The Knoll: The Matt Bell Mysteries, #2

By Tom Bates

Matt Bell used to be a respected reporter in Philadelphia. These days he's a podcaster with a questionable reputation who tells stories about the back alleys and dark corners of the City of Brotherly Love. He spins tales about unsolved crimes, political misdeeds, and as he calls it, weirdness.
When Matt gets a tip from a listener about cult activity among the inmates of a Western Pennsylvania prison, he knows it's a story he can't miss. Defense contractors, small town bullies, Native American folklore, and echoes from his past might make this podcast more than he can handle. Add a beautiful and motivated Ivy League professor who's researching the same events and you have the makings of one hell of a tale, my friends.
As Matt says, "People need the hard news, but weird stuff pays the bills."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bates
• Release date: Sep 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223288756

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Iflicked the switch on the wall to turn out the lights.  What luminescence remained in the room was created by a soft glow from a few candles and the small LEDs from my recording equipment. Red and green dots of light suffused the bedroom that doubled as my office and podcasting studio. I have discovered that the right lighting helps me create the proper frame of mind for my work. Not wanting any external sounds to distract me, I put my noise-canceling headphones over my ears and adjusted them for comfort. I clicked my laptop's mouse to open the studio app and checked the levels. The digital meters bounced and moved to my voice. I inhaled deeply. I exhaled. I repeated the process again. And again. Satisfied that both I and my tools were ready, I spoke. 

This episode began like every one I've done since I started using my podcast to tell stories. "It's just you and I, again, my friend. As always, I am Matthew Bell, your host and guide as we shine a light into the dark places and sometimes treacherous history of the City of Brotherly Love. Welcome to Voices of Friends, Vanished and Gone."

As a nod to my hometown, I had taken the name of my podcast from the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen's song, Streets of Philadelphia. A musician friend contributed a backing track that sounded enough like the Springsteen song to evoke a feeling for the listener, but not enough to get me sued. 

This is a bigger story than we normally discuss, my friend, and one that's difficult to tell. There were losses, both to me and others. I hope to do them credit. A few weeks ago, I received a text from one of you, a listener whom I did not know.

The windows rattled in the stiff early November breeze as I sat in my cheaply apportioned apartment in Queen Village. The building and its windows were old. The place was a converted textile mill on Third Street, and the clacking of the sliders in the frames wasn't doing much to improve the hangover I was nursing. My rugby-damaged joints felt the oncoming chill of the changing seasons. My knees were a mess of torn and missing cartilage from playing at Temple University more than twenty years ago. I was a mess, as usual. 

Yesterday was Dia de los Muertos at the Clean Sheet. The Sheet, as it is colloquially known, is an English-style pub that caters to Philadelphia's burgeoning soccer crowd. It's on the ground floor of the building across the street, a virtual twin to the one in which I live. It had become well known to soccer fans in the area for being open at seven a.m. on weekends. The early opening provided local supporters and expats with several large TV screens that showed matches from Germany, Spain, and England. The other bartenders would occasionally turn on some Seven Nations Rugby matches for me or wouldn't protest if I did it myself.

El Dia had become a fashionable drinking holiday in Philly for young folks who didn't get enough on Halloween. The manager, a Brit named Mike, called me in the afternoon and asked if I could pick up a shift when one of the new guys flaked out on him at the last minute. It had been a busy shift, pouring pints of light beer and making our version of a margarita with shitty well tequila for overpaid white kids, many of whom had their faces painted like ornate sugar skulls. Sure, it was cultural appropriation, but finance bros and startup kids spend a ton of money and I still need it. In that kind of bar, when a customer buys you a shot and you want a decent tip, you do it, suffice it to say there were a few tequilas involved.  

I'm not a career bartender, but I'm friendly enough. I can tell a story, pull a tap, and I’m not too bad in a scrap if one of our younger patrons starts to feel their oats. I'm a journalist turned podcaster, but recently, my professional reputation has become sketchy at best. No outlet who gives a damn has been willing to hire me, so I started  making a go of it on my own a few years ago. I'm not doing poorly, but a home studio ain't cheap and money can get tight so I'll take a random shift when I can get it to help keep the lights on. Plus, they let me use the Wi-Fi, so pitching in occasionally feels like the right thing to do. 

My several-generations-behind smart phone buzzed, aggravating my headache. It wasn't quite a flip phone, but it wasn't much better, and it was sturdy enough for field work. It did what I needed it to do. I picked it up off of the nondescript piece of furniture that acted as a coffee table. On the cracked glass screen was a number I didn't recognize. 

Hi, my friend. I have a story for you, it read. check email, read a second text which closely followed.

I wondered, How the fuck did this joker get my cell number? I shrugged it off and rationalized that I have not been stingy in handing out promotional cards. Hundreds of people have that number now. 

My half-attention to the 6 ABC news disrupted, I got up from the couch to go to the bathroom. The dingy white tile felt cool on my bare feet, and I let that chill spread up from the floor through my legs to my achy knees. It was a minor relief. As I get older, a night of drinking can make me feel fairly lousy, even a relatively pedestrian one like last night. Hangovers just don't slide off like they used to. I habitually tried to rub the stiffness out of the back of my neck. Another reminder of my days playing rugby. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my face, ran my wet hands through my hair and looked in the mirror. Did I have bags under my eyes yesterday? 

I didn't really have plans to go out today, so my appearance wasn't really that important. My professional life, such as it was, had become increasingly based on the recorded word. I almost never saw my audience face-to-face, so on an average day my appearance could be considered casual at best, disheveled if I was being honest. 

The picture on my podcast homepage was of me, better groomed and a few years younger. That's the guy who my listeners would think was on the other end of the microphone, not the slightly hungover former athlete and newspaper reporter I saw staring back from the mirror. 

I turned my second-hand laptop on and connected to the Wi-Fi from the Clean Sheet, stealing access that was meant for paying customers. Opening my mail app I found an email with a masked address on top of the usual list of spam and notifications from dating sites I hadn't used in a very long time. If I hadn't been alerted by the texts I would have marked it as spam.  

Against my better judgment, I opened the email to find that it contained nothing but a link, a web address consisting of what appeared to be a few random letters and numbers, which wasn't like any I had seen. I asked myself if I had updated my antivirus settings recently. I shook my head, aggravating the headache that refused to go away, no matter how many electrolytes I consumed. I clicked the strange link and my browser opened a new page with instructions on how to set up a VPN and download a TOR browser. TOR, as I had learned from working on some other investigations, is an anonymous network browser that people with a more libertarian perspective can use to navigate what is often referred to as the dark web. The browser routes searches and communications through various networks to confuse any kind of tracing or identification. I hadn't spent much time there, but I had opportunities to interview a couple of people who did. They provided me with some insight and first hand accounts of the dark web while I researched their stories. Most of the users I had encountered tended to be relatively harmless conspiracy theorists, amateur UFO hunters, people with other-than-socially-acceptable sexual appetites, and tech savvy types trying to buy drugs. My interviews taught me about illegal military-grade weapons for sale, would-be revolutionaries who were on a quest to crush communism and restore liberty but who couldn't define what those words meant when asked. If the internet that most of us are familiar with can be compared to a brightly lit bazaar, then the dark web is the network of dingy alleys adjacent to it where you find the brothels and opium dens. Sometimes literally. There were also a few jackasses claiming they could eliminate your problems for a small fee, and a surprisingly large amount of prostitution. There is so much commerce, and so many vendors who are trying to remain relatively invisible to law enforcement, that looking for something specific on the dark web is like searching for a needle in a haystack at night with a blindfold. And the needle might get you an interview with law enforcement. Or Hepatitis A. 

My competing senses of intrigue and self-preservation were having a Muay-Thai match in the back of my skull. It was either that or the last vestiges of a night with yet another few too many shots. I wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of creating this many obstacles to being observed. Jumping through these kinds of hoops meant someone wanted to show me something that they did not want anyone else to see. This seemed like a lot of work. Was this some semi-elaborate phishing scheme, or someone trying to get me to upload their Trojan horse? Well, if that's the case, you're in for a surprise, I said out loud, thinking that my bank account was uninspiring and that I doubted they could do much more damage to my credit score than I had already done. Complexity is often the tool of the lunatic, but it can lend credence to conspiracy. 

My curiosity got the better of me. I opened up my instant messenger and plugged in the name of a friend who would have more experience in this area than I. Friend was a pretty loose term. I met, at least in the digital sense, the person who went by the online alias of B0N3S a few years ago. I was developing a story on a series of extremely well-coordinated, high-end robberies in Philly that had the PPD running in circles for months. B0N3S provided online support and surveillance and helped the gang stay one step ahead of the PPD. I didn't know their real name. I had never even heard his, her, or their voice. They were technically part of a ring that got busted, but as no one truly knew who B0N3S was, or where they were, they were never identified as a suspect. ‘Unknown Party No. 1, Location Unknown’ is how they were referred to in the court reports. After that case was adjudicated, I forgot to lose their contact information as my friends in blue had requested. I continued to reach out to them whenever I worked on a story where the tech got a little beyond my ability to understand, which was more often that I liked.

In my experience, B0N3S was almost always online. They had apparently made quite a bit of money a few years ago working as what folks might call an e-mule. They would connect buyers with online dealers. If you know the old Philly expression, I gotta guy, meaning everything from plumbing and electrical work to making sure a noisy neighbor stays quiet, then B0N3S was the internet’s guy. If he couldn’t make whatever you needed happen, then he knew someone who could. Their services were provided for professionals, executives, politicos, and others who wanted to purchase all kinds of drugs, whether it was opioids, ganja, cocaine, or PEDs, without having to actually do the dirty work of establishing a relationship with a dealer in the real world. Bones was the middleman, er, middleperson. They also dealt in information game. If you needed info on a competitor that wasn’t public knowledge, or if you were trying to find something online that was not available to you or I, B0N3S was the guy. 

I had no idea where they were. They could as easily have been in Cleveland, Los Angeles, Jakarta, Prague, or Manila. Rumors ran around that they were a very successful, and famous, professional gamer and that B0N3S was a nomme de crime that they used for their more anarchical pursuits. 

I pinged them.

MBELL: B, you there?

I didn't have to wait long for a response.  As expected, they were online.

B0N3S: Matty...what up, dawg

B0N3S had taken to calling me Matty. I didn't care either way about it. Some of my childhood friends and family still did. 

MBELL: I need something

B0N3S: Not here. You know the rules

MBELL: No, nothing like that. I need your expertise.

B0N3S: Should have known. Good, cause I don't do that anymore. Too much competition cutting into margin, KWIM? But for a friend, exceptions can be made...

MBELL: No, wouldn't be the first time.

B0N3S: facts.  Tell me what you want and I will tell you if I can/will help.

MBELL: I rec'd a text that pitched a story to me. Don't know what, and don't know from who.  All I got was this.

I sent them the link I had received and there was a minute or two of nothing. 

B0N3S: Looks pretty basic to me. Standard dark stuff. 

MBELL: So I don't have to be concerned?

B0N3S:  You should always be concerned. goofy shit out there and getting goofier by the min

MBELL: Fair enough. But nothing obv dangerous?

B0N3S: no, nothing. But I don't know what's behind the curtain. One thing tho. Seems kinda spooky.

MBELL: Spooky?  That's a new one. Elaborate.

B0N3S:  C'mon, Matty. Spies. Govt. We talked about this. Only a very small % of the web is visible to the folks who use normal browsers.  

MBELL: assume I remember

B0N3S: Do you want my help, or not, dawg? 

MBELL: yes, sorry. Got it.

B0N3S: ok. Small %. The rest is private servers, corporate networks, government. Most of what normies call the dark web doesn't even really exist. I mean there's some shady shit there, but most of the internet uses the flock method for safety.  Billion+ sites make you being a specific target pretty rare, so, lots of stuff is hidden in plain site. Follow?

MBELL: I think so. Like a school of fish?

B0N3S: Look at Matty keepin up...you got it.  Anyway, this one is behind a wall and it seems like it could be government security, or someone who was trained in it, but I really cant tell. Not without spending some time and money.

MBELL: well, SOL there, I'm a little short at the moment.  

B0N3S: ok, anyway, this seems fairly straight up, at least as far as anything else does.  

MBELL: so I should go down the rabbit hole?

B0N3S: Yeah dawg. Why not? Red pill!

Our chat ended. B0N3S was gone. I had decided I would go full Neo and take the red pill. I wanted to see what was being shown to me. Morpheus would be proud.

My curiosity was getting the better of me, and somewhere a cat was scared out of its fuzzy little mind. 

I opened the link and my newly downloaded Tor browser took me to a spartan website. It was almost blank. The simple white page loaded quickly with minimally titled links embedded; 01, 02, 03, 04.  I clicked the first link and another tab opened on my browser. This page had some JPEG files posted of what appeared to be large, stone and block walls.  All of them were painted the same shades or gray and green.  Putting the images together revealed that the subject was an institution of some type, a college, possibly. Additional images showed very small windows, high cyclone fencing, and observation towers. I inferred that these pictures were of a prison. The mid-autumn palette of reds, golds, and browns, with the residual greens of the surrounding woods led me to think that these images were probably taken locally, and recently. 

In the first file, there was nothing to identify where the pictures had been taken, and it continued throughout the remaining files in that folder. Whomever posted these wanted to pique my curiosity without giving me enough information to pursue this on my own.  I opened the second file and found more images of what appeared to be an exercise yard. I had no real experience when it came to prisons. All I knew, or thought I knew, was taken from second and third-hand stories, or from watching movies. One thing that I noticed, however, was that although there were the usual detritus of use; a basketball on the ground of the court, paper coffee cups left on tables and benches and some recently fallen leaves blown in from the outside, I could not see any prisoners. One of the pictures showed a TV, which had been left on, presenting an image of a man with a slightly too-bright tie. I couldn't quite make out the station ID, but the talking head seemed familiar. Beside the man on the TV, I could see no people. 

There were, in a few of the images, what appeared to be hand-painted pictures on the block walls. These didn't seem rushed or overly stylized like graffiti or gang markings, but like someone had taken time and care to create them. It also seemed that there was no effort to cover them up. The images appeared familiar, like pictographs I had seen before. Some of the drawings I was able to make out looked like two crossed arrows, with the heads at points of ten and two on a clock face, a rudimentary picture of a bear on its hind legs and another of a turtle as seen from above. This was not imagery that I would expect to see in a prison.  

The images seemed to be captured from different heights which made me think that these pictures must have been taken with a drone.  The next several pictures were taken from other points around the prison, all from inside the gates, but outside the buildings. I still didn't understand what I was looking at, why the sender wanted me to see it, or why anyone would think I would care about an empty prison. But this wasn't empty. There was not the accumulation of detritus that you might find after a period of neglect. The paint wasn't peeling. The bars weren't showing any obvious rust, and the TV was on. Signs of very recent use were everywhere. This place wasn't abandoned.

I closed that file and tapped the link to the third. This file also contained a series of pictures, but this time they were of the inside of the building as seen through the narrow, vertical prison windows. The windows were designed to be too thin for a person to climb through but enough to let some natural light inside. The drone must have been piloted to the windows, I thought.  

The inside was similar to the outside, with empty hallways and common areas. The windows to the cells were too small to see anything, but I made the assumption that I would see more of the same. The following images, however, actually got my attention. There were a handful of poorly lit pictures showing what appeared to be another common area, possibly a cafeteria or mess hall. There were people in these pictures. It appeared like it could be most of the prisoners as there were over a hundred men, sitting on the floor in a wide arc several inmates deep, uniformly dressed in their maroon jumpsuits, holding similar, posed positions, legs crossed in front of them and arms splayed above their heads. They were looking at another inmate who stood alone in front of them, his arms half reaching out to them, palms up, in a similar position to theirs, like he was leading a yoga class or preaching to a congregation on Sunday. He appeared to be dressed like the rest of them, in a simple maroon jumpsuit, but he was holding what looked like a piece of fabric which was draped down from over his left shoulder, and even more strangely, he wore what I can only describe as a yarmulke with feathers stitched into it.  There appeared to be a design on his head covering, but the image was taken from too far away for it to be clear enough for me to tell. I had never seen anything like this before, but it struck me as vaguely Native American. 

A few more pictures of the gathered crowd showed them all rising from their seated positions and moving, calmly, together or so it seemed from the limited vantage point of the drone. They were staring intently at the man in front of them who was leading them in the series of positions. It felt reminiscent of watching the old folks in Chinatown as they went through their mid-morning Tai Chi exercises. They were gazing at him with an intensity and reverence that was discernible through the grainy photos. Their faces were placid but attentive. Something else which made me start feeling anxious about this...there appeared to be blue uniforms mixed in with the maroon jumpsuits. They were guards' uniforms.  Some of the guards looked to be as enthralled by the man standing front of them as anyone else in the room. There were others among their ranks who appeared to be disengaged from what was happening around them and were actively monitoring the assembled inmates.

I opened the final two files in that folder. These pictures shared a focal point. The first was an image of the man to whom the gathering was paying rapt attention. In the second, he no longer held his hands out to the crowd. This picture made my guts feel cold. He had clasped them together in front of him, his face was serene as he stared directly into the camera. This was the hook. Who was this guy? The investigator in me saw something. Something unsettling. 

The fourth file on the site was almost empty. It had two links. The first was a web address and the other, a pdf. I opened the pdf. The document started simply enough: 

Hello, Matt:

The images saved in the other files are from the State Correctional Institution in Cranford's Knoll, Pennsylvania, also known as SCI-Cranford. As I'm sure you heard through your network and you're now seeing, there are some strange things occurring at Cranford involving the wards as well as the COs and support staff. I know this because I was one of them until recently. I'm a listener and have been for a few months now. I thought this might be in your wheelhouse. Something weird is happening and I (and I'm sure other listeners) want to know what it is. If you are interested in this story, please contact me by the email address in the file. If not interested, just say so on your next podcast. Mention Cranford so there's no confusion. It would be great for me to hear my messages mentioned on the show. This is not a joke or a scam. Please consider this seriously.

A Friend and Corrections Staff, (former)

The other email address was similar, but not the same as the one from where the original link had been sent. Who was this saying he's a friend and promising a strange story?

I was marginally aware of Cranford, but I could not remember hearing about any weird happenings. I knew the prison, and the town it was named for, was somewhere in western Pennsylvania between Pittsburgh and Erie. Basically, if nowhere was in the middle of the woods, this is where you could find SCI Cranford. I decided to take another spin through the pictures. I had been correct that it was a prison, but that was not what I would have called an impressive summation of the data at hand. I didn't see anything noticeable about the landscape of the prison.  Based on the context of the embedded note, I made the logical assumption that the anomaly referenced in the communication was related to the behavior of the inmates, or wards as they were referred to. Several questions jumped into my brain. Who was the man they were listening to?  What was happening that he could get both jailed and jailer to congregate and attend to what was being said? I was very curious. 

Whoever contacted me said he was a listener and thought I would like this story. What was this story? Some disgruntled former employee thought whatever it was that was happening at Cranford State was something worth telling. I had been trying to get some semblance of a reputation back since the shitshow in Kensington. I was right about that story, but it cost me. 

A little more than a decade ago, was reporting undercover on how long-term heroin addicts were disappearing and others were becoming violent. People who had never shown much aggression toward anyone else were seemingly becoming psychotic and randomly attacking others both in and out of the user community. Addicts were vanishing from under the steel beams of the elevated trains along Market-Frankford Line. The neighborhood was scared, but it got very limited attention in the local media. The prevailing attitude was that no one cares what happened to a bunch of junkies. I got close to it. I