Love You More - Lisa Gardner [77]
If I desired additional toiletries, say conditioner, hand lotion, lip balm, I had to purchase them from the commissary. Chapstick ran $1.10. Lotion $2.21. I could also buy better tennis shoes, ranging from $28 to $47.
Next, the nurse’s office. She checked out my black eye, swollen cheek, and gashed head. Then I got to answer routine medical questions, while being inoculated for TB, always a major consideration for prison populations. The nurse lingered on the psych eval, perhaps trying to determine if I was the kind of woman who might do something rash, like hang myself with overbleached sheets.
The nurse signed off on my medical eval. Then the CO escorted me down the cinder-block hall to the elevator banks. He punched the ninth floor, which held pretrial women. I had two choices, Unit 1-9-1 or Unit 1-9-2. I got 1-9-2.
Sixty to eighty women held at a time in the pretrial units. Sixteen cells to a unit. Two to three women to a cell.
I was led to a cell with only one other female. Her name was Erica Reed. She currently slept on the top bunk, kept her personal possessions on the bottom. I could make myself at home on the butcher block that also served as a desk.
Second the metal door shut behind me, Erica started chewing her discolored fingernails, revealing a row of blackened teeth. Meth addict. Which explained her pale sunken face and lank brown hair.
“Are you the cop?” she asked immediately, sounding very excited. “Everyone said we were getting a cop! I hope you’re the cop!”
I realized then that I was in even bigger trouble than I’d thought.
22
Lieutenant Colonel Gerard Hamilton didn’t sound thrilled to talk to D.D. and Bobby; more like resigned to his fate. One of his troopers was involved in an “unfortunate incident.” Of course the investigative team needed to interview him.
As a matter of courtesy, D.D. and Bobby met him in his office. He shook D.D.’s hand, then greeted Bobby with a more familiar hand clasp to the shoulder. It was obvious the men knew each other, and D.D. was grateful for Bobby’s presence—Hamilton probably wouldn’t have been so collegial otherwise.
She let Bobby take the lead while she studied Hamilton’s office. The Massachusetts State Police were notoriously fond of their military-like hierarchy. If D.D. worked in a modest office space decorated as Business-R-Us, then Hamilton’s space reminded her of an up-and-coming political candidate’s. The wood-paneled walls held black-framed photos of Hamilton with every major Massachusetts politician, including a particularly large snapshot of Hamilton and Mass.’s Republican senator, Scott Brown. She spotted a diploma from UMass Amherst, another certificate from the FBI Academy. The impressive rack of antlers mounted above the LT’s desk showcased his hunting prowess, and in case that didn’t do the trick, another photo showed Hamilton in green fatigues and an orange hunting vest standing next to the fresh kill.
D.D. didn’t dwell on the photo too long. She was getting the impression that Baby Warren was a vegetarian. Red meat bad. Dry cereal, on the other hand, was starting to sound good.
“Of course I know Trooper Leoni,” Hamilton was saying now. He was a distinguished-looking senior officer. Trim, athletic build, dark hair graying at the temples, permanently tanned face from years of outdoor living. D.D. bet the young male officers openly admired him, while the young female officers secretly found him sexy. Was Tessa Leoni one of those officers? And did Hamilton return the sentiment?
“Fine officer,” he continued evenly. “Young, but competent. No history of incidents or complaints.”
Hamilton had Tessa’s file open on his desk. He confirmed Tessa had worked graveyard Friday and Saturday nights. Then he and Bobby reviewed her duty logs, much of which made no sense to D.D. Detectives tracked active cases, cleared cases, warrants, interviews, etc., etc. Troopers tracked, among other