Luna knew that
interrogating Thomas Tutter would be tricky.
As she packed
up her things in the café and walked back to her car, she formulated a cover
story that she hoped would serve her purposes. When she talked to him, she
needed to approach the Patrick Brogan death from an angle, and she had to do it
in a way that would catch Tutter off guard. Her boss at the FBI, Frank Hagland,
had taught her the non-confrontational interrogation technique that he called “blindsiding.”
If you knew how to read body language and behavioral abnormalities like
microfacial expressions, the approach was nearly foolproof. Hopefully Thomas
Tutter’s reaction would tip her off to whether he had anything to do with it.
But first,
however, in order to make her cover story work, she had to collect some
information about the inmates who were confined in cells in the same area of
the prison on the night Patrick Brogan died.
The Allegheny
County Jail was only a few blocks away from the medical examiner’s office. The
cluster of modern brick buildings loomed on a strip of land between the
Duquesne University campus and the Monongahela River. It was a large and busy
incarceration facility, with an average population of three thousand inmates. The
ACJ performed about fifty bookings a day.
As Luna went
through all the bureaucratic hassle of being admitted through security and into
the administration building, the image of that empty toilet paper roller popped
back into her mind. Could the killer have used it as a spool to wrap thin rope
or cable to tie Patrick up while he was still asleep? A big man could have
suffocated Patrick with the plastic bag and then raised the body high enough to
attach the bag to the beam and make it look like a suicide...
But Patrick
would have fought hard, and there would have been evidence of that. Scratches,
bruises—
Tape! Duct
tape, maybe. The roller could have contained just enough tape to bind his
wrists and ankles...
But by the
time Luna entered the prison’s administrative offices, she had dismissed these
possibilities. If Patrick’s wrists or ankles had been bound, the autopsy would
have revealed it—there were no marks left of any kind on his extremities, and
tape would have left an adhesive residue. His skin had been carefully examined
for this as well—the pathologist specifically mentioned it in the autopsy
report.
Luna was
ushered into the assistant warden’s office, which had a window on the river
side of the main building. He was a pleasant, heavyset man in his forties by
the name of Josh Sheridan. When he saw Luna’s badge, he raised an eyebrow and
quipped. “Is the President coming to inspect our jail?” He raised his finger. “No,
wait—he’s coming to give us an award, right? A surprise award. Best county jail
in America!”
Luna chuckled
at his jokes, and she told him she was investigating a suicide that had taken
place fifteen years ago at the jail. She opened her small notebook and turned
to the page that had the basics of Patrick Brogan’s death she had copied down
from the autopsy report. Apparently the ACJ was organized into “pods” rather
than cellblocks, something Luna had not seen before.
She said, “The
deceased man was in Pod Twelve, Cell Five. Would it be possible for me to have
a quick look at that cell?”
“You want to
see it after fifteen
years has gone by?”
“I just want
to see the layout. I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s classified.”
This wasn’t
exactly true, but it served its purpose.
“I can show
you a photo of the—”
“I’d really
like to see the actual cell, sir, if you can swing it. Even if I just look
through the bars from the outside.”
“This is a
modern prison,” Sheridan said, almost with an air of arrogance. “We don’t have
bars, we have doors and windows.”
“Also, we don’t
call ’em cells anymore, we call ’em units.”
“Okay.” Gosh,
Luna thought, I’d hate for any of these poor rapists, murderers and thieves to
realize they were actually being incarcerated. She wondered what they called
the orange jumpsuits that the jail provided—complimentary member loungewear?
When Sheridan
saw that she would not take no for an answer, he turned to his computer and
clicked on the keyboard. While he did this, Luna picked up one of his business
cards, and glanced at it. His cell number was listed as well as his desk
extension.
“Can I have
one of these?”
“Knock
yourself out,” Sheridan said, still looking at the screen. “Okay, Unit
Twelve-Five is occupied right now, which is no surprise. We’re overcrowded as
hell, like every other damn facility in this country...” He glanced at his watch.
“But the prisoner is probably outside in the exercise yard right now. I can let
you look through the window, but that’s all. To go inside would require a
mountain of paperwork, even from you, and I’m sure you don’t want to be
bothered.”
“A look through
the window would be fine, sir.” She paused and added, “At this point.”
Sheridan
noticed Luna’s ominous addendum, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem to be
defensive about her visit, which was refreshing—she had thought he would be.
Grunting, he rose
from his desk, but before leading her out of the office, turned back to her and
said, “Pretend I’m giving you a tour of the facility and just showing you one
of the units, as an example? That would be best.”
A few minutes
later Josh Sheridan was leading Luna through the security area at the end of
Pod Twelve. She noticed that there was one guard on duty and a few new-looking
flat screen monitors that gave various views of the cells in the blocks, which were
arranged in a square, with a TV set and some plastic chairs on one side. A few
prisoners were slouched in their orange jumpsuits, watching a basketball game.
“Were all
these cameras and screens in place fifteen years ago?” Luna said, before they
actually entered the pod. The police section of the autopsy report hadn’t
mentioned any cameras.
“Fifteen years
ago...?” Sheridan thought about it. “No, not back then. We had a couple of
simple closed-circuit cameras but no actual recording equipment, just monitors
for the guards.”
They entered
the pod, and Luna followed Sheridan down the row of “units.” Several of the
bored-looking convicts turned and glanced at them.
“The Allegheny
County Jail is a modern correctional facility,” Sheridan said, in a rather loud
voice, “and this particular pod is designated low security. The units are
single-occupancy and generally used to house new, non-violent prisoners.”
Safety
reasons, Luna thought. That hadn’t worked out too well for Patrick Brogan.
“Each unit has
one bed, a combination stainless steel sink/toilet, a TV set—”
“And a Jacuzzi,”
one of the inmates called out.
“Yeah, don’t
forget to show her the Jacuzzzi!” another laughed.
“I’ll show it
to you, baby,” a third man said, grinning at Luna. But when he saw the look on
her face, and her physical size, the grin disappeared.
Sheridan led
her along the cells, casually glancing through the windows in the doors, and
came to a stop in front of Cell Five. “This unit is empty at the moment, if you
want to take a look and see what they’re like on the inside.”
Luna leaned
down and peered through the glass, hoping to see something to support her
latest theory, that maybe the killer had crept into the cell and wrapped rope
or wire or tape around and around Patrick, over his blanket and under the bed
frame, securing him so that he couldn’t move, the thick fabric protecting his
skin from any marks...but her hopes were instantly dashed.
The bed was
the type that was bolted to the wall.
There was no
space in between the wall and the frame to run any rope or wire or tape
through. She turned to ask Sheridan if that might have changed, but he had
stepped across the room and was quietly chewing out the inmates who had
harassed her.
Luna scanned
the rest of the cell, noting the toilet and sink, and the plastic trash can,
which was lined with a white plastic bag. She glanced at a half-used roll of
toilet paper that sat sideways on a shelf next to the toilet.
She then took
a quick glance up at the ceiling, noting the beam that Patrick was found
hanging from.
After Sheridan
led her back to the administration building and into his office, Luna said, “How
is toilet paper distributed over there? And how often?”
“Toilet paper?”
Sheridan said, as if this were a strange question.
“It’s normally
handed out once a week, one roll to a man. Partial rolls available from the
floor cop.”
“What about
the plastic trash bags? I noticed there was a bag lining the trash can in the
cell.”
Now a knowing
look appeared on Sheridan’s face. “I remember—this is about an inmate who hung
himself with one of those bags, right? I don’t recall the man’s name...”
“I can’t talk
about it, sir.”
“Right.” Sheridan
hesitated, glancing at her strong, broad shoulders. “Is this about a threat to
the President’s life?” He shrugged casually. “I’m just curious...”
“I can’t talk
about any aspect of this. It’s all classified.”
Sheridan
looked annoyed, but didn’t say anything. Sometimes having everyone think that
the only thing the Secret Service did was protect the President was a good
thing.
“And the trash
bags?” Luna said.
“The trash
bags are distributed by the porters—inmates assigned basic cellblock cleaning.
The bags are semi-controlled, mostly to prevent the prisoners from making
pruno. That’s prison wine.”
“I know what
pruno is, sir.”
“Anyways,
trash bags are always a problem in any prison. You can not only hang yourself
with them and make wine with them, you can also make one into a single-use
shank.” Sheridan shrugged. “What are we gonna do? We can’t ban everything.”
Luna nodded
and looked at her notes. “What about a retired guard named Thomas Tutter?”
Now Sheridan
was sure to understand exactly what she was doing, as Tutter had found Patrick
Brogan’s body and had been questioned by police. “What about him?”
“What kind of
employee was he?”
Sheridan
leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his neck, thinking. “A lot
better than most, I’d say. Tutter was a lifer, spent his whole career working
for the ACJ, one of the ‘old guard’—if you’ll excuse the pun—from the original
ACJ facility over on Ross Street. He picked up a few infractions for black
market dealings—selling cigarettes and alcohol to the inmates—but nearly all
the guards slip sooner or later. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Agent Faye,
that being a prison guard is low-paid, thankless work.”
Luna nodded. “I
know that, sir.”
They both just
stood there for a moment.
Sheridan
glanced at his watch. “If there’s nothing else...”
Luna had
gotten so caught up with her speculation about how Patrick Brogan might have
been killed that she had almost forgotten the main reason she had come here.
“Would it be
possible to see the cell assignment records for the Pod Twelve on the
particular dates I’m interested in?” She read off the dates, a span of two
weeks centered around Patrick’s death. “I need to know exactly who was in which
cell during that period.”
“I’m afraid
that information is classified,” Sheridan said.
Luna recoiled.
“Excuse me?”
A smile crept
across Sheridan’s lips. “Just giving you a hard time, Agent Faye. The Records
Department is one floor down. They can help you with that.” He picked up the
phone on his desk. “I’ll give them a heads up and make sure they take care of
you.”
“Thanks, I
appreciate it.”
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