The Apprentice

Rizzoli said, dryly, “Getting felt up would’ve been the highlight of my day.”

“You can put everything back on now. And you two get to keep your watches on.”

“You say that like it’s a privilege.”

“Only attorneys and officers of the law can wear watches beyond this point. Everyone else has to check in all their jewelry. Now I gotta stamp your left wrists, and you can go into the pods.”

“We have an appointment to see Superintendent Oxton at nine,” said Dean.

“He’s ru

Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center was MCI’s newest facility, with a state-of-the-art keyless security system operated by forty-two graphic-interfaced computer terminals, Officer Curtis explained. He pointed out numerous surveillance cameras.

“They’re recording live twenty-four hours a day. Most visitors never even see a live guard. They just hear the intercom telling them what to do next.”

As they walked through a steel door, down a long hallway, and through another series of barred gates, Rizzoli was fully aware that every move she made was being monitored. With just a few taps on a computer keyboard, guards could lock down every passage, every cell, without leaving their control room.

At the entrance to Cell Block C, a voice on the intercom instructed them to hold up their passes against the window for inspection. They restated their names, and Officer Curtis said: “Two visitors here to inspect Prisoner Hoyt’s cell.”

The steel gate slid open and they entered Cell Block C’s dayroom, the common area for prisoners. It was painted a depressing shade of hospital green. Rizzoli saw a wall-mounted TV set, couch and chairs, and a Ping-Pong table where two men were clacking a ball back and forth. All the furniture was bolted down. A dozen men dressed in prisoners’ blue denim simultaneously turned and stared.

In particular, they stared at Rizzoli, the only woman in the room.

The two men playing Ping-Pong abruptly halted their game. For a moment, the only sound was the TV, tuned to CNN. She gazed straight back at the prisoners, refusing to be intimidated, even though she could guess what each man was surely thinking. Imagining. She did not notice that Dean had moved closer until she felt his arm brush hers and she realized he was standing right beside her.

A voice from the intercom said: “Visitors, you may proceed to Cell C- 8.”

“It’s this way,” said Officer Curtis. “Up one level.”

They ascended the stairway, their shoes setting off clangs against the metal steps. From the upper gallery, which led past individual cells, they could look down into the well of the dayroom. Curtis led them along the walkway until he came to #8.

“This is the one. Prisoner Hoyt’s cell.”

Rizzoli stood at the threshold and stared into the cage. She saw nothing that distinguished this cell from any other-no photographs, no personal possessions that told her Warren Hoyt had once inhabited this space-yet her scalp crawled. Though he was gone, his presence had imprinted the very air. If it was possible for malevolenceto linger, then surely this place was now contaminated.

“You can step in if you want,” said Curtis.

She entered the cell. She saw three bare walls, a sleeping platform and mattress, a sink, and a toilet. A stark cube. This was how Warren would have liked it. He was a neat man, a precise man, who had once worked in the sterile world of a medical laboratory, a world where the only splashes of color came from the tubes of blood he handled every day. He did not need to surround himself with lurid images; the ones he carried in his mind were horrifying enough.

“This cell hasn’t been reassigned?” said Dean.

“Not yet, sir.”

“And no other prisoner’s been in here since Hoyt left?”

“That’s right.”

Rizzoli went to the mattress and lifted up one corner. Dean grasped the other corner, and together they hoisted up the mattress and looked beneath it. They found nothing. They rolled the mattress completely over, then searched the ticking for any tears in the fabric, any hiding places where he might have stashed contraband. They found only a small rip on the side barely an inch long. Rizzoli probed it with her finger and found nothing inside.

She straightened and sca

She turned to Officer Curtis. “Where are his possessions? His personal items? Correspondence?”

“In the superintendent’s office. We’ll go there next.”

“Right after you called this morning, I had the prisoner’s belongings brought up here for your inspection,” said Superintendent Oxton, gesturing to a large cardboard box on his desk. “We’ve already gone through it all. We found absolutely no contraband.” He emphasized this last point as though it absolved him of all responsibility for what had gone wrong. Oxton struck Rizzoli as a man who did not tolerate infractions, who’d be ruthless at enforcing rules and regulations. He would certainly ferret out all contraband, isolate all troublemakers, demand that lights-out was on the dot every night. Just a glance around his office, with photos showing a fierce-looking young Oxton in an army uniform, told her this was the domain of someone who needed to be in control. Yet for all his efforts, a prisoner had escaped, and Oxton was now on the defensive. He had greeted them with a stiff handshake and barely a smile in his remote blue eyes.

He opened the box and removed a large Ziploc bag, which he handed to Rizzoli. “The prisoner’s toiletries,” he said. “The usual personal care items.”

Rizzoli saw a toothbrush, comb, washcloth, and soap. Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. She quickly set the bag down, repulsed by the thought that Hoyt had used these items every day to groom himself. She could see light-brown hairs still clinging to the comb’s teeth.

Oxton continued removing items from the box. Underwear. A stack of National Geographic magazines and several issues of the Boston Globe. Two Snickers bars, a pad of yellow legal paper, white envelopes, and three plastic rollerball pens. “And his correspondence,” said Oxton as he removed another Ziploc bag, this one containing a bundle of letters.

“We’ve gone through every piece of his mail,” Oxton said. “The State Police have the names and addresses of all these correspondents.” He handed the bundle to Dean. “Of course, this is only the mail he kept. There was probably a certain amount he threw out.”

Dean opened the Ziploc bag and removed the contents. There were about a dozen letters, still in their envelopes.

“Does MCI censor prisoner mail?” Dean asked. “Do you screen it before you give it to them?”

“We have the authority to do so. Depending on the type of mail.”

“Type?”

“If it’s classified privileged, the guards are only allowed to glance inside for contraband. But they’re not allowed to read it. The correspondence is private, between sender and prisoner.”

“So you’d have no idea what was written to him.”

“If it’s privileged mail.”

“What’s the difference between privileged and unprivileged mail?” asked Rizzoli.

Oxton responded to her interruption with a glint of a

“By corresponding with murderers? Are they crazy?”