Red Mist Read Free Page B

he got hired by Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, more farmland far away from civilization, and I lived right there
     on the grounds, which might seem strange. But I didn’t mind living in the lap of my father’s work. Amazing what you get used to as if it’s normal. It was his recommendation that the GPFW be built out here in the middle of
     scrubland and swamps, and that the women take care of it and cost the taxpayers as little as possible. I guess you could
     say that prisons are in my blood.”
    “Your father worked here at some point?”
    “No, he never did.” She smiles ironically. “I can’t imagine my father overseeing two thousand women. He would have been a
     bit bored with that, although some of them are a whole lot worse than the men. He was sort of like Arnold Palmer giving advice
     about golf-course design, no one better, depending on your vision, and he was progressive. A number of correctional institutions
     called upon him for advice. Angola, for example, has a rodeo stadium, a newspaper, and a radio station. Some of the inmates
     are celebrated rodeo riders and experts in leather, metal, and woodworking design that they’re allowed to sell for their own
     profit.” She doesn’t say all this as if she necessarily thinks it’s a good thing. “My worry about these cases you have up
     north is did they get everyone involved?”
    “One would hope.”
    “At least we know for sure Dawn Kincaid is locked up, and I hope she stays locked up. Killing innocent people for no good
     reason,” the warden says. “I hear she’s got mental problems because of stress. Imagine that. What about the stress she’s caused?”
    Some months ago, Dawn Kincaid was transferred to Butler State Hospital, where doctors will determine whether she is competent
     to stand trial. Ploys. Malingering. Let the games begin. Or as my chief investigator, Pete Marino, puts it, she got caught
     and caught a case of the crazies.
    “Hard to imagine she was all on her own when she was coming up with ways to sabotage and destroy innocent lives, but the worst
     is that poor little boy.” Tara is talking about what is none of her business, and I have no choice but to let her. “Killing
     a helpless child who was playing in his backyard while his parents were right there inside the house? There’s no forgiveness
     for harming a child or an animal,” she says, as if harming an adult might be acceptable.
    “I was wondering if it would be all right for Kathleen to keep the photograph.” I don’t verify or refute her information. “I thought she might like to have it.”
    “I suppose I can’t see any harm in it.” But she doesn’t seem sure, and when she reaches across her desk to hand the photograph
     back to me, I catch what is in her eyes.
    She’s thinking,
Why would you give her a picture of him?
Indirectly, Kathleen Lawler is the reason Jack Fielding is dead.
No, not indirectly,
I think, as anger simmers. She had sex with an underage boy, and the child they produced grew up to be Dawn Kincaid, his
     killer. That’s about as direct as anything needs to get.
    “I don’t know what Kathleen has seen that’s recent,” I offer as an explanation, returning the photograph to its envelope. “It’s an image I choose to remember him by, the way he was in better times.”
    I can’t imagine Kathleen looking at this photograph and not opening up to me. We’ll see who manipulates whom.
    “I don’t know how much you were told about why I moved her into protective custody,” Tara says.
    “I simply know that she has been.” My answer is intentionally vague.
    “Mr. Brazzo didn’t explain?” She seems dubious as she folds her hands on top of her tidy square oak desk.
    Leonard Brazzo is a criminal trial lawyer, and the reason I need one is that when Dawn Kincaid’s attempt on my life goes to
     trial, I don’t intend to entrust my welfare to some overworked or green assistant U.S. attorney. I have no doubt the team
     of