Love You More: A Novel

  Seven-thirty. Breakfast.

  Erica was up. Still muttering, not looking at me. Agitated. Meth had fried her brain. She needed rehab, and mental health services more than a jail sentence. Then again, welcome to most of the prison population.

  We got limp pancakes, applesauce, and milk. Erica put the applesauce on her pancakes, rolled it all together, and ate it in three giant mouthfuls. Four gulps took care of the milk. Then she eyed my tray.

  I had no appetite. The pancakes tasted like wet tissue on my tongue. I stared at her and slowly ate them anyway.

  Erica sat on the toilet. I turned around to give her privacy.

  She laughed.

  Later, I used my hooter bag to brush my teeth and apply deodorant. Then … Then I didn’t really know what to do. Welcome to my first full day in prison.

  Rec time arrived. The CO opened our cell. Some women drifted out, some stayed inside. I couldn’t take it anymore. The ten foot ceilings and yawning windows gave the illusion of space, but a jail cell was a jail cell. I already felt overflouresced, pining for natural sunlight.

  I paced over to the sitting area at one end of the commons, where six ladies had gathered to watch GMA. The show was too happy for me. Next, I tried the tables, four silver rounds where two women currently played hearts, while one more sat and cackled at something only she understood.

  A shower went on. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know.

  Then I heard a funny sound, like a shivery gasp, someone trying to inhale and exhale at the same time.

  I turned around. The CO, Kim Watters, looked like she was doing a funny dance. Her body was up in the air, her feet twitching as if reaching for the floor, except they couldn’t find it. A giant black female with long dark hair stood directly behind her, heavily muscled arm cocked around Kim’s windpipe, squeezing tight even as Kim’s fingers scraped frantically at the massive forearm.

  I stepped forward and in the next instant, my roommate, Erica, screamed, “Get the fucking pig!” and half a dozen detainees rushed toward me.

  I took the first blow in the stomach. I tightened my abs reflexively, rocked left and drove my fist into a soft, oomphing middle. Another careening blow. Ducking low, moving on instinct now, because that’s why recruits trained. Do the impossible over and over and it becomes the possible. Better yet, it becomes routine, meaning one day, when you least expect it, months and years of training can suddenly save your life.

  Another hard crack to my shoulder. They were aiming for my face, my swollen eye and shattered cheek. I brought up both hands in the classic pugilist stance, blocking my head, while driving myself toward the closest attacker. I caught her around the waist and flung her back at the rushing stampede, toppling two in a tangle of limbs.

  Cries. Pain, rage, theirs, mine, didn’t really matter. Moving, moving, moving, had to stay on my feet, confront the onslaught or be crushed by sheer numbers.

  Sharp sting. Something cutting my forearm, while another fist connected with my shoulder. I sidestepped again, drove my elbow into the stomach of the attacker, then the side of my hand sharp into her throat. She went down and stayed there.

  The remaining four finally backed up. I kept my gaze on them, trying to process many things at once. Other detainees, where? Back in their cells? Self-imposed confinement so they wouldn’t be busted later?

  And Kim? Gasping scuffle behind me. Officer down, officer down, officer down.

  Panic button. Had to be one somewhere—

  Fresh slice to my arm. I slapped at it, kicking out and catching the woman in the knee.

  Then I screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed, days’ worth of rage and helplessness and frustration finally erupting from my throat, because Kim was dying and my daughter was probably already dead and my husband had died, right in front of my eyes, taking Good Brian with him, and the man in black had taken my daughter and left behind only the blue button eye from her favorite doll and I would get them. I would make them all pay.

  Then I moved. I was probably still screaming. A lot. And I don’t think it was a sane sound because my attackers retreated until I was the one falling upon them, lips peeled back, hands fisted into hard balls.

  I moved, I kicked, I jabbed, and I punched. I was twenty-three years old again. Behold the Giant Killer. Behold the Giant Killer really truly pissed off.

  And my face dripped with sweat and my hands dripped with blood and the first two females were down and the third was running now, ironically toward the safety of her cell, but the fourth had a shank and she thought that would keep her safe. She’d probably fought off aggressive johns and pissed-off pimps. I was just a prissy white girl and no match for a genuine graduate of the school of hard knocks.

  Rattling gasp from the CO’s desk. The sound of a woman dying.

  “Do it!” I snarled at her. “Come on, bitch. Show me what you got.”

  She charged. Stupid shit. I moved left, and straight-armed her in the throat. She dropped the shank and clutched at her crushed windpipe. I picked up the shank, and jumped over her body for central command.

  Kim’s toes weren’t dancing anymore. She remained suspended in the air, black arm still twisted around her throat as her eyes glazed over.

  I stepped around her.

  I looked up at the large black female who turned out not to be a female at all, but a long-haired male who’d somehow infiltrated the unit.

  He appeared startled to see me.

  So I smiled at him. Then drove the shank through his ribs.

  Kim’s body dropped to the floor. The inmate staggered back, grabbing his side. I advanced upon him. He scrambled, twisting around, trying to run for the unit door. I kicked him in the back of his right knee. He stumbled. I kicked him in the back of the left knee. He went down, then rolled over, hands coming up defensively.

  I stood over him, holding the bloody shank. I must have looked fearsome, with my dripping hands, battered face, and one good eye, because large black male peed his orange prison jumpsuit.

  I raised the shank.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely.

  I brought it down into the meat of his thigh. He screamed. I twisted.

  Then I sang for the entire unit to hear: “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, two front teeth.…”

  The inmate cried, as I leaned over, brushed back the long dark locks of his hair, and whispered like a lover in his ear: “Tell the man in black I’m coming for him. Tell him he’s next.”

  I twisted the shank again.

  Then I stood up, wiped the shank on my pant leg, and hit the panic button.

  Do you mourn when your world has ended? When you have arrived at a destination from where there is no going back?

  The SERT team descended as a stampede. The entire facility went to lockdown. I was shackled where I stood, legs swaying, arms lacerated, fresh bruises blooming down my sides and across my back.

  They removed Kim on a stretcher, unconscious but breathing.

  My fourth attacker, the one who’d brought the shank, left in a body bag. I watched them zip it up. I felt nothing at all.

  Erica sobbed. Screamed and wailed and carried on to such an extent, they finally carted her off to Medical, where she would be heavily sedated and put under suicide watch. Others were questioned, but in the way these things worked, they had no idea what had just taken place.

  “In my cell the whole time …”

  “Never looked out …”

  “Heard some noises, though …”

  “Sounded like a lot of ass-whooping …”

  “I slept through the whole thing, Officer. Really, I did.”

  The male inmate, however, told anyone who would listen that I was the angel of death, and please God, please God, please God, keep me away from him.

  The assistant deputy superintendent finally halted in front of me. He studied me for a long time, his expression judging me more trouble than I was worth.

  He delivered my punishment as
a single word. “Segregation.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “Who attacked the CO, detainee?”

  “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

  “Mrs. Doubtfire, sir. Now, why did the inmate attack CO Watters?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “You’ve been in prison less than twenty-four hours. How’d you get a shank?”

  “Took it off the ho’ trying to kill me.” I paused. “Sir.”

  “All six of them?”

  “Don’t fuck with the state police. Sir.”

  He almost smiled. Instead, he jerked his thumb toward the ceiling and the multiple mounted cameras. “Here’s the thing about prison: Big Brother’s always watching. So last time, detainee, anything you want to tell me?”

  “Officer Watters owes me a thank you card.”

  He didn’t argue, so maybe he already knew more than he was letting on. “Medical,” he said now, gesturing to my sliced-up forearms.

  “Lawyer,” I repeated.

  “The request will be sent through proper channels.”

  “Don’t have time.” I looked the assistant deputy superintendent in the eye. “I have decided to cooperate fully with the Boston police,” I declared for all to hear. “Call Detective D. D. Warren. Tell her I will take her to my daughter’s body.”

  27

  Fuck that!” D.D. exploded two hours later. She was at BDP headquarters, in a conference room with Bobby, the deputy superintendent of homicide, and Tessa Leoni’s lawyer, Ken Cargill. Cargill had called the meeting twenty minutes ago. Had a limited-time offer, he’d told them. Needed D.D.’s boss in the room, because if a decision was going to be made, it had to be made fast. Meaning, he was planning on negotiating for something above D.D.’s paygrade. Meaning, she should be letting the deputy superintendent, Cal Horgan, respond to his preposterous demand.

  D.D. had never been good at keeping silent.

  “We don’t give guided tours!” she continued hotly now. “Tessa wants to finally do the right thing? Good for her. Bobby and I can be cell-side in twenty minutes, and she can draw us a map.”

  Horgan said nothing, so maybe he agreed with her.

  “She can’t draw you a map,” Cargill answered steadily. “She doesn’t remember the precise location. She’d been driving for a bit before she pulled over. As it is, she may not be able to get you to the exact spot, but figures she can get fairly close, by looking for familiar landmarks.”

  “Can’t even get us to the exact spot?” Bobby spoke up, sounding as skeptical as D.D. felt.

  “I would arrange for a dog team to assist,” Cargill replied.

  “Cadaver team, you mean,” D.D. said bitterly. She sank back down in her chair, both arms crossed over her stomach. She had known, after the first twenty-four hours, that little Sophie Leoni with the curly brown hair, big blue eyes, and heart-shaped face was most likely dead. Still, to hear it said out loud, from Tessa’s lawyer of all people, that it was time to recover the body …

  There were days this job was just too hard.

  “How did she say Sophie died again?” Bobby asked.

  Cargill skewered him with a glance. “She didn’t.”

  “That’s right,” Bobby continued. “She’s not really telling us anything, is she? She’s just demanding that we spring her from prison and take her for a drive. Imagine that.”

  “She almost died this morning,” Cargill argued. “Coordinated attack, six female detainees going after her, while a male inmate took out the CO. If not for the quick response by Trooper Leoni, Officer Watters would be dead and probably Tessa, as well.”

  “Self-preservation,” Bobby said.

  “Another fanciful story,” D.D. added harshly.

  Cargill looked at her. “Not fanciful. Caught on tape. I’ve watched the video myself. Male inmate attacked the CO first, then six females rushed Tessa. She’s lucky to be alive. And you’re lucky that the shock of said events has led her to want to cooperate.”

  “Cooperate,” D.D. stated. “There’s that word again. ‘Cooperate,’ to me, means to assist others. For example, she could draw us a map, perhaps one based on recalled landmarks. That would be cooperating. She could tell us how Sophie died. That would be cooperating. She could also tell us, once and for all, what happened to her husband and child, yet another form of cooperation. Somehow, she doesn’t seem to be getting it.”

  Cargill shrugged. He stopped studying Bobby and D.D. and turned his attention to the deputy superintendent instead. “Like it or not, I don’t know how long my client is going to continue to want to cooperate. This morning she suffered a traumatic experience. By this afternoon, certainly by tomorrow morning, I can’t guarantee the impulse will remain. In the meantime, while my client may not feel like answering all your questions, I would imagine that the recovery of Sophie Leoni’s body would answer a great deal of them for you. You know—by supplying evidence. Or are you people still in the business of gathering evidence?”

  “She goes back to jail,” Horgan said.

  “Oh please.” D.D. blew out a puff of breath. “Never negotiate with terrorists.”

  Cargill ignored her, attention still on Horgan. “Understood.”

  “Shackled at all times.”

  “Never assumed otherwise.” Short pause. “You might, however, want to coordinate with the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department. From a legal perspective, she is under their custody, meaning they may want to be the ones providing escort.”

  Horgan rolled his eyes. Multiple law enforcement agencies, just what they needed.

  “How long a drive to the site?” Horgan asked.

  “No more than one hour.”

  D.D. glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten-thirty a.m. Sun set by five-thirty. Meaning time was already of the essence. She stared at her boss, not sure what she wanted anymore. Hating to give in to a suspect’s demands, and yet … She wanted to bring Sophie home. Yearned for that small piece of closure. As if it might ease some of the ache in her heart.

  “Pick her up at noon,” Horgan said abruptly. He turned to regard D.D. “Get a dog team. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Horgan, turning back to Cargill. “No runarounds. Your client cooperates, or all her existing prison privileges vanish. She’ll not only return to jail, but it’ll be hard time now. Understood?”

  Cargill smiled thinly. “My client is a decorated member of law enforcement. She understands. And may I congratulate you on getting her out of jail, while she’s still alive to assist in your efforts.”

  ———

  There were a lot of things D.D. wanted to do right now—kick, storm, rage. Given the day’s tight time frame, however, she restrained herself and contacted the Northern Massachusetts Search & Recovery Canine Team.

  Like most canine teams, the Mass. group was comprised of all volunteers. They had eleven members, including Nelson Bradley and his German shepherd, Quizo, who was one of only several hundred trained cadaver dogs in the world.

  D.D. needed Nelson and Quizo and she needed them now. Good news, team president Cassondra Murray agreed to have the whole crew mobilized within ninety minutes. Murray and possibly Nelson would meet the police in Boston, and follow caravan style. Other members of the team would arrive once they had a location, as they lived too far outside the city to make it downtown in a timely manner.

  That worked for D.D.

  “What d’ya need?” D.D. asked by phone. She hadn’t worked with a dog team in years and then it’d been a live rescue, not a body recovery. “I can get you clothing from the child, that sort of thing.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “ ’Cause it’s a body,” D.D. filled in.

  “Nope. Doesn’t matter. Dogs are trained to identify human scent if it’s a rescue and cadaver scent if it’s a recovery. Mostly, we need you and your team to stay out of our way.”

  “Okay,” D.D. drawled, a bit testily.

  “One search dog equals a hundred and fifty human volunteers,”
Murray recited firmly.

  “Will the snow be an issue?”

  “Nope. Heat makes scent rise, cold keeps it lower to the ground. As handlers, we adjust our search strategy accordingly. From our dogs’ perspectives, however, scent is scent.”

  “How about time frame?”

  “If the terrain’s not too difficult, dogs should be able to work two hours, then they’ll need a twenty-minute break. Depends on the conditions, of course.”

  “How many dogs are you going to bring?”

  “Three. Quizo’s the best, but they’re all SAR dogs.”

  “Wait—I thought Quizo was the only cadaver dog.”

  “Not anymore. As of two years ago, all our dogs are trained for live, cadaver, and water. We start with live searches first, as that’s the easiest to teach a puppy. But once the dogs master that, we train them for cadaver recovery, then, water searches.”

  “Do I want to know how you train for cadaver?” D.D. asked.

  Murray laughed. “Actually, we’re lucky. The ME, Ben—”

  “I know Ben.”

  “He’s a big supporter. We give him tennis balls to place inside the body bags. Once the scent of decomp has transferred to the tennis balls, he seals them in airtight containers for us. That’s what we use to train. It’s a good compromise, as the fine state of Massachusetts frowns on private ownership of cadavers, and I don’t believe in synthetic ‘cadaver scent.’ Best scientists in the world agree that decomp is one of the most complicated scents on earth. God knows what the dogs are honing in on, meaning man shouldn’t tamper with it.”

  “Okay,” D.D. said.

  “Do you anticipate a water search?” Murray asked, “because that poses a couple of challenges this time of year. We take the dogs out in boats, of course, but given the temperatures, I’d still want them in special insulated gear in case they fall in.”

  “Your dogs work in boats?”

  “Yep. Catch the scent in the current of water, just like the drift of the wind. Quizo has found bodies in water a hundred feet deep. It does seem like voodoo, which again, is why I don’t like synthetic scent. Dogs are too damn smart to train by lab experiment. Do you anticipate water?”