Variegated Justice: A Legal-Psychological Thriller, A Jack Fabian Novel, Book II

By William Parsons

An attempted takeover of a West Virginia penitentiary goes badly, and a violent race riot breaks out among the prison population resulting in multiple injuries and deaths. Successful civil trial lawyer, Jack Fabian, is appointed to represent an indigent African American inmate who is accused of brutally murdering a White inmate during the melee. The lawyer is faced with the dilemma of representing a defendant who has been caught on prison surveillance video committing the act and has no apparent defense. With nothing to lose, Fabian teams up with a psychologist who specializes in diagnosing and treating dissociative identity disorder, also known as multiple personality disorder, to advocate for a "not guilty by reason of insanity" defense for his obviously doomed client.
"Variegated Justice" is a fast-paced, legal, psychological thriller that takes the reader into the world of criminal law, criminal trials, and dissociative identity disorder as a basis for the defense of insanity. The novel gives the reader an in-depth analysis of the condition, its relationship to the law, and the trial of a murder case with insanity as the only available defense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350919141

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Variegated Justice

A Legal-Psychological Thriller, A Jack Fabian Novel, Book II

©2023 William Parsons

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35091-913-4

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35091-914-1

"To be an effective criminal defense counsel, an attorney must be prepared to be demanding, outrageous, irreverent, blasphemous, a rogue, a renegade, and a hated, isolated and lonely person … few love a spokesman for the despised and the damned."

—Clarence Darrow

When hell is the stage, there are no angels for actors.

—Unknown

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

He was pissed and eager to get his revenge. He had taken the shit for too long. He had been waiting for this opportunity for months, and he wasn’t about to let the moment slide, despite the chaos that surrounded him. Just go and find him, do him a job, and be done with it, he thought. The shiv and club he had fashioned out of a broken table leg were all the backup he needed.

But his plan was short-sighted and poorly thought out. In fact, he suddenly realized it was no plan at all.

He felt a sharp blow between his shoulder blades. His horn-rimmed glasses skittered across the floor and fell to the ground, three tiers below. His face crashed violently into the concrete, and he was summarily disarmed by his captor. He knew he was in serious trouble.

Somebody get me a goddamned rope. I’m gonna teach this nigger a little ‘bout West Virginia justice, the gruff voice above and behind him growled.

It only took but a short minute. He felt the rope encircle his sweat-soaked neck as it was pulled tight, choking him to the point of suffocation. Please, Boss, he gasped. I didn’t mean nobody no harm. I swear.

Give me a hand. We’re gonna see if this nigger can fly.

He felt himself jerked to a standing position and then was lifted from the floor. Nothing stood between him and the concrete three tiers below but a metal railing. His eyes widened when he saw the end of the rope tied to the shiny metal top bar of the barrier.

Please don’t lynch me, Boss, he bawled.

He heard the command, On three. One, two, three, and knew his plea had fallen on cruel, deaf ears.

He was airborne, floating through space as he plummeted toward his doom. He prayed that it would be quick. As the rope unfurled and suddenly tightened, he heard the hooting crowd’s excitement reach a crescendo. A sickening snap rang out as the rope went taut, but it mercifully failed to do its job. Dazed but very much alive and crumpled on the floor, he looked up at the dismayed white faces peering down at him in disbelief. The noose hung from his neck as a frayed end of the hangman’s rope swung harmlessly from the Cell Block B railing.

He rubbed his strained and raw throat and struggled to his feet. He did a quick assessment of his surroundings and was relieved that he was alone. Now out of harm’s way, shaken but alive, he collected his glasses, which miraculously survived, and stumbled away to safer environs.

The hunter now became the hunted. His botched attempt to lynch his prey had backfired. It upset the applecart of his shot-caller’s master plan to take over the joint. His protector, incensed by his insubordination and deviation from the plan, had now thrown him to the wolves. No one was left to keep the wolves from the door.

Terrified and badly shaken, he sought sanctuary in his locked cell, his only refuge from the wrath of his putative victim. He wretched with fear as the loud and boisterous group stomped down the cellblock and approached his cage. Peeking from his crouched position in the corner, he spied his former quarry. His heart beat like a jackhammer.

He shook with fright as he saw his stalker yank on the cell door. It did not budge.

Open the fuckin’ door, you cowardly mo’fucker, he heard him say. He quivered with fear. He was stunned that the young Black, who only minutes before was a whimpering heap, begging for his life, was now a scowling, hate-filled, wild-eyed maniac—his demeanor that of a crazed killer hell-bent on revenge.

I, I can’t, he stuttered.

Get me some turpentine from the sign shop, he heard him scream at one of his gang.

The helpless inmate trembled, awaiting his uncertain destiny. In the meantime, he watched as his subjugator paced outside his cell appearing to relish his pathetic fear.

You wanna tell me why you tried to lynch Tanisha, Cracker? he heard his captor scream.

Confused by the question, he screeched, I wasn’t gonna do it, but the boys got carried away, honest! He had never heard of anyone in the joint named Tanisha.

The stalker laughed, obviously amused by the absurdity of the lame lie. You horseshittin’ me, Boy? You ain’t lyin’ are you? You wouldn’t lie to a Brother. That’s bad for your health. You value your health, Boy? He had no time for a reply. Ever smelled burnt flesh? Smells awful. Makes you wanna puke. Ever see anybody get burned up in a fire? They scream a lot ‘cause it hurts, ya know? Awful pain, I hear, and the screamin’ and the stench is disgustin.’ Awful way to go, don’t ya think? His tormenter smiled at him sardonically. Now, where’s my shit? I got a Cracker to toast.

He felt faint. The visual picture painted by his captor’s words was so terrifying he thought he would pass out. Please, don’t! he pleaded, panic stricken. Please, please, don’t burn me up! I’ll do anything, anything to make it right.

He began to sob uncontrollably, but his captor was merciless.

You done fucked up tryin’ to lynch Tanisha. You’re never gonna fuck with her again, and I’m gonna see to it!

Sorry, Boss. I didn’t know. I swear to God, I’m sorry. Please don’t burn me up!

To his abject horror, he saw the comrade sent to procure the accelerant charge toward the group gathered outside his cell, a shiny red can in his hand.

Couldn’t find no turpentine, but I got sompin’ better—gasoline from the motor pool.

You find a match?

Yep, thanks to a smoker that left some in the shop.

Good. Smokin’s bad for your health, ain’t it, Cracker?

His eyes grew wide with fright as he cowered in the corner of the cell.

You wanna see how bad smokin’ is for ya? His eyes grew wider. His tormenter cackled maniacally as he grabbed the gasoline can and forcefully threw a generous splash of its contents as far into the cell as possible, drenching his mattress and prison coveralls. Got any last words, Cracker?

The last pitiful words he uttered were, Oh my God! Please, please…

The unforgiving captor, laughing hysterically, heaved the remainder of the fuel into the cell and flipped a lit match into the puddle surrounding him. As the cell burst into a raging inferno, wretched screams poured from his throat as the putrid smell of his own burning flesh proved to be precisely as described. A coppery, metallic odor coupled with the putrid stench of burnt liver, hair, sulfur, and melted, burned plastic permeated his nostrils and mouth, the taste and smell of which would be his last memory before he succumbed to the flames.

CHAPTER ONE

Jack Fabian paused outside of The Stag’s Antler Bar and Grill, his traditional first stop on the way to his law office. Most mornings lately he would be in search of a little hair of the dog in the form of a Bloody Mary to soothe the effects of his previous evening’s activities. This day was a Bloody Mary kind of day, after his last night’s date with a bottle of Scotch. Although he seldom read the local rag, as he referred to the only regional newspaper in Hopkins County, a large headline in the paper dispenser outside of the bar splashed across the front page caught his bloodshot eyes:

Violence Erupts at WV State Correctional Institution:

Many Prisoner Casualties and Injuries During

Bloody Attempted Insurrection

State Police and County Deputy Sheriffs Put Down Riot After Siege

Fabian plunked fifty cents into the machine, yanked the newspaper from the dispenser, stumbled into the bar, and pulled up his favorite stool. A few patrons, already engrossed in the big news of the day, slurped their coffees and paid little attention to the new arrival. Fabian, badly in need of a drink, ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper wavy mop of hair and barked, Hey, Joe. Gimme the usual—extra spicy—and don’t pour the vodka like you own it.

Joe, the bartender, glared at Fabian and began preparing his morning ritual libation. He could tell from his familiar patron’s raspy voice and disheveled appearance that he had had a rough night.

Jesus! Fabian exclaimed in a stage whisper as he perused the news story. There hasn’t been a riot at the state pen for years. Fifteen dead and forty wounded! Must have been like a damn war. Broken necks, bludgeoning, guys thrown off cell block floors. Christ, one guy was burned alive in his cell!

Who the hell cares? one of the customers down the bar deadpanned. Others nodded in agreement. They’re nothing but a bunch of scumbags anyway. Just a few less mouths for us taxpayers to feed, the way I see it. Good riddance. More nods.

The barkeeper slammed Fabian’s drink onto the bar. That ought to fix you up, Jack. Cheers! The barkeep paused and gave Fabian a long, probing look. Man, is that liver of yours made of cast iron? This is becoming a regular occurrence. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the business, but seems like you’re going way over the mark here lately.

Fabian, his hulking 6’2 body hunched over the bar, shrugged. He grabbed the drink and swirled it with a swizzle stick. Just been a rough couple of months, he said, chugging down half of it. You know. Pressures of the job. Trials, asshole lawyers I have to deal with, pushy clients, grouchy judges. The usual crap. A guy’s gotta blow off steam in this business; otherwise, he’d pop."

Occupational hazard, I guess, said the barkeeper.

Yeah, Fabian replied, chugging the remainder of the drink in one long guzzle. "I guess somebody’s going to end up having to represent these numbskulls, once the cops and the prosecutor sort out who did what to whom. I’m sure as hell glad I don’t do this kind of work anymore. They’re going to need a slew of criminal lawyers to handle this disaster. I like the good clean stuff where my clients are ones I choose to represent, not some judge telling me who to work for. I used to do some criminal work a long time ago when I was just starting out and hungry. It gave me some courtroom experience and helped me learn to think on my feet, but most of the reprobates I represented were lowlifes and were guilty as hell. It was a pretty thankless way to make a living, but it helped put food on the table for a while." Fabian wiped his mouth with his jeans jacket sleeve. Today was an office day—no court, no clients, no depositions, and no need to put on his lawyer costume—the kind of day Fabian needed after his prior night’s indiscretions.

Joe laughed as he grabbed Fabian’s glass and tossed the spent ice cubes into the bar sink. Yeah, Jack, now you’re a bigshot malpractice lawyer and can’t be bothered by the poor little guys that never had a chance in life. You’re off jet-settin’ around and makin’ the big bucks, huh?

Fuck ‘em, Fabian spat as he shoved away from the bar. I’ve got bigger fish to fry these days. Leave the degenerates and scalawags to the young, hungry lawyers scraping for a living like I was once. They’ll get the representation they deserve. I’ve paid my dues.

Fabian tucked his newspaper under his arm and headed for the door. "See ya later, Joe. I’m going across the street. I do have to work for those big bucks, ya know."

Later, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, I guess. Don’t drink too much.

I’ll drink just the right amount. Trust me, Fabian retorted.

Fabian headed toward his office, feeling sorry for himself. His wife and law partner, Amanda Cohen, had been out of town in a downstate medical malpractice trial for the past two weeks, and there was no immediate end in sight. Compounding his misery, his ex-wife’s attorney had filed a Motion for Modification of Final Divorce Decree demanding an additional five-thousand dollars per month in spousal support due to recent successes in some of his personal injury and medical malpractices cases.

Goddamnit, thought Fabian, just when I think I’m getting a little ahead, this shit comes back to bite me on the ass. I can’t catch a break! Now I’m going to have to put that new glass cockpit for my plane on hold for God knows how long.

Fabian then reprised his favorite saying that he often expressed only half in jest: If I would have just killed her, I’d be out by now.

Fabian, now 62, had built a successful civil law practice over the years. His early career was spent in the trenches, first handling small-time cases for criminals as a court-appointed lawyer and representing a few clients in cases pawned off on him by older and more experienced colleagues around town who had better things to do. As he gained experience and a reputation for his advocacy skills and courtroom prowess, his practice began to grow. It did not take long for his star to begin rising exponentially after successfully representing a client in a medical malpractice case in which he secured a one-million dollar verdict. He was only twenty-eight years old at the time.

As word of his talents spread, Fabian was frequently called upon by lawyers, at first locally, but soon from around West Virginia and surrounding states, who had signed up the clients but did not have the skill or experience to handle competently their civil disputes. While he represented people in all areas of personal injury, his love in the practice was representing clients in plaintiff’s medical malpractice cases. It was in this area of the law he excelled and mostly prospered.

But as Fabian’s practice accelerated, so did his time spent on his cases. As a result, his home life suffered. His marriage to his wife of twenty-seven years, Betty Lou, began deteriorating early in their betrothal. The troubles were not unexpected. Fabian, a former West Virginia University linebacker, had met Betty Lou while playing football at the university. She was a cute, leggy cheerleader for the school who had caught Fabian’s roving eye. The evening after winning the 1981 Peach Bowl, Fabian and Betty Lou attended a wild fraternity party. The couple ended up at his apartment for a night of alcohol, marijuana, and unprotected sex. Nine months later, she presented Fabian with a seven-pound, six-ounce baby girl. While Fabian lobbied for his pregnant girlfriend to have an abortion, Betty Lou and her family, devout Catholics, vehemently opposed it and insisted on marriage as the only responsible solution. The two married, but tension between the two built as Fabian spent more and more time at the office and away from home.

For Fabian, work was his tonic and his excuse for spending as little time with Betty Lou as possible. As the two grew farther apart, Fabian did not let his sacred wedding vows get in the way of his raging libido. His roving eye often led him to take extended business trips during which his business involved trysts with women, married and single, that he had met along the way.

One such woman had caught his eye while Fabian was traveling for a deposition. At the hotel bar, Fabian and the young woman, after small talk and many drinks, ended up in her hotel room for an intense roll in the hay. The next morning at the deposition, it turned out that his previous night’s conquest was none other than his adversary’s associate, Amanda Cohen, sent to cover the deposition for her boss.

After the initial shock to the two of their awkward predicament, they agreed to go to their respective corners, handle their client’s cases in a professional manner, and forgo any further social get-togethers. It was not long after the case was resolved that the two one-time lovers reunited. Fabian, having had enough of Betty Lou and their loveless marriage, secured a divorce. Two weeks later, he married Amanda, his present wife and law partner.

But Fabian’s biological urges, which had steadily diminished as he aged, were not his only weakness. With large jury verdicts and settlements came large paydays. Expensive cars, a fancy airplane which he used for business and pleasure, his mansion in a gated community, and frequent trips to his favorite Caribbean vacation spot, St. Martin, kept him constantly in the office and the courtroom. The bills had to be paid and the airplane fed and cared for.

The newly filed motion for increase in spousal support only compounded his pressure to produce. With the practice of criminal law well in his professional rear-view mirror, he knew he would have to continue laboring in his lucrative civil practice, probably until he keeled over at his desk—a fate all too common in a profession in which many of its cadre are too driven to know when to quit.

CHAPTER TWO

During the weeks following the prison riot, the office of Hopkins County prosecuting attorney, Frederick H. Berlin, was a beehive of activity. A steady stream of the prison’s administration, county deputy sheriffs, members of the West Virginia Department of Public Safety, and prison guards scurried in and out daily. Each was being interviewed by harried assistant prosecutors and investigators who were rapidly amassing huge amounts of information about the various crimes committed during the prison melee.

Berlin, looking tanned and healthy, sat behind his large mahogany desk and leaned back in his chair scanning the newly compiled incident reports provided to him by the state police investigators. He scowled as he perused the lengthy list of crimes that he was now charged to prosecute.

Jesus, this is going to tie up my whole office for months, thought Berlin. Fifteen murders alone, along with various counts of kidnapping, malicious wounding, conspiracy, insurrection…How lucky can a prosecutor be having his office located in the same goddamned county as the state pen?

Feeling sorry for himself, he reached for the telephone to call his wife, hoping to gain a little sympathy. As he dialed, he heard a rap at his office door. He slammed the telephone back in its cradle, annoyed by the interruption.

Come in! shouted the prosecutor.

The door flew open, and in strode a flustered Jimmy McCardle, one of his senior assistants.

Fred, this is a goddamned mess, McCardle said as he plopped down on Berlin’s leather couch. We’re looking at over a dozen murders, at least fifty defendants and counting, a shitload of evidence, and a bunch of uncooperative prison inmates in lockdown screaming about their friggin’ Constitutional rights! Add to that a Commissioner of Corrections demanding that we prosecute to the hilt.

Tell me about it, said Berlin. The governor’s been chewing on my ear all morning about how I need to get these cases rolling and finished up before the next election. Says if I don’t, it’s gonna to make him look bad. He’s already getting heat from the press. But I say screw the inmates and their Constitutional rights, and screw the governor. Let ‘em complain all they want. We’ll get these cases going when we’re goddamned good and ready. Berlin plucked a yellow pad from his credenza and grabbed a pen. Now the pressing question is, ‘How do we attack this mess?’

McCardle exhaled loudly. Well, here’s the way I see it. I think the logical thing to do is to take the most serious cases—the murders, kidnappings, and conspiracies—and try them first, especially the low-hanging fruit. Maybe we can cut some deals with these assholes and get them to plead.

Only one problem with that, the way I see it, said the prosecutor. From what I’ve read so far, many of these cons are already in for life. They’ll never see the outside of a prison again, except, of course, when they get their day in court. Hell, it’s recreation for them. They have nothing to lose, and daily trips from the pen to the courthouse for trial is their rare shot at getting some fresh air.

Yeah. I thought of that, too. No matter what we offer, we’ll probably get no more than a belly-laugh, a demand for a lawyer, and a trial, McCardle lamented.

I guess we’d better roll up our sleeves and get to work, said Berlin. So, how’s the investigation coming?

McCardle shook his head from side to side. Not real smoothly, as can be expected this early in the process. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to track down and a lot of witnesses we need to interview. We’ve got the State Police Lab working on getting fingerprints off some of the weapons that the cons used, and the State Medical Examiner’s office is plowing through the autopsies. I think they’ve done four so far. The rest of the stiffs are on ice in Charleston and will get done by, they hope, the end of the week. We’ll have a ton of forensic evidence to go over and analyze, and we’ve got volumes of pictures they took of the aftermath. I’m sure there’ll be hours of surveillance video that’ll have to be looked at, too.

I saw the pictures of the poor fucker that got burned up in his cell, said Berlin. Not much left but a little fried meat, bones, and teeth. Any info on who might have been the torch? Before McCardle had a chance to reply, Berlin interjected, That might be a juicy case to go after first. We’ll get a lot of publicity on a case with facts like that, I’ll bet. The public and the press will eat that one up.

No, nothing yet, said the assistant prosecutor. If you want to push that one to the top of the list, I’ll start trying to put the heat on the investigators to see if they can dig up some witnesses or somebody that might know of one of the cons that might have had a hard-on for the dead guy. One thing is certain. Prying any useful information out of these guys will be difficult, if not impossible. The code of silence, you know, violation of which is a probable death penalty for any stool pigeon.

Berlin scribbled a note on his yellow pad. Do we even know the inmate’s name? From the pictures of the corpse, or what’s left of it, I don’t see how anybody could identify him.

They’ve tentatively identified him as a guy named Morris—Alan Morris, I believe they said. His nickname at the prison was ‘Cold Blood.’ He got it honestly by tying an old African-American couple to the rafters of their house by their heels and beating them to death with a baseball bat. He was doing life without. Anyway, it was his cell where they found the corpse, or what was left of it, and they haven’t been able to locate a living or recognizable dead Morris to date.

Sounds like he got what he deserved, Berlin said dryly.

McCardle laughed. I’ll check the Medical Examiner’s office and see if there was enough left of him to get a usable DNA sample to positively identify him. If not, I’m sure the forensic lab guys will get some dental records, records of any possible surgical implants, or records of prior broken bones to help us I.D. him. Otherwise, I guess we’ll have to just I.D. him by process of elimination.

Sounds good, said Berlin. I guess we’d better get to work.

McCardle rose to leave, but then paused. One more thought, he said. I’ll get the state police investigators to go to the pen and search the inmates’ files to see who is near his next parole or release date. Maybe we can find a few who might be convinced to give us some information that could lead us to who did what to whom. By enticing them with a promise that we could be helpful in getting them out sooner, it might give us a brick that we can pull loose from their wall of silence.

It’s a good thought, said the prosecutor, but you know as well as I do, we don’t have any control over the parole board.

You know that, and so do I, said McCardle but the dumb asses who are desperate to get out probably don’t. If we can’t deliver, what the hell are they going to do? Sue us?

Berlin smiled broadly. Good point. See what you can turn up.

CHAPTER THREE

After the riot was quelled and the facility secured, all prisoners had been sequestered from one another in lockdown or warehoused in solitary confinement. The initial sweep of the penitentiary for every scrap of available physical evidence had been completed, and an uneasy peace had fallen over the prison. The entire facility was still considered an active crime scene. Once again, the prison was searched by investigators for any possible evidence missed in the previous sweep that could tie an individual inmate or inmates to each of the myriad crimes committed.

Major Adam Westfield, who had been named to head up the investigation, sat by himself in silence at his desk at the West Virginia State Police headquarters in Charleston, feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of the task that lay before him. He knew hundreds of pages of documents and reports had been compiled. Scores of boxes of physical evidence, already collected, were just the tip of the iceberg. Hundreds of transcribed interviews, thousands of photographs, and videotapes all needed to be carefully reviewed, catalogued, and organized so that cohesive cases could be proved against each who was yet to be charged.

The peace of the moment was interrupted by the buzz on his office intercom.

Yes! barked Westfield.

Major, Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Jim McCardle on Line One, sang Westfield’s secretary.

Westfield punched the blinking light on his desk phone. Major Westfield, Sir.

Major Westfield. Jimmy McCardle, Assistant Prosecutor up in Hopkins County. I’ve been assigned to head up the prosecuting team in the prison riot cases, and I’ve been told that you were in charge of the investigation for the State Police. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, so I thought I’d call and introduce myself.

My pleasure, Mr. McCardle. I’ve known your boss for years. I started my career in the detachment in Hopkins County many moons ago, and Fred and I did a lot of cases together when I was there.

Yeah, Fred’s kind of a fixture around here. And please call me Jimmy.

Okay, Jimmy. Call me Adam.

Adam, I guess we’ve got a lot of work to do, huh? asked McCardle.

A lot may be a gross understatement, said the Major. We’re slammed with these cases, and we’ve barely scratched the surface. In my entire career, I’ve never seen such a damn mess. Have you had time to get up a game plan? I know it’s early, but since you’re heading up the prosecution, I’ll be looking to you for direction.

Yeah, I’ve been brainstorming with the guys in the office, said McCardle. We’d like to get all of our ducks in order on all of the cases we think we can prove before we ever bring charges or make presentments to the grand jury. Since most cases have to be tried within three terms of court after indictment, we don’t want any of these guys getting off on a speedy trial technicality. The good thing is that in a vast majority of the cases, most of the defendants will be on ice in the pen, so we don’t have to worry about their skipping out on us before we get a chance to charge and try them. We may need to move more quickly on the few that are scheduled for release or are up for parole soon. Otherwise, Fred and the rest of the office seem to think it would be a good idea to go after some of the murder suspects and other serious crimes first. He thinks that maybe the one that fried the guy in his cell would be a good place to start. We think the dead guy’s name is Morris. Have you been able to uncover anything on that yet?

The State Lab’s trying to get some DNA from what’s left of the corpse. We don’t know whether what they got will be usable. I’ve had these cases before, and sometimes the samples aren’t adequate to make an I.D. We’ve also just had delivered to us all the medical and dental records of inmates that were murdered. I’ll have somebody pull the records of Morris, and we’ll have the forensic folks see if we can match up dental records with the corpse’s teeth.

Sounds good, assuming the DNA doesn’t turn out, said McCardle. Do you know whether we might have any prison surveillance tapes that would give us clues who torched Morris?

Our people are reviewing those right now. They’ve gone up to the pen and are working with the prison staff to catalogue where in the prison each recording was taken. Once that’s done, I’ll make sure that they look at that cell block’s videos first. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the whole thing on tape.

That would be a real horror show, I’ll bet, quipped McCardle.

Westfield chuckled and said, I’ve maybe seen worse, but I kinda doubt it.

"We’ve also thought it might be a good idea to pull the records of all the inmates and see who might soon be up for release or up for parole. We thought that if we could tell the potential parolees we could put in a