Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(95)

Gallagher said, “Professor Denton has taught a two-week course in writing poetry five times so far. One every June, one every January. Scheduled to teach for us again at the first of the year.”

“How about the class rosters?” DeMarco said.

Gallagher stared at the computer screen, motionless but for two finger taps to scroll down the page. Finally he said, “Carl Inman, no.”

“Never? Not even one of the five times?”

“Correct,” Gallagher said.

DeMarco leaned back in his chair. He leaned away from a ficus leaf that was tickling his ear. “Would you know if Professor Denton had any other association with the inmates? Any opportunity for individual meetings, that kind of thing?”

“It’s unlikely,” Gallagher said. “Two guards are present at every class meeting. Class sizes ranged from…seven to twelve.”

“Are your visitation records computerized?”

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“Could you check to see if Denton signed in to visit Inman at any time?”

“Two years sufficient?”

“That should be fine.”

Again DeMarco waited. He wondered if Gallagher was so stiff and mechanical at home. Wondered if he was married, had children, owned a real live dog and if so what kind.

“Negative,” Gallagher told him.

DeMarco said, “No visits, no class contact. No direct contact as far as you can ascertain.”

“As far as we can ascertain. That’s correct.”

After a few seconds, DeMarco put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He approached the deputy superintendent’s desk and held out his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

Gallagher sat motionless for a few seconds, then stood and thrust out his hand.

DeMarco was surprised by its warmth and the firmness of the grip. He said, “So how do you like the job? You’ve been here what, five months now?”

“Five months shy a week, yes, sir. And the job is fine.”

“Two thousand inmates more or less. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“It is,” Gallagher said. Then added, as if it were expected of him, “But not an unwelcome one.”

And suddenly DeMarco knew why Gallagher was so stiff. He’s scared, DeMarco thought. Scared to death he’s going to fuck up somehow.

“You and I should probably split a pitcher of beer some time,” DeMarco told him. “What do you think?”

Gallagher blinked. “That would be fine, sir.”

“I’m Ryan, by the way. Save the sirs for the guy who signs your checks.”

“Oh,” Gallagher said. Then, a moment later, “Nelson.”

“Is that what your friends call you?”

Another pause. Then, “J. J.”

“How the hell do you get J. J. out of Nelson Gallagher?”

Gallagher smiled and blushed. “Nelson Jamison Jerome Gallagher. My mother’s brothers.”

“Lucky for you she only had two.”

“Don’t I know it.”

? ? ?

The pinch in DeMarco’s cerebellum came back around midnight. After talking with the deputy superintendent earlier in the evening, DeMarco had managed to convince himself that the prison poetry classes were a red herring; they had no relevance to anything Inman had done. DeMarco’s remark in Bowen’s office was the only relevance. Carl Inman? Insane. There was no sense trying to apply logic to the workings of an irrational mind. The frustration would only end up driving the logical mind crazy.

Six ounces of room-temperature Tennessee whiskey helped. The mindless drone of the television in a darkened room helped. But not long after DeMarco crawled off to bed, only to lie there staring into the darkness above him, the pinch began again. It felt to DeMarco as if somebody were tugging on a single hair a couple of inches behind the crown of his head, and the hair extended maybe three inches into his brain. He scratched the area, rubbed it with his knuckles, probed it with his fingers. Every ten or fifteen seconds the pinch came again. The longer DeMarco studied it, the more certain he was that the pinch was less physical and more linguistic, that the deep-rooted hair being tugged was his unwillingness to accept his own explanation for Inman’s behavior. DeMarco even questioned his own reluctance to accept that explanation. Do I feel personally insulted because Inman came after me? he wondered. Is that why I can’t accept it? He didn’t regret putting a bullet in Inman at the lake, but he did regret having done so too soon. Why did you come after me? he should have asked. Why did you kill Bonnie?

The darkness offered no answers and no respite. After a while, he went back to the living room and climbed into his recliner. He refilled his glass and turned the television on. On channel 262 he found Touch of Evil, an old black-and-white movie, Charlton Heston as a Mexican, Orson Welles as a crooked cop, Marlene Dietrich as a hooker. He turned the volume low, audible but not understandable, and let the noir wash over him. Just enough noise and light to numb the pinch. Just enough whiskey to finally lull it to sleep.





Sixty-Seven


He awoke to another gray dawn and an infomercial about a penis enhancement pill. Two very busty women in low-cut tops and high-cut hems were praising the product for its effect on their boyfriends’ penises. DeMarco looked at the women until he was sufficiently awake to get depressed again. Then he took his unenhanced penis into the bathroom, where he urinated, stripped, and stood in a steaming shower with his forehead pressed to the tile. He was toweling dry when the telephone rang.