Four Walls

17

WHEN MAC ARRIVED AT RHCF, he went immediately to the arsenal and checked his weapon and his Treo. After being handed the key by the CO on duty, he went inside, signed in, and waited while the CO behind the bench looked over his large metal case. It wasn't the same CO who was at the bench yesterday-this time it was a short man with thick glasses resting on a small nose, which in turn was over a thick mustache. All he needed were bushy eyebrows to complete the Groucho Marx look.

"What's this?" the CO asked, holding up Mac's Nikon.

Thinking it might be a trick question, Mac slowly said, "It's a camera."

"I don't think you're allowed to have that in here."

Mac sighed. He understood that the officer was just doing his job, but he really wasn't in the mood for this today. "I'm a detective with the New York Crime Lab-I need my camera in order to do my job. When I was here yesterday, I had all this equipment with me."

"Well, that's fine for yesterday, sir, but that was then and this is now. I can't allow you to take that camera in with you."

Mac doubted he'd even need the camera, but he hated the notion of being without it-especially if he did need it for a reason he couldn't predict.

After a brief pause, Mac said, "Call Captain Russell up here, he'll vouch for me."

Peering at Mac through the thick glasses, the CO said, "Sir, this is policy-there's no need to bother the captain with this. I can't allow you to take the camera inside."

Before Mac could object further, he heard the metallic hum of the outer door opening. Turning, he saw Ursitti walking through it, then waiting for the inner door to open.

When it did, he stepped through and said, "Detective Taylor. What's the holdup?"

"This officer won't let me bring my camera inside."

Ursitti gave the CO behind the desk a pained look. Mac had the feeling he'd used that particular look on that particular CO many a time. "What the hell is your problem?"

"LT, it's policy that-"

"It's policy that people don't die in custody. Let him take the damn camera."

With the utmost reluctance, the CO said, "If you say so, LT."

"Yeah, I say so." As Mac collected his case, Ursitti added, "I'm sorry, Detective."

Not wanting to create ill will, Mac said, "It's all right. The officer was just doing his duty."

After Mac had his hand stamped, Ursitti took him through both sets of doors, had his hand checked under the black light between them, then led him to a part of the prison he hadn't been to the last time: the infirmary.

The nature of his job was such that Mac had visited many hospitals, from various state-of-the-art facilities in the city where assorted victims had been taken, to the patch-'em-up makeshift field hospitals in Beirut when he served in the Marines. Involuntarily, Mac's hand went to his heart, where he was wounded in 1983; he'd been patched up in one of those field hospitals. The scar had faded, though it was still very visible, and it didn't twinge anymore when it rained, but he was always aware of it.

The infirmary at RHCF was somewhere between those two extremes: not as fancy as Bellevue, Cabrini, St. Luke's-Roosevelt, or the other Manhattan places he frequented, but not quite as depressing as the field hospital. There were two rows of beds lined up, some with patients, others empty and neatly made.

Ursitti brought him to a far corner, where a doctor was waiting, along with Russell. Lying on the bed was Jorge Melendez. Mac immediately noticed bruising on Melendez's jaw. He appeared to be asleep-Mac assumed he was on morphine, which had turned his lights right out.

Russell introduced the doctor, whose name was Patel.

"What happened?" Mac asked.

"He was assaulted in the shower," Dr. Patel said as he pulled the sheet down to reveal multiple contusions on Melendez's chest, some of which were obscured by bandages. "Cracked three ribs. No internal bleeding, though."

Mac nodded. "I'm not surprised. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing."

"What do you mean?" Russell asked.

"He was hit hardest in the solar plexus, right where the breath would be knocked out of someone, preventing him from calling for help. Based on those bruises, the blows were landed solidly, despite both the first and the target being dripping wet. This is the mark of an experienced pugilist."

Russell shrugged. "Well, we already know who did it."

This was news to Mac. "Who was it?"

"El-Jabbar. He confessed to it an hour ago. Said he wanted to mete out justice to 'Brother Malik's' killer."

"There's just one problem," Mac said.

"What's that?"

"Melendez didn't kill Malik Washburne."

Russell's white mustache twitched. "What?"

"Washburne died of anaphylactic shock. We're not sure from what yet, but Jorge Melendez isn't a strong suspect right now. Nobody is until we figure out what killed him." He looked at Ursitti. "What I want to know is how el-Jabbar knew that Melendez even was a suspect."

Frowning, Ursitti said, "I was kinda wonderin' that myself."

"I think we need to talk to Mr. el-Jabbar."

"He's in the box," Russell said. To Ursitti: "Have him brought to the interview room."

Ursitti's radio crackled, informing him that Flack had arrived.

"Have him meet us at the interview room," Mac told Ursitti, who nodded to him and Russell.

It took several minutes for Mac and Russell to get to the interview room, which was halfway across the prison. The walk was a much different experience today then it had been yesterday, when the place was in lockdown. Inmates walked casually through the corridors and outside. Most of them respectfully greeted Russell, and the captain gave them each at least a nod back. Some he talked to, asking how they were doing. A couple tried to engage him in conversation, but he politely put them off to another time. One even said, "This is about Malik and Vance, right?"

Russell said, "I can't really say," even though it was obvious that it couldn't be anything else.

Several more minutes passed after they arrived before Flack showed up, escorted by Ursitti.

"Glad you could make it," Mac said with a wry smile as the pair entered.

Shaking his head, Flack said, "Ran my damn siren on the BQE, and I still couldn't move more than ten miles an hour. I'm half-tempted to leave the car here and fly back with you."

Mac felt Flack's pain. It was less of an issue for the crime lab, as they generally weren't needed until after everything was over, but New York City traffic had always been a major impediment to cops' ability to arrive at a crime scene in a timely manner. Mac knew that Flack felt that frustration keenly. It was even worse for FDNY, for whom time was always of the essence. Fire truck drivers, he knew, hated navigating the city streets with a passion.

While waiting for el-Jabbar's arrival, Mac filled Flack in on Melendez's condition.

Flack's eyebrows formed a V over his blue eyes. "How the hell did el-Jabbar find out about Melendez?"

"We'll know soon," Russell said confidently.

Mac hoped that confidence was warranted.

Eventually, Officer Andros brought in Hakim el-Jabbar. The inmate wore a knit red-and-white skullcap on his head, but otherwise sported the usual prison dickies. Yesterday he had been one of Mac and Flack's many interviews, but he claimed not to have seen anything. He wasn't a very big man, but he had wide, expressive brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a broad mouth surrounded by a thin beard.

He spoke in a soft, insistent voice. "What can I do for you gentlemen today?"

"For starters," Flack said, "why'd you beat the crap out of Jorge Melendez?"

"Jorge was a pretender. He used the word of Allah for his own purposes. And when Brother Malik exposed his lie, Jorge killed him. He needed to pay for that." As he spoke, el-Jabbar folded his handcuffed hands neatly in front of him on the table.

Mac stared at those hands while Flack continued the questioning.

"What makes you think that Melendez killed 'Brother Malik'?"

El-Jabbar smiled, showing a wide array of perfect teeth. "There is no need to be coy, Detective. I'm aware of the fact that he is your primary suspect."

Flack leaned forward. "Fine. We'll drop coy. How the hell did you find out Melendez was a suspect?"

"I prefer to protect my sources. Let us just say that information comes my way."

Mac spoke up. "You're not a journalist, Mr. el-Jabbar, and you're not a lawyer. You're a prisoner. Privilege doesn't apply."

"Perhaps not. But the punishment for nonco-operation would be solitary confinement-which I am already enduring."

That elicited a snort from Andros.

"So," Flack said, "when this information came your way, you took it upon yourself to take care of business?"

"Brother Malik was a respected member of the community-both inside this prison and outside it. Jorge needed to pay, so I administered justice in the shower this morning."

"Yeah." Flack leaned back and folded his arms over his dark tie. "Administering justice is kind of our thing." El-Jabbar was about to speak, but Flack unfolded his arms to raise one hand, cutting him off. "I know, I know, it's just 'white man's justice.' That doesn't really count for you, does it?"

"Something like that." Again, el-Jabbar smiled.

Mac decided he didn't like that smile and so was determined to wipe it off his face. "There's just one problem, Mr. el-Jabbar-you didn't beat anybody up."

Sure enough, the smile fell, which gave Mac a measure of satisfaction. "I beg your pardon, Detective?"

"Beg all you want, you're not getting it." Pointing at el-Jabbar's hands, still folded neatly, Mac said, "Your knuckles are smooth and clean. No abrasions, no calluses. Whoever attacked Melendez was experienced and would have evidence of that experience on his hands. Evidence doesn't lie, Mr. el-Jabbar-and in this case, neither does lack of evidence. Who are you covering for?"

"I do not need to 'cover' for anyone, Detective. It was my wish that Jorge pay for Brother Malik's death."

Mac shook his head. So now he was changing his story-he ordered the beat-down. "Unfortunately, you collected your debt from the wrong man." At el-Jabbar's confused expression, he added: "Malik Washburne died of anaphylactic shock. Jorge Melendez didn't kill him."

"What? But I was told-" He cut himself off.

Flack stared at him. "Who told you?"

"It does not matter."

"Yeah, it kind of does. See, info about suspects isn't something we like to have advertised in the middle of an investigation."

"Probably one of the COs," Andros said.

Russell drew himself up. "What makes you say that, Officer?"

Andros shrugged. "Most of the other COs liked Washburne for whatever stupid reason."

Defensively, Flack said, "He used to be a good cop."

"Maybe-I don't know about that. I do know that everybody liked him."

Pointedly, el-Jabbar said, "Except for you, Officer Andros."

Ignoring him, Andros said, "The point is, I could see one of the COs telling 'Brother Hakim' here that Melendez was the suspect, 'cause they know just how he'd respond."

"That doesn't make sense," Russell said. "And besides, if Detective Taylor is right, and el-Jabbar didn't do it, why take credit when it means going into the box?"

"Please." Andros snorted. "For him, solitary's a vacation. It's quiet, he gets food brought to him, and he can meditate."

Flack turned to el-Jabbar. "So how 'bout it, 'Brother'? Who gave Melendez up?"

"Again, Detective," el-Jabbar said placidly, "I prefer to protect my sources."

"And protect yourself," Mac said. "Assuming Officer Andros is correct, and you give up a CO, there might be retribution."

Archly, Russell said, "That doesn't go on here."

Mac didn't see any need to press the issue-though Andros did give another derisive snort. El-Jabbar wasn't going to talk. Mac wasn't thrilled, but it was also beside the point.

And they were no closer to finding out how Malik Washburne had died.

Danny Messer just loved the NYPD Crime Lab's proprietary computer-aided design program, which they used to reconstruct crime scenes.

The programming geeks had streamlined the whole thing, so all you had to do was enter in the height and weight of a person. If you wanted to add further details, you could, or you could just use the generic body. Then you entered the dimensions of the figure's surrounding environment.

It was all pretty basic stuff, but the streamlining was what made the difference. In particular, Danny loved the fact that it could cross-reference with the autopsy records, so all you had to do was enter the case number and it would provide an image of the body right away.

As soon as Sheldon came to him saying that they needed to reconstruct Malik Washburne's murder with the new information that showed he died from his throat closing up, Danny immediately ran to the computer like a kid on Christmas morning. Sheldon, of course, let him, knowing that Danny would piss and moan if he ran the program without him.

Danny could be a magnificent pain in the ass. He viewed it as one of his finest qualities.

Sheldon didn't, which was why he let Danny run the program.

"Okay," Danny said, cracking his knuckles as he sat down at the ergonomic keyboard that Mac insisted on them using. He hated the stupid things, but every time he complained, Mac would e-mail him multiple studies on repetitive stress injuries until Danny shut up. Mac could also be a magnificent pain in the ass when he put his mind to it, only he was more subtle about it.

Danny didn't do subtle. It wasted too much energy.

First he called up the autopsy records for Malik Washburne and entered it into the CAD program. Immediately, an image of a generic male human figure of Washburne's height, weight, and build appeared on all three monitors in front of him. Then he created a second, identical image.

Sheldon had his full report from the crime scene, and he read out the dimensions of the weight bench, the barbell, and the doughnut weights that were on it. The crime-scene photos placed everything, including the doughnut weights that were on the barbell and the one on the ground.

"Hang on," Danny said. "Why would the weight be on the ground?"

"That's where we found it," Sheldon said.

"Yeah, but why would Washburne have an uneven number of weights?"

"Dunno, but let's start with it there and see where it goes."

"Yeah." He placed everything where it belonged, putting one of the Washburne figures on the weight bench in the standard position and the other one where the body lay, based on Sheldon's photos.

Next they had to enter more precise information. Danny created another generic male figure. "Where'd you find the thread on Washburne's body from the guy's pants?"

Sheldon reached over and grabbed the mouse.

"Hey! Who's doing this?" Danny protested.

"I could take half an hour to explain it, or I could just point the damn mouse," Sheldon said with a good-natured grin.

Sighing dramatically, Danny leaned back and said, "Fine, fine, steal my thunder."

Shaking his head, Sheldon said, "You are such a geek."

"Yeah, bite me, Doc."

Once Sheldon clicked on the spot where they found the thread, Danny gently pushed him out of the way and started entering in the trajectory he needed the second figure to take in order to leave the thread.

"Now for the real important question-how hard does he have to hit in order to knock Washburne onto the floor?"

"Average foot speed for someone walking is three miles an hour," Sheldon said. "Well, actually, it's between two-point-eight and three-point-two miles an hour, but we should start with that."

"You know that off the top of your head, but I'm the geek?"

"Absolutely," Sheldon deadpanned.

Danny chuckled. "That's probably too slow, but you're right, it's a good start." He entered three miles per hour and had the second body walk in such a way that his left hip (where the seam was) would hit Washburne in the right spot in the shoulder.

The figure moved across the screen, and Washburne barely budged.

Sheldon rubbed his chin. "If he was reacting to Barker getting stabbed, he probably wasn't walking at a leisurely pace."

"Didn't I say that?" Danny asked with a cheeky grin. "Let's make it eight."

"I was thinking ten," Sheldon said.

"Well, you're the expert on foot speed," Danny said dryly, "but that weight yard wasn't that big, and it was filled to capacity. Even if he was motorin', he wasn't gonna be able to go much more than eight."

Tilting his head to the side, Sheldon said, "Yeah, okay, let's go with eight."

"Glad you approve."

"Hey, this is my half of the case. You got the dunker, remember?"

"Oh yeah, exciting stuff. The guy confessed, and I got prints on the murder weapon that matched the guy who confessed. Wasn't exactly breakin' my brain, y'know? Flack may like the dunkers, but me? I like a challenge."

"That why you chased Lindsay to Montana?" Sheldon was grinning as he said that. "What's happening with you two anyhow?"

"We're friends and colleagues," was all Danny would say, not wanting to give Sheldon the satisfaction of sharing gossip, especially when the gossip was about him. After a rocky start, Danny and Lindsay Monroe's relationship had taken a turn for the better ever since he took personal time and flew out to Bozeman to lend moral support when Lindsay testified against Kadems.

But Danny was still pissed that he was the last to know about Mac and Dr. Driscoll, so he intended to keep everyone in the dark as long as he could get away with it.

"Okay," he said, dragging them back to the subject at hand, "eight miles an hour. Let's see what we got."

This time the second figure collided with Washburne hard enough to knock the body off the bench. He hit his head on the edge of the barbell and fell to the ground, but not in a position that matched that of the second Washburne.

Sheldon was shaking his head. "That doesn't work. The body's in the wrong place-and even if you figure it's been moved, or we got a variable wrong, there's also the fact that there's no blood on the barbell, and the barbell couldn't have caused that wound in the first place."

"Yeah, but look at the placement." Danny pointed at the spot on the barbell where Washburne's head had hit in the second simulation. "Let's try putting the weight where it's supposed to be, on the end of the barbell." Using the mouse, Danny moved it from the ground to that spot.

He ran the sim again, at the same speed. Again the second figure hit Washburne. Again Washburne hit his head on the barbell and fell in the wrong spot.

"Move the weight," Sheldon said. "Maybe they weren't on evenly."

Nodding, Danny shifted the weight so it would be right where Washburne's head hit. Again he ran it at eight miles per hour.

Washburne hit this time, but in the wrong place on his head, and he didn't fall to the ground anywhere near the second Washburne.

"I'll make him go faster. Guy just got shivved, I bet he's runnin'. 'Sides, the faster he goes, the more likely there is to be that thread transfer."

Sheldon shrugged. "Fair enough. Worth a shot, anyhow."

Upping it to eleven miles an hour, Danny ran it again. This time Washburne's head hit the spot between two of the weights, so he moved the weight back to its first position and ran it again.

This time, not only did Washburne's head hit the weight in the right spot, but the weight fell off in the right spot and Washburne's body fell in the same location as the second body. It wasn't a one hundred percent matchup, but it was close enough to establish that that was likely what had happened.

"So that's it," Sheldon said. "Washburne's throat closes up. He can't call for help, and he dies on the bench. Mulroney stabs Barker. Everyone in the yard comes running to see what's going on, and one of them bumps Washburne, transferring a fiber to his shoulder and knocking him into the weight, which causes the wound and also knocks the weight to the ground."

Danny nodded. "Only one problem-how'd Melendez's print get on the weight?"

"He probably used the weight. Hell, so many people touched that thing, the print hit was always going to be circumstantial just by virtue of Melendez being one of the people in the yard. He had every reason to touch it."

"Yeah." Danny saved the latest simulation to the folder for the report on the Washburne-Barker double homicide. Another advantage of the CAD program was that it recorded all the information that had been entered, so it could be used in court. Danny wasn't sure how useful this would be, or even if the case would go to trial-with anaphylactic shock as the COD, it was more than likely there was no murderer to try-but the file still needed to be complete.

Stretching his back so a couple of vertebrae cracked, he got up and said, "Pleasure workin' with you, Doc. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta see a man about a dog."

In fact, he had a date with Lindsay, assuming she was done with whatever she and Stella were doing for the Campagna case.

If she wasn't, he'd wait. She was worth it.