Although ... this was assuming he wasn't Beautiful Mind - ing it entirely.
Then again, it was homicidal impulses and not schizophrenia that ran in his family, so he likely hadn't lost his marbles, after all.
What. A. Relief.
Before leaving Caldwell, Veck had called ahead to the prison - not the number his father had provided, but the general line - and identified himself. It was not even close to visiting hours, but courtesies were extended in light of his professional occupation - as well as the fact that his father was going to be in a grave in about forty-eight hours. There was also undoubtedly the curiosity factor, something which Veck had no delusions about: in no time, this deathbed visit was going to show up everywhere ... on the Internet, the television, the radio.
It was probably going to hit the Net before he even left to go back to New York State.
And what do you know.
As he zeroed in on the drive that ran up to the penitentiary's walls, there was a small army gathered on both sides of the surrounding field.
His father's fans.
There were at least a hundred of them, even though it was eight at night, dark as the inside of a hat, and chilly. They were prepared, however, with flashlights and candles and placards protesting the execution - and the moment they saw his vehicle, they rushed forward to the very edges of the asphalt, shouting, roaring, the din pressing into the truck even though they didn't get close.
Clearly they'd had training on civil disobedience, in spite of their Sex Pistols style of dress and the rabid way they carried on: No one blocked or touched his vehicle, and he slowed down only to get a look at them.
Big mistake.
One of the men leaned in to Veck's window, and obviously recognized him: As the guy hollered and pointed, the god-awful rapture that came over his features made Veck want to put down the glass between them and smack some sense into the sonofabitch.
But what a waste of knuckles that would be. Fidiot had the anarchy symbol scratched into his forehead. Try reasoning with that.
"It's him! It's him!"
The crowd tightened up and rushed at the truck.
"What is wrong with these people," Veck muttered as he gunned it, prepared to turn them into hood ornaments if he had to.
"This is what she does," Jim said out of the thin air.
"Who's 'she'?"
"Exactly what we're going to try to get out of you."
No time to follow up on t size. He turned in to the lane that law enforcement used and stopped at the gatehouse. Looking up at the guard, he put the window down and flashed his badge and creds. "DelVecchio, Thomas - Jr."
In the background, the crowd was chanting his name - or his father's. Both of theirs, actually, and how frickin' efficient.
The guard's eyes dropped to the ID, and came back to Veck's face. There was a measure of distrust in that stare, but he'd no doubt been holding the hard line against the loonies for the last week.
Still, the guy hit the gate switch and the iron bars rolled back. "Stop as soon as you are clear. I'm going to have to search your vehicle, Detective."
"No problem." And good call not to do it on the outside. God only knew how long that crowd would stay put.
Veck followed protocol, idling into the compound and putting the brakes on the moment his rear bumper was on the far side of this first barrier. When he got out, he took Heron's pack of Marlboros with him and put them to good use, lighting up while the gates reclosed and the officer crawled around with a flashlight.
As he smoked, he knew the angels were not far. He could sense them hovering, and he was glad they had his back - especially as he stared through the bars at the crowd of crazies. The energy in those nutjobs was the kind of thing that made him grateful for what separated the bunch of them.
"You're free to proceed, Detective," the officer said, his attitude dialed down. "Go up to your first left and park by the door for security purposes. A guard is waiting for you."
"Thanks, man."
"No smoking indoors. So you may want to take your time."
"Good tip."
Back in the truck. Pausing at the second gate. And then they were in the facility proper.
Maximum-security prisons were nothing like they were in the movies. No age-washed stone walls with gargoyles eyeballing your ass. No steeped-in-history, Al Capone - laid-his-head- here. No guided tours.
This was the very modern business of keeping people like his father isolated and out of the gen pop. This was about bright xenon lights at night, and video cameras, and computerized monitoring. There were still guards with guns, and enough barbed wire to run a circle around the whole city of Caldwell, but procedure was executed with pass cards and computers and automated cell doors.
He'd been in a number of these places, but never this one: As soon as his father had been sentenced, a letter had been hand-delivered to the frat house Veck was living in at college as a senior. He should never have opened the damn envelope, but he'd never suspected his father could get someone to sneak the note out of jail. Retrospect? How f**king naive.
Then again, at least it had told him where not to go.
So yeah, there was a good goddamn reason Veck didn't work in Connecticut, and had gone into the police force instead of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No out-of-state for him, thank you very much.
And yet here he was.
As promised, the moment he got out of the truck, a reinforced door opened wide and a guard met him and led him into the sparkling clean, well-lit environs. As an officer of the law, normally, he would have been allowed to keep his badge and cell phone and weapon, provided he didn't go into the cell blocks, but he wasn't here in an official capacity, and that meant everything got checked in.
While he was turning his phone over, he saw that the thing had a couple of messages. Clearly, the trip down had taken them into some no-service areas, because he hadn't heard it ring, but he wasn't going to stop and listen now. Whatever it was would be waiting for him when he got out of here. Besides, he had a feeling what they were about. He was no doubt going to get assigned another IA person - oh, joy. And Bails was probably checking in on him. The guy did that, especially if he'd texted and Veck didn't reply.
After he'd signed in and given all his stuff to the guard, he was taken down a series of halls with not much more than footfalls between him and the prison officer. But what the hell were they going to talk about?
Here to say good-bye to your dad? Oh, cool ...
Yeah, first time I've seen him in years, last time in this life ...
Have fun with it, then.
Thanks, man.
Yup. Big hurry to have that one.
About a hundred yards through the prison's maze later, Veck was shown into a visiting area that was the size of a small cafeteria, and made up like one as well, with long tables that had seats on both sides. The thing was lit like a jeweler's display case, with great panels of fluorescents screwed into the ceiling, and the floor was a speckled brown, the kind of thing that hid dirt well, but was kept buffed and shined anyway. There were no windows, no plants, and only one mural of what appeared to be the Connecticut statehouse.
Although the bank of four vending machines did add a little color.
"He's being brought over now," the guard said. "We've put you both in the contact visiting area as a courtesy, but I'm going to have to ask you to keep seated with both hands on the table at all times, Detective."
"No problem. You care where I park it?"
"Nope. And good luck."
The guy backed up and stood against the door they'd come through, crossing his arms and focusing on the bare wall across the way like he had a lot of experience with the pose.
Veck sat at the table in front of him and linked his hands together on the smooth surface.
Closing his eyes, he felt the presence of the two angels. They were to the left and the right of him, standing much as the guard did, still and watchful -
The door at the far end of the room opened without a sound ... and then there was shuffling.
His father came through the jamb with a smile on his handsome face, and shackles on his wrists and ankles. In spite of the fact that he was in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he was elegant, with his dark gray hair brushed back off his forehead and his ambassador attitude out like a royal flag.
But Veck didn't give a shit about those kinds of appearances ; he looked to the floor. His father threw a shadow, all right, a single shadow that pooled around his feet like black ink. The fact that it was darker than any other on the linoleum seemed logical in the new paradigm.