ORIGINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE: No, I know nothing about obtaining permission to speak with prison inmates. Obviously. ;_;
"You have any reason to expect the lieutenant to be more amenable to such a request than the chief is--?" Devetko asked as Kristeva pushed his way in the front doors of the station.
Kristeva was glad Devetko was behind him so he couldn't see him rolling his eyes. "I appreciate your concern, Mother, but I can handle myself."
"It isn't so much 'concern' as wondering what wavelength you're on. If Chief Bowen doesn't want you looking into it, chances are Lt. Kincaid doesn't want you looking into it, either."
"Well then, yes, I do have a reason to expect him to be more amenable. If you want a more specific answer..." He halted, turned, and pointed toward his computer. "Do a search for 'Mark Kincaid' and 'Alan Doe.' Then see if Hawthorne's up to talking with you a bit. You weren't banished here from the Sheriff's Department, so maybe he'll be chattier with you."
He turned back toward Kincaid's office door, a little surprised to see Devetko halt and look at the computer, then toward Hawthorne's desk. He knocked on the door before he could see him do anything else, heard Kincaid's voice call out, "Come," and let himself in.
Kincaid's office was less than half the size of Bowen's but had windows overlooking both the main room and the street outside, just as Bowen's did; and the files and books on the shelves looked immaculate, like they'd never been touched. His desk was much tidier as well and the only thing that looked out of place was a letter opener in the shape of a dagger with a crystal set in the pommel. Kristeva had heard a few odd stories about that letter opener, but said nothing about it; Lt. Kincaid didn't even look up at him when he approached the desk, instead looking through a folder of papers and occasionally jotting down notes on a small pad.
"Yes?" he said.
Every once in a while, Kristeva wished the lieutenant would show more interest in things, if only to give him a better read on him; he was generally good at reading people, but not so much with Kincaid. Sometimes he wondered if there was even anything to read. "I wondered if it would be possible to get permission to speak to somebody in state prison."
"An employee or...?"
"Prisoner."
"Chief Bowen would be the one to talk to about that."
Kristeva tried not to make a face, even though he wasn't being looked at. He wasn't even aware that he must have been silent for a second or two too many, for Kincaid lifted his head and finally looked at him with that perpetually blank expression of his. Kristeva tried to think of a lie, but for some reason none would come, and settled for, "I'd really rather not talk to Chief Bowen about it, is all."
Another brief silence, and more staring; he couldn't help it, he shifted his eyes to the side a little bit, and as luck would have it his stare landed on the letter opener instead.
"Are you investigating something you've been officially ordered not to investigate?" Kincaid asked.
A mental exclamation mark popped up in Kristeva's brain. "No," he said without hesitation, his own comment so far back--"You could always make it an order, you know? You're the chief and all, right...?"--also flitting through his head. "It involves a cold missing persons case that hasn't gotten priority in a while. Some evidence has come up that might be related."
"And you think a prisoner might have information."
"Something like that, yes."
Kincaid bent down and unlocked one of the bottom drawers of his desk, pulling out a printed form of some kind and locking the drawer back up behind it. "These permissions are good for only three days," he said as he started filling something out, then put his signature on the bottom, and repeated the process on the next page. "Prison?"
"North Dakota State Penitentiary."
"Prisoner name?"
Kristeva grimaced inside. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to provide such information, but of course they would need to know exactly who he was in there to visit. For a split second he considered pausing to think up a lie, remembered how that had gone the first time, and then simply said it.
"Chad Jenner."
He was looking at Kincaid's writing hand at that moment. It had stopped moving. Kincaid looked up at him again with the exact same blank expression, and Kristeva had to struggle not to fidget or glance away a second time. He prepared himself for an onslaught of demands for information on why he felt that particular prisoner would have information on a cold case, which would lead to questions about what else that cold case was related to, which would lead to the followup case, which would lead into all sorts of unpleasant territory. He was just about ready to say fuck it, never mind, and head out the door--maybe allow the goody-two-shoes to talk some sense into him, maybe work on something more recent until he'd come up with a decent cover story to continue working on this case--when Kincaid lowered his head over the form again and resumed writing. Kristeva saw him jot in the words Chad Jenner and then an inmate identification number--did he know it by heart?--and furrowed his brow a little, mystified by the lack of interrogation. If he'd been speaking with Chief Bowen, he was certain he'd have been screamed out of the office by now, and probably stuck in the file room for a couple of weeks.
"Any other business you wish to take care of while you're there?" Kincaid asked, not bothering to look up, voice as bland as his expression.
Kristeva hesitated a second, then said, "I wouldn't mind speaking with Mitchell Barnes also, if possible."
He had to admit it to himself--he'd had no intention of speaking with the other inmate. For a second he wasn't even sure why he'd added this request, then realized that he was hoping for a reaction, any kind of reaction, that would let him know where Kincaid stood. For his part, Kincaid merely wrote something down on a line below Jenner's name and then signed his own name at the bottom a third time.
"Mitch Barnes will almost certainly not be interested in talking to you." He flipped to the next page and filled out more blank sections. "Of the other people involved, Ms. Psyche Cooper returned to Michigan and Mandie Armstead went into hiding. Ace Pauley is still in the area. You might be able to talk with him." He signed his name one more time, flipped back to the first page, and held the stapled form toward Kristeva. Kristeva took it without a word; he wasn't sure whether to say thanks or something else, but Kincaid had already returned his attention to his notes, and it didn't seem worth spending another moment in here to give him the chance to change his mind and start asking questions. He turned and exited the office.
Kincaid had brought up two additional names he'd spotted in the report and court records (but not in the news stories) from the incidents involving July Lockett's murder and Kincaid's shooting. Since the last time he'd looked into the two seemingly unrelated cases, he'd browsed through more files--files that had never been sealed, thankfully--and had finally located the connection, even though the reason for the connection was still unexplained. It was just as Hawthorne had said, and Officer Jenner had ordered the hit on July Lockett, which Mitch Barnes had followed through on. Mandie Armstead and Ace Pauley were peripherally involved in the case as witnesses, and both had testified about Barnes regularly carrying out Jenner's orders, some of which included the bizarre animal mutilation threats occurring at the time. Their stories, Psyche Cooper's, and Jenner's matched--only Mitch hadn't testified, preferring to keep silent while his attorney offered a defense that was pathetic in the face of all the evidence against him. So there was no longer any doubt that those two cases were connected...but the motive behind all this activity was still unknown. Jenner hadn't provided any real motive in his testimony, and Mitch hadn't been talking.
What struck Kristeva more than this, however, was the fact that Lt. Kincaid hadn't requested to know why he was looking into something that seemed to bear no relation to any cold case in the public record. Surely he knew his own name would pop up in any research Kristeva did...did he simply not care?
He lifted his head and then jerked to an abrupt halt, as Devetko had stepped right in front of him, and they almost smacked into each other. He was holding some papers in his hand; Kristeva had enough time to glimpse what looked like a computer printout, and if he wasn't mistaken, it was the photo of the mutilated goat with the YOUR NEXT PIG sign. Unbelievable. He'd actually done what Kristeva had suggested, and had reached this point a whole lot faster.
"What the hell are you dragging me into?" he demanded in a half-whisper.
Kristeva nudged past him to get to his desk; the computer was up and running, but Devetko must have closed the relevant files, as only the desktop was showing. He checked the recent files and history and found they had been cleared out, before logging off and listening to the computer creak and grind into silence.
"If I knew that, then this wouldn't be nearly as interesting. A permission slip to visit the Bismarck state prison." He waved the form a little and Devetko frowned at it. "You up for a drive? Should take at least a couple of hours; maybe you can catch some beauty sleep along the way."
Devekto stared at him for a moment, then a positively ugly expression came to his face; Kristeva almost expected him to start yelling, but his mouth pressed into a tight line instead, as if he were fighting to keep a slew of unpleasant comments to himself. He turned away sharply and went to his desk. Kristeva took a step back from his own desk as he anticipated Devetko would sit down, but instead he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair--yanking it off so hard the chair spun sideways--and grabbed his umbrella just as abruptly, popping it halfway open as he strode toward the exit.
Kristeva blinked, then retrieved his own jacket and hurried after him. "Hope you know that's bad luck," he called out.
"Bite me," Devetko snapped back, and Kristeva had to catch the door before it could hit him in the face. Devetko was already yanking open the car door and had gotten inside before Kristeva could reach him; when he climbed into the driver's seat, he noticed that Devetko was dry, while he himself was soaked. He shut the door and reached for the ignition.
"I'd really prefer we get to know each other first," he said, knowing it was a stupid move, but unable to stop himself. Devetko said nothing, but didn't even have to pause in the midst of buckling himself in in order to give him the finger. Kristeva's mouth twitched and he decided that was as good a signal as any to shut up, doing up his own seatbelt before backing out of the drenched parking lot a second time.
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