prison hospital, the photographs were a testament to both the fragility and resilience of the human body. Elizabeth saw knife wounds, ripped skin, eyes swollen bloody.
“In the first three years, Mr. Wall endured seven hospitalizations. Four stabbings, some pretty horrific beatings. That one”—the warden waved a finger when she stopped on a photograph—“your Mr. Wall went headfirst down thirty concrete stairs.”
The skin was peeled off one side of Adrian’s face, his head shaved where staples held his scalp together. Six fingers were clearly broken, as was an arm, a leg. The sight made Elizabeth nauseous. “When you say he went headfirst down the stairs, you mean he was thrown.”
“A witness in prison…” The warden turned his palms up. “Few men have the courage to talk.”
“Adrian was a cop.”
“Yet a prisoner like everyone else, and not immune to the perils of institutional life.”
She tossed the photos on the desk, watched them slide, one across the other. “He could have been killed.”
“Could have been, but was not. These men, however, were.” A stack of files hit the desk. “Three different inmates. Three different incidents. All were suspected in one or more of the attacks on your friend. All died quietly and unseen, killed by a single stab wound, perfectly placed.” The warden touched the soft place at the back of his neck.
“How does one die, unseen, in prison?”
“Even in a place like this, there are dark corners.”
“Are you suggesting that Adrian killed these men?”
“Each death followed an attack on your friend. Two months later. Four months.”
“Hardly proof.”
“And yet, it speaks to a certain patience.”
Elizabeth studied the warden’s face. He had a reputation for being smart and effective. Beyond that, she knew nothing about him. As large as the prison stood in the life of the county, the warden kept to himself. He was rarely seen at restaurants or other gatherings. The prison was his life, and while she respected the professionalism, something about the man made her uncomfortable. The false smile? Something in his eyes? Maybe it was the way he spoke of dark corners.
“Why did Beckett want me to come here? It can’t be for this.”
“Only in part.” The warden used a remote control to turn on a wall-mounted television. The scene that flickered and firmed was of Adrian in a padded cell. He was pacing, muttering. The angle was down, as if the camera was mounted high in the corner. “Suicide watch. One of many.”
Elizabeth walked to the set for a better look. Adrian’s cheeks were sunken. Stubble covered his chin. He was agitated, one hand flicking out, then the other. It looked as if he was arguing. “Who’s he talking to?”
“God.” The warden joined her and shrugged. “The devil. Who can say? His condition worsened after the first year in isolation. He was often as you see him here.”
“You took him out of the general population?”
“Some months after the final assault.” The warden froze the image, looked vaguely apologetic. “It was time. Beyond time, perhaps.”
Elizabeth considered Adrian’s image on the screen. His face was tilted toward the camera, the eyes wide and fixed, the centers pixelated black. He looked angular, unbalanced. “Why is he out?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“He was released on early parole. That could not have happened without your approval. You say he killed three people. If that’s true, why did you let him out?”
“There is no proof he was involved.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s not a matter of proof, though, is it? Parole is about good behavior. A subjective standard.”
“Perhaps I am more sympathetic than you imagine.”
“Sympathetic?” Elizabeth could hide neither the doubt nor the dislike.
The warden smiled thinly and selected a photograph from the desk. It showed Adrian’s face: the ripped skin and staples, the stitches in his lips. “You have your own problems, do you not? Perhaps, that’s why Detective Beckett suggested you come, to better understand the proper use of your time.” He handed her the photograph, and she studied it, unflinching. “Prison is a horrible place, Detective. You would do well to avoid it.”
* * *
When Officer Preston took the woman away, the warden moved to the window and waited for her to appear outside. After four minutes she did, stopping once to peer up at his window. She was pretty in the morning light, not that he cared. When she was in her car, he called Beckett. “Your lady friend is a liar.” The car pulled away as the warden watched. “I studied her face when she looked at the photographs. She