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Chapter45
WITH ITS CONCRETE WALLS,concertina wire, attack dogs, and guards with sniper rifles on towers, Travis Correctional Center rose out of the Ohio soillooking every bit the max prison that it was.
Decker drove up to the entrance and they cleared security, right as the heavens opened up and the rain poured down, forcing them to sprint for cover. Natty had secured an interview with Karl Stevens, and they were escorted to the visitors’ room.
All three, Decker, Lancaster, and Mars, were well acquainted with prisons, for starkly different reasons. Catcalls, screams, the smells of over two thousand men kept in close proximity to each other in a facility designed for half that number, together with the comingledaromas of dozens of types of illicit contraband.
They sat at a table and awaited the arrival of Karl Stevens. He was brought in a few minutes later. Decker remembered him as tall and thin with long, dirty hair tied back in a ponytail, and a scruffy beard. The man appearing before them in his orange prison jumpsuit and shackles was thickened with dumbbell-driven muscle. His head was shaved, his facial hair gone. His knotted forearms were bedecked with tats that continued on his neck and up the back of his bald head.
He smiled at the trio as he was seated in front of them and his shackles locked into an eyebolt on the floor.
The guards stepped away but kept a watchful eye from across the room.
Stevens looked at Decker. “I remember you. Decker, right?”
Decker nodded.
Then the inmate turned to Lancaster. “Sure as hell remember you. You’re the reason I’m here.”
“No, let’s keep to the facts, Karl. The reason you’re here is because you killed a guy.”
“Details, details,” said Stevens with a smirk. He glanced at Mars and his expression soured. “Don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t,” said Mars.
“You a cop too?”
“He’s helping us on a case,” said Decker.
Stevens kept his gaze on Mars. “You got the look of somebody who’s done time.”
“You ever been locked up in Texas?” said Mars.
“No, why?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Stevens looked at Decker. “What do you want? I was going to work out, then I got the word you wanted to see me.”
Decker said dryly, “Sorry to interrupt your exercise. We wanted to know if you were Mitzi Hawkins’s dealer.”
“Who’s Mitzi Hawkins?”
“Meryl Hawkins’s daughter.”
Stevens shrugged. “That doesn’t mean shit to me. I dealt to a lot of people.” He laughed. “I didn’t ask for fuckin’ ID.”
Decker described Mitzi to him.
Stevens chuckled. “You got to be shitting me. You just described every whacked-out bitch I ever sold to.”
“How about Frankie Richards? You remember him? He was only fourteen. He died at his home along with his father and sister and a man named David Katz. They were murdered.”
“Nah, can’t say that I do. Anything else?”
Decker was looking at the tats on the man’s forearms. Words and symbols.
When Stevens noticed this, he lowered his arms to below the tabletop, his shackles rattling as he did so.
