J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

When the phone rang I jumped, adrenaline washing through me like a blast of ice water. I snatched up the receiver, my heart thudding in my throat. “Kinsey Millhone Investigations.”

“Hello, Kinsey. This is Tommy down at the Perdido County Jail. Brian Jaffe’s attorney just notified our office that you can talk to him if you want. He didn’t sound too happy about it, but I guess Mrs. Jaffe insisted.”

“She did?” I said, unable to disguise my astonishment.

He laughed. “Maybe she thinks you’ll go to bat for him, clear up this misunderstanding about the jailbreak and the little gal who got shot to death.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “When should I come down?”

“Any time you want.”

“What’s the protocol on this? Shall I ask for you?”

“Ask for the senior deputy. Name’s Roger Tiller. He knew the Jaffe kid back when he was working truancy patrol. I thought you might like to pick his brain.”

“That’s great.”

Before I could thank him properly, the phone clicked in my ear. I was smiling to myself as I snagged my handbag and headed for the door. The nice thing about cops—once they decide you’re okay, there’s nobody more generous.

Deputy Tiller and I traversed the corridor, our footsteps out of synch, keys jingling as he walked. The camera up in the corner was keeping track of us. He was older than I’d expected, in his late fifties and heavyset, his uniform fitting snugly on a five-foot-eight frame. I had a quick vision of him at the end of a shift, stripping off his clothes with relief, like a woman peeling off a girdle. His body probably bore the permanent marks of all the buckles and apparatus. His sandy hair was receding, and he had a sandy mustache to match, green eyes, a pug nose, the kind of face that would have seemed appropriate on a kid of twenty-two. His heavy leather belt was making creaking sounds, and I noticed that his posture and his manner changed when he got in range of an inmate. A small group of them, five, were waiting to be buzzed through a metal door with a glass window embedded with chicken wire. Latinos, in their twenties, they wore jail blues and white T-shirts, rubber sandals. In accordance with regulations, they were silent, their hands clasped behind their backs. White wristbands indicated that they were GP, general population, incarcerated because of DUIs and crimes against property.

I said, “Sergeant Ryckman says you met Brian Jaffe when you were working truancy patrol. How long ago was that?”

“Five years. Kid was twelve, ornery as hell. I remember one day I picked him up and took him back to school three different times. I can’t even tell you how many meetings we scheduled with the student study team. School psychologist finally threw her hands up. I felt sorry for his mother. We all knew what she was going through. He’s a bad apple. Smart, good-looking, had a mouth on him wouldn’t quit.” Deputy Tiller shook his head.

“Did you ever meet his father?”

“Yeah, I knew Wendell.” He tended to talk without making eye contact, and the effect was curious.

Since that subject seemed to go nowhere, I tried another tack. “How’d you get from truancy patrol to this?”

“Applied for administrative position. To be eligible for promotion, everybody gets a year’s tour of jail duty. It’s the pits. I like the people well enough, but you spend the whole day in artificial light. Like living in a cave. All this filtered air. I’d rather be out on the streets. Little danger never hurts. Helps keep your juices up.” We paused in front of a freight-size elevator.

“I understand Brian escaped from juvenile hall. What was he in for?”

Deputy Tiller pressed a button and made a verbal request to have the elevator take us up to level two, where inmates designated as administrative segregation or medical were housed. The elevators themselves were devoid of interior controls, which effectively prevented their being commandeered by inmates. “Burglary, exhibiting or drawing a firearm, resisting arrest. He was actually being held in Connaught, which is medium security. These days, juvenile hall’s maximum security.”

“That’s a switch, isn’t it? I thought juvenile hall was for out-of-control minors.”

“Not anymore. Old days, those kids were known as ‘status offenders.’ Parents could have ‘em made wards of the court. Now, juvenile hall’s turned into a junior prison. Kids are hard-core criminals. Three M’s. Murder, mayhem, and manslaughter, lot of gang-related stuff.”

“What about Jaffe? What’s the story on him?”

“Kid’s got no soul. You’ll see it in his eyes. Completely empty in there. He’s got brains, but no conscience. He’s a sociopath. Our best information, it was him engineered the breakout, talked the gangbangers into it because he needed someone to speak Spanish. Once they crossed the border, the plan was they’d split up. I don’t know where he was headed, but the others ended up dead.”