Night Games: BOONE-BELL, #11

Prologue

FROM WHAT HE can see in the surrounding hills, the leaves are starting to turn. But the sky, a sultry blue, is bereft of clouds. It feels more like late July instead of mid-September. New York’s Southern Tier is like that. He takes in a deep breath of the warm air, holds it in before exhaling slowly. It’s the first breath of freedom in over thirty years.

He watches the black DOC bus make the turn off Davis Street onto The Hill’s large, circular driveway. Morgan, the corrections officer assigned to supervise the sixteen inmates being released, taunts him. Hey Spoon! You really think you’re goin’ somewheres?

Spoon doesn’t answer Morgan, knowing anything he says will be written up as a demerit and might result in him not going anywhere for a few more days. Morgan was always quick to write inmates up, especially him it seemed. Keep it together, keep it together, Spoon tells himself.

His original sentence had been twenty-five years to life, but after allowing himself to be baited into bullshit violations and demerits early in his time on The Hill, he ended up serving thirty years before he was able to convince the parole board he was ready to reenter society by saying everything they wanted to hear. Knowing all the while that he intends to rejoin society on his own terms, not theirs.

Wearing work boots, jeans, with a belt no less!, and a work shirt after so long in orange prison garb will take some getting used to. But his get up is his, not something the State of New York forced upon him. And, with any luck, a lot more is going to be his, and damned soon.

This is as close to freedom as you’re ever gonna get, Morgan goads him. You know it’s Friday the thirteenth, and you’ve never been lucky on The Hill.

Pushing his hands tight against the sides of his head, trying to contain the building rage, Spoon tells himself, Keep it together, keep it together!

The bus comes to a stop at the massive front gate. Prisoners, their heads hanging, and legs shackled, all wearing the familiar DOC V-necked pullovers and pants, trickle off the bus and onto the sidewalk surrounding the parking area in front of the prison complex.

It is impossible to tell how many are on the bus, the windows being tinted almost to black. But, eventually Spoon can see the last prisoner making his way off the bus. All of them are then formed into two columns and shuffle through ranks of corrections officers on either side toward the intake center.

From where he stands at the corner of the facility grounds, he can’t make out faces or bodies, but knowing The Hill keeps very few women in the general population, he isn’t surprised if there were none on this bus.

He knows it won’t be long before many of the newbies are raped. Well, maybe not raped, but taken as someone’s bitch by consent, usually for protection from other inmates. He read somewhere that more men are raped in prison than women are raped out in civilian life, and he believes it. Even if the victims don’t report it to the corrections officers or their counselors, he knows their consent is almost never willing.

Eventually, the bus with its white on black lettering, NY STATE DEP’T OF CORRECTIONS, starts and drives around the corner to stop in front of Spoon, and the other inmates released that morning. The display over the windshield changes from ELMIRA CORR. FACILITY to OUTBOUND. Several of his fellow inmates cheer. Harrison remains silent. He will not believe he is leaving The Hill until he is on the bus, and the bus is leaving the grounds.

Making it a point not to look back at Morgan, Spoon picks up his small carryon and is first to board. In response to the driver’s question, Where you headed? Spoon says, Schenectady, and takes the single seat behind the driver.

As other released convicts board and give the driver their destinations, Morgan leans in on one side of the open door. Pointing at Spoon, he yells to the driver, You watch that son of a bitch sittin’ behind you. He’s a stone cold killer.

The driver offers no reaction to Morgan’s warning. As Morgan turns to look at Spoon, Spoon turns his face to the window thinking about how much he’d love to do Morgan. Keep it together. Keep it together. No matter what! Keep it together.

Once the bus turns left on Bancroft Road, heading back in the direction of Davis Street, Spoon heaves a sigh of relief and reaches down for his carryon lodged between his feet.

Setting the little satchel on his lap, he opens it and reaches inside for his copy of the King James Bible they gave him in the Pre-Release class, without explaining who King James was. Leafing through it, he finds his yellowed copy of a Schenectady Gazette clipping from June of 2022 and reads it, his lips moving silently.

Detective’s Death a Possible Homicide

Contrary to a recent story published in local media claiming State Police Detective George Tucker, found dead at his Verdoy home on June 4, was as the result of suicide, sources speaking on condition of anonymity not authorized to speak publicly assert otherwise.

They believe evidence from the crime scene suggests State Police Detective George Tucker was murdered, and the killing staged to look like a suicide.

Sources familiar with the crime scene pointing to undisclosed discrepancies in the scene itself, as well as the findings of the postmortem, confirm homicide as the most likely cause of death.

This is a developing story.

Tucker was the New York State trooper who arrested him some thirty years ago. When he first read of Tucker’s death, Spoon was disappointed that he was deprived of the chance to even scores.

But after reading Tucker’s obituary, Spoon focused on the details that might be useful. Most interesting was the fact that John, one of Tucker’s two sons, lived in upstate New York in Ballston Spa. Better yet, John was married and had a son named George, after his grandfather George Tucker. Spoon thinks, ‘Three for one is better than just one for one.’

Chapter One

Y OUR TEN O’CLOCK is here, Barb tells me over the intercom.

I look at my calendar, and just to confirm, Ms. Wilding?

Yes, comes the reply. I think she’s from the South.

Oh?

You’ll see—or rather, hear.

Send her in, please.

The door opens, and Barb is standing outside, saying to Ms. Kayley Wilding. You can go right in, Ms. Wilding. Mr. Boone is expecting you.

I am not at all prepared for the young woman who comes into my office. Actually, she looks more like a girl, a mere slip of a girl in her early to mid-twenties at the most. Slim, at five foot five she can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. Her reddish-brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, parted just to the left of center.

Her features are what some would call elfin. Brown eyes with laugh lines at the corners, her full lips curl slightly on both sides, as if she’s about to break into a smile. I am so entranced, I almost miss what she’s saying.

Mistah Boone, aah ‘preciate you seein’ me so quick. Her voice has a soft, almost languorous cadence to it. The scent of magnolias fairly drips from her sweet Southern accent.

She’s wearing dark colored polyester cargo pants, an unzipped navy fleece jacket over a white T-shirt with some black and white graphic over the word ‘Phlower’ and some other text not readily discernible.

I gesture towards one of my client chairs for her to take a seat, and she takes the opportunity to seize my hand with a grip surprising in its strength.

Ms. Wilding, who prefers to go by Kay, wants to divorce her husband, Jayden Wilding. Apparently, Jay does not want to be divorced and has gone into hiding to avoid being served with papers.

Kay has tracked him down to the Albany area and wants us to find him and serve him with the divorce papers. She lays a large envelope on my desk. I pick it up and note the printed seal of the Family Court on the upper left-hand corner, and the address for the Richland County Courthouse in Columbia, South Carolina underneath. It feels like it is stuffed with legal papers. I put it to one side.

I ask if there are any children involved.

No, she says. And that’s pretty much behind me, I hope.

You have plenty of time left, I say. Not to worry.

Her eyes widen in surprise before narrowing to slits. Drawing each word out, she asks, Just how old do you take me for?

Realizing I have misjudged her age, I raise my initial appraisal and hazard a guess at something close to late-twenties.

I’m sorry to waste your time, she says, carefully pronouncing each word. Aah thought aah was meetin’ with an observant private investigatah who could recognize a forty-year old woman when he meets up with her.

But with the corners of her lips still curved up in that incipient grin, I’m not sure she’s serious. After a moment, she breaks out into a full-fledged smile, which is infectious. I chuckle.

But, she adds, her smile broadening, I’ll take it!

I think about suggesting when she was twenty, people would have thought her twelve but decide not to press my luck.

I ask her what she does, and learn that she handles process serving, filing papers with court and county clerks, and other routine tasks for law firms in Charleston and Columbia. Occasionally, she is asked to verify a local address. If it turns out the subject has left the state, she closes her file.

Why is that? I ask.

Most law firms will use national skip-tracing resources at that point. That’s a little costly for me.

Understand, I say.

Changing the subject, she asks me, Is that black man in the next office your partner, Mr. Bell?

My partner, Marianne Bell, is working remotely for the time being, I tell her, resisting the urge to tell her Marianne is white. Nodding towards Marianne’s office, I add, Mark Wallace is a recently retired police detective. He is only sharing space with us while he gets established with his own office.

She nods, purses her lips, and asks what else I need to get started on the case.

I pull out our new client intake form. Just some basic information from you, and our standard agreement—

Must we get involved with all this paper work? she asks.

Only if you want us to help you find your— here, I embellish a bit, soon to be ex-husband.

Well—okay then, I suppose.

I fill in her name, and for birthdate, just write ‘1984,’ and hope it’s the truth. She gives me an address in Greenville, South Carolina, and a mobile number, but denies having a landline. After making note of her email address, I ask her for information about Jayden.

She draws a blank on any of Jay’s friends or associates and promises to look for a recent picture but makes no guarantees. All she can provide is his date of birth, social security number, a VISA credit card number, and a last-known mobile number which, she adds, is no longer in service. When I ask about his employment or schooling, all she says is that ‘he makes money anyway he can.’ As far as she knows, he’s likely driving a rental. The car he left Greenville with, a 1982 Chevy Suburban, was in pretty rough shape. She doesn’t know the tag number or VIN. Well, this case will be a challenge for Marianne, I’m guessing.

I pull out our standard agreement and slide it across the desk to her to read, and sign. From her expression, I can tell she’d rather not, but she picks it up and glances at each of the three pages before putting it down.

Cain’t we just agree that I’ll pay you to find Jay, serve my papers and let it go at that?

I’m sorry, I say, but no. We feel it best if there is a written understanding of what you can expect of us, and vice-versa.

This surprises her. What could you possibly— with more syllables in ‘possibly’ than I think, —expect of me?

Well, to respond to further questions we might have, I hold up one finger, and continue, holding up a second finger, to pay our invoices within thirty days, and, holding up a third finger, keep us up to date of any changes in your personal circumstances or contacts from Mr. Wilding, for starters.

And this retainer? she asks.

Let’s start with, say, one thousand dollars. This may wrap up quickly, and in that case, along with our report, you’ll get back any unearned deposit.

That sounds fair ‘nough, she offers, and scrawls her signature at the bottom of the last page. Then, reaching into her purse, she pulls out a stack of Benjamins and counts out twenty bills. Clients almost never pay retainers in cash, much less twice what I originally requested. Something else to pass along to Marianne.

Here ya go, she says, shoving the money across the desk to me.

I sign the agreement and note her payment underneath.

Anything else? I ask.

Just one thing, she says.

I nod and she continues. When you think you’ve found him and are planning to serve papers on him, could you let me know in advance?

Why?

I’d like to be there to see it, if I can make it back up here.

I watch her as she adds, speaking faster than her usual cadence, You know. Just to make sure you have the right guy.

I shrug and say, Why not? That is, if we find him in upstate New York. If he’s somewhere else, like Las Vegas or Los Angeles, we’ll have to engage local talent to serve these papers. You understand, don’t you?

Of course, she says.

We exchange a few more pleasantries. Eventually, she stuffs her copy of the agreement into her purse and stands up to leave.

I watch as she makes her way through the office to the front door, then go back to my window to get a look at what she’s driving. It turns out she’s driving a Kia, and the New York tag on the rear of the car tells me it’s a rental. From my years with the state police, I am familiar with the starting tag letters of the larger rental companies. Only as I watch her drive away do I realize I forgot to ask her how she was referred to us.

Checking the time, I see it’s coming up on eleven. I walk over to the other office to see if Mark wants to go to lunch. Barbara, seeing where I’m headed, says, He already left. Says he has to meet some clients during lunch.

I decide to grab a sandwich at Lanie’s, an Italian place on Albany Shaker Road. It’s about two miles from