems—a woman name of Mildred Gant had cut her open and stole her child right outta the womb. Musta done it almost on a whim. But suspicion ain’t evidence, ’specially in some parts of the country, so Gant was let alone. Didn’t hurt her either that she was scary as hell.”

“We’re not getting actual extreme C-section births here. So far, none of the victims was pregnant.”

“Oh, yeah. I know. Anyways, we never found out what happened for a long while? I was in on the investigation because it was a possible kidnappin’, makin’ it a federal offense? Never did find out for sure what occurred, though. Nothin’ much in the way of a clue. Just like it happened all of a sudden between strangers—an’ maybe it did. Anyways, this Mildred Gant was arrested a few years ago for swindling an antique dealer out of some money, got herself a spell in prison? I still got connections with the feds. Seems Mildred had a son, name of Dred—D-R-E-D—and there’s no birth record. Plenty of people seen ’em together, though, over the years? We learned he was a super smart kid, educated mostly at home. Then a truck driver that dealt in antiques took a shine to him, taught him all about the business? So much so, Dred impressed some big-time dealers, who hired him. Rumor is he quit them after a while an’ made himself rich.”

Quinn had been taking notes. “We need to talk to this Dred Gant.”

“I looked up the truck driver that knew him? He was killed in 2005 when his truck ran off the road in an ice storm? Woman he lived with said that from time to time he mentioned Dred. He did say the boy was smart as they come, and real gentle.”

“I think we’ve both seen gentle people do some very ungentle things,” Quinn said.

“Yep. Some smart ones, too. Especially if they been beat down over time when they were a kid?”

Wilcoxen was actually defending the killer, or at least making excuses for him. He must feel strongly about this case. Strongly enough to be in New York sitting and talking with Quinn.

“Is it your feeling the truck driver’s partner told the truth?” Quinn asked.

“It is. Dred disappeared some years back? He’d be pushing thirty now.”

“You mean he just disappeared?”

“Completely. Like a man runnin’ away from his life an’ lookin’ for another. An’ maybe he found one? Last anyone seen of him, he broke probation an’ left everything behind in some shit-hole apartment in Kansas City.”

“Probation for what?” Quinn asked.

“He visited his mother in a Missouri state prison in Chillicothe, an’ in a conversation room commenced trying to kill her with a jigsaw blade. A guard pulled him off just in time? Disfigured the woman somethin’ terrible, though. Hell of a way to treat dear ol’ Mom.”

“I’ll say. And for this he was only put on probation?”

“Judge heard what his mother done to him over the years, felt like saw whippin’ the woman himself, and showed a little mercy?”

“Was Mildred that much of a monster?”

“Yep. Near as I can tell.”

“Where exactly is the monster incarcerated? We need to talk with her.”

“Too late for that,” Wilcoxen said. “That’s what prompted me to come talk to you. Six days ago she knocked her cellmate unconscious? She didn’t have any kinda blade, so she yanked most of the woman’s long hair clear outta her head, then braided it to make a short rope and hanged herself dead.”

“Good Christ!” Quinn said.

“They tried to get hold of the son but couldn’t find him?” Wilcoxen pulled his cigar halfway out of his pocket without thinking about it, then slid it back in. “I doubt he’d have laid claim to the body anyways, an’ he sure wouldn’t have been interested in a funeral.”

“So nobody knows where Dred is?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Wilcoxen said. He shook his head. “An’ we sure as hell can’t ask his mother. Usin’ your cellmate’s hair like that . . . Mildred Gant was a resourceful sort. We gotta give her that.”

“I give her nothing,” Quinn said.

“Yeah,” Wilcoxen said. “I can see why you might have such feelin’s.” He placed gnarled hands on both knees and stood up. “I guess that’s all I can tell you for now? Mildred Gant is dead, an’ her son is in the wind, so I don’t know if I been any help to you at all.”

“You know how it works. We might not know for a while.”

“Yep. I do know. But I’m curious about this one? Have been for a long time.”

“I’ll let you know where things stand,” Quinn said.

Wilcoxen nodded and turned to leave. “An’ I’ll let you know, ’specially if I hear anything new on Dred Gant.” He shrugged. “Might be somethin’; might be nothin’.”

“Wait up,” Quinn said. He reached in a desk drawer and drew out a wrapped cigar. He stood and handed it across the desk to Wilcoxen. “They’re Cubans, and damned good. Just make sure you’re in a safe place before you light up.”

“Much thanks to you,” Wilcoxen said. As he slid the cigar into his pocket next to the other, he and Quinn both glanced over at Pearl, then at each other, and smiled.

Pearl shook her head as if having witnessed clueless boys at play, then went on with whatever it was she was doing.

 

 

At his desk, Quinn decided that treating Wilcoxen’s information as something had little downside. Gant was a violent and dangerous criminal who had broken probation and disappeared. If he objected to being the prime suspect and presumed Lady Liberty Killer, let him come forward. A lesser crime would be solved, a lesser criminal brought to justice.

Meanwhile, Dred Gant was in the wind.

And Quinn would test the wind.

“Hanged herself with her cellmate’s braided hair,” Pearl said, later that night in bed. “My God, what a world!”

They had both brought books to read in bed, mystery novels of the sort so divorced from reality that they provided a welcome change. Pearl’s novel wasn’t exactly a book. It was on an electronic reader she’d recently purchased. The print was enlarged so it was easier for her to read. She’d gotten used to the enlarged print, then dependent on it.

“Imagine the cellmate,” Quinn said.

Pearl shivered. “I’d rather not imagine.” She lay back and let her gaze roam around the brownstone’s spacious bedroom, with its high ceiling and ornate crown molding, the tall windows, the furniture they’d bought to match the period. She felt safe here, and safe next to a man who loved her.

How lucky she was, and how tenuous it all could be for her and for Quinn. Considering the people they dealt with, almost anything could happen. How terrible it was, the swamps good people could wander into, and the things that occupied those swamps.

She set her electronic reader aside, leaned over, and kissed Quinn.

He kissed her back, harder, using his tongue.

She waited until he’d placed his book on the nightstand and turned off his lamp, and then she came at him like a fury.