Chapter Twenty Eight - 304
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Each new addition to the high security block was treated to the same routine. Upon entering through the double white-painted iron gates, they would be led - in cuffs, chains and other restraining paraphernalia - past all of the other cells and right to the end of the block. Only then would they be allowed to turn around and walk back to their own cell. For the unfortunate, this meant that they had to do two lengths of the place, heckled from prisoners on either side and harassed by the guards leading them. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least.
But, for the man currently being led down the row, the ritual intimidation and humiliation seemed far from mind.
From his own cell, Doctor Lecter watched the proceedings. He sat on the end of his small cot bed, hands folded in his lap, back straight. His gaze, which had been fixed on the slow progress of a spider, crawling above his neighbour's food dispensary tray, was now riveted on the two white-clad guards. He followed them and their orange-clad captive's progress as they passed his cell - first in one direction, then the other - and came to stop outside the empty cell, diagonally across from his own.
The man held in manacles and chains between the two beefy guards looked to have seen better days. A beaten man. Whatever mischief had landed him in the joint looked to have been too much for him. The Doctor estimated him at thirty years old - give or take a couple of years, to account for possible malnutrition. He was slim through the leg, and bony, but the breadth of his forearms suggested power. Manual labour, the Doctor decided, rather than the vanity of the weight-room. Lecter's eyes grazed over the back of the man's hands, picking out pigmentation from the sun. A craftsman, perhaps.
Prisoner 304 (the Doctor found it most convenient to think of his fellow incarcerates by their cell numbers) was of Mexican descent, with skin made darker by the sun's light. The Doctor was forbidden access to newspapers, but the felons in neighbouring cells were not, and news travels fast in places where nothing happens. He knew of Ianto Mendez and he knew of what Mendez was reported to have done.
Incidentally, the Doctor also knew of Senator Kade Woodley. He had met Woodley, personally, many years ago when the man was a local politician in Baltimore. From what he knew of Senator Kade Woodley, the Doctor suspected that Ianto Mendez would not be here for long. The appeals process for Mr Mendez was as good as non-existent.
As he stood, awaiting his cell to be prepared, prisoner 304 stared ahead, eyes wandering aimlessly. They came to rest on the gutters that ran, length-ways, down the hall. Perhaps it was the bleak allusion to the slaughterhouse, or perhaps a deeper, more secret fear; either way, 304's throat bobbed, cricoid cartilage rising then falling again. This smallest of swallows and the tensing of his shoulders were both picked up by the intelligent maroon eyes fixed on him from across the corridor.
Around the two silent men, the rest of the prison block was far from tranquil. The man in the cell to the left of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, was leading his other neighbours in a charming rendition of prison vulgarities - voicing a great many things which would have been far more threatening had they all been situated in general population and shared communal showering facilities. As his luck would have it, 304 was to be held in solitary confinement, like Lecter. Kade Woodley's sway again, no doubt.
The Doctor yawned. The sound of his ears popping gave him brief reprieve from a particularly offensive verse of his fellow felons'... (he felt loathe to call it a song, even in his own inner musings)... 'chant'.
A quick word into the guard's walkie-talkie and the door made a buzzing noise. A hoot went up from the prisoners surrounding. Another beep. The door slid open; all automated, of course. The Doctor's eyes trailed over the bar-codes printed on the guard's keycards. Escape would take far longer to plan and prepare for that he could afford - or rather, far longer than the US government cared to spend on keeping him alive. Theoretically, it would be cheaper than what they planned on doing with him. Three grams of sodium thiopental, plus the costs of medical officers, the venue, the transport there...
The clang of iron-on-iron sounded through the hall, ricocheting harshly off concrete walls.
Once the door was fully opened, guard one - a fat and yeasty man, with greasy thinning hair - led 304 inside. Guard two - a younger gentleman, with a little more kindness in his eyes (the years would eventually beat it out of him) - stood outside the cell, one hand on his handgun, the other on his can of MACE. The two warned Mendez to cooperate and then started to manhandle him in the direction of the doorway.
The Doctor licked his lip and his eyes darted between 304 and guard one.
The first release into the cell, was the moment when most men would put up a struggle. It would be their last attempt at regaining some measure of masculine pride out of the situation. After being stripped, searched scrubbed, and re-dressed in prison clothing, most men were close to breaking point. However, prisoner 304 seemed content to be pushed and pummelled into the empty cell. The guards did just so and undid his restraints through the metal awning.
"Drop 'em to the floor, kick 'em back."
Lecter watched with interest. He, of course, had been much more seriously handled. It had taken six guards, seven guns, and countless ties and restraints to get him into his cell. The Doctor's shoulder twinged a little, in memory of the event.
"Step forwards." Guard one snapped.
304 complied, not eagerly but without fuss. The Doctor resisted the urge to tilt his head and catch a better look of the man's face. Since he had arrived, Lecter had not moved, nor shown any sign - apart from his gaze - that he held any interest in the other prisoner. It would not do to give his curiosity away now. Besides, there would be plenty of time for more careful analysis later.
Time had become a strange paradox to the Doctor – he had both too much and too little. While the date of his final trial had begun to weigh heavily on the horizon, each day felt as if it stretched on for at least double its twenty-four hours. Out of sheer boredom, and a lack of anything interesting to do, the Doctor had decided to spend the next four days, until his scheduled meeting with Clarice, asleep. Such a decision was easier to make than to carry out. By the end of the second day - unable to keep his eyes closed for another moment without completely losing control of his faculties - the Doctor settled on counting the ceiling tiles between each ventilation shaft and reciting Paradise lost, backwards.
Thinking about it, it was debatable, whether he had saved the aforementioned faculties.
Yawning widely, the Doctor turned his head towards cell 304. The movement, his first for a good few hours, was slightly stiff. Prison mattresses were not renowned for their comfort and he had spent a long night sleeping at an odd angle. His shoulder ached.
Across the hall and down one cell, 304 was still standing with his back to the door. Guard one beat his wobbly retreat, covered by guard two's taser. Lecter watched, as they stepped outside the cell and signalled to their colleague in the secure prison booth. Another buzz and the door slid closed. A rowdy cheer sprung up among the other inmates; led, once again, by the Doctor's ignorant neighbour.
Guard one turned to face the hall, raising the discarded cuffs like a trophy.
"All right, quiet it down, boys, or we'll have you wearing these shiny new bracelets all night 'ya selves. Got it?"
Inside cell 304, the prisoner had still not moved. His shoulders were slumped, but there were no spasms. No tears for your life, 304? The prisoner ran slightly shaking hands over the back of his neck and head. The Doctor watched nonchalantly. A broken man was not an unusual sight between prison walls.
Guard two had already beat his retreat to the secure booth, but guard one hung around a little longer. He waddled proudly on front of the cells, as if examining specimens of a particularly ugly collection. He stopped in front of Lecter's cage. Prior to the arrival of 304, prisoner 207, namely Doctor Hannibal Lecter, had been the newest prisoner on the supermax block. Lecter had raised a great deal of interest in the two guards. Guard one had made it his ambition in life to get him to talk.
The overweight man peered in, huge eyebrows lowered over rheumy eyes.
"And what you staring at, Doc'? Huh?"
Lecter felt a retort tingle, but evaluated the situation and decided against it. A moment of satisfaction was not worth being chained to his bed frame for the next twenty-four hours, out of reach of the toilet and sink. He blinked instead and held the guard's gaze apathetically. After a few seconds the guard got bored and waddled off down the hall, muttering dark words about Lecter. He rattled the chains against the bars of each cage as he passed; a zookeeper, riling his beasts.
Lecter did not watch him go. His attention stayed with 304.
The younger man had turned and walked to the sink, where he proceeded to run water over his outstretched hands. Dipping his dark head - hair shaved in standard prison cut, close to the skull - 304 gathered a handful of water and transported it to his lips, drinking deeply. Having been trussed up in the court transport van for the best part of the day, he would be parched. Lecter knew that particular thirst well. Thirst and regret were his constant companions now.
"Hey?"
One of 304's more adventurous neighbours had reached a hand around the side of their shared wall - something that Doctor Lecter's neighbours had mysteriously neglected to try.
Most prisoners were not restrained as Lecter was, by a net behind the bars, and so they were able to set up an extensive communication network. The Doctor had witnessed letters, newspapers, even small hand-fashioned weapons being passed between cells. It was impressive what enterprising young men were capable of achieving, whilst locked up and supervised, twenty-four-seven.
"He-ey... fresh meat!"
Lecter noted, with the smallest hint of a smile, that - again - no one had used that name for him either.
"Hey, you, boy! You're Mendez, ain't ya?"
304 took another drink, ignoring the extended hand, which now rattled his bars. His shoulders had tensed.
"You're Ianto Mendez. I saw you's in the paper."
"Hey, cummon' buddy, aint no silence gonna save yo ass now," another piped up. "You're in fo' good. You hear that slam?"
"Slam dunk, man." Another of them wheedled.
A titter passed around the cells near 304. Further down the block, the other loud men had lost interest. They congregated at the corners of their cells, discussing more important things than 304's fate; namely food, sex and guns. The cell directly across from Lecter was also empty. 304 gravitated towards that side of his cell, ignoring his neighbour, who still had his hand shoved through the bars.
Things were quiet for a minute or so and then the neighbour piped up again.
"Hey, hey, Mendez... check it-" Another rattle of the bars.
The hand withdrew and then reappeared, clutching scraps of paper, lined with black print. From the distance, Lecter could not make out what was on it, but there was a smudge in one side, which could perhaps have been a photograph. A newspaper, then, perhaps?
"Gotcha stories, Mendez... I got those pics o' that purty lady friend of yours."
More silence from 304. He had taken a seat on the edge of his bed, hands gripping his knees, as he stared down at the floor. His neighbour's hand wiggled, until it fit the tattered Tattler through the bars.
"She's awful nice lookin', buddy."
The Doctor's neighbour wolf whistled.
"Hey!" Guard one's voice. "Keep it down in there, I'm tryin' ta watch something."
The hand in 304's cell retreated out of sight, perhaps deciding to engage Mendez at a later date, once he was more settled in. 304 glanced over at the paper on his floor, his face a twisted picture of emotion. Worry, anger, more than a little fear... The Doctor's eyes travelled over to the paper also. From the form of the words, the layout, he recognised it as a last week's edition. It was a full-page spread, on the day of his second-last trial. A split photograph took the upper half of the page. On one side was Gabriella Woodley, smiling on her wedding day. On the other - a photograph of the scowling Mendez, exiting the courtroom after his initial hearing. Lecter could not read the title from his distance, but he remembered it well enough.
'Rapist gardener goes down."
304 continued to ignore all around him. Pulling his feet up onto the bed, he folded them under himself. Then, his dark hands fell to smoothing the creases in his prison scrubs.
It took half an hour for the hall to quieten completely. Then, all that could be heard was rhythmic breathing and the soft chatter of the guard's portable tv, in the booth down the hall. Occasionally, noise from other blocks would permeate the walls, or prisoners would turn over, springs creaking on uncomfortable mattresses, but, for the most part, there was static silence. With another two hours to suffer until 'dinner' was served, this was the late afternoon lull. This was the time which Doctor Lecter would have usually spent on his back, absorbed in the stories his mind could conjure up from his extensive memory. But not today.
Today he was restless, and this restlessness stoked a need for greater control. The Doctor sat still. measuring each breath with painful precision. Managing the yearning inside of him - these strange fluctuations of electricity and chemicals which made up emotion - was key to managing his response. And he would not be seen to be suffering, not by any man. It was a satisfaction he was unwilling to give to his captors. Nevertheless, his body yearned desperately to wander streets again. To walk through parks and bridges, to touch and feel texture, take in the scents of life around him. He thirsted for any form of exercise or stimulation. Some forms more fervently, of course. He had been in captivity for three months now and the separation from all forms of sexual outlet was proving an interesting experience.
The Doctor turned his face towards the sun. As if as a treat for good behaviour, it was streaming in through his minuscule window, warming the room through frosted glass. This happened rarely, for the position of Lecter cell on the supermax block, was tucked into the corner of a separate wing. He had figured this out, with knowledge of the shape of the building and the light at different times of day. Today, late in the year, the sun would pass across his window for no more than five minutes, before its light was blocked by concrete wall.
Across the hall, 304 did not move for almost thirty minutes. The Doctor counted them off, silently, measuring them on his steady heart rate. When the man he was watching finally did move, it was to lift his head and take in the bars around him. Those bars - that strange white grid through which he must now view the world. Lecter could remember his first night spent behind them with infinite detail. He had not been afraid, but he knew himself to be a rare breed. And this man was younger, the emotions in him buried so shallowly that they were almost visible beneath his skin - twisting his features into a scowl or worry.
After scanning the bars, 304's eyes slipped beyond them, surveying the limits of his new habitat, and then, instinctively, they sought out the one gaze which was still fixed on him. Maroon met brown across the hallway. It barely qualified as a moment, for there was little in the way of understanding which passed between the pair. The young man was too angry to reach out to another human being and Hannibal Lecter would have been the least empathetic of human beings to reach out to. His eyes held little more warmth than liquid nitrogen.
304 held the gaze for five seconds, before hurriedly tearing his eyes away. The quickening of his heartbeat was evident in the crook of his neck. His jugular pulsed there, nervous, tense and frustrated. His muscles were held taut again. 304 swallowed and concentrated on the floor. Lecter watched, with dwindling curiosity.
He would have never occupied himself with 304 so long, if he had not known with whom the 'rapist gardener' had recently been affiliated; the woman Agent who had assisted in his conviction. But, even with this connection, 304 was proving an inadequate distraction. There would be a good few more hours before his body would let him submit to sleep. The Doctor decided that he would have something else to occupy his mind with.
Standing, he allowed himself a moment to adjust to a different altitude, then paced off to another corner of his cell. His legs both resented and relished the change to movement. Taking care to stretch out the backs of his calves - gastronemius and soleus muscles - Doctor Lecter moved to the sink and rested his palms against it. Cold, unfeeling metal. He pushed his palms flush, the chill livening his skin. Staring into the polished metal that masqueraded as a mirror, Lecter examined the blurry reflection of his own face.
304, the 'rapist gardener' Ianto Mendez, was Starling's catch. He had read this, in the same Tattler that now lay in 304's cell.
The Doctor turned the handle of the sink, playing the moulded metal between his fingertips. Cold.
Where was she now? Out celebrating a job well done, perhaps. Lecter ran one hand over the edge of his jaw, where stubble was beginning to pepper his skin black and grey. He had given her the chance - he had created a life for her beyond prison walls, and he had given it all willingly. The Doctor held no regrets over his actions. He was here through his own choice... and yet it stung to be reminded of her freedom now. A sting of weakness, of pure human jealousy.
The Doctor let his hand fall from his cheek to the cold metal basin of the sink and leant his weight against it. This was why human emotion must be regulated, he thought, gripping the basin between his fingers and the palm of his hand. If left to run riot, emotion could drive any man to the brink of insanity.
The sun had passed away from the frosted glass, its orange-yellow glow denoting how low it was to the horizon now. Soon, it would dip beyond sight and be lost to the night. The Doctor suppressed a physical shudder at the thought. He dreaded the coming of night; that great cloak of darkness which spread over him in his uncomfortable bed. Dreams plagued him - dreams which he thought he had long banished from his memory palace. Dreams of cold darkness, of blood spattered snow...
Grounding his thoughts on the cold edge of the sink, the Doctor watched the light growing dimmer in the small rectangle of frosted glass. Dimmer, fainter, and then it disappeared entirely, behind another cement wing of the MCAC. Outside, day was dying the soft death of an early winter evening. As dinner came and went, the colour of the window faded into grey, the dark blue and then, finally, to the inky purple. As the lights on the block went out, and the window was lit by contrast, Hannibal Lecter watched the night draw in; irreversible, cold and dark. And laced with ghosts of Mischa.
