Page 8 of Dead O’Clock

The first time he’d visited the prison had been with Tennyson when they’d been asked by Tank Hutchins, proclaiming his innocence, to look into his murder conviction. It was through that visit to the prison that they’d met Jude for the first time. Ronan would also never forget how ill being near to the prison walls had made Tennyson. He’d had to pull the Mustang over to the side of the highway so Ten could get sick. He’d been violently ill every time they’d gone back to that wretched place.

From what Ronan remembered of Warden Jones, he’d been a hard, but fair man, at least in the eyes of the law enforcement community. He had a feeling the inmates might have seen things differently. “When my partner and I came into the shop, you were ranting about dying at midnight.” Ronan nibbled on his bottom lip trying to figure out how to phrase the question on his mind without offending Jones.

“You’ve had your share of threats from inmates over the years, working your way up from corrections officer to warden,” Jude began. “To be honest, you’re the last person I’d expect to act the way you were this morning.”

Thank fuck for Jude. If it had been left up to Ronan, he would have asked what the hell had caused the man to lose all the stuffing from his comforter. “Tell us what happened to bring you here today.”

“After the prison closed, I moved to Salem. I wanted to get out of Foxboro. I love the Patriots, but between the games and concerts at Gillette Stadium, it was too much with traffic being tied up and assholes parking on my lawn. My first ex-wife moved here after our divorce and I’d like to see if we could make a second go of it without my job getting in the way, so I moved here too. Her husband didn’t like me coming around and he’s finally decided to do something about it.” Jones held out the crumpled piece of paper.

Ronan reached across the table with his pen and dragged the page toward him. He was shocked to see the letter was written in fancy calligraphy with a stylus. There were tell-tale drops of black ink staining the paper in several spots.

The contents of the letter quickly captured Ronan’s attention. He read the words once, then twice. Sweet Jesus, what the hell was going on here? He cleared his throat and began to read. “Ding! Dong! You’re dead!”

Ten and Carson gasped in unison.

“Your time on this earth is near its end. Make amends, pray for forgiveness, for you die when the midnight bell tolls.” Ronan looked over at Jude, who didn’t look particularly concerned. “Do you have the envelope this letter arrived in?”

“It’s at home.”

Of course it was. “Was it stamped with a postmark or hand-delivered?”

“It had a Salem postmark,” Jones said.

“What’s your ex-wife’s name and address?” Jude asked.

“Janet Robinson. Her husband is Steve Robinson. They live at 63 Whittier Drive here in Salem.” The former warden stared down at his shaking hands. “I spent my entire professional life being in charge. I enjoyed the power my position brought, but I never abused it. At least I didn’t think I did. As for Janet, she hated the hours and the danger I was in every day when I went to work. The last straw for her was when she said my personality changed. She said I’d become domineering at home and that I was treating her like one of my inmates.”

“Were you?” Ronan asked.

Jones paused, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess I was. Janet was a good wife. She worked as a legal secretary, took care of me and our home. I don’t know why I changed or why I couldn’t go back to the man I’d been when we met. Now that I’m off the job, I think I can go back to being that man again.”

Ronan wasn’t so sure. “Are Janet and Steve happily married?”

“I don’t know that I’d call their marriage happy. I know Janet misses me; the old me. I think she wants to give me another chance.” Jones sighed. “The one thing I can tell you for certain is that I don’t want to die.”

“I believe that, Mr. Jones.” Ronan turned to Ten and Carson, who both wore unreadable looks. “Can the two of you add anything?”

“Janet might want to give things a second try with you, but she’s worried you’ll sweet talk her now and turn back into a tyrant later. She’s never fully gotten over you,” Carson said. “I’m not seeing that Steve is a threat to you. He’s not happy his wife might leave him, but he suspected this very thing could happen one day.”

“Hearing you say that means a lot, Carson, but I would feel so much better if we could figure out who sent this letter in the first place.”

“May I touch the letter?” Carson asked. “I might be able to see the letter-writer or pick up information about him or her. I can’t imagine there are a lot of people who are still able to handwrite calligraphy.”

“I can,” Ten said. “We learned how to do it in art class back in high school.”

“I can’t let you touch the letter now, Carson. We’d like to fingerprint it and swab for DNA.” Ronan’s eyes were on Tennyson. He shot his husband a questioning look to which Ten shook his head. Ten’s gift was still offline. He trusted Carson’s reading, but would feel so much more at ease if Ten had been able to see the same thing.

“I’ll go get my kit.” Jude left the room. He returned several minutes later and began to gather forensic evidence. When he was finished Jude marked and tagged the evidence. He exchanged a look with Ronan.

“Can you touch the letter using gloves?” Ronan asked. “Will you still get the same information?”

“I can try,” Carson said.

Jude handed him a pair of gloves, which Carson struggled to put on. He set his hand just above the paper and shut his eyes. Ronan watched, riveted, as Carson slowly lowered his hand. The frown on his face grew deeper. With a sigh, he set his hand on the letter itself. “I see prison bars, a nightstick, and a man on the floor.”

Ronan didn’t like the implications of Carson’s vision. “Did you use a nightstick when you worked as a corrections officer?”

Jones nodded. “Not very often, but yeah, I did.” He wore a guilty look.