The Sixth Man (6 page)

“That electric fence has five thousand volts and low amperage, plenty lethal enough,” said Michelle in a low voice. “I’m betting there’s a concrete-grade beam under it so no one can dig out.” She paused. “But something is weird.”

“What?”

“You put in an electric fence to save labor costs. And in the world of prison perimeter security labor costs are basically tower guards. But every single tower is still manned by two shooters.”

“I guess they really don’t want to take any chances.”

“It’s overkill, at least to my mind.”

“What’d you expect? Our federal tax dollars at work.”

She noted a large array of solar panels off to one side, angled just right to take in the maximum amount of sunlight.

“Well, at least they’re going green,” she said, pointing them out to Sean.

They passed three more gates and three more checkpoints, and endured three more electronic scans and body searches, until Michelle assumed the guards collectively knew every contour of her person better than she did. At the entrance to the building massive portals resembling blast doors on a nukeproof bunker swung back on air-powered hydraulics. Michelle said in an impressed voice, “Okay, I’m thinking this place is escape-proof.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Do you think they know Bergin’s been murdered?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t bet against it.”

“So they might not let us in.”

“They let us come this far,” replied Sean.

“Yeah, and now I’m wondering why they have.”

“Little slow this morning?”

“What?”

He said nervously, “I’ve been wondering that ever since they cleared us through the first gate.”

T
HERE WAS ONE
more checkpoint inside the facility. A magnetometer for any stray weapons the other searches didn’t reveal, another probe of their persons, an X-ray for Michelle’s small bag, an ID and document check, a cross-reference on the visitor’s list, an oral interview that would have done Mossad proud, and a few phone calls. After that they were told to wait in an anteroom off the reception area, if one could call it that. The windows were at least three inches thick and presumably bullet-, fist-, and footproof.

Sean tapped on one. “Feels like the windows in the Beast.”

Michelle was examining the interior wall construction. She rubbed her hand up and down one section. “Don’t think this is run-of-the-mill drywall. Feels like a composite. A composite made of titanium. I doubt a round from my .45 could pierce it.”

“Called a buddy of mine who knew about this place,” said Sean. “It’s set on a rocker platform like they do the skyscrapers.”

“You mean in case there’s an earthquake.”

“Right. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

“Like you said, it’s only taxpayer money. But I wonder if its floodproof? We’re pretty close to the ocean here.”

“Retractable seawall. They can raise it in twenty minutes.”

“You’re kidding.”

Sean shook his head. “What my buddy told me.”

Michelle looked around the small, Spartan space. “I wonder how many visitors there are here? They don’t even have any magazines. And I doubt you could find a vending machine.”

“Would you want to come and visit someone here? Even if the person was family? I mean, it’s a facility for the criminally insane.”

“They don’t call it that anymore, do they?”

“I guess not, but it is what it is. They are criminal and they are insane.”

“Now look who’s being judgmental. Roy hasn’t even been tried.”

“Okay, you got me there.”

“But he’s still probably a psycho,” added Michelle, drawing a raised eyebrow from her partner. She said, “How many inmates—sorry, patients—here, do you reckon?”

“That’s classified, apparently.”

“Classified? How can that be? This isn’t part of the CIA or the Pentagon.”

“All I can tell you is I tried to find that out and ran right into a stone wall. I do know that Roy is probably the most high-profile inmate they have right now.”

“Until he’s supplanted by an even crazier psycho.”

“Excuse me?”

They turned to find a young man in a blue smock standing at the doorway. He held a small electronic pad. “Sean King and Michelle Maxwell?”

They rose together, towering over the shorter man. “That’s right,” said Sean.

“Here to see Edgar Roy?”

Sean was prepared to have a fight on his hands about them being able to see the man. But Blue Smock merely said, “Please follow me.”

A minute later he handed them off to a woman who was far more intimidating. Nearly as tall as Michelle but considerably wider and heavier, she looked capable of holding down the nose tackle position for a Division I football team. She introduced herself as Carla Dukes, the director of Cutter’s Rock. When her long fingers clamped around Michelle’s in a handshake, Michelle wondered if the woman used to call herself Carl.

Her office was a fourteen-by-fourteen square. A desk with a computer, three chairs counting hers, and nothing else. No file cabinets, no pictures of family or friends, no paintings on the wall, no view outside the room, nothing personal whatsoever.

“Please sit,” she said. They sat. She slid open her drawer, retrieved
a red file, and opened it on her desk. “I understand that Ted Bergin is dead.”

Thanks for getting right to the point,
thought Sean.
And now here comes the fight.

He said, “That’s right. The police and FBI are investigating. But we’re still scheduled to meet with Edgar Roy today and we didn’t want to forego that opportunity.”

“The appointment was for Ted Bergin and you accompanying him.”

“Well, he obviously can’t be here,” said Sean, his voice calm but firm.

“Of course not, but I’m not sure that in light of the circumstances—”

Michelle said, “But his defense will continue. He will be tried at some point. He is entitled to representation. And Sean is also a licensed attorney working with Ted Bergin.”

Dukes eyed Sean. “Is that right? I just thought you were both investigators.”

“I wear two hats,” said Sean, smoothly picking up on Michelle’s spur-of-the-moment tactic. “I’m a licensed PI and attorney in the Commonwealth of Virginia, where Roy will ultimately stand trial for the charges against him.”

“Do you have some evidence of that?”

Sean handed her his State Bar ID. “A call to Richmond will verify it,” he said.

She handed the card back. “So what exactly do you want to talk to Mr. Roy about?”

“Well, that’s confidential. If I told you, it would break the attorney-client privilege. That would be malpractice on my part.”

“It’s a delicate situation. Mr. Roy is a special case.”

“So we’re finding out,” interjected Michelle.

“We really need to see him,” added Sean.

“The FBI called this morning,” said Dukes.

“I’m sure they did,” said Sean. “Was it Special Agent Murdock?”

She ignored this. “He said that the murder of Ted Bergin might have something to do with his representation of Edgar Roy.”

“Do you think it does?” asked Michelle.

Dukes glanced sharply at her. “How would I know anything about that?”

“Had Bergin been to see Edgar Roy?” asked Sean.

“Of course he had. He was Roy’s legal counsel.”

“How often had he come? And when was the last time?”

“I don’t know that offhand. I’d have to check the files.”

“Could you do that?”

Her hand didn’t stray to the computer keyboard. “Why? If you’re working with him you should already know that information.”

“He came up here separately. We were going to meet with him last night and go over everything. But we obviously never got that chance.”

“I see.” Her hand still didn’t venture to the keyboard.

“Did Special Agent Murdock ask for that information?”

“I’m certainly in no position to tell you whether he did or didn’t.”

“Okay, can we see Edgar Roy now?”

“I’m really not too certain about this. I’ll have to consult with our legal counsel and get back to you.”

Sean rose and sighed heavily. “Okay, I was really hoping not to have to go down that road.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Dukes.

“Can you tell me where the local newspaper office is?”

She looked at him sharply. “Why?”

He checked his watch. “If we hurry, the paper can get the story in for the morning print edition of a federal government facility denying an accused access to his legal counsel. I would imagine the story could hit the AP wire as well, and then it’s a safe bet to be all over the Internet a few minutes after that. Just to get the facts right, do you spell Carla with a C or a K?”

Dukes stared up at him, her lips twitching and her gaze bordering on murderous. “Do you really want to do that?”

“Do you really want to break the law?”

“What law?” she snapped.

“An accused person’s Sixth Amendment right to legal counsel.
That’s the Constitution, by the way. And it’s always bad to screw with the Constitution.”

“He’s right, Ms. Dukes.”

Sean and Michelle turned to see Brandon Murdock in the doorway. The FBI agent smiled.

“Enjoy your
chat
with Edgar Roy,” he said.

S
EAN AND
M
ICHELLE WERE ESCORTED
into a room that was blankly white. Small. One door. Three chairs, one table, all bolted to the floor. Two chairs faced the one. In front of the one was a three-inch metal ring cemented into the floor. Between the two chairs and the one was a three-foot-wide wall of four-inch polycarbonate glass that ran from the floor to the ceiling.

And then the door opened and there he was.

Sean and Michelle had seen photos of Edgar Roy, both in the newspapers and also in a file packet Ted Bergin had sent them. Sean had even seen a segment of video on the man shortly after his arrest for the murders. Nothing prepared them for seeing the man in person.

He was six foot eight and extremely lean, like a giant number two pencil. He had a golf ball for an Adam’s apple set on a long neck. His hair was dark, long, and curly, and it framed a face that was thin and not unattractive. He wore glasses. Behind the lenses were black dots for eyes, like the die cuts on a pair of dice. Sean noted the man’s slender fingers. Tufts of hair stuck out from inside his ears. He was clean-shaven.

His arms and legs were shackled and he hobbled in truncated steps as the guards led him over to the chair behind the glass and locked the shackles into the floor ring. It allowed him mobility of about six inches. Two guards stood on either side of him. They were big men, with impassive faces. They were seemingly crafted from stone to guard other people. Neither one had weapons other than telescopic metal billy clubs. These could extend out four feet and deliver crushing blows.

At the doorway were two more guards. Each one gripped pump action shotguns that had been modified to hold a Taser component that could fire a twelve-gauge projectile up to a hundred feet, delivering a twenty-second pulse of energy that would lay an NFL tackle on the ground and keep him there for a long time.

Sean and Michelle turned their attention back to Edgar Roy behind the wall of bulletproof glass. His long legs stuck out straight, the heels of his prison-issued canvas loafers kissing the wall of unbreakable glass.

“Okay,” said Sean, drawing his gaze from Roy and and eyeing the guards. “We’ll need to speak to our client alone.”

None of the four guards even moved an inch. They could’ve been statues.

Sean said, “I’m his attorney. We need some alone time, guys.”

Still no movement. Apparently the four men were immobile
and
deaf.

Sean licked his lips. “Okay, who’s your supervisor?” he asked the guy holding a shotgun.

The man didn’t even look at Sean.

Sean glanced at Roy. Sean wasn’t even sure he was still alive because he couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. His eyes just stared straight ahead, looking but apparently not registering on anything.

“Having fun yet?”

They turned to see Agent Murdock staring at them from the doorway.