Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (17 page)

T
he prison warden stepped up to a podium crowded with microphones and plastic TV logos. Bryce had nixed traveling east for the news conference, determining we could follow the proceedings from a live transmission shot by our sister station in New York City without sacrificing much beyond the cosmetics of a reporter standup in front of the prison.

Although unhappy not to chase this story out of town, I saw his point. Anyway, we assumed officials were simply going to announce further details about the investigation into Jack’s murder or, in a best case scenario, release the name of his assailant.

The motives behind prison violence can be trivial by most standards; sometimes inmates are simply killed by another prisoner having a real bad day, and nothing to lose. I suspected there was more to Jack’s death, and watched the video feed intently on a monitor screen in the newsroom while it was being recorded in a station editing room.

The warden introduced himself. “I’m here to talk about the murder of Inmate 16780-59, who was strangled two days ago within these walls. I want to start out by clarifying that the victim was not Jack Clemens, as had earlier been stated.”

It took me a few seconds to process that remark, and even then I was sure I’d misheard or he’d misspoke, but he repeated the key line. “Again, the homicide victim was not Jack Clemens.”

I dropped my pen as I gasped at the significance. The media on that end were also silent before firing questions simultaneously. “So who died?” “Is Jack alive?” “How did he escape?”

The warden tapped the mic to make a shrill feedback noise and shut them down.

“Quiet, please,” he said. “I’m going to read a statement. An unknown man assumed the identity of Jack Clemens and was serving his sentence. We are working to determine who he is. The discrepancy was discovered during the autopsy process.”

“How did someone change places with him?” one of the reporters asked. “Was it an inside job?”

That was my thought as well—a classic case of the old switcheroo—especially since we then knew that Jack had been moved in and out of several corrections institutions en route to New Jersey.

The warden disputed that theory. “This was not a prison break. We believe Jack Clemens was never in federal custody and that a substitute turned himself in at the prison camp in Duluth, Minnesota.”

Sounded like a security breach on this end. And that seemed to be the message that the warden was trying to communicate—yes, he had a dead body on his watch, but the bigger screw-up happened more than a thousand miles away outside his jurisdiction.

“How come nobody caught on at the time?” another reporter asked.

“Mistakes happen,” the warden said. “Here’s what we know. This man was processed in the federal prison system as Jack Clemens about a month ago. He presented a valid driver’s license under that name.”

A prison mug shot—the same one Channel 3 broadcast on the news—appeared on a large screen behind the warden who was using a laptop computer for the presentation, and clicked to a second picture.

“This is a mug shot of Jack Clemens taken after he was first arrested for fraud and booked in a county jail in Minnesota where he was briefly held last year before posting bail.”

Then he pulled up a split screen of the two photographs side by side. Both men had blue eyes and a receding dark hairline. Their foreheads were similar, but their jawlines didn’t quite match. The man on the right’s chin was square, while his counterpart had thinner features. Close enough that neither Malik nor I had doubted we were looking at the same person the day before.

I remember admiring the warden’s production technique and thinking he might make a fine television news producer if he ended up being fired over this fiasco.

“Both men share a physical resemblance and are approximately the same height,” he said. “The real Jack Clemens is on the left. The fake is on the right. If anyone sees the man on the left, or recognizes the impostor, call the police.”

“So who killed this other man and why?” another journalist asked.

“That is still under investigation. What we know is that at the time of his death, he was wearing an arm bracelet that identified him as Inmate 16780-59—known in our system as Jack Clemens.”

I’d discussed the case with the reporter at the New Jersey TV station earlier when it had seemed a more routine murder. I now texted her a question. Soon I heard it being asked. “Will officials at the Minnesota prison be available for questions?”

The warden shook his head. “Because the homicide investigation is being handled here, we’re taking all media inquiries.”

Darn. I imagined whoever handled Jack’s intake in Duluth probably had some explaining to do. Was the error merely due to sloppiness or had the switch been facilitated through bribery? Neither explanation made them look good. I texted another question:
HOW DID U DETERMINE MAN NOT JACK
?

But then the warden stopped questions, ending the news conference. He likely figured he’d said enough to guarantee coast-to-coast media coverage. At that moment, I thought there was a good chance he’d have the genuine Jack in custody and phony Jack’s name in twenty-four hours.

The camera pulled wide, shooting video cutaways of the other journalists and the warden from different angles for editing purposes. As the lens panned the room I saw two men in dark suits standing against the wall, conferring. One of them was Agent Jax.

I
t was one thing to assume someone’s identity to gain money through fraud. And people do fake their own deaths all the time. But to take a felon’s place in prison seemed implausibly complicated. Mark Twain’s
The Prince and the Pauper
came to mind, as did Shakespeare’s
Comedy of Errors,
and I realized that for mistaken identity to be such a popular plot twist for authors, they had to get their ideas from somewhere.

After all, art was more likely to imitate life than life was to imitate art.

Bryce stuck his head in my office. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah. Answers.”

“Well, get busy. Showtime’s ahead. And you’re the lead.”

I didn’t bother reminding him that we air a newscast, not a show—a vocabulary pet peeve of mine.

Even though we’d left on poor terms, I dialed Agent Jax on the East Coast. Instead of letting me ring into voicemail oblivion, he picked up my call. Maybe he figured not talking to me hadn’t worked out so well. Or maybe he was just fishing to see if I knew anything useful.

“We should call a truce,” I said. “And acknowledge we have similar goals.”

“What are you offering?”

“I’m offering publicity to help you catch a killer.”

“That’s nothing. You’ll publicize this anyway. And his killer is already behind bars. Ultimately we’ll zero in on the perpetrator. I’m more interested in the identity of the victim.”

“You mean the fake Jack? I can help with that, too,” I said. “But the killer I was referring to is Leon Akume’s murderer. Even though Jack Clemens had motive, I’d crossed him off as a suspect because he lacked opportunity. But since he wasn’t in prison at the time of Leon’s homicide, I think he should lead the list of possible perpetrators.”

Agent Jax didn’t respond. I couldn’t tell if he was taking me seriously, or if something in New Jersey was more interesting than our conversation.

“So, how do you think the wrong guy got inside?” I nudged.

“I’m not going to speculate,” he said. “Mistakes happen.”

That was the same line the warden gave. I figured they must have practiced their talking points. “How about if you promise to call me first if there’s an arrest?”

“I’m not going to agree to that bargain unless you trade me something,” he said.

That was the deal I had offered him when we were arguing about me broadcasting the news that Leon had ratted on Jack. The FBI guy was using my own maneuver against me. I had nothing to trade, and he knew it. But what neither of us knew just then was that balance would soon shift.

In the meantime, I decided acting petty might be the best approach. “What if I promise to forget that you dubbed this case Operation
Dissimulo.
How unfortunate that you feds fell for a disguise behind bars. You’ll probably be the opening skit on
Saturday Night Live
.”

Either he was breathing heavy or his cell phone was malfunctioning. I had no body language cues. “Let me get this straight. You’re threatening to make me look stupid unless I cooperate with you?”

“You give me too much credit, Agent Jax. I can’t make you look stupid. I just report facts.”

He hung up.

•  •  •

I found myself wishing I could reach out to Nick Garnett and pick his law-enforcement brain about how prison intake worked. Before we were lovers we had been friends. But before that, our relationship was reporter-source.

It was worth a try. But calling and being ignored might feel even worse than him not turning to look at me while he walked away. I’d symbolically moved his phone number off my cell favorites, so had to search through my digital contact list. I never realized, until then, that I hadn’t memorized his number. That alone might have hinted at a rocky future. Maybe love
is
in the details.

His phone rang and rang before a recording of his voice was asking me to leave a message. The familiarity was so soothing, that had it actually been him live on the line, I might have pleaded with him to meet me later that night. Before I could hang up, a jarring beep signaled that his phone was recording my breathing. I resumed news mode and pretended nothing was unusual. I hoped he would do the same.

“Hello, Nick. This is Riley Spartz from Channel 3, calling to see if you might have some insight into this latest Jack Clemens development. Please call me if you have a moment. Thanks.”

I even left my telephone number, just to keep it strictly business.

And just in case he’d forgotten it.

N
icole was taping afternoon promos for the local newscasts at the anchor desk when I walked by on my way back from Keys Café down the block with a late take-out lunch.

“Is Scott sick?” I’d been thinking about apologizing to him and rebuilding our working relationship.

“No, he took an overnight flight to Los Angeles to interview those two movie stars for
We Do
. I’m anchoring for him today.”

“What? Scott flew to California?”

She offered to fill me in after she finished, but I headed for Bryce’s office and barged in without even a courtesy knock. “How come the station couldn’t afford to fly me to the East Coast for an actual news story, but Scott gets to go to Hollywood for a puff piece?”

“Relax.” Bryce instructed me to sit down. “The big difference is that Channel 3’s not paying for his plane ticket. The studio’s covering the costs. And our sister station in Los Angeles is furnishing the cameras. We each air the interview exclusively in our markets. Plus, the story is made available to affiliates across the country on our news feed. It’s great exposure for Scott. And us. Our station logo will be displayed in the corner of the screen.”

Because the network was invested in Scott, Bryce’s job was to make Scott look good. So I tried another approach rather than dissing both of them.

“But the movie production company is essentially paying for the interview,” I argued. “That makes it a conflict of interest for us.”

“No, that just makes it smart business. The same corporation that owns them owns us. Recognizing our shared goals enables both of our bottom lines to prosper in a tough economy.”

“But, Bryce, news is supposed to be objective when it comes to covering stories. Aren’t you worried you’re risking your job by doing this?”

He looked at me with what seemed to be sympathy, which made me uneasy. The last thing I wanted was for Bryce to pity me.

“Riley, you just don’t get it. The news industry is changing, and with it, the business model for journalism. My approach is much more likely to get me promoted than fired.”

“And while you have already hit the peak of your career in broadcasting,” he continued, “it’s only a matter of time before
I’m
your boss’s boss’s boss.”

((NICOLE CU))
FEDERAL AUTHORITIES ARE INVESTIGATING THE UNUSUAL MURDER OF A MAN BEHIND BARS IN A NEW JERSEY FEDERAL PRISON . . . AND ARE NOW OFFERING A 25-THOUSAND-DOLLAR REWARD IN THE CASE.

((NICOLE TWO SHOT))
CHANNEL 3’S RILEY SPARTZ IS HERE TO TELL US ABOUT THE MINNESOTA CONNECTION TO THIS HOMICIDE.

((RILEY BOX))
THE DEAD MAN—STILL UNIDENTIFIED—APPARENTLY WAS POSING AS WHITE-COLLAR CRIMINAL JACK CLEMENS AND SERVING HIS SENTENCE.

I summarized what we knew and what we didn’t know about how Jack Clemens came to be on the list of America’s Most Wanted Fugitives.

((RILEY CU))
IRONICALLY, CLEMENS WAS CONVICTED AS PART OF A FEDERAL INVESTIGATION INTO IDENTITY THEFT THAT WAS CALLED OPERATION DISSIMULO—THAT’S LATIN FOR DISGUISE.

((NICOLE, TWOSHOT))
WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HOW THIS MAN DIED, RILEY? WITH ALL THE SECURITY IN PRISON . . . SHOULDN’T THAT BE THE LEAST LIKELY PLACE FOR A HOMICIDE?

Jack Clemens turned off the television.

He didn’t want to listen to any more details of his stand-in’s death, because the man had been his last friend. Asphyxia due to neck compression was the official cause, according to an online report he’d read, and that jibed with the gasping sounds Jack had heard over the phone during the final minutes of the fatal struggle.

Deep down, Jack knew that simply hoping the feds wouldn’t figure out he wasn’t the dead man had probably been unrealistic. After all, homicides lead to questions. Had that ploy worked, Jack’s new life would have been considerably less complicated. And it had seemed worth the chance because he couldn’t risk his
impostor confiding their secret to wild prison cohorts or a nosy TV reporter.

Jack had already been squealed on once, so he convinced himself that what happened wasn’t murder, just business. The gangsters-for-hire didn’t know his true identity. Not those inside the pen furnishing protection, nor those outside handling the payments. The only link they had to him was wired cash and a cell-phone number, which he’d ditched after his impersonator was killed.