Warden Hutchins walked us back to his office.
I was so wired and frustrated at having to listen to that lunatic’s ramblings it was almost ripping me apart. I was certain he knew who Charlie was. And even more certain he was connected to Evan’s death.
I also knew I might’ve lost my final chance to prove it.
“I’m sorry that you had to come all the way up here,” the warden said. “I’ll notify the copter you’re ready to leave. Like I said, the man’s not a complete package anymore.”
“Bob, you said before you monitor his outside contacts?” Sherwood asked.
Hutchins nodded. “Part of life in the SHUs . . . All calls in and out must be cleared and everyone’s mail is sorted through and documented as to content and source.”
“Going back how far?”
“How far do you need? Houvnanian still gets his share of activity. There’s a million wackos, racists, and copycat killers out there who still regard him as some kind of god. That’s why we keep a close eye on him.”
I suddenly saw where Sherwood was heading. Maybe sort of a last-ditch fling, on fourth and a hundred. But we were in Hail Mary time now. He pulled up a seat across from Hutchins’s desk. “Could you tell me if he’s received any mail from the California Institution for Women in Frontera?”
Hutchins squinted.
Frontera was where Susan Pollack had been for the past thirty-five years.
“Guess I could.” The warden shrugged. “But I would also need a court order to share it with you. We keep it for security reasons only. The information is strictly confidential.”
“Bob, please, we’re talking about the possibility of multiple homicides here. Homicides potentially masterminded from your own prison.”
“Look, I can pretty well assure you nothing suspicious has taken place,” the warden said, leaning back, “or we would have picked it up. We’ve got gang leaders and organized crime bosses who try to continue to run their operations while in here . . .”
“Bob,” Sherwood pleaded, “do this one favor for me. Just take a look. You don’t have to share what’s in it—or even reply. Just let me know if there’s been any correspondence from there. Even just a nod. I’ll take it from there.”
At first the warden looked back at Sherwood with disapproval; he was clearly a person who played things by the book. Then he gradually seemed to soften to an idea he really didn’t like. He sat for a moment, rubbing his finger against his cheek. I was sure he was just looking for some way to frame his refusal.
Sherwood pressed. “Just a look, Bob, please . . .”
Finally Hutchins blew out a blast of air, then picked up the intercom and waited until his secretary came on. He glanced down at a piece of paper. “Nancy, can you bring me Inmate B-30967’s Outside Communication file?”
My heart rose.
It took a minute or two for his secretary to bring it in. It was a thick accordion-style folder bound by a string. Houvnanian’s name and inmate number were plainly written on it in marker. Hutchins dropped the bulky folder on his desk. “I told you, it’s substantial . . . And this is only the past year.” He started to look through the photocopies of letters and monitoring forms, starting with the most recent. There appeared to be a master sheet of some kind. “What did you say, the women’s facility at Frontera . . . ?”
“Or maybe Mule Creek in Ione,” Sherwood said. That’s where two of Houvnanian’s other followers were presently incarcerated. “You don’t have to even say it out loud. Just give me a look and I’ll know.”
Hutchins put on wire-rim reading glasses and scanned down the sheet. He flipped the page—twice—his expression registering nothing. Finally he looked back up. Not even a twitch. A blank stare. “Anything else?”
“Maybe something from Susan Pollack herself?” Sherwood said. “It would have been in the past couple of months. She was released in May.”
Hutchins edged into a dubious smile. “You know how many rules I’m breaking here?” He glanced back down at the sheets. Turned a page. When he finally looked up, his expression hadn’t shifted.
Strike two.
“What about a phone call?” Sherwood said. “You keep records of those as well . . .”
Hutchins suddenly grew testy. “This isn’t a customer service operation, Don. You can’t just dial up an inmate here. There has to be prior approval and documentation.” He tossed the master sheets on his desk. “I’m sorry . . .”
Sherwood looked at me, emitting a sigh. Deflated.
I looked at the warden. “Do you mind if I have a try?”
A thought had hit me; I recalled something Susan Pollack had mentioned while we were speaking to her. It was a long shot, but once we stepped back on that copter, I knew any chance of implicating Houvnanian was pretty much dead.
He frowned at me, his patience clearly thinning. I wasn’t even a law enforcement officer, just someone who had lost a family member.
But maybe he saw the desperation on my face, that this was our last resort, because he picked up the sheets again. “What?”
I asked, “Is there anything in the file from someone named Maggie?”
That was the name Susan Pollack was known by on the Riorden Ranch. Maggie Mae.
“Maggie.” The warden sighed, clearing his throat, his expression slightly irritated.
“Yes. Or maybe even just the initial ‘M.’ ” I nodded.
Sherwood smiled at me.
“M . . . ?” Hutchins repeated. He reclined back in his chair. He took the sheets in his lap and reluctantly scanned. He turned the first page—nothing. He pursed his lips. I was already prepared for the disappointment. He flipped the second.
That’s when I saw the warden’s expression change.
At first it just seemed to bore in, intensifying through the sheet like a laser. Then he looked back up at me, as if startled. His jaw parted a bit, but there was only the slightest nod, and the word that accompanied it was like the true sound of vindication for me.
“Mags.”