* * *
It turned out
that while the Records Department was just one floor down, and despite Sheridan’s
call to grease the skids for her, they could not help her. The time period of
interest was so long ago that the records were archived and kept in the prison’s
off-site storage facility.
She then received
another lesson in Pittsburghese.
“And where is
that facility exactly?” Luna asked the clerk, as she pulled out her map of the
city.
“In Sliberty.”
“Where?”
“Sliberty,”
the clerk repeated.
Luna frowned,
searching the map up and down. It sure sounded like he was saying Sliberty. Strange
name for a town, she thought. “Is Sliberty a suburb of Pittsburgh or...?”
“Yep, that’s
right.”
“Well, where
the hell is it?” she said, frustrated, and turned the map his way.
He ran his
finger across the paper. “Right there. See? Sliberty.”
“Oh, you mean East
Liberty.”
“That’s what I
said.”
She should
have brought along a translator.
Chapter 53
At six o’clock
that evening, Luna was sitting in another café, slowly eating a chicken Caesar
salad, working on her laptop, which was now logged into the secure Secret
Service website. She had retrieved the records from the East Liberty storage
facility and was running the names of all the prisoners, who had been housed in
Patrick’s pod the night he died, through the criminal databases. There were
twenty-three men in the “pod,” not counting Patrick, and she carefully made
notes about each of them. Some were still in jail, some were out on parole, and
some were deceased.
She had to
find the right man to pretend to be investigating when she talked to Thomas
Tutter—someone who was still alive, out of prison, and had been involved in
something that could be considered a financial crime, which would match her
investigative credentials if she chose to disclose them to Tutter.
Finally, she
settled on a prisoner by the name of Peter Jarvis. Jarvis had been convicted
multiple times of fraud, credit card theft, and passing bad checks. He had
apparently either cleaned up his act or improved his methods to the level that
he no longer got caught—he had been out of jail for over ten years and now
lived in Philadelphia.
It turned out
that Thomas Tutter himself was sixty-seven years old and had retired from his
lifetime work as a guard at the ACJ six years ago. He lived in a town forty
miles south of Pittsburgh which the locals called “Brahnsville.” Translated into normal
English, the actual name was Brownsville.
Luna had
gotten Thomas Tutter’s current address from Sheridan, who she had called back
on the phone. So far, Josh Sheridan was the only one who knew she was
investigating Patrick Brogan’s apparent suicide, and to ensure Elaine’s safety,
she had to keep it that way. Before Luna got off the phone with Sheridan, she
let him know in no uncertain terms that he had to keep his mouth shut.
“No one else
can know why I’m in Pittsburgh or what I talked to you about in your office
today. Is that clear, Mister Sheridan?”
“Of course.”
She hesitated,
and added, “Because if Thomas Tutter were to find out in advance that I’m
coming to talk to him, for example, that would be an obstruction of justice,
and the Attorney General would prosecute whoever was responsible to the fullest
extent of the law.”
“I understand
that, too,” Sheridan said.
“I’m glad you
do. You’ve been very helpful, sir, and I’d sure hate to see you stuck at ACJ
for the next twenty years in one of your own ‘units’.”
* * *
An hour later,
Luna was driving down I-79, headed towards, Brownsville. The little town was
situated on the “Mon,” as the locals called it, or the Monongahela River. From
her map, Luna could see that Tutter’s house was located on a street that ran
right alongside the riverbank, called, appropriately enough, Water Street.
When she
reached the address, she found that it was a modest, two story wooden
structure, and she paused for a second to study the old SUV parked in the
driveway. She had gotten Tutter’s license plate number from the Pennsylvania
Department of Transportation and checked to see if the plate on the SUV matched
it. It did. This was definitely Thomas Tutter’s house.
She pulled
over and parked in front of the house, making sure she didn’t get too far off
the road—there were several inches of snow on the ground and she didn’t want to
get stuck. Now she could see that smoke was coming out of the chimney on top of
the house—he was definitely home, or at least somebody was there.
Before she
climbed out of the car, she pulled out her service pistol and checked it, then
holstered it again. At this point, as far as she was concerned, if Patrick
Brogan had been murdered, there were only two possibilities. Either Thomas
Tutter had done it himself, or he had let someone else into the cell to do it. Either
way, she had no idea how Tutter might react when she strung him along with
questions about Peter Jarvis and then blindsided him with the real reason she
was there with questions about Patrick Brogan.
Besides, her
years of FBI experience had taught her that when you called on any kind of
suspect at their place of residence—be it a house, an apartment, or a mobile
home—you had to be prepared for anything and everything. There was just no
telling what you might encounter. Once, when she knocked on the door of the
sister of a suspected Mexican drug kingpin’s apartment in El Sereno, California—one
of L.A.’s worst suburbs— the first rap of her knuckles was answered with a .45
slug blasted point-blank through the wood that, miraculously, only grazed her
upper arm.
Tutter’s house
actually had a small front porch that was almost completely obscured by two
squatty fir trees on either side of the walk. The man obviously valued his
privacy. As she walked up the sidewalk, she noticed that it had been freshly
shoveled and scattered with some rock salt. When she stepped up onto the porch
she could see that the curtains on the windows were closed, but illuminated
from behind. And she thought she could hear the sound of a TV inside the house,
the roar of a crowd.
Before she
actually pushed the doorbell button, she moved to one side of the doorframe—she
had never forgotten El Sereno.
After a
moment, the door cracked only wide enough to be stopped by a chain.
An eye peered suspiciously
out, searching for her. “Yeah?”
She stepped
into view. “U.S. Secret Service.” She held her badge up so he could clearly see
it. “Are you Thomas Tutter?”
The eye
blinked once. “Yeah.” Warm air came through the crack carrying the sharp smell
of a wood fire.
“I need to
talk to you about a prisoner that was on your block when you worked as a guard
at the county jail.”
“Oh.” He
pulled his head back from the crack, and she could see that he was a rather
short, stocky, balding man. He was wearing dirty-looking running suit bottoms
and a Steelers tank-top sweatshirt. He was in excellent shape for a man of his
age—his biceps and forearms were muscular, almost sculpted. There was something
black smeared across his left wrist—it looked like soot. He glanced off
somewhere inside the house and said, “Just a sec, I need to redd-up a little. I
wasn’t expectin’ visitors.”
The door
clicked shut.
Redd-up,
Luna thought. Another Pittsburghese expression—she’d heard Elaine say that at
least once.
Luna put her
head a little closer to the door, listening—she thought his behavior was
already a little suspicious. Was someone in there with him? But she couldn’t
hear anything except the sound of the TV being cut off.
Suddenly the
door opened again. Tutter stood before her, in his stocking feet. With his
chubby cheeks, his face looked a little bit like a baby’s.
When Luna
stepped inside the foyer, she towered over the man. He stood no more than
five-three. There were no height rules for correctional officers, only weight
and health requirements.
Luna was
disappointed. Despite his muscles and the fact that he would have been fifteen
years younger at the time Patrick Brogan died, she could not imagine this
petite man overpowering Patrick Brogan, let alone lifting Patrick’s huge, heavy
body high enough off the floor to hang it from the ceiling beam.
“Sorry about
that,” Tutter said, motioning to the messy living room—there were clothes and
dirty glasses and plates scattered around. A fire was crackling in the
fireplace—it looked like he had just thrown on a new log. “Like I said, I wasn’t
expectin’ any visitors.” He frowned at her, looking her up and down. Mostly up,
since he was so much shorter. “What’s this all about?”
“Is there
somewhere we can sit and talk for a few minutes?”
“Well, sure.” He
did not seem put off or nervous. He led her through the small living room. She
had to step over a pair of sweatpants and a couple of dumbbells, a pile of
hunting and fishing magazines, and various other assorted junk.
Luna’s
experienced FBI investigator brain was taking in information at a rate that
would have rivaled a powerful computer. Her gaze shifting around the inside of
the house, checking the tabletops, walls, the fireplace mantle, and other
places where there were clues about what kind of man Thomas Tutter was.
By the time
they reached the kitchen, Luna knew that he lived alone, probably had no
children, and was possibly gay. She could not explain the latter, it was a
feeling she had based on the whole.
He turned to
Luna and surprised her with a smile. “Wanna pump some airn?”
She was
confused. Airn? Was he asking her if she wanted to work out?
Tutter
laughed. “I didn’t think yuze from around here, and now I know you’re
not.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer and offered it to
her.
Airn.
Iron City
Beer.
“Thanks,” she
said, chuckling. She popped the top on her can while he took a can for himself.
“You from
Worshington?” he said, looking her over.
“I am,” Luna
lied.
They seated
themselves opposite each other at the small dining table. She felt oddly at
ease with him.
Part 42
Luna pulled a
piece of paper from the inside of her coat pocket. “The reason I stopped by,
Mister Tutter, is that we’re investigating a man by the name of Peter Jarvis
who we think may be involved in some serious criminal activity. You remember
him? Peter Jarvis?”
“Oh, yeah,
sure, Jarvis. Professional con man, was in and out all the time for passin’ bad
checks n’at.” Luna had already figured out that n’at was Pittsburghese for “and
things like that.” Tutter took a sip of his beer. “What about him?”
“He’s
connected to another criminal who we think he met while he was in prison at ACJ
during a certain period, but we’re not sure who.” Luna was holding the paper in
her hand so that Tutter couldn’t see it. “I have a list of men who were on the
same pod with Jarvis at the time, fifteen years ago. I want to read the names
to you and see if you remember if Jarvis was tight with any of them.”
Tutter
whistled. “Fifteen years ago? That’s a long time.”
“I know, but
if you remember anything at all, it would be very helpful.”
“Well, I’ll do
my best.” Tutter took another sip of his beer, his biceps bulging as he raised
the can to his lip. He looked at her evenly. “Shoot.”
“Johnny
Allard?”
Tutter shook
his head. “Don’t remember him.”
“Matthew or
Matt Wilshire?”
“Don’t
remember him, either.”
“Phillip
Harmond?”
Tutter
frowned. “I don’t remember any of these guys! Most were probably in on some
petty charge, one time, or I’d remember ’em. This is Pod Twelve you’re talkin’
about, right?”
“Right.”
“Most of the
inmates there were transients, short-term, either ready to get out or waitin’ arraignment
or to be transferred n’at.”
Luna had just
noticed something interesting about Tutter’s kitchen. There was a locked door
just on the other side of the refrigerator, a door that presumably led to a
cellar. Even from here, she could see that a heavy-duty deadbolt type lock had
been installed on it. The linoleum around the bottom of the door was badly worn
and she could see that it was wet right now with a little water, from melted
snow, and a few twigs and bits of leaves. But the woodpile was out on the side
of the house—she had seen it. What was down in the cellar, and why the heavily
locked door?
Luna looked
back at the paper, then raised her eyes and watched Tutter’s face and body very
closely. “What about Patrick Brogan?”
There it was,
the slightest tick under his right eye.
“Patrick
Brogan? Yeah, of course I remember him.”
“Why of
course?”
“Well, he
killed hisself on my watch, that’s why.” Tutter lowered his beer can, looking
past Luna, shaking his head. “Terrible thing. Real nice guy. He was in for
passing fake money, but I don’t think he done it on purpose.” Tutter looked reflectively
back at Luna. “You know, when you work in the field of corrections all your
life, you get a sixth sense for who belongs in there and who don’t, and Patrick
Brogan was a misfit. If I remember right, it was the first time he was ever in
trouble, and he was like thirty-five or somethin’, had a kid, a teenage
daughter. That girl of his come to see him one time, in fact—beautiful girl, too,
some kinda photo model or somethin’.”
Elaine, Luna
thought—she must have been a sight at sixteen.
“So what
exactly happened to him?” Luna said.
Tutter
frowned. “To Brogan, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I told ya, he
killed hisself.”
Luna didn’t
respond—she was still studying his face and body language.
Tutter frowned
at her. “He wasn’t friends with Peter Jarvis, or nobody else, I can tell you
that. He was only in there a week, and he kept to hisself the whole time.”
“You said he
committed suicide...?”
“I just told
you...” Tutter became still, his hand gripping the beer can tighter—Luna heard
the tin make a faint pop. His face turned bright red. “You’re not here
about Peter Jarvis.” He said this in an accusing tone.
Luna still
didn’t respond.
He suddenly
rose from the table. “Get out of my house!”
“Hey, hold on—”
In an instant,
he reached behind his jogging pants and pulled out a pistol. He leveled it at
her chest.
Luna pushed
back in her chair and raised both hands with her palms open, her eyes locked on
the gun. “Now you just stay calm, Mr. Tutter.”
“I am calm, I’m
just tellin’ you to get your ass out of my house!”
Remaining in
her seat with her hands raised, she said, “Pulling a gun on a federal agent isn’t
a smart thing to do.”
“Fedral agent?
I don’t know who the hell you are—that badge you showed may be fake!”
Luna glanced
past him, at the locked cellar door.
“I said get
out!”
“Can I stand
up, please, and leave peacefully?”
“Sure, lady.
You just walk right on out the front door, same way you came in. And if you
really are a fedral agent, you can come back with some real cops—local
cops—and ask me anything you want. Or search the house if you have a warrant, I
don’t give a damn.”
He just stood
there in the kitchen, breathing hard, the gun steadily aimed at her.
Luna slowly
rose to her feet, keeping her hands in the air. “Look, Mr. Tutter, we got off
on the wrong foot. You’re right. I am here to investigate the death of Patrick
Brogan. I apologize for not being more upfront—”
“Get out!”
“If you don’t
have anything to hide, then why can’t we just talk about it?”
“Because I
talked about it already, fifteen years ago! They did an inquest on that and
decided it was a suicide, open and shut! I had nothin’ to do with it.”
“I’m not
saying you did.” Luna paused—he seemed to have calmed down a little, but he was
still breathing hard, the air whistling through his nose. “But what do you
think?”
He frowned. “What
do I think about what?”
“What happened
to Patrick Brogan? I’m asking you personally—do you think it was a
suicide?”
“We’re done
talkin’,” he said, pressing his lips together. “Get the hell out of my
house! You’re tresspassin’. I’m not going to tell you again!”
* * *
A few minutes
later, Luna was back in the rental car, parked on a parallel street that
afforded her a good view of Tutter’s house.
She reasoned
that Tutter might very well have thought she was sent to kill him by whoever
had put out the contract on Patrick Brogan. Or maybe he thought that Spyro
Leandrou had sent her to put a stop to the blackmailing, if he had been the one
who Kathy had said came to Greece and demanded money. But then Luna realized
that Tutter didn’t remotely fit the description that Kathy had given of the
blackmailer—“Unusually handsome, I would say, like a movie star. Chiseled
features, ice-chip blue eyes...and he has this big dimple in his chin, what do
they call it—a cleft. That really stood out on him.”
Tutter had no
cleft in his chin, and “chiseled features?” Tutter’s face was as round as an
infant’s.
Tutter’s words
about Patrick Brogan being a nice guy and not fitting the criminal mold were
also puzzling to Luna—they had seemed sincere to her. Which told Luna he might
not actually be guilty of murdering Patrick...yet he was somehow involved, or
had some knowledge about it that he’d been sitting on for years.
And that
locked door in his kitchen—what the hell was he hiding down in his cellar?
Luna looked
between the two houses at his SUV. Her main concern at this moment was that he
might contact Spyro Leandrou, or contact someone else who would contact Spyro,
and that could be bad for Elaine. Very bad.
She was
considering breaking into his house if she saw him leave. She had brought all
the tools she needed with her from France in anticipation of a situation like
this...
Luna pushed
this from her mind for the time being, and her thoughts turned back to the
nagging question of how Patrick Brogan had been killed. She still hadn’t
figured that out. If the prison bed was attached to the wall, there was simply
no space to tie Patrick down while he was sleeping...
Then she
remembered that she’d forgotten to ask Josh Sheridan that question. The cell
furniture might very well have been changed in the past fifteen years.
Still keeping
an eye on Tutter’s house, she pulled out her phone and dug out Josh Sheridan’s
business card. It was long after five o’clock and she assumed the man had gone
home, so she called his cell phone.
“Sheridan,” he
answered gruffly. There was a lot of noise in the background—it sounded like he
was at a party.
“This is Luna
Faye again, with the Secret Service. I’m sorry to disturb you after hours—”
“Oh, no
problem, just with my buddies watchin’ TV. You a Stillers fan?”
Stillers? she
thought. All she could think of were Ben Stiller and Jerry Stiller, the two
comedian-actors. Then she heard the sound of a large crowd on the TV in the
background. He means Steelers, she thought. The Pittsburgh Steelers
football team.
“No, I’m not a
Steelers fan, sorry to say. I’m not from Pittsburgh originally.”
“Hell, that
don’t matter! We got fans all over the country, all over the world! I went to
London last year and saw Stillers T-shirts and hats everywhere.”
Luna chuckled.
“We’re pumpin’
some Airn and watchin’ three of Terry Bradshaw’s best games tonight,
back-to-back! Excitin’ stuff!”
“Well of
course I know Terry Bradshaw.”
“Well you
better!” Sheridan paused and laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “What can I do
for you, Agent Faye?”
“I was just
wondering—have the cells at ACJ, I mean, the units, in Pod Twelve, always had
the type of beds that attach directly to the wall?”
“Let me
think...well, no. We remodeled that pod back about ten years ago.”
“What kind of
beds were in there before?”
“Pipe frame
type, freestanding. Those kind of beds aren’t as good for correctional
facilities. You can bolt ’em to the floor, but prisoners can still get ’em up
and throw them around and generally raise hell with ’em.”
“So with those
type beds, there’s usually a space between the bed and the wall?”
“Can be, yeah.
There was with ours, about a two, three-inch space between the bed and the
wall. It’s easier to keep the frame and mattress and bed clean that way.” Sheridan
paused. “Why are you asking?”
At that
second, she was still watching Tutter’s house, and she thought she glimpsed
some shadowy movement in his front yard. The interior light of the SUV flashed
on and off briefly. Then the headlights came on, and the vehicle slowly backed
out of the driveway.
He was
leaving.
“I’ve got to
go,” Luna told Sheridan over the phone. “You and your buddies enjoy yourselves.”
Next Part =>
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